Francesca. Sylvia Andrew

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      “Have you forgotten the circumstances of our previous acquaintance?”

      “Why, yes, of course!” Marcus replied.

      

      Francesca, the wind taken somewhat out of her sails, stared at him.

      

      “I thought that would please you. You said you wished me to forget the lot,” he said earnestly.

      

      Francesca pressed her lips together firmly. He would not make her laugh; she would not let him—that was how it had all started last time.

      

      And this man had a talent, it seemed, for reaching that other Francesca of long ago. She must regain control of her emotions. She must!

      

      Francesca

       Harlequin^® Historical

      SYLVIA ANDREW

      taught modern languages for a number of years, ultimately becoming vice-principal of a sixth-form college. She lives in Somerset, England, with two cats, a dog and a husband who has a very necessary sense of humor and a stern approach to punctuation. Sylvia has one daughter living in London, and they share a lively interest in the theater. She describes herself as an “unrepentant romantic.”

      SYLVIA ANDREW

      Francesca

      Available from Harlequin^® Historical and SYLVIA ANDREW

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      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Epilogue

      Chapter One

      Lightning was flickering over the hills ahead, and every now and then came a distant roll of thunder—another storm was on its way. The field workers had given up for the day and were hurrying home before the storm broke, the children clinging to their mothers’ skirts, fathers carrying the littlest ones on their shoulders. But they smiled at the shabbily dressed young woman who passed them on the outskirts of the village, and greeted her with respect.

      Miss Fanny was on her own way home to the Manor, where she lived with her aunt, Miss Cassandra Shelwood. Though she was wearing an old dress and a tattered sunbonnet, though all the world knew that her mother had run off with a well-known rake and had never been seen again, all the same, Miss Fanny was the late Sir John Shelwood’s granddaughter. She and her aunt were the last of a long line of Shelwoods who had owned most of the land round about for as long as anyone could remember.

      Miss Shelwood had a heart of stone—everyone was afraid of her—but Miss Fanny was usually very friendly. Today she seemed preoccupied. Perhaps what they were saying about her aunt’s health was true after all. There were long faces at the possibility, for what would happen to the estate if—when—Miss Shelwood died? It was well known that Miss Shelwood wouldn’t give her niece the time of day if she could help it. So what was going to happen to the Shelwood estate?

      Francesca Shelwood had been so deep in thought that she had barely noticed the lightning and was only faintly aware of the thunder rumbling ominously round the valley. The villagers were upon her before she had noticed them. But she smiled at them as they bobbed and nodded their heads, and turned to watch them as they hurried on, anxious to reach shelter before the rain came. They would have been astonished to learn how much she envied them.

      Few would claim they were fortunate. Their days were hard and long, they were under constant threat of disaster—sudden accident or illness, the failure of the harvest, the whims of a landowner, or the caprices of the weather. But they laughed and joked as they went back to their modest dwellings, and the ties of affection, of love and family, were obvious.

      She would never know such ties. Nearly twenty-five years old, plain, without any prospect of fortune, and with a shadow over her birth—who would ever think of marrying her?

      Now