*UNEDITED
Several years had passed since Roman danced with a woman. Not just any woman, but one who possessed the face of the woman he'd loved...and lost. For a second, he forgot he'd lost Layla, for she was before him again, a mere breath away as they swayed to the rhythmless sound of their shoes scrapping the floorboards. She was hale and hearty, not frail and ailing. Her eyes sparkled with new life, dispelling the deadness that once plagued them. Her lips, lucious as they were, teased him with a smile, urging him to capture them in a kiss. What he wouldn't give to dwell in this moment for the rest of his life, to always have the love of his life in his arms.
The sweet, floral scent of her perfume invaded his senses as he leaned in close, nearly giving into his hunger to taste her lips, until he saw the hesitation in her eyes. He realized then she was not Layla, for Layla would never hesitate to kiss him. The realization was enough to stop him dead in his tracks, to drag him back to the present, and to remind him who was truly before him; Frances.
Following the realization of Frances' identity was a reminder of Layla's death. The memory felt like a blow to his guts. Releasing his hold on Frances, he stepped back, and once he'd muttered a flimsy excuse, left the room.
"Bring the carriage around," he called as he crossed the narrow hallway to Mr. Healy, who stood by the front door.
"Yes, sir." Mr. Healy handed him his coat and hat, then hurried to do his beading.
A few minutes later, he climbed into the carriage. He was nearly certain he didn't resume breathing properly until the house had faded into the distance. What had he been thinking? Burying his head in his palms, he groaned. Barely three days since the arrival of his sister-in-law, and he was already harboring thoughts of kissing her. It was lunacy, a total lapse in sound judgment he hoped would never recur. Perhaps to prevent a recurrence, he must avoid all occasions to dance with Frances, for it was the dance that triggered his memories of Layla and nearly led to an accidental kiss.
He thought of hiring a dance tutor for Frances, but once he'd considered the cost, discarded the idea. He was financially handicapped. Still, Frances needed to be versed in the art of dance to stand a chance of securing any husband, let alone one who was a powerful duke.
Roman thought of the Duke of Cleveland. He knew nothing about the man and how he might get him to favor Frances. Nothing but the rumors that surrounded his vast wealth and the mysterious death of his first wife. It was said his wife had been the daughter of a wealthy earl, a well-bred English lady. Roman didn't think the duke would settle for any less, for the members of high society did not only marry with the aim of creating strong financial bonds and procreation, but with the aim of having women worthy enough to stand beside them; women who provoked the envy of society and boosted the egos of their husband. Women who could hold their own in the eyes of the public, who conducted themselves with grace. Frances needed to become that woman, and Roman knew he was her only hope in becoming her.
He sighed. As much as common sense warned him to steer clear of Frances, he was without a choice. He must simply strengthen his defenses and be cautious around her.
He alighted the carriage several minutes later and entered a dress shop, where he opened an account for Frances and made an appointment for the modiste to stop by his house by midday to begin work on three ball gowns. With his mission to the dress shop accomplished, he returned to his carriage and fought against the memory of his near-kiss with Frances. Beyond grateful it didn't happen, he made a silent vow it never would.
*
Frances stood awkwardly while the modiste, Gill Laurent, worked to get her fitted for a dress. She watched the woman's furrowed brows, wondering if she might notice the changes in her body, and like the housekeeper, immediately detect she was pregnant. Perhaps she must suck in her breath to keep her stomach flat. She glanced at herself in the mirror. It mattered not that she saw no visible signs of a bump through the thin fabric of her shift, she could not help her rising anxiety as the woman's hands skimmed through her body for what felt like a lifetime.
