Engaged in Passion (A Bridal Favors Novella) (15 page)

And while Francine smirked in triumph, her mother released a snort of disgust. A quick glance at Mr. Richards showed that the man was getting angry again, his face flushing and his breath getting short.

"Oh, children, will you please just shut up?" Mrs. Richards huffed. "And Miles, go get me a brandy. I have a headache."

It took a moment as everyone stared at Mrs. Richards. But then, bit by bit, everyone did exactly as she instructed. And as Anthony and Francine found their feet, the woman grimaced again.

"Really, Francine, did you have to break the window? Now it's cold."

Francine didn't answer except to open a trunk and lift out a blanket which she quietly offered to her mother. The woman stared at it a moment, then nodded, setting aside the gun in favor of wrapping herself up. Thirty seconds later, Mr. Richards returned with a glass of brandy which she took before she settled down on the couch—right next to the hole from the fowling gun. Then she sipped and looked steadily from one person to the next, all three of them in turn.

"Young man," she said firmly. Anthony straightened.

"Ma'am?"

"You wish to marry my daughter?"

"With all my heart. I love her."

"And Francine—"

"I love him, Mama. Please—"

She shut up the moment her mother raised her hand. "Spare me the protestations right now, child. I have a headache, remember?"

Francine nodded, closing her mouth with an audible click.

Meanwhile, Mr. Richards found his voice again. "The agreement with Lord Hetherset has already been made," he said. "I cannot go back on my word."

"Of course you can," Mrs. Richards said calmly. "Since... well, since that agreement was never posted."

"What?" gasped husband and daughter at the same instant.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Richards took refuge in her brandy glass. Eventually, though, she set it down to look at her husband. "I was never comfortable with that marriage. You know that."

"But we agreed it was best!" Mr. Richards cried.

"No, Miles, you agreed. I... I was still thinking." She looked to her daughter. "Francine was changing. I wanted to know what that was about first."

"But our grandson would be a lord!"

"And what is that to the point? How many lords have you called wastrels and fools?"

"Only a few!"

Mrs. Richards shook her head. "Well, I have been to the parties with Francine. Believe me, Miles, the whole lot of them isn't worth a ha'penny. And I won't have my grandson growing up to be like them."

Mr. Richards protested. "But he won't. There are smart men with a title."

"But they won't marry a cit's daughter. They have their pick of the titled girls."

"Of course they will! She's a jewel! Any man would be happy to have her!"

Francine gasped in shock, her body jerking slightly. Anthony looked at her, realizing that she hadn't ever heard her father speak so proudly of her before. Meanwhile, Mrs. Richards continued in a soothing tone.

"Of course she's a jewel, Miles. So why not give her to the man who deserves her? Not the title, but the man. After all," she said as she stood up from the couch, the blanket dropping slowly from her body. "That's what I did, and I have not regretted it for a moment."

Mr. Richards shook his head. "That wasn't the same thing."

"Of course it was. Papa wanted me to marry that butcher. The one who smelled funny."

"But I was a successful toymaker!"

She snorted. "You were a struggling toymaker with a bad partner. But I saw the worth in you." She crossed to her husband and pressed a gentle kiss to his mouth. And when he wrapped his arm around her, she gently pulled back, twisting them so he was forced to look at Anthony. "Now look at him. He loves her. He will care for her much better than any lackwit aristocrat can."

"I will," Anthony said. "I swear it."

"And if you promote him—"

"Promote!" said Mr. Richards on a gasp.

"Then he will have enough money to support our daughter and your grandchildren as we want."

Mr. Richards wasn't convinced. "But he's just a clerk."

"And you were a failing toymaker. Plus there's one more thing, Miles." Mrs. Richards drew herself out of her husband's arms to stare at him directly. "Wherever my grandchildren are born, I intend to live nearby."

"What?"

"If you don't want them growing up as lackwits or fools, then I need to be nearby to make sure of it. So I will reside in the same city, village, or hamlet as my grandchildren. That is a promise."

Mr. Richards blinked. "But my business is here! I cannot move to Lincolnshire."

Mrs. Richards shrugged. "Do you wish us to live apart then?"

Her husband's brows snapped together. "Certainly not!"

"Then perhaps you should look closer to home for Francine's husband."

Mr. Richards appeared to be thinking about it, albeit reluctantly. And in the silence, Anthony judged it was time for him to say his piece.

"I'm not just a clerk," he said firmly. "I have ideas, sir. Plans that I think could work."

Mr. Richards snorted, and in any other situation Anthony might have laughed at the sound. All three Richards had the exact same snort of disgust.

"Everyone has ideas," Mr. Richards said.

"But I am implementing them. When I am not working for you, I am bookkeeper to a number of businesses. I help them keep accurate accounts, and then I show them where they can improve."

"You are working for someone else?" Mr. Richard cried, outrage vibrating in his tone.

"In my off-hours, I am building my own list of clients. I believe that, one day, I can have a team of bookkeepers hired specifically to help hundreds of businesses."

"That's ridiculous. Any business worth its salt has its own clerks to handle the money."

Anthony nodded. "Of course they do. That is why my father works for you and has been happy to do so for decades. But what of all the other smaller businesses? Shoemakers and dressmakers? A little butcher or your favorite bakery? They all need the help that I provide."

Mr. Richards frowned. "And what makes you think anyone will listen to you?"

Mrs. Richards touched her husband's arm. "Because he has been so helpful to the ones already using him. Do you recall A Lady's Favor dress shop? I told you about them. They are the ones making Francine's new dresses. They have been using Anthony, and now they dress the most elite clients. They just finished the trousseau for Lady Gwendolyn, Lord Redhill's sister."

Anthony could tell that Mr. Richards wasn't convinced, so he smiled as earnestly as he could manage. "I could explain everything to you, if you like. I would welcome your advice."

"You can't butter me up, boy. This is my daughter you want."

"And what your daughter wants," said Francine as she stepped to take Anthony's hand, "is to marry the man she loves."

Anthony squeezed her hand, silently sending her his love in return. She looked at him and flashed him a radiant smile, the one that never failed to dazzle him. It was some moments later when Mr. Richards released a groan of defeat.

"Oh very well." he grumbled. "You are not fired. And neither is your father."

Mrs. Richards took up the tone. "And listen to me clearly, Francine, you will have a large wedding with all of our friends invited. There will be no more talk of debauching, and you will learn to be more respectful of our things. Your fiancé cannot afford to have you throwing lamps out of windows."

"Of course, Mama. I promise!" Then she rushed forward, hugging first her mother, then her father. "Thank you," she cried. "Thank you, thank you!"

Then it was Anthony's turn as he bowed over his future mother-in-law's hand before gravely shaking Mr. Richards's hand. He couldn't quite think of the man as his future father-in-law yet. Not with his shoulder still screaming and his ribs smarting with every breath.

"You had best work very hard, boy," Mr. Richards warned.

"Never fear, sir. I will."

Then the man turned to his daughter. "And you had better keep bringing me biscuits!"

Francine grinned. "Every day, Papa. In fact, I should like to have more time in the kitchen. I want to do more baking, if it's all right."

Mr. Richards shrugged. "Of course it is. Why would I care if you want to spend more time baking me treats?"

Because she was likely to be baking them to sell, thought Anthony. But he was smart enough to not say that aloud. Mrs. Richards, however, leveled him with a hard stare, though she didn't say anything. Clearly, that would be a battle for another day. And it would largely depend on what Francine wanted to do.

Meanwhile, Francine threw wide the parlor doors and called for champagne. They celebrated together, though at times it felt like a continuation of Mrs. Richards's earlier inquisition. Both parents kept asking him questions about his future, listening attentively to his plans before inserting their advice. It was good advice, so he took careful note of everything that was said. And in the end, everyone seemed satisfied.

It wasn't until the wee hours of the morning that Francine grabbed her mother's hand. "Mama," she began softly, but Anthony heard every word. "In the carriage you said you wouldn't help us. But you hid the agreement. You were helping us all along."

Mrs. Richards shook her head. "I wasn't helping the two of you. I was helping
you
, Francine. And I said no in the carriage because, well, I didn't know how strongly you felt about each other. Love has to be fought for, you know. And I had to see—"

"If we'd fight? Mama, I broke a window! And ripped my favorite dress!"

"Yes, well, how was I to know you would be so dramatic? Really, Francine, I don't know where you get it from." Then she primly grabbed the fowling gun before departing from the room.

Epilogue

Francine giggled as Ginger chased an old piece of string underneath the kitchen worktable. The feline wasn't a kitten anymore, but the cat was still young enough to keep Francine laughing even if the two of them were crouched under the table. The tarts were almost done, so she pushed up to her feet only to be startled when Anthony appeared around the other side of the table. He was smiling, and his eyes had that darkly intense look that never failed to make her toes curl in her slippers.

She smiled. "Have you come for a cherry tart? They're just about ready."

"No," he said as he stepped up close to her.

She held her ground, lifting her face up for his kiss. She waited, but he didn't meet her mouth, instead he just looked at her. "Anthony?" she asked, feeling a shiver of unease.

"Laugh again for me, Francine," he said, his voice husky.

"Laugh?" she said, a nervous titter escaping her lips. She clapped her hand over her mouth. That was definitely not the sound he wanted.

He gently removed her hand from her face. "I want to remember this moment, here in our kitchen."

She glanced about the tiny space. Actually, it was quite large by London standards, but still smaller than her parents' home. It was more than a month before their wedding, but the two of them had found this flat a week ago. With Anthony's promotion from her father and sales of Francine's tarts growing by leaps and bounds, they had rented it with every penny they could scrape together. Anthony had moved in this morning, and after their wedding, Francine would join him here. But she had wanted to bake him his favorite cherry tarts on his first night in their new home. So she and Ginger had come here, along with large baskets of ingredients: Ginger, because she was a great mouser and would live with them here, and Francine, because she would take any excuse to be alone with him.

"I'm not going to burn the very first batch of tarts in our new home," she said sternly as she tried to push him backwards. He barely moved an inch, but at least it gave her room to turn around and open the oven door.

Heat bloomed around her face, but it was a familiar sensation and one she enjoyed, especially as she could see that the tarts were done to perfection. She grabbed some towels to cover her hands and carefully pulled out the tray. She backed up, trying to maneuver around so she could place the hot treats on the worktable, but Anthony was standing right there. She felt his hand on her backside and giggled.