A Lady to Desire Read online

  Bloody foolish men and their stupid, inconvenient morals!

  Which was precisely why she wished to launch lanterns in the general direction of his skull.

  Why couldn’t he have been a libertine like some of the other men she knew? Why couldn’t he have behaved like a proper rake and taken what she offered him, thus solving all of their problems?

  Then again, if he had done that, he wouldn’t be Francis and she doubted she would care for him as much as she did.

  So while she was frustrated with him, she did understand. Or at least she was trying to understand. So far, it was not working.

  After that night at Lady Mayfield’s, Charlotte had slowly come to the conclusion that Francis might be more amenable to running off to Gretna Green instead. After all, Society was being turned on its proverbial ear already this spring, what with impromptu house parties and scandalous pairings. Her Scottish marriage to Francis – which was something everyone expected to take place anyway – would hardly be mentioned after the first week or so. She was certain of it.

  It would also be legal and binding, making it completely appropriate for him to bed her. Just as he desired. And just as she desired as well.

  Except that Francis was just as firm in his refusal to elope with her as he was to get her with child outside of matrimony. Much to her everlasting annoyance.

  Really, between the two solutions, running off to Gretna was the far more honorable one. Men could be so dense at times. It truly was not that difficult of a problem to solve.

  He desired her. She desired him. They wanted to be wed. Running away to Gretna would accomplish what they both desired with as little fuss as possible. That should have been the end of things. After all, they had been planning a future together for nearly a year now.

  Except there was one bit of certainty that lurked in the back of Charlotte’s mind, a tiny niggling problem that would not go away no matter how much she ignored it or wished that it would.

  About two months previous, something had changed between them and there was no getting around the fact.

  Francis, the man who had spoken so eloquently about their future together, about how he would defy her father and wed her with or without the viscount’s consent had abruptly changed. One day he had been open about his desire for her and the next? There was a deep reservation that had not been present before. From that point on, he had begun to pull away from her, little by little, as if he no longer cared for her as much as he once had.

  Oh, Francis denied her accusations of course, but Charlotte knew something was amiss. She was no fool.

  She also knew this man better than she knew any of her five sisters or even her dearest friends. She knew this man better than even her best friend Pearl, now Viscountess Devonleigh and wife of the former barrister, Jacob Beeston. Over the last year, Charlotte and Pearl had developed a fast and lasting friendship, one that held firm even after Pearl had given birth to twins – a boy and a girl – a few mere weeks ago.

  But for all of that closeness with Pearl, Charlotte still knew Francis better. For she had been beside him through some of the worst times either of them could have ever imagined. She had been with him when his world had been turned upside down and everything he knew about himself stripped away until he was shaken to his very core. More than that, she knew his heart and his soul. And she knew he was lying when he said that nothing had changed between them.

  Something had changed, even if Francis would not admit as much, and until recently, Charlotte had been content to wait until he sorted out whatever was going on in that dense head of his. She had believed with all of her heart that whatever troubles or doubts were plaguing Francis, he would work through them and, as she had promised him that long ago night when he had learned he wasn’t the man he believed himself to be, all would be well.

  Except that all was not well any longer, for after her father’s proclamation the previous week, Charlotte’s time to select her own husband was running out. If she did not wed Francis soon, she never would.

  She could tell him the truth, she supposed, but she did not want a marriage based on guilt or fear or coercion. In that, she supposed she was no different from Francis, for she feared he would come to hate her for trapping him.

  Charlotte was also worried about what her father might do if he learned that she had confessed all to Francis. She did not think that her father was capable of harming Francis, but she did believe he might hire someone to do his dirty work for him. After all, her father was adamant that she not wed Francis and she wasn’t certain how far he would go to keep the two of them apart.

  She would not risk Francis’ life in that fashion, at least not unless it was absolutely necessary. That plan did not appeal to her at all. Nor did the idea of guilting him into marriage.

  Instead, Charlotte had hoped to appeal to Francis’ desire for her, but now, she wasn’t certain that desire was as strong as she had once believed. People changed. Time passed. Was it possible that Francis no longer cared for her as he once had? It was, she decided, entirely possible, given the way he was looking at her just now – as if he wished to simply walk away from her and be done with the entire mess.

  However, it was also possible there were other factors at work, factors Charlotte knew nothing about. Francis had a relatively unknown past and he was still uncomfortable discussing anything he did learn about the man he had once been with anyone. Even with her. Therefore, it would not do to throw objects at his head in anger – even if she felt that, at present, he deserved such treatment. Instead, she needed to channel that anger into reasonable conversation – provided she was still capable of such, of course. She believed she was, anyway.

  Reaching out, Charlotte took Francis’ hand in hers and with a tug, led him down the steps, away from the terrace – and the handy objects she was still tempted to throw at his head – and toward the lush gardens that were only now beginning to come into their full blooming glory.

  If he was unwilling to be bold, then she supposed it was up to her to force the issue. A year ago, she would not have done so. However, she was a different woman now. She was bolder and brasher, mostly because of the man standing in front of her. He had given her so much, taught her so much about herself. But that also meant that she was not about to be any man’s fool. Not even his.

  “You wish to know what I would have you do? I would have you wed me, Francis. That is what I would have you do,” she finally said, her voice as calm as she could possibly make it. “I care for you. You know this. And until recently, I believed you cared for me in return.”

  Then she glared at him, her stare all but daring him to deny he felt the same.

  He didn’t.

  “I do care for you, Charlotte. More than you could ever know. But I need to wed you properly. I cannot do this by half measures. I have my reasons, even if I am not that good at articulating them.” At some point, she had dropped his hand, but he reached for her again. To her own surprise, she allowed him to take her still-gloved hand and lace their fingers together once more.

  Heat flared between them immediately, but she could see he was doing his best to ignore the desire that flared between them when they touched. Even with the fabric that separated them. He wanted her – that much was obvious – but he was resisting. What had changed? She had to know. No, she needed to know.

  “Why? Why can you not tell me? Why does what anyone else thinks suddenly matter to you? At the Duchess of Winterset’s Christmastide ball, you did not give two farthings what anyone thought! What has changed?” Charlotte pressed him again, hoping to somehow crack that bland façade he was hiding behind, one that had become so familiar to her as of late. One that she hated more than she could put into words.

  Charlotte needed to know – now – if she had a future with this man or not. And if not, then she needed to begin planning how to escape the future her father had planned for her. Quickly. For the Marquess of Waverly would not hesitate the way Francis was, especially not when
he desired a particular outcome. Her father was far more ruthless than most people knew.

  As Charlotte had expected, Francis did not answer her, the passion that had flared in his eyes dimming once again. “I cannot wed you until your father gives his consent and his blessing. I won’t change my mind, Charlotte. I cannot. It…would not be right.” His words sounded so very hollow just then and she wished to scream out her frustration.

  “You can,” she replied tartly, her frustration growing once more as he refused to meet her gaze again. “You simply won’t.” She was also beginning to rethink her decision not to throw a lantern at his head. Had it connected, it might have knocked some sense into him.

  Francis closed his eyes and for a minute, she thought he might be in pain after a grimace crossed his features. It would not be the first time. His leg had grown stronger over the last year and he did not rely upon his cane as often as he had in the past. Though recently, she had noticed him carrying it again on occasion. He hadn’t given her a reason why. Yet another sign that they were growing farther apart.

  It had to stop.

  “Please, Charlotte, you must understand. I simply cannot…” Francis’ words trailed off as if there was something he wished to tell her but did not quite know how.

  Beyond frustrated now, she yanked her hands out of his, no longer caring to keep her anger in check. There was a deadness to his voice tonight that she did not like and though he professed to still care for her, there was no longer any passion in his words. It was as if a part of him had gone cold inside.

  “No!” she snapped, reaching her breaking point. “I don’t have to understand anything, Francis. What I know is that you cared for me once. You wished to marry me. Now? I am no longer certain that you do. I am also certain that if you truly wished to wed me, you would find a way. Other men do the same, no matter the scandal attached to their names. You are simply making excuses for reasons you either cannot or will not explain, and I am done with them!”

  Around them, small paper lanterns cast dim light along the garden paths, but it was still enough to see the stricken expression cross his face at her harsh words.

  “You cannot mean that.” He sounded as if he was choking as if it had never occurred to him that she might not be willing to wait for him forever.

  “I do mean it. Every word.” Straightening her shoulders, Charlotte titled her chin in defiance. “I care for you, Francis. I have proven that from the first, I think. I stood by you, proved myself to you time and again when others would not. I have defied my father for you. I thought we understood each other. I believed we were planning a future together. I still want you now, just as I did then. I was given to believe that you desired the same. Now, I am beginning to think I was wrong. That aside, no matter what I desire I cannot and will not wait forever for you to wed me. If you believe I will, then you are gravely mistaken.”

  During her tirade, her anger had begun to fade little by little until she felt tired inside. So tired that she wondered if she would ever feel alive again. For just then, she felt very dead, as if the very life had been stolen from her body.

  “Charlotte, please. If you would just wait…”

  She shook her head. “No, Francis. I am done waiting. I simply did not realize it until just this very moment, but I am. And if you will not have me as your wife? I will find someone who will. Someone of my choosing, for I refuse to have my life dictated to me any longer!”

  Then, with her last remaining reserves of strength, Charlotte picked up her skirts and marched back toward the house, her anger and indignity wrapped around her like a cloak.

  For a moment, she thought he would come after her, beg her to forgive him and then promise to whisk her away to Gretna this very night. He didn’t. And that, unfortunately, told her all she needed to know about Lord Francis Deaver and his heart.

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Two

  Lord Francis Deaver, the current Viscount Underhill and future Marquess of Framingham, watched the only woman he had ever cared for deeply stomp off through Lady Ardenton’s garden in a fury. He couldn’t blame her, really. Had their positions been reversed, he would have been furious, as well. She was right to be angry with him. They could be married already if he truly wished to do so, and the truth was, he did want to marry her. He wanted that more than just about anything.

  He just wasn’t certain that he could.

  That was the problem with being a viscount with no memory of the past, he supposed. If one could not remember the past, one could also not remember the people in his past. Or what role they had filled. Or if they had even existed at all. Or if they were simply figments of his imagination.

  And the truth was Francis did not remember much of anything before he had awoken in a convalescent home outside of Brighton and a man he did not recognize in the least had welcomed someone named “Lord Stephen Deaver” back to the land of the living.

  For a time, Francis had assumed he was Stephen Deaver, heir to the Framingham marquisate and believed dead for the past six years, lost at sea during the war. After all, the man who had greeted Francis when he awoke claimed to be a fellow soldier who had served with him during the war, and Francis saw no reason for the man to lie about such a thing. Even if he couldn’t remember meeting the man before.

  Not to mention that Francis’ body was somewhat scarred and his right leg was damaged to the point that he needed to walk with a cane on occasion. At the time, it had made complete sense that he had suffered the leg injury either in war or when he had been tossed overboard from the ship he had been sailing on six years ago. It did not truly occur to him until much later that there was a six-year lag in between the shipwreck and his awakening at the home, and that perhaps his bad leg would have healed more thoroughly by then.

  Still, armed with what he believed to be the knowledge of his past, Francis had ventured to London a little over a year ago to seek out his family and hopefully regain some of his missing past, not to mention his family. Unfortunately, things had not worked out quite as well as he had hoped – at least not at first – for he had been met with a great deal of distrust from everyone, particularly one Lord Nicholas Rosemont, the Duke of Candlewood. A man also known as the Bloody Duke who was just as fearsome as his nickname implied.

  Even now, Francis believed that it was only because of Nick’s love for Francis’ sister, Eliza, that Francis himself had even been given a chance to prove he was who he said he was. Even his uniquely colored eyes had not been quite enough to convince everyone of his paternity. Still, the evidence was strong, and Francis had almost convinced everyone that he was the lost Framingham heir – which in a ‘round about way he was. Though not in the way everyone assumed.

  He felt as if he had finally reclaimed his family, even though he had no recollection of them at all.

  Then came the night of his family’s ball where the Deavers were prepared to announce to all of Society that their long-thought-dead-heir was actually very much alive. For Francis’ eyes were, indeed, Deaver turquoise, a shade so rare that their like was not to be found elsewhere in England. His hair – which had grown in after he had initially come to Town completely bald – was thick, and coarse, almost like the fur of a woodland creature. It stuck up at odd angles and was a curious shade of honey and wheat blonde that darkened dramatically in the summer sun. His hair was exactly the same as Eliza’s hair. Meaning that he was, indeed, her brother. There could be no doubt.

  The night of the ball, the air had been filled with excitement and joy, and Francis himself had been elated with the belief that he had found his family once more. After all, the Deavers were ready to announce to the world that the heir was finally home and that there was cause for celebration. What could possibly go amiss? For Francis, everything was looking up for the first time that he could remember. Not that he could remember very far into the past, of course.

  That night, however, his world had come crashing down around him when his identical twin had appeared at
the ball and announced that he was, in fact, the real Stephen Deaver and that Francis was…well…Francis. It also turned out that Francis was, in fact, the actual Framingham heir who was believed to have died at birth. Instead, he had been kidnapped by one Mrs. Poppy Green who specialized in selling the children of the aristocracy to other noble families that could not manage to procreate.

  Stephen had claimed that Francis had lived his first nine and twenty years on this earth, mostly in seclusion, as one Lord William Denton, Viscount Moxham of Cross Hill in Cornwall. Even now, Francis did not know how his brother had uncovered that truth, especially since no one – not even Nick’s best men and the best runners that Bow Street had to offer – could find out much more than that. However Stephen’s claims had been the truth and another, far bigger scandal had dogged Francis’ footsteps for quite some time after that fateful night.

  After all, a viscount with no memory was scandal and titillation enough. One with no memory and possibly an entire other life was just the sort of juicy gossip the ton could chew over and debate for years.

  Yet through it all, there had been one constant in Francis’ life, one person who had believed in him no matter what. Someone who had never wavered in her belief that he was a good man. That woman was Lady Charlotte Clearly, the youngest daughter of the notorious Viscount Waverly. Francis was never quite convinced that he deserved either her or her devotion. He likely never would be, either.

  Yet for some inexplicable reason, Charlotte had chosen him over all of her other suitors, most far more worthy and desirable than him. For that, Francis would be forever grateful. He would also count his blessings.

  For Charlotte was a goddess among women with her lush curves, rich brown eyes and honey blonde hair. Though she was only five and twenty, she had the wisdom of a woman twice her age and a passion for life that he admired, especially since he discovered that he tended to be a bit quieter than she. Charlotte was also brasher now than when they had first met. That was true. However, Francis found that he adored her all the more for it, especially when she refused to back down from a challenge if she believed herself to be in the right.