The cottage itself was nice, she decided once Ian had unlocked the door and they’d entered, but chilly despite the furnace being activated. The interior was modest in comparison to the luxury of Belford itself. In fact, the little house looked like it hadn’t been redecorated for several decades. She found the shabby elegance of it cozy.

“Stay here. Both of you,” Ian said after he’d closed the front door. She gave Gerard a questioning glance, but Gerard was watching his cousin dubiously as well.

“What is with him?” Gerard mumbled for her ears only.

Francesca just shrugged, too irritated to reply.

They stood next to the cold hearth of the fireplace as Ian stepped into the kitchen and looked around, and then stalked down the hallway, his dark head just two feet away from the low ceiling. At first, she’d thought he was inspecting the place like someone might a rarely used property in order to make sure there were no leaks or property damage. By the time he returned to the small living room where she stood, however, another suspicion had struck her.

“Ian, you’re not checking out this place for . . . I don’t know, bad guys or something, are you?”

“What’s this?” Gerard asked, both amused and confused.

“Just making sure everything is in order for you to work here today,” Ian said evenly, stepping closer, blue eyes pinning her. His size struck her suddenly, his presence. He was really too large for these cramped quarters. She stepped back reflexively, and then felt foolish when he only knelt and started to build a fire.

“Were there any other unusual occurrences either before or after that man tried to take you in Chicago?” Ian asked in an offhand manner as he began to arrange logs and kindling.

“No one tried to take me,” she insisted. She noticed Gerard’s puzzled expression. For some reason, a sharp somatic memory of the assailant’s brutal grip rose to her awareness. She rubbed her upper arms as if to erase the unpleasant recollection. Was there any possibility that Ian was right in his suspicion? “And in answer to your question, no. Nothing unusual at all has happened other than that.”

“Gerard? Anything odd that you noticed while you were in Chicago?”

“Other than the fact that the waiters there whisked away my plate the second I took my last bite, everything was boringly normal,” Gerard said dryly.

Ian just continued to build the fire in silence. She shook her head in disgust, knowing him well enough to recognize he wasn’t going to argue, but that he hadn’t changed his mind in the slightest. She left Gerard and looked around the little house, familiarizing herself with the location of the bathroom, which was in the hallway between the living room and bedroom. The small, tidy bedroom included a made double bed, upholstered chair, a desk and bureau. She’d be very comfortable working here, she decided. She found some tea bags in a kitchen cabinet and filled the kettle on the stove.

When she returned to the living room with a mug of tea in her hand, Ian had successfully started a fire. It felt warm enough for her to remove her coat.

“There’s hot water for tea, if you’d like it,” she said politely as she hung up her coat. Personally, she was hoping both men would vacate as quickly as possible. She’d never be able to focus with Ian there in the small confines of the cottage, sending her simmering, churning emotions up to a full boil.

“That sounds good,” Gerard said, starting for the kitchen.

“I’m going to walk around and inspect the grounds a bit, maybe look in at the stables,” Ian said pointedly to Gerard, who came to a halt. “Why don’t you come with me? There are some things we need to discuss.”

Francesca went still in the process of lifting her mug to her lips, her gaze bouncing from Ian to Gerard to Ian again. Surely Ian wasn’t planning on confronting Gerard. Surely he wasn’t considering talking to Gerard about her. The thought angered her—what right did he have to tell Gerard what to do when it came to her? At the same time, she’d be lying to herself if she said she didn’t experience a little relief. She’d already determined she wasn’t interested in Gerard’s advances. With Ian here, Gerard’s attraction to her just seemed to muddy the waters even more when all she needed was clarity.

“Francesca doesn’t like people around when she works,” Ian said quietly when Gerard opened his mouth—Francesca would have guessed to protest. “It makes it difficult for her to concentrate.”

She took a sip of her tea to hide the pain that went through her at Ian saying out loud something she’d told him once in an intimate moment. It seemed too strange, the paradox of the closeness she felt with him combined with a glaring distance, given his actions. It suddenly felt unbearable. Strangling. She wanted nothing more than to be alone.

“It’s true,” she told Gerard apologetically. “I freeze up when people are around.”

“We’ll walk then,” Gerard said, shrugging. “I have plenty of questions for you as well, Ian.”

“Grandfather bid on an old boxer-engine World War Two motorcycle at Higsby’s last month. Care to have a look at it?” she heard Ian say to Gerard as they headed toward the door.

“Is it in running condition?” Gerard asked, and Francesca was glad to hear the note of interest in his voice. Ian was trying, at least. He must feel guilty for his earlier heavy-handedness with his cousin. She’d always heard from Ian that Gerard and he were close. If they weren’t getting along, it was most likely due to some misplaced jealousy on Ian’s part.

“Needs some work.” Ian opened the front door and cool air rushed into the room. “I’ll be able to keep an eye on the cottage from the grounds, but lock this after we leave,” he called back to Francesca.

Francesca rolled her eyes.

“Francesca?” he prompted in that hoarse, compelling voice of his. She met his stare reluctantly. “Double lock it. Please.”

“Fine,” she muttered, willing to say anything to get him out of there. It felt like she hadn’t taken a full breath of air into her lungs since she’d entered the sitting room that morning. She finally did so after she’d slammed the door shut behind the two men and twisted the locks.

She couldn’t take this for much longer. If Ian didn’t leave Belford sometime very soon, she would have to be the one to go. It was a simple matter of survival.

But could she really do it? Could she really walk away from him after so many months of worrying, so many unbearable nights of feeling his absence like a gaping hole in her spirit?

If he could do it, you can.

Somehow, that incendiary thought didn’t help any.

* * *

Ian and Gerard returned after their inspection of the grounds, but thankfully her focus on the sketch gave her some measure of defense.

Or so she’d thought.

Someone tapped lightly on the door, but then immediately used the key to enter. Ian. He knew she’d be lost in her own little world. She glanced around distractedly from where she sat on a chair in front of the cottage picture window and saw him walking toward the fireplace, looking rugged and very appealing with a load of logs in his arms and his short hair windblown. He met her gaze, but didn’t speak as he put the logs in the firebox and kindled the fire. She resumed moving her hand over the sketchbook propped in her lap, distantly aware that Gerard stood for a moment at the threshold looking at her before walking out again, closing the door gently behind him.

The thought that she and Ian were alone in the cottage penetrated her awareness. She swallowed uneasily, her entire focus transferring from the view before her and the unfolding image on the page to the sounds of him moving behind her. What had Gerard and he talked about? Would he say anything to her now that they were alone?

She heard his boots scuffling on the marble hearth as he stood. He returned the poker to the holder, with a muted sound of metal on metal. She tried to locate him in the room by sound in the anxious silence that followed.

Her sketching hand went completely still a second later when she felt him touch her nape at her hairline, his fingertips cool . . . slightly abrasive. Shivers cascaded down her spine.

I’ll wait for you in my bedroom tonight.

Her heart seemed to jump into her throat. He hadn’t said the same words he’d uttered in the sitting room early this morning, and yet she’d heard them perfectly in her head. She sat looking out the picture window, frozen, every cell of her being focused on him standing just behind her. His fingers moved slightly, stroking her, creating a fresh wave of tingles down her spine . . . tightening her nipples.

“I’ll lock the door from the outside. Start back to Belford before it gets dark. If you don’t, I’ll come and get you.”

It could have been that he was alluding to the fact that she frequently lost track of time when she worked, and that she would be expected for dinner at Belford. It could have been that he was referring to her prickliness when it came to his presence, and he was letting her know point-blank if she stayed too long, she’d have to endure him.

Whatever the subtleties, he was making it clear that he’d claim her upon his whim.

Anger swelled in her breast at the thought, but that sensation was nothing in comparison to the other places in her body that his touch had enlivened.

Those places prickled with awareness long after he was gone.

* * *

That evening after she got out of a warm, relaxing bath, she found Clarisse in her suite hanging out a dark green dress for her to wear.

“I poured some club soda for you,” Clarisse said, nodding at a glass on a tray sitting on the coffee table. “Her ladyship told me to tell you that they met up with some friends who are staying in town over the holiday, and they’ve been asked to dine at Belford tonight—a Mr. Gravish and his wife. Her ladyship is friends with Mr. Gravish’s mother, and his wife was a school friend of Mr. Noble’s.”

“Ian you mean?” Francesca asked.

Clarisse nodded. “Yes, she knew him when Mr. Noble was still a boy, you know, in the local primary. Back when he first came to Belford Hall, I believe. One of the older maids told me he hadn’t ever been properly schooled before he came to England, and so her ladyship enrolled him in the local school for a year and gave him a private tutor in order to get him up to snuff. Mr. Noble was sharp as a blade, though, even if he was rough around the edges. It only took that year before he was ready for private, but that’s when he met Mrs. Gravish—I mean, she wasn’t Mrs. Gravish back then, of course.” Clarisse realized she’d been prattling on and gave Francesca an anxious glance. “Anyway, I’d started to stay that everyone is going to meet in the sitting room at seven before dinner,” Clarisse said. She held up a pair of brown suede pumps. “These with the dress, miss?”

“Sure,” Francesca said distractedly, thinking about what Clarisse had said about Ian as she removed the towel on her head and watched the young woman bustle around. “Did you have a good time at the ball last night, Clarisse?”

“Oh, yes. It was amazing.” She said excitedly before something seemed to occur to her and she hesitated.

“What is it?” Francesca asked as she toweled her hair.

“It’s only . . .” She bit her lower lip as she withdrew silk underwear from a drawer. “Mr. Noble returning . . . it must have upset you a lot.” She fumbled, looking at Francesca worriedly. “I mean . . . we heard that you and his lordship’s grandson were engaged to be married . . . before,” she finished lamely.

“We were. Once. But that’s over now,” Francesca said, picking up a comb from the dresser.

“But you must still have feelings for him.” Clarisse burst out.

Feelings for him. Against her will, Francesca felt his fingers brush against the tingling skin of her nape. She shivered and her sex tightened just from the memory. “I mean . . . Mr. Noble is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen,” Clarisse added lamely.

“Handsome is as handsome does,” Francesca said with a small smile. “I’m going to go and dry my hair. Oh . . . and Clarisse?”

“Yes?” Clarisse asked over her shoulders, holding a pair of sheer stockings in her hands.

“No offense or anything, but I’ll pick out my own underwear. Call it an American thing.”

Clarisse’s blue eyes went huge before she saw Francesca’s smile. Laughing, she scooped the underthings she’d set on the bureau back into the drawer and closed it.