It was a measure of her compliance in his game that she obeyed without giving it a thought. “What did you see?”
“A passionate woman. I want to set her free.”
Francesca stared at him, her heart pounding, wondering wildly how she could escape his pursuit. Casting around, she said the first thing that came into her head. “Well, you can’t. I—I am engaged.”
He went still, eyes searching hers. “You have a fiancé?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s away.”
Sebastian smiled. “Away where?”
He’d believed her at first but now he was doubting her. She had to convince him. “He’s been asked to help out. A—a tiger has escaped from a traveling circus, and they need someone to shoot it. He’s an excellent shot.”
“I see…”
“My fiancé will shoot you if you don’t stop this…this nonsense. After he’s finished dealing with the lion.”
“I thought it was a tiger.”
“It—it is both. A freak of nature. That’s what makes it so dangerous.”
He allowed his skeptical gaze to run all the way down to her hem and back up again. “Is this how you dress for him? Keeps him at arm’s length, does it? Pretty Polly could teach you a thing or two.”
“Pretty Polly?” she repeated indignantly. “Who is she? Your amour? I gather that she works at the cheaper end of the market.”
He laughed. “You’ve a tongue like a dagger, Francesca, sharp and quick. But I don’t believe you.”
“That Pretty Polly…?”
“Not Polly, damn it! I don’t believe you have a fiancé. You’re like a flower, just waiting for spring to unfurl you.”
“Oh please,” she groaned. “Our groom could write better poetry! My fiancé certainly could. He writes and—and sings, and paints, too.”
He smiled, that seductive villain’s smile that promised her everything that she wanted, and was most afraid of.
At that moment the drawing room door opened and Mr. Jardine stood there, his instinctive smile wavering. “Francesca?”
It occurred to Francesca that all she had to do was tell Mr. Jardine that Mr. Thorne’s behavior was inappropriate and he would be gone within the hour. All her troubles would be over. But the words stuck in her throat. It was because she didn’t want to explain herself to others, she told herself. She wanted to handle this herself, in her own way.
But somehow her inner protestations didn’t quite ring true.
Admit it, you’re enjoying yourself! It’s like a game, and although it frightens you, you don’t want it to stop. Secretly you might even want him to win…
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she spoke brightly.
Mr. Jardine said, “Come in and join us. A drink, Mr. Thorne?”
Francesca led the way. Inside the drawing room, Amy Jardine, elegant in lavender silk, was seated on the sofa. Her pale eyes grew round when she saw what her daughter was wearing. “Good gracious, my dear!” she blurted out, and then bit her lip as Francesca’s own gaze narrowed warningly. She rushed on. “You’re wearing that brooch you found in York. So…so…” She fumbled for the right word to describe the hideous thing.
Mr. Jardine was pouring brandy into two glasses, but came swiftly to his wife’s aid. “I think Francesca would look beautiful in whatever she chose to wear. And perhaps this style is all the fashion in London?”
Oh dear, Francesca thought. “I don’t know what is fashionable in London and what isn’t,” she said loudly. “I am far too countrified for London.”
Was Mr. Thorne smiling? There was something about his mouth…curse him! Didn’t he care if she was gauche and unattractive? He was from London; surely he preferred the sort of women who knew their way about? Like Pretty Polly.