Simply Unforgettable

“One can only hope,” she said, “that this is not about to set in for the day.”

But their laughter had faded, and their solitude seemed far more pronounced here than it had out in the deserted gardens.

He took one of her hands in his and held it in both his own while she looked away and tried not to react to the warmth of his touch.

“Frances,” he said, “I think you had better come to London with me.”

She tried to remove her hand then, but he held it in a firm clasp.

“That was fate,” he said. “And it was speaking loudly and clearly. It was so insistent a fate that it threw us together again this week when we had missed the chance it presented to us after Christmas. Forgive me for saying this, but I have known many women, Frances, and I have not mourned the departure of a single one of them from my life. Until you, that is. I have never before known one for only two days and still been obsessed with her three months later.”

“I suppose,” she said bitterly, “it is because I said no to you and you are not accustomed to women who deny you what you want.”

“I have considered that as a distinct possibility,” he admitted. “But injured pride, if that was all that was involved, would actually have sent me dashing off in the opposite direction to find another woman to bolster my sagging confidence in my own charms. I could never grovel before any woman simply because she had thwarted my will. I would be off in pursuit of more easy prey instead.”

“Of which there is doubtless plenty,” she said tartly.

“Quite so,” he said. “I am young, you see, Frances, and have all my hair and all my teeth, tolerably white. I am also wealthy and titled, with the prospect of vastly more in the future. It is an irresistible combination for many women. But all that is beside the point under present circumstances. I am groveling before you, you see.”

“Nonsense!” Her heart was hammering against her ribs. She would have been able to hear it, she was sure, if the sound of the rain against the roof had not been almost deafening. “You want to get me into bed, that is all.”

Her cheeks grew hot at the bold vulgarity of her own words.

“If that were all it was,” he said, “I would have been satisfied long ago, Frances. I have had you in bed. One bedding is often enough to satisfy simple lust. Yet I am not satisfied.”

She grew hotter. But she could hardly reprove him for his very direct words. She had led the way.

“You need to be in London,” he said. “Bath becomes suffocating after a week or two.”

“You find it so only because you are idle here,” she said. “I am not.”

“Even apart from the fact that you could be with me if you were in London,” he said, “you need to be there for your singing, Frances. You are wasting your talent by teaching music when you should be performing it. If you were in London, I could introduce you to the right people and you would acquire the exposure you need and the audience you deserve.”

She snatched her hand from his and stood up abruptly, suddenly panic-stricken. He wanted to prostitute her talent, then, just as George Ralston had done? And be his mistress on the side, no doubt? Even though he was about to marry someone else? She felt suddenly bilious. What had she expected? She took one step closer to the outdoors and then stopped. There had been no easing of the cloudburst yet.

“I hated London when I lived there,” she said, “and vowed that I would never go back there. And I do not need anyone to introduce me to the right people. I am happy as I am. Can you not understand that?”

“Contented,” he said. “You have admitted before, Frances, that you are contented. And I say again that you are not a woman made for contentment. You were made for glorious, passionate happiness. Oh, and for unhappiness too, of course. The challenge of living is to reach for the one and learn from the other, if only the strength to endure. Come with me.”

“I will not,” she said. “Oh, I absolutely will not. You think that happiness and sexual passion are one and the same, Lord Sinclair, and that the latter is something to be indulged at all costs. There is more to life than physical gratification.”

“For once we are in total agreement,” he said. “You still believe I am trying to persuade you to be my mistress, Frances, do you not?”

“I do,” she said, turning to look down at him. “And if you say otherwise you lie—or you deceive yourself. I am an independent woman here. I am not wealthy, but I am beholden to no one. I have a freedom many women can only dream of. I will not give that up to become your toy until you tire of me.”

“My toy?” he said. “Are you not listening? I want to help you share your talent with the world and be happy and fulfilled as a result. Rid yourself of the notion that I am a simple, unprincipled rake. I want you in bed, yes. Of course I do. But more than that, I want you.”

She shook her head slowly. She wanted the issue to remain simple. She wanted nothing that would tempt her, as she had been tempted for a few moments back in December. She wanted nothing to shake her resolve to be sensible.

“Do you not understand even now?” he asked her. “I am asking you to be my wife, Frances.”

Her mouth opened to reply even before he had finished speaking. She stared at him and closed it again with a clacking of teeth.

“What?” she said.

“I have discovered,” he said, “that I do not want to live without you. I happen to be currently in need of a wife. My grandfather is dying, I am his heir, and I have promised to do my duty and take a bride while he is still living, it is to be hoped. Only today has it occurred to me that you are perfectly eligible, Frances. Your father presumably had