Simply Unforgettable

her bosom to his chest.

Ah, it had been so long.

It had been forever.

She had missed him so much.

His hands roamed over her and then strained her to him.

But powerful as physical passion could be, it could not entirely obliterate thought for longer than a few moments. She was not free to give in to his ardor as she had been after Christmas because she knew that he was not free. He had promised to marry, and he was going to London tomorrow or the next day to do just that. Actually, he had made that promise even before he met her in the snowstorm.

That realization caused her stomach to somersault.

She lowered her hand and pushed against his shoulder.

“No!” she said against his lips.

“Damn it, Frances,” he said, lifting his head a few inches from hers. “Goddamn it all to hell!”

She did not reprove him for the shockingly blasphemous language. She bit her lip instead and blinked her eyes in the darkness so that she would not openly weep.

He tried to renew the interrupted embrace, but she turned her face sharply away.

“Miss Hunt might not approve,” she said.

“Miss—? Who the devil told you about Portia?” he asked.

Ah, so she was Portia to him, was she?

“Amy, I suppose.” He answered his own question.

“Yes, Amy,” she admitted. “I wish you joy, Lord Sinclair.”

“If you Lord Sinclair me one more time,” he said, “I might well have to do violence to your person, Frances. I am not yet betrothed to Portia Hunt.”

“Not yet,” she said. “But you soon will be. Take your arm from about my shoulders if you please.”

He obeyed abruptly, leaving her feeling so bereft that even dragging air into her lungs seemed like a physical effort almost beyond her power to perform.

They rode side by side in silence for the rest of the way. When the carriage made its big turn from

Great Pulteney Street

onto

Sydney Place

and then

Sutton Road

, they both reached for the leather straps over their heads so that they would not touch each other. When the carriage rocked to a halt outside the school, there was suddenly total silence except for the snorting and stamping of the horses.

The door opened and the steps were set down.

Viscount Sinclair sat where he was. So did Frances.

“Some people,” Peters muttered from outside on the pavement, “would like to get to their beds sometime tonight.”

“Damn your impudence!” Viscount Sinclair exploded with what sounded like genuine wrath and was out of the carriage in a flash. “If I choose to keep you up past your bedtime, Peters, you may choose at any time to quit my service and good riddance.”

“Right you are, guv,” the coachman said, sounding quite uncowed. “I’ll let you know when that time comes.”

Viscount Sinclair turned to hand Frances down. He led her to the door of the school, which opened as they approached it. Keeble stood peering out like a suspicious parent, a frown on his face.

“Well, Frances,” Viscount Sinclair said, his hands clasped at his back. “It would seem that this is good-bye— again.”

“Yes.” She fought panic.

They gazed at each other for a long moment in the faint light of the lamp burning in the hall. He looked very grim and square-jawed. Then he nodded his head twice, turned abruptly, and strode away back to his carriage.

Frances stepped inside the hall without looking back, and the door closed behind her.

It was over.

Again.

But it was over.

It was an enormous relief to Frances to find the school in darkness apart from the single lamp burning in the