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“Come along, dear.” Sophie tugged on her husband’s arm. “You will be late for your appointment. Again.” The two made their way to the door, Jasper leaning down to whisper something in Sophie’s ear and earning a red-faced scoff from the woman. Francesca watched the casual display of marital affection with a twinge. Most of the time, she managed to suppress the rather hopeless conclusion that she would be hard pressed to find a husband despite her best efforts during the current season. But every once in a while, when she saw the happy state of her cousin’s and parents’ marriages, a desolate yearning would overcome her for all that she had lost thanks to her stupid, gullible heart.
“I am happy you seem to have recovered from your fall, Lady Francesca.” Barrow’s deceptively mild voice interrupted her melancholic musings.
She turned her attention to her tablemate, pasting on a mild look of her own despite the butterflies roiling in her belly at the realization they were now alone together. “I am doing much better, thank you.”
“Do you have plans for the day now that you are free from the confines of your room?” He took a sip of tea, seemingly not at all bothered with their proximity, despite the fact that he’d nearly ravished her the last time they had conversed. Francesca wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or irritated at his apparent indifference.
“I believe I will go walking, as the weather is quite fair.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Alone? Will your ankle be alright?”
“I shall manage,” she replied, lifting a piece of buttered toast to her lips.
A gentleman would have then insisted he accompany her lest she injure herself alone, and a small part of her hoped he would do so even if being treated as a fragile little doll rankled on occasion. But Arthur Barrow was no gentleman and merely nodded placidly. “I will trust your judgment on your own body. I am going for an afternoon ride, myself.”
She tried to suppress the disappointment worming its way into her mind, focusing instead on the pleasure of having someone trust her judgment for once and not treat her like a silly child in need of coddling. “I wish you a pleasant ride.”
Mr. Barrow leaned back in his chair, piercing her with an assessing gaze and that familiar, knowing smile. “You want me to go with you.”
“I do not,” she snapped back hotly, cheeks warming.
His smile deepened. “Well,” he replied softly, his voice lowering just an octave, “I certainly do, and I’m having a hell of a time convincing myself not to follow you out the door.”
If she allowed that, Francesca was sure that the relaxing morning she’d envisioned for herself wouldn’t happen. A part of her wondered if there’d be any walking at all. Her imagination wandered, enough to where she contemplated what the soft grasses surrounding the secluded ruins to the west of the estate might feel on her back, the warm weight of a roguishly handsome man with ash grey eyes pressing against her body. The toast she was holding slipped from her fingers, dropping onto her plate with a wet plop. “I… well,” she stammered, her body on fire. Before she made a complete cake of herself, the butler glided through the door and bowed.
“My lady, I am sorry to come to you, but his Lordship has just left and Lady Amberwood will be tending to Her Grace for a good while yet. There is a matter that requires attention.”
She gave the man her full attention, eager to latch onto any diversion from Mr. Barrow’s seductive words and her own ruinous thoughts. “What is it?”
“Lady Clifton has come to call.”
Francesca heard Barrow’s teacup all but slam into the saucer, loud enough that she nearly jumped. She cast a curious glance at the man, rather befuddled to see the air around him change to thinly veiled hostility as he glared holes into his plate. At a loss for the strange behavior, she tuned back to the butler. “I see,” she replied slowly, trying to process why such a visit would be made. As far as she was aware, no one from Renwood had ever attempted to call on Jasper for the entire time he’d held the Amberwood title, and she’d been led to understand that their snobbery at his background had been at the heart of the matter. Her cousin had been the son of an impoverished and disowned third son, and she could vaguely remember the uproar from many when he’d unexpectedly inherited, particularly from the neighboring estate, due to the previous marquess’s longtime friendship with the Earl of Clifton. Meeting the family of said earl did not sound like pleasant prospect, but Francesca would need to play hostess in the absence of Jasper and Sophie. “Show them to the rose parlor, please,” she finally replied, anxiety already twisting her stomach. She despised entertaining, even when the company was genial. She had a feeling this particular company would be far from enjoyable.
“Very good, my lady.” The butler nodded and turned to do as commanded.
She hesitated to follow, curling her hands. Barrow’s chair scraped.
“Shall we go?” he asked softly, coming to stand next to her.
Surprised, she looked up at him. “You are coming?”
“Someone has to support you in battle. I hear the family are dreadful snobs.” Outwardly, he appeared casual and self-assured, enough so that it calmed some of her fraying nerves. Something strange glittered in his grey eyes, however, as if he were also nervous. Which was ridiculous, she chided with an inward scoff. The man spoke to strangers every day, usually ones of belligerently drunk variety. A single dowager countess would be no match for someone such as him. “Thank you,” she said, grasping his elbow. “I am relieved to not be alone.”
“All you need to do is ask, and I will run to your side,” he replied. “As I am sure any of us would.” Barrow coughed and looked away, a blush forming on his cheeks as if he hadn’t meant to say what he did. The thought rather charmed her, but she warned herself not to take what he’d said to heart. While the man seemed intent on seducing her, Francesca knew better than to believe any deeper sentiments existed.
She tugged on his elbow, forcing a smile that she did not feel in the slightest. “Shall we be off, then?”
**
Arthur had been expecting an old, likely very dour woman to be waiting for them in the parlor. The black-garbed, pretty young lady they came upon in the parlor instead had been quite unexpected, along with her companion being one Lady Aircourt, famed young widow and hostess of the most anticipated ball of the season.
“Lady Clifton?” Lady Francesca asked after a slight hesitation.
The pretty blonde, who couldn’t have been older than thirty, looked up from her clasped hands with calm sapphire eyes, and Arthur could detect nothing but a mild shyness within them. “Lady Amberwood?” she inquired softly.
“Oh, no. Sophie is occupied at the moment. I am Lady Francesca Creswell.”
If the now infamous name bothered Lady Clifton, she did not show it, only nodding her head with a genial smile. “Lord Amberwood’s cousin, yes?” She turned her steady gaze on him. “And you must be Mr. Arthur Barrow. Eliza has told me much about you and that club of yours.”
