“What is it?” Francesca asked as she toweled her hair.
“It’s only . . .” She bit her lower lip as she withdrew silk underwear from a drawer. “Mr. Noble returning . . . it must have upset you a lot.” She fumbled, looking at Francesca worriedly. “I mean . . . we heard that you and his lordship’s grandson were engaged to be married . . . before,” she finished lamely.
“We were. Once. But that’s over now,” Francesca said, picking up a comb from the dresser.
“But you must still have feelings for him.” Clarisse burst out.
Feelings for him. Against her will, Francesca felt his fingers brush against the tingling skin of her nape. She shivered and her sex tightened just from the memory. “I mean . . . Mr. Noble is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen,” Clarisse added lamely.
“Handsome is as handsome does,” Francesca said with a small smile. “I’m going to go and dry my hair. Oh . . . and Clarisse?”
“Yes?” Clarisse asked over her shoulders, holding a pair of sheer stockings in her hands.
“No offense or anything, but I’ll pick out my own underwear. Call it an American thing.”
Clarisse’s blue eyes went huge before she saw Francesca’s smile. Laughing, she scooped the underthings she’d set on the bureau back into the drawer and closed it.
Francesca dried her hair, and then used a curling iron to make a loose fall of waves. Leaving the bathroom, she stared at the conservative wool dress Clarisse had set out for her for dinner. She thought about Ian’s arrogant assumption that she would go to him tonight in his bedroom.
Maybe she would. Maybe she wouldn’t.
Whatever she chose, she would be miserable. It was only a matter of when she’d feel it. He was the one responsible for all these opposing feelings, all this unbearable friction grinding away inside her. Her agitation caused a usually buried but all-too-familiar rebellious streak to flare to life inside her.
She hung the green dress back in the closet and withdrew a long-sleeved, ruched sheath dress in brilliant cobalt blue. Five minutes later, she studied herself in the full-length mirror. Her long hair spilled around her shoulders, the reddish-gold color a striking contrast to the brilliant hue of the dress. She wore drop pearl earrings and no necklace. The dress had a low-cut, square-neck collar that left her throat, chest, and the top curves of her breasts exposed. It clung to her body, but the ruched fabric added an element of modesty. Overall, the dress gave the impression of sophisticated, confident sexuality.
The last thing she wanted to do at that moment was to let the world suspect how she felt on the inside. This dress would handily disguise all that.
Or that was her plan anyway. She thought it might work until she walked into the subtly lit sitting room minutes later, chin held high, only to discover it was empty. Deflated, she paused just inside the room, checking the clock on one of the bookcases. No . . . it was seven o’clock sharp. Had Clarisse mentioned the wrong room?
A sudden prescience overtook her and she turned to the right. Ian stood at the far side of the room looking devastating in a tuxedo with black tie, a book in his hand, his eyes gleaming from the shadows as he watched her.
* * *
She wavered awkwardly in her heels for a moment before she recalled the confident, unconcerned role she was supposed to be playing for the evening. Shit, she thought as Ian calmly replaced the book he’d been perusing in the shelf and walked toward her. She’d never been much of a good actress.
“Where is everyone else?” she asked.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he said. His gaze dropped over her, lingering on the exposed skin of her chest and breasts. Her nipples pinched tight. She gritted her teeth. “That’s a pretty dress.”
“You bought it for me,” she said, as if it were an unimportant, throwaway fact. She started to glance around the empty room, but did a double take when she noticed his small smile.
“And are you wearing it for me?” he asked, his low voice causing her neck to roughen in awareness.
“I brought exactly four dresses to Belford. You’ll likely see me wear most of them. Knowing you, you’ll think I’m wearing all of them for you. I can’t control what you think,” she said coldly.
“No,” he said, his gaze lowering over her once again. Hot. Possessive. His nostrils flared slightly. “It’s hard enough to control our own thoughts. Isn’t it?” She realized she’d been staring covetously at his chest and wide shoulders. He looked indecently handsome in his tux.
She inhaled sharply and looked around the room. “Should we go and look for the others?”
“No, the fire has been laid and a man was in earlier restocking the liquor. This is where we are meeting. Would you like anything from the bar?” he asked.
“A glass of white wine, please,” she said, eager for an excuse to get some distance between them. She stayed where she was at the edge of the room, comforted by the shadows that clung there. He returned soon enough, however, a glass of chardonnay in one hand, a highball glass of bourbon and water in the other. She took the glass from him quickly when he offered it.
“Who told you we were meeting in here tonight?” she asked, fixating on the reason why they were alone instead of surrounded by the protection of chatting friends and family.
“Gerard mentioned it I think. He must have gotten the time wrong.”
“Maybe he wanted to get back at you for earlier,” she said, taking a sip of the chilled, dry wine.
“Get back at me?” he asked in polite confusion, black brows arching.