Neither of them spoke. Clarisse turned and hurried away in the opposite direction.
* * *
She slept better than she had in ages, not rising until twelve thirty. For a moment, she lay in bed, recalling all the tumultuous events of the previous night.
After she’d left Ian standing on the dance floor the night before, she’d searched through the maze of Belford, desperate to find the kitchens. Twenty minutes and two startled waiters’ instructions later, she’d found what she sought: Mrs. Hanson bustling around the gargantuan kitchen belowstairs, preparing some of the last touches on the lavish midnight buffet.
“Francesca!” Mrs. Hanson had called in mixed shock and pleasant surprise when she’d appeared. But then the sweet older woman had acted like it was the most natural thing in the world for her to stumble into the kitchens in all her finery.
Mrs. Hanson had given her a cup of hot tea and let her sit at the center island, just like Francesca had grown accustomed to doing while at Ian’s penthouse. Francesca didn’t tell the housekeeper why she’d sought her out in such odd circumstances, but Mrs. Hanson seemed to understand without words. She must have heard the rumor of Ian’s return. She answered Francesca’s random questions about mundane things, like the feast, occasionally interrupting their conversation to call out instructions to the catering staff.
Francesca had eventually gone back up, forcing herself to remain at the ball until past one in the morning, going through the motions of enjoying herself and fastidiously acting as though Ian wasn’t across the room. Ignoring him stole every ounce of energy she possessed.
Trying to ignore him, because it hadn’t worked in the slightest.
Once she’d gone to bed, however, she was surprised to realize she couldn’t rest, despite her exhaustion. There was no one left to fool but herself, lying there alone in the darkness, and Ian’s return had halted that brittle self-deception. Sleep had been an utter impossibility.
Until she’d finally risen in desperation and sought him out.
He’d been right.
It was strange to feel so awake on that bright December day, her nerves tingling with awareness . . . so good, and yet so terrible at once. Quenching her desire had been what she needed to rest, and he’d known that. Some part of her must have known it, too.
She closed her eyes as she stood before the bathroom mirror, overwhelmed by a potent paradoxical sense of shame and arousal at recalling what had occurred in the sitting room. Never in a million years would she have thought she could be so bold . . . so desperate. The memory of what she’d done under the cloak of night felt like the recollection from another person’s brain had been magically inserted to her own, all the details excruciatingly vivid, but also foreign somehow.
He’d left her. He’d offered no explanation as to why (not that she’d allowed him to give a reason) and practically the moment he returned, she had sought him out and let her pussy rule the day.
No. You let his cock rule.
Yet another reason it was difficult to meet her own gaze in the mirror as she got ready. Shame, anger, and longing were an unbearable brew.
She showered and dressed in jeans, boots, and a warm sweater and smoothed her hair into a ponytail. She left the suite a moment later, carrying her sketchpad, pencils, her coat, hat, and gloves in her arms.
They all were in the sitting room when she arrived—Lucien, Elise, Anne, James, Gerard . . .
Ian.
The mood in the cozy sitting room was very casual and easygoing, everyone looking pleasantly lazy after the late-night festivities. She’d interrupted Elise in the process of animatedly describing a funny scene from a comedy that was currently popular. Her friend was curled up in the corner of the couch, her knees resting casually on Lucien’s thighs. She envied Elise’s ease in such splendid surroundings, a natural consequence of her upbringing, an innate confidence Francesca herself could never hope to achieve.
“Good morning,” Francesca said to everyone. “I apologize for being down so late.”
“Nonsense, we all slept in,” Anne assured. “But you look rosy this morning. You must have slept well. I’m glad to see it.”
She was determined not to meet Ian’s stare at Anne’s incendiary words, even though she felt his gaze on her heated cheeks. She couldn’t help but notice from her peripheral vision that he was dressed much like her. Her heart used to do a leap on the rare occasions when she saw him in jeans, knowing it probably meant he wanted them to go motorcycle riding together. He really did become a different man on the open road. She loved seeing his wind-whipped hair, his relaxation palpable in comparison to his typical rigid control, his full-out smile . . . the vision of him laughing without restraint. Even though she lectured herself not to look, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from glancing furtively at his long, muscular jean-clad thighs and narrow hips as James pulled up a chair for her and Anne went to pour her a cup of coffee from the service arranged on the sideboard.
“You weren’t planning on starting work on the painting today, were you?” Anne asked as she approached, noticing the sketchbook and coat she’d placed on the floor next to her chair. “But I was hoping you’d relax before beginning on that, take a little vacation. Why don’t you get started after the New Year? I’m having the canvas and your supplies delivered on the thirtieth. We’re all determined to be lazy today, after last night. We’re thinking about taking in a movie in town,” Anne said, handing her a china cup filled with coffee and cream. Francesca took a sip of the hot brew.