Because We Belong (Because You Are Mine #3)(90)

Her shining eyes were like dark mirrors.

“It’s hard to explain,” he muttered after a moment. “Sometimes I used to think Lucien understood, but now I know even he . . .”

He faded off. Lucien, at least, was now secure in the knowledge that he wasn’t a result of depraved, selfish violence. Yes, what Gaines had done to Lucien’s mother was sick and unforgivable, of course, but this was . . . different. Ian knew most people would consider the child born of rape a monster, a vicious, cruel reminder to the victimized woman of what she’d endured.

Francesca nodded as if in understanding, even though he hadn’t finished his thought. “And your mother couldn’t come to terms with it like other women might.” Ian closed his eyes and forced himself to inhale as Francesca put that horrible truth to words for him. His mother had had even less of a chance to psychologically cope with the rape and heal. When her psychosis was at its worst, she couldn’t differentiate present day reality from horrific memory. She couldn’t help it.

At times, Ian and Gaines had become one and the same for her.

He felt Francesca’s hand on his upper arm and he resisted an urge to flinch. Her touch was almost unbearable, it was so sweet.

“When your mother was herself, though, Ian,” she said in a quiet voice that vibrated with emotion, “when she wasn’t being ruled by her illness, she did love you. So much. You have told me so many times how she loved and prized you. ‘She was the sweetest, kindest, most loving mother in the world.’ That’s what you’ve told me. That’s who she really was. That’s who you really are, the person who deserved her love.” Her hand tightened on his arm. “The man who deserves mine.”

He inhaled, forcing the invisible clutches on his lungs to release. He opened his eyes.

“I have to go,” he said.

“Let me come with you then.”

“I can’t. I can’t stand to think of taking you with me, of you being there. Please understand, Francesca,” he said stiffly.

She dropped her hand and took a step back. He clenched his teeth together at the loss of her touch, at the expression of defeat on her face. “It won’t help you, Ian. I’m convinced of that. But even if I don’t agree with what you’re doing, I understand. Anne and James understand, too. Will you at least let us know you’re all right this time?”

“Yes. I already told Grandfather I would. And I also told him I want you to stay here at Belford Hall,” he said, finally meeting her stare.

Her eyebrows arched. “I can’t promise for how long.”

“I know,” he admitted. “I can’t ask you to put your life indefinitely on hold for me. But it would give me comfort for now, to know that you’re here with my grandparents. Promise to at least stay for the next week or so.”

She hesitated, her pink lips trembling. “All right,” she said finally.

He nodded once, hoping she saw his gratitude. Realizing there was nothing more to say, he went to get his bags. He moved past her toward the door.

“Ian.”

He had no choice but to look back at her and test his crumbling fortitude one more time.

“Find your way back to me,” she whispered fiercely.

He turned, reaching blindly for the door handle, unable momentarily to breathe.

Chapter Fourteen

She stood before the canvas, her concentration such that she only became aware by degrees that people had entered the room and were speaking quietly to one another. She blinked, moving a tendril of hair off her forehead with the same hand that clutched a pencil.

“Hello,” she called, her voice sounding dazed even to her own ears. She wasn’t annoyed by the interruption for her work’s sake, but she was disappointed. Since Ian had left yesterday, the only real peace she’d gotten was when she finally entered that coveted zone of creative focus.

“Mr. Sinoit was just saying that you seemed to be in a trance, and I was telling him that’s how you always look when you work,” Mrs. Hanson told her with a smile as she arranged a tea tray on a table between two chairs. The housekeeper’s expression turned apologetic. “At least when your work is going well.”

“It is going well,” Francesca said.

“I’m sorry to have interrupted, but you worked through breakfast. It was just James, Short, and myself, and the pair of them talked about Brooklyn the whole time,” Gerard said. Francesca smiled. She’d met the clean-cut, square-jawed Arthur Short, an American who worked for James, last night at dinner, and thought he was very nice. “I missed you and Anne,” Gerard continued with a dry smile. “I thought some refreshment might be appreciated at this point. Anne’s worried that your appetite is going off again since . . .”

Francesca forced a grin when Gerard avoided mentioning Ian and his departure. So . . . they were back to skirting the topic of Ian again. Not if she could help it.

“Since Ian left? Yes, I suppose I haven’t been that hungry. But leave it to one of Mrs. Hanson’s teas to get my appetite going again,” she said, eyeing the scones, Danish, sweet cream, and fresh jam on the tiered porcelain serving dish.

“Shall I pour for you?” Mrs. Hanson asked.

“No, I’ll do it,” Francesca said, sitting across from Gerard. She opened her mouth to ask Mrs. Hanson to join them, but then closed it when she focused on Gerard. As much as it was the norm for her to take tea with the housekeeper, she doubted it was typical for Gerard.