Page 14 of Haunted
Francesca glanced at him doubtfully, wondering how she should respond. “Why?” she asked at last.
“Because he stood up for you.”
“When?” she asked.
“At the well this afternoon.”
Mark had not seen the incident at the well. She knew from Martin, who had been tending to the bedroom fires at the time, that Mark had been playing in his own room at the other side of the house.
“Who told you about that?” she asked.
“Papa, of course.”
A ripple of unease twisted through her. Could something of Percival really have remained here after all? She wanted him to be resting in peace.
Yet as they entered Mark’s room, it struck her that her late husband’s presence, even if only in memory, had grown strongerin the last few days. In Mark’s imagination and her own. Which was odd when Sir George was here and causing her to think of so many other possibilities in her life.
When she returned to the drawing room, George was seated with his brandy on the table beside him, a book open on his knee. He rose at once, asking if he could fetch anything for her. She smiled and shook her head. The evening would pass all too quickly without addling her wits with more wine. And tomorrow he would go. An ache within her intensified and spread.
Eager to learn all she could of him, she asked him more about his life, his estates in Lincolnshire. She was intrigued to learn he had been in Brussels during the Waterloo campaign and met the Duke of Wellington himself. He did not dwell on the aftermath of the great battle where so many had died, but she gathered he had played his part in transporting the wounded and that the experience still pained him. Having seen something of war herself, she understood.
Deliberately, he lightened the conversation, but she could think of nothing to say except, “Tomorrow you will be gone and I will be lonely again. It will be so much worse than before, because now I have known you.” And she could not say that. How could she even believe it herself when she had known him barely twenty-four hours?
Silence stretched between them. She wanted to break it yet was afraid of saying something stupid just to keep him here, something that would betray her sudden vulnerability. But somehow, his presence was so comfortable that her tension eased and she simply enjoyed his silence.
“I have to thank you for another delightful evening,” he said at last, rising to his feet. “In fact, for all your kindness.”
“Nonsense. You have returned any kindness tenfold.” She stood also, facing him with too much space between then. “May we not simply be friends?”
She was slightly hurt when he appeared to think about it before answering. “Simply, I doubt,” he said. “But friends, most definitely.” His sensitive mouth twitched into a half-smile. “I would like us to meet again.”
Her heart beat faster. “So would I,” she admitted, and his smile broadened. She caught her breath.
She wanted him to take her hand. She wanted to touch him, kiss his cheek, anything to show friendship, to bring them closer. She knew instinctively that he would not take advantage. And he would not touch her.
Before she could gather her courage, he murmured, “Goodnight.” Then he bowed and walked away, much as he had done last night. It seemed a lifetime ago.
Restlessly, she moved toward the piano, and the urge to play overwhelmed her. She wanted to express this sudden emotion and soothe it at the same time. And it was better than thinking, even with her nerves jangled.
She sat on the stool with something of a bump, instantly spreading her hands across the keys, and began to play, letting her fingers go where they willed. After a little, she fell into Beethoven’sMoonlight Sonata, and played her heart out. She knew it was for him, even if he could not hear her.
But someone was listening. She felt the presence, the shadow in the doorway. For an instant, she wondered if it were Percival haunting her for her faithlessness. But of course it was not.
It moved, and she stopped abruptly, stumbling to her feet, staring at George as he crossed the room. Even before he came to a halt right in front of her, she could see the admiration in his eyes, the dancing spark of excitement and knowledge. As though he had read her feelings in the music.
She had always played from the heart.
Her throat constricted. She had not realized quite how beautiful his eyes were, or how expressive. For such a gentleman, his naked feelings were fierce, melting her very bones. And that was before he even touched her.
When would he touch her?
His eyes devoured her, settled on her mouth, and butterflies cascaded through her stomach. She could not breathe for the thrill of hunger, of need. She did not even know if it was his or her own.
Why did he not speak?
Because his eyes said everything. The man had always communicated with his eyes, and she doubted many people ever noticed. She did, and it consumed her.
Very slowly, he lifted one hand and brushed his fingertips across her cheek, a soft, wandering caress. His parted lips quirked into a smile.
