And she had no one to blame but herself. Winterbourne, the attack, this betrothal—all her fault. If only she had left the hospital a few minutes earlier that night. If only she had walked home with one of the grooms instead of alone. How many times had Alfred scolded her for not doing so? If she could but remember more about the attacker, Ethan or the magistrate might have found him and locked him up.
If, if, if!
Now it was too late, and Nat lay bruised and battered in the stables. Poor, sweet Nat had been attacked, perhaps by the same man who’d assaulted her. And it was her fault because she couldn’t be more helpful.
But all the guilt and the ifs didn’t change anything. Didn’t change the fact she was personally indebted to Winterbourne for protecting her or that her father felt beholden as well.
Lord, she’d been a fool to agree to this fake engagement. But she’d really had no other choice. Did her reputation matter all that much when she considered the recent attacks? Who might be next? Lucia? Lady Brigham?
And so she’d gone along, part of her secretly wishing her fantasies for Winterbourne would turn to reality. But this sham betrothal would fool no one. It was laughable really. And next week she’d be standing in front of the whole of Society, the only one not laughing.
She thought of her father’s tired expression. This was it. Winterbourne had gone too far. He’d have to think of another way to catch the attacker. It was time she put her foot down—instigate an insurrection among the ranks and showed his generalship that though he might have won her father’s approval, her mother’s adoration, and her staff’s respect,shewouldn’t surrender quite so easily.
She stomped through the entrance hall, breezed out the south door, and walked right past Peter, lounging at the bottom of the terrace steps.
“Miss Dashing, wait!” he called.
She paused so the footman could catch up, staring in the direction of the tack house as she did so. By the end of the day, she vowed, Winterbourne would be flying a white flag from the front door.
With Peter on her heels, she marched across the battleground between the house and the stable complex, formulating her strategy. She and his generalship would have a little parley, and this time she would not back down. He’d sidestepped her in the past, but today she planned a full frontal assault, and she would not allow him to avoid it.
“Aren’t we walking to the hospital, miss?” Peter asked when she took the fork in the path leading to the stables.
“No, Peter, we’re not.” Francesca didn’t pause in her brisk stride.
“But Lord Winterbourne said—”
“Lord Winterbourne is sometimes mistaken.” Francesca threw the words over her shoulder. “Plans change.” As his lordship would soon learn.
She advanced the last few feet to the tack house, halted outside the door, and turned on her heel to address the footman. “Thank you, Peter. That will be all.” She gave him a sharp nod, almost expecting him to salute in return.
The servant looked at the tack house, then at his mistress. “Yes, miss.” He stepped away reluctantly.
Turning to the door, Francesca squared her shoulders, reached for the handle, and flung wide the door. “Winterbourne!”
Although it was a typical dreary November afternoon, the sun in the overcast sky was bright enough that it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom in the tack house.
She stepped inside, searching the murky darkness for him. As the vague outlines and silhouettes of the room began to take shape, she finally spotted him sitting behind a makeshift table directly across from the door.
Oh, Lord.
He’d removed his coat and sat only in shirtsleeves, the white lawn rolled to the elbows. He was even more naked than the night before! And with his arms
crossed over his chest and an expectant look on his dark, handsome features, his demeanor was every ounce the conquering hero.
So he’d anticipated her arrival. Knew she’d be less than pleased with his unilateral decision-making. That knowledge leveled the battlefield and raised her anger a notch. If he’d known she wouldn’t approve, why hadn’t he discussed the ball with her? Francesca closed the door, and scooting around an abandoned saddle, stepped forward.
“Miss Dashing. This is a pleasant surprise.” His voice, as always, was deep and sensuous, but his slight emphasis onpleasantsent a shiver skipping down her arms.
Francesca clenched her hands in an effort to stop the wayward path of her thoughts. The man could turn even the most innocuous word into a seduction, and if she started thinking about his velvet voice and captivating kisses now, the skirmish would be over before it even began.
“I wish I could say the same, sir.” She grasped hold of her anger again in an effort to obliterate her body’s traitorous attraction. Standing before him as he lounged behind the desk, she felt more exposed than she liked.
She straightened her shoulders. “But I’m afraid my errand at present is anythingbutpleasant.”
She expected him to look contrite at her show of temper, perhaps even apologetic. Raise an eyebrow at the very least! But the amused smile he gave her instead was infuriating. Not only had her first volley missed; evidently, he found her anger amusing.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he drawled.
