Simply Unforgettable

“I do not need a maid,” Frances said. “I am not a girl. And I would not put you to such trouble, Lord Sinclair.”

“It will be no trouble at all,” he said. “I need the exercise.”

What else could she say with Miss Marshall present? He knew very well that she would not make a scene. There was a gleam in his eyes that was beginning to look familiar.

For someone whom she had twice rejected—she, a mere schoolteacher—he was being remarkably persistent. But she had known from the start that he was a determined, sometimes belligerent man. And she had learned since that he was impulsive and reckless and not easily persuaded to give up what he had set his mind on.

For some reason he had set his mind on getting her to agree to some sort of relationship with him. Whether it was still marriage she did not know. But it did not matter anyway. She had said no once, and she must continue to say it.

She walked silently beside him down the long, curving stairway to the great hall and the front doors. She must just hope that the streets between

Cavendish Square

and

Portman Street

would be deserted this late in the afternoon.

Lucius had been invited to take tea at

Berkeley Square

with the Balderstons and Portia and the Balderston cousins. But though he might have felt honor bound to attend the garden party since he had said long ago that he would, he felt no such compunction after the plans were changed. He sent a polite excuse and remained at home.

He had been pacing the hallway outside the ballroom—and occasionally standing stock still—since a few minutes after Frances’s arrival, which he had observed from an upper window. He could hardly believe what he had heard. He had thought her magnificent at the Reynolds’ soiree, but what he had not realized there was that her voice had been on a leash because of the relatively small size of the drawing room.

This afternoon it had been unleashed, though she had kept perfect control over it nevertheless.

Heath’s hair was going to do more than stand on end. He would be fortunate indeed if it did not fly right off his head.

But Lucius had not arranged to walk her back to

Portman Street

only to talk about her singing or quarrel with her. Devil take it, he was in love with the woman and yet he knew so little about her. Not knowing a woman had never seemed important to him before. Women were strange, contrary, irrational, oversensitive people anyway, and he had always been contented to keep his distance from his mother and sisters and never even to try to know or understand the women he bedded. It had never really occurred to him until he thought about it now that he did not know Portia either, although he had been acquainted with her most of his life. It had not seemed to matter—and still did not.

It mattered with Frances.

“This is not the way back to

Portman Street

,” she said as he drew her hand through his arm and set out from

Cavendish Square

with her.

“There are any number of ways of getting there,” he said, “some faster and more direct than others. You are not going to tell me, are you, Frances, that you have so little physical stamina that we must take the shortest route.”

“It has nothing to do with stamina,” she said. “My great-aunts are expecting me back for tea.”

“No, they are not,” he said. “I sent back a message with Thomas, informing them that I was taking you for a walk in the park before bringing you home. They will be charmed. They like me.”

“You what?” She turned an indignant face on him and drew her hand free before he could clamp it to his side. “You had no business sending any message at all, Lord Sinclair. You had no business sending my carriage away. I have no wish to walk in the park. And how conceited of you to believe that my aunts like you. How do you know they do?”

“You look lovely when you are angry,” he said. “You lose the cool, classical madonna look and become the passionate Italian beauty that you are deep down.”

“I am English,” she said curtly. “And I do not wish to go to the park.”

“Because it is I who am escorting you?” he asked. “Or because you are not—forgive me—dressed in the first stare of fashion?”

“I care nothing for fashion,” she said.

“Then you are very different from any other lady I have ever known,” he said. “Or any gentleman, for that matter. We will not take the paths that will be frequented by the fashionable multitude at this hour, Frances. I am too selfish to share you. We will take some shady path and talk. And if you were dressed in rags you would still look more beautiful to me than any other woman I have ever known.”

“You mock me, Lord Sinclair,” she said, but she fell into step beside him again, her hands clasped firmly at her