Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] by Deadly Promise

finally said, “you are a very difficult man.”
    He smiled. “I know.”
    She began to smile, as well, then was struck with an image of the voluptuous Mrs. Davies on his arm. She hesitated. This was a subject she need not bring up—he had promised her fidelity, but she had run away and he had thought the engagement to be off. Still, she despised the other woman without knowing her and could not stand the thought of her with Hart.
    “Is something on your mind, Francesca?”
    She jerked, told herself to say “No,” and instead said “Yes.”
    He seemed amused. “Do tell.”
    “I didn’t have a chance to meet your friend . . . Mrs. Davies,” she said carefully.
    He didn’t seem to understand what she was really saying. “She is an old friend,” he said dismissively. “I doubt you would enjoy meeting her—” He stopped and stared. “Francesca, I made you a promise.”
    “But I left the town—and you thought our engagement was over,” she said tersely.
    His eyes widened, riveted on hers. “Surely you know I am a man of my word?”
    She could barely believe her ears. Was it possible that he hadn’t rushed into another woman’s bed?
    He took her hand. “I promised to be faithful, and if a man like myself cannot play a waiting game when the stakes are this high, then he is hardly a man.”
    She could only stare, thrilled and simply breathless now. “Calder? Isn’t this the moment when you pull me into your arms?”
    He didn’t bat an eye. “No.”
    “No?” She was more than surprised.
    “In case you didn’t notice, we somehow survived our little indiscretion in the servants’ hall tonight and your father is less than pleased with our decision. I am meeting him at your house tomorrow afternoon, Francesca. I intend to win the battle I must wage for your hand, at all costs, and therefore, I am delivering you intact and untouched to your door in the next fifteen minutes.”
    “Papa will come round. Because Mama always gets her way and she adores you, and you know it.”
    “Bless Julia,” he said with a warm smile.
    Her heart turned over. He was so unbearably handsome. And at times, he was also unbearable. But she didn’t mind. She knew she could, in the end, outwit him. The real problem was, he did not believe in love and he never would.
    She quickly looked away, aghast with herself, because it was suddenly so clear that everything might be different if he were espousing undying love for her, as Bragg had done. But Hart was never going to be in love with her. He would be a warm friend and a wonderful lover, but that was as much as he would ever give to her.
    Hart cut into her thoughts. “We will be at your door in five minutes, Francesca.”
    She started, flushed, and barely met his eyes. “I am actually very tired,” she said.
    “And now you are once more running away from me?Why?” He reached for her hand, finding it even though she had no wish for him to hold it.
    “It has been a long and unusual day,” she said, not looking him in the eye.
    “Yes, it has. Did you know I would be at the ball, tonight?”
    She finally met his gaze. “Yes.”
    “And did you wear that red dress for me?”
    She lifted her brows. “What red dress?”
    He laughed. “The one I shall tear off as soon as you wear it for me when we are married,” he said.
    She went still. Then, “It was very expensive—”
    “Oh, I mean it.”
    She stared, images rioting through her, images she did not want, not now.
    He smiled a little and said, “I am still waiting for the portrait you promised me. Sarah and I have discussed it at length.”
    She wet her lips, her pulse racing uncomfortably. “I will make an appointment to sit with Sarah immediately,” she said. Sarah Channing was a brilliant artist and a good friend. Hart had commissioned Francesca’s portrait well over a month ago, the very first time he had seen her in the gown, stipulating that she must be portrayed wearing it.
    “Good.” He leaned toward her.