A Lady's Lesson in Seduction

Well, that was a start.

* * *

Frances found herself seated next to Alan Folk, whose manners had undergone an abrupt improvement just before dinner. She knew whom she had to thank. She told herself the marquis was merely acting his proper role of watchful and considerate host, but that didn’t stop her heart from warming to him. He could have been cold and horrid to her instead, and she wouldn’t have blamed him. He’d done nothing wrong in quarreling about a prostitute. He wasn’t a newly married man, and he hadn’t deserved her anger a year ago.

While she pondered him, she found other parts of her anatomy warming to him, as well.

Horrified, she quelled that unexpected, uncalled for, completely unacceptable kindling of desire. Once, long ago… Was it only a little over a year? It felt like a century. Once, she’d believed herself a passionate woman. She’d felt the stirrings of arousal when in the company of an attractive man. She’d dreamed of kissing and lovemaking as every other young woman did.

Until she found out that kissing was mostly sloppy and unpleasant, and that she felt absolutely nothing during lovemaking. After Timothy told her what a bore she was, she’d thought herself thoroughly cured of carnal desire…until now.

It must be because of Lord Warbury’s reputation as a skilful lover. More than once, she’d heard a fast widow or unfaithful wife lamenting her inability to lure him to bed. That smile of his had set Frances’s imagination moving as if she were a young girl once more.

But she wasn’t. She must put a stop to such thoughts straightaway. She gazed about the room seeking something to pretend interest in… There was the Warbury half motto again, over the fireplace. She’d noticed it in the Great Hall as well, and in her bedchamber.

She made polite conversation, avoided looking at the marquis—except to note his mild flirtation with Almeria, who sat next to him, chattering happily—and concentrated on the excellent food, finishing up with two helpings of a truly magnificent trifle. When they adjourned to the drawing room, Frances had her embroidery frame brought downstairs, but her attention kept wandering and so did her stitches, away from the pattern she’d drawn.

Mrs. Cutlow sat next to her on the sofa and made some bland comments about Frances’s pattern. Frances knit her brows. Judging by the woman’s low-cut gown and roving eyes, Mrs. Cutlow wasn’t likely to engage another female in conversation without some ulterior motive.

She wasted no time coming to the point. She leaned close and murmured, ‘Has he asked for Miss Dane’s hand?’