Reunited With His Long-Lost Cinderella. Laura Martin
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taking over as her mind went completely blank. She wanted to reach out, to touch his face, trace the lines with her fingers and convince herself he was really there and not just a figment of her imagination.
‘I think you can call me Ben, Frannie,’ he said with that roguishly charming smile. ‘It’s not as though we’re strangers.’
He was right. They were far from strangers, but the boy she’d known had grown up into a man she didn’t much recognise. A man her body was reacting to in a most inappropriate way.
‘What brings you to this part of town?’ he asked, still leaning against the doorframe.
With her eyes narrowing, Francesca took in his appearance. He was wearing a shirt and trousers only, no jacket and no necktie or cravat. His shirt was half-untucked and opened at the neck, revealing a hint of the bronzed skin of his chest underneath.
A moment of realisation dawned and her hand rose involuntarily to her mouth. It was the middle of the day, but that didn’t mean to say he didn’t have company.
‘It’s a bad time...’ she began to say, starting to back away. How could she be so foolish? He was a grown man, a man who wasn’t tied by the expectations of society like she was. She felt unexpected jealousy and quickly tried to tamper it down before it could show on her face.
‘Not for me.’ Ben caught her by the hand, then stepped back, motioning for her to enter his rooms first.
They were sparsely furnished with just the essentials. A small sitting room with a couple of chairs alongside a writing table and then a bedroom leading off the sitting room with a bed and wardrobe. It didn’t look as though Ben had brought much of his own to personalise the space, but if the rumours were to be believed he had only recently arrived from Australia and as such probably wouldn’t have much more than his clothes and a few of his dearest possessions with him.
‘Would you like me to call for something to drink?’ he asked, motioning for her to take one of the chairs. He perched on the windowsill, leaning casually back against the glass.
Now she was here, Francesca didn’t know what to say. At the ball three nights ago when she’d realised who the mysterious man in the mask really was she’d barely been able to believe it. Ben, the boy she’d loved ever since she could remember. The one she’d carried in her heart all these years, never daring to hope she might see him again. And now he was here, in the flesh. All six foot of him, and he was grinning at her like they were twelve again.
‘You’re looking well, Frannie,’ he said softly.
His words and his tone unnerved her. His voice was low and gravelly and it cut through her body and penetrated her soul. There was something about the way he looked at her that made her want to throw herself into his arms and find out just how strong the taut muscles were. Ben had aged well and barely looked his thirty years; only the faint few lines around his eyes gave away the life he’d lived already.
Self-consciously she touched her hair. Ten years ago she’d been considered a diamond of the Season. That was after hours of her maid taming and curling her hair and strapping her into beautiful dresses, but Francesca had still felt like a fraud. Then she’d been more at home in breeches and a shirt with her hair loose and streaming out behind her.
Now she was twenty-eight. Many of her friends had children the same age as she’d been when Ben was sent away. She was no longer young, no longer so smooth and polished. Years of living with a man who gradually resented her more and more had caused her to age a little. Ben, with his handsome tanned face and muscular physique, was probably used to pretty young things throwing themselves at him.
‘So are you,’ she said.
It was true. The boy she remembered had been all arms and legs. Tall for his age but skinny, with a cheeky grin that had been too big for his face. He’d been tanned then, too, a consequence of spending every waking hour running through the countryside.
The man in front of her bore a passing resemblance to that boy, but the changes were innumerable. He was taller now, with long legs and a broad body, no longer skinny, but a frame filled with hard muscle. His hair was still the same dark brown and his eyes a dark, deep green, but his face had changed over the years. The smile was still there, but layered behind the cheekiness was years of experience and Francesca knew instinctively it had charmed hundreds of women.
‘You left the masquerade without saying anything,’ she said, not knowing how to start. She could hardly come out and tell him she’d thought about him every day for the last eighteen years.
‘I didn’t want to embarrass you,’ he said quietly.
Francesca nodded slowly, feeling the pain at the instant reminder in their difference in circumstances. It had always haunted them, always kept them apart even as children. Again and again her father had threatened to have Ben whipped if he caught her running wild around the estate with him again. He wasn’t deemed suitable company for the daughter of a viscount. Now was no different, not really. Francesca was expected to marry well again and keep herself scandal-free until then. Socialising with an ex-convict would hardly be keeping a low profile.
Lord Huntley. She’d almost forgotten about him in the heat of the moment. The man she was destined to marry as soon as her mourning period was over. He would be livid if he knew she was here. He might even call off the marriage. Even though she despised the man she had to marry him. Yet still she could not bring herself to leave.
‘Sit down, Frannie,’ he said, motioning to one of the chairs. She obeyed, glad to sink into the soft fabric. This whole encounter had drained her already and a seat was welcome while she worked out what she had wanted when she came to see Ben.
‘How are you here?’ she asked. There were so many things she wanted to know, so many questions she barely knew where to start.
‘I took a ship from Australia,’ Ben said, grinning as she rolled her eyes at him. Already she was beginning to feel more at ease.
‘You know that’s not what I mean.’
‘I think my life story might be a little too long for you to listen to.’
‘I don’t need your life story,’ Francesca said, leaning forward in her chair, ‘Not all of it at least. Just what you’ve been doing for the past eighteen years.’
‘This and that,’ he said. ‘I’m more interested in you.’
‘This and that isn’t a proper answer.’
‘I served my sentence,’ he said and Francesca noted the subtle flash of pain in his eyes as he remembered the years he must have spent toiling under the hot Australian sun. ‘Then I was lucky enough to be taken in by a kind man who mentored me and showed me how to thrive in a hostile land. I had good friends and I built a life for myself out there. A good life.’
What he wasn’t saying was the pain he must have felt at everything he’d left behind. His father and siblings, people who cared for him, people who loved him.
‘How about you?’ he asked.
‘I was married,’ Francesca said, wondering how to condense the last unhappy decade and a half into a few sentences. ‘And now I’m a widow.’ It was depressing when she said it like that. Eighteen years Ben had been gone and all she had to show for it was a dead husband she hadn’t much liked and now the prospect of another marriage she was being forced into.
‘My Frannie,’ Ben said, slipping from his chair and kneeling in front of her. With callused fingers he reached up and stroked her cheek, and Francesca instinctively closed her eyes and sank into the caress. She didn’t know this man, not how he was now, but everything about him seemed right. Her body and her heart were telling her to fall into his arms even though she’d barely exchanged a hundred words with him. ‘Such sadness,’ he said, ‘What can I do to make you smile again?’ The words were almost a whisper and conjured up thoughts of all sorts of inappropriate actions. She could almost feel his lips on her skin, his hands on her body, his legs entwined