Page 212 of Morally Black Betrothal

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FROM FIRST COMES LOVE

A SECRET-BABY, SECOND-CHANCE ROMANCE

Oh, God. Oh,God. I stared at my drink. The bubbles ran to the top of the glass with the same urgency I had to run out of this party.

But my feet didn’t move.

When had my feet stopped moving?

When had my body stopped listening to me?

Maybe when I started hallucinating the father of my child suddenly appearing at a random party? Yes, that was it. I was cracking up from lack of sex and fun. Kate was right. I was too hard up to think straight, and celibacy had finally taken its toll.

“Francesca.”

Oh. My. God.

Gradually, I looked up. And up. And up. I was five three plus heels, and just like before, he was a wall of lean muscle swathed in a black suit that perfectly fit a pair of impossibly broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and long legs that stretched for miles. His square jaw was dappled with stubble, shadowing full lips and high cheekbones topped with a shock of inky black hair that shone under the lights of the party.

He cleared his throat and tugged at a tie that matched his eyes. Oh, thoseeyes. Dark blue pools of charisma that I had wanted to dive into the moment I met him in a crowd thicker than this one, though much less formal. That was when I knew it was really him. They glimmered with promise and mischief, with the confidence of a man who knows he’s attractive and knows the woman he wants thinks so too.

They glimmered like the last five years had never happened. Like he’d never sent the letter that broke my heart. And I’d never had his baby without telling him.

I swallowed. Opened my mouth.

Absolutely nothing came out.

“Frankie,” Matthew was saying as he looked between Xavier and me with growing recognition. “Do you know him?”

Shit. Ohshit. Sofia might have been a secret from Xavier, but she wasn’t from the rest of my family. Back then he was Xavi to me, but at home he was “the devil incarnate,” “good for nothing shitstain,” or “dickhead,” depending on who you were talking to. You try keeping so much as your diary a secret when you share a room with at least two other women at any given time.

All I needed now was for my brother, already strung tight as a violin, to realize this wastheXavier who had knocked up his baby sister out of wedlock and given him two extra mouths to feed on his public servant’s salary.

Xavier might have been a giant, but Matthew was a former Marineandhe grew up in the Bronx. He knew how to fight dirty. In the mood he was in tonight, I doubted he would hesitate.

And so it was for that reason, more than any other, that my body somehow found its power of speech and movement again.

“Get lost!” I hissed as my hand flew out and shoved Matthew back a few steps.

His brow furrowed in surprise, but I gave him my best “don’t cock block me” look. His expression morphed from confused to knowing.

“Going,” he said, but not before he gave Xavier his patented big brother glare. “But my two cents? He’s too tall for you anyway.”

Before I could snap that my height or anyone else’s was absolutely none of his business, Matthew disappeared into the crowd, sure-footed as a cat.

“Francesca? Is it really you?”

Trying not to shake, I turned. Around us, the party was launching into full swing. Champagne glasses were clinking, people were laughing a little too loudly. It should have been fun, like one of the balls Austen wrote about so much. But I couldn’t hear anything other than Xavier’s deep voice, Queen’s English heavily overlaid by South London. Yes, I knew the difference. That’s what twenty-five years of being an Anglophile gets you.Waytoo many Saturday nights binging BritBox. I don’t even want to get into my obsession with Regency adaptations.

“Hello, Xavier.” My voice was low, barely a whisper. Oh my God, Frankie,talk. He’s a man, not a phantom.

And yet, was there a difference when it came to him?