All About Passion

Chapter 17

Love was something that came slowly, on silent feet. Something that crept up on a man unawares and took him prisoner. She’d said she felt like a prisoner now-she was a captive, did she but know it, to the love that had him in its grip. Neither he nor she could break free. Not now.

It was too late for second thoughts. Too late to take evasive action. Once love struck, it was an incurable disease. Ineradicable.

He’d accepted that, finally, not without a fight, but the long hours of the previous night when he’d held her tight against him had revealed a reality far more absolute than he’d believed could be.

Love simply was. It asked no permissions, required no decisions. It lived. It lived in him.

Gyles’s thoughts ran on as he stood beside his tallboy and unbuttoned his shirt. Wallace came back in; sitting in a chair, he allowed him to pull off his boots. Gyles remained in the chair, his gaze fixed, unseeing, across the room.

What to do? The memory of her eyes just before she’d turned and left him was etched in his mind. He could eradicate that look with three little words, reinstate her glorious smile. He could tell her, and then try to work out some framework of existence, together. Was that wise? Could he trust her?

One small corner of his mind whispered yes, the rest of him ran screaming at the thought. Trust a woman with his heart, with the key to his defenses? Give her the ability to destroy him? The concept ran deeply against his grain; if the barbarian was absolute in protecting her, he was equally committed to protecting himself.

There had to be some other way. He rose. Dragging his shirt from his waistband, he continued unbuttoning it.

The terms of their marriage-the terms he’d specified-rang in his mind. She’d given him all he’d wanted. All except…

The truth hit him, rocked him.

His gaze shifted to, then focused on the connecting door. Muttering a curse, he strode across, opened it, stepped through. Remembering Wallace, he shut it behind him.

It took a moment to locate her in the moon-streaked dimness. She was on the other side of the bed, in an armchair pulled to face the window. She flicked him a glance. As he rounded the bed, he saw her surreptiously dab at her eyes.

He stopped behind the chair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She glanced back and up at him. “Tell you what?”

Her voice was thick, her puzzlement genuine.

He set his jaw. “You’re pregnant.”

Her wide-eyed look told him she’d known, but had, at least momentarily, forgotten. She twisted to partially face him. “I… wasn’t sure. It’s only been a few weeks…”

They’d been married seven weeks.

The clash of his emotions was so powerful he swayed, physically shaken, emotionally at sea. The future had just become so much more dangerous-so much more precious. To him.

What did it mean to her?

The huge eyes that stared up at him, green even in the poor light, were overbright. She was watching him, waiting…

He couldn’t think. His mind was streaking in a dozen directions, panicked, reeling. He had to keep her safe, had to take her out of danger. He looked into her eyes. He couldn’t explain-couldn’t find the words, couldn’t force them past the vise locked about his heart. Couldn’t face his vulnerability. He’d let her think he was rejecting her. If he now asked for her company, would she reject him? Possibly. If he ordered her, would she go? No. Yet he had to get her away. Had to.

He drew in a huge breath, mentally girded his loins. Curtly, he nodded. “I’ll be leaving for London in the morning.”

Her lips parted in shock. Then her breasts swelled; her gaze kindled. “Indeed? Am I to take it you’re invoking our agreement?”

“Yes.” The shadows hid his deception. “We go our separate ways.” He turned as if to recross to his room.

“Wait!” The word resonated with fury, hot now, not cold. He turned back as she scrambled from the chair. “If you’re going to London, then so am I!”

He held his breath, searched for the right tone. “I wasn’t aware you had any acquaintances in town.”

“I’m looking forward to making some.” Her voice purred with anger. She tilted her chin. “I’m sure there’ll be many eager to befriend your countess.”

He managed not to react. Managed to coldly incline his head. “As you say.”

He thought he heard her teeth grind. “I do say!” She flung her hands in the air. “I’ve offered you more than you required, more than you looked for in our marriage. I’ve been understanding and patient-how patient I’ve been!”

She started to pace, flinging words at him. “I have not made demands, I have not pressed you-I’ve waited, self-effacing, for you to come to your senses! And have you? No! You set your path-designed our marriage-before you even met me. Yet although the potential’s far greater than you imagined, will you rescript your views? No! You’re too pigheaded to change your mind, even when it’s in your best interests!”

Her skirts whirled as she rounded on him, eyes afire, hands dramatically flying. “Very well! If you’re so insensible as to turn your back on what might be, so be it! Go back to London and your scintillating mistresses! But I won’t be left here, immured in your castle. I’m coming to London, too-and I fully intend to enjoy myself as I please.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose.”

She didn’t wait for an answer but swung away. Fury shimmered in the air about her. She halted, her back to him. Folding her arms, she stared at the window.

Gyles let a moment pass-it would be unwise to agree too quickly-then said, coldly and evenly, “As you wish. I’ll give orders that you’ll accompany me tomorrow.”

Throughout her tirade, he’d held to the shadows. He’d schemed and got what he wanted, what he needed-and rather more besides. The story of their marriage.

He heard her sniff. Without turning, she inclined her head in haughty agreement. Face set, he crossed to the door to his room. Opening it, he saw Wallace, waiting patiently.

“Her ladyship and I will leave for London as early as possible tomorrow. We anticipate taking up residence in the capital for the immediate future. See to it.”

Wallace bowed. “Indeed, sir.” He considered for only a moment. “I believe we can be ready to depart by eleven o’clock.”

Gyles nodded. “You may go-I won’t need you again tonight.”

Wallace bowed again. Gyles watched him go, then turned-and discovered Francesca close beside him. He shut the door. “Satisfied?”

They were close, face-to-face in the dimness. She rose on her toes, bringing their faces closer still. Her expression was belligerent; banked anger lit her eyes. “Rawlingses are so very stubborn.”

Her eyes, narrowed, held his for an instant, then she flung away, crossing the room in a glide of swishing silk.

His own eyes narrowing, Gyles watched her go, replaying her words, then he realized.

She was a Rawlings, had been born a Rawlings, too.

Releasing the doorknob, he followed her to her bed.

She’d risked a lot on a stubborn man changing his mind.

As she sat in the swaying carriage the next day, Francesca had ample time to dwell on that fact. To consider all she’d risked-her future happiness, indeed her life, for she was too deeply committed, now, to draw back. She’d placed her heart on the scales in allowing herself to fall in love with him; that was done and could not be undone.

It wasn’t just her future, either, but his, too, if only he would acknowledge it. She was sure he saw the truth, but getting him to admit it, act on it? There lay the rub.

How to get him to change his mind? The question fully absorbed her as the miles rolled past. It all seemed to hinge on who was the more stubborn-on whether she was willing to risk all to gain her dream.

She tried to see forward, to think ahead, imagining the possibilities. Thoughts of the past night kept intruding. She didn’t want to think about that.

About the way he’d closed a hand in the hair at her nape and swung her to him, tipped her head back, and kissed her as if he’d been starving. About the way his hands had raced over her, stripping the silk from her, greedy for her skin, her flesh, her body. The feel of him over her, around her, inside her, hard and commanding, demanding. He’d wanted and taken with the ruthlessness of a conqueror, and she’d been with him every step of the way. Taunting, defiant, taking her own pleasure in his possessiveness, recklessly urging him on.

Holding him to her long after, when the tempest had passed and left them drained.

She flicked a glance sideways, briefly studied his profile. One elbow propped on the window ledge, his chin supported in that hand, he was watching the streetscape of London roll by.

She’d woken in the night to find him curled around her, his chest to her back, one hand splayed protectively over her stomach. When she’d woken in the morning-been woken by the maids scurrying furiously-he’d been gone. The chaos of the morning had left her no time to think, let alone reflect, not until they’d rolled out of the park and Jacobs had turned his team toward the capital.

They’d stopped at the Dower House, but Lady Elizabeth and Henni had been out walking. Horace had received them, jovial as ever, unsurprised that they might indulge in “a bolt to the capital.” They’d left messages of farewell with him.

It had been Horace who’d been the focus of her thoughts as they’d bowled through Berkshire. Horace who’d been Gyles’s father figure through his formative years-the years in which a boy learned by observation the ways in which men behaved to women. It was obvious that Horace was sincerely devoted to Henni, but that perception owed more to Henni’s calm happiness than any overt behavior on Horace’s part.

Horace had taught Gyles to be a gentleman, and Horace eschewed all outward shows of affection, of love, toward his wife, regardless of his true feelings.

Eyeing Gyles, Francesca mentally ran through the catalogue she’d assembled of the actions, the small gestures all but buried beneath the activities of their lives, that had left her hope intact.

He’d tried, deliberately, to dash that hope, to lead her to believe he was denying her absolutely, denying any chance of her dream transmuting to reality, yet all the while his actions spoke differently.

Not just his actions in their bed, although their tenor certainly did not support the facade he’d tried to project-that of an expert lover who nevertheless remained emotionally indifferent to her. She suppressed a dismissive humph: he had never been emotionally indifferent to her-the idea!

How he could expect her to believe it she didn’t know.

Especially when there were a thousand other things that gave him away. Like his fussing when they’d stopped for lunch at an inn. Was she well wrapped and warm enough? The bricks at her feet hot enough? Was the food to her liking?

Did he think she was blind?

He knew she wasn’t. That puzzled her. It was as if he’d accepted that she’d know or at least suspect that he felt more for her, but that he was hoping, if not expecting, that she’d pretend she didn’t know.

That didn’t, to her mind, make sense, yet it wasn’t, she was sure, an inaccurate summation of their present state.

He said one thing but meant, and wanted, another. He’d said they would go their separate ways-she’d be greatly surprised if that came to pass.

Did he want some sort of facade in place, like Horace and Henni? Was he hoping she’d agree to that? Could she?

In all honesty, she doubted she could. Her temperament was not amenable to hiding her emotions.

Was that the direction he wished to steer them in?

If so, why?

She’d asked him last night, and he’d refused to answer. There was no point asking again, even if the context was somewhat altered. At base, it was the same question-the question she kept tripping over, again and again.

So she’d have to forge on, try to find a way forward, without the answer. It was as if she were doing battle on a field obscured by mist-fighting for her future, and his, without knowing where or what obstacles were in her path. If he thought she’d grow discouraged, give in, and settle for less than the enduring, open love she’d always wanted, especially now she knew it could exist if he would allow it to be, he would need to think again. Resigning battles was not her forte.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t his either.

She slanted an assessing glance at him. They would see.

The coach slowed, then turned a corner. A huge park appeared on the right.

Gyles glanced at her. “Hyde Park. Where the fashionable go to be seen.”

She leaned closer to look past him. “And should I be seen there?”

He hesitated, then said, “I’ll take you for a drive around the Avenue one day.”

She sat back as the carriage rounded another corner. Almost immediately, it slowed.

“We’ve arrived.”

Francesca glanced out at a row of elegant mansions. The carriage halted before one; the number 17 glowed against the stonework flanking the door.

The carriage door was opened. Gyles moved past her and descended, then handed her down to the pavement. She looked up at the green-painted door, at the gleaming brass knocker.

Behind her, Gyles murmured, “Our London home.”

He led her up the steps and into the blaze of the hall. The servants were waiting, lined up to greet her, Wallace at their head, Ferdinand farther down the row. They’d traveled up in Gyles’s curricle ahead of the main carriage. Wallace introduced her to Irving the Younger, then stood back while Irving introduced her to Mrs. Hart, the housekeeper, a thin, somewhat ascetic woman, a Londoner from her speech. Between them, Irving and Mrs. Hart introduced all the others, then Mrs. Hart murmured, “I daresay you’re eager to rest, my lady. I’ll show you to your room.”

Francesca glanced about. Gyles was standing under the chandelier, watching her.

She started toward him, glancing back at Mrs. Hart. “I’m not tired, but I would love some tea. Please bring it to the library.”

“At once, ma’am.”

Reaching Gyles, she slid her arm through his. “Come, my lord. Show me your lair.”

He should have put his foot down and ushered her into the drawing room. Two days later, Gyles could see his mistake clearly. Now the library, which in this house doubled as his study, was as much her lair as his.

He quelled a sigh and frowned at the letter spread on his blotter. It was from Gallagher. He glanced to where Francesca sat reading in an armchair before the hearth. “The Wenlows’ cottage-do you remember it?”

She looked up. “In that hollow south of the river?”

“The roof’s leaking.”

“It’s one of three, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “They’re all the same, built at the same time. I’m wondering if I should order all three roofs replaced.”

He looked at her, watched consideration flow across her face.

“Winter’s nearly here-if one of the other roofs spring a leak, it’ll be hard to fix if it’s snowing.”

“Even if it isn’t. Those old roofs get so iced, even without snow it’s too dangerous to send men up.” Setting a fresh sheet on the blotter, Gyles reached for a pen. “I’ll tell Gallagher to replace all three.”

She read while he wrote, but looked up as he sealed the letter. “Is there any other news?”

He recounted all Gallagher had told him. From there, they got onto the subject of the bills he was researching. They were deep in a discussion of demographics relating to the voting franchise when Irving entered. “Mr. Osbert Rawlings has called, my lord. Are you receiving?”

Gyles bit back a “no.” Osbert wasn’t in the habit of calling for no reason. “Show him in here.”

Irving bowed and departed; a minute later he returned, Osbert in tow. Announced, Osbert nodded to Gyles, who rose. “Cousin.” His gaze swung to Francesca; Osbert beamed. “Dear cousin Francesca-” He broke off, glanced at Gyles, then back at her. “I may call you that, may I not?”

“Of course.” Francesca smiled and held out her hand. Osbert took it and bowed over it. “Pray be seated, or is your business with Gyles?”

“No, no!” Osbert eagerly sank into the other armchair. “I heard you were in town and felt I must call to welcome you to the capital.”

“How kind,” Francesca replied.

Suppressing a humph, Gyles sank back into the chair behind his desk.

“And”-Osbert searched his pockets-“I do hope you don’t consider it impertinent, but I’ve written an ode-to your eyes. Ah, here it is!” He brandished a parchment. “Would you like me to read it?”

Gyles smothered a groan and took refuge behind a news sheet. Still, he couldn’t help but hear Osbert’s verse. It wasn’t, in fact, bad-merely uninspired. He could have thought of ten better phrases to more adequately convey the fascinating allure of his wife’s emerald eyes.

Francesca politely thanked Osbert and said various encouraging things, which led Osbert to fill her ears with predictions of how much she would enjoy the ton, and how much the ton would enjoy her. That last had Gyles compressing his lips, but then Francesca appealed to him over some point and he had to lower the news sheet and answer, sans scowl.

He bore with Osbert’s prattle for five minutes more before desperation gave birth to inspiration. Rising, he crossed to where Francesca and Osbert sat. Francesca looked up.

“If you recall, my dear, I’d mentioned taking you for a drive in the park.” Gyles turned his easy expression on Osbert. “I’m afraid, cousin, that if I’m to give Francesca a taste of all you’ve been describing so eloquently, we’ll need to go now.”

“Oh, yes! Of course!” Osbert unraveled his long legs and stood. He took Francesca’s hand. “You’ll enjoy it, I’m sure.”

Francesca said her farewells. Osbert took his leave of Gyles and quite happily departed.

Gyles watched his retreating back through narrowed eyes.

“Well, my lord.”

He turned to see Francesca, head tilted, regarding him with a smile.

“If we’re to go driving in the park, I’d better go and change.”

A pity-she looked delectable as she was, the scooped neckline of her day gown drawing his eyes, the soft material, clinging to her curves, drawing his senses. But she’d be too cold in his curricle. Catching her hand, he carried it to his lips. “I’ll order the carriage. Fifteen minutes, in the hall.”

She left him with a laugh and one of her glorious smiles.

It was the fashionable hour, and the Avenue was packed with carriages of every description. The larger, more staid broughams and landaus were pulled up along the verge, while the smaller, racier curricles and phaetons tacked along between. Speed was not of the essence-no one was in any rush; the whole purpose of the exercise was to see and be seen.

“There’s so many here!” From her perch on the box seat, Francesca looked around. “I’d thought at this time of year, the town would be half-empty.”

“This is half-empty.” Gyles divided his attention between the carriage in front and the occupants of the carriages beside them. “During the Season, the lawns are half-covered, and there’re more horsemen about. What you’re seeing is primarily the elite of the ton, those who have business, usually politics, that brings them up for the autumn session.”

Francesca surveyed the ranks. “So these are the ladies I most need to get to know.”

Gyles’s brows rose, but he inclined his head.

Then he slowed his horses, drawing the curricle closer to a carriage on the verge. Francesca looked, then beamed. “Honoria!”

“Francesca! How delightful!” Honoria looked at Gyles and, still smiling, nodded. “My lord. I can’t tell you how delighted I am to see you here.”

Gyles’s answering smile was chilly. Francesca raised her brows fleetingly at Honoria-the swift look she received in reply clearly stated: I’ll explain later.

Honoria gestured to the three other ladies sharing the barouche. “Allow me to introduce you to Devil’s aunt, Lady Louise Cynster, and her daughters, Amanda and Amelia.”

Francesca exchanged greetings, smiling as she recognized the thoughts behind the girls’ wide eyes. Each was the epitome of a fair English beauty, with golden ringlets, cornflower blue eyes, and delicate, milky complexions. “You’re twins?”

“Yes.” Amanda’s gaze was still skating over her.

Amelia sighed. “You’re most amazingly lovely, Lady Francesca.”

Francesca smiled. “You’re very lovely yourselves.”

A thought popped into her head; her eyes widened, and she smothered a laugh. “Oh-excuse me!” She shot a wicked glance at Honoria and Louise. “It just occurred to me that if we made an entrance, all three together-Amelia on one side, me in the middle and Amanda on my other side, it would look quite extraordinary.”

The contrast between their fairness and her exotic coloring was marked.

Louise grinned. The twins looked intrigued.

Honoria laughed. “It would cause a sensation.”

Gyles caught Honoria’s eye and glared.

Honoria’s smile deepened; she turned to Francesca. “We must have you around for dinner-Devil will want to meet you again, and we must introduce you to the others. For how long are you down?”

Gyles left Francesca to answer. Perched beside her on the curricle’s box seat, he felt increasingly exposed. He was pleased when, all relevant details exchanged, they took their leave of Honoria and her companions and he could drive on.

They didn’t get far.

“Chillingworth!”

He knew the voice. It took a moment to locate the turban, perched above a pair of obsidian eyes that were the terror of the ton. Lady Osbaldestone beckoned imperiously. Seated beside her in her old brougham, watching with a too-knowing smile, was the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives.

Gyles swallowed his curse-Francesca would only wonder, and he had no choice anyway. Angling the curricle into the verge, he drew up beside the brougham.

Lady Osbaldestone smiled widely, leaned over and introduced herself. “I knew your parents, my dear-visited with them in Italy-you were only three at the time.” She sat back and nodded benignly, her black eyes gleaming with deep satisfaction. “I was exceedingly pleased to hear of your marriage.”

Gyles knew the comment was directed at him.

Francesca smiled. “Thank you.”

“And I, my dear, must also add my congratulations.” The Dowager, her pale green eyes warm, took Francesca’s hand. “And yes,” she said, smiling in response to the question dawning in Francesca’s face, “you have met my son and he spoke highly of you and, of course, Honoria told me all.”

“I’m delighted to meet you, Your Grace.”

“And you will be seeing more of us, my dear, I have no doubt, so we will not keep you and Chillingworth any longer. It will soon grow chilly, and I’m sure your husband will want to whisk you away.”

The twinkle in her eyes was not lost on Gyles, but retaliation was out of the question-it was far too dangerous. Both he and Francesca bowed; he escaped as fast as he dared.

“Are they-how is it described? Grandes dames?”

“The grandest. Do not be fooled. They wield considerable power despite their age.”

“They’re rather formidable, but I liked them. Don’t you?”

Gyles snorted and drove on.

“Gyles! Yoo-hoo!”

Gyles slowed his horses. “Mama?” Both he and Francesca searched, then he saw Henni waving from a carriage farther up the line. “Good Lord.” He drove up and reined in. “What on earth are you doing here?”

His mother opened her eyes at him. “You’re not the only ones who might fancy a bolt to the capital.” She released Francesca’s hand. “And of course, Henni and I wanted to be here to support Francesca. It’s a good opportunity to get to know the major hostess without the distraction of the Season.”

“We’ve already met Honoria and Lady Louise Cynster, and the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives and Lady Osbaldestone,” Francesca said.

“A very good start.” Henni nodded determinedly. “Tomorrow we’ll take you up with us, and we’ll visit a few more.”

Gyles hid a frown.

“But where are you staying?” Francesca asked.

“Walpole House,” Lady Elizabeth answered. “It’s just around the corner in North Audley Street, so we’re close.”

Gyles let his horses prance. “Mama-my horses. It’s getting cold…”

“Oh, indeed you must get on, but no matter-we’ll see you tonight at the Stanleys.’ “

He felt Francesca’s glance but didn’t meet it. They made their farewells and parted. He took the shortest route away from the Avenue, then headed out of the park.

Francesca sat back and considered him. “Are we going to the Stanleys’ tonight?”

Gyles shrugged. “We have an invitation. I suppose it’s as good a place as any to start.”

“Start what?”

Features grim, he guided his pair out of the gates. “Your emergence into the ton.”

He’d wanted to put it off for as long as he could-he realized that now. And he knew why. His wife would exert the same visceral tug on the ton’s rakes as honey exerted on bees. At this time of year, those present were of the most dangerous variety, undiluted by the more innocuous bucks up from the country for the Season. Those at the Stanleys’ would be the London wolves, those who, as he had done, rarely hunted outside the capital with its alluringly scented prey.

He’d made up his mind that he wouldn’t leave Francesca’s side before they’d even greeted their hostess.

She, predictably, was thrilled.

“A great pleasure to see you here, my lord.” Lady Stanley nodded approvingly, then shifted her gaze to Francesca. Her expression warmed. “And I’m delighted to be one of the first to welcome you to the capital, Lady Francesca.”

Francesca and her ladyship exchanged the customary phrases. Gyles noted her ladyship’s transparent friendliness, not something to be taken for granted in the cut and thrust of the ton. Then again, the ton had been back in London for some weeks; the news that he’d married and that his marriage had been an arranged one would have circulated widely.

That news would gain Francesca greater sympathy and acceptance than would otherwise have been the case. She’d never been in competition with the ton’s ladies or their daughters given that the position of his countess had never been put on the marriage mart.

That was the good news. As they parted from their hosts, and he steered Francesca into the crowd, Gyles took in the creamy mounds of her breasts revealed by the neckline of her teal-silk evening gown, and wished he could retreat. Take her home to his library and lock her in, so that only those men he approved of would see her.

None knew better than he that the news that their marriage had been arranged would expose her to the immediate scrutiny of those who’d recently been his peers. One look, and any rake worthy of the name would come running. She exuded the air of a woman of sensual appetites, one who would never be content with the mild attentions of an indifferent husband.

The thought was laughable. He shook his head. She noticed and raised a brow.

“Nothing.” Inwardly, he shook his head again. He must have been mad to have set himself up for this.

“Lady Chillingworth?” Lord Pendleton bowed elegantly before them; straightening, he glanced at Gyles. “Come, my lord-do introduce us.”

Mentally gritting his teeth, Gyles did. He couldn’t very well do otherwise. And so it began-within ten minutes, they were surrounded by a pack of politely slavering wolves, all waiting for him to excuse himself and leave her to them.

Hell would freeze before he did.

Francesca chatted easily. Her social confidence increased her attractiveness to this particular audience. He knew them all, knew the question he was raising in their minds by remaining anchored by her side. How to escape before one of his ex-peers guessed his true position and decided to make hay of it was the primary question exercising his mind.

Relief appeared in an unexpected guise. A tall, fair-haired gentleman shouldered his way through the crowd.

Francesca was surprised when, apparently without exerting himself, the newcomer won through to her side. Intrigued, she offered her hand. He took it and bowed.

“Harry Cynster, Lady Francesca. As your husband has been elected an honorary Cynster, that makes you one of the clan, too, so I’ll claim the prerogative of a relative to dispense with formal introductions.” Harry exchanged a glance with Gyles over her head, then concluded, his blue eyes wickedly alight, “I’m honored to meet you. I always did wonder who would trip Gyles up.”

Francesca returned his smile.

“I’m exceedingly surprised to see you here.”

She turned at Gyles’s drawl; he was looking over the heads, scanning the room.

“She’s not here.” Harry met Francesca’s gaze. “My wife, Felicity. She’s expecting our first child.” He glanced at Gyles. “She’s at home in Newmarket. I had to come up for the sales at Tattersalls.”

“Ah-the mystery’s explained.”

Harry grinned, tightly. “Indeed.” He paused for a heartbeat, then looked at Francesca. “But I would have thought you’d guess.” He again smiled his winning smile. “I’m here on a mission. My mama would like to meet you.” He glanced again at Gyles. “She’s sitting with Lady Osbaldestone.”

Gyles caught Demon’s glance, recognized the ploy, recognized the fellow feeling that had prompted it. He hesitated for only an instant before asking, “Where, precisely?”

“The other end of the room.”

To the bewildered disappointment of the gentlemen about them, Gyles excused himself and Francesca. Her hand anchored on his sleeve, he led her through the crowd, Demon equally large and discouraging on her other side.

Francesca glanced from one hard male face to the other-both were scanning the crowd as they strolled, watching for any gentleman who might attempt to accost her. She had to hide a smile as they delivered her to the chaise where Lady Osbaldestone sat, resplendent in puce trimmed with feathers. Alongside her sat another grande dame.

“Lady Horatia Cynster, my dear.” The lady pressed her hand. “I’m very glad to meet you.” She shifted her gaze to Gyles. “Chillingworth.” She gave him her hand and watched as he bowed. “You’re an exceedingly lucky man-I do hope you appreciate that?”

Gyles arched a brow. “Naturally.”

“Good. Then you may fetch me some orgeat, and her ladyship would like a glass, too. You may take Harry with you.” She waved them away.

Francesca was intrigued when, after an instant’s hesitation, Gyles inclined his head, collected Harry Cynster with a glance, and left them.

“Here-sit down, gel.” Lady Osbaldestone shifted, as did Lady Horatia. Francesca sat between them.

“You needn’t worry about all those others.” Lady Horatia waved in the direction from which they’d come. “They’ll melt into the woodwork once they realize you’re not for them.”

“Good thing, too.” Lady Osbaldestone thumped her cane and turned gleaming black eyes on Francesca. “If the rumors are even half-true, you’ll have enough on your plate with that husband of yours.”

Francesca felt heat rise in her cheeks. She quickly turned, as Lady Horatia said, “Indeed, in such situations, it’s wise to keep your husband occupied-busy. No need to let him work himself into a lather over nothing, if you take my meaning.”

Francesca blinked, then nodded, rather weakly.

“No saying what he might do if he got overly exercised on that point.” Lady Osbaldestone nodded sagely. “One of the difficulties when marrying Cynsters-one has to draw a very firm line. Too prone to revert to their ancestral selves if rubbed the wrong way.”

“But… I don’t understand.” Francesca glanced from one to the other. “Gyles isn’t a Cynster.”

Lady Osbaldestone snorted.

Lady Horatia grinned. “They made him one by decree-unusually farsighted of them, but it was doubtless Devil’s idea.” She patted Francesca’s hand. “What we’re saying is that there’s not a whisker to chose between them-what applies to the Cynsters applies equally to Chillingworth.”

“Come to that,” Lady Osbaldestone opined, “the same applies to most of the Rawlingses, but the others are generally milder sorts.”

“Do you know them? The other Rawlingses?”

“A good few,” Lady Osbaldestone admitted. “Why?”

Francesca told her.

Gyles and Harry returned with two glasses of orgeat and one of champagne for Francesca, to find all three ladies with their heads together, discussing the Rawlings family tree. Harry exchanged a glance with Gyles, then strolled off. Fifteen minutes passed before Gyles was able to extract Francesca from the discussion.

“I’ll see you at my at-home next week,” Lady Horatia said, as he finally drew Francesca to her feet.

“I’ll be there, too,” Lady Osbaldestone said. “I’ll let you know what I’ve learned then.”

Gyles gave mute thanks that the old tartar wasn’t planning on calling in Green Street. “Mama and Henni are near the main door.” He steered Francesca through the crowd.

After another fifteen minutes, during which his mother, Henni, and Francesca made numerous social plans, he dragged Francesca away.

“It sounds like you’ll have barely a moment to yourself.”

Francesca glanced at him-mentally replayed his words, analyzed their tone-then she smiled and pressed his arm. “Nonsense.” She glanced around, then sighed. “Nevertheless, I do think I’ve made enough plans for one night.” She turned to him. “Perhaps we should go home.”

“Home?”

“Hmm-home, and to bed.” She tilted her head. “Of course, if you wished, we could stop by the library.”

“The library?”

“Wallace will have built up the fire-it should be rather cozy.”

“Cozy.”

“Mmm-warm.” She rolled the word on her tongue. “Pleasant and… relaxing.”

The sultry promise in her voice sent heat pouring through him. Gyles stopped, changed tack, and headed for the door.