Page 44 of All is Fair in Love
Do. Not. Marry. Jonathan.
She glanced at Francis and caught his comforting smile. Her heart gave an unexpected lurch.
“This is fine. My siblings and I were raised to drink coffee in the French fashion. That means bitterly strong and in very small cups,” he replied.
“Your father speaks perfect English, but there is a definite lilt to his voice. I’ve spent time in Monaco and so I am used to hearing French accents, but I wasn’t sure if I had picked it right. Then he happened to mention that he was originally from France,” she replied.
Francis nodded. “My father is a French émigré. Our original family name was Alexandre. He moved to England after he married my mother. My grandfather, François, was a royalist who helped fight in the uprising in the Vendee. He was executed after the Battle of Savenay. When he discovered what had happened to his father, Papa renounced his country and changed his name to Charles Saunders.”
She had heard of the thousands of French émigrés who had fled to England during Robespierre’s reign of terror but hadn’t actually met one before. “And your father hasn’t ever been back to France?”
“No. But one day perhaps he will, especially now that the war is over. I long to travel to France, to visit the town of my ancestors, and make the connection to the other half of my bloodline. My mother’s family is Scottish, and I’m well acquainted with that side of the family, but at times, it feels like a part of who I am is missing,” he replied.
Suddenly shy, Poppy glanced at the cup in her hand. She wasn’t used to having people share such personal information with her. Her friends were few and all were on the other side of the world. She had never considered Jonathan as someone she could call her friend—more a commitment.
Yet this man, who only a matter of hours ago had been pounding his fists on her front door, was conversing with her in such a warm manner that Poppy genuinely hoped they might indeed become friends.
Don’t get your hopes up. You don’t know Francis. Tread carefully.
Jonathan might be an unpleasant man at times, but Poppy was sure she understood him. She also had strong suspicions as to the root of his current troubles. For the way he was behaving.
But when it came to Francis Saunders, she had little on which to base her opinion of him. He was being polite and friendly enough this morning, but how much of that was due to him discovering his father at the warehouse when he arrived?
I bet that came as a bit of a shock.
Then again, he clearly hadn’t liked what he saw during the exchange between her and Jonathan.
The odd, inexplicable feeling she’d felt earlier returned as Poppy met Francis’s gaze. That undeniable attraction.
They were alone in the warehouse. They had also been alone here in the early hours of the morning, but that had been different. He had been injured, and she had been holding a pistol.
Damn. I left the pistol onboard the ship this morning. Foolish girl.
Now, all that stood between them were manners and pleasantries. Coffee and cinnamon toast were her only weapons.
As the morning light streamed through the upper windows at the front of the warehouse, Poppy studied Francis. His piercing blue eyes were more powerful than they had been when she’d looked at them in the dim light of the night. She hadn’t imagined that possible. His white hair gleamed like a nimbus.
And he was tall. Exceptionally so, even for a man. His beautifully tailored coat displayed his broad shoulders to perfection. The white linen cravat with its silver ship pin had been expertly tied. This was a man who took great care with his appearance.
Everything about Francis Saunders spoke of a well-bred gentleman, yet it had been an ogre whom she had greeted at her door. An angry, drunken beast.
The most handsome ogre I have ever seen, but a beast, nonetheless.
Fine attire and a polished accent did not make a man. His actions did.
“About last night,” he began. He stopped and nervously cleared his throat. For a moment, Poppy feared he might have been reading her mind.
“I am sorry. I behaved terribly toward you.” He raised a hand to his head, raking his fingers through his snowy mane. “You might be surprised to know that it is not in my nature to be so horrible. People might say I look like a Viking, which isn’t surprising considering I have Norman ancestors, but the whole ‘sacking of villages and pillaging of loot’ really isn’t who I am. Or at least, I hope not.”
Poppy nodded. “Yes, I did think you a Viking. You do have that hard glare about you when you are irate.”
I seem to be dealing with a number of stubborn, angry men in my life at present.
“I’m taking over the shipping company from my father shortly and I think I might have let the pressure of it get to me. Of course, none of that excuses me in the slightest for the way I have treated you. I was a drunken brute last night, my behavior a shameful disgrace.”
He does wear grumpy like an ill-fitted coat. It’s almost like he feels he has to be that way in order to succeed, but it doesn’t sit easy with him. I wonder what it would take to make him laugh.
Having to confess his sins was also a challenge to him, if the tight way Francis was gripping hold of his hair, was any indication.
