Of Fate And Prejudice

Chapter Twelve

Roman stood, his gaze trailing Frances' movements around the dancefloor. She was a fast learner, an impeccable dancer. As she glided around the dance floor with such finesse, one could easily be fooled into believing she had been dancing her entire life, and not just for the three short weeks Roman had tutored her. And perhaps she danced so wonderfully because of her partner. Roman did not wish to look at the man, for as often as he did, a frown overwhelmed his features. He neither understood nor did he welcome the odd sensation of discomfort as he watched Frances dance with another man.

His discomfort grew with every dance partner Frances had until he was certain he could bear it no longer. He turned from the ballroom and made his way to the drawing room, where a few gentlemen sat smoking cigarettes and playing games. He didn't wish to join them, so he found a seat in the corner and watched, his gaze roaming over their faces in hopes of finding the Duke of Cleveland.

It was for the Duke of Cleveland that Roman had gone through the pains and financial strains of readying Frances for the ball tonight—to lure the duke into marriage. But the duke was not in the room. In fact, having spent a large portion of the evening looking for him, Roman was certain he was nowhere in the building.

Roman shook his head. He was convinced the duke's absence was no small coincidence. Indeed, he was certain Dorset had everything to do with it. The slimy scoundrel had either omitted the duke's name from the guest list, or he'd risked offending the man by disinviting him. Roman didn't think there wasn't any length Dorset was unwilling to go—any low he was unwilling to stoop—in order to win the bet against Roman.

Curling his fingers into fists, he let out a shaky breath. There had to be another way. Surely his efforts had not been for naught. He couldn't lose the bet, not merely because he faced financial ruin if he did, but especially because he couldn't let Dorset win. He couldn't let the weasel get away with his schemes.

So deep in thought was Roman, he didn't hear the loud murmurs that drifted like a cloud of smoke from the ballroom, through the hallway, and into the drawing room. The sound of wood scraping wood dragged him back to the present. He turned in time to watch the gentlemen at the cards table rise to their feet, confusion marring each man's face as they emptied the room.

Roman thought to go with them to find out what was happening, but decided against it. He supposed it was the start of another scandal. Unfortunately, scandals were the pox upon every London season, and even more unfortunate were the people caught in them. Particularly women. It seemed to Roman that men were immune to scandals. A perfect example of this was the young lady who'd taken her own life several months before, having suffered the scorn of society for fornicating, while the baron she'd been caught with escaped unscathed.

Unwilling to involve himself in any scandal, he maintained his position in his seat, until a few minutes later, when a young maid entered the room.

"Mr. Brown?"

Perhaps it was the look in her eyes, the sadness and pity that dimmed her gaze. Perhaps it was the quiet way in which she spoke his name, the tone one would use to break terrible news. Roman was uncertain what it was, but in that second, as he watched the maid, he knew something had happened to Frances.

A cold shiver ran down his spine as he rose to his feet without a word. He was uncertain why his legs felt like lead as he followed the maid back to the ballroom, nor was he certain why his lungs seemed incapable of breathing when the crowd parted for him and his gaze rested on the pile of silver on the floor.

"She refuses to be touched by anyone else." The Duchess of Suffolk's words tore through the dark curtain of confusion in his mind. But he didn't dare look at her. He could do nothing but stare at the woman before him.

Frances. But for the trembling of her shoulders, Roman would have thought her dead. She lay on the floor in a fetal position, her face buried in her knees, her knuckles white from the death grip she had on her skirt. Her hair, now loose of its braids, draped her shoulders in disarray.

"Frances..."

What happened? He wanted to ask, but the words failed to make it past his lips as he inspected her. He saw then the blood that dripped down her nose, staining the white laces of her neckline. He saw the fresh cuts on her upper arm, below her puff sleeve and silk glove. But it wasn't until he saw the damage to her skirt, the rip that ran from her hemline to her bodice, that he realized what must have happened; someone had hurt her. Someone strong enough to subdue... to abuse.

A man, no less a beast. Yet, it was believed by the rest of the world that there were no beasts in these gatherings. This was a gathering of the most distinguished men in society. Who would believe that such a dastardly act had taken place here tonight? Roman raised his gaze long enough to look at the duchess. He didn't doubt that the woman would do everything within her power to bury the happenings of tonight and conceal how one of her guests had brutally attacked in her home. The thought filled Roman with rage. He burned with the need to find the monster who'd done this, to hurt him beyond repair.

But he couldn't give into his rage, for Frances needed him. She'd become somewhat of an offensive spectacle to the men and women who stood watching her. For the sake of what was left of her dignity, he gathered her trembling form in his arms and carried her out the door.

*

"Frances!"

Roman turned from where he'd settled Frances in bed as Sara barged into the room. He saw the horror on her face as she hurried to her mistress's side.

"My God, Frances! What could have happened to her?" Her voice rose with every word, her gaze running down the length of Frances to take in her bruised form and ripped dress.

Roman shook his head. "I'm uncertain," he said, for he truly was. He suspected the worst had happened, but did not wish to give voice to his suspicion. The truth laid only with Frances, and she was unconscious.

"But she left this evening in your company!" Sara accused, her disapproving gaze shifting briefly to him, before returning to Frances.

Roman nodded solemnly. Indeed, it was his fault Frances was hurt. He'd considered the matter through the ride home and had concluded that the blame laid solely at his feet. If he hadn't abandoned her at the ball, if he hadn't left her at the mercy of strange men...

"What is the extent of her injuries?" Sara asked, pulling him out of his reverie as she began examining Frances. And as if forgetting his presence—certainly ignoring it—she pushed the torn edges of Frances' skirt aside to reveal her white drawers.

Roman stepped back instinctively, shocked.

"There has been no bleeding, has there?" Sara continued her rambling, ignoring his reaction. "Nothing between her legs," she asked, to which Roman shook his head. He hadn't thought to check between Frances' legs for bleeds. "We must make certain. You will send for a physician." He opened his mouth to tell her he already sent Mr. Healy to fetch the physician, but the words died on his lips as he watched her shove her hands further up Frances' skirt to her belly.

Thinking it best to give the women some privacy, Roman considered leaving the room, but Sara's next words stopped him dead in his tracks.

"We must ensure no harm has come to the child."

A/N

Frances' worst kept secret has now been revealed! I wonder how Roman would react.

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