Page 28 of While You Were Spying

“Oh, but you must allow me to do something to thank you.” Lady Brigham smiled at Winterbourne. “Perhaps a small dinner party? Is Tuesday next convenient?”

Winterbourne made a strangled sound. “I don’t think—”

“The weather was unseasonably warm today,” Francesca interrupted in desperation. She recognized the look in her mother’s eyes and knew she was about to turn to the dreaded topic of marriage. “Don’t you agree,Mamma?”

She didn’t think she’d ever sounded quite so excited about the weather, but she had to stop her mother before Winterbourne murdered her. Her mother released her hand, and Francesca retreated to the settle, dread closing a fist on her insides.

“I would not know,dolce.” Lady Brigham twisted her lips into a frown. “I have not been outdoors all day. Instead, I have been pacing my chamber, worried to death about you.” She turned her attention back to Winterbourne. “Naturalmente, you will want your brother to attend the dinner, but you must

allow me to arrange the rest. We have some of the best families in all of England in this part of Hampshire,Signore. I’m sure the earl must have remarked upon it.”

“No.” Winterbourne pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. He couldn’t have been more obvious about his desire to leave.

“Really? But—”

“Mamma, have you heard that Mrs. Jensen’s new mare had twin foals last week?” Francesca knew a discussion of horses was unlikely to distract her mother before she began planning the wedding breakfast, but she had to try. “They are a lovely shade of bay, although she assures me their coats will darken like their mother’s.”

“How fortunate for Mrs. Jensen.” Her mother pursed her lips, directing her gaze back to Lord Winterbourne. “Do you know, we have yet to see Lord Selbourne at any of the public balls in the village this fall, and I must tell you that we have been sorely disappointed.”

“Selbourne doesn’t dance.” He had his watch out again. “Madam—”

“Signora.”

Francesca saw a muscle in his jaw tense, and she twisted her hands together, casting about for something else to distract her mother.

“Signora. It’s late.” He rose, no longer trying to veil his impatience. “Is there any possibility of seeing your husband this afternoon?”

“I expect him any moment, my lord. But you must be hungry. Do have a tart before Francesca eats them all.”

Francesca jerked, her gaze flashing from her mother to Winterbourne, her face hot with embarrassment.

“No thank you,Signora.” He put his watch away and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m not hungry.”

Her mother smiled, a practiced expression of innocence, and placed one of the tarts on a small plate, handing it to him. “They are quite good, I assure you. My chef is from Italy, but he has been trained in French cooking. And if you do not eat them, Francesca will, and with her figure...”

She raised her brows at Francesca, who wished she could disappear. If only God would take pity on her and send a bolt of lightning to strike her dead. And if it killed her mother too, well, she’d be the last one to fault God for His poor aim. Winterbourne’s gaze raked over her, apparently making his own assessment of her figure, and she felt her face turn the shade of beets.

“Francesca may not bela bella di famiglia—that title is usually given to my younger daughter—but you will not find a sweeter girl in all of England.” She glared at Francesca as if to suggest that she had better live up to the praise. “Or in all the world, for that matter.Molto dolce!”

Winterbourne set the plate he’d been forced to accept on the side table with slow, precise movements. He looked like a man watching a play for the hundredth time and trying desperately not to strangle the director. Well, she didn’t much like the play or the director, either, but at leasthewasn’t the one on stage.

“You will not find many girls like Francesca.”

Francesca let out a whimper of mortification.

“I imagine not.” The hardness in his voice could have ground diamonds to dust.

“Mamma, the hour grows late.” Francesca almost leapt on her mother to staunch the flow of words that threatened to stream forth. “And Lord Winterbourne has a long ride. Perhaps we should continue this conversation at another time.”

“Rubbish! Lord Winterbourne wished to speak with yourpadre, and he is not yet home. But you really must join us for dinner, my lord. As I’ve said, my chef Tommaso isexcellente.”

In answer, Winterbourne rose and turned toward the door. “Thank you for the offer, but, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my leave.”

Francesca cringed as her mother jumped up to intercept him.

“Mamma mia! My lord, you have not yet spoken with Viscount Brigham.” She scurried in front of him. Francesca dropped her face in her hands, unable to watch any longer. The whole awful scene would have been funny if it wasn’t

happening to her. “I assure you His Lordship will arrive momentarily,” her mother gasped.

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