Reunited With His Long-Lost Cinderella

‘Nonsense. Everyone knows who everyone else is. Damn ridiculous idea if you ask me, all this prancing around in masks.’

Ben noted Lord Huntley had not deigned to don a mask of his own, leaving his red-rimmed and wrinkled eyes unadorned. Surely a mask would be of benefit to this man, even if it were purely to draw one’s eyes away from his generous jowls.

‘I think it is rather fun,’ Lady Somersham said and Ben had to wonder if she was just saying it to be perverse. Lord Huntley made him want to run in the opposite direction and he never had the awful prospect of having to one day be intimate with the man hanging over him.

‘Where’s your father?’ Lord Huntley barked, looking around as if Lord Pottersdown might be hiding behind a pot plant or marble statue.

‘I’m not sure,’ Francesca said, her eyes involuntarily flicking towards the doors that led into the ballroom. The gaming tables, no doubt. These past few weeks Ben had learned a lot about Francesca’s life just by listening to gossip. The ballrooms and dinner parties were rife with it and, although there was a lot of exaggeration and a few things that were clearly completely fabricated, you could glean some very interesting things if you filtered the dross out.

‘Losing more of the family fortune,’ Lord Huntley snorted derisively. He’d come to the same conclusion, it would seem.

Ben saw Francesca’s cheeks redden under the delicate rim of the mask and for an instant got the urge to manhandle Lord Huntley outside and send him on his way for embarrassing her. Then he remembered that he wasn’t her protector, he wasn’t anything to her, just a man who had once been a boy she’d known. A man she might not even remember.

‘Wait here,’ Lord Huntley commanded. ‘I’ll go fetch him. We need to pin down the agreement for this marriage.’

‘I’m still in mourning...’ Francesca said, but Lord Huntley had already departed, heading through the ballroom with his rotund belly leading the way. Not once had he even acknowledged Ben’s presence.

* * *

‘I’m sorry,’ Francesca said, trying to fight the tears that were building in her eyes. ‘That was incredibly rude, you shouldn’t have had to see that.’

Really she was apologising for Lord Huntley, the oaf of a man who would one day soon be her husband. The thought made her feel peculiarly queasy.

Trying to focus on the man in front of her, she couldn’t help but notice how he was the opposite of Lord Huntley, being tall and broad shouldered. She could tell there wasn’t a single ounce of fat on him even through the thick material of his jacket. His skin didn’t have that sickly grey tone to it, instead there was an unusual but healthy tan on his cheeks as if he spent a large portion of his day outdoors.

‘The best way to avoid discussing your marriage to him tonight is to not be here when he returns with your father,’ the masked stranger said nonchalantly. Feeling her eyes widen, Francesca tried not to splutter. Most people would politely ignore the exchange they had just witnessed, but it seemed the man in front of her wasn’t about to do that. ‘Come on,’ he said, a gleam in his eye that Francesca found vaguely familiar.

Offering her his arm, he flashed her a rather seductive smile as she hesitated. What she should do was wait here for her father and the man who was angling to become her future husband and listen while they discussed her like a horse for sale. Not that she had any illusions that her presence would make any difference to the outcome. She had absolutely no say in whom she married or when, both her father and Lord Huntley had made that perfectly clear.

Feeling rebellious, she took the man’s arm and allowed him to lead her through the ballroom away from the direction Lord Huntley had disappeared in.

‘You must tell me your name,’ she said, peeking up at him from under a carefully curled ringlet that framed her face. Her hair was difficult to tame, but her current maid was an expert at fighting the curly locks into submission and making her look presentable. As long as she didn’t go out in the rain.

‘Ben,’ he offered.

‘I can’t call you Ben.’

He shrugged, smiled at her and said, ‘That’s all you’re getting. This is a night of mystery after all.’

‘Well, Ben,’ she said, leaning in so no one would overhear her being quite so familiar with a stranger, ‘now you’ve removed me from having to discuss my future with Lord Huntley, what do you propose?’ She felt reckless, giddy. Francesca knew it was because she was near to hysteria, her emotions running high at the thought of having her whole future decided for her and a marriage to another man she did not like.

‘We could go somewhere a little more private,’ he suggested, that glint in his eyes again. Francesca trawled back through her memory, trying to place the man. They must have been introduced before, otherwise why was she finding him quite so peculiarly familiar? It was a sensation rather than anything else, a feeling rooted deep inside that she knew the man escorting her around the ballroom.

‘I don’t think that’s wise,’ she said. Years earlier she might have been tempted. He was a good-looking man and she was desperate for a dash of romance, of adventure. But she wasn’t a giddy debutante any longer, far from it. She was a widow in her late twenties, and that meant she’d had plenty of time to realise that liaisons with strange men in dark corners never ended well for anyone, no matter how tempting it might be.

She glanced at the man beside her and saw he wasn’t surprised by her answer. Francesca knew many widows had a looser sense of what was acceptable behaviour and what wasn’t, with many of them engaging in discreet affairs, but she wasn’t one of them. Her father had made it clear when she’d been forced to go back and live with her parents that she would keep her reputation pristine and pure so no potential suitors would be put off. It had worked, she thought glumly, she wasn’t even out of her mourning period for her first husband, Lord Somersham, and she was practically betrothed to Lord Huntley.

‘Then dance with me,’ he said, pausing before changing direction to the dance floor.

‘I’m not meant to dance,’ she said, gesturing to her half-mourning clothes.

‘Surely this world is more fun if you do one or two things you’re not supposed to.’

She felt herself hesitate. She would love to dance, especially with this man by her side. He was strong and young and had a vitality about him that neither her late husband or Lord Huntley had ever exuded. Imagining what it would be like to be swept around the ballroom in his strong arms, she felt herself nodding.

Trying to close her mind off to all the whispers and disapproval that would be coming her way, she allowed her companion to lead her into position. Francesca loved to dance, she’d loved to dance since she was small and had often roped in anyone and everyone to be her dance partner. Governesses, maids, the grouchy old butler, even Ben Crawford, the skinny little son of the estate manager she’d spent her summers playing with.

Ben. She looked up quickly, but the idea was absurd. This man, this charming and confident and attractive man in front of her, was not Ben Crawford. The son of an estate manager wouldn’t be so self-assured in a room full of lord and ladies, and of course he couldn’t be here, he’d been transported to Australia all those years ago. Francesca suppressed the feelings of sadness that always threatened to overtake her when she thought about her childhood friend. Now wasn’t the time.

She glanced at her companion again. He did have something about him though, the same cheeky smile and the same mischief in his eyes. Perhaps that was why she thought the man looked familiar. He reminded her of the friend she had lost all those years ago.

The music started and Francesca felt the pleasure diffuse through her body. She felt as though she was walking on the clouds whenever she danced, loving the instinctive way her body would move to the music. Her partner was both well practised and a natural dancer, twirling her round effortlessly and all the time managing to keep those lively eyes fixed on her and a smile on his lips.

For a second Francesca wondered what it would be like to have a man like this slip into her bed every night, to feel his hard body on top of hers and his soft lips on her skin. Instinctively she knew he would not be selfish in taking his pleasure and a blush spread across her cheeks as she imagined an unending night of passion with him.

‘Now you must tell me what has put such a beautiful blush on your cheeks,’ he murmured, leaning in close so his breath tickled her ear.

Francesca was unable to speak, knowing her voice would come out as a muted squeak if she opened her mouth.

‘Perhaps you’re thinking of moving in just a little closer,’ he whispered, pressing his hand ever so slightly harder into the small of her back. Against her better judgement Francesca allowed her body to press closer in to his, feeling the delightful swish of his legs against hers as they danced. ‘Or perhaps you’re imagining how it might feel if I kissed you here,’ he said, raising a finger and oh-so-briefly trailing it across the skin of her neck.

Now she was imagining that.

‘Or here.’ His fingers had dropped to her collarbone.

Guiltily Francesca glanced around the ballroom to see if anyone had seen the entirely inappropriate touch she’d just allowed. No doubt the gossips were already judging her for dancing when she was still in half-mourning. Even though this was a masquerade ball she was under no illusion that no one knew who she was.

Thankfully the music stopped and she felt the spell break. Her companion stepped away and bowed formally, only the sparkling of his eyes hinting at the inappropriate way he’d acted during their dance.

‘I hear the private terrace is a beautifully secluded spot,’ he murmured in her ear as he escorted her back to the perimeter of the ballroom. ‘If you go out of the ballroom, through the third door on the left and into the library, there are glass doors leading on to the private terrace there.’

He bowed again, then placed a kiss on her gloved hand before disappearing off into the crowd.

Francesca watched him go. There was no way she could join him on this private terrace, no matter how much her body wanted her to. Sighing, she turned back to look for her father and Lord Huntley. It had been a wonderful interlude with her mysterious gentlemen, but nothing more. She had to focus on coming to terms with marrying yet another man she did not particularly like.

Chapter Two (#u02c47a9b-0722-5b3f-8e55-b6c2d280610d)

Ben watched her from a distance. It was strange seeing the girl he’d once known so well gliding across the ballroom, turning heads as she went. When Ben had been sentenced to transportation at the age of twelve, Francesca had only been ten. Of course she’d been pretty, but in a wild and unfettered sort of way. Now she was elegant and there was no hint of the girl who used to race him across the fields on horseback or dare him to boost her to the top of a hay bale.

It was unsettling, talking to her again. For eighteen years he’d been unable to rid his thoughts of her. They’d only been children when he’d been arrested for stealing jewellery from her father, children who had spent every moment they could together. He’d loved her then, in the pure and innocent way one child could love another, and he knew she had felt the same way. Even when her father had cajoled and threatened her, trying to stop her from speaking up in Ben’s defence, she’d spoken out, she’d protested his innocence. It hadn’t changed the outcome—no one had been willing to listen to a ten-year-old girl when her father—a viscount, no less—had told a different story, but she’d defied her father all the same. All for him.

He’d thought about her a lot over the last eighteen years, wondering how her life had turned out, wondering if she would still be living in luxury as he toiled away under the heat of the Australian sun. Once he’d finished his sentence and little by little bought up parcels of land, turning them into one of the largest farms in Australia, he thought he might move on, but still he couldn’t forget about her.

Ben wasn’t so naïve to think she even remembered him from all those years ago. She’d probably never thought of the young boy who she had played so closely with, but he hadn’t been able to forget her. So when his friend Sam Robertson voiced his plan to come to England Ben had been eager to accompany him. He wanted to look her in the eye, to see if she was the same girl he’d known all those years ago or if she had been irretrievably changed by almost a lifetime of socialising and living by the rules of the ton.

Never had he expected to feel quite so unsettled at seeing her again, though. She was beautiful, but Ben had known a lot of beautiful women throughout his life and none of them seemed to have this power, this pull. Throughout their dance all he could think of was sweeping her away from the ballroom, finding some deserted room and depositing her on something soft so he could spend the night exploring her body.

That was why he’d had to leave her, to give himself time to dampen down the entirely inappropriate desire he was feeling. Of course he knew she wouldn’t take him up on the offer to meet him on the private terrace, but he’d been unable to resist making the suggestion, just in case she decided to surprise him.