Page 117 of While You Were Spying

“No. I tried but”—he leaned his hand on the edge of the window near her head, pushing the heavy draperies out of the way as he did—“all I could think—”

She edged a little to the side, and he angled his body to keep her close.

“Was that I wanted you again.”

God, how he’d wanted her again. Wanted her now. They were so close that her scent, chocolate and cinnamon, surrounded him. The same scent that had forced him away from her side this morning, lest he act upon his impulses. He’d known she wouldn’t be ready. She’d been a virgin when he’d taken her, and knowing that had made everything with her a new experience.

Of course, he’d expected her to be a virgin, but in the back of his mind, there was always the possibility that Roxbury had been there first. Not that he would have held that against her. God knew he was no saint, and he could hardly fault her for a dalliance with a man to whom she’d been betrothed. But the knowledge that she hadn’t been with Roxbury—the bastard—that Ethan was the first, pleased him more than he’d thought it would. At that moment, she had been his, would always be his, as she’d never been or would be anyone else’s.

Then the thought was lost and he’d been caught up in a torrent of sensations. Making love to her was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. She was wild and unpredictable, then shy and reserved. He liked her innocence, even as he pushed its limits, encouraging her to test the edges of sensual abandon. To his surprise—and delight—she’d accepted his challenge, in the process taking him to the very peaks of his own fulfillment.

Afterward, he’d held her, stunned by the experience and even more astonished that he couldn’t conceive of letting her go. At that moment, he felt he could have lain with her cradled in his arms, her breaths becoming deeper as she drifted into sleep, for the rest of his life and been content. Perhaps he’d been a fool in the past, but he knew what he wanted now, and he wouldn’t allow her to run away.

He had allowed himself another half hour to bask in feel of the silky skin of her bottom pressed against him, the weight of her tangle of hair on his arm, and the scent of her all around him before the doubts set in.

Now he heard Francesca take a deep breath and focused again on the present. He was still leaning against the window, his body trapping her between him and the wall. His mouth was mere inches from hers. She stared at him, eyes almost too

big for her face, her look far too intent for such an innocent. He wrapped a finger around one of her curls. “I couldn’t regret you. But I was thinking of regrets.”

“You regret Lady Victoria,” she said quietly.

He cursed silently and dropped the lock of her hair, his eyes straying to the view from the window. Outside, the sun was bright, glistening off the moisture from the recent rains. The puddles were stubbornly refusing to dry and drops still clung to the leaves and grasses.

“I regret the way it ended. I regret the way I lost control.”

“What happened?”

She turned to him and he stiffened. She’d confided in him about Roxbury, and she deserved at least as much from him.

“I was young and I fell in love with her.” He stared out the window, eyes seeing nothing of the park, focusing instead of the reflection of Francesca beside him in the glass. “She was beautiful, cultured, intelligent—all I could want in a wife.”

In the glass, he saw Francesca nod, as if this was exactly what she expected him to say.

“My friends warned me against her, told me she cared nothing for me, only wanted my money. I didn’t believe them.”

“Why should you? She’s the daughter of a duke.”

“Yes, but Prestonwood has never been one for frugality. It’s an established fact in certain circles that his estates are mortgaged to the hilt, and his heir, as you probably know, is as dissolute as his father. Victoria couldn’t count on either her father or brother to support her in the style to which she’d become accustomed.”

Francesca nodded her head. He supposed the tale was as familiar to her as to him. Change the names, and it could be the story of any number of members of theton.

“One friend in particular, George Leigh—” He struggled to keep his voice level. Even now, so many years later, the bitterness of his best friend’s betrayal threatened to resurface. “Leigh warned me against her, but I couldn’t see past her beauty. I didn’t seeher. And then I saw all too clearly and couldn’t accept it.”

In the glass he saw the scene again, replayed it in his mind. “We were at a ball, one of the last of the Season, and the crowds were enormous. I couldn’t find Victoria and retreated to the library to escape the masses. When I opened the door, I saw Victoria and Leigh, and there was no doubt as to what I’d interrupted.” He tried to keep the resentment out of his voice, but a trickle filtered in anyway.

“I knew she couldn’t be blameless,” he heard Francesca say and saw the ghost of a smile on her lips.

He wondered again how he could he ever have doubted this woman. Her belief in him appeared unfailing.

“You shot him.” Francesca’s voice was matter-of-fact.

He turned to her, unable to stop himself from grinning at the serious expression on her face.

“No.”

“But I saw him once, a year or so ago at Vauxhall Gardens, and he had a cane. He walked with a limp.”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t shot, but I didn’t do it.”

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