Because We Belong

She felt too embarrassed to highlight her stupidity in front of a stranger. She’d just have to confess her ignorance and lack of preparation to Anne tonight. Perhaps there was a shop nearby where she could pick up something appropriate? Even as she thought it, she had a sinking feeling she was doomed to stand out like a red- faced fool at the ball. It was bad enough in regard to herself, but she hated the idea of embarrassing Anne and James on their special night.

She turned down Clarisse’s amiable offer to do her hair for dinner, and the maid vacated the suite. Francesca turned to stare at the dark crimson dress, her fears about highlighting her gaucheness once again taking center stage. Funny, she thought she’d outgrown her insecurities. But then again, she’d really only become comfortable at high-profile events or formal dinners because Ian was there, his effortless, complete confidence spreading to her . . . always strengthening her.

She didn’t have him to lean on now, though. She’d been kidding herself to think she could function and hold her head up in surroundings such as these.

At least the dress did good things for her complexion, she decided later as she examined herself from the front and back nervously in the full-length mirror. The skin of her shoulders and back gleamed. Ian had frequently told her that her shoulders and back were two of her best features, and often bought her dresses that highlighted them.

Stop thinking about what Ian thought, she snapped at herself as she reached for a pair of black suede leather heels that featured an ankle strap. She wore her long hair up, accessorizing with a favorite triple-strand pearl choker that Ian had given her and matching earrings. It was the best she could do, she decided grimly as she looked from the mirror to the golden clock on the sofa table. Anne had said they’d meet in the sitting room—wherever that was—at seven for a drink before dinner.

Francesca couldn’t be sure if Clarisse really just happened to be walking by when she went down the grand staircase, or if her presence there was by design. Everything seemed to happen so effortlessly in the Noble household, as if all had been choreographed by some god of graceful etiquette.

“Thank you,” Francesca said to Clarisse when she led her to a white and crimson paneled door and opened it for her. Perhaps the maid noticed Francesca’s anxiety, because she gave her a heartening smile.

The first face she saw upon entering the warm, cozy room was Gerard.

“Don’t you look like a vision,” he said, his gaze running over her with clear masculine appreciation. He looked very handsome and at ease in a tuxedo with black tie, his forearm resting on the mantel of the fireplace, highball glass in hand. Anne and James were there, calling their greetings as they stood from two plush, chocolate brown sofas that faced each another before a crackling fire.

“I have to wash off all the paint and present myself in a decent light at least a few times a year,” Francesca said breathlessly to Gerard after she’d greeted them all. She turned her chin when Gerard leaned down to kiss her, so that his warm lips brushed her cheek. She glanced around, realizing that the room was quite large with several comfortable seating areas. “What a beautiful room, Anne. What a beautiful tree,” she exclaimed, moving past Gerard to admire the eight-foot pine decorated with tiny white lights and handcrafted German ornaments, some of them clearly antiques. Her gaze lingered on the painted ornament of a miniature motorcycle. The Christmas tree in the Great Hall was all about grandeur, but this tree was clearly an intimate one for a private gathering place. “Is this where you and . . . Is this where you usually celebrated Christmas with the family?” she asked Anne, who had approached to stand next to her. She looked lovely in a winter white dress and diamonds.

“Yes, almost always,” Anne said, handing her a glass of something steaming in a crystal cup. Francesca caught a whiff of the delightful brew.

“Is this Mrs. Hanson’s Christmas punch?” she asked, pleasantly surprised. Anne nodded. The taste of the mulled apple cider, rum, and spices gladdened her like a familiar smile. It did, that is, until she recalled toasting Ian with it last Christmas Eve in the penthouse.

No. Had it really just been a year ago that she’d felt so steadfastly secure in her love?

“It was Helen’s favorite room,” James was saying from where he sat on the plush, dark brown sofa close to the fire. And Ian’s. The thought automatically popped into her head as her gaze swept past the little wooden motorcycle to the fine art collection on display in the room and the rows upon rows of books in the built-in shelves. She knew his taste so well.

“And Ian’s, of course,” James added belatedly, confirming Francesca’s suspicion. His eyebrows went up and he took a draw on his drink when Anne shot him a subtle, repressive look. Gerard gallantly changed the topic.

“And here is where Anne and James plan to showcase your painting,” Gerard said, waving at the area above the large fireplace where currently a fine John Singer Sargent oil of a striking Edwardian-era woman in a blue dress hung. To think that they planned to replace a master’s work with her own left her stunned.

“Since we spend so much time in here,” James said, “we thought it was the ideal place to enjoy it.”

“And be reminded of you,” Anne said, taking her hand and almost immediately easing her anxiety.

Her fears about making a fool of herself were mostly groundless, Francesca discovered. It wasn’t that she suddenly became confident in handling herself in the midst of such style and grandeur, by any stretch of the imagination. It was the kindness and easiness of James, Anne, and Gerard—and even the house staff. Thanks to Mrs. Hanson’s presence in Chicago, she was somewhat used to being served dinner. Ian’s housekeeper had insisted upon the tradition every once in a while, and Ian was too tired—or wise—to fight with her every time she mentioned it. Francesca found herself relaxing for the first time since she’d landed in London as the meal came to an end, and the footman served fruit and cheese for the last course. Even with the stunning formal dining room and the service of the exquisitely prepared, festive dinner, it was James and Anne’s warm kindness that set the mood. Gerard, too, went out of his way to charm her, his dark eyes gleaming with pleasure every time he coaxed a laugh out of her.

Francesca found herself hoping that the men would go to some gentlemanly retreat following dinner and that she would have Anne to herself—isn’t that the sort of thing they did in books like Brideshead Revisited? She really needed to speak to Anne about this dress situation for the ball. Much to her disappointment, however, they all retired to the sitting room together for coffee.

“I’m shocked that it all was so blatant—right on a busy city street,” Gerard was reflecting on the attempted robbery against her and Davie, once they’d settled near a crackling fire. “Is Chicago experiencing a crime wave?”

“Not any more of a wave than usual,” Francesca said with a smile. Gerard was settled next to her on the couch, looking every bit as comfortable in his formalwear as most men would jeans and a T-shirt. He really was extremely handsome, she added to herself fairly.

“It must have been so frightening,” Anne said from where she sat next to James across from them. “He certainly was a bold criminal.”

“He must have been a very stupid one, as well,” Francesca added with a small laugh. “Joggers don’t usually carry many valuables.”

“Assuming theft was their intent,” Gerard said, his mouth grim.

“What a thing to say, Gerard,” Anne scolded, repressing a shiver. “Let’s talk about something else. It’s Christmas Eve. Do you have everything you need for the ball, Francesca? We can run out on Boxing Day to the village, if you’d like to pick up anything. I have to check the donation boxes are set up at the church anyway.”

Francesca glanced anxiously from James to Gerard. She didn’t really have any choice but expose her ill prepared state in front of them. “Yes, I would like to go with you. In fact, I think I’m in trouble. Clarisse was asking about my gown for the ball. I brought this for it,” she said, glancing down at the crimson velvet and feeling her cheeks begin to burn. “I’m sorry. I’ve never been to something this . . . special before. I’m afraid I’m not at all prepared.”

“Well we’ll just get you prepared,” Anne said with unwavering confidence. “There’s nothing to be concerned about. It’s just a party, and it’s just a dress.”

“Wear that one again,” James agreed, nodding at her velvet dress. “Very pretty. I like it.”

“Hear, hear,” Gerard said.

“Tell you what,” Anne said matter-of-factly. “The stores are open on Boxing Day, and Stratham has two nice dress shops. If we find nothing, Clarisse will spruce that one up for you for the ball.”

“I’m sorry to be a bother.”