“Pocket’s a force, yes.” Winterbourne set aside the tureen and bowl and unwrapped the loaf of bread. He stared at it for a moment, looked around helplessly, then tore it into two chunks and handed her one.
Francesca smiled. Apparently, Cook had forgotten knives. “Your valet had better not see you do that, either. You’ve crumbs all over your shirt.”
“Saved again.” He ignored the crumbs and picked up his bowl. His warm gaze met hers. “You seem to have a knack for it.”
She smiled and brought another spoonful of soup to her mouth to hide it.
“If you’re ever in need of a lecture, I’m sure Pocket would be happy to oblige.”
She sighed, relieved at the change of subject. With him barely a hair’s breadth away, any topic was preferable to a discussion of propriety. She ate more soup and most of the bread. “Has he been with you a long time? Your valet?”
“Yes, since my betrothal—” He broke off, scowling, and Francesca held her breath.
Lady Victoria. She was the one topic even the most foolhardy members of thetondared not mention in front of Winterbourne. The daughter of the Duke of Prestonwood, Lady Victoria was a stunning woman. Several years earlier, she and Winterbourne were betrothed. Thetonviewed it as a fairy tale romance, and
although Francesca hadn’t yet had her come out, she heard all about it from her mother andThe Morning Post.
But what started as the talk of the Season quickly became the scandal of the decade. Before the Season was over, the betrothal had ended, and Winterbourne’s best friend was maimed in a jealous rage. Apparently, the marquess had found Lady Victoria and George Leigh together, innocently talking—at least that was theton’s view of things—and drew the wrong conclusions as well as his pistol.
That had been the end of the betrothal, the friendship, and Lady Victoria’s reputation. Even a duke’s daughter couldn’t escape the taint of the scandal on her character—though everyone assured everyone else the beauty had been completely blameless—and Lady Victoria had been forced to marry far beneath her station, a country lord from Ireland.
Now Winterbourne studied her, his gaze shrewd. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Francesca.”
She felt the pulsing tension radiating from him. Avoiding his stare, she nodded. Then his hand shot out, and she flinched instinctively, turning her cheek to avoid the brunt of the blow.
Of course, it never came.
Mortified, she opened her eyes, and saw he was holding a napkin filled with dried cherries. He lowered it with a frown. “What the devil was that?”
She felt the heat rising from her neck to her forehead. “Nothing. I’m sorry, my lord.” She scooted back.
“Ethan,” he corrected. “Did you think I would hit you?” He moved closer.
“No! I—” She shifted, and he grabbed her wrist. She gasped and saw him register her reaction.
“You’ve been hit before.”
Face burning, her mind raced for a plausible excuse.
“Who?” His warm fingers tightened on her wrist, grip firm but not painful. “Who hit you, Francesca?”
She jumped again at his harsh tone, and his hold on her wrist eased. Slowly, he drew her closer. “Tell me, Francesca.”
She couldn’t take her eyes from his—amber fire that warmed her through.
“No one,” she whispered.
He frowned and took her other hand in his. “Then why did you flinch and draw back?”
The blood pounded in her ears—his closeness, his questions—she couldn’t cope with them, couldn’t think.
“I-I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking. I—” Her voice broke and the words wouldn’t come out. Salty tears welled in her eyes. He released her wrists, and she felt his hands caress her arms. Then he tugged her gently, and she was in his embrace. His hand caressed her back, smoothed her hair away from her face, and all fear of him was gone. She was warm. Safe. Comforted.
“It’s all right.”
She barely recognized his voice. There was a tenderness in it she’d heard only in her imagination.
“Just don’tcry.”
