Miss Francie's Folly

  MISS FRANCIE’S FOLLY

  Fran Baker

  Chapter One

  “How could you?”

  Frances “Francie” Hampton’s lovely face rivaled a summer storm cloud. Her brows drew together over snapping green eyes. Her heart-shaped lips were thrust out in unspeakable anger. Copper curls trailed across her cheeks in disordered waves as she strode back and forth in the morning room in front of a young woman huddled on the threadbare sofa.

  “How could you, Mary?” Francie halted to demand again in a voice barely under control. “How could you?”

  Mary’s upturned face was devoid of color. Her lips quivered in an effort to reply. Her fingers played nervously with the bow of the chip-hat that she’d tossed wrathfully beside her. Then she began to twist the heavy folds of her cloak. Tears welled up within her light blue eyes and rolled sadly down her creamy cheeks.

  Seeing this, the thundercloud faded from Francie’s face. Shoving aside her traveling cloak and bonnet, she sank down next to the younger girl. “I’m not angry at you, Mary,” she said, “truly I’m not. No one could ever be angry at you, Mary dearest.” She gathered her unresisting sister into her arms and explained gently. “It’s simply that I do not understand. You and that—that man!” Fury crept back into her voice, sending a shiver through Mary. “It passes all bounds!”

  “Oh, Francie,” Mary sobbed as she buried her pretty round face into her sister’s comforting shoulder, “you know I wouldn’t hurt you for all the world!”

  “Shh, no, of course not.” Francie ran a soothing hand over her sister’s soft brown curls. She knew full well that Mary was incapable of deliberately bringing pain to anyone. But she could not deny that beneath her own shock and anger there drummed a steady, dull aching that she knew only too well. Three years had not dimmed her ability to suffer such heartache. The last two days had been more than proof of that.

  As her sister continued to cry quietly, Francie vividly recalled that first stunned moment of disbelief she had experienced upon reading her mother’s letter. At first she had stood stiffly, unable to breathe, to think, even to feel. A furious frenzy had followed, resulting in the destruction of two vases and a porcelain figurine before Miss Dill had captured her and rocked her with much the same consoling whispers that Francie now used to comfort Mary. After that, of course, had come the dreadful dull but constant thudding of a heart she had long since believed safely beyond such misery.

  Dear, sweet, loyal Agnes Dill! Francie thought with a sad smile. Knowing that Francie would not be capable of instructing a class in their small but exclusive school for young ladies, Miss Dill had not only agreed that Francie post down to London, she had insisted on it. Within hours of first reading her mother’s letter, Francie had been seated alone with her memories on the squabs of a post-chase, headed south. Unfolding the sheet she had crumpled in her rage, Francie had read it over until the searing words were branded into her heart.

  “Of course,” her mother had written in her lazy scrawl, “you will rejoice with us in our happy news. Our little Mary has accepted the suit of Sir Thomas Spencer! Thus, despite the difficulties of the past,”—for which Francie mentally substituted, your willfulness—”we Hamptons are, after all, to be allied with the Spencers of Hallbrook.”

  Even now, holding her sister’s trembling form, Francie could not believe it. How could they all be so foolish, so insensitive, as to countenance a betrothment between her sister and her own former fiancé?

  When Mary stopped crying, Francie gently released her and moved restlessly to stand before the unsteady, wavering flames in the room’s tiny boxlike fireplace. Holding her hands out, though knowing nothing could warm her, she questioned bitterly, “Am I to assume that you love him?”

  What little color had inched its way into Mary’s round face now fled. “Oh, Francie, no!”

  The involuntary exclamation brought Francie’s piercing green eyes around to probe deeply into Mary’s gaze. The younger woman shook her head in denial and clutched again at the much-abused cloak.

  “What then?” demanded Francie with impatience. “What possible reason could you have for agreeing to wed such an out-and-out rake?”

  “Mama,” breathed Mary, shrinking visibly beneath the unbending force of her elder sister’s wrathful look.

  “Oh, of course, Mama would be thrilled! But even she must have had a good reason to disregard the inevitable talk that will begin once this news is out.” Francie’s head was bent toward the fire again, hiding from Mary’s view the traces of hurt etched into her pale cheeks.

  “Papa,” came the whispered reply. Again Francie shot her a searching look and, summoning up her courage, Mary took a deep breath and added, “A-after Grandmama left her money to you and you j-jilted Sir Thomas—”

  “It was a mutual dissolvement of our betrothal,” Francie cut in through clenched teeth.

  “Y-yes. Well, Papa seemed to think that the only way out of our debts was to—to speculate,” Mary continued tremulously. “Mama explained it all to me, you see, when Sir Thomas approached them.”

  “Approached them” Once again Francie scrutinized Mary’s timid face. “Did he not declare his love to you beforehand?”

  “Oh, this is not to be a love match,” her sister explained eagerly. “You see, Francie, Sir Thomas needs a wife. He told Papa that he is no longer in his salad days—”

  “That at least is true,” Francie tartly interrupted. “He’s thirty-two if he’s a day.”

  “H-he said it was time for him to take a wife and that—that I should do quite well.”

  “And it was flattery such as this that led to your acceptance.”

  Mary flinched under her sister’s sarcasm. A quivering hand rose as if to fend off further blows and Francie, instantly contrite, covered her cheeks with her hands.

  “Forgive me, dearest! I am being a beast, I know.” She lowered her hands and turned to the fire. “What did Mama tell you?”

  “She said that Papa had not been . . . had not speculated wisely and that Sir Thomas’s proposal was a gift from God,” Mary answered in her breathy voice. “She said that if you had not . . . what I mean—”

  Francie broke in with a bitter laugh. “Don’t worry, Mary. I know full well that Mama has never forgiven me for not going through with the wedding. After all, wealthy, arrogant rakes are difficult to come by as husbands these days.”

  “Oh, Francie, please don’t,” her sister begged, covering her face with her hands. “I can’t bear it when you look like that. So—so scornful and contemptuous.”

  A heavy sigh dropped between them. After a time Francie said flatly, “So you are to wed Sir Thomas to save the Hamptons from ruin.”

  “Y-yes.”

  “But do you want to marry Sir Thomas?” she inquired, regarding Mary from beneath red-gold lashes.

  “Y-yes,” Mary answered bravely, fixing her cornflower-blue eyes upon the lap of her pink cambric day dress. But the fiery flush that cloaked her neck and cheeks belied her reply, and Francie’s green eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  “Don’t be a goose, Mary. You can’t expect to find happiness with a man of Spencer’s stamp!”

  Keeping her head bent over her lap, Mary did not respond to this charge. Sighing again, Francie picked up the iron poker and stoked up the fire. When it roared back to life, she dropped the poker onto its stand with a metallic clang that emphasized the thick silence between them. Francie stood staring, mesmerized, into the blaze.

  “Mary,” she said finally without removing her gaze from the fire, “I want you to realize what you are doing. That’s why I posted down here from Norfolk in such haste. You do not understand what Spencer is like.”

  “I know his reputation,” Mary replied. �
�And I don’t mind—truly, I do not!—if he continues to have . . . to have mistresses and such things.”

  “Beyond his reputation, Mary,” Francie said sharply, “there is the man himself. He is rude, arrogant, insufferably proud, and tyrannical. How could you possibly accept such a man for your husband?”

  “Perhaps for my charm of manner?” suggested a deep voice behind them.

  It was a voice Francie remembered well. Her heart pounding, she spun around to stare into Sir Thomas Spencer’s blue eyes, eyes that seemed to bore right through her. From beneath heavy lids, his penetrating gaze ran the length of her slender figure, making her all too aware of the rumpled state of her plain brown traveling gown, the wild disarray of her dark red curls, and the shadow of fatigue beneath her large green eyes. He watched with distinct amusement as the first dull gloss of shock within those eyes blazed into a furious gleam of anger.

  Managing, however, to keep her voice coolly disdainful, Francie remarked, “Your lack of manners, you must mean. I did not hear you knock, Sir Thomas.”

  “That is because, my dear Miss Hampton,” he responded, unperturbed, “I did not do so.”

  With a sure, easy step, he crossed to take the shaking hand Mary extended to him. Bending the length of his solid form to drop a careless kiss upon it, he quickly released it and straightened. He smiled lazily at the hostile beauty standing at rigid attention before the fireplace, then mused aloud, but as if to himself, “Now, I wonder, ought I to begin addressing you as ‘sister’?”

  “Oh, please,” Mary broke in hurriedly, “I’m sorry to say, Sir Thomas, that Mama and Papa are gone out.”

  The note of appeal in her voice drew his attention, and Sir Thomas scanned the whitened face of his betrothed, the mocking smile lingering on his lips. “But I did not come to see your parents, my love,” he said.

  The loverlike tone struck Francie palpably. She felt a stab of pain and looked down slowly to discover her nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. Unclenching her fists, she said as evenly as she could manage, “I do not think, Sir Thomas, that you shall need to address me as anything at all. My stay in town is but a brief one.”

  “Ah, yes,” he drawled in a voice that held a hint of underlying steel, “the school in Norfolk. The fulfilling career that meant so much to you. I confess I am surprised to find you were able to tear yourself away for even so much as a day.”

  Each word lashed out at her, and Francie found her hands curling into fists once again.

  “It was, of course, difficult,” she returned in withering accents, “but Miss Dill will see that the school is smoothly managed during the short time I shall be away.”

  “The ever-capable Miss Dill.” The lids dropped over his eyes but not before she had seen the contempt in them. “And she is, I trust, as cold-blooded as ever?”

  “Miss Dill is not cold,” Francie denied heatedly. “She is a dear, dear friend and one without whom—”

  “Your life would have been vastly different,” he finished in a harsh tone.

  “Why, you fatuous, conceited—”

  “Still dedicated to spinsterhood, is she, our Miss Dill?” Sir Thomas interrupted with calm interest.

  The heat of her anger rekindled Francie’s emerald eyes and flooded her face with a becoming flush. Suddenly Mary jumped up, fear contorting her own generally pleasant features.

  “Please, Sir Thomas, won’t you be seated? I’ll get some tea or—or—”

  “That’s quite all right, Mary,” Francie interjected. “Since I have but just arrived, I shall retire to my room. I am certain you and your fiancé have much to discuss.”

  She started for the door, but Sir Thomas stepped lithely into her path, blocking her way with his implacable presence. “Perhaps, Miss Mary,” he said without looking at his betrothed, “you should see about that tea. Your sister obviously needs the comfort of a cup after her long journey.”

  Hovering uncertainly, Mary cast a pleading look at her sister.

  Gritting her teeth, Francie capitulated. “Yes, Mary, I do believe a cup of tea would be refreshing,” she said as she turned back to the fire.

  Francie closed her eyes as if to blot out all that was happening. She heard the door open and close. She felt Sir Thomas’s nearness as he came to stand directly behind her.

  “Have you been happy,” Francie?” The softness of his voice took her by surprise.

  Her mouth went dry, her pulse began racing wildly. It was as if the past three years had never been and she was once again his darling Francie, with his diamond on her finger to prove it. Her head was bent, and she felt his warm breath stirring the wisps of hair on her neck. Opening her eyes, Francie was brought rapidly back to reality by the sight of her naked ring finger.

  In a voice not quite steady, she answered, “Of course I have. The school has become quite established, you know. We even have a waiting list for boarders next year,” she added with a touch of pride.

  “You have taxed yourself too much,” he commented in that low, stroking tone. “You are far too thin, too pale, Francie. You’ve exhausted yourself needlessly—”

  “I have not,” she protested with the merest quaver in her voice. “Now that the school is becoming known, I—I scarcely seem to work at all.”

  The heat of his breath upon her neck increased, and a shiver coursed the length of her spin as his warm lips pressed into the softness of her neck. She let the delight of it overwhelm her for one brief, delicious moment. Then pride rescued her. Spinning about, Francie raised her open palm to slap what she knew must be the mockery from his face.

  He easily trapped her hand in his inexorable grip. For a fleeting instant she was nonplused to discover no trace of the expected mockery on the harsh face inches from her own.

  “Oh, Francie, Francie,” he whispered hoarsely.

  Her eyes closed as his finger lightly traced the line of her delicate cheek beside her defiant, upturned nose. He drew her against him then and she could feel the solidity of his body that gave the impression of restrained power. Her own body seemed to have a will of its own as her head tilted back to meet his kiss. Her lips parted and she tasted his breath. Then suddenly she was jolted by his release.

  Springing open, her eyes took in his sneering lips, his jeering blue eyes. Standing like stone, trying to assimilate the meaning of what had happened, trying simply to recall how to breathe, Francie stared at him. His chiseled face, with strength of purpose in every line, his heavy black brows and thick, waving mass of black hair—all these were as she had remembered them. But the cynical lift of his lips and the derisive glint in his eyes were entirely different from the tender, passionate expression she remembered so well. New, too, was the caustic tone of his voice.

  “I congratulate you on your success,” he was saying. “I’m certain being instructress to so many children must be far more gratifying than being mother to a few.”

  She gasped at his audacity. Then she regained control and clipped out, “Teaching children is certainly preferable to the prospect of mothering yours.”

  At first she feared he would strike her. He raised his hand in a menacing manner, and his eyes went murderously dark. But with amazing self-control, he lowered his hand to flick an invisible speck from the sleeve of his bottle-green coat. The rhythmic flexing of his cheek remained the only sign of his intense anger as he moved to stand near the pedimented window overlooking the street below.

  As if from a great distance, Francie studied the tension in his erect stance. Shock and annoyance engulfed her as she silently berated herself for responding so wantonly to his touch. She had wanted his kiss, yearned for the caress of his lips upon hers, and this knowledge filled her with bitter shame. He had meant to deliberately disconcert her, of that she was certain, and she cursed her folly at letting him succeed so easily.

  How could she, how could she? Francie demanded of herself. How could she still tingle with indefinable stirrings in the presence of this man? No one knew better than she ho
w capable he was of inflicting pain and heartache. She must not allow him to make Mary suffer as she had suffered, as she was still suffering.

  Nearly cringing from the tangible hostility in the room, Mary entered, stammering that James would have tea sent up shortly. She made a few awkward attempts at conversation, then fell silent as neither her sister nor her fiancé seemed inclined toward discourse.

  At length, tea having been served, Francie inquired of her sister, “When shall you make public the announcement, Mary?”

  “I—I don’t know,” the unhappy girl stuttered.

  “I shall insert the notice the day following our engagement ball,” said Sir Thomas, glaring significantly at Francie over the rim of his teacup.

  Ignoring that glare, Francie focused on her sister. “Oh, are you to have a ball, Mary? Mother made no mention of it in her letter.”

  “That must be because I have only just decided upon one,” explained Sir Thomas.

  “Do you think, Mary dearest,” Francie prodded, “that this is a wise idea? You know how the expense of a ball mounts up, and Papa may not feel sufficiently able to meet the costs.”

  “Oh, I—I—” Mary began, flustered.

  “I shall be taking care of the expenses, my sweet,” Sir Thomas told his fiancée, “and so you may inform your parents.”

  “But that’s outrageous!” Francie exclaimed, looking directly at him at last. His triumphant smile increased her anger with herself for allowing him to provoke her. She immediately turned her attention back to her sister. “Mary, perhaps you could explain to your fiancé just what people will say when they learn that it is he who is giving a betrothment ball for you and not Papa.”

  “B-but Francie,” Mary protested, darting her eyes between the two combatants, “You know Papa said he would never again hold another such ball after you stormed out in the midst of yours!”

  Clearly amused, Spencer watched as Francie’s mouth worked soundlessly. Finally he intervened. “All of this can be arranged at a later time. It was a pleasure to see you again, sister dear.” He set down his cup with a clatter, ignoring Francie’s furious look, and stood up. “Until later, my love,” he murmured easily to Mary. Then he was gone.