Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

H iding in conservatories was a trick Frances had learned from Grace.

"Toffs like to have conservatories, but they're generally to prissy and precious to use them," she had confided with a sharp nod as the two girls had sequestered themselves one afternoon—Frances hiding from the crowded loneliness of her parents' home, Grace avoiding her governess, who evidently felt that Grace's tea pouring etiquette was not up to snuff.

It had been a tough morning—Lady Reed had taken one look at her youngest daughter, let out a snort of disgust, and then entirely ignored her for the rest of the day—but Frances giggled at Grace's words.

"It might," she suggested, "be a bit rich of a duke's daughter to call anyone else a toff. And we are eating cream puffs, if you want to comment on the prissiness." They'd stolen them from the kitchen while the Millers' indulgent cook had pretended not to notice two giggling girls, freshly in long skirts, pilfering sweets.

Grace had tilted her head, her long neck elegantly arched even in the awkward years of adolescence, considering this point.

"Maybe," she allowed after a moment. "But we're sitting in the dirt, so that cancels out those other things. And gives us privacy." A flicker of something moody and deep passed her expression. "Lord knows we need it, sometimes."

Over the years, Frances had learned that Grace's advice did not disappoint. No matter the house, no matter the time of day—a conservatory almost always offered peace and quiet.

Often, Frances sat among the greenery merely to feel close to her beloved, lost friend. She loved Diana and Emily, of course, and their friendship offered her beautiful things. Diana, for example, had a mind like a whip, and thinking alongside her was always a thrill. Emily's heart was so generous and giving that it felt like a warm embrace every time Frances saw her smile.

But Grace? Grace, Frances had always suspected, understood that part of Frances that lived in conflict with itself, the part of her that wanted to be seen even as it shied away from that same visibility. For Grace, she'd assumed, it had just been the opposite—she'd shined in public view, but held a secret, private part of herself that needed nurturing, as well.

Frances had never asked her outright about it. She regretted that, now.

Today, however, the conservatory offered a conflicted peace. Yes, Frances craved the quiet—more than she had in some time, in fact, given everything going on about her—but she fretted over the way she could feel Grace's presence near her.

After all, she had just shouted at, kissed, and then shouted again at Grace's brother.

"What a bloody mess," she muttered to herself, the swearing making her feel the tiniest bit better. It could be so very satisfying to break the rules, sometimes.

This was her logic as she plopped down directly on her behind in some dirt and flopped backward on the ground, staring up at leafy branches and verdant fronds.

She hated stupid Evan Miller, she decided. She didn't care if it wasn't a very nice emotion at all. She hated him!

Then she thought about the way he'd dragged his lips across her jaw with a low groan of appreciation, and a warmth that was certainly not hate flushed through her.

That was mighty inconvenient.

Frances was not a stranger to attraction—well, yes, in a personal sense, she was. There was nothing wrong with the gentlemen of the ton , she supposed, but none had ever particularly caught her eye.

But one only had to spend time around Diana and Andrew—and, she supposed, Benedict and Emily, though they were blessedly a bit more circumspect with the arduous glances they shot one another—to understand the concept of attraction.

Sadly, this meant she could not deny it.

She was woefully, wretchedly attracted to the Marquess of Oackley. It was an unfortunate truth, and one she would not allow to stand.

She would, she decided, treat it like an affliction.

"The question is," she murmured to the trees, tapping her chin thoughtfully, "is whether it is one of the afflictions that grow better due to exposure or avoidance." The trees, as trees were wont to do, remained silent. "I agree," she told them. "Avoidance is best."

She would start avoiding the marquess by remaining in this conservatory. Perhaps indefinitely. There had to be some kind of edible plant in here, didn't there?

This plan, alas, died a swift death when Frances heard the low crunch of approaching footsteps. With a sigh, she pushed herself to a seated position, not wishing to scandalize some poor servant or undergardener sent here to tend the greenery.

When she looked up, however, it was not a member of the staff that greeted her. It was, instead, the Countess of Southgate.

Frances' cheeks burned.

"Oh, my lady," she muttered, scrambling to her feet. "I am sorry for you to—it's quite indecorous, I know—I was just enjoying?—"

"Whore!"

Her clumsy explanation was cut off by the sharp invective from the countess.

Frances paused from dusting out her skirts to glance up at the older woman in shock. Surely, she'd heard wrong…?

"I, um, beg your pardon?" she asked, voice as timid as it had ever been.

"Oh, you heard me," the countess said, her face twisted into a mask of rage. "You are nothing but a man-stealing little harlot, aren't you? Did you really think your wretched ways could remain secret? You aren't even subtle—nor very clever."

Frances was confused for three beats longer before she realized. The Countess of Southgate was named Beatrice Jennings.

Beatrice.

Well. This was very, very bad, indeed.

"My lady—" Frances stammered. It was fortunate, really, that the countess continued speaking over her, for Frances had no idea where to go from there. What explanation could she offer, really? It wasn't as if she hadn't known the marquess was involved with someone at the party, even if she truly hadn't had a chance—or the inclination, really—to put the pieces together to get to this specific woman.

"He'll never love you, you know!" the countess shrieked. Frances winced, fearing this would draw unwanted attention; the older woman misread the gesture. "Oh, does that surprise you? It shouldn't, you stupid, shrinking wallflower. You are nothing more than a diversion, and then he shall return to my bed, where he belongs?—"

And then, because it was really the only thing that could have made this moment any worse, the marquess himself appeared, positioning himself between Frances and his mistress.

Despite herself, Frances suppressed an inward sigh. If he thought that was going to make things better between himself and his paramour, he was even more idiotic than she'd initially suspected.

"Beatrice," he said, his voice hard. "Stop this at once. You're making a fool of yourself."

The countess' voice shifted from enraged to whining in an instant and Frances was quite honestly embarrassed for her.

"I see how you look at her," she lamented. Frances, where she stood behind the marquess, felt her eyebrows shoot up. Was everyone at this party completely daft? The marquess—kiss notwithstanding—looked at her with irritation , not anything that would irk a mistress.

Perhaps there was some sort of poison in the food to make everyone act so ridiculously, she pondered. She began making a mental list of the foods she'd not touched. Maybe the fish from last night's dinner had gone off? That might explain it.

"How I look at anyone is not your concern," the marquess said sternly. "As I told you earlier, things are finished between us."

Frances gave up listing foods to listen to this highly interesting tidbit.

Excuse you , she told herself sternly. That is not interesting at all. We hate him .

Maybe she'd had the dodgy fish as well, after all.

"But Evan ," she whined.

"No," he said, the word like iron. "Go back to your husband, Beatrice. It's over."

Frances was tempted, just the littlest bit, to peek as she heard a sound that suggested that the countess was actually stamping her foot like a recalcitrant child. She might have enjoyed seeing that, after the terrible woman had burst in here just to call Frances names.

But she resisted. Better to not draw attention to herself. Just imagining it was enough to bring a little smile to her face as she heard the countess stomp off.

She was still smiling when the marquess turned on her, another one of those ferocious frowns on his face.

"And you ," he said, eyes sparking with irritation that was beginning, alas, to become all too familiar, "should not mistake this. This changes nothing ."

Evan watched as that little smile dropped from Lady Frances' face. He didn't like seeing her eyebrows draw together and her face crease into a mask of annoyance—even though that had been his intent. He channeled his discomfort into his glower.

He should not have kissed her, no matter how much a small voice inside her said that he was absolutely correct to have kissed her, that he should, in fact, go back to kissing her right now.

He resisted the urge, just as he resisted the urge to back away as she propped her hands on her hips and looked up at him.

"You," she said exasperatedly, "have to be the most self-absorbed person I have ever met in my entire life."

"What?" The word slipped from his lips.

He'd expected an insult—he'd basically goaded her into the insult. But this specific insult? No, he didn't merit this one.

After all, the ton was practically wall-to-wall peacocks who strutted about, showing off their wealth and their self-importance. He liked to think of himself as well-groomed, but he was hardly anything approaching a dandy, for Christ's sake.

Frances continued, offering explanation without prompting.

"I mean, really ," she said. "I assume you're here to threaten me, to tell me I'm not to speak a word of this, or else you'll ruin my reputation—" She waved a hand. "—and all that nonsense."

Well, yes. That had been what he was going to say. It was hardly nonsense , though. It was his good name—and Beatrice's, though he struggled to gather much concern for her at this specific moment.

"I have more ammunition now," he said, struggling to regain control of this situation.

As soon as he said it, though, he had to fight back a wince of regret. It was somewhat hypocritical, wasn't it, to coerce her into hiding his sexual indiscretion by threatening to reveal his other indiscretion, though fortunately it had not gone so far as anything resembling lovemaking.

They'd been in a bloody garden, after all.

Frances looked decidedly unimpressed.

"That sounds splendid for you," she said, voice flat. "But here is what I am starting to realize: you won't use it." He opened his mouth to insist that of course he would use it—since he was apparently determined to blurt out every single impulsive thing that crossed his mind—but she barreled ahead.

"First," she said, holding up a finger like a stern governess. Evan swiftly shoved away the instinctive appeal of the idea of Frances in one of those prim, tight coiffures. "If you were going to tell anyone about any of this, you'd have done so already."

She didn't know that . The thought was almost sulky, so Evan pushed that away, too. He was a grown man. A marquess. A future duke! He did not sulk when scolded by women, no matter how pretty they looked with their cheeks pink and tendrils of copper hair floating around them.

"And second," she went on, ticking this off her fingers as well, "you are not going to need to tell anyone, because I am not going to tell anyone. And not," she added, pinning him with a glare, as if she feared he might be the one thinking this signified some change between them, "because I am overwhelmed with some misguided gratitude for what just happened here, or because you have dazzled me with your charm."

She rolled her eyes at the very thought. Rude, that.

"I am going to keep—" A wild arm wave. "—all this to myself because, as I have now told you many, many times, I do not care . I have my own problems . I don't need to get myself tangled up in some idiotic intrigue between you and your mistress?—"

"Former mistress," Evan interjected, then felt stupid for doing so, since that wasn't really the main issue here, was it?

She let out a frustrated little growl that was—he hated to admit it—adorable before regaining her composure.

"I do not care," she repeated, holding his gaze as she punctuated each word. "I just want to be left alone. Can you please finally accept that?"

He paused, muddling through his own disgruntlement when something curious caught his attention.

He understood what she was saying…but he didn't believe it.

He didn't know what Frances wanted—women could be mysterious at the best of times, and they were so far from that circumstance that it was laughable—but he felt very certain that, whatever she did want, it was not to be left alone .

But pushing her now, he instinctively gathered, would not do him any favors.

So, he lied.

"Very well," he said, nodding solemnly and taking a step back.

Her posture grew cautious, like a rabbit listening for predators.

"Very well?" she asked, clearly suspicious. As well she should be. He had no intention of leaving the puzzle that was Lady Frances Johnson left unsolved.

"Very well," he repeated. "You don't share my business around and I shall have no reason to probe into your business, either."

She certainly did not trust him, and, for just a moment, Evan felt that this whole business between them was…fun. It had been so, so long since he'd truly had fun.

Then he remembered that this was because his sister was dead— murdered —and the woman before him was betraying her memory at every turn. He forced ice back into his veins.

"Well…good," she said, edging around him like he might transform back into a predator at any moment. Observant, that. For all that she was a two-faced little liar, Lady Frances was not stupid.

"Good," she repeated, backing towards the exit. "Er, well, goodbye, then."

He saw a flicker of her self-deprecating grimace as she turned and left, and it almost made him chuckle. Almost.

This was not over between them; this was not a goodbye. He would not let the manipulative little chit free to her machinations, not without some oversight.

He would understand what went on beside those mercurial eyes if it was the last thing he did.

He collapsed onto a nearby bench, suddenly exhausted. And it was not until later—much, much later—that it occurred to him to wonder why Lady Frances had chosen the conservatory, of all places, to hide herself away.