Engaged in Passion (A Bridal Favors Novella) (7 page)

She looked away. "He just reported my actions to my father."

"And then you were punished, weren't you?"

"I deserved it."

"You deserved someone better than my father to teach you sums. You deserved a real father. That's why you tortured my father, isn't it? Because
your
father spent more time with him than he did with you."

She frowned, obviously thinking back, reviewing in her mind her thoughts and actions. "I..." She bit her lip. "They would work together for hours and hours. I could hear them laughing sometimes. And then when it was done, when Papa came out from his study, he would..."

Anthony felt his gut tighten at the stricken look on her face. How could a father be so cruel? "What, Francine?" He reached out and touched the backs of her hands. They were clenched so tight, he had to try and soothe them somehow.

"Nothing," she whispered. "He would do nothing. He walked on by as if I didn't exist. Day after day after month after year. Even when I tried to speak to him, to show him, to do anything, he just walked by me—unless he remembered something, and then he would speak to your father."

Anthony sighed. It made perfect sense to him. He had no idea whether or not Mr. Richards loved his daughter. He did not know the man well enough. But he did know that the man was not one for tender emotions. And he certainly would not have had time for a little girl with no value to him except in her ability to marry up years later.

He was still thinking about this, desperately trying to find something to say when she shifted her hands. Instead of gripping her own fingers, she touched his, entwining their fingers together. And the heat of their connection nearly made him dizzy.

"What did you mean, it's not my fault?" she asked. "What... why is it an impossible task?"

He didn't speak at first, but the answers rolled by in his mind. It was an impossible task because everyone knew she was a cit trying to marry up. Because she had not the training that aristocratic girls did. And because her clothing was awful, making her appear shabby at best. But rather than address the first two, he took the coward's way out and focused on the easiest to change. "Who has the dressing of you?"

She blinked, startled. "My mother. She has always picked my clothing. She says I have terrible taste."

Anthony grimaced. How could normally intelligent people be so very blind? "I do the books for a shop. It's a small dressmaker's shop, but they are very, very good. The designer's name is Mrs. Mortimer. The shop is A Lady's Favor dress shop."

"Mama says—"

"Listen to me. Your current dresser is more interested in the money your mother spends. When was the last time she contradicted anything your mother suggested?"

"Never. They are always of one mind."

"Mrs. Mortimer will dress you as you should be dressed. Clothed to show your beauty, not hide it."

"But Mama says this is the only way to—"

He shook his head. "Francine, you must stop listening to what your parents say."

She frowned at that. "I'm not sure—"

"I am," he interrupted. "Buy a single dress from Mrs. Mortimer. Maybe two. See if you don't find a difference. Promise me."

"Of course, but—"

Whatever objection she had was drowned out by the sound of the mantel clock striking three. He looked up and cursed, then flushed. He should not have said that word in front of her. "I have to meet with your father. I am already late and—"

"And he hates tardiness," she finished for him. Then she cursed with the exact same word he'd used. He gasped, then was oddly pleased. It took her a moment longer to understand his reaction, to realize what she had said.

"Oh!" she gasped. "I beg—"

"You cannot apologize now! Not after I said the exact same thing and didn't—"

"And you didn't apologize!" she said, finishing his sentence. Then she giggled. It was a sweet chime of sound and he loved it. But then he saw the clock again and had to push to his feet.

"I must go," he said.

"I'll visit Mrs. Mortimer."

"Good—"

"And will I see you there?"

He froze, thinking hard, wondering if he could arrange it. "I spend my days at your father's shop. I only work at A Lady's Favor after hours."

"Oh. But you will be back on Friday, won't you? Back here?"

He nodded." But with my father. And he is very strict."

She nodded. "It doesn't matter. You'll find a way. And... and I shall have apple tarts for you!"

He grinned. "Make plenty for my father. He can't resist your tarts."

She nodded. And then she glanced at the clock. "Go! Go! You cannot afford to anger Papa."

No, he really couldn't. But for a moment longer with her, he would risk it. He glanced behind him. The hallway was clear. If he was going to do it, it needed to be done now.

He rushed forward, framed her face in his hands, and he kissed her. Swift. Deep. And not nearly long enough. Then he forced himself to pull back, inordinately pleased that her face was flushed and her eyes dazed.

"Don't forget the tarts," he whispered.

"I won't."

"Apple tarts are my father's favorite," he said. "But I like cherries."

"Cherry tarts," she said. "I'll remember."

"Remember Mrs. Mortimer—"

"A Lady's Favor. I know. Now go!"

With a last final look, he left.

Chapter 6

"Papa? I brought you some biscuits. They're lemon. Your favorite, right?"

Francine's father looked up and groaned in appreciation. He picked up the treat and bit into it, his eyes dropping to half-mast as he chewed. He was already reaching for his second, when he looked at her.

"Keep this up, and I'll be bigger than you!" he said with hearty good cheer.

She winced, reminded again that she was fat and ugly. But she wasn't going to think about that right now. She had a reason for coming here, and so she set down the plate of sweet biscuits and faced her father squarely. He liked it when she looked him in the eye without flinching.

"Papa," she began, "about Lord Hetherset's son..."

Her father leaned back in his desk chair, his mouth flattening into a grimace of distaste. But he didn't say anything. He preferred to wait for people to finish their thoughts before he told them how much of an idiot they were.

"I don't want to marry someone I've never met. I don't want you to promise me to someone I might not even like."

He nodded, but it was a false agreement. She could see it in his flat mouth and the sad way he looked at her. Then he leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the desk as he looked at her.

"I'm not an artist," he said. "I don't like women's fripperies, and I know nothing about hats."

She nodded, knowing better than to interrupt him now. This was one of his favorite topics: how he became the wealthy man he is today. She had heard it a thousand times before, and now it would be a thousand and one.

"So do you know how I got to be the biggest and wealthiest milliner in London?"

"Yes, Papa," she said, wishing she could stop the rest of the story.

"By knowing what people like. What people buy. And by seeing the truth, even though it's painful."

"Yes, Papa."

"I heard about Gary from my mother. He was living in a back alley, for God's sake. But all the whores went to him for cheap clothes. He had a genius, said my mother, for taking the simplest things and making them beautiful. I sought him out the next day and offered him a job, even though I had nothing after The Bastard cleaned us out."

Papa never referred to his first business partner as anything but The Bastard. Her father, by all accounts, had been quite a talented toymaker. Together, they'd opened a shop, and her father had sunk every penny he had into making and selling toys. Except when the sales didn't come, his partner took all the money in the till and disappeared, leaving Papa behind with a storefront, dwindling merchandise, and no way to pay the bills.

"I knew then," continued her father, "that Gary was the answer to my prayers. And do you know how I knew?"

"Yes, Papa."

"I knew because I see things clearly, my girl. I saw that Gary had a gift even though he was squatting in a back alley and smelled like a dead dog. And I saw that we were in a bad way after The Bastard cheated us. I could have buried my head in the sand. Lots of men would, you know. I could have pretended The Bastard would come back, and we would recover. But I saw the truth, my girl. I saw that my partner had stolen everything, so I started over. I burned all those stupid toys and set up the store to sell hats. Gary's hats. And now here we are today. I am the richest, best milliner in London. In all of England!"

"Because you saw the truth clearly, Papa. You are very smart that way."

He nodded, his chin bobbing up and down, but his eyes were very steady on her. Francine took a breath, bracing herself internally. Now was the point of his story. Now was the part she wasn't going to like.

"I've got a clear head, my girl, free of sentiment. And the sad truth, Francine, is that you're not pretty enough to get married in the usual way. Your mother has dressed you as best she can. She tries to hide your weight, show off your pretty skin, but you'd have to be a beauty to catch an aristocrat, and you just ain't a beauty."

Francine looked at the floor. Her father hated tears, so she blinked them back. He was speaking kindly, his voice gentle, but she knew he was right. She was fat and ugly, and her big dowry couldn't make up for that.

"I gave you a good chance. You're my daughter, and I wanted you to have a chance at snagging a lord on your own. But you're six and twenty now. You're on the shelf, Francine, and you're out of time. That's not a pretty thing to say to a woman, but it's the truth and you know it."

She couldn't respond. He was right. All of her friends from school were married and had children. And even their younger sisters and brothers were at least engaged. Everyone had moved on except her. Because she couldn't find a husband.

"So looking at the truth, we know that you have to get a husband in a different way. I've thought about this long and hard, and I've looked into Hetherset's son. I won't lie to you girl. He's a bit of a lackwit, but he's amiable enough, won't give you any trouble, and best of all, he's Hetherset's heir. He'll be a lord someday and eventually, so will his son. My grandson."

She heard him move from around his desk. She could see his heavy boots stepping across the carpet until he stopped right in front of her. Then she felt his finger on her chin, firmly lifting her face up to his.

"You want a husband, don't you? You want to be a lady, and you want your son to be a lord some day too." He stated it as if it was a foregone conclusion, but for the first time in her life she dared to question him. She lifted her chin off his finger and met his gaze directly.

"What if I don't want to be a lady, Papa? What if I want to marry a regular mister?"

He exhaled on a huff of disgust as he dropped backwards to sit on the edge of his desk. "A regular mister? What a failure that would be! With my money, you should be able to marry up. My grandson will be a lord! No, no, my girl, a regular mister isn't good enough."

He stood up and moved back around his desk. In his mind, the conversation was already over.

"Now go on," he said as he reached for another biscuit. "Stop eating all these wonderful treats you make. Your mother tells me you've got some bee in your bonnet about a new dressmaker."

Francine nodded, preparing to fight her father about her choice. She'd had to go to war with her mother for an entire day before Mama had grudgingly agreed to let her try A Lady's Favor. But then her father surprised her by flashing a vague smile.

"That'll be nice, right? But even if it isn't, don't you worry. I've got everything settled right and tight. You'll be married and a proper lady as soon as the mail delivers the papers."

Normally she would have walked out right then. She'd obviously been dismissed, and she knew from experience that her father had already made up his mind. But then she thought about Anthony. She thought about his kisses and the way he smiled at her—as if she was the most beautiful woman in the world when she knew she wasn't. If her father went through with his plan, she'd never see Anthony again. Never feel his arms wrap around her as if she were the most important person in the world.