Because We Belong

want to know about right away . . .”

He listened, his backbone going stiff. After the beep signifying the end of the message, he listened to it again.

He went into the bathroom, where he rapidly extricated a pair of scissors from his grooming kit. He raised them to his neck and began to cut off his beard with a single-minded purpose.

* * *

They paused at a security gate, but the man on duty just waved them through. Francesca sat forward and looked out the window when the driver started down a long lane that ran through a forest.

“You’ll get a view of Belford Hall once we round this bend up here,” the Nobles’ driver—a man named Peter—said, noticing her piqued interest through the rearview mirror. She’d met Peter before when she’d stayed with the Nobles in London.

“I’m very excited to see it. We studied it briefly while I was in school for architecture,” she said breathlessly.

They took the curve. Her expression flattened in amazement at the view that unfolded. Peter must have noticed.

“Sight to behold, isn’t it?” he asked quietly, pride in his voice.

“It’s incredible,” Francesca replied. A strange feeling crept over her as the black sedan glided toward the enormous, stately Jacobean-Tudor mansion set amongst elaborate gardens and woods that would be ablaze with color during the spring and summer. She’d seen grand homes many times in her studies as a student of art and architecture . . . but this.

For some reason, the entire experience struck her as surreal. The past year of her life, everything that had happened since she’d looked into Ian’s eyes at Fusion over a year ago seemed to collapse into an insignificant minute. Suddenly, she was again the awkward, slightly defensive girl who had lived much of her life overweight and bullied by her peers.

What in the world was she doing here?

She’d known Ian’s grandparents were titled and wealthy, of course. She’d known Ian grew up in the midst of splendor for a good part of his young life. But she was quickly realizing that she hadn’t really gotten it. Not in the sense of true understanding. Could an American ever truly comprehend the elegant, rich history and tradition of a British nobleman? It struck her fully for the first time, coming like a disorienting blow, that just a half year ago, this fairytale house would have been one of her and Ian’s future homes.

She glanced down at herself nervously as they neared the entrance and several people stepped out the front door onto the drive. Thank goodness she’d taken some items from the penthouse’s dressing room before she’d returned to Davie’s. She’d never been gladder that Ian had gone against her wishes in the beginning of their relationship and purchased her a wardrobe. She’d never been more thankful he’d specified the items he wanted her to have. It was almost as if he’d been there to advise her as she’d packed. As in all things, Ian’s taste in clothing was exceptional, conveying a sense of effortless taste and understated class. The black skirt, silk blouse, leather boots, and cashmere coat she wore weren’t showy by any means, but they were of the highest quality. At least she had nothing to be ashamed of in that arena. She must rely on prayer and good luck to prevent her from making a fool of herself in some other situation at Belford.

James opened her door before Peter could come around, he and Anne anxious to greet her. Their warm hugs went a long way to calm her anxiety. James’s face was deeply lined with worry as he examined her closely after they embraced.

“We heard from Lin about what happened. Gerard couldn’t believe his ears when I told him; he was livid. He’s already at Belford, by the way, but ran over to Chatham—that’s his house, just a stone’s throw down the road—to take care of some business,” James added as an aside. “He says to tell you he’ll be back for dinner tonight.”

“Did they catch the perpetrators?” Anne asked, also referring to the jarring assault on her and Davie that had occurred in Chicago several days ago.

“No, not that I’m aware of. We gave our descriptions to the police, of course, although neither of us got a good look at the driver. But I wasn’t really expecting them to make an arrest, as random as the whole thing was. Davie tried to get the license plate, but it was obscured. Intentionally, probably.”

“You did tell them about your connection to Ian, didn’t you?” James asked pointedly.

Francesca froze. There is no connection between Ian and me, she wanted to scream, but checked herself when she saw James’s lined, worried face. He only meant well, of course, and she understood what he was getting at. Ian and she shared a past connection, but a connection nonetheless.

“It never really came up, James. I’m afraid the whole incident was a typical, mundane one to the Chicago PD.” She braced herself against a wind that whipped some escaped hair against her cheek.

“Come on, let’s get you out of the cold,” Anne urged.

“Welcome to Belford,” James said as they escorted her inside the massive oak doors, Peter following with her luggage. Once again, Francesca heard that tone of pride. It rang even stronger in James’s voice than it had in Peter’s. And why shouldn’t James be proud of his ancestral home? Francesca wondered as she stared openmouthed at the entrance hall: the richly carved oak-paneled walls, the grand staircase bedecked in fresh evergreen garland, the master paintings of various ancestors, the twenty-foot-tall lit Christmas tree, and the stunning domed stained-glass ceiling.

This is where Ian had grown up?

Somehow the idea of an energetic, scampering ten-year-old and this grandeur just didn’t mix in her brain, she realized dazedly as her boots tapped on a meticulous design of marble tile. But then again, Ian had never been a carefree child. These surroundings were perfectly suited to his cool self-containment, his consummate confidence in almost every decision he made.

She stopped in the middle of the hall and spun around once on her feet, trying to soak it all in. She met James’s sparkling, dark eyes.

“What do you think?” he asked, smiling.

“I’m awestruck, of course. It’s magnificent. I feel like a bumbling American,” she added under her breath.

“The only thing we want you to feel,” Anne said, stepping forward and taking her hand and with a significant glance, “is at home.”

* * *

Anne escorted her to her assigned suite on the second floor. While they chatted about the schedule for the next few days, a woman knocked and asked politely if she could unpack. At first, Francesca was confused by her request. The woman was young and pretty—in her twenties, probably about Francesca’s age. She didn’t wear the stereotypical clothing of a maid, but instead an attractive dark blue dress that belted at the waist, a tasteful silk scarf, and fashionable flats. She looked more like a chic young executive than a maid.

“Why don’t you come back and do it while Francesca showers,” Anne suggested warmly. “She’s going to freshen up after her flight.”

“Of course, my lady,” Clarisse said, taking her leave.

After Francesca had showered, she walked into the suite only to find Clarisse stowing her unpacked suitcase in the massive walk-in closet.

“I have a glass of club soda and lime waiting for you. Her ladyship said it was your favorite drink. I hung up this dress for you to wear tonight for Christmas Eve dinner. I thought it might be the one you had in mind, but please let me know if you’d like another,” Clarisse said kindly, waving at the dark red off-the-shoulder dress hanging on a hook just inside the open closet door. Francesca swallowed uncomfortably. It had been the nicest dress she’d packed, and she’d done so with the ball in mind, not Christmas Eve dinner.

“I . . . yes, of course. That was nice of you,” she faltered, unwilling to put her ignorance on display.

“Not at all,” Clarisse said brightly. “Is your dress for the ball going to be delivered? I only wanted to know because I can look out for it for you, air it out, and get it ready.”

“Um, it’s all still in the works. I’ll let you know,” she said, blushing. Oh no. The anniversary party must be a lot more formal then she’d realized . . . or had any experience to realize. And the “quiet Christmas Eve and Christmas, just with family” must be as well, Francesca thought with rising discomfort.