Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(16)

“You were so quiet, I didn’t realize you were here!” the friendly, elderly housekeeper exclaimed.

“I was working hard,” Francesca said, reaching for the handle of the enormous stainless-steel refrigerator. Mrs. Hanson had insisted since day one that Francesca make herself completely at home. The first time she’d opened the refrigerator, Francesca had exclaimed in surprise to see a whole shelf of bottled club sodas chilling, along with a china plate with sliced limes covered in plastic wrap. “Ian told me club soda with lime was your favorite drink. I hope this brand is all right,” Mrs. Hanson had replied anxiously to her exclamation.

Now every time she opened the refrigerator, Francesca felt that same rush of warmth she experienced that first time when she realized Ian had remembered her beverage preference and then made sure it was available to her while she worked.

Pitiful, she scolded herself as she withdrew a bottle.

“Would you like supper?” Mrs. Hanson asked. “Ian won’t want his for a while yet, but I could bang out something for you.”

“No, I’m not really hungry. Thank you, though.” She hesitated, but then blurted, “So Ian is in town? He’ll be home later?”

“Yes, he mentioned it this morning. He usually eats at eight thirty sharp, whether I’m cooking for him or he eats at the office. Ian likes his routine. He has ever since I knew him as a boy.”

Mrs. Hanson glanced up at her. “Why don’t you sit down there and keep me company for a bit. You look pale. You’ve been working too hard. I have some water on the boil. We’ll have a cup of tea.”

“Okay,” Francesca agreed, sinking into one of the stools next to the island. She suddenly felt weak with exhaustion now that her creative-inspired adrenaline rush was fading. Besides, she hadn’t slept well the past two nights.

“What was Ian like as a child?” Francesca couldn’t stop herself from asking.

“Oh, an older soul I’ve never seen in such a wee one’s eyes,” Mrs. Hanson replied with a sad smile. “Serious. Eerily smart. A little shy. Once he warmed up to you, as sweet and loyal as they come.”

Francesca tried to picture the somber, dark-haired, shy boy-Ian, her heart squeezing a little at the image her brain wrought.

“You seem a bit out of sorts,” the housekeeper consoled as she bustled about, pouring hot water into two cups and then arranging some items onto a silver platter: two scones, an exquisite silver spoon and knife, two crisp white cloth napkins, Devonshire cream, and jam dolloped into gorgeous china finger bowls. Nothing was ever done small in Ian Noble’s household, not even for a casual chat in the kitchen. “Isn’t your painting going well?”

“It’s going quite well, actually. Thank you,” she murmured when Mrs. Hanson set down a cup and saucer before her. “Things are moving along. You should come and have a look later.”

“I’d like that. Have a scone? They’re especially good today. Nothing like a scone with cream and jam to jump you out of a bad mood.”

Francesca laughed and shook her head. “My mother would die if she heard you say that.”

“Whatever for?” Mrs. Hanson asked, her pale blue eyes going wide as she paused in the process of ladling sweet cream on her scone.

“Because you’re encouraging me to manage my moods with food, that’s why. My parents, along with half a dozen child psychologists, have drilled the evils of emotional eating into my brain since I was seven years old.” She noticed Mrs. Hanson’s bewildered expression. “I used to be quite overweight as a child.”

“I’ll never believe it! You’re as slim as a wand.”

Francesca shrugged. “Once I went away to school, the weight sort of fell off after a year or two. I started long-distance running, so I suppose that helped. Personally, I think being out from beneath my parents’ critical eye was the real clincher, though.”

Mrs. Hanson made a knowing sound. “Once the weight wasn’t a power struggle anymore, the fat didn’t have any use?”

She grinned. “Mrs. Hanson, you could be a psychologist.”

The housekeeper laughed. “What would Lord Stratham or Ian have done with me then?”

Francesca paused in the process of sipping her tea. “Lord Stratham?”

“Ian’s grandfather, James Noble, the Earl of Stratham. I worked for Lord and Lady Stratham for thirty-three years before I came to America to serve Ian eight years ago.”

“Ian’s grandfather,” Francesca murmured thoughtfully. “Who will inherit his title?”

“Oh, a fellow by the name of Gerard Sinoit, Lord Stratham’s nephew.”

“Not Ian?”

Mrs. Hanson sighed and set down her scone. “Ian is heir to Lord Stratham’s fortune but not to his title.”

Francesca’s forehead crinkled in confusion. English customs were so odd. “Was Ian’s mother or father the Nobles’ child?”

A shadow fell over Mrs. Hanson’s features. “Ian’s mother. Helen was the earl and countess’s only child.”

“Is she . . .” Francesca faded off delicately, and Mrs. Hanson nodded sadly.

“Dead, yes. She died very young. Tragic life.”

“And Ian’s father?”

Mrs. Hanson didn’t immediately reply. She looked torn. “I’m not sure I should speak of such things,” the housekeeper said.