* * *
After that conversation, Francesca was agitated, feeling like she wanted to jump out of her own skin. She made an excuse for wanting to examine some of the elaborate stonework on Belford Hall’s façade, walking ahead of Anne and Elise. Although Anne looked a little concerned, she made light of her request for Elise’s sake. By the time she’d used the passkey and security code Anne had supplied her with upon her arrival and activated the lock on the front door, entering Belford minutes later, she’d gained no peace. In fact, her edginess only grew when she saw Ian standing in the Great Hall talking quietly to Gerard. She had the distinct impression he’d been waiting for her return. He’d showered since she’d last seen him, his well-cut, crisp attire of black pants, white dress shirt, and light gray jacket in attractive contrast to the fact that he hadn’t shaved this morning and sported a slight scruff on his jaw. The shadows on his face only served to make his eyes look more blue—and fierce—when he pinned her with his stare.
He said something to Gerard under his breath and walked over to greet her. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to Ian at that point, however. After last night and her talk with Anne, she was confused about how she felt. Her nerves felt stretched and raw.
She started to hurry past him as he approached, her eyes glued to the escape of the staircase.
“Francesca, wait.”
She paused and glanced back at him warily.
“May I have a word?” he asked, nodding toward the sitting room.
“Not now,” she blurted out. Distantly, outside the realm of Ian’s stare, which seemed to make up her entire world for a breathless few seconds, she heard the door open and Anne and Elise enter.
His nostrils flared slightly and she sensed his barely contained, frothing emotions. He stepped toward her.
“It’ll only take a moment.”
“No,” she said, feeling shaken . . . unsure. She didn’t feel angry when she looked at him anymore, and she didn’t know what to make of that. Her anger had been her strength. She turned to go, but Ian grasped her arm, halting her. In a split second, her volatility burst free. She jerked her arm, breaking his grasp.
“Let go of me,” she exclaimed desperately. She turned and walked away.
“Francesca,” Ian grated out, his frustration palpable. It alarmed her to hear that much emotion in the voice of someone who was typically so in control.
It pained her.
She kept walking toward the closest door, barely holding in an avalanche of emotion herself, blindly seeking an escape. She reached for a door randomly, but it opened before she touched it. Clarisse stepped out, her smile upon seeing Francesca sagging when she noticed her expression. Francesca said nothing, just plunged into the dining room and slammed the door abruptly behind her.
* * *
Ian started to charge after her, but paused at Anne’s quiet warning.
“No, Ian. Let her be for now.”
He made a rough sound of pure frustration and came to an abrupt halt at the sound of the dining room door slamming shut behind Francesca. Clarisse looked at him and jumped, giving a tiny squeak of alarm. From the periphery of his awareness, he noticed how pale the maid looked as she stared at him with huge eyes. What did she see, looking at him in that moment? He’d frightened Clarisse.
Gerard approached. Ian clenched his teeth. He really needed to get a handle on this fury he’d been experiencing toward Gerard. It was fueled by jealousy.
Wasn’t it?
“Remind me never to get on Francesa’s bad side,” Gerard said in an attempt at levity.
“Shut up, Gerard,” Ian ground out aggressively. He saw his cousin’s eyes flash with anger, but he was too irritated to apologize. He strode across the Great Hall and opened the door to the sitting room. The abrupt manner in which he shut it undoubtedly conveyed that he wanted to be left alone.
* * *
“How long do you have?” Gerard murmured later as he pulled Clarisse into his suite and closed the door.
“Only an hour or so. I have to help with the lunch since Mina is sick.”
“Long enough,” Gerard said, placing his hand along the side of her throat and leaning down to kiss her. He immediately began to undress her, not in the mood for wooing. Not that wooing was required. Clarisse was young and biddable and more than willing to warm the future Earl of Stratham’s bed. She arched against him as he unzipped her dress, pressing her breasts against his ribs, her hands moving over him, eager to please.
Very eager.
He removed her dress uniform and draped it in the crook of his arm. She plastered herself against him, her blue eyes springing wide when she worked her hand between their bodies and touched his erection. He was hard as a rock. He couldn’t seem to get rid of his flagrant erection since last night no matter how many times he masturbated, which is why he’d subtly signaled to Clarisse earlier in the Great Hall, silently ordering her to his room for this unusual daytime tryst. His arousal was such that his hand would not suffice.
He needed to rid himself of this grinding sexual tension. He required concentration to discern the last part of the recorded sequence of Ian at his computer. At least he’d placed that camera eye in the perfect place in Ian’s room.
“I suppose given this,” Clarisse glanced down significantly at his cock, “you don’t want a report on Francesca until afterward? I have some important information, you know.”
“Like that she didn’t spend the night in her room?”
She looked surprised. Gerard smiled grimly. “I have my ways of getting information, too, little one. I’m worried. Things between Ian and her are growing quite volatile. You saw how they were in the Great Hall earlier.”