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He didn’t answer right away, and for a moment she thought he never would until his voice sounded, quiet amongst the rain. “While my mother lived, it wasn’t the worst experience. We were poor, and she was often bitter about being abandoned, but there was shelter, coal, and a reasonable expectation for a daily meal.”
“When did she pass?”
“I was nine. She didn’t care for me overly much, so the worst of it was losing the house.”
She stared at the horse’s swishing mane in mute horror. “What did you do?”
The man shrugged, of all things, as if becoming orphaned at seven and losing one’s home were an everyday occurrence. “Nothing much I could do, aside from learning to pickpocket what I could. It was five years before I was found.”
“By your father?”
“By his solicitor,” he replied. “Or, at least, that is who the man claimed to be. I was shuffled off to school in short order, regardless. That was a whole different hell, though I suppose far better to worry about a few child bullies than whether I would be stabbed in my sleep for the few coins I had.”
It was a stark reminder of the gulf in their stations, how so very different their upbringings were. Francesca couldn’t even picture going a day without food or feeling unsafe in one’s sleep. To live such a life as a child was unimaginable. “I’m sorry,” was all she could say.
“I don’t need your pity.” There was derision in his tone, though she sensed it was likely more out of a general disdain for the emotion rather than her. Francesca knew her words had been empty platitudes, for she could never truly understand what his life had been like, but she hadn’t known what else to say to such horrifying implications.
“Is that why you hate the aristocracy? Because of your father?”
The hand on the reins tightened. “It is their supreme ignorance that I despise. I don’t give a jot about my father, about any of my family, enough for my abandonment to be the cause.”
“You have more family?” As far as she knew, Arthur Barrow had never been acknowledged by any man, and his statements concerning his childhood suggested he had been kept in the dark about the matter, so her curiosity was piqued, even more so after a stretch of silence went by without him answering.
“I don’t actually know,” he replied after another moment went by. “I was only assuming he had one and that they had an equally horrid opinion of me.” He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words carefully, as if she were being lied to. Francesca wondered why, but wisely refrained from pressing him on the matter. There were times when she enjoyed her attempts to unsettle him, but this was not one of them. The topic was far too personal for such, and his distress about the subject was becoming apparent to her, even if he thought he hid it well.
“I see,” was all she murmured in reply, almost preferring the heated air from before rather than the cold tension now forming between them. Or perhaps not, she thought with a flush as he suddenly pulled her tighter against his person.
“You are quite nosy when you want to be, Lady Francesca,” he whispered into her ear, his breath caressing the side of her face.
“I was just curious,” she shot back, though there was an embarrassing lack of firmness in her voice. “I—” She swallowed. “I confess to know little about you aside from the rumors and what you have just shared.”
“You wish to know me?” His voice was teasing, seductive even, yet she detected just a hint of incredulity.
“Yes,” she replied, fighting for words as his scent invaded her. “I thank you for gifting with me a glimpse into your past.” She closed her eyes, her voice becoming clearer, hoping the topic would calm the heat thrumming through her veins. “It couldn’t have been easy for you to share with someone like me. I am sorry for prying.”
Her plan had rather the opposite effect than indented, as Barrow only lowered his head further. “You are forgiven,” he said before planting a hot, open-mouthed kiss just above the collar of her spencer.
Her body tingled from head to toe, and Francesca had to clamp her lips shut to suppress a whimper as his tongue darted out to lick her wet skin. “M-Mr. Barrow,” she was finally able to whisper out, her voice trembling. Her breath caught when he nuzzled her, his hat nearly toppling from his head.
“You smell like a rose trellis on a summer's day,” he muttered.
Francesca fought for something, anything to ground herself with, for she was coming perilously close to allowing him to further liberties, horrid weather and injured ankle be damned. The sky was darkening, but she could discern the hulking behemoth of Festoon Hall on the horizon. “The house!”
Her words seemed to have an immediate effect on Mr. Barrows ardor, as he straightened with a curse and almost immediately loosed his hold as the house came further into view. Francesca scooted forward, ignoring the twinge of disappointment at their interlude coming to an end. Irritation at herself for feeling such emotions quickly swelled as they reached the end of the drive. What in the world had she been thinking? What in the world had he been thinking? Francesca shivered at the loss of his warmth as he dismounted, becoming only more furious at the longing coursing through her as he handed her down. Even the throbbing of her ankle did nothing to distract her. She could have convinced herself that Vauxhall had been an aberration, a lapse of judgment due to the circumstances, but now she could no longer hide behind the truth.
Her and Arthur Barrow had a problem.
**
Arthur relished the lashing sting of the rain as he jogged to the house, for he rather thought that knocking on the door with a bloody cockstand after an intimate ride with his host’s cousin was decidedly not the thing. In fact, absolutely nothing about the past ten minutes had been even a remotely good idea. He took several deep breaths as he trotted up the stairs to the great portico, willing away his awareness of the beautiful woman currently leaning against his horse and the memory of the muted whimper that had left her when he’s licked her skin like an utter rakehell. The door swung open before he could knock, revealing a frantic and dressed to ride Amberwood on the other side.
“Barrow!” the marquess exclaimed. “There you are. Have you seen—” Amberwood looked over Arthur’s shoulder. “Francesca!”
“Cousin,” she greeted drolly over the rain, raising her free hand in a jaunty wave. “I’ve gotten myself into a scrape, it seems.”
In more ways than one, Arthur thought grimly as Amberwood rushed past him.
“Is she here?” Lady Amberwood appeared in the hall, wringing her hands, Ashford and his duchess following soon behind.
