But if it was good, why did she feel like crying?
She must think of Ren. She’d see him after the ball. She’d wake him up when she got back to her room and tell him the good things. Like how the butler Inchley had teared up when he had seen Franny. No, not that. And she wouldn’t mention how she had hovered behind Lady LeClere’s daughters in the receiving line and how Michael had said nothing, only sneered at her. She’d tell Ren instead about how pretty the ballroom looked. They’d never had a Christmas ball when their father had been the marquess.
A commotion stirred the other side of the ballroom, and Franny saw Kit stalking across the floor without a care for interrupting the figures of a country dance. His hair was wild, poking up everywhere, but he was in full dress. Black satin breeches, black tailcoat, intricate white cravat, but what was that? A red waistcoat. Twinkling. Covered in beads or spangles that reflected the candlelight of the chandeliers.
He was coming toward her, and she was unable to move. Even as Lady LeClere and the other women around her were getting to their feet and saying “Your Grace” and curtsying, she couldn’t move.
He was directly in front of her. His eyes weren’t hungry for once. They were as soft as his lips.
“Franny,” he rasped and fell to his knees and buried his head in her lap and wrapped his arms around her waist.
Without thinking, she sank her fingers into his thick hair and stroked his head, trying to get the tufts to lay down the right way. Her darling, dear Kit, looking so grand. Of course, he was the reason she had wanted to cry.
“I missed you,” he said into her lap just as she said the same thing.
He raised his head. She saw tears in his eyes.
“Did you really?”
“Yes, Kit.”
“Oh, Franny.” His hands pulled her head down. He was kissing her wildly, frenziedly. Scrumptiously. And he was speaking as he was kissing, talking into her mouth, into her cheek, even into her nose.
“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. Marry me.”
She got her mouth next to his ear. “Your Grace, you’ve just ruined me.”
He pulled back and looked at her. “No, you’ve ruined me. You will marry me, won’t you? Please, Franny. Please, Miss Francesca Cranwell?”
She shook her head. “I’m not legitimate.”
“I don’t care. I want to marry the woman I love. I want her always laughing. I want her to give everything we own away. I want her to be able to talk freely to everyone in the world without fear because I’ll be next to her, protecting her from villains. I want to saymy wifeand have it be true.”
“You could do so much better than me.”
He scowled. “No. No one could be better than you. I’m sure you’re right and the other girls are perfectly nice, but I love you.”
“You might love somebody else if you got to know her.”
“I don’t think so. And she wouldn’t love me. But you do, don’t you, Franny?”
“How could I not?”
“Very easily. Please just say yes, you love me.”
“Yes, I love you, you wonderful nonsense man.”
“Even though I haven’t done some Darcyesque noble thing for you?”
“Darcyesque? You love me. That’s noble.” She leaned forward and whispered, “And you forgot. I’ve already seen your house. And your cock.”
He laughed, the biggest laugh she’d ever heard from him. The music stopped as a hand appeared on Kit’s shoulder. A thin, bony, aged hand with a ruby ring.
Kit looked up and scrambled to his feet. Franny followed suit and when Kit bowed to a white-haired woman, Franny curtsied.
“Your Grace,” Kit said.
“No, I’m Mother,” the woman said and embraced him. “I couldn’t be more overjoyed to see you, Ambrose. Happy Christmas. And a red waistcoat. How daring. It’s a treat to see.”
