Reunited With His Long-Lost Cinderella

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

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.

He didn’t know what he wanted from Francesca now. All his thoughts had been on seeing her again, looking into the eyes of the girl he’d once cared for so much—he hadn’t thought past that initial meeting.

Liar, the little voice in his head called out. He knew exactly what he wanted from her. He wanted to gather her in his arms and sweep her away somewhere private. Somewhere he could spend the whole night becoming acquainted with the most beautiful woman in the ballroom.

‘Who was that?’ George Fitzgerald asked as he found his friend at the edge of the ballroom.

‘A very pretty lady,’ Ben said with a grin. ‘Can you do me a favour?’

‘Of course.’

‘She’s finding it a little difficult to slip away from her companions. Could you go tell her that her father is a little worse for wear and is recovering in the library, show her the way—it’s the third door on the left out of the ballroom. Do it discreetly, but not too discreetly.’

‘You have a trick for everything, don’t you?’ Fitzgerald said, clapping his friend on the shoulder and making his way through the crowd.

Ben watched for a moment then slipped away, wanting to get to the library before Francesca. It would be private and, if they were caught alone together, no doubt a scandal would ensue, but it was unlikely that would happen. Everyone was too caught up in the revelry of the masquerade ball to notice their absence. He just wanted a few minutes alone with her, a few minutes to find out what her life had been like in the years he’d been away. If he could just hear she was happy, then maybe that would be enough for him. Maybe.

* * *

‘Lady Somersham,’ a deep voice said quietly in her ear, ‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’

It was another gentleman she did not know, with a simple black mask and a serious expression. She turned to him, smiling apologetically at the two older ladies she had been conversing with.

‘Your father is a little indisposed. He has been asking for you.’ The message was delivered quietly, discreetly, but Francesca knew her two companions had heard every word. Feeling her heart sink, she summoned a breezy smile.

‘Please excuse me, ladies,’ she said.

‘He is in the library. Shall I escort you?’

Francesca shook her head. As much as she would like someone to share the burden of her father with, a stranger at a ball was not the right person. Not for the first time she wished her mother could be persuaded to go out in public, but she hadn’t attended a ball or event since Francesca’s debut ten years earlier.

‘Thank you, it is a kind offer, but I should see to my father on my own,’ she said, feeling a ball of dread in the pit of her stomach. Over the past few months, during the time she’d been only in half-mourning and allowed again at social events, her father had been indisposed four times. On one particularly cringeworthy occasion she’d had to enlist the help of a very kind footman to carry him out to their waiting carriage.

The messenger let go of her arm as they exited the ballroom and motioned to one of the doors on the left. ‘He’s in there,’ he said, before bowing, then disappearing back into the ballroom.

Francesca took a moment to compose herself before she reached for the handle. Sometimes her father was a violent drunk, but most of the time he was emotional and downcast when he’d imbibed too much. In some respects this was worse than when he lashed out. Seeing the man who had been the backbone of her family throughout her childhood break down and cry was hard to bear.

‘Father,’ she said, adopting a sunny smile as she entered the room. Everything was quiet and dark, not even a solitary candle flickered. Francesca paused, listening for some sign that her father was in the room, conscious or not. There wasn’t even the hint of heavy breathing.

‘You came.’ A deep voice startled her from the direction of the glass doors on the other side of the room. As she peered through the darkness she could see they were open and a man was silhouetted in them.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘This is where we agreed to meet,’ he said.

Remembering the offer of a quiet liaison on the private terrace, Francesca frowned.

‘I’m looking for my father.’

‘There’s no one else here.’

She swallowed, feeling her mouth go dry as she realised what a precarious position she was in. If she was sensible, she should feel scared, being alone with an unknown man. If she was sensible, she would turn around and head out of the door and back to the ball.

Against every ounce of common sense she possessed, she stepped further into the room.

‘You tricked me,’ she said, trying to catch a glimpse of the man’s face. She should know everyone who was invited to this ball. Her social circle was surprisingly small, with the same hundred or so people being invited to each ball or social event. It was irritating her that she couldn’t place him, not even when she felt as though she knew him.

‘I gave you the freedom from your own conscience to come and meet me.’

‘You tricked me.’

She saw him grin in the darkness, a flash of white teeth, and heard a low chuckle.

‘Maybe a little,’ he conceded. ‘But you wanted to come. It was just the consequences of being found here with me you wanted to avoid.’ The confidence emanated from every bit of him—he was certainly a man who knew what he wanted.

‘Goodnight,’ she said firmly. Part of her had wanted to come, to be wooed by a mysterious stranger and feel that giddy freedom of being irresponsible for one evening, but she wouldn’t ever tell him that.

He crossed the room quickly, moving from the glass doors to her side in six steps, placing his hand over hers as she reached for the door handle.

‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘Give me five minutes and I promise you won’t regret it.’

‘I know I would regret it,’ Francesca murmured, feeling the heat of his hand through her glove. He was standing close and she could sense the power of his body, but she didn’t feel scared at all. If she’d been cornered by anyone else she would be panicking, wondering if they would allow her to leave with her virtue unscathed, but she felt peculiarly at ease with the man standing next to her, as if she’d known him her whole life.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘Spend five minutes with me and I’ll tell you,’ he said, his voice no more than a whisper in her ear.

Indecisively she glanced down at where her hand still rested on the door handle. What she should do was walk out of the room and never think of this man ever again. She should seek out her future husband and ensure he agreed the details of their marriage with her father and saved her family from financial ruin.

Slowly she turned around so she was standing chest to chest with the mysterious man.

‘Five minutes?’ she asked.

‘Five minutes.’

‘Then you’ll remove the mask.’

‘You have my word.’

Francesca stepped to the side and around her companion, leading the way to the glass doors and the terrace beyond.

The terrace was lit by the flickering light of a few lanterns, placed at strategic intervals along the stone balustrade. It was cold, icily so, but the air was crisp and dry and the sky clear. All in all, quite a romantic spot her mysterious companion had chosen.

‘Why am I here?’ she asked as he came to join her, resting his arms on the stone balustrade and looking out over the garden.

‘Only you can answer that question,’ he said.

Thoughts of her impending marriage to a man she could not stand, of wanting to escape, to have one night, even one moment of freedom, of adventure, flashed through her mind.

‘Why did you ask me here?’ she corrected herself.

‘I wanted to be with you. Alone. Away from the other guests.’

‘Why?’ she asked, her mouth feeling peculiarly dry and the question coming out as a little breathless rush.

He looked at her with a half-smile on his lips and she felt all the air being sucked from her body.

‘Can a man not want to get to know a woman away from the prying eyes of society?’

Francesca laughed. ‘No.’

He shrugged. It seems a foolish rule that two people can never be alone together. How do you ever truly get to know someone?’

‘You don’t.’

‘How do you know if you want to further an acquaintance then?’ he asked.

‘You don’t,’ she said, knowing that she was standing too close when she could feel the warmth of his body next to hers, but was unable to step away. Never was she this reckless, but there was something both charismatic and comforting about the man standing next to her. He made her feel like she wanted to fall into his arms, feel his lips on hers and spill her deepest secrets.

Francesca felt a wave of sadness wash over her. This would never be her life. She was moving straight from one unhappy marriage to another which promised to be even worse. There was no room for a reckless liaison, no room for this sort of scandalous behaviour. Normally that didn’t bother her, but tonight she wanted more than she could ever have.

‘How then am I supposed to find out what’s caused the sadness in your eyes?’ he asked.

Glancing up at him in surprise, she wondered if she were that transparent that he could read her every emotion. ‘I am in mourning,’ she said, wondering if he would accept that as an explanation.

‘Did you love your late husband very much?’

She thought of his indifference to her, his belittling. His downright contempt as the years went on and she didn’t produce the heir he was so eager for.

‘No,’ she said.

‘Then why the sadness?’

Looking up again, she wondered why she felt so easy in his company. He was a stranger, a man too confident and self-assured for his own good, a man she should feel wary around, but she didn’t. Instead she felt as though she wanted to spill her deepest, darkest secrets.

‘Surely a woman like you has everything?’ he pressed. ‘Wealth, family, servants to do your every bidding.’

‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ Francesca said. It had been a long time since either her late husband or her family had been wealthy. All the money had been squandered in failed investments and business ventures years ago. Living back at her parents’ house had been depressing after being mistress of her own household, but it was made even worse when she’d explored the empty rooms which had once been filled with luxurious items of furniture, when she’d seen all the servants except the cook and two maids had been dismissed.

‘So you’re sad because your family is not as wealthy as it once was?’ he asked.

Francesca laughed. If only it were that simple. She wouldn’t mind the lack of money, not if she had some say in her life to come. Seven years she’d endured her first marriage. It had been loveless and, although Lord Somersham had never been violent towards her over the years, his resentment had grown as she failed month after month to get pregnant. He’d belittled her, bullied her, made her hate him more with each passing day. She doubted her next marriage would be any better.

‘I don’t want money,’ she said quietly, ‘I don’t care about fine dresses or jewels. I don’t even need a lady’s maid to dress my hair and press my clothes.’

‘What do you want?’ he asked the question quietly, turning his masked face towards hers.

‘I want to be happy. To not be forced into another awful marriage, to have the freedom to choose who I spend my time with and how.’

‘You’re a widow, surely you have some degree of choice in the matter.’

‘No.’ She didn’t, not if she wanted to save her family from complete ruin. She didn’t want to spill all the sordid family secrets, no one needed to know that her father owed various lenders debts the size of a small country.

The man next to her looked pensive, as if some great debate was raging inside him.

‘I should be getting back,’ she said.

‘No.’ He caught her hand, holding it softly. ‘I’m sorry, I should not have pried.’

‘Will you remove your mask?’ she asked, peering up at him.

‘I don’t think you really want me to.’

‘Of course I do, I feel as though I know you...’

‘Wouldn’t it be better to have this one mystery, this one little bit of magic?’ He looked down at her with dark eyes and she had the overwhelming urge to ask him to hold her. She thought there might be something rather comforting about having those strong arms wrapped around her.

He was still holding her hand, she realised, and his thumb was tracing lazy circles across the satin of her glove. She wondered if he could feel the places the material had thinned and almost frayed—it had been a very long time since she’d had money to spend on new clothes.

‘Can you hear the music?’ he asked.

With her head tilted a little to one side she listened. Coming from the open doors of the ballroom on the other side of the house were the first soft notes of a waltz.

‘Lady Somersham, will you grant me this dance?’

Placing her hand in his, she felt her body tremble as he pulled her in closer and began to dance. He was a natural, guiding her expertly around the small space with just the pressure of his hand in the small of her back. As the music swelled Francesca felt her worries begin to melt away until it was just her, her mysterious companion and the waltz.

After a minute she glanced up at him and found him gazing down at her. Again she felt that bubble of recognition, this time deeper inside. She felt at ease with this man, she realised, as if they had been lifelong friends.

‘I feel as though I know you, Ben,’ she said, seeing the easy way he smiled and wondering if she was being foolish. Surely there was no way he could be the Ben of her childhood, the boy she had loved and lost all those years ago. He’d been transported to Australia, all because of her father’s actions, and he probably hadn’t even survived, let alone made his way back here eighteen years later.

He spun her, pulling her in closer at the same time, and for a moment they were chest to chest. She could feel his heart beating through his jacket. And then the music moved on, he relaxed his grip and they were a more decorous few inches apart again.

‘Perhaps you do,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps I just remind you of someone.’

‘Ben...’ she said quietly, all the time looking up into his eyes for some sort of confirmation.

He smiled at her, but his expression gave nothing else away and she sighed. She was probably just being fanciful. For so many years she’d longed to see her friend again, longed to hear that he’d survived, that he’d thrived despite what her father had done to him.

As the music slowed Francesca wished this moment could last for ever. While she was dancing there was no Lord Huntley pushing for marriage, no debts, no family falling apart under the strain. It was just her, the strong arms around her waist and the music. Soon it would be back to reality, back to everything she wished to escape.

‘Thank you, Lady Somersham,’ her companion said, bowing and placing a kiss on her gloved hand. ‘It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance tonight.’

It was over. The fantasy was shattering and soon it would be as if this moment had been nothing but a dream.

‘Your mask?’ she asked, already knowing he would refuse.

He hesitated and she saw the internal debate raging as a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. ‘Best not. Best to have one little mystery in life,’ he said.

She didn’t protest. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was better not knowing who he was, that way she could make up her own story.

He raised his hand as if he was going to stroke her cheek, but his fingers paused less than an inch from her face. Instead he smiled sadly.

‘Goodbye, Frannie,’ he said and then he was gone.

Francesca felt the air being sucked from her lungs as her whole world tilted. Frannie—only one person had ever called her that.

‘Ben,’ she called out, but already he had gone. Disappeared into the darkness like a phantom.

Chapter Three

‘Why the long face?’ Sam Robertson asked as he came and sat down in one of the comfortable armchairs in Lady Winston’s drawing room alongside Ben and George Fitzgerald. Lady Winston was Fitzgerald’s aunt and their hostess for their time in London. She’d been kind to them, accepting Ben and Sam as if they were her relatives alongside Fitzgerald.

Up until recently Ben had been staying at her town house alongside his two friends, but he’d craved a little privacy to conduct his affairs and had rented a set of rooms nearby. He did, however, drop in most days for at least one meal, or to partake in the particularly delicious mid-afternoon snack Lady Winston insisted on serving. The platter of cakes, scones and biscuits was enough to keep ten men going for an entire day, but between the three of them they often devoured it completely.

‘Do you remember when we were on the transport ship together,’ Ben said after loading his plate up with biscuits and cakes, ‘I told you about the girl I used to be friends with? The one whose father falsely accused me of stealing the family jewellery.’

‘Of course. Francesca, wasn’t it?’

He nodded. ‘I saw her last night. I talked to her.’

‘Did she remember who you were?’ Robertson asked.

‘It was at the masquerade. I was wearing a mask.’

‘The lady in violet,’ Fitzgerald said, understanding dawning in his eyes, ‘The one you asked me to escort to the library.’

‘Did you want her to remember you?’ Robertson asked.

Ben shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. Of course he’d wanted her to remember him. For so long she’d haunted his dreams and, if he was completely honest, she was one of the main reasons prompting his return to England. He had needed to see she was happy, that her father hadn’t completely ruined her life as well.

Now he had set eyes on her again, his feelings were even more complicated. As they’d danced on the terrace the night before he had seen the recognition slowly dawning in Francesca’s eyes and he’d been all ready to reveal his identity to her, but then an unfamiliar stab of uncertainty had stopped him. She was a lady, the daughter of a viscount. He might be a wealthy landowner now, but his origins still meant he was an imposter in society. What if she shunned him? He’d taken the easy way out, the coward’s way, and had slipped away before she confronted him about his identity.

‘Did you tell her who you were?’ Fitzgerald asked.

He shook his head. ‘I planned to...’

‘So what happened?’

Ben shrugged. ‘She probably doesn’t even remember me anyway.’

‘Unlikely,’ Robertson said. ‘Surely she’d remember the man her father had falsely arrested?’

At the end of that last summer before Ben had been arrested there was a robbery at Elmington Manor, Francesca’s childhood home. A large amount of jewellery was stolen, along with some cash and other small valuables. The hue and cry was raised and the magistrate along with other upstanding men in the community began their search.

After a week a small locket had been found in Ben’s possession. It had Francesca’s initials on it and immediately Ben had been arrested. He’d begged his accusers to just go and ask Francesca, to confirm that she’d given him the locket as a gift, as a token of their friendship.

The magistrate refused, no doubt eager to stay in favour with Lord Pottersdown, but one day a week into his incarceration Francesca had turned up anyway. She told anyone who would listen that Ben was speaking the truth—she had given him the locket. Over and over she told the magistrate that her father had set the whole thing up, that he had framed Ben in a desperate attempt to cover his own debts. Of course, no one had listened. She was just a girl, a ten-year-old who was obviously infatuated with a common thief.

Eventually her father had arrived and dragged her away. Ben would never forget the moment the door of the county gaol closed behind her; in that moment, his heart had broken. Three months later he was sent to the hulk ships that lined the Thames and a year after that he was aboard a transportation ship to Australia.

In the eight years of his sentence and the ten years since he’d acquired his freedom he hadn’t ever been able to forget his childhood friend. He’d dreamed of coming back for her, to rescue her from her cruel father. As he’d grown older he’d let go of any thoughts of rescue, knowing that by now Francesca would be living her own life, but he’d never given up the hope that one day he might see her again.

What he hadn’t expected was the attraction he’d felt for her. When he’d last seen her they’d both been children. He had loved her, there was no denying that, but in a way one friend loves another. Now he felt something much more primal, much more pressing. He desired her. Francesca was beautiful now, sleek and elegant and graceful. When they’d danced, he’d felt raw desire for the woman in his arms and it had taken all his self-control not to kiss her there and then on the terrace. Even though once they had been very close he knew it was unlikely a woman of Francesca’s status would allow herself to be seduced by him.