“I brought exactly four dresses to Belford. You’ll likely see me wear most of them. Knowing you, you’ll think I’m wearing all of them for you. I can’t control what you think,” she said coldly.

“No,” he said, his gaze lowering over her once again. Hot. Possessive. His nostrils flared slightly. “It’s hard enough to control our own thoughts. Isn’t it?” She realized she’d been staring covetously at his chest and wide shoulders. He looked indecently handsome in his tux.

She inhaled sharply and looked around the room. “Should we go and look for the others?”

“No, the fire has been laid and a man was in earlier restocking the liquor. This is where we are meeting. Would you like anything from the bar?” he asked.

“A glass of white wine, please,” she said, eager for an excuse to get some distance between them. She stayed where she was at the edge of the room, comforted by the shadows that clung there. He returned soon enough, however, a glass of chardonnay in one hand, a highball glass of bourbon and water in the other. She took the glass from him quickly when he offered it.

“Who told you we were meeting in here tonight?” she asked, fixating on the reason why they were alone instead of surrounded by the protection of chatting friends and family.

“Gerard mentioned it I think. He must have gotten the time wrong.”

“Maybe he wanted to get back at you for earlier,” she said, taking a sip of the chilled, dry wine.

“Get back at me?” he asked in polite confusion, black brows arching.

She rolled her eyes. Sometimes he was so British in what he chose to notice and what he decided to ignore.

“Earlier today. Here in the sitting room. The keys to the cottage?” she pressed when he remained impassive. “What was all that about between you two?” she demanded, finding a vent for her all of her unspoken, volatile questions.

“It was nothing,” he said, shrugging. She gave him a sarcastic glance. He frowned and took a sip of his drink, seeming to consider. “Gerard and I are like brothers at times. As you probably guessed from working with him on the Tyake acquisition, he would do anything for me, and I would do the same for him if he were in a pinch. But the other side of that is a little . . .”

“Brotherly rivalry?” she said dryly. “You never told me about that part of your relationship with him before.”

“I don’t consider it relevant,” Ian replied, leaving her with the definite impression that if there was an issue, it was on Gerard’s side. “Maybe it’s inevitable. His mother and my grandfather were exceptionally close, even though my aunt Simone was almost a generation younger than Grandfather. Gerard was always close to my grandfather as a result of that bond, and they only grew closer when Gerard’s father and mother died years back. Gerard was only eighteen when they were killed in a car wreck. He stayed alone at Chatham, a force unto his own from that day forward. But he still sought out Grandfather. He needed him, I think. Craved a pillar of strength, despite his show of independence. My grandparents have been parental figures to both Gerard and me. It’s only natural that there might be some friction once in a while.”

“And then there’s the whole issue of the title and the properties being divided up between you two,” Francesca observed. “How does Gerard feel about that?” she wondered, knowing from personal experience that Ian was very insouciant about the fact that his grandfather’s title would go to his nephew versus his direct descendent—Ian himself.

He flashed a glance at her, his eyes catching the firelight. “You seem awfully interested in Gerard.”

“He’s been very kind to me since all this business with Tyake started up,” she said stiffly.

“I’ll bet he has been,” he muttered before taking a swift draw on his drink.

He was there for me a hell of a lot more than you were.

His eyes widened slightly. She felt scored by his stare. She hadn’t said the furious thought out loud, had she? Maybe it didn’t matter. Ian was a mind reader when it came to her. She tore her gaze away from his and lowered her head. Her anxiety mounted even higher when she glanced again at the empty room . . . the intimate lighting.

His presence and nearness seemed to set every cell of her being vibrating in acute awareness. If only she could shut off this immense attraction she had for him . . . this compelling connection. Ian had found the strength necessary to sever that connection by leaving her. Why was it so hard for her body and spirit to comprehend that rift?

She hesitated, wanting nothing more than to swallow the familiar question again, but the burn had become too great on her throat and tongue.

“What is it?” he asked quietly, obviously sensing her internal battle.

“Are you well?”

She closed her eyes briefly, mortified at how shaky . . . how naked her simple question had sounded in the silent room. “In good health, I mean,” she hurried to say. When he didn’t immediately reply, she met his stare. She struggled to explain. How could she tell him in these circumstances that she’d existed in hell, wondering if he was suffering or sick for all those months . . . alone. “It’s just . . . you’ve lost weight,” she added lamely.

“I’m healthy enough. The state of unhappiness doesn’t qualify as an illness.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of psychologists out there who would disagree.”

“Do you think I need treatment?” he asked deadpan, his blue eyes spearing.

“What if I do?” she defended. “Most people who’ve been through what you’ve been through would benefit from some support.”

“Don’t worry, Francesca. Please.”

The thread of entreaty in his tone, the way he said her name like a gentle caress with that rough voice, made emotion surge up on her unexpectedly. “Were you unhappy with me? Did I just not want to see the signs?” she asked before she could stop herself. She was a little horrorstruck by her boldness. Or was it her weakness that had made her ask? Would her allowing one question to escape set off a mass outbreak of wild, shameful curiosity?

She had never despised herself more, and yet still she waited, perched on a ledge of anticipation waiting for his reply. The question seemed to hang between them in the full silence. Her throat swelled when he stepped closer and she could make out the tiny, ambient dots of blue in his eyes. He touched her with the ridge of his forefinger just beneath her chin, and then gently stroked her throat. She shuddered at the caress.

“I have never been happier in my life than when I was with you. I didn’t know what happiness was until you,” he breathed out.

“Then why? Why did you leave?” she asked, unable to disguise her wretchedness. The words seemed to cut her as they came out, having grown sharp and crystallized from being kept inside for so long. Her heart seemed to stop when he brushed the corner of her mouth and cheek with the side of his hand. It felt so good, but she turned her chin away from him in hurt and confusion. He set down his drink on a nearby bookcase in an impatient gesture and stepped closer, using both hands to capture her face, a palm on each side of her jaw. He lowered his head until his mouth was just inches from hers.

“Because after my mother died, after I found out about Trevor Gaines, I had never felt more dark standing next to your brilliance, never so hollow beside your fullness,” he said in a quiet, pressured voice. “My leaving had nothing to do with you, Francesca. Nothing. It was about me, trying to figure out who the hell I am. What the hell I am. I still don’t know . . . and I don’t deserve you until I do.”

“You’re Ian Noble, no different than you were before you found out about that foul man,” she grated out. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t want to blink lest she spill tears. “And that’s not an answer, what you just gave me.”

In the distance, she heard heels tapping on the Great Hall marble floor and a woman talking as though giving instructions.

“I’m sorry. It’s the only answer I have,” Ian said bleakly before he dropped his hands, grabbed his drink, and walked toward the fireplace. He set his glass on the mantel and faced the door just as Anne entered the room with a maid.

“Ian,” Anne said in surprise. “You’re down early.”

“We were confused about the time,” Ian said as Anne approached and he leaned down to kiss her cheek in greeting.

“We?” Anne asked, glancing around.

Francesca walked out of the shadows at the edge of the room. Anne’s eyes went wide in pleasant surprise as Francesca greeted her. She mentally damned the maid when she chose that moment to switch on a lamp. Anne’s animated expression fell when she noticed the strained quality of Francesca’s smile and her damp eyes.

* * *

Lisle Gravish was a nice-looking but fussy man of about thirty-five whose affected accent and pretentious jokes abraded Francesca’s already raw nerves. His wife, Amy, defied all English stereotypes with her perfect beauty queen smile, exotic, curling jet-black hair, and the curves of an Italian film goddess. It looked as if a display case from Cartier had exploded on her, she glistened so greatly with diamonds. She combined all this glamour and beauty with talent. Apparently she was a gifted opera singer. Francesca wondered irritably as she watched Amy flirt outrageously with Ian during dinner if she’d begun to sprout those amazing breasts while they’d still been in primary together. Ian didn’t necessarily reciprocate the flirtation, but he did occasionally smile. Ian’s full-out smiles were so rare, and so brilliant, that in Francesca’s opinion, they were the equivalent of another man’s hotly whispered indecent proposal.