Because We Belong (Because You Are Mine #3)(33)
Author: Beth Kery

“What what means?” she mumbled uneasily.

“Everything. What we mean.”

She gave an impatient shake of her head. “There is no ‘we.’ I’m going to bed.”

“I assume since you found me in here tonight, you’d checked my quarters first?” he asked from behind her.

She paused and cautiously peered over her shoulder. “Yes,” she admitted, seeing no way to deny it. “Your grandmother pointed out your rooms when she gave me the tour. When you weren’t in them, I came here. Anne said this was your favorite room.”

He held her stare. “Go now to your suite and rest. I think you’ll sleep now. But tonight—I’ll wait for you in my bedroom after everyone settles.”

She opened her mouth to deny him—God, how she hated his quiet arrogance. He spoke before she could come up with the most scathing response possible.

“I’m not saying it for me—or at least not just for me. You’re burning from the inside out, lovely,” he said, his voice hollow. “I know it’s my fault, but I see how tired you are. I won’t have you suffer while I’m here. I don’t want you to become sick. You’ll come tonight. You’ll come tonight if only because we have no choice. Not while we’re here together in this house. Maybe you’ll rest easier . . . and so will I for a precious period of time.”

Heat flushed her cheeks. She thought of denying him, but didn’t want to add lying to the sins she was compiling since Ian had returned. She said nothing, just turned and left the sitting room, silently praying all the while she’d find the strength to prove his arrogant assumptions wrong.

* * *

Ian watched her go, forcing muscles that wanted to spring into action and claim her into complete stillness. After the door had closed behind her, he glanced around the increasingly dim room. The fire was almost out. It was always darkest before the dawn.

He lowered his head and caught her lingering scent. He inhaled deeply, taking strength from the fragrance, and stood.

On the way to his quarters, he heard a click and a subtle, scurrying sound on the oak floors of the hallway. He glanced behind him and saw the maid, Clarisse, standing outside Gerard’s closed door, looking down as she finished closing the side zipper on her gown. Her head came up and she saw him standing there. She started. The shadows were so heavy in the hallway, he sensed more than saw her shocked embarrassment.

Neither of them spoke. Clarisse turned and hurried away in the opposite direction.

* * *

She slept better than she had in ages, not rising until twelve thirty. For a moment, she lay in bed, recalling all the tumultuous events of the previous night.

After she’d left Ian standing on the dance floor the night before, she’d searched through the maze of Belford, desperate to find the kitchens. Twenty minutes and two startled waiters’ instructions later, she’d found what she sought: Mrs. Hanson bustling around the gargantuan kitchen belowstairs, preparing some of the last touches on the lavish midnight buffet.

“Francesca!” Mrs. Hanson had called in mixed shock and pleasant surprise when she’d appeared. But then the sweet older woman had acted like it was the most natural thing in the world for her to stumble into the kitchens in all her finery.

Mrs. Hanson had given her a cup of hot tea and let her sit at the center island, just like Francesca had grown accustomed to doing while at Ian’s penthouse. Francesca didn’t tell the housekeeper why she’d sought her out in such odd circumstances, but Mrs. Hanson seemed to understand without words. She must have heard the rumor of Ian’s return. She answered Francesca’s random questions about mundane things, like the feast, occasionally interrupting their conversation to call out instructions to the catering staff.

Francesca had eventually gone back up, forcing herself to remain at the ball until past one in the morning, going through the motions of enjoying herself and fastidiously acting as though Ian wasn’t across the room. Ignoring him stole every ounce of energy she possessed.

Trying to ignore him, because it hadn’t worked in the slightest.

Once she’d gone to bed, however, she was surprised to realize she couldn’t rest, despite her exhaustion. There was no one left to fool but herself, lying there alone in the darkness, and Ian’s return had halted that brittle self-deception. Sleep had been an utter impossibility.

Until she’d finally risen in desperation and sought him out.

He’d been right.

It was strange to feel so awake on that bright December day, her nerves tingling with awareness . . . so good, and yet so terrible at once. Quenching her desire had been what she needed to rest, and he’d known that. Some part of her must have known it, too.

She closed her eyes as she stood before the bathroom mirror, overwhelmed by a potent paradoxical sense of shame and arousal at recalling what had occurred in the sitting room. Never in a million years would she have thought she could be so bold . . . so desperate. The memory of what she’d done under the cloak of night felt like the recollection from another person’s brain had been magically inserted to her own, all the details excruciatingly vivid, but also foreign somehow.

He’d left her. He’d offered no explanation as to why (not that she’d allowed him to give a reason) and practically the moment he returned, she had sought him out and let her pussy rule the day.

No. You let his cock rule.

Yet another reason it was difficult to meet her own gaze in the mirror as she got ready. Shame, anger, and longing were an unbearable brew.

She showered and dressed in jeans, boots, and a warm sweater and smoothed her hair into a ponytail. She left the suite a moment later, carrying her sketchpad, pencils, her coat, hat, and gloves in her arms.

They all were in the sitting room when she arrived—Lucien, Elise, Anne, James, Gerard . . .

Ian.

The mood in the cozy sitting room was very casual and easygoing, everyone looking pleasantly lazy after the late-night festivities. She’d interrupted Elise in the process of animatedly describing a funny scene from a comedy that was currently popular. Her friend was curled up in the corner of the couch, her knees resting casually on Lucien’s thighs. She envied Elise’s ease in such splendid surroundings, a natural consequence of her upbringing, an innate confidence Francesca herself could never hope to achieve.

“Good morning,” Francesca said to everyone. “I apologize for being down so late.”

“Nonsense, we all slept in,” Anne assured. “But you look rosy this morning. You must have slept well. I’m glad to see it.”