Chapter Nine
February 24, 1818
It had been three days since William had done anything except sink his time into Bow Street and the unsolved cases, which had grown by one on the evening of the rout where he’d been implored to play his violin.
The rout where he’d seen all too clearly that he wasn’t meant for the glittering ton society life, and Francesca deserved so much better than him. Despite the obvious appreciation he’d received after performing that aria, no one had much use in a Bow Street Runner nearing forty, who apparently couldn’t solve a bloody case.
Which brought his thoughts circling back around to the crux of his discontent. Damn it all to hell. That meant Lord Wainwright had an alibi for the third murder, for he was attending that same rout when the woman had expired. That fact hadn’t improved his mood. Neither did being reprimanded by Chief Inspector Pryce for the lag in progress with the cases. He’d been accused of having his attention distracted, and that was the truth. Ever since meeting Francesca again on Valentine’s Day, his concentration had been split, which meant both his case and she suffered. Hadn’t she already told him as much?
Once he’d thrown his confusing feelings for her into the storm brewing in his chest—to say nothing missing her when he’d gone to investigate that third crime scene—he’d been in a temper for the better part of those three days.
I don’t need the additional responsibility of having a woman in my life permanently, and she deserves someone younger and more attuned with theton. Someone who can better care for her.
What he did need in this moment was advice from his cousin Andrew. If anyone could help guide him through the miasma of courtship and how to go forward with a woman—or not—when he wasn’t sure of himself, it was Drew. If his cousin could woo and win a lady with more of a wicked temper than William possessed, there had to be an answer that would help.
I can’t lose my position as well as my opportunity with her at the same time. I’d never live down the failure.
Yet when he arrived at Hadleigh House shortly after one in the afternoon and found his cousin temporarily out, his temper turned stormier.
What the devil should I do now?
He paced about the small parlor where he’d been shown as he attempted to decide on his next course of action. Not ten minutes later, the butler returned, showing the very object of his confusion and ire into the room with him. William gawked at Francesca, for she was radiant in a gown of vibrant pink that would draw all eyes to her while out and about in society, and, God help him, he devoured her with his gaze, taking in her pleasing curves, the creamy ivory skin of her bosom above the simple bodice, the way her arctic blue eyes watched him as her kissable lips curved into a soft, tremulous smile.
Awareness of her sailed over his skin, seeped through his blood, until his shaft twitched to life. This couldn’t be borne, and it was an exquisite form of torture, especially when his thoughts remained twisted. “What are you doing here?” he finally asked, annoyance hanging heavy in his voice even to his own ears.
“And a good afternoon to you too, Inspector Porcupine,” she replied with a hint of frost in her tones. Obviously, she wasn’t best pleased with him for his absence or his attitude. “I’m to meet Lady Jane, but it seems she’s with the earl and countess. Something about helping secure furnishing for her new place. No doubt they’ll arrive here soon.” When Francesca shrugged, he was struck once more over her petite frame and tempting curves. “Why are you here? Finally done sulking?”
“I don’t sulk.”
“Oh? What do you call it when you hide away from everyone, including me, after I thought we had a special connection the other evening?” She crossed her arms at her chest, which only served to call more attention to her breasts and how much he wanted to lick that tantalizing skin.
His annoyance and confusion increased until it became a churning storm cloud over his head and within his chest. Why had he even let this woman creep beneath his skin? “It couldn’t be helped. I had obligations to Bow Street.”
“Yet, unless I miss my guess, your case remains unsolved.” One of her eyebrows arched. “Your focus is scattered, Inspector, on many things.”
“Thank you for noticing. I had no idea.” Did he regret the sarcasm? Yes and no, but he’d never been at sixes and sevens as much as he was right now. “Besides, I needed to speak to Andrew. Since he’s not here, I shall return to Whitehall.” In the attempt to move around her toward the door, she put a hand on his arm. The faint scent of apple blossoms wafted to his nose and deepened the blasted awareness. “I’d caution you to refrain from touching me.” A warning growled in his voice. If he weren’t careful, he’d show himself for a fool, for the evidence of his regard and desire was quickly making itself known.
“Hold for one moment.” Francesca narrowed her eyes. “Nearly every time I’ve seen you since that Christmastide house party, you’ve bitten and snapped and snarled like a storm, intent to harm everyone with your sting.” Confusion and disappointment clouded her eyes. “Except for the times when you forget yourself. Then you’re quite pleasant, a man of humor and softness and caring. A man who infiltrates my thoughts, both waking and asleep.” Her fingers tightened slightly on his arm. “There is no need for the foul attitude, and I, for one, don’t appreciate it.”
Who was she to dictate how he should act? She had no claim to him, especially not when she encouraged him and the viscount at the same time. “Oh?” He shook off her hold. Perhaps that was the crux of his bad temper; he wanted her exclusive attention. How could she demand more time from him when she hadn’t given him the same? “You don’t appreciate it? Well, pardon me for upsetting your delicate sensibilities.”
“How rude, William. What is wrong with you?”
Indeed, that was the question.
But he wouldn’t be a Storme if he didn’t act the arse. “Did you ever pause to consider that I don’t appreciate being played against Lord Wainwright at every turn?” That was outside of enough, but he couldn’t recall the words, even if he’d wanted to. They’d exploded from him, propelled by the churning storm of emotions he harbored. When hurt shadowed her eyes, his chest tightened, and he mentally kicked himself for being a cad. Then he shoved it all away, for he couldn’t think clearly when she was so near. “I’d rather not find myself in your company again.”
“Why? You certainly had no issues wanting me at your crime scenes, so what is so awful about me personally?” That hint of vulnerability in her eyes and the waver in her voice nearly sent him to his knees with an apology on his lips.
“Nothing. Everything.” He shoved a hand through his hair and then continued on his way out of the parlor. Already, having her in his life had tied his insides in knots. How the devil could he remain effective as a Bow Street Runner if his mind was in such confliction?
“I won’t let you leave without an explanation.” She caught up to him in the corridor. Again, she dared to lay a hand on his arm, and he swore the heat of her seared through his sleeve and skin to the bone. “You’re annoyed.”
He snorted. “And you’re observant. You should apply to Whitehall instead of playing at being a reporter,” he said with heavy sarcasm, then wished to God he could take back those biting, hurtful words.
A gasp was the only reaction to that vile response. “You might be many things, but I hadn’t counted on ‘cruel’ to be among them.” Francesca narrowed her eyes as she planted a palm to his chest to halt his forward movement. And damn if he didn’t concede to her. “That’s not the real you.”
“You hardly know me.”