Chapter 9
Lady Elizabeth and Henni retired for a nap before dinner. Francesca retired to her bedchamber, too, but was too restless to lie down.
Hope was welling within her; she wasn’t sure it was wise to let it rise again. She had before, ignoring his specific declarations, purely on the grounds of her intuitive sense of him. He’d told her she was wrong.
She had no guarantee that his mother’s and aunt’s understanding of him was accurate, not now he was a man.
Yet she couldn’t help hoping.
Shaking her head, she scanned her surroundings, searching for distraction. Beyond her window, she saw the stable block just visible through the trees.
Ten minutes later, she entered the stable.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Francesca smiled at the bowlegged man who came hurrying up. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Jacobs, ma’am.” He doffed his cloth cap. “I’m head stableman here.” His gaze raked the stalls. “In charge of all these beauties.”
“Beauties, indeed. I’m after the mare.”
“The Arab? Aye, she’s a darling. The master mentioned she was yours. I’ll fetch a saddle and bridle.”
While he saddled the mare, Francesca crooned sweet nothings, idly stroking the mare’s velvet nose. Then she was up in the saddle and trotting out. As she left the stable yard, she was conscious of Jacobs’s gaze on her back, but he seemed satisfied she knew what she was doing.
She also knew where she was going.
Although it was September, the evenings were still long, long enough for a ride before dressing for dinner. Cantering toward the escarpment and the angled track that led up to the downs, Francesca surveyed the neat fields, already harvested, in which cattle had been turned loose to graze. Fields and fences, the meadows by the river, all appeared quietly prosperous. She reached the track; the mare eagerly bounded up.
“You haven’t got a name, have you, my beauty?”
They burst onto the downs. The mare tossed her head. For some time, Francesca just rode, enjoying the sheer exhilaration of speed. She let her thoughts slide, left them in abeyance, and gave herself up to the moment.
She retraced her direction of two nights before, as well as she could remember it.
She saw him—and he saw her—while there was still some distance between them. She rode on, then sent the mare in a wide, wheeling arc, dropping in to pace beside his grey. He didn’t slow, but kept on at an easy canter.
Their gazes touched, held, then his lifted—to her cap, with its jaunty plume. She looked ahead; a moment passed, then he did, too. By mutual consent, they rode through the last of the day in an oddly companionable silence.
As they neared the escarpment, the ground broke up. She slowed and let him lead. As he went forward, she glanced at his face, all hard angles and granite impassivity, and tried to imagine the young boy who’d seen his father thrown and left dying. Tried to imagine the panic, and the wrenching emotion in the decision to leave and ride for help. Not easy at any age, but at seven? The incident couldn’t have passed and left no mark. It hadn’t dulled his love of riding, but what other scars did he possess?
They started down the track, the mare behind the grey. Her gaze on his swaying shoulders, drinking in the controlled strength in every line of his large body, Francesca considered—him. Them. Their marriage.
Earlier, she’d been on the verge of casting her dream of finding enduring love within their marriage from the castle’s parapet. Now . . .
The evening was drawing in. They cantered through the lengthening shadows and into the stable yard. Jacobs came running. She handed him the mare’s reins, then wriggled her boots from the stirrups. Turning to slide from the saddle, she discovered Gyles already there. He reached up, closed his hands about her waist, and lifted her down.
The mare chose that moment to shift, nudging Francesca’s back, pushing her into Gyles.
His grip firmed, his fingers sank deeper. His gaze shifted to her face; she sensed the sudden focusing of his attention. She lifted her head and met his gaze. Their faces were close. She read his eyes, saw desire in the grey, and was about to lift her face to invite his kiss—when hooves clinked and the horses screening them ambled away.
“I’ll get them settled,” Jacobs called back.
Gyles released her. “Yes. Good night.”
Francesca echoed the sentiment, then glanced at Gyles. He gestured to the house; she fell in beside him. Although fully clothed, encased in heavy velvet, she felt his nearness like silk caressing naked flesh.
She lifted her head as they stepped into the yew walk. “The mare—does she have a name?”
After a moment, he answered, “I’d thought to leave that to you.”
Not to his wife, but the woman he’d thought she’d been. Francesca ignored the point, even though she knew it was echoing in his mind. “She’s quite regal in her bearing—I thought perhaps Regina would suit.”
“A queen.” He nodded. “It fits.”
Francesca glanced at his face; in the half-light his expression was unreadable. She pressed her palms together. Tight. “I do thank you for the mare.” She gestured. “It was a very kind thought.”
Regardless of his mistake.
They kept strolling; she felt his gaze touch her face but didn’t meet it. Then he shrugged. “It seemed the least I could do if I was going to stop you riding hunters.”
Charles’s hunters, so he’d thought, not his.
She glanced up and their eyes met. Briefly.
She looked ahead and said nothing more.
He did the same.
The house loomed before them; he led her to a door. He held it open and she entered; he followed. Francesca stopped, enveloped in sudden gloom, unsure of where they were.
Gyles walked into her.
His strength wrapped around her as he steadied her against him—awareness flared, then raced, prickling over her skin. Heat followed.
For an instant, they stood locked together in the deepening gloom. Neither moved; neither spoke.
She knew his thoughts. Knew he knew hers.
His chest expanded as he drew in a breath, then, stiffly, he stepped back. He waved her on. “Straight ahead.” His voice had deepened. “This will bring us to the stairs.”
She stepped out; he fell in beside her. They strolled along the wide corridor. “Has work on the bridge progressed?”
“Reasonably.” He paused, then added, “We’ll need to get more lumber, bigger beams to better support the trusses. That’ll take a week or so, and the ground’s too sodden at present. . . .”
He kept talking as they climbed the stairs, then crossed into the wing they shared. They halted outside her door.
Their eyes met; their gazes held. Silence fell.
She wished she knew what he was thinking, what he saw when he looked at her. The only truth she could read in his eyes was that last night had in no way diminished his desire for her.
Nor her desire for him.
But last night had changed things between them in ways beyond the obvious. In subtle, fundamental, fateful ways.
They both knew it, sensed it. In a sudden instant of clarity, she realized he was as much at sea with what was now between them as she was.
He breathed in, then inclined his head and stepped away. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
She nodded, then drew her gaze from his and entered her room.
“No—not that gown, the one with the green stripes.”
While Millie ran back to the armoire, Francesca sat before her dressing table and examined her reflection in the mirror. The steam from her bath had set her hair curling wildly. She’d worn it down for the wedding, and half up through the day. . . .
Reaching back, she gathered the mass and twisted, then groped for a handful of pins.
Returning with the required gown, Millie stopped and stared. “Oooh, ma’am—you do look smashing!”
Pins clamped
between her lips, Francesca said nothing. Once her hair was secured, she stood and let Millie help her into the gown. As it sheathed her in soft silk, she suppressed a shiver.
And wondered what she was doing—very likely riding hell-bent for a fall. There was nothing to say that she could soften his heart by going to such lengths with her appearance. He was an experienced rake, used to dallying with the most beautiful of London’s ladies. Her birth might be on a par with his, but by London standards she was, and would remain until proven otherwise, a provincial. Not one of the gilded circle.
Her person, however, was exceedingly attractive to male senses—that was one point on which she felt supremely confident. Her mother had raised her to appreciate and make the most of all God had given her.
And she wasn’t going to relinquish her dream without a fight.
Drawing in a breath, she turned to her cheval mirror. Swiveling, she surveyed the effect of the inch-wide stripes running vertically down the gown. She’d never worn the gown before—she’d been saving it. Styled in Italy, the gown had been expertly cut to showcase her figure.
Judging by Millie’s open mouth and platter-sized eyes, the gown succeeded in its purpose.
No jewelry or shawl, Francesca decided—nothing to detract from the effect. Satisfied, she headed for the door.
They foregathered in the family parlor. Lady Elizabeth’s eyes lit the instant she saw her. Henni chuckled. Gyles, however, was not there to witness her entrance. He appeared in the doorway just ahead of Irving.
Francesca smiled and rose, silks softly rustling. Gyles crossed to where they were gathered before the fireplace. His gaze swiftly scanned her from head to toe—then back again. Then his eyes met hers, and she wished that Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace had already transferred to the Dower House, and there was just the two of them, alone.
He concealed his reaction admirably, but his eyes gave him away. He took the hand she offered, bowed, then tucked it in the crook of his elbow. “Come.” His glance gathered his mother, aunt, and uncle. “We’d better go in, or Ferdinand’ll have fits.”
He led her into the smaller dining room the family used when alone. Even so, the table without any leaves could seat ten, and tradition dictated she sit at one end and he at the other. He led her to her seat. His fingers brushed the bare skin of her inner forearm as he released her; she fought to suppress a shiver, fought to keep the heat from her eyes. He hesitated; she felt his gaze touch her cheek, then sweep over the expanse of her breasts revealed by the gown, then he straightened and continued along the table. Horace had given both Henni and Elizabeth an arm; they all sat, and Irving signaled the footmen to serve.
The conversation, thanks largely to Lady Elizabeth and Henni, with Horace, all unknowing, roped in, remained general and animated, perfect cover for the wordless communication between Francesca and Gyles that persisted throughout the meal.
An unimpeded view of each other was the only benefit of their relative positions. They were too far apart to read each other’s eyes, and in public, neither he nor she was willing to allow their expressions to reveal too much. Their silent discussion, albeit conducted in the presence of others, was intensely personal. Totally private.
And extremely unsettling.
By the time she laid aside her napkin and, with a smile for Irving, stood, Francesca was not at all sure she could disguise her reaction if Gyles laid his hand on her bare arm. Having denied any wish for port, he rose, as did Horace; she was conscious of Gyles prowling close behind her, his gaze on her, as they left the room.
They congregated in the corridor.
As hostess, Francesca gestured toward the family parlor, her gaze gathering the dowager and Henni, then she glanced at her husband and raised a questioning brow.
He met her gaze, and she felt heat flare, felt the tension coiled inside her increase.
Then he glanced at Horace. “The library?”
“Where else?” Horace set off in that direction.
With a nod for his mother and aunt, and a last look and an abbreviated bow for Francesca, Gyles followed.
Lady Elizabeth and Henni waited until the door to the family parlor closed behind them before they started cackling.
Francesca blushed, but could hardly deny what they’d seen.
She left them early. Glancing up from the cribbage board, they only smiled and murmured their good-nights, then went back to their game. Francesca climbed the stairs. And wondered how long she’d have to wait before Gyles quit the library and came to her.
Gyles was leaning against the connecting door to Francesca’s bedchamber, his gaze fixed unseeing on the darkness beyond his windows, when he heard the main door to her room open, heard her quick step. Heard the scurrying patter as her maid rushed to help her undress. Imagined the rest.
Then the door opened and closed again. The maid’s light footsteps faded away. Gyles waited, giving her a moment to collect her thoughts. . . .
He didn’t want to examine his. He kept them from him as he waited. When the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece grew too mocking, he pushed away from the door, opened it, and went in.
She was standing before the long windows to one side of the bed. She half turned as he entered; through the shadows, their gazes touched.
There was no lamp burning, yet there was lingering light enough to see—the ivory-satin robe she wore, to note how, fashioned in the form of a Greco-Roman dress, it draped and concealed her body. Enough light to see the invitation in her stance, to sense the acceptance behind it.
She watched him as he neared. He let his gaze drift over her, and wondered how many such gowns she possessed, how many different facets of Aphrodite she could project.
He stopped by her side, facing her as she stood draped in satin and shadow. Their gazes met, held. There was no need for words, for reasons—the desire that flared between them was real and strong, and in this arena all the justification either of them required.
That simple—and he couldn’t begin to explain how grateful he was. Didn’t want to think why that was so.
He reached for her, his hands sliding over the satin to find and fasten about her waist, drawing her to him as he lowered his head. Their lips touched, brushed, then fused, but they both held the heat at bay, content to savor the approaching prospect, and all the steps along the way.
He drew back from the kiss, raised his head—and felt the sash at his waist release. She opened his robe, then pushed it back over his shoulders—he obliged and let it fall to the floor. Lips curved, she splayed her hands over his chest, touching, exploring, with a greed both overt and refined.
He would have smiled but couldn’t. “Are you always so direct?”
His voice was a gravelly rumble. She glanced up, her eyes dark pools of emerald clouded by desire. “Usually.”
Palms to his chest, she searched his eyes, his face. Then, hands sliding, fingers gripping, she pressed closer, her face tilted to his. “You like it.”
A statement. He reached for the twin clips, one at each shoulder, that anchored her gown. “Yes.”
The clips clicked and she stilled, then looked down as the gown slithered over her body to pool about her feet. She stood still and naked before him, then she angled her head and looked up at him from beneath her lashes.
He felt her glance but didn’t meet it. His attention was riveted on her curves, pale skin kissed by the fading light. On the contrast provided by the wild tumble of her hair, black as a raven’s wing, and the dark curls at the base of her stomach. A contrast of color, and of textures—he lifted one long strand of hair and let it slide through his fingers. Light silk, while her skin felt more like soft satin.
The thought sent his hand reaching for her waist. He lifted his gaze to her face, found her eyes, then her lips. Recalled the luscious pliant softness of those full lips beneath his, of her body beneath his.
She came to him, offering both with a simple confidence that slew him. Enslaved him. He drew her against him and
their lips met, then melded. Her hands slid sensuously upward, from his waist up over his chest, then she wound her arms about his neck and pressed herself to him.
He ravished her mouth, a prelude to the ravishment to come, to the ultimate pleasuring of their senses.
She met him and matched him and urged him on.
He let his hands roam, greedily tracing, possessing her curves, then he lifted her in his arms. Two steps had him by the bed. He laid her down, then stripped off his silk sleeping trousers and joined her. She welcomed him with open arms and a passion to match his.
They were driven, yet determined not to hurry, urgent yet unwilling to rush. Her fascination with his body was unfeigned; he let her have her way—let her press him to the bed and straddle his waist the better to skate her hands over him, then duck and glide her breasts across his chest.
He couldn’t help wondering . . .
“Did that come from watching your parents?”
Her eyes found his in the warm gloom. “No—not that. That I just . . . made up.”
He curled his hands about the smooth hemispheres of her bottom and kneaded. “I’ll make a bargain with you—you can invent as you wish but don’t tell me what you’re replaying from memory.”
She paused, then leaned her arms on his chest and lowered her breasts until skin met skin, bringing her face closer to his. She studied his eyes, serious but unconcerned—curious. “Didn’t you ever watch your parents?”
“Good God, no!”
She chuckled, the smoky sound the epitome of wickedness, lying naked in the dark as they were. Ducking her head, she put out her tongue and lingeringly traced his collarbone. “You’ve led a sheltered life, my lord.”
The touch and her purr poured heat through his veins. Closing his hands, he shifted her hips, then held her steady as, with his aching erection, he probed the slick swollen flesh between her thighs.
“Despite my sheltered life—” He broke off as he found her entrance and pressed in, past the constriction and into her hot sheath. Her gasp feathered across his chest; he felt the instinctive resistance of her body and stopped, waited. “Despite my conservative background”—despite being one of the most successful rakes in the ton—“I believe there are still a few things I could teach you.”
All About Passion Page 17
