She said nothing, but her wide eyes and the tight set of her jawline spoke for her. The woman was terrified.
He looked at one of the grooms. “Which is your most docile horse?”
The young man pointed at a bay mare in the nearest stall. “Aphrodite. She’s a real looker but has no spirit. Likes to follow others and graze mostly.”
“She’ll be perfect for what we need.” While the groom led the horse out and fitted her with a sidesaddle, William stood close to Francesca. “I’ll be right here.”
“I know that, but it’s still quite daunting to face one’s fear without knowing the outcome.”
“How well I understand that,” he murmured, and when the groom adjusted the bridle and bit, and finally coaxed the horse over to where they waited, William touched her elbow. “Ready?” He shot a glance at the groom. “Be sure and hold the reins until we can decide if Miss Bancroft is comfortable.”
“Of course, Inspector.”
“No?” But she put a foot in his cupped hands and let him boost her into the saddle. As soon as she settled, Francesca hooked a knee around the pommel and curled the fingers of one hand around the edge of the saddle behind her. “Oh, I don’t know about this.” Her eyes remained wide, her face uncommonly pale.
“Steady, Francesca,” William murmured. He placed a hand on her leg, hoping to infuse her with calm. “What are you feeling?”
“Fear. Terror.” When the horse danced beneath her, she squealed and went rather green about the mouth. “Quite unhappy.”
“Why? Talk to me.” If he’d learned anything during that Christmastide house party, it was the need to talk through the issues that bothered him.
Her leg trembled beneath his gloved hand. “I don’t like feeling helpless as I do now. Putting myself on the back of a horse again means I can be hurt.”
“The same can be said of many things in life. Learning to care for another person romantically, for example.” He didn’t know why he said that, but it slipped out just the same.
“You would introduce that subject now?” The look she flashed him could have singed his hair if she hadn’t been speaking from a place of fear.
“Why not? It’s as good a time as any.” Despite the groom who shifted his gaze away from them, William pressed on. “I assumed you and I had a strong connection, especially after… everything.” He cleared his throat as heat crept up the back of his neck. “Yet you went driving with Lord Wainwright yesterday. Has he asked that all-important question?”
Twin spots of color blazed in her cheeks. Another groom peeked around a stall, unabashedly watching the drama unfold. “What difference does it make to you?” she hissed, her voice little more than a whisper. “You haven’t come up to the mark, even when you’ve had opportunity to speak on the matter, but obviously you wish to keep what’s between us at little more than a tryst.”
“No!” He tightened his hold on her leg as if to remind himself of what was important. “It’s more than that.” This was rapidly becoming a nightmare, and the gossip would fly as soon as they left the mews. “Yet just as facing your fear of what might happen while on horseback, I’m trying to do the same in my life, to face the fear that something might happen to you… That it already has with that shot… And I can’t…” He couldn’t finish the sentence without revealing the truths that were currently being written on his heart.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it? If you are unable to tell me how you feel, if you won’t make a decision that melds our future together, what we share is merely an affair, and I’m going to have to move forward, because I don’t have the luxury of waiting until you can unravel your own thoughts.”
The words sliced through his chest with all the accuracy of a thousand shards of glass. He gasped from the pain of it, for there was much truth embedded there. Then he did what he’d always been good at; he hid behind anger and impatience until he felt like the storm his name was likened to. “Fine, but let me tell you this, Miss Bancroft.” Annoyance and rage twisted through his voice. “When you can’t stop thinking about a person when you’re not with them, that’s not an affair.”
“But you—”
He held up his free hand, interrupting her interruption. “When you can swear you feel their touch lingering on your skin or smell their scent long after they’ve left your presence, that’s not an affair.” A thin veil of red dropped in front of his eyes. This is how she would end things between them, just when he was becoming accustomed to the idea of giving her his heart?
“William, I—”
“Damn it, Francesca, stop denying what you feel, no matter what the outcome is.” He moved his hand to her knee. Tension was evident in her stiff posture. “Don’t think to look to me as an example, for I’m as broken as they come, but what’s between us isn’t.” He forced a swallow into his suddenly dry throat. “It’s strong, and I refuse to ignore it merely because you’re afraid of the future.”
Her eyes flashed blue fire. “Isn’t that a bit of the pot meeting the kettle?” Tears filled her eyes. “What is it you want deep down beneath everything?”
This was his moment to reveal all, to tell her what he felt… and he retreated from it, for he was convinced he wasn’t good enough for her, wasn’t what she needed after all. “If you want the viscount, that’s your prerogative, but you must tell me. However, if you want me, then cut him loose. I’m done competing. It’s not fair to either of us.”
For long moments she stared at him. “I had, in fact, said just yesterday—”
“Enough.” He met her gaze, and when she did nothing but look at him with emotions flitting over her face, he huffed. “Do what you wish regarding the ride, Miss Bancroft. I care not.” Knowing he was a cad yet doing nothing about it due to the knots in his stomach and the pain in his heart, he went to the stall where his horse waited, vaulted into the saddle, and pelted out of the mews.
He wasn’t thinking logically; that ability had been taken from him when Francesca declined to make a commitment to him, and he’d failed to be honest with her, but there was one more matter he wanted to settle before he buried himself fully into his work—to forget.
Twenty minutes later, he strolled into Brooks’ club, sweeping his gaze through the semi-dark rooms in the search of one man. At the door, he’d been told Lord Wainwright was in residence, and for the love of Francesca, he’d have words with the man. Eventually, he located the viscount in a private room sitting at a card table with a few other contemporaries his age.
“Wainwright, a word if you please.” It was a demand, an order, and he wouldn’t leave without saying his piece.