Mistress of Scandal (Greentree Sisters 3)

“Of course not, Amy.”

“Even if she doesn’t love the man she chooses, she can be content. And there are some good matches to be made.”

“Logically, yes, but the heart is not always a very logical organ, is it? If it was, I fear you would never have married me.”

Amy laughed softly, and there was a hush, broken by a contented murmur.

Sebastian backed away from the room as silently as he’d come. Normally he would be amused by the Jardines’ dismissal of him as a suitor for their daughter. He knew he was far from husband material and he didn’t pretend otherwise. Besides, he was not a man who contemplated marriage—in his occupation the future could mean waking the next day with a dagger between his ribs…or not waking up at all, as the case may be.

No, it was not marriage he had in mind for Francesca Greentree.

Chapter 5

Francesca hurried down the stairs. No doubt everyone else was already gathered in the drawing room, awaiting the call to dinner. She knew she was late, but the unflattering green woolen dress had taken some time to get just right—the enormous charging-boar brooch pinned to her breast was a masterstroke—and then there was her hair, pulled back so tightly into a roll at the back that it looked like a cap. She touched her hand to the austere style, pleased with the result. If Mr. Thorne had ever really desired her, he would be cured now.

With a little smile of triumph, and some anticipation, she made her way toward the drawing room door.

“Miss Greentree?”

Startled, Francesca stopped and turned. Sebastian Thorne was standing there, staring at her as if he wasn’t at all certain who she was.

“Hell and damnation! It is you…” A frown drew down his heavy brows as he strode toward her, and then around her, circling her with all the caution of a gunner facing an unexploded cannonball.

Calmly Francesca stood with her hands folded at her waist. “Mr. Thorne.”

He was still pale, with a dark bruise to add to the scratch on his jaw, but otherwise he was smoothly shaven, and his hair was combed back from his brow and clubbed at his nape. They’d found him some borrowed clothes, and by their old-fashioned cut and style, Francesca suspected that they must once have belonged to Sir Henry Greentree. But they fit him, more or less, even if they gave him a slightly disreputable air.

“What in God’s name are you wearing?” he said, still clearly in shock. “Did you pay a visit to the church jumble sale? Or was it the ragbag?”

Francesca achieved an outraged expression. “I beg your pardon?”

“What is this?” He brushed her sleeve with his fingers. “And this?” He pointed at her hair. “You’ve turned yourself into someone else.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said primly. “This is my usual mode of dress.”

He put his hands on his hips and glared at her. “You’re a beautiful woman, Miss Greentree, but you’ve managed to make yourself almost ugly.” He began to prowl around her. “This must have taken quite a bit of achieving. Congratulations!” He moved closer, and she felt his warm breath on her cheek. “But if it was done for my benefit, then you needn’t have bothered.”

“Your benefit?” she retorted, arching her brows.

He was going to tell her he didn’t want her. Perhaps all this hard work had been for nothing? What a relief! Then why did she feel so unaccountably depressed at the prospect of not having to fight him off after all?

“I.” He reached out, and digging his fingers into the thick roll of hair at her nape, he dismantled it. “Know.” Her thick, curling tresses sprang free and tumbled down, like a dark cloud, about her face. “The truth.” He smiled at the effect he had created. “You want me as much as I want you. But you’re afraid to admit it. You’re afraid to be yourself!”

“You are deluded,” she gasped, reaching up with both hands to gather up her curls again. “What would you have me be?”

“The woman I saw on the moors.”

She wouldn’t look directly at him; she couldn’t. With shaking fingers, she refastened her hair, but it wasn’t the same. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered, but she couldn’t help that, even though he was smiling at her with his villain’s smile, as if he was more than pleased with what he’d done.

“I’d remove that ugly dress, too, if this spot wasn’t so public,” he murmured.

Startled, she met his eyes. “You would not dare!” she hissed, but even as the words left her lips, she knew they didn’t sound like a reprimand. They sounded like a challenge.

One long finger stroked her cheek. “I would dare anything, Francesca. When you come to know me better, you’ll realize that.”

“I don’t know what you thought you saw on the moors, but you were mistaken.”

That long finger pressed firmly against her lips. “Keep your voice down, my sweet liar. Do you want the entire household to hear? I know what I saw.”