A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) (8 page)

The earl chuckled. “Seeing Tess tonight, are we?”

Alexander Bishop shrugged.

The earl let out a hearty laugh. “Tell her hello for me.”

“Tess?” The words were out before Francie realized she’d spoken. Heat flooded her cheeks. Tess? Who was Tess? Not that she cared if Mr. Bishop had a love interest, because she didn’t. It was just that, try as she might, she couldn’t visualize him being gentle with a woman, couldn’t imagine him speaking tender words or holding her in his arms. The very idea made her light-headed.

“Tess is Lady Printon, widow of an old friend of mine,” the earl said, sipping at his claret. “She lives down the road. They’ve been seeing each other for quite some time.” He winked at Francie. “I’ve been hounding Alex to state his intentions, get moving, and start working on a passel of children before my time is up.” He sighed. “But I might as well be talking to that door over there,” he said, pointing a long finger at the thick, oak door leading to the hallway.

“Philip,” Alexander’s deep voice filled the room. “I doubt anyone is interested in my personal affairs.”

“Just stating facts, son. You know I’d like to see a baby or two running around the house before I meet my
Maker.” His blue eyes twinkled. “But now that I have Francie here, who knows? Maybe she’ll give me a little baby to spoil.”

Francie felt the blood drain from her face. “I...don’t think... so,” she stammered.

The earl continued as though he hadn’t heard her. “Who knows? Maybe Alex has been stalling with Tess because she’s not the one for him. Maybe,” he added, swinging his blue gaze from Francie to Alexander, “Alex has been waiting for someone else.”

Her father’s insinuation was quite clear. He meant Alexander had been waiting for
her
. How could he even think such a thing? Couldn’t he tell they had difficulty being in the same room together?

Alexander cleared his throat. Twice. “I happen to like my single state, Philip. Very much.” His eyes narrowed on the old man. “And I intend to keep it that way.”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t. I’m merely suggesting a possibility. Isn’t that right, Bernard?”

Uncle Bernard hadn’t spoken more than three sentences since dinner began. Every now and then
, Francie caught his gray gaze swinging from her to Alexander Bishop. “Hmmm,” he said, stroking his bushy beard and tilting his head to one side. “Hmmm. Francie and Mr. Bishop.”

“This is ridiculous.” Alexander shot the earl a murderous look. “Miss Jordan and I would never suit.” His gaze settled on her. “Never.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks and she blurted out, “Mr. Bishop is right. The whole notion is preposterous.” Though he needn’t be quite so adamant about it. For heaven’s sake, you’d think she was a two-headed monster.

Her father smiled and shook his head. “One thing is for certain. You’ll never get to know one another if you can’t dispense with the Miss and Mister. Isn’t that right, Bernard?”

All eyes flew to Uncle Bernard. “Usually, that’s necessary at some point if an acquaintance is to develop into a relationship of any substance.”

“Miss Jordan and I—”

“Francie,” the earl corrected.

“Francie,”
Alexander said through clenched teeth. He was on the verge of losing his temper. She knew it. His eyes narrowed to half-slits, his mouth set in a firm line. And the jagged scar, the telltale sign, grew silver-white. “Francie and I,” he began again, “are not in the least interested in developing a relationship of any kind.” His gaze burned her with the heat of his anger. “Are we,
Francie
?”

“No,
Alexander
, we are not in the least interested,” she forced herself to reply.

The earl raised his hands in the air. “Fine. Enough said on that subject. If you can’t be husband and wife, then we’ll have to settle for brother and sister.”

“I agree,” Bernard said. “Brother and sister. That should suit the two of them just fine.” He smiled then, a slow, lazy smile she’d grown accustomed to over the years. He reserved this smile for situations, usually in her studies, when Francie formed one conclusion and the correct answer was the exact opposite. The more impassioned she became while arguing her position, the broader her uncle’s grin.

But this was real life. And she was not interested in one Mr. Alexander Bishop. No matter how broad her uncle’s smile stretched, she was not interested.
Most definitely not.

“Where is she, you old witch? Where’s Francie?” Jared Crayton advanced on the old woman as she bent over in the fields, cutting some kind of purple flowers.
And
ignoring
him.

“Look at me!” he demanded, his fists clenching and unclenching. How he’d like to get his hands around her fat neck and squeeze until she talked. He’d teach her to show respect for someone of his position. He was the duke’s son
, for God’s sake. He was somebody. Unlike the inhabitants of this little, run-down village who depended on the generosity of the heavens for sun and fertile soil to ply their trade. He’d show the old witch who wielded the real power.

And then she’d get down on her knees and beg for mercy.

“Where’s Francie? Tell me now, or I swear by all that’s holy, when I find her, I’ll make her pay for your disrespectfulness.”

The woman turned to him then, her eyes shaded by the large bonnet she wore. “You’ll never find her.” Her lips curved into a small smile. “She’s gone. Forever. And soon your days of terrorizing the village will be over, too.”

“Bitch!” he roared, slamming his right fist into her jaw. A crackling sound filled the air as bone connected with bone. The woman stumbled and fell to her knees, clutching her face and moaning.

Jared took a step forward, stopping when his booted foot touched the hem of her drab, brown gown. She lay at his feet, a crumpled mass of muslin and disgusting tears.

“Now tell me and I’ll spare you worse.”

He watched her try to lift her head. It seemed an eternity before she inched upward to meet his gaze. Her jaw was already swollen and red and he wondered if he’d broken it. He should have been more careful. Best not to leave a trail. But the woman had made him so angry
, he’d forgotten to use discretion. Not that it really mattered. He was, after all, the son of the Duke of Worthington. And these people were nothing. Nothing at all.

“D...Da...” Blood splattered from her mouth when she tried to speak. He must have hit her mouth as well. His aim was off. Maybe he needed more practice.

Jared stooped down to catch her words. “Tell me, old woman. Tell me, and be spared.”

“Daaa...Daaa,” she started again, wincing when she spoke. Her hands reached up to cup her jaw.

“That’s it. You can say it,” Jared coaxed, his words soft and gentle, as though he were a friend and confidant, not the man who’d just pummeled the side of her face.

A small smile played about his lips. She was going to tell him. He knew he’d make her talk. Why hadn’t she realized that before he hit her? It was all her fault. If she’d only been respectful of his position and treated him with the deference he deserved, this whole matter would have been settled and he’d be on his way to Francie.

Francie
. She was in his blood now, pounding and throbbing, filling him with desire. He had to have her. And he would. Just as soon as the old woman spoke.

Jared watched blood ooze from her lower lip. He should have taken better aim. It would have saved so much time. He’d be lucky to get the words out of her by nightfall.

“DDD...Daaa...”

Or maybe not.
Maybe he’d scared her enough that she’d force them out, despite her obvious pain. Smart woman. “That’s it. Keep trying.”

“DDD...Daaamn...yyy...you,” she pushed the words out, “ttt...to...hhh...hell.”

The words registered a second after she slurred them out.
Damn you to hell
. “Damn you to hell,” Jared roared, smashing her mouth with his fist. Her head snapped back with a loud crack just before she fell onto the dirt with a thud.

“Bitch.” He straightened and brushed off his clothes. That should teach her to speak to him in such a disrespectful manner. He looked down at her with casual disinterest, noting the fine stream of blood trickling from her swollen lips. His gaze swung to the fields of herbs and flowers. The old woman loved those weeds. Francie said they were her livelihood. He eyed the purple and yellow stalks. Next time he asked her a question, she’d answer him straightaway. Yes, she most certainly would.

***

“We should be there soon,” Bernard announced. He’d made general statements to no one in particular the entire trip. Alexander guessed Bernard was trying to assuage the tension he and Philip created last night during their matchmaking attempts. It wasn’t working. Perhaps they’d been only jesting as they later confessed, but if that were the case, Alexander wasn’t laughing.

Neither was Francie. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She sat across from him in a pathetic little pink gown. She stared out the window, shoulders back, head held high, like a lady of quality. Once the earl had her clothed and jeweled, it would be hard to tell her from a
real
lady of quality. Say, for example, Tess.

Alexander buried the thought before it germinated. He’d spent the better half of last evening comparing his new “sister” to the beautiful widow. Much to his utter dismay, Tess came up lacking most of the time. How could that be? Tess was exactly what he wanted
: blonde-haired, blue-eyed, with a sweet disposition. She’d never shown a hint of anger or dissatisfaction. And she had every right to. They both knew Alexander wasn’t going to marry her, yet she’d taken him to her bed, knowing this was as much of Alexander Bishop as she would ever have.

Except for last night. He’d ranted about Francie Jordan for hours as Tess sipped sherry and nodded her blond
e head. When he was through, she kissed him, ran her fingers down his body, and still he felt no desire. It was all because of her. Damn the woman.

She was a witch, a beautiful one, with her fire-red hair and sky-blue eyes. What man would want someone like Francie Jordan? She was too bold, too outspoken, and too brash. How could Philip and Bernard have even entertained the idea of Francie and him together? It would be disastrous!

But there was a small piece of him that admired her strength and applauded her tenacity. Even if she had fabricated the story about Jared Crayton, and he intended to find out, she would have done it to protect herself or elevate her position. Alexander didn’t agree with it, but in desperation, a village girl might invent a story or two to endear herself to her long-lost father.

Perhaps it was her situation that bothered him most and made Alexander want to avoid her at all costs. If not for Philip’s generosity, he would have been a homeless orphan, in a far worse situation than Francie
’s. His parents had not been of noble blood or even of reputable standing. They were cast-offs of society, a drunken groomsman and his obsessive wife, who had the misfortune of giving birth to a child they didn’t want. If Alexander had been in Francie’s situation, he’d have done anything to get out of the world of depravity he called home—lie, steal, cheat—anything short of murder.

He tugged at his cravat. All the years at Oxford, the fancy clothes
, and private tutors hadn’t really changed him. No matter how hard he tried, he was still the gutter-rat offspring of Harry and Alice Bishop. There were only two ways to keep the demons of the past at bay: Practice the role of the perfect gentleman at all times, in every situation, and never associate with anyone beneath him, least of all, anyone who might evoke some form of emotion that would force him to deal with his own unfortunate childhood.

His gaze flitted over Francie Jordan again. She was dangerous. A woman like her could elicit all kinds of emotions, if permitted. He would make certain they were never permitted.

“At last, here we are,” Bernard said, pointing to a little cottage around the bend. “Home.”

Alexander glanced out the carriage window. Home was a small, cozy dwelling made of different sizes and shapes of stone in varying colors of gray. Clumps of meandering ivy covered several stones, creeping along in haphazard disarray from the pitch of the roof to the corner of the small windows. The vibrant colors surrounding the cottage overshadowed its drabness. Splotches of red, white, and yellow adorned the pathways. They looked like roses, scattered about in an irregular pattern, but it was hard to tell from the distance.

To the side of the house were fields bathed in purples, pinks, yellows, and reds. Something struck Alexander as odd, and it took him a moment to realize the flowers were lying on the ground or dangling mid-air from half-cut stalks, as though they’d been hacked away without a care for beauty or preservation.

The look of horror on Bernard and Francie’s faces told him something was indeed wrong.

“Eleanor,” Bernard breathed as the carriage slowed. “I’ve got to find her.”

Francie turned to Alexander. “It was him,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “He was here.” She scampered after her uncle, leaving Alexander to follow behind. He’d seen the fear in her eyes, heard it in her voice. Could the threat of Jared Crayton be real? Could he have misjudged Francie Jordan? The truth lay somewhere between the Jordan home and the mangled fields.