All About Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Will Franni wake soon?” she asked as the last footman stepped back.

  “I hope so.”

  “I’d like to talk to her before you leave.”

  Charles smiled. “Of course. I’m sure she won’t want to leave without at least saying good-bye.”

  Good-byes weren’t what Francesca had in mind, but she was distracted by Lord Walpole—Horace as he’d insisted she call him. He stopped beside her and patted her shoulder.

  “My dear Francesca, you look radiant. Nothing like marriage to put a glow in a young lady’s eyes, I always say.”

  “Sit down, Horace, and stop trying to make the girl blush.” Coming up beside him, Henni poked him in the ribs, prodding him along the table. She smiled at Francesca. “Don’t mind him. Old reprobates are the worst.”

  Francesca smiled back. Turning, she discovered she’d missed Ester’s entrance. As she sank into a chair two places along from Charles, Ester caught her eye and smiled.

  “Franni?” Francesca mouthed.

  “Still sleeping,” Ester mouthed back.

  Francesca poured a cup of tea for Ester, then turned to the ancient cousin seated on her other side. Hostessly matters kept her busy for some time, then Charles laid a hand on her sleeve.

  “My dear, we plan to leave in two hours—before luncheon. I hope you know I have every confidence in your abilities, and in your marriage, else I would never be retreating in such fashion. But I can see you’re in good hands.” His smiling nod referred not just to Chillingworth but also to Lady Elizabeth and Henni. “I feel I can leave you with a clear conscience.”

  “Oh, indeed.” Francesca squeezed his hand. “I’m content.”

  “Good.” Charles closed his hand over hers. “We’ve decided to travel on to Bath. It’s possible the waters might help Franni. Given we’re already on the road, so to speak, we thought to take her there.”

  “She seemed to enjoy riding in the coach.”

  “More so than I’d expected. It’s an opportunity too good to miss, but I want to make a good start, so we’ll be saying farewell soon.”

  Francesca returned the pressure of his fingers. “I’ll be there to wave you on your way.”

  “As the Countess of Chillingworth.” Releasing her hand, Charles rose.

  Francesca smiled briefly; her smile faded as she glanced at the figure at the table’s end. “Indeed.”

  Charles’s words proved prophetic—“Good-bye” was all Franni was able to say. To mumble. When they helped her down the great staircase, Ester on one side, Charles on the other, Franni was still so drugged it was all she could do to focus on Francesca’s face.

  Any hope Francesca had of ascertaining what it was that had overset Franni was doomed.

  She was forced to smile, exchange hugs and good wishes, and push her concern over what Franni might have imagined into the background. Chillingworth was there, shaking hands with Charles, charming Ester—bowing very correctly over Franni’s hand. Franni smiled dazedly—there was no sign that she was in any way conscious of him other than as a handsome gentleman who was now Francesca’s husband.

  As they stood on the porch to wave the travelers away, Francesca caught Gyles’s eye. The coachman gave his horses the office; the coach lurched, then rolled away. Flanked by Lady Elizabeth and Henni, they waved. Ester waved back. Another small white hand poked out of the other window and floppily waved, too.

  “Just overexcited.”

  Francesca heard Gyles’s murmur. “So it seems.”

  The rest of the company assembled for luncheon, a light meal designed for geriatric stomachs about to travel. Lady Elizabeth and Francesca had put their heads together and come up with a selection of dishes which, by the eagerness with which they were greeted, had fitted the bill.

  The early afternoon was filled with departures, a steady stream of well-dressed old ladies and garrulous gentlemen passing through the front hall, picking their way past mountains of luggage and footmen struggling with trunks and bandboxes.

  At four, the last carriage rumbled away. There were five of them standing on the porch when the carriage rounded the curve in the drive and disappeared from sight. Five pairs of shoulders sagged.

  Gyles was the first to straighten and break formation. “I need to ride down to the bridge and check how the work’s faring.” His comment was general, but his gaze met Francesca’s, quickly searched her face.

  She nodded. “Of course.” She hesitated, then added, “We’ll see you at dinner.”

  With a nod, he went down the steps, then strode toward the stables.

  Horace turned inside. “I’m going to have a nap in the library.”

  “I’ll wake you for dinner,” Henni dryly replied.

  Francesca grinned, as did Lady Elizabeth. They followed the others into the hall.

  “I think we deserve a soothing cup of tea.” Lady Elizabeth raised a brow at Francesca.

  She went to gesture to the drawing room, then caught herself. “The back parlor?”

  Lady Elizabeth smiled. “Yes, dear.”

  Francesca glanced around. “Wallace?”

  “Ma’am?” The dapper little man stepped out of the shadows.

  “Tea, please. In the back parlor.”

  “At once, ma’am.”

  “And check if Lord Walpole needs anything.”

  “Indeed, ma’am.”

  Together with Lady Elizabeth and Henni, Francesca strolled to the back parlor, the room the family used when free of social company. Although elegant as were all the rooms Francesca had thus far seen, the back parlor was furnished with an eye to comfort rather than style. Some of the pieces were quite old, woodwork lovingly polished to a lustrous hue, cushions showing the indentations of age.

  With identical sighs, Lady Elizabeth and Henni sank into what was clearly their accustomed chairs, then Lady Elizabeth’s eyes flew wide. She started to rise. “My dear, I should have asked—”

  “No, no!” Waving her back, Francesca crossed to a daybed. “This is more my style.” Sitting, she swung her legs up and relaxed against the puffy pillows.

  “Very wise,” Henni said with a grin. “No sense in not getting what rest you can.”

  Francesca blushed.

  Wallace brought in the tea tray and placed it on a small table before Francesca. She poured, and he handed the cups around, then she dismissed him with a smile and a gracious word. He bowed and departed.

  “Hmm.” Henni eyed the door through which Wallace had gone. “He’s a cagey one, but I think he likes you.”

  Francesca said nothing, aware that gaining the approval and thus support of her large staff would be essential to maintaining a smoothly running household.

  Lady Elizabeth set aside her cup. “I can’t see that you’ll face any difficulties. Wallace will be the hardest to win over, but if he’d taken you in aversion, we’d have seen the signs. The rest are very manageable, and Lord knows, you’ll be able to cope with Ferdinand much better than I.”

  “Ferdinand?”

  “Gyles’s chef. He travels between London and Lambourn, wherever Gyles is in residence. Ferdinand’s Italian, and on occasion reverts to his native tongue.” Lady Elizabeth shook her head. “I can rarely keep up with him. I just let him rave until he runs down, then I start again in English wherever I left off. Speaking Italian as you do, you’ll be able to deal with him directly.”

  Francesca leaned back. “Who else should I know about?”

  “All the others are locals. You met Mrs. Cantle briefly yesterday.”

  Francesca nodded, remembering the very correct, black-garbed housekeeper.

  “I’ll take you over the house and introduce you to everyone tomorrow morning. We all need to sit and catch our breath today, but tomorrow everyone will be eager to meet you, and as we’ll be leaving later in the day, we’d best set the morning aside for ‘the grand tour.’ “

  “Leaving?” Francesca stared, first at Lady Elizabeth, then at Henni; both nodded. “If Gyles has asked—”


  “No, no!” Lady Elizabeth assured her. “This is entirely my idea, dear. Gyles would never dream of giving me my marching orders.”

  Henni snorted. “I’d like to see him try. But we’re only going to the Dower House—it’s just across the park.”

  “You can easily visit—come anytime.” Lady Elizabeth gestured. “We’ll be there, like as not.”

  “What she means,” Henni said, “is that we’d be only too happy to hear the latest, whenever you have anything you’d like to share.”

  Francesca smiled at the older ladies’ hopeful expressions. “I’ll visit often.”

  “Good.” Lady Elizabeth sat back. Henni sipped her tea.

  Francesca relaxed into the daybed’s cushions, touched, somewhat relieved. Just a little comforted.

  She’d been feeling a little betrayed. By Chillingworth, although she couldn’t justify that, at least not in words; from the first, he’d made his position clear and, despite all her hopes, he hadn’t altered his stance. Not in the least. She’d felt more betrayed by Lady Elizabeth. The Dowager Countess had seemed so kind, so . . . like-minded. She’d written so warmly, so openheartedly and with such welcome, that Francesca had, at first unconsciously, then rather too consciously, started to weave dreams.

  Letting her head fall back against the cushions, she let her mind touch on that—her dream, the most central of her dreams, the dream that now would not be—for the first time since descending from the tower.

  Sometime later, at the edge of her vision, she saw Lady Elizabeth stir, saw the dowager exchange a questioning, concerned look with Henni. Lifting her head, Francesca looked down and saw her knuckles white about the teacup’s handle. She’d relaxed, and her mask had slipped. She eased her grip.

  Lady Elizabeth cleared her throat. “My dear”—her voice was very gentle—“you seem rather . . . fragile. Is anything amiss?”

  Summoning a polite smile, Francesca briefly met their worried gazes. “I’m just a bit tired.” She wasn’t; she was disappointed. The realization prodded. If she wanted to understand her husband . . . and neither Lady Elizabeth nor Henni deserved her prevarications. Lips firming, she looked at them. “Pray excuse me, but I feel I have to ask. Did you know Gyles wanted, still wants, a marriage of convenience?”

  Henni choked, then spluttered.

  Lady Elizabeth’s eyes grew round, then rounder. “What?” she demanded, her tone rising. Then she recollected herself and in more dowagerish tones stated, “What utter nonsense. Where did you hear that?”

  “From him.”

  Henni waved a hand to attract her sister-in-law’s attention. “Horace mentioned something about that last night,” she wheezed. “About Gyles organizing his marriage of convenience, and how it was all a hum.”

  “But that’s ridiculous! Marriage of convenience, indeed!” Two spots of color flew in Lady Elizabeth’s cheeks. Francesca had no doubt that had her errant son walked in at that moment, he would have been severely taken to task. Then Lady Elizabeth looked at Henni. “But you said it was all a hum?”

  “Horace said it was a hum. Easy enough to see why he’d think so. But as to what Gyles thinks, I suspect Francesca would know better than Horace.”

  “We discussed it this morning,” Francesca said. “He’s adamant it be so.”

  Lady Elizabeth waved commandingly. “Tell me. If I’ve raised a son ignorant enough to go that route, I deserve to know about it.”

  Adhering faithfully to his words, Francesca repeated Gyles’s specifications for their marriage. She omitted all mention of his mistake—that was strictly between them. Lady Elizabeth and Henni hung on her every word. When she concluded her recitation, they exchanged looks, eyes bright, lips pressed tight, then, to Francesca’s amazement, they both burst out laughing.

  She stared at them in astonishment.

  “Pray excuse us, my dear,” Lady Elizabeth gasped. “Rest assured, we’re not laughing at you.”

  “Or at your situation,” Henni added, mopping her eyes.

  “No, indeed.” With an effort, Lady Elizabeth composed herself. “It’s just that . . . well, dear, the way he looks at you—”

  “Watches you,” Henni corrected.

  “Indeed. Regardless of what he says, regardless of what he thinks . . .” Lady Elizabeth gestured, watching Francesca hopefully, then grimaced. “Drat the boy! How could he be so arrogantly stupid?”

  “He’s male.” Henni finished her tea.

  “True.” Lady Elizabeth sighed. “They’re all the same, I fear. Utterly befuddled when they find they must deal with a woman.”

  Francesca frowned. “Are you saying that, regardless of his . . . professed intent, that it might not be . . . ?”

  “What we’re saying is that there’s no need to suppose he’s any different. Stubborn as a mule, I’ll grant you, but he’ll eventually see the light. They all do, you know. No need to lose hope.”

  “Sleep you might lose.” Henni grinned at her. “But consider it an investment. Mind you,” she added, setting aside her cup, “I wouldn’t try to argue with him over it. That’ll only get his back up and, knowing Gyles, he’ll become even more intractable.”

  Lady Elizabeth nodded. “Just leave him to it, and he’ll come around. You’ll see.”

  Unsettled, Francesca considered—them and their words. They undoubtedly knew her husband better than she, yet the sudden blossoming of hope from what she was forced, by the very contrast, to recognize as despair, left her uneasy. What if they were wrong?

  She sank back against the daybed’s cushions. “Tell me about him—about his childhood, what he was like.”

  “He was born and brought up here,” Lady Elizabeth promptly replied. “He was a happy boy—not too good and too clever by half, but a likable, affectionate lad.” From her tone, the dowager was slipping back into her memories; Francesca kept silent and followed. “He was our only child, sadly, but he was forever up to all the usual tricks—”

  She listened as Lady Elizabeth painted a picture of an innocent, carefree boy Francesca had certainly not recognized in the man. Then a cloud passed over Lady Elizabeth’s face, and she faltered. “Then Gerald died.”

  “His father?” Francesca gently prompted.

  Lady Elizabeth nodded, then flashed her a teary smile. “I’m sorry, my dear, but it still affects me.” Pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve, she waved it. “It was so very unexpected—”

  “A riding accident.” Gruffly, Henni took up the tale. “Gerald was in perfect health—no one would have imagined anything could harm him. He was out riding with Gyles when it happened. Gerald’s horse stumbled badly and Gerald fell and cracked his head on a rock. He never recovered consciousness. He passed away five days later.”

  The room fell silent. Francesca could almost feel, across the distance of time, the shock such a death must have been, especially in the bosom of such a privileged family. After a moment, she asked, “Gyles?”

  “He came riding in with the news. I can still remember his little white face—he was seven at the time. He raced in, crying, but he told us where and what had happened. . . .” Lady Elizabeth glanced at Henni. “I was so distraught, afterward . . .”

  “We came at once,” Henni said. “We didn’t live here then, although we have ever since. I stayed with Elizabeth most of the time—it was a huge shock to us all. Gerald was so strong . . . but, well, it fell to Horace to take Gyles under his wing, which he did.”

  “Gyles was devasted,” Lady Elizabeth continued. “He adored Gerald—they were extremely close. Gyles was Gerald’s only child and heir, but more than that, they shared many pursuits—riding, shooting, that sort of thing.”

  “I remember,” Henni said, “when we drove up in a lather, Gyles met us in the hall. He was so shocked yet contained—so obviously cut up and quivering inside. Horace stayed with him.”

  Lady Elizabeth sighed. “It was a dreadful time, but Gyles was never any trouble. Indeed, he was very quiet, as I remember.”

>   “You know,” Henni said, her gaze fixed in the past, “I don’t believe I ever saw Gyles cry, not even at the funeral.”

  “He didn’t,” Elizabeth said. “I mentioned it to Horace after the funeral, and he said Gyles had behaved very properly, stiff upper lip and all that. Just how he should have behaved now he was Chillingworth, and head of the family and so on.” She sniffed. “I would much rather he had cried—he was only seven, after all—but you know how men are.”

  “Gyles was remarkably quiet afterward, but then it was time for him to go up to Eton. That seemed to bring him out of his shell.”

  “Indeed.” Lady Elizabeth shook out her skirt. “He fell in with Devil Cynster and that brood, and from then on, well, it really was just the usual things—going up to Oxford, then onto the town.”

  “And then all the rest of it.” Henni gestured dismissively. “But you needn’t bother your head on that score. Remarkably faithful, all the Rawlings men, no matter how they might behave before they front the altar.”

  “Very true,” Lady Elizabeth confirmed. “Which brings us back to where we started and this nonsense of Gyles’s marriage of convenience.” She uttered the phrase with highbred contempt. “The truth, my dear, is that he might say it, he might even think he believes it, but it’s so utterly contrary to his nature, he’ll never be able to live the fiction for long.”

  Henni snorted. “I’ll second that. It’s going to be quite entertaining watching him trying to force himself to toe such a ridiculous line.”

  “Yes, but we won’t, unfortunately, see it firsthand.” Lady Elizabeth focused consideringly on Francesca. “This news makes me even more determined to remove to the Dower House with all possible dispatch.”

  Francesca returned her gaze. “Why?”

  “So that the only person Gyles will share this great house with—the only companion he will have here—will be you. He needs time with you without distraction, enough to come to his senses.” Lady Elizabeth stood, her grey eyes stern. “And the sooner he does that, the better.”