as he had! If only she could forget it as easily as he seemed to!
She reminded herself angrily that she had been not yet sixteen at the time, still hoping vaguely that one day someone would rescue her from life with Aunt Cassandra. There had been some excuse for her. But for him? It was true that she had lied to him about her age…Nevertheless! He had been old enough to know the effect his kisses would have on her. And all to relieve a morning’s boredom—or perhaps to revenge himself for the loss of dignity she had caused him? Though he hadn’t seemed angry after the first few minutes.
It all started because of that stupid conversation. It hadn’t been meant for her ears, and now she wished passionately that she had never listened to it. But what else could she have done? She had been so engrossed in her sketching that the gentlemen had been within earshot before she noticed them. And then, aware that she was trespassing on Witham land, she had deliberately concealed herself…Francesca walked on towards the Manor, but she was no longer aware of her dirty clothes, nor of the threatening storm. She saw herself as she had been nine years before—half child, half woman—peering nervously through the bushes…
Francesca peeped through the bushes at the two figures walking along the banks of the stream that ran down between the two estates—they were both in shirt sleeves, but were quite clearly gentlemen. However, they were decidedly the worse for wear—cravats loose, hair all over the place, and the older, shorter one had half his shirt hanging out. The other…She caught her breath. The other was the most beautiful man she had ever seen in all her life. He even eclipsed her dimly remembered father. Tall, dark-haired, with a powerful, athletic build, he moved with natural grace, though he was carrying himself a trifle carefully, as if his head hurt. They came to the bridge just below her and stopped.
She knew instantly that they were from Witham Court. Lord Witham must be holding another of his wild parties. The parties had been notorious for years, even as far back as her grandfather’s time. He had fulminated about them, but had never been able to stop them. It was universally known that they were attended by rakes and gamblers, a scandal and danger to every decent, God-fearing neighbour! The village girls would never accept a position at the Court if they valued their virtue, for these lecherous villains found innocence a challenge, not a barrier.
So, in spite of the fascination the young man had for her, she withdrew a little further into the bushes to avoid being seen. But she was unable to avoid overhearing their conversation.
‘Freddie,’ the tall, handsome one solemnly said. He sounded as if he was experiencing difficulty in speaking clearly, but the timbre of his voice was very attractive—rich and warm and deep. ‘I’m in despair! What th’ devil am I goin’ to say to m’ uncle? He trusted me, y’ see, and I’ve failed him.’ He paused, gave a deep sigh, then added, ‘Failed him c’mpletely. Absolutely. Devil’s own luck with th’ cards last night. Never known an’thing like it! Ruined, both ’f us.’
‘Course you’re not, Marcus! Rich as Croesus, your uncle.’
‘He trusted me, I tell you! And he’s sworn not to pay ’nother penny for any more gambling debts! Said he’d die first. Ruined. I’d be much better dead myself, I swear.’
‘Don’t talk like that, Marcus. It will be all right, you’ll see. Look, hate to interrupt—don’t want to sound unsympathetic—but we ought to turn back, old fellow. Been out long enough—ought to get back to poor old Jack. Coming?’
‘No,’ Marcus said moodily. ‘I’ll stay here. Think things out before I see’m again. How ’m I goin’ to tell m’ uncle?’
From her bushes, she saw Freddie walking uncertainly away up the hill on the other side, and then her curiosity got the better of her. She crept forward to see what ‘Marcus’ was doing.
He was standing on the bridge, leaning on the thin plank of wood that served as a balustrade and gazing moodily down into the waters. He banged his hand down on the plank and, with a groan, repeated his words of a minute before. ‘I’d be better dead myself! Drowned! Oh, my head!’
Francesca gazed in horror as he put one leg over the plank. Convinced that this beautiful young man was about to drown himself even while she watched, she jumped to her feet and launched herself down the hill. A second later, unable to stop, she crashed into the unsuspecting young man on the bridge and sent him flying into the water. She only just managed to stop herself from following him.
Francesca gazed, horrified, while he picked himself up, shook himself like a dog and pushed his hair out of his eyes. The shock of the water seemed to have sobered him up.
There was an ominous silence. Then, ‘What the devil did you do that for?’ he roared. ‘Are you mad?’
‘…I…’ Francesca had a cowardly impulse to run away, but she suppressed it. ‘I wanted to save you.’
‘Wanted to save me? From what?’
‘From drowning.’
‘I don’t think much of your methods—’He stopped suddenly and looked down. The stream was unusually low—the water barely came up to his knees. ‘In this?’ he asked. The irony in his voice was gall to Francesca. She blushed and hung her head.
‘I…I didn’t think,’ she confessed. ‘I just ran down the hill without pausing to consider—then I couldn’t stop, so I…I…er…I pushed you in. I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry? I should think you might be, indeed!’ He took a step towards the bridge, then said irritably, ‘Damn it, my boots are full of water, I can hardly move. Help me out, will you? I need a pull up.’
‘But I’ll get wet myself!’
‘So you will. Now give me your hand—just to give me a start, so I can get a hold on the post there. It won’t take much once I’m moving.’ He looked up and said impatiently, ‘Come on, girl—stir yourself! What are you waiting for?’
She extended a reluctant hand. It wasn’t just that she was afraid of getting wet. To get too close to a perfect stranger—especially one who was staying at Witham Court—was a touch foolhardy. And anyone so handsome was almost certainly a rake!
‘For God’s sake, girl, give me your hand properly! What are you? The village idiot?’
Francesca was noted in the neighbourhood for her withdrawn manner, and most people found her almost unnaturally reserved. But at these words, she forgot years of self-restraint, and flamed into anger. Handsome or not, this oaf’s rudeness had gone too far! He needed a lesson. So, without a thought for the consequences, she let go of his hand and shoved him back into the water. ‘I don’t think I want to help you after all,’ she said coolly, and walked away across the bridge.
Chapter Three
With a roar of fury, Marcus struggled to his feet, waded clumsily to the side, scrambled up the bank and caught up with her halfway up the hill.
Francesca gave a cry of fright as he grabbed her by the arm and swung her round. ‘Now, you little wretch, you’d better explain yourself before I give you what you deserve.’
‘Let go of me!’
‘Not till I have an explanation. And you’d better make it a good one. Or are you the sort of Bedlamite who does this as a regular sport?’
‘I’m not the lunatic!’
