Reunited With His Long-Lost Cinderella. Laura Martin
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the idea that his wealth would trickle through to her family, but he’d ended up being just as poor a custodian for the family money as her father. The last few years of her marriage had been a familiar cycle of borrowing and the calling in of debt. When her husband had died the title had passed to some distant relative, but there had been no bequests, no tidy little allowance for his widow, meaning that once again she’d had to return home to her parents, once again a pawn in her father’s quest for more money.
Sometimes she thought about refusing, thought about withdrawing from society, perhaps taking up a position as a governess or companion. She didn’t want fine things, didn’t particularly enjoy the continuous cycles of balls and dinner parties and nights at the opera. Then she thought of her sister, twenty-year-old Felicity, the lively, kind girl who saw everything with those huge brown eyes. She deserved a chance. And the only way she would get that chance was if Francesca married Lord Huntley.
She wasn’t sure what arrangement Lord Huntley had made with her father, but she had extracted the promise from him that he would provide a decent dowry for her sister, allowing Felicity a modicum of choice about her future husband.
Trying to push the thought of another unhappy marriage from her mind, she glanced out of the window again, straightening as she saw Ben emerge from the darkened doorway. Already everything about him seemed familiar to her, his gait, his stature, even the way he turned the collar of his coat up to combat the icy temperatures.
She wasn’t quite sure why she was here. It mortified her when she thought of how she’d fled from his rooms in Gower Street, her imagination filled with images of him embracing her, kissing her, doing all the things a widowed lady shouldn’t. She should have left it at that, but she found herself drawn to him, unable to leave him behind entirely, but not able to trust herself to see him face to face again.
As he passed the carriage, head bent against the cold wind, she sunk back against the seat. She’d just needed to see him again, to convince herself that it hadn’t been a dream. For eighteen long years she’d agonised over his fate, imagining him a broken man, worn down by years of hard labour and then the difficult life of an ex-convict. Never had she imagined the confident and seemingly successful man that he’d turned out to be.
A few steps down the road he paused, turned quickly and in a couple of paces was back by the side of the carriage. Before Francesca had a chance to react he’d swung open the door and hopped inside.
‘Lady Somersham,’ he said, settling back on to the seat opposite her. ‘What brings you to this part of town?’
She’d preferred it when he’d called her Frannie.
‘I...’ she started to say, but couldn’t think of any lie convincing enough.
‘It would appear that you are following me,’ he said, fixing his eyes on hers and making her squirm under the intensity.
‘No,’ she said quickly, although that was an outright lie. She had been following him and right now she couldn’t think of any other excuse as to why she might be in this part of town, peering out of her carriage just as he left whatever establishment he’d just been in.
‘Boxing club,’ he supplied helpfully.
‘What?’
‘You were wondering where I’ve just been.’
Feeling completely flummoxed, Francesca took a deep breath and composed herself. She was a lady, the widow of a viscount, the daughter of a viscount. Probably the future wife of an earl. All her life she’d been coached to stay calm and serene whatever the world threw at her. Surely she could do that when faced with Ben Crawford.
‘I was following you,’ she said slowly, giving him a half-smile as if they were conversing about something as dull as the weather.
‘Couldn’t keep away?’ he asked.
Francesca felt her stomach drop away from her as she realised it was the truth. She hadn’t been able to keep away from him. Whatever she told herself, whatever lies she concocted to cover this embarrassing little episode, she’d just wanted to see Ben one more time.
‘I wanted to apologise,’ she said.
‘You have nothing to apologise for, Frannie.’
‘For my father. What he did to you...’
‘That’s his sin to bear the burden of, not yours.’
‘I tried everything I could,’ she said quietly.
When she’d heard Ben had been arrested for theft she’d confronted her father, who had promptly slapped her so hard she’d been knocked senseless for a few seconds, then he’d bundled her into her room. For days she hadn’t been allowed out, but eventually one of the maids had taken pity on her and unlocked the door. Francesca had headed straight for the county gaol and there had told anyone who would listen that Ben was innocent.
He had been accused of stealing jewellery from her family. None of it had been found in his possession, except one small locket. Her locket, the locket she’d given to him as a token of their friendship earlier that summer. The magistrate hadn’t listened when she had tried to explain and within half an hour her father arrived to drag her off home. The last time she’d seen Ben had been through the bars of a cell.
For eighteen years she’d agonised about her part in his conviction, wondering if she’d just shouted a little louder, begged a little harder, if things would have turned out differently.
‘I know, Frannie. I’ve never blamed you. You were just a child.’
‘So were you,’ she said, her eyes coming up to meet his.
As their eyes connected she felt her body react to his gaze and was reminded neither of them were children now. Francesca had images of Ben slowly undressing her, of their bodies coming together and his lips on her skin.
‘Perhaps...’ Ben said, but trailed off.
‘Yes?’
‘I know our time together is limited,’ he said slowly. ‘I know you have to marry Lord Huntley.’
She nodded, not wanting to be reminded of it, but knowing there was no getting away from her fate.
‘Perhaps we could find a way to make the most of the weeks we have left,’ he said.
‘What do you propose?’ she asked, hearing the slight wobble to her voice and trying to stop herself from imagining a whole host of wonderful, but not entirely respectable, pastimes.
He smiled, holding out for a long few seconds before answering. ‘Eight days for eight years,’ he said.
Frowning with confusion, she waited for him to explain.
‘You give me eight days of your life, one for every year of my sentence.’
‘And what do we do with these eight days?’
There was a mischievous glimmer in his eyes as he shrugged. ‘Whatever we want.’
It sounded wonderful. Eight days to be free, to do whatever she wanted. After that she would have to accept her fate, but for just a little while she could pretend her life was on a different track. He held out his hand to seal the bargain and tentatively Francesca placed her fingers in his.
‘When do we start?’ she asked, trying to ignore the warmth of his hand on hers. Neither of them was wearing gloves despite the icy temperatures and it was the first time she’d felt his skin against hers. His fingers were a little rough, probably from the years of physical work, and his hand engulfed hers completely.
‘Tomorrow.’
Tomorrow was as good a day as any. She had to remember she only had a few more weeks of freedom anyway. In six weeks her year of mourning finished and then she didn’t doubt her father would waste any time in arranging her marriage. She would likely be Lady Huntley within three months with no opportunity to go running after her childhood friend.
‘Tomorrow,’