fantastically artificial smile on his lips. “And I like to think I’m not without my charms.”
“Indeed.” He possessed every charm in the world, and he revolted her in every conceivable way.
“I see I’ve startled you,” he noted almost fondly.
Startled? A larger understatement had never been made.
Suddenly Francesca could not breathe. Her corset tightened and tightened until she felt as though her ribs would pop and stab her lungs. Or maybe one already had. The dazzling chandeliers above her blurred and drew strange halos on the ceiling with tails dragging behind.
She was suddenly worried that she’d lost her hearing, but it was when he released her and bowed that she realized the music had stopped.
“Think about it,” he murmured as he led her from the dance floor on limbs gone completely numb. “I’ll be in touch.”
Air. She needed air.
Suddenly Alexandra was there, linking their arms and strolling back to their circle with the appearance of ease. “You look pale, Frank, are you all right?”
Still unable to speak, Francesca shook her head.
“Here.” Alexandra took a glass from her husband as they drew near. “Have some water.”
“She doesn’t need water, she needs this.” A snifter of scotch was shoved into her hand by Cecelia, and Francesca tossed back the entire thing in one gulp.
“What happened?” Cecelia touched her elbow, and Francesca could see that she wanted to show more concern and affection, as was her way, but understood the possible implications if she did so. She’d stoke Kenway’s suspicion and the speculation of the ton.
“What happened?” Francesca kept her back firmly to the room as she fought for composure. “I choked, is what happened. I choked like a coward, extracted exactly no information from him, and then he asked for my hand in marriage.”
“He what?” Alexandra put a nervous hand to her mahogany ringlets, as if Francesca’s pronouncement threatened to relieve her of her very mind.
“He’s now first in line to the Mont Claire title, and he intimated that our child would be the perfect heir.” Lord, but she needed another drink.
“You’ve only just met!” Cecelia had reached out for Ramsay’s steadying arm, and he stepped in protectively.
“That’s exactly what I said to him.”
“That rat devil of a bastard.” The Duke of Redmayne’s swarthy complexion was lent an even more exotic appeal by the onyx of his beard. It contrasted with Alexandra’s milk-white skin, which was paler these days, due to her condition.
Francesca had been right about a child, though Alexandra and Piers were waiting for a few more weeks to make an official announcement. She wanted to be happy for them, but she now knew what world their baby would be born into.
And who the villain was.
Redmayne, never a master of subtlety, scowled and made to advance toward the floor. “I’ll have a word with Devlin, and if he balks, I’ll have his tongue.”
“Not now, dear.” Alexandra’s gentle, staying hand was all it took to pull her husband back. “Do you think he knows what you’re about?” she asked Francesca.
“I think he got rid of everyone else in his way and would have already made attempts on my life if he saw me as an impediment.” Francesca felt an awareness on her skin, an invisible tug on her neck to turn back and find what danger lurked behind her.
But she knew. She’d left him on the dance floor only seconds ago.
Ramsay, often the cooler head of the two brothers, touched his chin, adopting a pensive posture. “The question ye must ask yerself is, what does he want with the Mont Claire title? He’s worth more than ye are as the Earl of Devlin. He’s more powerful and politically connected. And he’s done little to move upon the Mont Claire estate ruins, yer fortune, or ye until tonight.”
“Yes,” Cecelia agreed. “Why now?”
Francesca let out a deep breath and closed her eyes against the concerned and pensive gazes of her nearest and dearest. They were all so brilliant. So wonderful and helpful and priceless to her.
She never should have gotten them involved.
This was becoming too deep and too dangerous.
“Oh, Mr. Chandler!” Cecelia greeted warmly, glancing over Francesca’s shoulder. “I hardly recognized you in that—”
“My apologies, Miss Teague, I think ye have me confused with someone else.”
Francesca froze when Cecelia uttered the name Chandler, and then melted at the familiar Scottish brogue.
“I am Preston Bellamy, Lord Drake. Ramsay and I sparred in Scotland once, and it was a draw. I believe he owes me a rematch.”
“So we did. So we did.” Ramsay’s features shuttered as