Chapter Two
The Honorable Francesca Bancroft, only daughter of Viscount Nattingly, tried not to gawk at the man before her. During the Christmastide holidays, she’d spent the time at a house party thrown by his cousin, the Earl of Hadleigh, wherein she’d been knocked silly from his charming grin and inclusive attitude. A thrill moved down her spine that he’d not only sought her out now, but he’d also asked permission to court her. To say nothing of that fleeting touch when he’d kissed her hand. She swore she still felt the warmth of his lips on her knuckle.
He was no less handsome than he’d been two months ago, for his dark evening clothes were expertly tailored and fit his lean frame to perfection. She devoured him with her gaze, from the wide breadth of his shoulders to his narrow hips and waist and then back up to his face. He watched her with the tiniest hint of amusement dancing in his gray-blue eyes. Never had she seen such a vital or compelling man. Much different than the viscount currently courting her.
Say something, Fanny! Don’t stand here like an idiot!
“Uh, how have you fared since the Twelfth Night celebrations?” It was the last time she’d seen him, for the house party had broken up after that and everyone had gone their separate ways. “It was rather a buggar traveling out of Derbyshire what with the snow and terrible road conditions, and if I remember correctly, you left before all of us.”
“I’d been called back to London for a case.” Inspector Storme nodded at a footman bearing flutes of champagne on a silver tray. He grabbed two of them, then offered her one.
“Thank you.” When her fingers brushed his, another tremor shivered down her spine. That connection she’d felt at the house party was certainly in evidence now, but why? He wasn’t the sort of man she would have chosen, for he worked at a dangerous occupation. And he’d certainly not called on her in the interim. “I’m afraid I must admit to a certain weakness for champagne.”
“Then let’s hope there is more of it in your future. Everyone should experience as much of the sparkling stars in wine form as they can.” The deep tenor of his voice awakened butterflies in her belly, and when he lifted his flute in a toast, she tentatively touched her glass to his. After they’d each taken a sip, he asked, “Why is your father pushing a viscount at you? Doesn’t he want you to have the freedom to choose?”
Oh, dear.She should have known an inspector with Bow Street wouldn’t merely let the matter rest. With what she hoped was nonchalance, Fanny shrugged. “Papa is getting on in years, and since he’s realized his mind has become affected, he wants me wed. Mama has enough to worry about with being certain my cousin will flawlessly inherit the title.” Her chin quivered, but she tamped down on the welling emotion. It simply wouldn’t do to appear a watering pot in front of this man. “I don’t want to add to the anxiety at home, so when Lord Wainwright called a couple of times, I didn’t fight it.” Thankful to have finished with the confession, Fanny took refuge in another sip of champagne.
“Lord Wainwright.” The inspector’s eyes narrowed slightly. Did he know of the man? “You’re unsure of him.” It wasn’t a question, though speculation clouded his eyes.
“I suppose.” She shook her head while scrunching up her nose. The bubbles in the champagne would make her sneeze before too long. “He’s intense at times, tries to rush things between us. It… well, it frightens me a little.” Why was she telling him all this? There was no answer other than he was easy to talk to and he looked like a man used to keeping secrets. Could he perhaps lend insight?
To say nothing of hoping his courtship would differ from the viscount’s.
“That’s understandable, but you don’t need to let him continue to call if he’s not the right fit for you, regardless of what your father wishes. Your life is your own.”
“I know.” She glanced at the fire dancing merrily behind the ornate grate that rather resembled a peacock if one peered at it just right. “I don’t wish to disappoint my father. Not again.” For the whole of her existence, she’d been one regret after the other for him. Some of the scrapes weren’t her fault, but others were, and now here she was, eight and twenty, and still feeling guilty for never letting the woman she really was shine forth.
For long moments, Inspector Storme rested his gaze on her face. In the glimmering illumination filling the room, threads of silver in his dark brown hair sparkled. Finally, he nodded and drained the remainder of his champagne while she watched, fascinated, as the muscles in his neck moved, as his sensuous lips lightly gripped the glass’ rim. Oh, what would it feel like to be kissed by such a powerful man?
“My mother is dying, so I know how you feel about familial obligation.”
“Oh.” Cold disappointment twisted down her spine to cool the effect of her improper thoughts. “Then you only asked permission to call on me because your mother wishes you were settled with thoughts to a family.”
A trace of a flush rose up his neck over his cravat. He rested his empty flute on the mantel. “That’s part of it, of course. I won’t lie and say otherwise. You know the expectations of our world the same as I do. However, I remembered you from the house party and thought there might still be a connection between us, which is why I asked you.”
“Oh!” Merciful heavens, could she possibly utter something more erudite than that? Goodness, Fanny, you’re a journalist. Use your words. “I appreciate the honesty.”
Din from the crowd in the room finally permeated her brain. Apparently, someone had suggested dancing, and there was a mad rush to push furniture to the sides of the room and a call for assistance in rolling up the Aubusson carpets. Due to jostling, Fanny was pressed closer to Inspector Storme.
“My apologies,” she murmured when her sleeve brushed his and a few drops of champagne splashed over the rim of her glass.
“Think nothing of it.” He plucked the flute from her hand and set it next to his. “Perhaps we should move, lest some of the more eager guests assume we’re furniture.”
She giggled. “I had no idea you had a sense of humor, Inspector.”
The corners of his lips twitched with the beginnings of a grin. “Come.” He took hold of her upper arm and as he escorted into the corridor just beyond the drawing room doors, he modified his gait to accommodate her limp. That alone put him above Lord Wainwright, who was forever forgetting about her handicap. “This looks to be safe, and there are still enough people coming and going that we won’t be alone and thus cause scandal.”
“Imagine me embroiled in anything like that.” The words pulled another giggle from her, and then she tamped the sound before he could think her unhinged.
“By the by,” he said in a low voice as he put his lips near her ear, “I’d prefer you to call me ‘William’ when we’re not in public or society. If that’s all right with you.”
Her heartbeat kicked up a notch. “It is. Such a strong, protective sort of name.” When heat infused her cheeks from his continued attention, she blurted, “Only if you’ll call me Fanny.”
“I will. Is that your given name, or has someone down the line shortened it?”
Out of all her acquaintances, he was the only one who’d asked that. Not even her best friend Lady Jane, who’d married one of William’s cousins, had inquired. “My real name is Francesca. Named after my maternal grandmother, who was originally from a little French village. I rather like it, but with the war and the sentiment toward France, my parents decided that calling me Fanny was the best course.”
Interest jumped into his stormy eyes. “By Jove, why would you ever wish to respond to Fanny when your Christian name is so beautiful?”