The Society lady

And the return of her first love...

Part of Scandalous Australian Bachelors. When widow Lady Francesca attends a masquerade ball, she’s shocked to meet Ben Crawford again. She’d loved him once, before her awful marriage, before he’d been transported to Australia as a convict. Ben is now a wealthy landowner, and his contempt of her burns almost as strong as their attraction. She knows he believes she betrayed him—so she must put the past right, before it’s too late...

LAURA MARTIN writes historical romances with an adventurous undercurrent. When not writing she spends her time working as a doctor in Cambridgeshire, where she lives with her husband. In her spare moments Laura loves to lose herself in a book, and has been known to read from cover to cover in a single day when the story is particularly gripping. She also loves to travel—especially to visit historical sites and far-flung shores.

Also by Laura Martin

Under a Desert Moon

Governess to the Sheikh

A Ring for the Pregnant Debutante

An Unlikely Debutante

An Earl to Save Her Reputation

The Viscount’s Runaway Wife

The Eastway Cousins miniseries

An Earl in Want of a Wife

Heiress on the Run

Scandalous Australian Bachelors miniseries

Courting the Forbidden Debutante

Reunited with His Long-Lost Cinderella

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Reunited with His Long-Lost Cinderella

Laura Martin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08897-8

REUNITED WITH HIS LONG-LOST CINDERELLA

© 2019 Laura Martin

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

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For Sophie—your friendship is one of the greatest gifts.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Surveying the ballroom, Ben found himself unable to believe he was actually there. Dressed in the finest evening wear, cravat tight around his neck and jacket tailored to precision across his broad shoulders, the son of a land steward was attending one of the most exclusive balls in London.

‘I’m not sure these masks conceal our identities,’ George Fitzgerald said from his position beside him.

Ben shrugged. ‘I’m not sure they’re meant to.’

They were standing at the perimeter of the Scotsworths’ ballroom for what Ben had been informed was an annual masquerade ball. The women were dressed in flamboyant outfits and their masks were nearly all elaborately decorated. Many of the men had gone for a more subtle and less time-consuming approach of wearing their normal evening jackets and adding simple black or single-coloured masks that covered their eyes. Ben’s was black, but did have a rather annoying feather protruding from one edge that every so often would flop in his face and tickle his forehead.

‘Why are we here?’ Fitzgerald asked shrewdly.

Since arriving in London three weeks ago they’d attended a number of balls and soirées, even once braving the unknown world of the opera, but tonight was the first night Ben had actually insisted they accept an invitation.

‘To enjoy the magic of a masquerade ball,’ Ben said with a straight face.

Fitzgerald laughed, clapped his friend on the shoulders and shook his head. ‘Keep your secrets for now, Crawford—one day I’ll find out what you’ve been up to these last few weeks.’

Ben grinned, but it was almost entirely forced. He hoped no one would find out quite how pathetic he’d been in the weeks since their arrival in London. When Sam Robertson, the third member of their little group, had suggested the trip back to their homeland from Australia, Ben had quickly agreed. He had told his friends that he wanted to see his family again, at least what was left of it. Eighteen years ago, he’d left his father and younger brother behind in a sleepy Essex village. For four years he hadn’t heard a word from them—the post never arrived for prisoners held on the hulk ships on the Thames or during the eight-month voyage to Australia. Only once he was working as a convict worker for the late Mr Fitzgerald the elder did he receive a tattered and torn envelope.

His father had written every month and must have paid considerable sums of money to ensure his communications were loaded on to the ships heading for Australia. Ben had no doubt most of these letters had never left England and could be found disintegrating at the bottom of the Thames. But one had got through—one conscientious and kind pensioner guard had taken Ben’s father’s money and promised to do his best to place the letter in Ben’s hand and, nearly a year later, he did just that.

Ever since Ben had kept in contact with his father from the other side of the world. Of course, he was keen to return to Essex and see the old man again and would do so as soon as his father returned from his poorly timed trip to Yorkshire. His father was an estate manager and as such at the whim of the Earl he worked for, but soon he would be back home in Essex and Ben would see him for the first time since the age of twelve. However, the other reason for his agreeing to the trip to England he wasn’t even sure would appear tonight. For three weeks, he’d haunted the ballrooms of London, hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl he’d left behind all those years ago.

Francesca. She was a woman now, of course. A woman who’d probably hadn’t thought of him much at all these last eighteen years. When he’d landed in England he’d made some discreet enquiries and found she’d been married and recently widowed. He was beginning to understand those in mourning didn’t socialise as much as the rest of the lords and ladies and had started to despair of ever setting eyes on her, but tonight he’d heard a rumour Francesca would be in attendance to chaperon her younger sister.

So here he was, waiting eagerly for a glimpse of the woman who probably didn’t even remember him.

He surveyed the ballroom again and for an instant it felt as though his heart stopped in his chest. There she was, unmistakable despite the mask and the eighteen years since he’d last seen her. Dressed in muted greys and violets, colours he was informed signalled the period of half-mourning, Lady Francesca Somersham still cut a striking figure. She was older than most of the debutantes, but having been married and widowed in the years since Ben had last seen her that was hardly surprising. Despite being almost thirty she still turned heads and Ben saw two gentlemen start in her direction as soon as they noticed her entrance into the ballroom.

This was what he’d been waiting for the past three weeks, but now she was here in the same room as him he was unsure of what he wanted next.

‘Enough,’ he murmured to himself. He wasn’t the lowly son of a steward any more. Over the years since he’d finished his sentence Ben had worked hard and taken risks, most of which had paid off, meaning he was now a very successful Australian landowner. There was no need to skulk about watching from a distance. Today he would talk to the woman he had been dreaming about for the past eighteen years despite his best efforts to forget her.

Quickly, he weaved through the crowds, ignoring the appraising looks from the masked debutantes. Fitzgerald was correct, these flimsy masks didn’t do much to conceal the face, but he was largely unknown and as such was a man of interest.

‘Mr Crawford,’ a pretty young woman murmured in his ear as he moved past her. ‘We really must find some time to spend together.’

Ben grimaced, but quickly turned it into a smile. Since arriving in London he had made the acquaintance of a number of women, mostly widows or those with husbands happy to turn a blind eye. He’d danced with them, talked to them, but never anything more despite their sometimes quite obvious offering of themselves. Ben might have a reputation as a man the ladies could not resist, but nothing was going to jeopardise his getting close to Lady Somersham, especially not a meaningless fling.

‘I await that moment with anticipation,’ he said, planting a fleeting kiss on the young lady’s hand, but moving on quickly, using the press of people to his advantage and weaving a path away from Mrs Templeton’s inviting eyes.

Suddenly she was in front of him and for a moment Ben felt the breath being sucked out of his lungs. She was beautiful. Gone was the gangly-legged, freckle-nosed girl he’d played with throughout his childhood and in her place was a woman of poise and grace. Ben took a moment to study her hair, sleek and tamed into a complicated bun at the back of her head. When they were children Francesca’s hair had always been an uncontrollable mess, frizzy and wild and more often than not flying behind her as she did something dangerous at great speed. He felt a sharp stab of desire deep inside him and fought to keep himself under control.

‘Lady Somersham,’ Ben said, pausing a couple of feet in front of her and bowing formally. He might have been brought up the son of a steward, but he was a great imitator and just a couple of days in London society had led to him being able to replicate the gestures and customs perfectly.

Francesca turned to him and, even though nearly every other part of her had changed, she fixed the same mischievous blue eyes on him that he remembered from childhood.

‘You have me at a disadvantage,’ she said after studying him for a few seconds.

‘Isn’t that the point of masquerade balls?’ Ben asked. ‘To conjure an atmosphere of mystery and allow you to creep into dark corners with an unknown admirer.’

‘Perhaps to conjure an atmosphere of mystery...’ Lady Somersham conceded. ‘But I’m sure my mother always told me to keep away from strange men and dark corners.’

‘And do you always take your mother’s advice?’

There was that smile, just a hint of the impish grin he remembered from childhood.

‘She likes to think I do.’

‘Lady Somersham,’ a deep voice boomed, causing heads to turn in their direction even half a ballroom away. This was the overweight, red-faced man who was destined to be Francesca’s next husband if rumours were to be believed.

‘You’re not meant to tell anyone who I am, Lord Huntley,’ Francesca said, turning to face the man. She smiled at him, too, but Ben could tell this was forced, a mere upturning of the corners of her mouth with no glimmer of pleasure in her eyes.

‘Nonsense. Everyone knows who everyone else is. Damn ridiculous idea if you ask me, all this prancing around in masks.’

Ben noted Lord Huntley had not deigned to don a mask of his own, leaving his red-rimmed and wrinkled eyes unadorned. Surely a mask would be of benefit to this man, even if it were purely to draw one’s eyes away from his generous jowls.

‘I think it is rather fun,’ Lady Somersham said and Ben had to wonder if she was just saying it to be perverse. Lord Huntley made him want to run in the opposite direction and he never had the awful prospect of having to one day be intimate with the man hanging over him.

‘Where’s your father?’ Lord Huntley barked, looking around as if Lord Pottersdown might be hiding behind a pot plant or marble statue.

‘I’m not sure,’ Francesca said, her eyes involuntarily flicking towards the doors that led into the ballroom. The gaming tables, no doubt. These past few weeks Ben had learned a lot about Francesca’s life just by listening to gossip. The ballrooms and dinner parties were rife with it and, although there was a lot of exaggeration and a few things that were clearly completely fabricated, you could glean some very interesting things if you filtered the dross out.

‘Losing more of the family fortune,’ Lord Huntley snorted derisively. He’d come to the same conclusion, it would seem.

Ben saw Francesca’s cheeks redden under the delicate rim of the mask and for an instant got the urge to manhandle Lord Huntley outside and send him on his way for embarrassing her. Then he remembered that he wasn’t her protector, he wasn’t anything to her, just a man who had once been a boy she’d known. A man she might not even remember.

‘Wait here,’ Lord Huntley commanded. ‘I’ll go fetch him. We need to pin down the agreement for this marriage.’

‘I’m still in mourning...’ Francesca said, but Lord Huntley had already departed, heading through the ballroom with his rotund belly leading the way. Not once had he even acknowledged Ben’s presence.

* * *

‘I’m sorry,’ Francesca said, trying to fight the tears that were building in her eyes. ‘That was incredibly rude, you shouldn’t have had to see that.’

Really she was apologising for Lord Huntley, the oaf of a man who would one day soon be her husband. The thought made her feel peculiarly queasy.

Trying to focus on the man in front of her, she couldn’t help but notice how he was the opposite of Lord Huntley, being tall and broad shouldered. She could tell there wasn’t a single ounce of fat on him even through the thick material of his jacket. His skin didn’t have that sickly grey tone to it, instead there was an unusual but healthy tan on his cheeks as if he spent a large portion of his day outdoors.

‘The best way to avoid discussing your marriage to him tonight is to not be here when he returns with your father,’ the masked stranger said nonchalantly. Feeling her eyes widen, Francesca tried not to splutter. Most people would politely ignore the exchange they had just witnessed, but it seemed the man in front of her wasn’t about to do that. ‘Come on,’ he said, a gleam in his eye that Francesca found vaguely familiar.

Offering her his arm, he flashed her a rather seductive smile as she hesitated. What she should do was wait here for her father and the man who was angling to become her future husband and listen while they discussed her like a horse for sale. Not that she had any illusions that her presence would make any difference to the outcome. She had absolutely no say in whom she married or when, both her father and Lord Huntley had made that perfectly clear.

Feeling rebellious, she took the man’s arm and allowed him to lead her through the ballroom away from the direction Lord Huntley had disappeared in.

‘You must tell me your name,’ she said, peeking up at him from under a carefully curled ringlet that framed her face. Her hair was difficult to tame, but her current maid was an expert at fighting the curly locks into submission and making her look presentable. As long as she didn’t go out in the rain.

‘Ben,’ he offered.

‘I can’t call you Ben.’

He shrugged, smiled at her and said, ‘That’s all you’re getting. This is a night of mystery after all.’

‘Well, Ben,’ she said, leaning in so no one would overhear her being quite so familiar with a stranger, ‘now you’ve removed me from having to discuss my future with Lord Huntley, what do you propose?’ She felt reckless, giddy. Francesca knew it was because she was near to hysteria, her emotions running high at the thought of having her whole future decided for her and a marriage to another man she did not like.

‘We could go somewhere a little more private,’ he suggested, that glint in his eyes again. Francesca trawled back through her memory, trying to place the man. They must have been introduced before, otherwise why was she finding him quite so peculiarly familiar? It was a sensation rather than anything else, a feeling rooted deep inside that she knew the man escorting her around the ballroom.

‘I don’t think that’s wise,’ she said. Years earlier she might have been tempted. He was a good-looking man and she was desperate for a dash of romance, of adventure. But she wasn’t a giddy debutante any longer, far from it. She was a widow in her late twenties, and that meant she’d had plenty of time to realise that liaisons with strange men in dark corners never ended well for anyone, no matter how tempting it might be.

She glanced at the man beside her and saw he wasn’t surprised by her answer. Francesca knew many widows had a looser sense of what was acceptable behaviour and what wasn’t, with many of them engaging in discreet affairs, but she wasn’t one of them. Her father had made it clear when she’d been forced to go back and live with her parents that she would keep her reputation pristine and pure so no potential suitors would be put off. It had worked, she thought glumly, she wasn’t even out of her mourning period for her first husband, Lord Somersham, and she was practically betrothed to Lord Huntley.

‘Then dance with me,’ he said, pausing before changing direction to the dance floor.

‘I’m not meant to dance,’ she said, gesturing to her half-mourning clothes.

‘Surely this world is more fun if you do one or two things you’re not supposed to.’

She felt herself hesitate. She would love to dance, especially with this man by her side. He was strong and young and had a vitality about him that neither her late husband or Lord Huntley had ever exuded. Imagining what it would be like to be swept around the ballroom in his strong arms, she felt herself nodding.

Trying to close her mind off to all the whispers and disapproval that would be coming her way, she allowed her companion to lead her into position. Francesca loved to dance, she’d loved to dance since she was small and had often roped in anyone and everyone to be her dance partner. Governesses, maids, the grouchy old butler, even Ben Crawford, the skinny little son of the estate manager she’d spent her summers playing with.

Ben. She looked up quickly, but the idea was absurd. This man, this charming and confident and attractive man in front of her, was not Ben Crawford. The son of an estate manager wouldn’t be so self-assured in a room full of lord and ladies, and of course he couldn’t be here, he’d been transported to Australia all those years ago. Francesca suppressed the feelings of sadness that always threatened to overtake her when she thought about her childhood friend. Now wasn’t the time.

She glanced at her companion again. He did have something about him though, the same cheeky smile and the same mischief in his eyes. Perhaps that was why she thought the man looked familiar. He reminded her of the friend she had lost all those years ago.

The music started and Francesca felt the pleasure diffuse through her body. She felt as though she was walking on the clouds whenever she danced, loving the instinctive way her body would move to the music. Her partner was both well practised and a natural dancer, twirling her round effortlessly and all the time managing to keep those lively eyes fixed on her and a smile on his lips.

For a second Francesca wondered what it would be like to have a man like this slip into her bed every night, to feel his hard body on top of hers and his soft lips on her skin. Instinctively she knew he would not be selfish in taking his pleasure and a blush spread across her cheeks as she imagined an unending night of passion with him.

‘Now you must tell me what has put such a beautiful blush on your cheeks,’ he murmured, leaning in close so his breath tickled her ear.

Francesca was unable to speak, knowing her voice would come out as a muted squeak if she opened her mouth.

‘Perhaps you’re thinking of moving in just a little closer,’ he whispered, pressing his hand ever so slightly harder into the small of her back. Against her better judgement Francesca allowed her body to press closer in to his, feeling the delightful swish of his legs against hers as they danced. ‘Or perhaps you’re imagining how it might feel if I kissed you here,’ he said, raising a finger and oh-so-briefly trailing it across the skin of her neck.

Now she was imagining that.

‘Or here.’ His fingers had dropped to her collarbone.

Guiltily Francesca glanced around the ballroom to see if anyone had seen the entirely inappropriate touch she’d just allowed. No doubt the gossips were already judging her for dancing when she was still in half-mourning. Even though this was a masquerade ball she was under no illusion that no one knew who she was.

Thankfully the music stopped and she felt the spell break. Her companion stepped away and bowed formally, only the sparkling of his eyes hinting at the inappropriate way he’d acted during their dance.

‘I hear the private terrace is a beautifully secluded spot,’ he murmured in her ear as he escorted her back to the perimeter of the ballroom. ‘If you go out of the ballroom, through the third door on the left and into the library, there are glass doors leading on to the private terrace there.’

He bowed again, then placed a kiss on her gloved hand before disappearing off into the crowd.

Francesca watched him go. There was no way she could join him on this private terrace, no matter how much her body wanted her to. Sighing, she turned back to look for her father and Lord Huntley. It had been a wonderful interlude with her mysterious gentlemen, but nothing more. She had to focus on coming to terms with marrying yet another man she did not particularly like.

Chapter Two

Ben watched her from a distance. It was strange seeing the girl he’d once known so well gliding across the ballroom, turning heads as she went. When Ben had been sentenced to transportation at the age of twelve, Francesca had only been ten. Of course she’d been pretty, but in a wild and unfettered sort of way. Now she was elegant and there was no hint of the girl who used to race him across the fields on horseback or dare him to boost her to the top of a hay bale.

It was unsettling, talking to her again. For eighteen years he’d been unable to rid his thoughts of her. They’d only been children when he’d been arrested for stealing jewellery from her father, children who had spent every moment they could together. He’d loved her then, in the pure and innocent way one child could love another, and he knew she had felt the same way. Even when her father had cajoled and threatened her, trying to stop her from speaking up in Ben’s defence, she’d spoken out, she’d protested his innocence. It hadn’t changed the outcome—no one had been willing to listen to a ten-year-old girl when her father—a viscount, no less—had told a different story, but she’d defied her father all the same. All for him.

He’d thought about her a lot over the last eighteen years, wondering how her life had turned out, wondering if she would still be living in luxury as he toiled away under the heat of the Australian sun. Once he’d finished his sentence and little by little bought up parcels of land, turning them into one of the largest farms in Australia, he thought he might move on, but still he couldn’t forget about her.

Ben wasn’t so naïve to think she even remembered him from all those years ago. She’d probably never thought of the young boy who she had played so closely with, but he hadn’t been able to forget her. So when his friend Sam Robertson voiced his plan to come to England Ben had been eager to accompany him. He wanted to look her in the eye, to see if she was the same girl he’d known all those years ago or if she had been irretrievably changed by almost a lifetime of socialising and living by the rules of the ton.

Never had he expected to feel quite so unsettled at seeing her again, though. She was beautiful, but Ben had known a lot of beautiful women throughout his life and none of them seemed to have this power, this pull. Throughout their dance all he could think of was sweeping her away from the ballroom, finding some deserted room and depositing her on something soft so he could spend the night exploring her body.

That was why he’d had to leave her, to give himself time to dampen down the entirely inappropriate desire he was feeling. Of course he knew she wouldn’t take him up on the offer to meet him on the private terrace, but he’d been unable to resist making the suggestion, just in case she decided to surprise him.

He didn’t know what he wanted from Francesca now. All his thoughts had been on seeing her again, looking into the eyes of the girl he’d once cared for so much—he hadn’t thought past that initial meeting.

Liar, the little voice in his head called out. He knew exactly what he wanted from her. He wanted to gather her in his arms and sweep her away somewhere private. Somewhere he could spend the whole night becoming acquainted with the most beautiful woman in the ballroom.

‘Who was that?’ George Fitzgerald asked as he found his friend at the edge of the ballroom.

‘A very pretty lady,’ Ben said with a grin. ‘Can you do me a favour?’

‘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 a man not want to get to know a woman away from the prying eyes of society?’

Francesca laughed. ‘No.’

He shrugged. It seems a foolish rule that two people can never be alone together. How do you ever truly get to know someone?’

‘You don’t.’

‘How do you know if you want to further an acquaintance then?’ he asked.

‘You don’t,’ she said, knowing that she was standing too close when she could feel the warmth of his body next to hers, but was unable to step away. Never was she this reckless, but there was something both charismatic and comforting about the man standing next to her. He made her feel like she wanted to fall into his arms, feel his lips on hers and spill her deepest secrets.

Francesca felt a wave of sadness wash over her. This would never be her life. She was moving straight from one unhappy marriage to another which promised to be even worse. There was no room for a reckless liaison, no room for this sort of scandalous behaviour. Normally that didn’t bother her, but tonight she wanted more than she could ever have.

‘How then am I supposed to find out what’s caused the sadness in your eyes?’ he asked.

Glancing up at him in surprise, she wondered if she were that transparent that he could read her every emotion. ‘I am in mourning,’ she said, wondering if he would accept that as an explanation.

‘Did you love your late husband very much?’

She thought of his indifference to her, his belittling. His downright contempt as the years went on and she didn’t produce the heir he was so eager for.

‘No,’ she said.

‘Then why the sadness?’

Looking up again, she wondered why she felt so easy in his company. He was a stranger, a man too confident and self-assured for his own good, a man she should feel wary around, but she didn’t. Instead she felt as though she wanted to spill her deepest, darkest secrets.

‘Surely a woman like you has everything?’ he pressed. ‘Wealth, family, servants to do your every bidding.’

‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ Francesca said. It had been a long time since either her late husband or her family had been wealthy. All the money had been squandered in failed investments and business ventures years ago. Living back at her parents’ house had been depressing after being mistress of her own household, but it was made even worse when she’d explored the empty rooms which had once been filled with luxurious items of furniture, when she’d seen all the servants except the cook and two maids had been dismissed.

‘So you’re sad because your family is not as wealthy as it once was?’ he asked.

Francesca laughed. If only it were that simple. She wouldn’t mind the lack of money, not if she had some say in her life to come. Seven years she’d endured her first marriage. It had been loveless and, although Lord Somersham had never been violent towards her over the years, his resentment had grown as she failed month after month to get pregnant. He’d belittled her, bullied her, made her hate him more with each passing day. She doubted her next marriage would be any better.

‘I don’t want money,’ she said quietly, ‘I don’t care about fine dresses or jewels. I don’t even need a lady’s maid to dress my hair and press my clothes.’

‘What do you want?’ he asked the question quietly, turning his masked face towards hers.

‘I want to be happy. To not be forced into another awful marriage, to have the freedom to choose who I spend my time with and how.’

‘You’re a widow, surely you have some degree of choice in the matter.’

‘No.’ She didn’t, not if she wanted to save her family from complete ruin. She didn’t want to spill all the sordid family secrets, no one needed to know that her father owed various lenders debts the size of a small country.

The man next to her looked pensive, as if some great debate was raging inside him.

‘I should be getting back,’ she said.

‘No.’ He caught her hand, holding it softly. ‘I’m sorry, I should not have pried.’

‘Will you remove your mask?’ she asked, peering up at him.

‘I don’t think you really want me to.’

‘Of course I do, I feel as though I know you...’

‘Wouldn’t it be better to have this one mystery, this one little bit of magic?’ He looked down at her with dark eyes and she had the overwhelming urge to ask him to hold her. She thought there might be something rather comforting about having those strong arms wrapped around her.

He was still holding her hand, she realised, and his thumb was tracing lazy circles across the satin of her glove. She wondered if he could feel the places the material had thinned and almost frayed—it had been a very long time since she’d had money to spend on new clothes.

‘Can you hear the music?’ he asked.

With her head tilted a little to one side she listened. Coming from the open doors of the ballroom on the other side of the house were the first soft notes of a waltz.

‘Lady Somersham, will you grant me this dance?’

Placing her hand in his, she felt her body tremble as he pulled her in closer and began to dance. He was a natural, guiding her expertly around the small space with just the pressure of his hand in the small of her back. As the music swelled Francesca felt her worries begin to melt away until it was just her, her mysterious companion and the waltz.

After a minute she glanced up at him and found him gazing down at her. Again she felt that bubble of recognition, this time deeper inside. She felt at ease with this man, she realised, as if they had been lifelong friends.

‘I feel as though I know you, Ben,’ she said, seeing the easy way he smiled and wondering if she was being foolish. Surely there was no way he could be the Ben of her childhood, the boy she had loved and lost all those years ago. He’d been transported to Australia, all because of her father’s actions, and he probably hadn’t even survived, let alone made his way back here eighteen years later.

He spun her, pulling her in closer at the same time, and for a moment they were chest to chest. She could feel his heart beating through his jacket. And then the music moved on, he relaxed his grip and they were a more decorous few inches apart again.

‘Perhaps you do,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps I just remind you of someone.’

‘Ben...’ she said quietly, all the time looking up into his eyes for some sort of confirmation.

He smiled at her, but his expression gave nothing else away and she sighed. She was probably just being fanciful. For so many years she’d longed to see her friend again, longed to hear that he’d survived, that he’d thrived despite what her father had done to him.

As the music slowed Francesca wished this moment could last for ever. While she was dancing there was no Lord Huntley pushing for marriage, no debts, no family falling apart under the strain. It was just her, the strong arms around her waist and the music. Soon it would be back to reality, back to everything she wished to escape.

‘Thank you, Lady Somersham,’ her companion said, bowing and placing a kiss on her gloved hand. ‘It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance tonight.’

It was over. The fantasy was shattering and soon it would be as if this moment had been nothing but a dream.

‘Your mask?’ she asked, already knowing he would refuse.

He hesitated and she saw the internal debate raging as a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. ‘Best not. Best to have one little mystery in life,’ he said.

She didn’t protest. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was better not knowing who he was, that way she could make up her own story.

He raised his hand as if he was going to stroke her cheek, but his fingers paused less than an inch from her face. Instead he smiled sadly.

‘Goodbye, Frannie,’ he said and then he was gone.

Francesca felt the air being sucked from her lungs as her whole world tilted. Frannie—only one person had ever called her that.

‘Ben,’ she called out, but already he had gone. Disappeared into the darkness like a phantom.

Chapter Three

‘Why the long face?’ Sam Robertson asked as he came and sat down in one of the comfortable armchairs in Lady Winston’s drawing room alongside Ben and George Fitzgerald. Lady Winston was Fitzgerald’s aunt and their hostess for their time in London. She’d been kind to them, accepting Ben and Sam as if they were her relatives alongside Fitzgerald.

Up until recently Ben had been staying at her town house alongside his two friends, but he’d craved a little privacy to conduct his affairs and had rented a set of rooms nearby. He did, however, drop in most days for at least one meal, or to partake in the particularly delicious mid-afternoon snack Lady Winston insisted on serving. The platter of cakes, scones and biscuits was enough to keep ten men going for an entire day, but between the three of them they often devoured it completely.

‘Do you remember when we were on the transport ship together,’ Ben said after loading his plate up with biscuits and cakes, ‘I told you about the girl I used to be friends with? The one whose father falsely accused me of stealing the family jewellery.’

‘Of course. Francesca, wasn’t it?’

He nodded. ‘I saw her last night. I talked to her.’

‘Did she remember who you were?’ Robertson asked.

‘It was at the masquerade. I was wearing a mask.’

‘The lady in violet,’ Fitzgerald said, understanding dawning in his eyes, ‘The one you asked me to escort to the library.’

‘Did you want her to remember you?’ Robertson asked.

Ben shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. Of course he’d wanted her to remember him. For so long she’d haunted his dreams and, if he was completely honest, she was one of the main reasons prompting his return to England. He had needed to see she was happy, that her father hadn’t completely ruined her life as well.

Now he had set eyes on her again, his feelings were even more complicated. As they’d danced on the terrace the night before he had seen the recognition slowly dawning in Francesca’s eyes and he’d been all ready to reveal his identity to her, but then an unfamiliar stab of uncertainty had stopped him. She was a lady, the daughter of a viscount. He might be a wealthy landowner now, but his origins still meant he was an imposter in society. What if she shunned him? He’d taken the easy way out, the coward’s way, and had slipped away before she confronted him about his identity.

‘Did you tell her who you were?’ Fitzgerald asked.

He shook his head. ‘I planned to...’

‘So what happened?’

Ben shrugged. ‘She probably doesn’t even remember me anyway.’

‘Unlikely,’ Robertson said. ‘Surely she’d remember the man her father had falsely arrested?’

At the end of that last summer before Ben had been arrested there was a robbery at Elmington Manor, Francesca’s childhood home. A large amount of jewellery was stolen, along with some cash and other small valuables. The hue and cry was raised and the magistrate along with other upstanding men in the community began their search.

After a week a small locket had been found in Ben’s possession. It had Francesca’s initials on it and immediately Ben had been arrested. He’d begged his accusers to just go and ask Francesca, to confirm that she’d given him the locket as a gift, as a token of their friendship.

The magistrate refused, no doubt eager to stay in favour with Lord Pottersdown, but one day a week into his incarceration Francesca had turned up anyway. She told anyone who would listen that Ben was speaking the truth—she had given him the locket. Over and over she told the magistrate that her father had set the whole thing up, that he had framed Ben in a desperate attempt to cover his own debts. Of course, no one had listened. She was just a girl, a ten-year-old who was obviously infatuated with a common thief.

Eventually her father had arrived and dragged her away. Ben would never forget the moment the door of the county gaol closed behind her; in that moment, his heart had broken. Three months later he was sent to the hulk ships that lined the Thames and a year after that he was aboard a transportation ship to Australia.

In the eight years of his sentence and the ten years since he’d acquired his freedom he hadn’t ever been able to forget his childhood friend. He’d dreamed of coming back for her, to rescue her from her cruel father. As he’d grown older he’d let go of any thoughts of rescue, knowing that by now Francesca would be living her own life, but he’d never given up the hope that one day he might see her again.

What he hadn’t expected was the attraction he’d felt for her. When he’d last seen her they’d both been children. He had loved her, there was no denying that, but in a way one friend loves another. Now he felt something much more primal, much more pressing. He desired her. Francesca was beautiful now, sleek and elegant and graceful. When they’d danced, he’d felt raw desire for the woman in his arms and it had taken all his self-control not to kiss her there and then on the terrace. Even though once they had been very close he knew it was unlikely a woman of Francesca’s status would allow herself to be seduced by him.

‘So you’re just going to leave it?’ Robertson asked, his voice a touch incredulous.

Ben shook his head. He couldn’t leave it like that. He had just needed to regroup, that was all, decide what he actually wanted from Francesca before he saw her again.

‘She was very pretty,’ Fitzgerald said quietly. Probably the most perceptive of the three friends, George Fitzgerald had a way of seeing past the façade and getting to the heart of a problem.

‘She’s changed a lot,’ Ben said carefully.

‘And she’s a widow...’

‘Not that kind,’ Ben said quickly. She was a respectable woman, he knew that much, and he also knew how reputation mattered to the ladies and gentlemen of society.

‘Fair enough. Isn’t she engaged, though?’ Fitzgerald asked.

‘Not yet,’ he said, thinking of the boorish man he’d met fleetingly the night before. He couldn’t imagine the girl he’d once known married to such an oaf and likely that was the source of sadness in her eyes. She’d said as much, with her desire for a little freedom in her choice, in her life.

‘Then you have a window of opportunity, surely?’ Robertson said.

‘I do,’ he said quietly. First he needed to work out what he wanted from Francesca—only then would he seek her out again.

* * *

Taking a deep breath, Francesca looked up at the building in front of her. It was in a desirable part of London, the street lined with trees and well-dressed men and women strolling along the pavements arm in arm. Really, she shouldn’t be nervous.

Telling herself not to be so silly, she crossed the road and climbed the five steps that led to the front door. There she hesitated, not knowing what the correct etiquette was when visiting a gentleman’s rooms.

Francesca had been an unmarried debutante for two years, unhappily married for seven, and then a widow for almost a year now. That made ten years of adulthood in which she had never visited a gentleman’s rooms. Many of her contemporaries would whisper and giggle about their affairs, taking pleasure in sneaking off behind their husbands’ backs to meet their lovers, but she had never done anything like that. So she lifted the knocker and let it drop a couple of times, all the while feeling completely out of her depth.

‘Good morning, miss,’ a pretty young girl said as she answered the door. She was dressed in a French maid’s uniform that had been popular for a certain set of the ton to instruct their maids to wear a couple of years earlier.

‘I’m here to see Mr Crawford,’ Francesca said quietly, hoping no one would overhear.

‘I’ll see if he’s in, miss, if you’d like to wait here.’

The maid indicated a spot in the hallway where a couple of chairs had been set out for waiting visitors. Francesca perched, ready to flee at the slightest sign of anyone recognising her.

Two minutes later the maid returned, almost skipping down the stairs.

‘Mr Crawford will see you,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’

Feeling increasingly nervous with every step, she followed the young maid up two flights of stairs to the top floor of the building. There, lounging against the door frame of an open door, was Ben. Without the mask it was unmistakably him, the boy she’d called her closest friend throughout their childhood. He gave her a half-smile, full of charm, and despite her nerves Francesca felt her heart flip inside her chest.

‘Lady Somersham,’ he said, his voice low, ‘What a pleasant surprise.’ He didn’t look surprised to see her, he didn’t look as if anything in the world could ruffle him, especially not the mere reappearance of an old childhood friend.

‘Mr Crawford,’ she greeted him formally, her upbringing taking over as her mind went completely blank. She wanted to reach out, to touch his face, trace the lines with her fingers and convince herself he was really there and not just a figment of her imagination.

‘I think you can call me Ben, Frannie,’ he said with that roguishly charming smile. ‘It’s not as though we’re strangers.’

He was right. They were far from strangers, but the boy she’d known had grown up into a man she didn’t much recognise. A man her body was reacting to in a most inappropriate way.

‘What brings you to this part of town?’ he asked, still leaning against the doorframe.

With her eyes narrowing, Francesca took in his appearance. He was wearing a shirt and trousers only, no jacket and no necktie or cravat. His shirt was half-untucked and opened at the neck, revealing a hint of the bronzed skin of his chest underneath.

A moment of realisation dawned and her hand rose involuntarily to her mouth. It was the middle of the day, but that didn’t mean to say he didn’t have company.

‘It’s a bad time...’ she began to say, starting to back away. How could she be so foolish? He was a grown man, a man who wasn’t tied by the expectations of society like she was. She felt unexpected jealousy and quickly tried to tamper it down before it could show on her face.

‘Not for me.’ Ben caught her by the hand, then stepped back, motioning for her to enter his rooms first.

They were sparsely furnished with just the essentials. A small sitting room with a couple of chairs alongside a writing table and then a bedroom leading off the sitting room with a bed and wardrobe. It didn’t look as though Ben had brought much of his own to personalise the space, but if the rumours were to be believed he had only recently arrived from Australia and as such probably wouldn’t have much more than his clothes and a few of his dearest possessions with him.

‘Would you like me to call for something to drink?’ he asked, motioning for her to take one of the chairs. He perched on the windowsill, leaning casually back against the glass.

Now she was here, Francesca didn’t know what to say. At the ball three nights ago when she’d realised who the mysterious man in the mask really was she’d barely been able to believe it. Ben, the boy she’d loved ever since she could remember. The one she’d carried in her heart all these years, never daring to hope she might see him again. And now he was here, in the flesh. All six foot of him, and he was grinning at her like they were twelve again.

‘You’re looking well, Frannie,’ he said softly.

His words and his tone unnerved her. His voice was low and gravelly and it cut through her body and penetrated her soul. There was something about the way he looked at her that made her want to throw herself into his arms and find out just how strong the taut muscles were. Ben had aged well and barely looked his thirty years; only the faint few lines around his eyes gave away the life he’d lived already.

Self-consciously she touched her hair. Ten years ago she’d been considered a diamond of the Season. That was after hours of her maid taming and curling her hair and strapping her into beautiful dresses, but Francesca had still felt like a fraud. Then she’d been more at home in breeches and a shirt with her hair loose and streaming out behind her.

Now she was twenty-eight. Many of her friends had children the same age as she’d been when Ben was sent away. She was no longer young, no longer so smooth and polished. Years of living with a man who gradually resented her more and more had caused her to age a little. Ben, with his handsome tanned face and muscular physique, was probably used to pretty young things throwing themselves at him.

‘So are you,’ she said.

It was true. The boy she remembered had been all arms and legs. Tall for his age but skinny, with a cheeky grin that had been too big for his face. He’d been tanned then, too, a consequence of spending every waking hour running through the countryside.

The man in front of her bore a passing resemblance to that boy, but the changes were innumerable. He was taller now, with long legs and a broad body, no longer skinny, but a frame filled with hard muscle. His hair was still the same dark brown and his eyes a dark, deep green, but his face had changed over the years. The smile was still there, but layered behind the cheekiness was years of experience and Francesca knew instinctively it had charmed hundreds of women.

‘You left the masquerade without saying anything,’ she said, not knowing how to start. She could hardly come out and tell him she’d thought about him every day for the last eighteen years.

‘I didn’t want to embarrass you,’ he said quietly.

Francesca nodded slowly, feeling the pain at the instant reminder in their difference in circumstances. It had always haunted them, always kept them apart even as children. Again and again her father had threatened to have Ben whipped if he caught her running wild around the estate with him again. He wasn’t deemed suitable company for the daughter of a viscount. Now was no different, not really. Francesca was expected to marry well again and keep herself scandal-free until then. Socialising with an ex-convict would hardly be keeping a low profile.

Lord Huntley. She’d almost forgotten about him in the heat of the moment. The man she was destined to marry as soon as her mourning period was over. He would be livid if he knew she was here. He might even call off the marriage. Even though she despised the man she had to marry him. Yet still she could not bring herself to leave.

‘Sit down, Frannie,’ he said, motioning to one of the chairs. She obeyed, glad to sink into the soft fabric. This whole encounter had drained her already and a seat was welcome while she worked out what she had wanted when she came to see Ben.

‘How are you here?’ she asked. There were so many things she wanted to know, so many questions she barely knew where to start.

‘I took a ship from Australia,’ Ben said, grinning as she rolled her eyes at him. Already she was beginning to feel more at ease.

‘You know that’s not what I mean.’

‘I think my life story might be a little too long for you to listen to.’

‘I don’t need your life story,’ Francesca said, leaning forward in her chair, ‘Not all of it at least. Just what you’ve been doing for the past eighteen years.’

‘This and that,’ he said. ‘I’m more interested in you.’

‘This and that isn’t a proper answer.’

‘I served my sentence,’ he said and Francesca noted the subtle flash of pain in his eyes as he remembered the years he must have spent toiling under the hot Australian sun. ‘Then I was lucky enough to be taken in by a kind man who mentored me and showed me how to thrive in a hostile land. I had good friends and I built a life for myself out there. A good life.’

What he wasn’t saying was the pain he must have felt at everything he’d left behind. His father and siblings, people who cared for him, people who loved him.

‘How about you?’ he asked.

‘I was married,’ Francesca said, wondering how to condense the last unhappy decade and a half into a few sentences. ‘And now I’m a widow.’ It was depressing when she said it like that. Eighteen years Ben had been gone and all she had to show for it was a dead husband she hadn’t much liked and now the prospect of another marriage she was being forced into.

‘My Frannie,’ Ben said, slipping from his chair and kneeling in front of her. With callused fingers he reached up and stroked her cheek, and Francesca instinctively closed her eyes and sank into the caress. She didn’t know this man, not how he was now, but everything about him seemed right. Her body and her heart were telling her to fall into his arms even though she’d barely exchanged a hundred words with him. ‘Such sadness,’ he said, ‘What can I do to make you smile again?’ The words were almost a whisper and conjured up thoughts of all sorts of inappropriate actions. She could almost feel his lips on her skin, his hands on her body, his legs entwined with hers. Unconsciously she leaned forward ever so slightly, catching herself at the last moment and recoiling sharply.

‘I need to go,’ she said, the words catching in her throat. Thoughts of Lord Huntley flooded into her mind and she had to blink away the tears. He was her future, not the man in front of her.

Lord Huntley with his wobbling jowls and mottled skin. What a contrast to Ben who was the embodiment of vigour and health. At the masquerade his eyes had seemed to penetrate to her very soul and today she felt as though his lips were teasing her, inviting her in.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said and stepped towards the door.

Her hand was on the doorknob when she felt a soft touch on her arm. He must have moved as quickly and silently as one of the big cats that she’d seen the previous year at an exhibition. The black panther had stalked around the tiny cage as if constantly on the lookout for prey.

‘Wait,’ he said. His fingers burned through the material of her dress and she felt the heat of his skin on hers. Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she turned and found Ben standing directly behind her. They were close, far too close for propriety, but she’d thrown all notions of good behaviour away when she’d knocked on a bachelor’s door. Slowly she raised her chin so she was looking into his eyes.

It was a mistake. The moment her eyes met his she knew it was futile to resist. It might not be today or this week, but one day she would succumb to those eyes, to the man behind them.

‘I missed you, Frannie,’ he said, raising a hand and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered, caressing her neck like the most intimate of lovers, and it took all her self-control not to sigh with contentment.

‘I missed you, too,’ she found herself admitting. She needed to get out of his rooms, needed to escape before she did something she would regret. Something that would put her whole future, the future of her entire family, in jeopardy. ‘But I can’t see you again.’

‘Lord Huntley?’ Ben asked, an amused look in his eyes.

‘He wouldn’t approve.’

Ben leaned in, his breath tickling her ear. ‘Sometimes it feels good to be just a little bit bad, doesn’t it?’

Francesca swallowed, knowing if she tried to speak her voice would come out as a series of squeaks instead of words.

‘I should go,’ was all she managed to repeat eventually. Ben smiled and leaned forward, kissing her cheek with a gentle brush of his lips. Francesca was mortified by the small sigh that managed to escape from her throat and knew she was turning pink.

‘If you wish,’ he said, his eyes never leaving hers.

Nervously she groped for the doorknob again, her fingers slipping in her anxiety to get away. After two more attempts she had it gripped in her hand and twisted, almost falling out into the corridor. She’d hoped the spell he seemed to hold over her might break if she put a little distance between them, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. With a hurried little curtsy that made her feel completely ridiculous, she scurried off down the hall, feeling his eyes on her back the entire way.

Chapter Four

Ben pummelled the punchbag, feeling the wonderful burn in his arms as the seconds ticked by. He was at the Smith-Hickory Boxing Club, a rundown boxing gymnasium close to Charing Cross. It was owned by a rugged middle-aged man called Kit Hickory, who looked as though he’d taken one too many punches in the face as a young man with a crooked nose and a marked asymmetry. It wasn’t a gentleman’s boxing club—Ben had been in one of those when he first arrived in London and had left after a few minutes. That sort of boxing was more prancing and pontificating than actual punching and defending.

Here he felt at home, among the working-class men, the men eager to take their frustrations out on the punchbags and their fellow patrons. Ben didn’t feel uncomfortable when he attended the events of the ton, but it wasn’t his world. This was more where he belonged.

‘Lighter on your feet,’ Kit Hickory called as he walked around the gym. ‘Punch, punch, duck. Guard up. Guard up!’

The older man was shouting at the two youths fighting in a roped-off boxing ring. They were good, made better by Hickory’s coaching, both destined to be local fight champions one day soon.

Turning back to his own punchbag, Ben began to punch again, feeling the tension seep from his shoulders and neck as he hit the bag over and over. He was annoyed at himself. Francesca’s visit had unbalanced him and he hated to be unbalanced. These past ten years since finishing his sentence he’d strived to always be in control, to always be the one calling the shots. Frannie had challenged that.

Although he had expected to be affected by seeing his childhood friend again, he had never thought she would cause such a reaction inside him. Every waking moment he thought of her, of the graceful way she glided into the room, the way her cheeks pinkened when she was thinking something inappropriate. He had always prided himself on being in control of his emotions, on never letting anyone too close. It was a lesson he’d learned on the convict ships, to look after yourself before anyone else, and the only people he normally made exceptions for were the men who were more like brothers than friends: George Fitzgerald and Sam Robertson. Now all he could think about was making her his. Every time he looked at her he felt his body react to her. These past few nights he’d woken in a hot sweat after very erotic dreams where she’d done unspeakable things. Dreams that meant he’d had to douse himself in cold water as soon as he woke.

It wouldn’t be easy, Francesca had been raised to be a dutiful wife and daughter, free from even the faintest hint of scandal. She might desire him—he’d seen that raging in her eyes during both their meetings—but she wouldn’t allow that to jeopardise her duty.

Throwing a particularly hard punch, he let out a deep growl. Duty be damned. After everything they’d been through surely they deserved at least a few weeks of happiness.

‘Women troubles?’ Hickory asked quietly behind him.

Ben grunted. He didn’t particularly want to share his deepest thoughts with the reprobate that ran the boxing club. They would likely be halfway round London within a day.

‘Loosen up your shoulders,’ Hickory said. ‘It’ll give you more power behind your punch.’

The older man moved on and Ben took a few deep breaths, trying to let the tension ease from his shoulders. He tried a few softer, experimental punches and immediately his thoughts wandered back to Francesca. The way her entire face lit up when she smiled, the light smattering of freckles over her nose that she’d had as a child and still had now, no doubt to her dismay. The soft curves of her body and the hair that he wanted to pull from its immaculate style and run his hands through as he kissed her into submission.

Then there was the sadness in her eyes, the sense that the intervening years had not been easy for her either. He found himself drawn to her, wanting to know her body and soul.

Closing his eyes, he stepped back. ‘Enough,’ he murmured, unwinding the strapping from his hands. This needed to stop. Somehow he needed to exorcise these thoughts, whether by fulfilling his fantasies or finding a way to move on from the woman who had haunted him for so long.

* * *

Francesca peered out from behind the curtain that covered the window of her carriage. It was hired, their family carriage having been sold many years ago, but her father had insisted on hiring one and a set of horses for the duration of the Season. For appearances, he’d said. Just like almost everything else they did. Their house was furnished for appearances. She had fine clothes for appearances. And they threw lavish dinner parties for appearances. All of it just served to make their money problems worse and Francesca was under no illusion that people didn’t know quite how in debt they were.

Slouching back, she felt the despair she always had when she thought about money. Their family had once been one of the richest in England, but years of gambling, poor investments and poor judgement on her father’s part had landed them in the position they were in now. Her marriage to Lord Somersham had been arranged with the idea that his wealth would trickle through to her family, but he’d ended up being just as poor a custodian for the family money as her father. The last few years of her marriage had been a familiar cycle of borrowing and the calling in of debt. When her husband had died the title had passed to some distant relative, but there had been no bequests, no tidy little allowance for his widow, meaning that once again she’d had to return home to her parents, once again a pawn in her father’s quest for more money.

Sometimes she thought about refusing, thought about withdrawing from society, perhaps taking up a position as a governess or companion. She didn’t want fine things, didn’t particularly enjoy the continuous cycles of balls and dinner parties and nights at the opera. Then she thought of her sister, twenty-year-old Felicity, the lively, kind girl who saw everything with those huge brown eyes. She deserved a chance. And the only way she would get that chance was if Francesca married Lord Huntley.

She wasn’t sure what arrangement Lord Huntley had made with her father, but she had extracted the promise from him that he would provide a decent dowry for her sister, allowing Felicity a modicum of choice about her future husband.

Trying to push the thought of another unhappy marriage from her mind, she glanced out of the window again, straightening as she saw Ben emerge from the darkened doorway. Already everything about him seemed familiar to her, his gait, his stature, even the way he turned the collar of his coat up to combat the icy temperatures.

She wasn’t quite sure why she was here. It mortified her when she thought of how she’d fled from his rooms in Gower Street, her imagination filled with images of him embracing her, kissing her, doing all the things a widowed lady shouldn’t. She should have left it at that, but she found herself drawn to him, unable to leave him behind entirely, but not able to trust herself to see him face to face again.

As he passed the carriage, head bent against the cold wind, she sunk back against the seat. She’d just needed to see him again, to convince herself that it hadn’t been a dream. For eighteen long years she’d agonised over his fate, imagining him a broken man, worn down by years of hard labour and then the difficult life of an ex-convict. Never had she imagined the confident and seemingly successful man that he’d turned out to be.

A few steps down the road he paused, turned quickly and in a couple of paces was back by the side of the carriage. Before Francesca had a chance to react he’d swung open the door and hopped inside.

‘Lady Somersham,’ he said, settling back on to the seat opposite her. ‘What brings you to this part of town?’

She’d preferred it when he’d called her Frannie.

‘I...’ she started to say, but couldn’t think of any lie convincing enough.

‘It would appear that you are following me,’ he said, fixing his eyes on hers and making her squirm under the intensity.

‘No,’ she said quickly, although that was an outright lie. She had been following him and right now she couldn’t think of any other excuse as to why she might be in this part of town, peering out of her carriage just as he left whatever establishment he’d just been in.

‘Boxing club,’ he supplied helpfully.

‘What?’

‘You were wondering where I’ve just been.’

Feeling completely flummoxed, Francesca took a deep breath and composed herself. She was a lady, the widow of a viscount, the daughter of a viscount. Probably the future wife of an earl. All her life she’d been coached to stay calm and serene whatever the world threw at her. Surely she could do that when faced with Ben Crawford.

‘I was following you,’ she said slowly, giving him a half-smile as if they were conversing about something as dull as the weather.

‘Couldn’t keep away?’ he asked.

Francesca felt her stomach drop away from her as she realised it was the truth. She hadn’t been able to keep away from him. Whatever she told herself, whatever lies she concocted to cover this embarrassing little episode, she’d just wanted to see Ben one more time.

‘I wanted to apologise,’ she said.

‘You have nothing to apologise for, Frannie.’

‘For my father. What he did to you...’

‘That’s his sin to bear the burden of, not yours.’

‘I tried everything I could,’ she said quietly.

When she’d heard Ben had been arrested for theft she’d confronted her father, who had promptly slapped her so hard she’d been knocked senseless for a few seconds, then he’d bundled her into her room. For days she hadn’t been allowed out, but eventually one of the maids had taken pity on her and unlocked the door. Francesca had headed straight for the county gaol and there had told anyone who would listen that Ben was innocent.

He had been accused of stealing jewellery from her family. None of it had been found in his possession, except one small locket. Her locket, the locket she’d given to him as a token of their friendship earlier that summer. The magistrate hadn’t listened when she had tried to explain and within half an hour her father arrived to drag her off home. The last time she’d seen Ben had been through the bars of a cell.

For eighteen years she’d agonised about her part in his conviction, wondering if she’d just shouted a little louder, begged a little harder, if things would have turned out differently.

‘I know, Frannie. I’ve never blamed you. You were just a child.’

‘So were you,’ she said, her eyes coming up to meet his.

As their eyes connected she felt her body react to his gaze and was reminded neither of them were children now. Francesca had images of Ben slowly undressing her, of their bodies coming together and his lips on her skin.

‘Perhaps...’ Ben said, but trailed off.

‘Yes?’

‘I know our time together is limited,’ he said slowly. ‘I know you have to marry Lord Huntley.’

She nodded, not wanting to be reminded of it, but knowing there was no getting away from her fate.

‘Perhaps we could find a way to make the most of the weeks we have left,’ he said.

‘What do you propose?’ she asked, hearing the slight wobble to her voice and trying to stop herself from imagining a whole host of wonderful, but not entirely respectable, pastimes.

He smiled, holding out for a long few seconds before answering. ‘Eight days for eight years,’ he said.

Frowning with confusion, she waited for him to explain.

‘You give me eight days of your life, one for every year of my sentence.’

‘And what do we do with these eight days?’

There was a mischievous glimmer in his eyes as he shrugged. ‘Whatever we want.’

It sounded wonderful. Eight days to be free, to do whatever she wanted. After that she would have to accept her fate, but for just a little while she could pretend her life was on a different track. He held out his hand to seal the bargain and tentatively Francesca placed her fingers in his.

‘When do we start?’ she asked, trying to ignore the warmth of his hand on hers. Neither of them was wearing gloves despite the icy temperatures and it was the first time she’d felt his skin against hers. His fingers were a little rough, probably from the years of physical work, and his hand engulfed hers completely.

‘Tomorrow.’

Tomorrow was as good a day as any. She had to remember she only had a few more weeks of freedom anyway. In six weeks her year of mourning finished and then she didn’t doubt her father would waste any time in arranging her marriage. She would likely be Lady Huntley within three months with no opportunity to go running after her childhood friend.

‘Tomorrow,’ she agreed.

Only then did he release her hand, placing it softly back in her lap. He was a man of contradictions. Physically powerful but gentle in his touch. Gone through so much suffering, but outwardly charming and jovial. And an ex-convict who could blend in at society events. He was a confusing man to be around.

‘Until tomorrow,’ he said, leaning over. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. She felt her lips part in anticipation and her heart begin hammering in her chest, but then he reached for the catch on the door, threw it open and hopped down.

‘How did you know it was me in here?’ she asked as he went to shut the door. ‘When you came out of the boxing club?’

She didn’t think he’d caught sight of her in the darkness of the interior.

‘Who else would be following me?’ he asked. ‘I barely know anyone else in London.’

With a smile and a wink he spun on his heel, striding off down the street. As she watched him go Francesca thought she even heard him whistling a jaunty tune. Trying not to think too much about what she’d just agreed to, she leaned out and instructed the coachman to take her home. Really she should be feeling dread and regret at her agreement to his proposal—no respectable lady would agree to it—but as she searched her emotions she could only find excited anticipation.

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