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Lady Francesca was extra prickly tonight, Arthur noted with amusement as she deftly placed her fingers on his elbow as lightly as she could without appearing rude. Normally, it took him far longer to nettle the woman enough that she lost her composure, but tonight it had taken scarcely a few words from him before her heckles were rising. He preferred her irritated with him, lest his desire for her be further encouraged. The fierce lust that had slammed into him when they’d first met at one of Amberwood’s dinner parties had caught him off guard, and arguing with her helped to distract him from the urge to cajole the lady into a darkened corner with him.
“It is a lovely evening,” he said pleasantly as they trailed behind the group. “Perfect weather for a stroll.”
“Indeed,” his companion replied tightly, casting a wary gaze around the milling crowd, some of whom were openly gawking at them. “I am not sure which is worse, that I am here at all or that you are the one escorting me.”
“The vapid attentions of the Ton ceased to bother me long ago,” he replied. Being the supposed bastard of a lord that dared put him in school with proper genteel company, he’d dealt with a lifetime of censure. Now, he took great pride in watching that same company throw away their fortunes at his tables, their avarice far outweighing their pretensions as his social betters. Though, Arthur thought with an inward grimace, he could now count himself amongst their exalted ranks as that bastard part of his background proved untrue. He’d never wished to regain his illegitimate status more.
“You make it sound so easy,” she murmured in that smooth, pretty tone of hers. He stared down at her delicate face. Her vibrant blue eyes glowed in the lamplight, transfixing him with their intensity, as always happened when he stared at her too long. Lady Francesca was not a striking beauty in the traditional sense and her shyness around crowds often dimmed her presence to those who didn’t know better. Yet when one managed to wheedle their way past her barriers, she contained an open vibrancy that vaulted her pretty face into competition with the finest diamonds of the Ton. Arthur was skilled at reading people, one had to be to survive a childhood in White Chapel, and knew there was a true prize to be had with the lady. From the very first moment he cracked that quiet exterior, Arthur had been enthralled. Rather embarrassingly so.
“It is easy,” he replied, “Especially when we have the friends we do. Why should I care what a lot of self-important strangers think when I have all the people that matter firmly by my side?” Despite the reassuring words, he could feel her turn more inward with each scandalized whisper they heard along the path. He knew a moment of fury that those worthless peons should dim such an exquisite creature and almost wished he hadn’t granted Amberwood the favor of forgiving that bastard James Berrington’s debt with The White Heather.
“Friends cannot stop the whispers,” she said quietly, her arm tightening on his. Ashford, Amberwood, and their wives were walking well ahead of them, getting only further out of sight as Francesca slowed her steps to a jittery crawl. She was buckling under the pressure of such a public appearance, he realized with concern. Having never seen her outside of private dinner parties held by his friends or their wives, he hadn’t known just how badly she would be affected. The conclusion that this outing had not been Her Grace’s brightest idea held more merit than he had initially given it credit for.
“Look at her hanging on to such an infamous man in public,” one woman hissed to her companion, loud enough for them to hear.
“Can you blame her?” the other replied with amusement. “I daresay that is the only attention such a brazen girl would get.”
For the first time in a long while, he felt a pinprick of shame for his circumstances causing such a problem for the woman on his arm. For a brief and oddly amusing moment, he envisioned himself informing the ladies of his earldom, if only to see them attempt to bow and scrape as if they hadn’t been openly insulting him and his companion in public, but common sense prevailed. No one was to know of his inheritance for a some time, at least so long as it took to assess the state of his estate with no prying eyes getting in the way. They walked further along the paths, far enough that the crowd thinned considerably. He noted with an inward curse that they had lost the rest of the group. Despite this rather precarious turn of events, Lady Francesca’s fingers relaxed, a healthy flush returning to her pale face, likely due to the fact that they were nearly alone and away from the suppressive attention of her peers. Deciding that she needed the momentary relief, he steered them further down the less traveled paths. “I am sorry if my presence is making things worse for you. Amberwood or Ashford should have been the ones to escort you,” he said solemnly.
Lady Francesca shook her head with a sad smile. “They would just find something else to mock me for. It is what happens when girls like me act like silly fools.”
“Falling for the charms of a fortune hunter makes you human, not a fool,” he replied sharply.
She stopped, and he nearly lurched forward from the suddenness of it. Her eyes pierced him with a glare and he swallowed the wave of arousal having her attention fixed so firmly on his person caused. “And whose fault is it that James Berrington was so desperate for funds in the first place?”
Irritation replaced his ardor, along with a fission of disappointment that on this subject, at least, she was no different from the others, though he shouldn’t have been surprised considering her charged words earlier in the evening. He narrowed his eyes and gave her a mocking smile. “You aristocrats are rather amusing in your refusal to take any responsibility for yourselves. Lords will scoff at a beggar and blame such poverty on those suffering it yet turn around and sob to me like babes when they lose their fortunes due to nothing more than their avarice and lust for excitement. I am sorry that you fell prey to such a man, truly, but I have plenty of patrons who are perfectly capable of being responsible for themselves.”
“Do not mock me, sir,” she bit back, a flush stealing over her cheeks.
“Then do not say something so deserving of mockery,” he shot back with calm ease. “I won’t coddle you, even if yer the daughter of some fancy nob.” His accent had slipped for just a moment to remind her of just who she was speaking to. He wasn’t one of her people, even if a piece of paper now claimed otherwise.
Lady Francesca pursed her lips, darting a glance to the ground. She seemed to contemplate for a moment before raising her gaze back to him. “I don’t fully agree that establishments such as yours are entirely blameless, but I will concede that you make a fair point.” She rubbed her arms. “I think I just need someone to be angry at in his absence. It is rather difficult to live as damaged goods.”
He strode forward, closing the gap between them in two steps, and grasped her shoulders. Those beautiful eyes gave him an owlish stare as he spoke. “You are not ‘damaged goods.’ Cease degrading yourself because of him. You are a far better catch than anyone could hope to aspire to.” His gaze was drawn to her delicate pink lips as her mouth parted in quiet surprise.
“You,” she swallowed, her voice light. “You are rather dashing when you want to be.”
He was going to kiss her, Arthur decided, against all reason. And then Lady Francesca herself beat him to it, going up on her toes to give him a soft peck on his mouth, and the chaste touch of her lips was enough to set him aflame. She leaned back down and stared at him with a wide-eyed blush. The adorable innocence of it was too much for him to bear, and Arthur hauled her into his arms to cover her mouth once more.
Chapter Two
Francesca had only ever kissed one other man in her entire life. It had been a chaste affair with James Berrington in her bedroom after he had snuck in to plan their elopement, a mere peck on the lips that the man hadn’t allowed to go any further, even as she had attempted to untie his cravat in her silly, virginal passion. Cold, brief, and wet: that was how she assumed all kisses felt.
How very wrong she had been.
Barrow’s arms tightened around her frame as his mouth gently caressed hers, the slide of his tongue along her bottom lip sending warm shivers crawling down her spine. She opened her mouth on a breathy moan and nearly jumped as he swept inside. He tasted of bitter tea with the barest hint of whisky, and Francesca couldn’t help but wrap her arms around his back, pulling his warmth closer and tentatively answering his teasing strokes with her own. She should likely be worried about kissing such a man in the middle of a public venue where anyone could come across them, yet his intoxicating attentions fuzzed her mind to the point where nothing quite mattered except the two of them and the rather shocking bolt of desire coursing through her body.
A twig snapped somewhere in the distance, and Barrow all but threw her from his person. Francesca tumbled a few steps back, feeling dazed and oddly bereft. “Oh,” she murmured to herself.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” Barrow grumbled from a few feet away. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, grey eyes staring at her with something unidentifiable.
Indignation stirred within her. “You were the one who grabbed me.”
He put a hand on his hip. “You were the one who kissed me.”
“I…” Francesca shut her mouth with a snap, at a loss for a response, for she had been the one to approach him first. She did not know what had come over her, only that the combination of their argument and his surprise defense of her character had riled her up so much that she had acted on her attraction to the infuriating man without thinking. Anyone could have come upon them, and the last thing Francesca needed was to be caught in the arms of Arthur Barrow, even if those arms had felt sinfully delicious. She shook her head. “This was stupid and reckless.”
