‘Of course.’
‘She’s finding it a little difficult to slip away from her companions. Could you go tell her that her father is a little worse for wear and is recovering in the library, show her the way—it’s the third door on the left out of the ballroom. Do it discreetly, but not too discreetly.’
‘You have a trick for everything, don’t you?’ Fitzgerald said, clapping his friend on the shoulder and making his way through the crowd.
Ben watched for a moment then slipped away, wanting to get to the library before Francesca. It would be private and, if they were caught alone together, no doubt a scandal would ensue, but it was unlikely that would happen. Everyone was too caught up in the revelry of the masquerade ball to notice their absence. He just wanted a few minutes alone with her, a few minutes to find out what her life had been like in the years he’d been away. If he could just hear she was happy, then maybe that would be enough for him. Maybe.
* * *
‘Lady Somersham,’ a deep voice said quietly in her ear, ‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’
It was another gentleman she did not know, with a simple black mask and a serious expression. She turned to him, smiling apologetically at the two older ladies she had been conversing with.
‘Your father is a little indisposed. He has been asking for you.’ The message was delivered quietly, discreetly, but Francesca knew her two companions had heard every word. Feeling her heart sink, she summoned a breezy smile.
‘Please excuse me, ladies,’ she said.
‘He is in the library. Shall I escort you?’
Francesca shook her head. As much as she would like someone to share the burden of her father with, a stranger at a ball was not the right person. Not for the first time she wished her mother could be persuaded to go out in public, but she hadn’t attended a ball or event since Francesca’s debut ten years earlier.
‘Thank you, it is a kind offer, but I should see to my father on my own,’ she said, feeling a ball of dread in the pit of her stomach. Over the past few months, during the time she’d been only in half-mourning and allowed again at social events, her father had been indisposed four times. On one particularly cringeworthy occasion she’d had to enlist the help of a very kind footman to carry him out to their waiting carriage.
The messenger let go of her arm as they exited the ballroom and motioned to one of the doors on the left. ‘He’s in there,’ he said, before bowing, then disappearing back into the ballroom.
Francesca took a moment to compose herself before she reached for the handle. Sometimes her father was a violent drunk, but most of the time he was emotional and downcast when he’d imbibed too much. In some respects this was worse than when he lashed out. Seeing the man who had been the backbone of her family throughout her childhood break down and cry was hard to bear.
‘Father,’ she said, adopting a sunny smile as she entered the room. Everything was quiet and dark, not even a solitary candle flickered. Francesca paused, listening for some sign that her father was in the room, conscious or not. There wasn’t even the hint of heavy breathing.
‘You came.’ A deep voice startled her from the direction of the glass doors on the other side of the room. As she peered through the darkness she could see they were open and a man was silhouetted in them.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘This is where we agreed to meet,’ he said.
Remembering the offer of a quiet liaison on the private terrace, Francesca frowned.
‘I’m looking for my father.’
‘There’s no one else here.’
She swallowed, feeling her mouth go dry as she realised what a precarious position she was in. If she was sensible, she should feel scared, being alone with an unknown man. If she was sensible, she would turn around and head out of the door and back to the ball.
Against every ounce of common sense she possessed, she stepped further into the room.
‘You tricked me,’ she said, trying to catch a glimpse of the man’s face. She should know everyone who was invited to this ball. Her social circle was surprisingly small, with the same hundred or so people being invited to each ball or social event. It was irritating her that she couldn’t place him, not even when she felt as though she knew him.
‘I gave you the freedom from your own conscience to come and meet me.’
‘You tricked me.’
She saw him grin in the darkness, a flash of white teeth, and heard a low chuckle.
‘Maybe a little,’ he conceded. ‘But you wanted to come. It was just the consequences of being found here with me you wanted to avoid.’ The confidence emanated from every bit of him—he was certainly a man who knew what he wanted.
‘Goodnight,’ she said firmly. Part of her had wanted to come, to be wooed by a mysterious stranger and feel that giddy freedom of being irresponsible for one evening, but she wouldn’t ever tell him that.
He crossed the room quickly, moving from the glass doors to her side in six steps, placing his hand over hers as she reached for the door handle.
‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘Give me five minutes and I promise you won’t regret it.’
‘I know I would regret it,’ Francesca murmured, feeling the heat of his hand through her glove. He was standing close and she could sense the power of his body, but she didn’t feel scared at all. If she’d been cornered by anyone else she would be panicking, wondering if they would allow her to leave with her virtue unscathed, but she felt peculiarly at ease with the man standing next to her, as if she’d known him her whole life.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘Spend five minutes with me and I’ll tell you,’ he said, his voice no more than a whisper in her ear.
Indecisively she glanced down at where her hand still rested on the door handle. What she should do was walk out of the room and never think of this man ever again. She should seek out her future husband and ensure he agreed the details of their marriage with her father and saved her family from financial ruin.
Slowly she turned around so she was standing chest to chest with the mysterious man.
‘Five minutes?’ she asked.
‘Five minutes.’
‘Then you’ll remove the mask.’
‘You have my word.’
Francesca stepped to the side and around her companion, leading the way to the glass doors and the terrace beyond.
The terrace was lit by the flickering light of a few lanterns, placed at strategic intervals along the stone balustrade. It was cold, icily so, but the air was crisp and dry and the sky clear. All in all, quite a romantic spot her mysterious companion had chosen.
‘Why am I here?’ she asked as he came to join her, resting his arms on the stone balustrade and looking out over the garden.
‘Only you can answer that question,’ he said.
Thoughts of her impending marriage to a man she could not stand, of wanting to escape, to have one night, even one moment of freedom, of adventure, flashed through her mind.
‘Why did you ask me here?’ she corrected herself.
‘I wanted to be with you. Alone. Away from the other guests.’
‘Why?’ she asked, her mouth feeling peculiarly dry and the question coming out as a little breathless rush.
He looked at her with a half-smile on his lips and she felt all the air being sucked from her body.
‘Can