Francesca nodded, unable to disguise her disquietude.

“He is a handsome one,” Elise conceded doubtfully, plopping down on the couch. “Seems nice enough as well. Course he’s not Ian.”

“Isn’t that for the best?” Francesca said dryly, hanging up the gown.

“I guess that all depends on what you think. Francesca?” Elise added when she didn’t immediately turn around, but busied herself adjusting the gown. “What do you think?”

Francesca was glad when Clarisse rapped at the door, asking to start her bath in preparation for the ball. It seemed like a good time to change the subject.

* * *

Her heart pounded uncomfortably at eight forty-five that evening as she stood in the reception line with Lucien and Elise behind her, waiting to offer her official well wishes to the earl and countess on their anniversary. Elise and Lucien looked like a vision—Elise in a gown of deep purple that optimally highlighted the rare color of her eyes, an exquisite platinum and sapphire necklace and her pavé diamond and sapphire wedding ring; Lucien strikingly handsome, as usual, in a formal tuxedo with white tie. The Great Hall was breathtaking, decorated with firelit crystal globes, magnificent silver candelabra, and fresh, aromatic garland, the Christmas tree ablaze.

She wasn’t quite sure why her heart was beating so fast in anxious excitement, but thought perhaps it was due to all the fine people filling the hall: the rich, the titled, and the famous mixing with the house staff and several people from the village. They all milled around, sipping the champagne being passed by waiters, waiting for the ballroom doors to be thrown open. A string quartet played in muted tones, contributing to the festive mood of anticipation. Lucien and Elise’s presence right behind her in the line gave her some of the reassurance she sorely required. She glimpsed Clarisse in the distance, looking pretty in a pale gold dress. The maid gave a little wave and Francesca waved back, returning her excited grin.

She saw the back of a tall, broad-shouldered man in the distance in the receiving line wearing a tuxedo, and realized she’d get a chance immediately to thank Gerard for the dress. He deserved her gratitude. She’d never felt so pretty. The dress fit her like it’d been made for her. Clarisse had styled her hair in a delicate weave, using the diamond pins to skillfully form it into a red-gold, loose sort of crown that struck Francesca as unpretentious yet supremely elegant.

They finally reached the anniversary couple.

“Francesca, dear,” Anne said, her voice sounding unnaturally high as Francesca leaned down to kiss her cheek and offer her congratulations. Why did Anne look so undone—strangely radiant and worried at once? Francesca wondered blankly when she straightened and noticed the countess’s expression.

“The dress looks lovely on you. I knew it would.”

An electrical pulse seemed to start at the very base of Francesca’s brain and course down her spine, setting off a chain reaction to every nerve in her body. She stood as if frozen. It hadn’t been Gerard she’d seen standing in the reception line with Anne and James.

“I didn’t have time to tell you,” she distantly heard Anne mutter apologetically under her breath.

“He just came down as the first guests arrived,” James said.

Ian’s face looked like it’d been carved from cold alabaster, but his eyes seemed to burn right through her.

“Well,” he said quietly, his familiar deep, slightly gruff, British-accented voice seeming to scrape gently over her prickling skin. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

She inhaled fully for the first time since seeing Anne’s anguished expression.

“Yes,” she replied. “Excuse me.”

She turned and plunged into the mingling crowd, the brilliant gowns and flickering flame and abrupt laughter striking her stunned brain like an assault. The only thing that she could be sure of, the only thing that felt terrifyingly real, was that invisible tether that had always seemed to join her and Ian stretching tight. It tugged painfully deep in her chest as she fled, threatening to rip at something vital.

Chapter Four

The tap that came at her suite door was light and cautious . . . feminine. She gave her face one last glance in the bathroom mirror and went to open the door. Her limbs still felt numb from shock.

Ian is here.

Her mind kept repeating the sentence like a harsh mantra, as if her brain was stubbornly refusing to absorb the truth and it had to be pounded into her consciousness by force. Even though she’d suspected that the knock was feminine, she sighed in relief when she saw Elise standing on the other side of the door. She stepped back, granting her entrance, and closed the door.

“Sit down,” Elise instructed. “You’re white as a sheet.” She handed Francesca a glass of water from the bathroom a moment later.

“I can’t believe it,” she muttered more to herself than to Elise.

“Yes. It came as a shock to everyone. He told Lucien before I followed you up that he just arrived a half hour before the reception began. He snuck upstairs to his suite to dress before anyone realized he was here.”

She tried to focus on Elise’s concerned face. “Did he say why he came?”

Elise shook her head helplessly. She could read a hundred questions in her friend’s sapphire-blue eyes, but Elise expressed none of them. She must know Francesca didn’t have the answers, either.

“I have to go back down,” Francesca said, setting the glass on a side table. “I can’t hide in here like a moody adolescent. It’d be so rude, when Anne and James asked me here for this event.”

“They would understand, I’m sure. Given the circumstances,” Elise said. “Her ladyship is the one who asked me to check on you. After she tried to stop Ian from following you, that is.”

Her gaze flew to Elise’s face. “Tried?”

Elise nodded hesitantly. “He’s out in the hall right now. No one could stop him. He barely allowed me to come in first.”

A powerful feeling of dread and sharp anticipation surged through her.

“Send him in,” she said, her level tone surprising her. Apparently, she was too numb with shock for emotional displays.

Elise bit her lip. “Are you certain?”

Francesca nodded and stood, steadying herself.

“I have to face him sometime. It might as well be now.”

Elise’s doubtful expression remained, but she turned to open the door.

* * *

He entered and closed the door behind him with a hushed click, his gaze steady on her the whole time. Her chin went up and her spine stiffened when he walked toward her. He came to an abrupt halt, reading her body language. His face seemed leaner than when she’d last seen him. That and his glittering gaze gave him a fierce look, like he had some kind of invisible fire burning nonstop inside him, fueling him . . . perhaps destroying him as well. His short, dark hair always created a striking contrast to his skin, but he seemed even paler than usual, as if he’d been cloistered from the sun.

“Where have you been?” she asked without preamble, unable to stop herself from expressing the question that had burned inside her for half a year.

He didn’t reply for a moment. As always, she felt pinned by his stare. They stood ten feet apart or so. Francesca couldn’t decide if the distance felt too close or like a yawning, mile-wide chasm.

“France,” he said in his characteristic hoarse voice. She tried to gird herself against the familiar sound of it.

“Why?”

Her one word query seemed to hang between them, its various meanings hovering like a toxic cloud. For the first time, she saw uncertainty flicker across his stoic features, but it was quickly gone.

“There are some things I have to take care of . . . look into.”

She waited, the tension rising between them, but he said nothing else. “That’s it?” she asked with a bark of incredulous laughter. “That’s all you’re going to say by way of explanation for disappearing without a trace for half a year?”

His mouth tightened. “Would it really matter what I said?”

“No,” she said without pause. “It wouldn’t.”

His expression hardly altered, but knowing him as she did, she sensed his flash of anger at her words. Or was it frustration?

“So you really don’t want an explanation,” he clarified.

“I’m saying there isn’t one that would suffice, so maybe you shouldn’t bother.”

His nostrils flared slightly. “I see you’re not wearing the ring anymore,” he said after a moment, his gaze lowering to her left hand, which hung at her side.

“Are you surprised?”

He looked into her eyes again. Suddenly, she wished he was gone, or that she was anywhere else. In that moment, she’d glimpsed his pain, and it had acted like a spark to her own. It flamed to life, hot and scoring, seeming to rob her of breath. She barely kept her composure.

“No. Not really,” he said quietly.

She inhaled with effort. Well, there it was. He’d known he was ending their relationship by doing what he’d done, and yet he’d done it anyway. She nodded once and looked away.

“Well, that’s it, I guess,” she said with a note of finality. She started when another knock came at her door. “Come in,” she called, glad for the distraction. She was barely holding herself together, and the last thing she wanted was for Ian to witness her discomposure.

Gerard stepped into the room. His concerned gaze moved from Francesca to Ian and back to Francesca again.

“Ian. This is quite a surprise.” The two men shook hands and gave one another a half hug of greeting. “We’re all extremely relieved to see you.”