Reunited With His Long-Lost Cinderella

Ben pummelled the punchbag, feeling the wonderful burn in his arms as the seconds ticked by. He was at the Smith-Hickory Boxing Club, a rundown boxing gymnasium close to Charing Cross. It was owned by a rugged middle-aged man called Kit Hickory, who looked as though he’d taken one too many punches in the face as a young man with a crooked nose and a marked asymmetry. It wasn’t a gentleman’s boxing club—Ben had been in one of those when he first arrived in London and had left after a few minutes. That sort of boxing was more prancing and pontificating than actual punching and defending.

Here he felt at home, among the working-class men, the men eager to take their frustrations out on the punchbags and their fellow patrons. Ben didn’t feel uncomfortable when he attended the events of the ton, but it wasn’t his world. This was more where he belonged.

‘Lighter on your feet,’ Kit Hickory called as he walked around the gym. ‘Punch, punch, duck. Guard up. Guard up!’

The older man was shouting at the two youths fighting in a roped-off boxing ring. They were good, made better by Hickory’s coaching, both destined to be local fight champions one day soon.

Turning back to his own punchbag, Ben began to punch again, feeling the tension seep from his shoulders and neck as he hit the bag over and over. He was annoyed at himself. Francesca’s visit had unbalanced him and he hated to be unbalanced. These past ten years since finishing his sentence he’d strived to always be in control, to always be the one calling the shots. Frannie had challenged that.

Although he had expected to be affected by seeing his childhood friend again, he had never thought she would cause such a reaction inside him. Every waking moment he thought of her, of the graceful way she glided into the room, the way her cheeks pinkened when she was thinking something inappropriate. He had always prided himself on being in control of his emotions, on never letting anyone too close. It was a lesson he’d learned on the convict ships, to look after yourself before anyone else, and the only people he normally made exceptions for were the men who were more like brothers than friends: George Fitzgerald and Sam Robertson. Now all he could think about was making her his. Every time he looked at her he felt his body react to her. These past few nights he’d woken in a hot sweat after very erotic dreams where she’d done unspeakable things. Dreams that meant he’d had to douse himself in cold water as soon as he woke.

It wouldn’t be easy, Francesca had been raised to be a dutiful wife and daughter, free from even the faintest hint of scandal. She might desire him—he’d seen that raging in her eyes during both their meetings—but she wouldn’t allow that to jeopardise her duty.

Throwing a particularly hard punch, he let out a deep growl. Duty be damned. After everything they’d been through surely they deserved at least a few weeks of happiness.

‘Women troubles?’ Hickory asked quietly behind him.

Ben grunted. He didn’t particularly want to share his deepest thoughts with the reprobate that ran the boxing club. They would likely be halfway round London within a day.

‘Loosen up your shoulders,’ Hickory said. ‘It’ll give you more power behind your punch.’

The older man moved on and Ben took a few deep breaths, trying to let the tension ease from his shoulders. He tried a few softer, experimental punches and immediately his thoughts wandered back to Francesca. The way her entire face lit up when she smiled, the light smattering of freckles over her nose that she’d had as a child and still had now, no doubt to her dismay. The soft curves of her body and the hair that he wanted to pull from its immaculate style and run his hands through as he kissed her into submission.

Then there was the sadness in her eyes, the sense that the intervening years had not been easy for her either. He found himself drawn to her, wanting to know her body and soul.

Closing his eyes, he stepped back. ‘Enough,’ he murmured, unwinding the strapping from his hands. This needed to stop. Somehow he needed to exorcise these thoughts, whether by fulfilling his fantasies or finding a way to move on from the woman who had haunted him for so long.

* * *

Francesca peered out from behind the curtain that covered the window of her carriage. It was hired, their family carriage having been sold many years ago, but her father had insisted on hiring one and a set of horses for the duration of the Season. For appearances, he’d said. Just like almost everything else they did. Their house was furnished for appearances.She had fine clothes for appearances. And they threw lavish dinner parties for appearances. All of it just served to make their money problems worse and Francesca was under no illusion that people didn’t know quite how in debt they were.

Slouching back, she felt the despair she always had when she thought about money. Their family had once been one of the richest in England, but years of gambling, poor investments and poor judgement on her father’s part had landed them in the position they were in now. Her marriage to Lord Somersham had been arranged with the idea that his wealth would trickle through to her family, but he’d ended up being just as poor a custodian for the family money as her father. The last few years of her marriage had been a familiar cycle of borrowing and the calling in of debt. When her husband had died the title had passed to some distant relative, but there had been no bequests, no tidy little allowance for his widow, meaning that once again she’d had to return home to her parents, once again a pawn in her father’s quest for more money.

Sometimes she thought about refusing, thought about withdrawing from society, perhaps taking up a position as a governess or companion. She didn’t want fine things, didn’t particularly enjoy the continuous cycles of balls and dinner parties and nights at the opera. Then she thought of her sister, twenty-year-old Felicity, the lively, kind girl who saw everything with those huge brown eyes. She deserved a chance. And the only way she would get that chance was if Francesca married Lord Huntley.

She wasn’t sure what arrangement Lord Huntley had made with her father, but she had extracted the promise from him that he would provide a decent dowry for her sister, allowing Felicity a modicum of choice about her future husband.

Trying to push the thought of another unhappy marriage from her mind, she glanced out of the window again, straightening as she saw Ben emerge from the darkened doorway. Already everything about him seemed familiar to her, his gait, his stature, even the way he turned the collar of his coat up to combat the icy temperatures.

She wasn’t quite sure why she was here. It mortified her when she thought of how she’d fled from his rooms in Gower Street, her imagination filled with images of him embracing her, kissing her, doing all the things a widowed lady shouldn’t. She should have left it at that, but she found herself drawn to him, unable to leave him behind entirely, but not able to trust herself to see him face to face again.

As he passed the carriage, head bent against the cold wind, she sunk back against the seat. She’d just needed to see him again, to convince herself that it hadn’t been a dream. For eighteen long years she’d agonised over his fate, imagining him a broken man, worn down by years of hard labour and then the difficult life of an ex-convict. Never had she imagined the confident and seemingly successful man that he’d turned out to be.

A few steps down the road he paused, turned quickly and in a couple of paces was back by the side of the carriage. Before Francesca had a chance to react he’d swung open the door and hopped inside.

‘Lady Somersham,’ he said, settling back on to the seat opposite her. ‘What brings you to this part of town?’

She’d preferred it when he’d called her Frannie.

‘I...’ she started to say, but couldn’t think of any lie convincing enough.

‘It would appear that you are following me,’ he said, fixing his eyes on hers and making her squirm under the intensity.

‘No,’ she said quickly, although that was an outright lie. She had been following him and right now she couldn’t think of any other excuse as to why she might be in this part of town, peering out of her carriage just as he left whatever establishment he’d just been in.

‘Boxing club,’ he supplied helpfully.

‘What?’

‘You were wondering where I’ve just been.’

Feeling completely flummoxed, Francesca took a deep breath and composed herself. She was a lady, the widow of a viscount, the daughter of a viscount. Probably the future wife of an earl. All her life she’d been coached to stay calm and serene whatever the world threw at her. Surely she could do that when faced with Ben Crawford.

‘I was following you,’ she said slowly, giving him a half-smile as if they were conversing about something as dull as the weather.

‘Couldn’t keep away?’ he asked.

Francesca felt her stomach drop away from her as she realised it was the truth. She hadn’t been able to keep away from him. Whatever she told herself, whatever lies she concocted to cover this embarrassing little episode, she’d just wanted to see Ben one more time.

‘I wanted to apologise,’ she said.

‘You have nothing to apologise for, Frannie.’

‘For my father. What he did to you...’

‘That’s his sin to bear the burden of, not yours.’

‘I tried everything I could,’ she said quietly.

When she’d heard Ben had been arrested for theft she’d confronted her father, who had promptly slapped her so hard she’d been knocked senseless for a few seconds, then he’d bundled her into her room. For days she hadn’t been allowed out, but eventually one of the maids had taken pity on her and unlocked the door. Francesca had headed straight for the county gaol and there had told anyone who would listen that Ben was innocent.

He had been accused of stealing jewellery from her family. None of it had been found in his possession, except one small locket. Her locket, the locket she’d given to him as a token of their friendship earlier that summer. The magistrate hadn’t listened when she had tried to explain and within half an hour her father arrived to drag her off home. The last time she’d seen Ben had been through the bars of a cell.

For eighteen years she’d agonised about her part in his conviction, wondering if she’d just shouted a little louder, begged a little harder, if things would have turned out differently.

‘I know, Frannie. I’ve never blamed you. You were just a child.’

‘So were you,’ she said, her eyes coming up to meet his.

As their eyes connected she felt her body react to his gaze and was reminded neither of them were children now. Francesca had images of Ben slowly undressing her, of their bodies coming together and his lips on her skin.

‘Perhaps...’ Ben said, but trailed off.

‘Yes?’

‘I know our time together is limited,’ he said slowly. ‘I know you have to marry Lord Huntley.’

She nodded, not wanting to be reminded of it, but knowing there was no getting away from her fate.