touch. Gone through so much suffering, but outwardly charming and jovial. And an ex-convict who could blend in at society events. He was a confusing man to be around.
‘Until tomorrow,’ he said, leaning over. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. She felt her lips part in anticipation and her heart begin hammering in her chest, but then he reached for the catch on the door, threw it open and hopped down.
‘How did you know it was me in here?’ she asked as he went to shut the door. ‘When you came out of the boxing club?’
She didn’t think he’d caught sight of her in the darkness of the interior.
‘Who else would be following me?’ he asked. ‘I barely know anyone else in London.’
With a smile and a wink he spun on his heel, striding off down the street. As she watched him go Francesca thought she even heard him whistling a jaunty tune. Trying not to think too much about what she’d just agreed to, she leaned out and instructed the coachman to take her home. Really she should be feeling dread and regret at her agreement to his proposal—no respectable lady would agree to it—but as she searched her emotions she could only find excited anticipation.
Sitting at the small writing desk in his room, Ben tried to concentrate on the letter he was supposed to be writing to the man he’d left in charge of his farms while he was away in England. He’d left detailed instructions, so detailed the stack of paper was the size of a medium-length book, with Andrew Phillips, his very capable second in command. The man was trustworthy, sensible and good-natured, but still Ben didn’t feel easy about leaving him for so long. Every week he wrote the man a letter with further instructions and since being in London had received a few updates sent months before from Australia. He’d always found it difficult to trust anyone but himself, but so far it would appear Mr Phillips was doing a good job.
It was almost eleven and, unless she had changed her mind, Francesca would likely be making an appearance soon. He’d spent half the morning trying to pretend to himself he was indifferent to her and the other half wondering what had possessed him to make the silly suggestion the day before. Eight days. Eight days spent in her company. Already he could barely keep his thoughts from the gutter when his mind wandered to her—spending more time with her wasn’t likely to help matters. He knew he would find it difficult to keep his hands to himself for eight days and Francesca wasn’t the sort of woman who would give up her virtue to a man she would soon have to say goodbye to.
‘Remember, you’re in control,’ he muttered to himself. That was a lie. He found her so attractive he had struggled to stop himself from kissing her the last time they’d been together. What he was worrying about was getting to know her more and then not wanting to leave. She’d made it clear soon she would be marrying Lord Huntley so he was under no illusion that they would ride off into the sunset together. Perhaps during these eight days she would irritate him and then his attraction towards her would fade. He’d never had a problem moving on from women before. His relationships were always short and fun, ending before either party had the chance to develop a lasting affection for the other. Although none of them were Francesca...
Quickly he finished the letter he was writing and tidied the desk. His rooms were always meticulously clean and tidy—probably from the years spent living on top of scores of other men. He’d got used to hiding away anything precious to him and keeping his limited living space clean despite the less-than-sanitary conditions.
Crossing over to the window, he peered out, catching a glimpse of the muted grey skirt of one of Francesca’s mourning dresses. It seemed a strange tradition to him, wearing dull colours to signify your distress at the death of a loved one. Or in Francesca’s case the death of a husband it would appear she didn’t like very much at all.
He waited, listening as the maid answered the door downstairs. Already he’d instructed her to allow Francesca up and after a few seconds he heard quiet footfalls on the stairs.
There was a pause, as if she were hesitating, wondering if this was really such a good idea after all, then a knock on his door.
‘Good morning,’ he said, summoning his sunniest smile. She looked nervous.
‘Good morning,’ she said, her voice much more composed than her expression.
‘Come in, sit down. Would you like a drink?’
‘Yes, please,’ she said, exhaling, some of the tension seeping from her at the normality of the offer. Perhaps she’d imagined him ravishing her as soon as she walked through the door. The thought had crossed his mind, but he wasn’t that immoral. He might want to lead her to the bedroom and strip off her ugly grey dress to see the woman underneath, but he knew that couldn’t happen and he would be foolish to spend too much time torturing himself.
‘I’ll go fetch some tea.’
He left her standing nervously looking around for somewhere to sit. As he descended the stairs he took his time, trying to figure out what he wanted from the woman upstairs in his rooms. They had been so close as children, the best of friends, and Ben had known every last thing about Francesca. Now he knew hardly anything about her. He wanted to get an insight into her life, to see the woman she’d become. Of course, he wanted more than that. He’d wanted more from the moment he’d set eyes on her again, but he would have to tread carefully. Francesca was a lady, and a woman with a strong sense of right and wrong to boot. He might want to strip her off and join her on the bed, but he had to be wary of where their relationship might lead them. In a few weeks she would be engaged to be married again and he was under no illusion that at that time he would have to fade into the background.
Quickly he tasked the maid with making some tea, asking for it to be brought up when it was ready. His rooms were part of a small establishment, there were only three other residents. They all shared the services of Hetty, the quiet but efficient maid who cleaned twice a week, showed in visitors and kept the place running smoothly. It was ideal for him, peaceful and discreet with no rules about who could visit. Some of the places he’d looked at had a strictly men-only policy which seemed absurd to him—the freedom to have whichever visitors he chose was one of the reasons he’d moved out from Lady Winston’s house.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he made his way back to his rooms, wondering what exactly he was going to do with Lady Somersham for the eight days he’d asked of her.
* * *
Running her fingers nervously across the back of one of the chairs, Francesca watched the door close behind Ben. Tea would be wonderfully fortifying, and perhaps if she just sat down her legs might stop shaking.
She was under no illusion as to why she was so nervous. Ben hadn’t come out and said the words as such, but she had made discreet enquiries and knew a little about his reputation, and she suspected he had certain ideas about them becoming reacquainted. The idea that their friendship might not be just an emotional one had both thrilled and petrified her. The only man she’d ever been intimate with was her husband. There had been no affairs, no lovers, and towards the end of her marriage—thankfully—hardly any intimacy even with Lord Somersham. Not that she was complaining, her husband had been all about duty. He’d taken his pleasure without a single thought for the woman underneath him.
For her part, she couldn’t believe she was considering having an affair with this man she barely knew—but she was. The past few days, Ben had invaded her every thought and she knew that for once she was going
