All About Passion

Chapter 4

Francesca spoke with Charles as she’d promised. While sympathetic to Chillingworth’s concern, he’d also been touchingly aware of her need to ride.

“I can’t see why,” Charles had said, “as long as you exercise reasonable caution, you shouldn’t continue to ride my hunters until you marry and he can supply you with a suitable mount. After all, you’ve been riding through the forest for two years without mishap.”

Those sentiments echoed Francesca’s. Consequently, early the next morning, hours earlier than she normally rode, she was on the bay gelding heading down a bridle path miles away from her normal route between the Hall and Lyndhurst. Her mood was sunny, her heart light as she galloped along. Not a smidgen of guilt disturbed her; she’d done everything she could to spare Chillingworth.

She rode into the next glade at a clipping pace.

Mounted on his chestnut, he was riding toward her.

The first thing she felt was a sense of betrayal.

Then she saw his face-watched it harden-saw fury flare, then coalesce into something hotter. Betrayal was swamped by alarm.

Then he dug in his heels and came for her.

She fled. She didn’t stop to think-rational thought had no place in her brain. When a man looked at a woman like that, then charged at her, there was only one sane reaction.

A bridle path was closer than he was-she took it, plunging the bay onto the track. The chestnut swooped in behind them. She gave the bay his head. She could feel the thud of the chestnut’s hooves over the reverberation of the bay’s strides and the frantic pounding of her heart. A vise locked tight about her chest, squeezing her heart into her throat. The wind of her passing whipped her hair back, tossing her curls in a tangle behind her.

Clinging to the bay’s saddle, she rocketed on. She couldn’t risk a glance back-didn’t dare-couldn’t spare the instant. At this pace, she needed all her concentration for the track before her. It twisted and turned. She could feel Chillingworth’s gaze locked on her back, hot as a flame.

An icy tingle touched her nape, then slid down every nerve. Fear, but not a simple one. A primal one-primitive-as primitive as the expression that had flowed across his face in the instant before he’d come for her. Twisted within the fear was a strand of heat, but it gave her no comfort; it only added another dimension to her panic-fear of the unknown.

Her only thought was to escape. The knot in her gut swelled; her senses unfurled, whispering of surrender.

She tried to think, to plan how to lose him. The bay and the chestnut seemed well matched, but the paths were too narrow for him to draw alongside. Soon, they’d reach the next glade. Luckily, he rode much heavier than she.

The trees thinned. She slowed the bay, then sprang him into the open glade, racing flat out, bent low to the horse’s withers. The chestnut stayed with her. She flicked a glance back and to the side-and nearly swallowed her heart as her eyes locked with Chillingworth’s, mere feet away.

He was gaining steadily. He reached for her reins-

She swerved away. The opening of another path, to her side, closer than the one she’d been heading for, was her only possible route. She sent the bay racing down it; the chestnut thundered on his heels. What came next?

The answer appeared before she was ready, the trees ending abruptly at the edge of a narrow field. The terrain sloped down to a shallow brook, then rose steeply beyond it. Only one path led out of the glade-its opening lay directly across the field.

She flung the bay at the brook. Its hooves clattered on the smooth stones in the watercourse, the chestnut’s hooves sounding an instantaneous echo. The bay attacked the upward slope, back legs churning as it hauled its considerable weight up the rise.

The top of the rise was one bound away when the chestnut drew level.

A hand whipped across her and grabbed her reins.

Gasping, she wrenched them back-the bay staggered.

A steely arm wrapped around her; it locked her, shoulder to chest, against an even harder frame. Instinctively, she struggled. The reins were hauled from her grasp.

“Be still!”

The words thundered, lashed.

She quieted.

The horses jostled, then settled, held steady with an iron hand. They sidled onto the short stretch of level ground at the top of the rise. Separated only by his booted leg, bay and chestnut coats flickered, then both horses eased, expelled long horsey sighs, and lowered their heads.

The arm around her felt like a manacle; it didn’t ease. Breathing raggedly, her pulse racing, Francesca looked up.

Gyles met her wide gaze-and felt primitive, possessive fury surge. His head was reeling, his heart racing. His breathing was as tortured as hers.

Her cheeks were flushed; her lips parted. Her eyes, glittering green, fixed on his, flared with an awareness as old as time.

He took her lips in a searing kiss.

He gave no quarter. Even had she begged he would not have granted it-she was his. His to brand, his to seize, his to claim. He ravaged her mouth, demanded her surrender-when it came and she softened in his arm, he tightened his hold on her and deepened the kiss-sealed her fate and his.

She was soft, submissive-all woman. Her lips were as lush as he remembered, her mouth a cavern of wanton delight. She surrendered and opened fully to him, yielded on a sigh that was half moan, half entreaty. The sound drove him on; desire flicked, whipped. She offered her mouth in appeasement-he seized and demanded more.

Swept up on the tide, Francesca released her last hold on the bay’s reins and gave herself up to his embrace. The hot tangle of their tongues commanded her full attention, her complete and absolute devotion. The arm about her, muscles rigid, tightened even more. Perched sidesaddle as she was with her legs curled between them, he was lifting her from her seat. She didn’t care. All that mattered was the gloriously heady tide that raged between them. Mentally finding her feet in the torrent, she steadied, then she caught her breath from him and reached for him.

Sent her hands pushing over his shoulders, then twined her fingers in his hair; reached for him with her body, arching, pressing deeper into his crushing embrace. Reached for him with her lips, ardently returning the heated, hungry kisses-feeding his desire, satisfying hers.

Beneath it all, she reached for him with her soul, with all the passion and love she had in her-this, this! her heart sang, was what should be.

He claimed all she was, drank it in, took it all from her, and in the taking gave. He was far from gentle but she wanted no gentleness-she wanted fire and flame, passion and glory, desire and fulfillment. That was the promise in the hard lips that bruised hers, in his almost-brutal conquest of her mouth. She met each invasion with joy in her heart, with desire racing down her veins.

Beneath them, the horses shifted; his attention deflected for the briefest moment-she felt him transfer the tightened reins to the hand at her waist. Then his lips hardened-he tipped her back, bending her over the arm at her back. His freed hand closed about her jaw, framing her face, holding her steady for an invasion so powerful, so devastating, it left her senses reeling.

His hand left her face to close, hard, about her breast.

She reacted as if he’d set a sexual brand to her body, arching, pressing nearer. She felt that first touch all the way to her toes, a pleasure unlike any other spearing beneath her skin, then melting, spreading. Her temperature rose-her skin heated. Like a fever, yet not-like the warmth from an inner flame. A flame he stoked as his fingers firmed, caressed, then provocatively kneaded. Through the thick velvet, he found the peak of her breast, and teased it with hard flicks.

He swallowed her gasp and ruthlessly drove her on. She went willingly, eagerly, wanting all he would give her, all he would show her-wanting, ultimately, him. She put up no resistance. Instead, she focused what wit she still possessed on following his lead as swiftly as she could, on giving the response he demanded, on feeding and satisfying the hunger that was theirs-on making love with him.

Gyles knew it, sensed it-victorious triumph surged through him. She was his-she would surrender completely and take him into her body. There was nothing to stop him having her. One slight lift and she would be off her saddle, in his lap, then he could take her to the grass…

An image flashed across his brain-the grass was coarse, tufty, the ground rocky and uneven. The horses were near. The vision of her as he would see her, watching her as he took her, her glorious hair lying tangled over that unforgiving ground, her body unprotected from his onslaught, uncushioned as she struggled to take him all, to meet his thrusts, her eyes widening then hazing with pain…

No!

His recoil was so violent it loosened the grip of his lust, the unforgiving grip of his passions. Dragging in a breath, he fought to clear his head-fought the compulsion that beat steadily in his blood. Momentarily lost, he mentally groped for his identity-the persona he showed to the world. He’d lost it-left it behind in the first glade, when he’d first seen her once again on a dangerous hunter.

His lips were still on hers, his tongue tangled with hers, his hand firm about her breast. It was a struggle to draw back from the brink, knowing he didn’t have to, that she would prefer him to go on, not retreat.

When their lips parted, he shuddered, and pressed his face to her hair. “Damn it!” The words were a hoarse whisper. “Why did you run?”

“I don’t know,” Francesca breathed. Blindly, she lifted a hand and touched his cheek. “Instinct.” That was what had made him seize, what had made her flee.

She was his-they both knew it. It all followed from that-his reaction, her response, like some predestined plot.

His hand left her breast and she felt bereft-she waited for him to lift her to his lap.

He tipped her face up and his lips closed over hers-for one instant, passion reigned supreme, the glory, the heat, the promise-then she felt him rein it back. Through his lips, through his gentling touch on her face, she sensed the war he waged to releash all that had flowed so freely. Disbelieving, she felt his arm slide, slowly, reluctantly from about her. Then his hands gripped her waist, his fingers tensed, flexed… instead of lifting her to him, he pressed her back into her saddle.

With an effort she felt, he dragged his lips from hers. She looked into his eyes, stormy, dark as a thundery sky. Beyond the grey, something raged. They were both breathing raggedly, quickly-both barely free of the power that had flared.

“Go!” The command was low, strained, as if forced from him. He held her gaze mercilously. “Go home-back to the Hall. Ride but not wildly.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending. Her skin was still heated, her heart still yearned…

His gaze hardened. “Go! Now!”

The command cracked like a whip, impossible to defy. On a gasp, she grabbed her reins and wheeled-jerked from its rest, the bay took off down the slope.

She didn’t get a chance to glance back until she was in the trees.

He was where she’d left him, sitting the chestnut he’d wheeled to watch her go. Head bowed, he was looking down, staring at one hand fisted on the saddlebow.

He’d been within a heartbeat of taking her.

As he stood before the window of his bedchamber at the inn and watched the sun sink behind the trees, Gyles faced that fact and all that it meant.

She’d done it again-effortlessly reached through his shield and called to all he hid behind it. And his feelings for her were so strong, so ungovernable, they had nearly driven him to do something he never normally would. Something that, in his right mind, he would never even consider. She had the power to drive him mad.

If he’d taken her to the ground, no power on earth would have stopped him from taking her-passionately, violently, regardless of the pain he would have caused her. Regardless of the fact that she was-his experienced senses were sure of it-virginal. Far from dampening his ardor, that last only heightened it. She would be his and his alone.

But she wouldn’t be. She would never be his because he would not let any woman wield such power over him. If he made her his, he’d risk becoming her slave. Surrender at that level was not in his nature.

He uttered a harsh laugh and swung into the room.

She’d stripped away every vestige of civilized behavior and laid bare the conqueror that, underneath the elegant glamor, was what he truly was. He was a direct descendant of Norman lords who’d seized whatever they’d wanted-who had simply and ruthlessly taken any woman who had captured their eye.

Yesterday, she’d triggered his protectiveness, yet today he’d chased her through the forest like a marauding, rapacious barbarian. When sane, he worried over her safety, yet the instant he’d seen her once again atop a hunter, that deeply buried part of him that had far more in common with a marauding, rapacious barbarian than with the elegant gentleman who paraded before the ton had come rampaging to the fore.

All he’d known was that she was openly flouting his decree, flagrantly disregarding his worry; all he’d known was an elemental need to impress on her that she was his-to possess her so utterly she couldn’t deny it, deny him, deny his right to command her. He hadn’t cared that he’d forced her to flee like a wild thing-his whole being had been concentrated on capturing her, subduing her, on making her his.

Even now, the remembered feelings-the primal force that had flowed through him and made the transformation from gentleman to conquering barbarian-rocked him.

Scared him.

He glanced at the window; the light had almost died. Crossing to the bed, he picked up his crop and the gloves he’d flung there earlier, then headed for the door.

It was time to call on Charles Rawlings and arrange the final details of his wedding.

He would leave Hampshire immediately after.

“Good evening, my lord.”

Gyles turned as Charles Rawlings entered the study and shut the door.

Charles approached, concern in his eyes. “I hope nothing’s amiss.”

“Not at all.” His elegant mask in place, Gyles shook Charles’s hand. “My apologies for calling so late, but an unexpected matter intervened and prevented me from calling earlier.”

“Well, no harm done.” Charles waved Gyles to a chair. “Now, are you sure you wouldn’t rather hear Francesca’s decision from her lips…?”

“Quite sure.” Gyles waited while Charles sat. “What is her decision?”

“As you’re no doubt expecting, she’s agreed to your proposal. She’s very conscious of the honor you do her-”

Gyles waved the formal words aside. “I fancy we both know where we stand. I am, of course, pleased that she’s consented to become my countess. Unfortunately, I must return to Lambourn immediately, so I’d like to confirm the details of the marriage settlements-Waring, my man-of-business, will send you the contracts in the next few days-and we’ll need to discuss the wedding itself.”

Charles looked slightly stunned. “Well-”

“If Miss Rawlings is agreeable,” Gyles ruthlessly continued, “I would prefer the wedding be held at Lambourn Castle-the chapel there is the traditional place in which our ancestors have celebrated their nuptials. It’s now the end of August-four weeks will give sufficient time for the banns to be read and should allow ample time for Miss Rawlings to assemble her bride clothes.”

Without pause, he switched to the details of the marriage settlements, forcing Charles to scurry to his desk and take notes.

After half an hour, he’d tied every loose end-tied himself into matrimony as tightly as he could.

“Now”-Gyles rose-“if there’s nothing else, I must be on my way.”

Charles had surrendered long since. “Once again, it’s a most generous offer and Francesca is delighted-”

“Indeed. Please convey my respects to her. I look forward to seeing her at Lambourn two days before the wedding.” Gyles headed for the door, forcing Charles to catch up with him. “My mother will coordinate the social details-I’m sure Miss Rawlings will receive a missive within a few days.”

Charles opened the door and accompanied him down the corridor and into the front hall. Pausing before the front door as Bulwer hurried to open it, Gyles smiled sincerely and offered Charles his hand. “Thank you for your help. And thank you for taking such good care of your niece-I look forward to taking on that duty in four weeks’ time.”

The concern that had hovered in Charles’s eyes lifted. He grasped Gyles’s hand. “You won’t regret this evening’s work, you may be sure of that.”

With a brief nod, Gyles strode out. The stablelad was walking his horse in the courtyard. Mounting, he raised a hand in salute to Charles, then he tapped his heels to the chestnut’s flanks and cantered down the drive.

Never, Gyles vowed, would he return to Rawlings Hall.

If he’d turned around and looked at the house, he might have seen her, a shadowy figure at an upstairs window, watching him-her betrothed-ride away. He didn’t.

Francesca watched until he disappeared into the trees, then, frowning, turned inside.

Something was not right.

By the time she’d reached the lane home that afternoon, she’d accepted that making love al fresco might not have been the way he’d wanted to celebrate their first joining. Her practical side had also pointed out that, despite her eagerness, beneath the trees might not have been the best venue to commence her career in that sphere.

So she’d accepted his decree and ridden home at nothing more than a canter. But why, after all that had passed between them, had he held to his determination not to speak with her face-to-face?

Where was the logic in that?

Immediately after lunch, she’d gone to Charles and informed him of her decision. Then she’d waited for her would-be husband to call.

And waited.

They’d been finishing dinner when he’d finally arrived.

A tap on her door had her smoothing the frown from her face. “Come in.”

Charles looked in, then entered. He noticed the window open at her back. “You saw?”

She nodded. “Did he say…?” She gestured. Had he mentioned her?

Charles smiled fondly; coming forward, he took her hands. “My dear, I’m sure everything will work out splendidly. Business kept him from calling earlier, and he must return to Lambourn immediately. He did say all that was proper.”

Francesca returned Charles’s smile with equal fondness. Her mind was all but spitting the word “proper.” Proper? There was nothing “proper” about what lay between them-“proper” was certainly not what she would settle for. Not once she was his wife.

But she pressed Charles’s hands and allowed him to believe all was well. Indeed, she wasn’t seriously worried.

Not after their interlude today.

After experiencing what had risen between them, flowed like a raging river through them, regardless of her betrothed’s insistence on the publicly cold-blooded approach, there was patently no need to worry.

A letter from Chillingworth’s mother arrived three days later. The Dowager Countess, Lady Elizabeth, wrote to welcome Francesca into the family with such transparent joy and goodwill that all qualms Francesca had harbored on that front were laid to rest.

“She says the rest of the family is delighted with the news…” Francesca shuffled the leaves of the lengthy letter. She was sitting on the window seat in the downstairs parlor; Franni was curled on the seat’s other end, clutching a cushion, her blue eyes wide. Ester listened from a nearby chair. “And she’s working on Chillingworth to allow her to extend the guest list, as the family’s such a far-flung one, and there are so many branches, etcetera.”

Francesca paused. That was not the first hint that Lady Elizabeth, while immensely pleased over the wedding, was not at one with her son over the details. As for the family members invited-the fact was there was only one family involved. She and Chillingworth were cousins, umpteen times removed perhaps, but that should make assembling the guest list easier. Shouldn’t it?

Setting aside the point, she continued, “She says the castle staff are busy opening up the wings and polishing everything, and that I may rely on her to see that all is just so. She suggests I write with any requests or questions, and assures me she’ll be delighted to advise in any way.”

Her tone signified “the end.” She refolded the letter.

Franni sighed. “It sounds wonderful! Don’t you think so, Aunt Ester?”

“I do, indeed.” Ester smiled. “Francesca will make a wonderful countess. But now we must think of a wedding gown.”

“Oh, yes!” Franni sat bolt upright. “The gown! Why-”

“I’m going to wear my mother’s wedding gown,” Francesca quickly said. Franni was given to overenthusiasms which sometimes turned difficult. “Something old and borrowed, you know.”

“Oh-yes.” Franni frowned.

“A very nice idea,” Ester said. “We must have Gilly up from the village and check that it fits.”

Franni had been mumbling. Now she lifted her head. “That leaves something new and blue.”

“Garters, perhaps?” Ester suggested.

Francesca nodded, grateful for the suggestion.

“Can we go into Lyndhurst and buy them tomorrow?” Franni fixed huge eyes on Ester’s face.

Ester glanced at Francesca. “I don’t see why not.”

“No, indeed. Tomorrow, then,” Francesca said.

“Good, good, good!” Franni leapt up and flung her arms wide. The cushion went tumbling. “Tomorrow morning! Tomorrow morning!” She waltzed around the room. “We’re going to get Francesca something new and blue tomorrow morning!” Reaching the open door, she waltzed through. “Papa! Did you hear? We’re going…”

Ester smiled as Franni’s voice died away. “I hope you don’t mind, dear, but you know how she is.”

“I don’t mind at all.” Shifting her gaze from the door to Ester’s face, Francesca lowered her voice. “Charles told me he was worried that Franni would become querulous once she realizes I’m leaving, but she seems quite happy.”

“To be truthful, dear, I don’t think Franni will realize you’re leaving-not coming back-until we return here without you. Things that are obvious to us often don’t occur to her at all, and then she’s upset by the surprise.”

Francesca nodded, although she had never truly understood Franni’s vagueness. “I’d intended to ask her to be bridesmaid, but Uncle Charles said no.” She’d shown her letter to her uncle first, and he’d been adamant on that point. “He said he wouldn’t even like to say Franni will be at the wedding-he said she might not wish to be there.”

Ester reached out and squeezed Francesca’s hand. “That has nothing to do with what she feels for you. But she might become frightened at the last minute and not want to appear. As bridesmaid, that really wouldn’t do.”

“I suppose not. Charles suggested that I ask Lady Elizabeth’s advice on who should stand with me-I don’t even know if Chillingworth has sisters.”

“Sisters, or close cousins of the bridegroom, given we have no one of suitable age on our side. Asking Lady Elizabeth would be wisest.”

Ester rose; Francesca did, too. She glanced at the letter in her hand. “I’ll write this afternoon.” She smiled as she recalled Lady Elizabeth’s warmth. “I have lots of questions, and she seems like the best person to ask.”

Despite Charles’s worry, Franni’s transparent happiness over Francesca’s wedding did not dim, although to everyone’s relief, her expressions of joy became less extreme. Franni’s temper remained sunny; engrossed though she was in the myriad preparations for her nuptials and her researches into her husband-to-be, his house and the estate, Francesca noted that with a certain happiness of her own. Charles, Ester, and Franni were now her family; she wanted them there, at her wedding, and as happy as she was.

When, four days before the wedding, they set out in the lumbering coach, Charles and Ester on one seat with Francesca and Franni facing them, Francesca was as excited as Franni and even more impatient. They would spend two days on the road, arriving at Lambourn Castle on the second day, two nights before the wedding as Chillingworth had stipulated. On that point he’d remained firm, unmoved by Lady Elizabeth’s pleas for more time before the wedding to become acquainted with her future daughter-in-law.

Lady Elizabeth hadn’t accepted his refusal with anything like good grace-Francesca had laughed at the diatribe the Dowager Countess had, in her next letter, heaped on her son’s head. After their first exchange of letters, correspondence between Lambourn Castle and Rawlings Hall had proliferated dramatically, letters crossing and recrossing. By the time Francesca left Rawlings Hall, she was almost as eager to meet her mother-in-law-to-be as she was to see her handsome fiance again.

The first day passed easily as the coach rocked its way north.

At noon on the second day, it started to rain.

Then it poured.

The road turned to mud. By late afternoon, the coach was crawling along. Heavy grey clouds had massed, then lowered; an unnatural twilight had descended, darkened further by the rain.

The coach rocked to a stop. Then it tilted, and they heard a splat as the coachman jumped down. He rapped on the door.

Charles opened it. “Yes?”

Barton stood in the road, the rain streaming off his oilskin, pouring off his hat. “Sorry, sir, but we’re a long ways away from Lambourn and we’re not going to be able to go much farther. The light’s going. Even if you was willing to risk the horses, we can’t see what muck we’d be driving into, so we’d bog for sure within a mile.”

Charles grimaced. “Is there somewhere we can take shelter, at least until the rain stops?”

“There’s an inn just up there.” Barton nodded to the left. “We can see it from the box. Looks neat enough, but it’s not a coaching inn. Other than that, we’re miles from any town.”

Charles hesitated, then nodded. “Take us to the inn. I’ll have a look and see if we can stop there.”

Barton shut the door. Charles sat back and looked at Francesca. “I’m sorry, my dear, but…”

Francesca managed a shrug. “At least we have a day’s grace. If the rain stops during the night, we’ll be able to reach Lambourn tomorrow.”

“Good God, yes!” Charles uttered a hollow laugh. “After all his planning, I wouldn’t want to have to face Chillingworth and explain why his bride had missed the wedding.”

Francesca grinned and patted Charles’s knee. “It’ll all come right-you’ll see.” For some reason, she felt confident of that.

The inn proved better than they’d hoped for, small but clean and very willing to cater to four unexpected guests and their servants. As the rain showed no sign of easing, they accepted their fate and settled in. The inn boasted three bedchambers. Charles took one, Ester another, while Francesca and Franni shared the largest with its canopied bed.

They gathered in the tap for a hearty meal, then retired to their rooms, agreeing on an early start the next morning, heartened by the prediction of the innwife’s father who assured them tomorrow would dawn fine. Reassured, Francesca settled in the big bed beside Franni and snuffed out the candle.

They’d left the curtains open; moonlight streamed in, broken by the shadows thrown by nearby trees.

After spending the day dozing in the coach, neither of them was sleepy. Francesca wasn’t surprised when Franni stirred, and asked, “Tell me about the castle.”

She’d already told her twice, but Franni liked stories, and the idea of Francesca living in a castle appealed to her. “Very well.” Francesca fixed her gaze on the dark canopy. “Lambourn Castle is centuries old. It sits on a bluff over a curve in the Lambourn River and guards the approach to the downs to the north. The village of Lambourn lies a little way along the river, tucked into the side of the downs. The castle has been modernized frequently and added on to as well, so it’s now quite large, but it still has battlements and twin towers at either end. It’s surrounded by a park filled with old oaks. The gatehouse is still standing and is now the Dower House. With formal gardens overlooking the river, the castle is one of the great houses of the district.”

She’d spent hours thumbing through guidebooks and books describing the country seats of peers, and she’d learned yet more from Lady Elizabeth. “Inside, the house is of the utmost elegance, and the views to the south are rated as spectacular. From the upper levels, there are also views north across Lambourn Downs. The downs are excellent for riding and are used for training racehorses.”

“You’ll like that,” Franni murmured.

Francesca smiled. She said nothing more, only to hear Franni prompt, “And the bit of land that you have in your dowry is going to make the earl’s estate look like one big pie again.”

“Indeed.” Franni had overheard enough to become curious, so she’d explained. “And that’s the reason for arranging our marriage.”

After a moment, Franni asked, “Do you think you’ll like being married to your earl?”

Francesca’s smile deepened. “Yes.”

“Good.” Franni sighed. “That’s good.”

Francesca closed her eyes, expecting that Franni would now settle. Her mind wandered… to Lambourn Downs, to riding a fleet-footed Arabian mare-

“I had a gentleman come to visit me-did I tell you?”

“Oh?” Wide-awake again, Francesca frowned. “When did he call?”

“Some weeks ago.”

Francesca hadn’t heard a word about any gentleman coming to visit Franni. That didn’t mean some gentleman hadn’t appeared. She considered her next question carefully; with Franni, one had to be specific, not general. “Was it before or after Chillingworth visited?”

She couldn’t see Franni’s face, but she could sense her struggling. “Sometime about then, I think.”

Franni wasn’t good with time; for her, one day was much like another. Before Francesca could think of her next question, Franni wriggled around to face her. “When Chillingworth asked you to marry him, did he kiss you?”

Francesca hesitated. “I didn’t meet him formally. The marriage was arranged through your father-he’s my guardian.”

“You mean you haven’t even met Chillingworth?”

“We met informally. We discussed a few details-”

“But did he kiss you?”

Francesca hesitated some more. “Yes,” she eventually replied.

“What was it like?”

The eagerness in Franni’s voice was impossible to mistake. If she didn’t appease it, Francesca knew she’d get precious little sleep. The kisses she’d shared with her husband-to-be remained fresh in her mind; it took only a moment to decide which interlude to describe. “He kissed me in the orchard. He stopped me from falling and claimed a kiss as a reward.”

“And? What did it feel like?”

“He’s very strong. Powerful. Masterful…” The words were enough to evoke the memory and send recollected sensation sweeping through her, sweeping her away-

“But was it nice?”

Francesca stifled a frustrated sigh. “It was better than nice.”

“Good.”

She felt Franni rocking herself happily and had to ask, “This gentleman who called, did he try to kiss you?”

“Oh, no. He was very proper. But he walked with me and listened to me very politely, so I expect he’s thinking of making an offer.”

“He called just once some weeks ago-”

“Twice. He came back after the first time. So that must mean he’s taken with me, don’t you think?”

Francesca didn’t know what to think. “Did he tell you his name?” She felt Franni nod. “What was it, Franni?”

Franni shook her head. She had a pillow clutched to her middle, and she hugged it almost gleefully. “You have your Chillingworth, and I have my gentleman. That’s nice, don’t you think?”

Francesca hesitated, then reached out and patted Franni’s arm. “Very nice.” She knew better than to press Franni once she’d said “no.” That was one word Franni never shifted from; any pressure would only provoke enormous and sometimes hysterical resistance.

To Francesca’s relief, Franni settled, sighed, then snuggled deeper under the covers. A minute later, she was asleep.

Francesca lay staring up at the canopy, and wondered what to do. Had some gentleman called on Franni-or had she imagined it, a reaction to Chillingworth calling on her? That was possible. Franni didn’t lie, not deliberately, but her version of the truth often diverged from reality. Like the time she swore they’d been held up by highwaymen, when all that had happened was that Squire Muckleridge had hailed them as they drove past.

What Franni said happened and what really had happened weren’t necessarily the same thing. Francesca considered the little Franni had let fall-there was no way of telling if it was truth or fantasy.

Despite Franni’s sometimes childlike behavior, in age there was only a month between them. In looks, in physical maturity, they were equals. By all outward appearances, Franni passed for a young gentlewoman. In the right setting with the right subject, she could converse perfectly rationally as long as her interlocutor did not switch subjects quickly or ask a question beyond Franni’s ken. If her train of thought was broken, her vagueness quickly became apparent, but if it wasn’t triggered, then there was nothing to disturb the image of a quiet, unassuming young lady.

Francesca knew there was something amiss with Franni, that her vagueness and retreat into childish ways was not a condition that was improving with time. Charles and Ester’s care and concern underscored the truth, but Francesca had never asked, never forced either Charles or Ester to acknowledge that truth by explaining it to her.

That Franni’s condition was a source of pain and sorrow to both Charles and Ester was something Francesca knew without asking; she strove to do nothing to add to that pain. So she considered carefully what Franni had said, considered whether and how much she should tell Charles.

Not Charles, she eventually decided. A gentleman might not understand a lonely girl’s dreams. Francesca had dreamed enough in her time; Franni’s gentleman might live only in Franni’s mind.

Turning onto her side, Francesca snuggled down. Tomorrow she’d warn Ester-just in case Franni’s gentleman had, in fact, been real.

Decision made, she relaxed and let her mind drift. Like a slow, inexorable tide, the emotions that had swept her earlier returned, inching up, then pooling inside, a well of impatient longing.

She’d waited for him for years; at his insistence, she’d waited four weeks more. Soon, it would be her wedding night. She’d wait no more.

Her dreams were ones of passion, of longing and love, of a love so deep, so enduring, it would never wane.

Morning came and she rose, restless, oddly breathless, more impatient than she’d ever been. She dressed and went downstairs. She joined the innwife’s old father as he stood in the open doorway.

He glanced at her, then nodded outside. “Told you. It’s cleared and gone. You’ll get to your wedding on time, young mistress.”