Because We Belong: A Because You Are Mine Novel (11 page)

No.
Had it really just been a year ago that she’d felt so steadfastly secure in her love?

“It was Helen’s favorite room,” James was saying from where he sat on the plush, dark brown sofa close to the fire.
And Ian’s.
The thought automatically popped into her head as her gaze swept past the little wooden motorcycle to the fine art collection on display in the room and the rows upon rows of books in the built-in shelves. She knew his taste so well.

“And Ian’s, of course,” James added belatedly, confirming Francesca’s suspicion. His eyebrows went up and he took a draw on his drink when Anne shot him a subtle, repressive look. Gerard gallantly changed the topic.

“And here is where Anne and James plan to showcase your painting,” Gerard said, waving at the area above the large fireplace where currently a fine John Singer Sargent oil of a striking Edwardian-era woman in a blue dress hung. To think that they planned to replace a master’s work with her own left her stunned.

“Since we spend so much time in here,” James said, “we thought it was the ideal place to enjoy it.”

“And be reminded of you,” Anne said, taking her hand and almost immediately easing her anxiety.

Her fears about making a fool of herself were mostly groundless, Francesca discovered. It wasn’t that she suddenly became confident in handling herself in the midst of such style and grandeur, by any stretch of the imagination. It was the kindness and easiness of James, Anne, and Gerard—and even the house staff. Thanks to Mrs. Hanson’s presence in Chicago, she was somewhat used to being served dinner. Ian’s housekeeper had insisted upon the tradition every once in a while, and Ian was too tired—or wise—to fight with her every time she mentioned it. Francesca found herself relaxing for the first time since she’d landed in London as the meal came to an end, and the footman served fruit and cheese for the last course. Even with the stunning formal dining room and the service of the exquisitely prepared, festive dinner, it was James and Anne’s warm kindness that set the mood. Gerard, too, went out of his way to charm her, his dark eyes gleaming with pleasure every time he coaxed a laugh out of her.

Francesca found herself hoping that the men would go to some gentlemanly retreat following dinner and that she would have Anne to herself—isn’t that the sort of thing they did in books like
Brideshead Revisited
? She really needed to speak to Anne about this dress situation for the ball. Much to her disappointment, however, they all retired to the sitting room together for coffee.

“I’m shocked that it all was so blatant—right on a busy city street,” Gerard was reflecting on the attempted robbery against her and Davie, once they’d settled near a crackling fire. “Is Chicago experiencing a crime wave?”

“Not any more of a wave than usual,” Francesca said with a smile. Gerard was settled next to her on the couch, looking every bit as comfortable in his formalwear as most men would jeans and a T-shirt. He really was extremely handsome, she added to herself fairly.

“It must have been so frightening,” Anne said from where she sat next to James across from them. “He certainly was a bold criminal.”

“He must have been a very stupid one, as well,” Francesca added with a small laugh. “Joggers don’t usually carry many valuables.”

“Assuming theft was their intent,” Gerard said, his mouth grim.

“What a thing to say, Gerard,” Anne scolded, repressing a shiver. “Let’s talk about something else. It’s Christmas Eve. Do you have everything you need for the ball, Francesca? We can run out on Boxing Day to the village, if you’d like to pick up anything. I have to check the donation boxes are set up at the church anyway.”

Francesca glanced anxiously from James to Gerard. She didn’t really have any choice but expose her ill prepared state in front of them. “Yes, I would like to go with you. In fact, I think I’m in trouble. Clarisse was asking about my gown for the ball. I brought this for it,” she said, glancing down at the crimson velvet and feeling her cheeks begin to burn. “I’m sorry. I’ve never been to something this . . . special before. I’m afraid I’m not at all prepared.”

“Well we’ll just
get
you prepared,” Anne said with unwavering confidence. “There’s nothing to be concerned about. It’s just a party, and it’s just a dress.”

“Wear that one again,” James agreed, nodding at her velvet dress. “Very pretty. I like it.”

“Hear, hear,” Gerard said.

“Tell you what,” Anne said matter-of-factly. “The stores are open on Boxing Day, and Stratham has two nice dress shops. If we find nothing, Clarisse will spruce that one up for you for the ball.”

“I’m sorry to be a bother.”

“Please don’t let it worry you, dear,” Anne insisted. “Your being here is what’s important, not a silly dress. Be comfortable. We’re rarely so fancy at Belford, but as I’ve told you, we’ve hired in extra staff for the holidays and the ball. Don’t be fooled into thinking we’re stuffy or pretentious, you just happen to be seeing us when we’re especially decked out for the festivities. Now, let’s play a game or do something
fun
, why don’t we?”

* * *

They spent a pleasant, relaxing Christmas Eve together. Nevertheless, Francesca was aware of a sore spot in the vicinity of her heart, a raw, abraded place. It was more difficult than she’d realized, sitting there in Ian’s favorite room, surrounded by Ian’s relatives on such a special holiday . . . without Ian.

Her loneliness seemed to swell inside her chest as Gerard escorted her up the stairs at the end of the night. He caught her hand and steadied her when she faltered on the top stair.

“Too much of Mrs. Hanson’s punch?” he asked, smiling.

“No, that’s not it. I’ve just grown out of the habit of wearing heels.”

“Not standard apparel for an artist, I expect.”

“Hardly,” she said, highly conscious of the fact that he kept her hand in his. The domed, high-ceilinged hallway was cloaked in shadow. Her heart started to beat uncomfortably fast as they neared her room.

“This is me,” she said, nodding toward the door. Still, he didn’t release her. He stepped closer. She kept her gaze trained on his crisp white dress shirt.

“Francesca?”

“Yes?”

“It’s past midnight. Merry Christmas.”

She looked up to return the greeting. He covered her mouth with his, coaxing her lips to part for his tongue. For a second, she allowed it. Perhaps she was curious. Maybe she was a sad, lonely woman who desperately wanted to feel connected to another human being in the once-in-a-lifetime way she’d connected to Ian.

His arms came around her and his kiss deepened.

A chill went through her when she realized she was thinking of him as the equivalent of a sex toy. He was a human being, not a convenient object to feed an insatiable, unquenchable desire.

She broke the kiss and pushed against his chest. He didn’t immediately release her.

“What’s wrong?” he rasped. His mouth moved along her neck persuasively, his hands tightening at her waist.

“Gerard, let go. It’s not right. I don’t want to,” she said quietly.

He lifted his head and looked down at her in the dim light. “Francesca—I know you must think this is odd, what with my being Ian’s cousin. I’ve thought about it, too.”

“You have?” she asked uncertainly.

“Of course. Ian is like a brother to me. Do you worry he’d be upset with us? Feel betrayed?”

“Why should he feel betrayed?” she asked irritably, her teeth set on edge. “He’s the one who left.”

“I agree.”

She blinked at his steadfast reply and was once again caught by his stare. Her cheeks flushed. “It’d just be wrong.”

He studied her for an uncomfortable moment, seeming to read her face. Slowly, he released her.

“I disagree,” he said gruffly. “I think it’d be amazing. I’m not going to tiptoe around the fact that I want you. I might in these circumstances, with a different woman . . . with a less intense attraction, but I won’t with you. The other night, you said the timing wasn’t right. I want you to know I’ll be there when the timing
is
right.”

She inhaled, feeling that scored area in her chest. “It never will be right. To be honest, I’m ashamed to say that the only reason I allowed that just now is because you remind me of him a little. You’re part of his family.” She shrugged helplessly. “Maybe I just wanted to feel like I belonged to all of that.”

“You
do
belong. Any stranger could have seen that if they were watching the four of us tonight. Ian won’t always stand between us,” Gerard said firmly when she didn’t respond. “He abandoned you, Francesca.” He touched her cheek with skimming fingertips.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” she asked bitterly, jerking her chin and halting his touch.

“I see he left quite a collar on you,” he said, his fingertips lowering to her throat where he caressed both her skin and the pearl choker Ian had given her. “But I’m persistent. I’ll break it.”

“Good night, Gerard,” she muttered in a strangled voice, turning away from his touch and opening her door. She refused to look up as she shut it, but she knew he was still standing there, his gaze boring into the door.

* * *

He watched her get into bed wearing not a stitch of clothes, pale limbs gleaming in the golden light of the lamp, full breasts heaving although her cheeks were dry. She was clearly upset, but forcing herself not to cry, tamping down her anguish. Her body had clearly been trained for pleasure. She struggled to exist without it, he realized as she reached for her pussy, her actions striking him as arousing despite the almost angry quality of her masturbation . . . maybe
because
of her focused fury. She hated this obsession, this absolute necessity to feel.

All the better for him.

He could tell by the way she almost immediately plunged her finger into her vagina that she needed to be filled. She craved, but when would she succumb to her hunger? He unfastened his trousers and reached for his cock, his eyes glued to his computer screen.

He paused with his hand wrapped around his throbbing erection when she frantically finger-fucked her pussy and used her thumb to stridently massage her clit. At the same time, she put one wrist above her head and fixed it to the pillow. Her back arched, the display of her plump, round breasts making his mouth go dry. Her face tightened in a poignant expression of thwarted desire and acute frustration.

Jesus. His breathing came raggedly as he pumped his cock harder. She was mimicking being restrained. He watched with a tight focus, his arm moving like a piston as he vividly imagined holding her down on the mattress and pounding his cock into that snug pink pussy.

He came before she did, his orgasm sharp and delicious. She was still writhing, clearly about to climax, when he shut off the video feed, no longer interested.

Things were progressing well, he told himself as he set aside his computer and dried the semen on his belly with a tissue. He’d set the ball in motion. It was no good hunting wounded prey if it remained invisible to his sights. Certainly he would be lured into the open now, with the threat he’d provided . . . the bait.

All Gerard had to do was wait and let the unfortunate drama unfold.

* * *

Christmas Day was spent very pleasantly. Anne gave her a tour of Belford Hall following a delicious brunch. Afterward, they exchanged gifts, and Francesca was glad to see that the ones to her from Anne and James were small, token-type gifts in the style she’d given them. They must have recognized she’d be uncomfortable with expensive presents. Gerard, on the other hand, stopped her next to the huge, sparkling tree in the Great Hall before she went to her suite to dress for dinner.

“What’s this?” she asked, confused when he handed her a dark red, rectangular box.

“My gift to you, of course. Merry Christmas.”

Francesca glanced around uncomfortably, but they were the only people in the hall. She opened the jewelry box, gasping softly when she saw the stunning diamond and platinum choker nestled in black velvet.

“Gerard, I can’t take this.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“Of course I do. It’s stunning,” she assured, regretting his concerned look.

“Then it must be yours, because you’re the very definition of stunning,” he said, his fingertips touching her cheek fleetingly.

“No . . . I couldn’t,” she said, holding out the box, but he refused to accept it. He just gave her a wry glance and turned away. She stood there in rising frustration and doubt as she watched him walk up the stairs.

* * *

The next morning she was getting ready to drive into town with Anne when a rap came at her door. Clarisse breezed in carrying a garment bag, her face radiant with excitement.

“It’s come,” she said, her voice trembling, her enthusiasm so great that Francesca truly sensed her youth for the first time.

“What’s come?” she asked, puzzled.

“Your dress.” Clarisse shook her head, beaming. “It’s amazing. You never said . . . you didn’t even hint . . . and he designs for the royals and all!” she sputtered.

Francesca laughed in complete bewilderment. “What are you talking about—”

But Clarisse was too busy hanging and unzipping the garment bag to pay attention. Francesca just stood there, her mouth gaping open at the most exquisite white and pale silver gown she’d ever seen or imagined. It fastened at the throat and was both sleeveless and backless. The design on the fitted bodice was of delicate silver leaves inlaid on white. Even though the white background was sheer, the dress was lined for modesty. The skirt was straight versus full, the sheer white fabric falling over a silver undergarment giving the impression of flowing, shimmering water.

“You must let me do your hair tonight,” Clarisse was saying breathlessly. “I know just the perfect style for this gown. You’re going to look amazing. Oh . . . and a note was delivered with it.”

Francesca took the small white envelope with numb fingers, pausing to assure it was indeed her name on the front. The note was typed on linen parchment.

Francesca,

Forgive me for being remiss and leaving you so unprepared.