lingered, caressing her neck like the most intimate of lovers, and it took all her self-control not to sigh with contentment.
‘I missed you, too,’ she found herself admitting. She needed to get out of his rooms, needed to escape before she did something she would regret. Something that would put her whole future, the future of her entire family, in jeopardy. ‘But I can’t see you again.’
‘Lord Huntley?’ Ben asked, an amused look in his eyes.
‘He wouldn’t approve.’
Ben leaned in, his breath tickling her ear. ‘Sometimes it feels good to be just a little bit bad, doesn’t it?’
Francesca swallowed, knowing if she tried to speak her voice would come out as a series of squeaks instead of words.
‘I should go,’ was all she managed to repeat eventually. Ben smiled and leaned forward, kissing her cheek with a gentle brush of his lips. Francesca was mortified by the small sigh that managed to escape from her throat and knew she was turning pink.
‘If you wish,’ he said, his eyes never leaving hers.
Nervously she groped for the doorknob again, her fingers slipping in her anxiety to get away. After two more attempts she had it gripped in her hand and twisted, almost falling out into the corridor. She’d hoped the spell he seemed to hold over her might break if she put a little distance between them, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. With a hurried little curtsy that made her feel completely ridiculous, she scurried off down the hall, feeling his eyes on her back the entire way.
Ben pummelled the punchbag, feeling the wonderful burn in his arms as the seconds ticked by. He was at the Smith-Hickory Boxing Club, a rundown boxing gymnasium close to Charing Cross. It was owned by a rugged middle-aged man called Kit Hickory, who looked as though he’d taken one too many punches in the face as a young man with a crooked nose and a marked asymmetry. It wasn’t a gentleman’s boxing club—Ben had been in one of those when he first arrived in London and had left after a few minutes. That sort of boxing was more prancing and pontificating than actual punching and defending.
Here he felt at home, among the working-class men, the men eager to take their frustrations out on the punchbags and their fellow patrons. Ben didn’t feel uncomfortable when he attended the events of the ton, but it wasn’t his world. This was more where he belonged.
‘Lighter on your feet,’ Kit Hickory called as he walked around the gym. ‘Punch, punch, duck. Guard up. Guard up!’
The older man was shouting at the two youths fighting in a roped-off boxing ring. They were good, made better by Hickory’s coaching, both destined to be local fight champions one day soon.
Turning back to his own punchbag, Ben began to punch again, feeling the tension seep from his shoulders and neck as he hit the bag over and over. He was annoyed at himself. Francesca’s visit had unbalanced him and he hated to be unbalanced. These past ten years since finishing his sentence he’d strived to always be in control, to always be the one calling the shots. Frannie had challenged that.
Although he had expected to be affected by seeing his childhood friend again, he had never thought she would cause such a reaction inside him. Every waking moment he thought of her, of the graceful way she glided into the room, the way her cheeks pinkened when she was thinking something inappropriate. He had always prided himself on being in control of his emotions, on never letting anyone too close. It was a lesson he’d learned on the convict ships, to look after yourself before anyone else, and the only people he normally made exceptions for were the men who were more like brothers than friends: George Fitzgerald and Sam Robertson. Now all he could think about was making her his. Every time he looked at her he felt his body react to her. These past few nights he’d woken in a hot sweat after very erotic dreams where she’d done unspeakable things. Dreams that meant he’d had to douse himself in cold water as soon as he woke.
It wouldn’t be easy, Francesca had been raised to be a dutiful wife and daughter, free from even the faintest hint of scandal. She might desire him—he’d seen that raging in her eyes during both their meetings—but she wouldn’t allow that to jeopardise her duty.
Throwing a particularly hard punch, he let out a deep growl. Duty be damned. After everything they’d been through surely they deserved at least a few weeks of happiness.
‘Women troubles?’ Hickory asked quietly behind him.
Ben grunted. He didn’t particularly want to share his deepest thoughts with the reprobate that ran the boxing club. They would likely be halfway round London within a day.
‘Loosen up your shoulders,’ Hickory said. ‘It’ll give you more power behind your punch.’
The older man moved on and Ben took a few deep breaths, trying to let the tension ease from his shoulders. He tried a few softer, experimental punches and immediately his thoughts wandered back to Francesca. The way her entire face lit up when she smiled, the light smattering of freckles over her nose that she’d had as a child and still had now, no doubt to her dismay. The soft curves of her body and the hair that he wanted to pull from its immaculate style and run his hands through as he kissed her into submission.
Then there was the sadness in her eyes, the sense that the intervening years had not been easy for her either. He found himself drawn to her, wanting to know her body and soul.
Closing his eyes, he stepped back. ‘Enough,’ he murmured, unwinding the strapping from his hands. This needed to stop. Somehow he needed to exorcise these thoughts, whether by fulfilling his fantasies or finding a way to move on from the woman who had haunted him for so long.
* * *
Francesca peered out from behind the curtain that covered the window of her carriage. It was hired, their family carriage having been sold many years ago, but her father had insisted on hiring one and a set of horses for the duration of the Season. For appearances, he’d said. Just like almost everything else they did. Their house was furnished for appearances. She had fine clothes for appearances. And they threw lavish dinner parties for appearances. All of it just served to make their money problems worse and Francesca was under no illusion that people didn’t know quite how in debt they were.
Slouching back, she felt the despair she always had when she thought about money. Their family had once been one of the richest in England, but years of gambling, poor investments and poor judgement on her father’s part had landed them in the position they were in now. Her marriage to Lord Somersham had been arranged with the idea that his wealth would trickle through to her family, but he’d ended up being just as poor a custodian for the family money as her father. The last few years of her marriage had been a familiar cycle of borrowing and the calling in of debt. When her husband had died the title had passed to some distant relative, but there had been no bequests, no tidy little allowance for his widow, meaning that once again she’d had to return home to her parents, once again a pawn in her father’s quest for more money.
Sometimes she thought about refusing, thought about withdrawing from society, perhaps taking up a position as a governess or companion. She didn’t want fine things, didn’t particularly enjoy the continuous cycles of balls and dinner parties and nights at the opera. Then she thought of her sister, twenty-year-old Felicity, the lively, kind girl who saw everything with those huge brown eyes. She deserved a chance. And
