All About Passion

Chapter 12

“Would you like to go riding this morning?”

Francesca looked down the breakfast table. “Riding?”

Gyles set down his coffee cup. “I offered to show you the Gatting property. I’m riding that way this morning. We could amble through the village on our way back.”

“I’d like that.” Francesca glanced at her gown. “But I’ll need to change.”

“No rush. I have to meet with Gallagher first-why don’t you join us in the study when you’re ready?”

She struggled not to blink, not to let her amazement show. “Yes, of course.” She forced herself to sip her tea calmly, and wait until he left and had had time to reach his study before pelting up the stairs.

“Millie?” Rushing into her room, she spied the little maid by one wardrobe. “My riding habit. Quickly.”

Shedding her gown, she scrambled into the velvet skirt. “Would I like to ride-huh!” He’d avoided asking her until now. Join him in his study? She knew where it was but hadn’t set foot inside the room-she hadn’t wanted to intrude uninvited into his private space.

Standing before her mirror, she fastened the short jacket and fluffed out her lace jabot. Then she glanced upward. “Thank you, Lord.”

There was nothing worse than loving someone, and having no idea whether they would allow themselves to love you in return.

Bootheels tapping, she went quickly down the stairs and strode to his study, her gloves in one hand, her crop swishing, her cap’s emerald plume jauntily dancing above one eye. A footman scurried past to open the door for her. She smiled sunnily and swept over the threshold.

Gyles was sitting behind the desk, Gallagher in a chair before it. Gallagher rose and bowed. Gyles had looked up; he smiled easily. “We’re almost finished. Why don’t you sit down-I’ll be ready to leave in a moment.”

Francesca followed the direction of his wave and saw a comfortable chair angled in a corner. She went over and sat down, then listened. They were discussing the tenant cottages. She made mental notes for later; she was too wise to evince any overt interest. Not yet. Time enough once he’d invited her opinion; just because he’d asked her to go riding about the estate didn’t mean he was ready to let her further into that area of his life.

The estate itself was an arena he could legitimately keep to himself. Many of his standing did, but she hoped he’d allow her to become involved in more than a peripheral way. Large estates were complicated to run-the prospect fascinated her, not the questions of income, output and how many bags of grain each field yielded, but the people, the community spirit, the combined energies that drove any successful group effort. On an estate such as Lambourn, that spirit was reminiscent of that of a large, sprawling family, the prosperity of all interdependent on everyone performing their allotted tasks.

Her view might be naive, but from all he’d revealed of his ideas on the voting franchise, she suspected their opinions would be largely compatible. At the moment, however, she was biding her time.

And idly scanning the room.

Like the library, the study’s walls were lined with bookcases, in this instance housing, not books, but ledgers. Surveying the serried ranks, she was prepared to wager that accounts predating the establishment of the earldom would be found among them. She swung her gaze over the regimented rows, then stopped, staring at the one shelf that contained books. Old books, including one in red leather with a spine at least six inches wide.

She rose and crossed to the shelf. The book was, indeed, the old Bible she’d sought.

Behind her, a chair scraped. She turned as Gallagher bowed to Gyles, then bowed to her. “My lady. I hope you enjoy your ride.”

Francesca smiled. “Thank you. I’m sure I will.”

Her gaze shifted to her husband on the words; he arched a brow at her, then came around the desk as Gallagher quit the room.

“Shall we go?”

Francesca swung back to the bookcase. “This Bible-may I borrow it? Your mother mentioned there’s a family tree in the front.”

“There is. By all means.” He pulled the heavy book out for her; his gaze drifted down her velvet skirts to her boots. “Why don’t I give this to Irving, and he can take it up to your sitting room?”

She smiled and slipped a hand through his arm, as eager as he to saddle up and be gone. “What a very good idea.”

Ten minutes later, they were in the saddle and off. Gyles led the way up to the escarpment, then, side by side, they flew before the wind.

Francesca flicked a glance along her shoulder. Gyles caught it-with her eyes, she flashed a challenge, then looked ahead and urged Regina on. The mare lengthened her stride, steady and sure. And fast.

The grey thundered alongside, keeping pace. The wind whipped Francesca’s hair back in black streamers. Fresh and clear, the air rushed to meet them. With hands and knees, she urged the mare faster.

Stride for stride, pace for pace, they streaked across the downs. The crisp coolness of the morning enveloped them. They raced, neither intending to lose yet not thinking of winning. The exhilaration of the moment was prize enough, the speed, the thrill, the thunder. They were locked in the moment, in the movement, horses and riders merging into one entity, the pounding of hooves echoed by the pounding of their hearts.

“Slow here!”

Francesca obeyed instantly, easing back in concert as Gyles slowed the grey from gallop to canter, and finally to a walk. The escarpment was less steep there. Gyles reined in where a track led down. Francesca halted beside him.

His chest was rising and falling, as were her breasts. Their eyes met; they both grinned, ridiculously pleased. Francesca shook back her unruly curls and looked around, conscious that Gyles’s gaze lingered on her face, then traveled over her with a proprietorial air.

She glanced back at him, eyes widening, questioning.

His lips quirked. Reaching out, he tugged the plume on her cap. “Come on.” He clicked his reins, and the grey stepped onto the track. “Or we’ll never leave.”

Francesca grinned and set the mare in his wake.

They ambled down through gently rolling hills. Beyond lay fields reduced to stubble, hay stacked ready to be fetched away, the corn sheaves already gathered in.

“Is this still your land?”

“Down to the river and beyond.” He pointed to the east, then around in an arc to the south until he was pointing back toward the castle. “That’s the shape, with the escarpment the north boundary. Like an elongated oval.”

“And the Gatting property?”

“On the other side of the river. Come on.”

They followed a lane between two lush meadows, then clattered across a stone bridge. Gyles shifted the grey to a canter. Francesca kept pace. The lane rounded a bend. An old house came into view, set back in the fields, a narrow drive leading to it.

Gyles drew rein at the mouth of the drive. He nodded at the house. “Gatting. It was originally a manor house, but it’s been razed and added to over the centuries-there’s little of the original left.”

Francesca studied it. “Were there tenants in it?”

“Still are. They’re related to some of my tenants, and I knew their worth. There was no reason for them to leave.” Gyles turned the grey down the lane. “Come up to this rise. You’ll be able to see the whole property.”

Francesca nudged the mare and followed. On the rise, she halted beside him. “Charles told me the tale of how Gatting came to be and how I came to inherit it.” She rested her hands on the saddle bow. “Show me the land.”

He pointed out the boundaries. It didn’t seem that important a property, not compared to the rest of the estate. She said so, and he explained. They rode across the fields as he elaborated on the management strategies he currently employed. “Without Gatting, managing the acreage on this side of the river was a perennial headache.”

She glanced at him. “One our marriage has relieved?”

He met her eyes. “One it’s relieved.”

They rode on in complete harmony, heading west through the fields. Eventually, they reached another lane, and Gyles turned back toward the river. “This’ll take us to the top of the village.”

Another narrow bridge got them across the Lambourn. They rode past orchards enclosed by stone walls. A square-towered church loomed directly ahead, perched above the village and surrounded by a graveyard. They came upon a cottage, neat behind a white fence; the lane turned sharply beyond it, just before the church’s lych-gate. Gyles halted at the turn and waited until Francesca came alongside. He gestured ahead. “Lambourn village.”

The street dipped, then gradually rose. Beyond the point where the village ended and the houses ceased, the street joined the main road the coach had taken on her wedding eve, carrying her to the Castle farther on.

Buildings clustered on either side of the street. The houses ran the gamut from workers’ cottages, abutting one another in a row, to more prosperous free-standing cottages with strips of garden between stoop and gate. In the middle of the street, a number of shops proclaimed their existence via brightly painted boards hanging over the narrow pavements. The signs of two inns, one this side of the shops, the other just past them, were the biggest.

“I hadn’t realized the village was so large.”

Gyles jiggled his reins; the grey stepped out. “There’s a fair number of people on the estate and more in the village and on adjoining estates-enough to support a market day.”

“And two inns.” Francesca considered the first as they passed it. The sign identified it as the Black Bull.

“It’s nearly time for lunch.” Gyles glanced at her. “We can leave the horses at the Red Pigeon and I’ll show you around the village, then we can lunch at the inn.”

She hid her surprise. “That would be pleasant.”

The Red Pigeon was a large coaching inn. Handing their reins to a freckle-faced lad, Gyles escorted Francesca through the heavy front door into the large hall.

“Harris?”

A round, bald head popped out from a door; it was followed by a rotund body clothed in black and white, with a white apron tied about the hips. Harris hurried forward.

“My lord! What a pleasure to see you.”

The innkeeper’s gaze fastened on Francesca.

“My dear, allow me to introduce Harris-his family have owned the Red Pigeon for as long as there have been Rawlingses at Lambourn. The story goes that the first Harris served under arms to one of our ancestors and on retirement took to innkeeping. Harris, this is Lady Francesca, my countess.”

Harris beamed and bowed very low. “It’s a rare pleasure, my lady, to welcome you to this house.”

Francesca smiled as he straightened.

“We left our horses with your Tommy.” Gyles noted the interested stares of all those in the open tap. “I’m going to show Lady Francesca about, then we thought to take luncheon here. A private parlor, I think.”

“Of course, my lord. The garden parlor, perhaps. It has a nice view over the roses to the orchards and river.”

Gyles raised a brow at Francesca.

“That sounds splendid,” she said.

Gyles retook her arm. “We’ll be back in an hour.”

“I’ll have everything ready, my lord.”

Outside, Gyles steered Francesca along the pavement to the shops. The first was a bakery.

“What a glorious smell!” Francesca paused to peer through the steamy window. A second later, a round, ruddy-faced woman appeared on the steps, wiping floury hands on a voluminous apron.

Gyles nodded. “Mrs. Duckett.” The woman bobbed a curtsy and mumbled a “m’lord,” her gaze fixed on Francesca. Gyles hid a wry smile. “Allow me to make you known to Lady Francesca, my countess.”

Mrs. Duckett sank into her best curtsy. “My lady! Welcome to Lambourn village.”

Francesca smiled and with her usual ease acknowledged the greeting and inquired after Mrs. Duckett’s enterprise. Mrs. Duckett was only too happy to show her ladyship all.

Thus it went as they progressed up the street, then crossed and returned on the other side. The outing was, Gyles discovered, an unexpected education.

He’d expected that the shopkeepers would be eager to greet his countess; he hadn’t realized she would be so interested-transparently sincerely-in them, in the village itself. But she was. Her interest rang clearly in her questions, in her bright eyes and focused attention.

He found his mind following hers, seeing things through her eyes. And was surprised by what he saw. Yet that was only part of the revelation. He knew and was known to everyone here; despite that familiarity, whenever he appeared he was usually the center of attention. Not today. Which left him in the position of some ghostly observer watching Francesca’s entrance on this familar scene, viewing her effect on it, on all the familiar characters.

She drew them to her like moths to a flame. Her confidence, her assuredness… he tried to pinpoint what her principal attraction was. He watched as she parted from the milliner, saw her smile, saw the milliner’s delighted response.

Saw something he recognized. Francesca’s belief in happiness, an unshakable conviction that happiness existed, that it was there for the claiming regardless of one’s station in life, regardless of whatever it was that happiness meant to each one.

That conviction hung over her like a cloak, touching all about her.

She turned to him, her smile brilliant, lighting her eyes. He took the hand she held out to him, hesitated, then carried it to his lips. Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Come. It’s time for lunch.” With a nod to the delighted milliner, he handed Francesca from the shop.

“She seemed to have very good quality wares.” Francesca glanced back at the delicate lace in the window.

Gyles guided her firmly along. “Mama and Henni both use her services on occasion.”

“Hmm. Perhaps-”

“Chillingworth!”

They halted, turned; Francesca saw a middle-aged lady and gentleman crossing the street toward them.

“Sir Henry and Lady Middlesham,” Gyles murmured. “Not like the Gilmartins,” was all he had time to add before the Middleshams reached them.

The introductions were made. Lady Middlesham was a comfortable woman with twinkling eyes while Sir Henry was a solid country sort, content to bow over her hand, tell her she was “a pretty little thing,” then turn to Gyles with some question about the river.

“You’ll have to excuse them,” Lady Middlesham told her. “Our lands lie to the north and west of the Castle, on the other side of the river farther upstream. They both have an abiding interest in the fish stocks.”

“Gyles fishes?”

“Oh, indeed. You should ask him to take you in summer. It’s quite relaxing, doing nothing but watching them play with their rods and lines.”

Francesca laughed. “I must try it sometime.”

“Indeed, and we’d be pleased if you would call at the Manor sometime, too.” Lady Middlesham pulled a face. “I suppose, theoretically, we should call on you first, but I always get confused with such formalities.” She squeezed Francesca’s hand. “Now that we’ve met, let’s not stand on ceremony. If you have time, do call in, and next time we’re passing the Castle, we’ll make a point of looking in. Elizabeth and Henni are at the Dower House, I believe?”

As she and Lady Middlesham chatted, already comfortable, Francesca noted that Gyles and Sir Henry, although not close in age, were likewise comfortable in each other’s company. The idea of taking her first social steps blossomed in her mind.

“Countess!”

Francesca turned, as did the others. They beheld a figure, all in black, mounted on a prancing black steed.

Lancelot Gilmartin bowed extravagantly; his horse danced nervously, nearly bumping Lady Middlesham.

“Here! I say!” Sir Henry drew his wife to safety. “Watch what you’re doing there.”

Lancelot looked down his nose at Sir Henry, then focused his dark gaze on Francesca. “I wanted to thank you for your hospitality. I wondered if, later this afternoon, you might like to ride on the downs. I could show you Seven Barrows. The mounds have an eerie atmosphere. Quite romantic.”

Francesca was very aware of Gyles by her side, aware of the restraint he was exercising. She smiled coolly at Lancelot. “Thank you, but no.” With a wave she drew Lancelot’s attention to the presence beside her. “We’ve been out all morning riding the downs-I’ll have much to catch up with this afternoon. Please convey my regards to your mother and father, and my thanks for their visit.”

A scowl marred Lancelot’s too-handsome features. Faced with a wall of trenchant respectability, he was forced to accept her dismissal. He didn’t do it with good grace. “Some other time, then.”

Nodding curtly, he dug in his heels-his horse reared, then all but bolted up the street.

“Insolent puppy!” Sir Henry glowered after Lancelot’s rapidly dwindling figure.

Francesca took Gyles’s arm. “One can only hope he’ll grow up soon and leave such ungraciousness behind.”

The comment answered the questions that had been about to bloom in the Middleshams’ minds. Allowed them to dismiss Lancelot as the mere nuisance he was. Lady Middlesham pressed her hand as they made their farewells; Sir Henry smiled and expressed a wish they would meet again soon.

They parted from the Middleshams and headed for the Red Pigeon. Francesca squeezed Gyles’s arm. “Lancelot is a spoilt boy, of no interest to me and no consequence to you.”

Gyles slanted her a glance, grey eyes hard, then ushered her into the inn.

Harris came rushing to conduct them to the parlor he’d prepared. Francesca was pleased to approve both the parlor and the fare the innkeeper and his buxom daughter efficiently set before them. Then Harris and the girl withdrew, leaving them in comfort, well supplied with viands and wine.

The food was as delicious as it looked; Francesca was free with her praise. Glancing up, she noticed the amusement in Gyles’s eyes, noted his not entirely straight lips. “What is it?”

He hesitated, then said, “I was just imagining you at a dinner party in London. You’ll create a panic.”

“Why?”

“It’s not common practice for ladies of the ton to evince such… desire over food.”

She opened her eyes wide. “If one has to eat, one may as well enjoy it.”

He laughed and inclined his head. “Indeed.”

The table could have sat four; they faced each other over it. It was easy to converse, and they were free of all ears. As they sampled the various meats and pastries, Francesca asked about the estate in general, encouraged when Gyles answered readily, with no hint of reluctance. They discussed the past year, the trials and successes, and the harvest presently being gathered in.

Then Harris returned to remove the dishes; setting a platter piled with fresh fruits between them, he beamed benignly and left them in peace.

Selecting a grape, Francesca asked, “The families on the estate-are they primarily long-term tenants?”

“Mostly long-standing.” Watching the grape disappear, Gyles leaned back in his chair. “In fact, I can’t think of any who aren’t.”

“So they’re used to all the”-another grape was selected-“local traditions.”

“I suppose so.”

She studied the grape, turning it in her fingers. “What traditions are there? You mentioned a market.”

“The market’s held every month-I suppose it’s a tradition. Everyone would certainly be upset if it was stopped.”

“And what else?” She looked up. “Perhaps the church sponsors some gathering?”

Gyles met her wide eyes. “It would be a easier if you simply told me what it is you want to know.”

She held his gaze, then popped the grape into her mouth and wrinkled her nose at him. “I wasn’t that transparent.”

He watched as her jaw worked, squishing the grape, watched her swallow, and didn’t answer.

Folding her hands on the table, she fixed him with an earnest look. “Your mother mentioned there used to be a Harvest Festival-not the church celebration, although at much the same time-but a fete day at the Castle.”

Although he kept his expression impassive, she must have seen his reaction in his eyes; she quickly said, “I know it hasn’t been held for years-”

“Not since my father died.”

“True-but your father died more than twenty years ago.”

He couldn’t now argue that most of his tenants wouldn’t recall the event.

“You’re the earl, and now I’m your countess. It’s a new generation, a new era. The purpose of the Festival was, as I understand it, to thank the estate workers for their efforts throughout the year, through the sowing, husbanding, and reaping.” She tilted her head, her eyes steady on his. “You’re a caring landlord-you look after your tenants. Surely, now I’m here, it’s right-appropriate-that we should again host the Festival.”

She was right, yet it took some time to accustom his mind to the idea-of holding the Festival again, of he himself being the host. In all his memories, that was a position his father had filled. After his death, there had never been any question-not that he could recall-of continuing with the Festival, despite the fact it was, indeed, a very old tradition.

Times changed. And sometimes adapting meant resurrecting past ways.

She’d been wise enough to say no more, to push no further. Instead, she sat patiently, her gaze on his face, awaiting his decision. He knew perfectly well if he refused she would argue, although perhaps not immediately. His lips lifted spontaneously as he recalled her earlier comment. Transparent? She was as easy to read as the wind.

Hope kindled in her eyes at his half smile; he let his lips relax into a more definite one. “Very well. If you wish to play the role of my countess to the hilt-”

He broke off. Their eyes met, held; all levity evaporated. Then, deliberately, he inclined his head and continued, his voice even, “I see no reason to dissuade you.” After an instant’s pause, he added, “I won’t stand in your way.”

She understood what he was saying-all he was saying. After a moment, she stood and came around the table. She stopped by his side, turned, and sank gracefully onto his lap. “And will you play your part, too?”

His gaze remained steady. “In the Festival, yes.”

For the rest, he could make no promises.

She studied his eyes, her own unreadable, then she smiled, her usual, warm, gloriously radiant smile. “Thank you.”

Raising her hands, she framed his face, then leaned forward and kissed him, deliberately, sensuously yet without heat.

From beneath lowered lids, he watched her, and felt his hunger stir. Felt the barbarian rise, but for once, his appetite wasn’t lust, not even desire.

Something else. Something more.

He kissed her back, and she returned the pleasure, and it was simply that-a shared moment of physical touching, caressing.

It had no purpose beyond that-the exchange of a gentle touch.

Eventually, she drew back and he let her. She smiled, happy and pleased. “So, how should we spread the news? It’s only a few weeks away. Whom should we tell?”

“Harris.” Gyles urged her to her feet and she rose. He stood, claimed her hand, then led her to the door. “We invite the whole village as well as the tenants, and in Lambourn, there’s no better way of making a general announcement than by telling Harris.”

So they told Harris, and Gyles and she were now committed to the Harvest Festival. The next day, Francesca received a letter from Charles accepting her invitation to visit at the Castle. Franni, he reported, was absolutely delighted at the prospect of visiting there again.

Francesca didn’t know what to make of that. Perhaps, after all, Gyles had been right, and Franni’s reaction at their wedding had simply been due to overexcitement. That suggested that Franni’s gentleman was either someone else, or a figment of her imagination. Francesca could see no way of deciding, not until Franni, and Charles and Ester, arrived.

Putting the matter aside, she threw herself into preparations, both for the Harvest Festival and for her uncle’s visit. She made lists, and lists of lists. One of the items on her list for today was dealing with the rejuvenation of the flower beds before the forecourt.

“It is simply unacceptable.” Together with Edwards, she stood in the drive one hundred yards from the house, facing the forecourt and the empty, leaf-strewn beds along its nearest edge. “That is not an appealing vista and no fit introduction to the house.”

“Mmm.”

Dour and glum, Edwards stood, a great hulk beside her, and scowled at the offending mounds.

Arms folded, Francesca turned to him. “You’re the head gardener. What are your suggestions?”

He glanced sideways at her, then cleared his throat. “Flowers won’t do aught. Not there. Needs trees, it does.”

“Trees.” Francesca glanced at the huge oaks surrounding them. “More trees.”

“Aye. Pencil pines is what I’m thinking.”

“Pencil pines?”

“Aye. See-” Rooting around in the leaves, Edwards found a stick. With one boot, he cleared a space on the ground. “If you see this as the house-just the front, like-as we can see it from here.” He drew a rectangle to represent the house. “Then if we put three pines in each side, like this.” With the stick, he drew in six pines, three on either side of the gap where the drive joined the forecourt, all in a line along the forecourt’s front edge. “And stagger them in size, with the outermost the tallest, and the two flanking the drive the smallest, then-well, you can see.”

He stepped back, gesturing to his sketch. Francesca bent over to study it. Slowly, she straightened, looked at the house, then back down at the sketch. “That’s really quite good, Edwards.”

She stepped back, narrowing her eyes, trying to imagine it. “Yes,” she nodded decisively. “But there’s one thing missing.”

“Eh?”

“Come with me.” She walked back along the drive almost to the empty beds. Stopping, she scuffed back leaves along the drive’s edge, uncovering stone. “This is the base for a carved stone trough-there’s a similar base on the other side of the drive. Lady Elizabeth remembers the troughs filled with flowers on her wedding day, but they were removed at some point.”

“Aye, well-I doubt we’d be able to get such things now. Takes a mite of effort to do such work.”

“Oh, there’s no need for new ones. The troughs are at the far end of the orchard, almost overgrown, but I’m sure they can be dug out.”

“Mmm.” Edwards’s frown returned.

“There’re also two matching troughs, smaller ones, that should sit on the top steps of the porch. They’re presently in the field behind the stable.”

“Used for horse troughs, they be.”

“Indeed, but Jacobs is quite sure his charges do not need anything so fancy.” Francesca met Edwards’s eyes, overhung and half-obscured by his shaggy brows. “I’ll make a bargain with you. I will allow you to put in the six trees, rather than plant the entire beds with flowers, provided you oversee the disinterring of those troughs-all four of them-and their cleaning and replacement in their proper positions. I’ve heard young Johnny likes planting and tending flowers, so, under your instruction, he can fill the troughs and plant the appropriate bulbs-I want tulips and daffodils, followed by other flowers as the seasons progress. I don’t know what grows well at this time of year”-she smiled-“but I’m sure you and Johnny will.”

Turning, she surveyed the presently bare beds. “Now, how soon do you think that can be done?”

“Mmm. I know where we can get the pines… I suppose we’d have it done in a week.” Edwards glanced at her. “Be faster if we didn’t have to do those troughs-”

“The troughs and trees all at once, please.”

“Well, then, a week.”

“Excellent.” Francesca nodded, then smiled confidingly. “My uncle and his family will be arriving in a week’s time, and I would like the house to look well.”

The faintest tinge of color showed under Edwards’s weathered skin. “Aye, well,” he said gruffly. “We’ll have the place all right and special for ye in a week then, p’raps sooner. Now-” Stepping back, he looked around.

“Now you must return to your trees.” Francesca nodded a dismissal.

Gyles had been watching from the shadows of the porch. Seeing Edwards lumber off, he strolled out and down the steps. Francesca saw him. Smiling, she came to meet him.

“Did you succeed?” Taking her hand, he drew it through his arm, covering her hand with his.

“Edwards and I have come to an understanding.”

“I never doubted it could be otherwise.”

They turned toward the bluff, strolling around the Castle to where Edwards’s beloved trees gave way to shrubs and the occasional rose.

“I received a packet from Devil this morning.” Gyles broke the companionable silence as they reached the old ramparts and the wide vista of his lands opened before them. “He and Honoria are back in London. He sent the latest parliamentary deliberations of note.”

“Is Parliament sitting at present?”

“Yes-the autumn session is under way.”

Gyles thought of it-his normal life until now, the ton largely back in residence, the usual round of balls, parties, and the even more important dinners, the jostling of the hostesses for prominence and the more serious discussions that took place behind the glittering facade. For years, that had been the focus of his life.

They paused, looking out over the land, ablaze in autumn’s glory.

“Do we need to go to London-for Parliament?”

“No.”

He’d thought of it, but not as we. He glanced at her, met her eyes briefly, tucked a whipping lock of her hair behind her ear, then looked back at the view.

His aversion to the idea of returning to London alone should have surprised him, yet it hadn’t. He was, it seemed, getting used to the fact that, when it came to all matters pertaining to her, his barbarian self ruled. His true self would not be parted from her, would not even consider it.

They stood side by side and he surveyed his domain, then he lowered his arm, closing his hand about hers. “Come. Let’s go down to the folly.”

Folly indeed.

Later that night, Gyles lay on his back in the dark warmth, and listened to the soft sigh of his wife’s breathing.

Hands behind his head, he stared up at the canopy, and wondered what the hell he was doing. Where he thought he was going.

Where they were going.

The correction summed up his problem. He could no longer consider the future from his standpoint alone. No matter what tack he took, what frame of reference, she was always in the picture.

In truth, her happiness was now more relevant than his, because his depended on hers.

Was it any wonder he was struggling?

It would have been easier if she’d made demands. Instead, she’d left the choice to him, avoiding the pitfall of setting her will against his. He was conditioned and prepared for such battles; the outcome would have been swift and certain.

And he wouldn’t now be lying here, engulfed in uncertainty.

She’d made her position clear. He ruled, he made the decisions-and if she didn’t like them, she would go her own way.

He didn’t doubt she would. At her core lay a stubborness he recognized, an unswerving devotion to her cause.

A devotion he coveted for himself. Not just for his political ambitions, not just for his marriage, not even for the effect such a devotion would have on his life.

He wanted her devoted to him.

Wanted to see it in her eyes as she took him in, feel it in her lips as she kissed him, in her touch as she caressed him. All she gave him now, he wanted-forever.

He glanced at her dark head, felt the warmth of her body, relaxed and boneless against him. Felt an immediate urge to seize, to lock her to him.

Looking back at the canopy, he wrenched his thoughts back to his problem.

He wanted her love, her devotion, wanted her exclusively focused on him. She was prepared to offer him that. In return, she wanted one thing.

He wanted to give it to her-wanted to love her-but… that, in and of itself, was the very last thing he wanted to do.

The ultimate contradiction.

There had to be a way around it. For his sanity’s sake, he had to find it. Had to find an option that would satisfy her, but still leave him unexposed, emotionally invulnerable.

The alternative was unthinkable. Still was and always would be.