All About Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  He glanced down and found her eyes. He couldn’t see their expression, yet he could sense hers, feel her simple honesty when she murmured, “I’m very willing to learn.”

  Their gazes held. He could feel her heart beating, in her breast, in the soft heat of her sheath. Grasping her hips, he held her down and eased farther into her, inch by deliberate inch, slowly filling her until she was full, until he was seated deeply within her. All the while he watched her eyes, watched them darken, cloud, until, at the last, her lids lowered and hid them.

  He felt to his marrow the soft sigh that shuddered through her, the melting of her body about his. He ducked his head and she raised hers; their lips met, and nothing else mattered beyond what was between them.

  Beyond the passion, the desire—and the driving need that fanned them.

  It wasn’t such a bad basis for a marriage.

  * * *

  “Get out!”

  Francesca woke to Gyles’s clipped accents. Pushing the covers from her face, she peeked out—in time to see her bedroom door closing. Bemused, she turned to Gyles, slumped large, hot, hard—and very naked—beside her. “What . . . ?”

  “What’s your maid’s name?”

  “Millie.”

  “You need to instruct Millie not to come to your room in the morning until you ring for her.”

  “Why?”

  Turning his head on the pillow, he looked at her, then started softly laughing. His mirth rocked her in the bed. His expression still amused, he turned on his side and reached for her. “I take it,” he said, “you never watched your parents in the mornings.”

  “No, of course not. Why . . .” Francesca broke off as she studied his eyes. Then she licked her lips and looked at his. “The morning?”

  “Hmm,” he said, and drew her against him.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, it won’t happen again, I swear—”

  “It’s all right, Millie. It was my oversight—I should have mentioned. We’ll say no more about it.” Francesca hoped she wasn’t blushing. She hadn’t mentioned because she hadn’t imagined . . . Looking away from Millie, who was still wringing her hands, she straightened her morning gown. “Now, I’m ready. Please tell Mrs. Cantle I wish to see her in the family parlor at ten.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Still subdued, Millie bobbed a curtsy.

  Francesca headed for the door. And the breakfast parlor. Sustenance. Her mother’s quite remarkable appetite in the mornings was now explained.

  Gyles and Horace had breakfasted earlier, and Gyles had gone out riding. Where he found the energy, Francesca could not guess but she was grateful not to have to endure his too-knowing grey gaze over the teacups.

  Lady Elizabeth and Henni joined her. Once they were gustatorily satisfied, they retired to the family parlor. Mrs. Cantle, no taller than Francesca but rather more buxom and garbed in dull black, appeared promptly at ten o’clock.

  She bobbed a curtsy, then clasped her hands. “You wished to see me, ma’am?” The question was addressed impartially, directed somewhere between Francesca and Lady Elizabeth, who was clearly nonplussed.

  Francesca smiled. “I did. As Lady Elizabeth is removing to the Dower House this afternoon, she and I wish to use the morning to go over the house and review household practices. I wondered if you have time to accompany us?”

  Mrs. Cantle struggled not to beam, but her eyes shone. “If we could just decide the menus, ma’am.” She addressed Francesca directly. “I don’t dare leave the heathen to his own devices, if you take my meaning. Needs constant reining in, he does.”

  The heathen had to be Ferdinand. “You have another cook here, I believe?” Francesca shot a glance at Lady Elizabeth, but it was Mrs. Cantle who answered.

  “Indeed, ma’am, and that’s the better half of the problem. None of us would deny Ferdinand’s . . .”

  “Artistry?”

  “Aye—that’s it. He’s a right one with food, no doubt of it. But Cook, she’s been with the family for years—fed the master since he was a boy, knows all his favorite dishes . . . and she and Ferdinand don’t get on.”

  It wasn’t hard to see why. Cook was the cook until Ferdinand appeared, and then she was demoted. “What is Cook’s specialty?” Mrs. Cantle frowned. “What manner of food is she especially good at? Soups? Pastries?”

  “Puddings, ma’am. Her lemon curd pudding is one of the master’s favorites, and her treacle tart will curl your toes.”

  “Very well.” Francesca stood. “We’ll start our tour in the kitchens. I’ll speak with Ferdinand, and we’ll decide the menu, and we’ll see if I can help smooth matters over.”

  Intrigued, Lady Elizabeth joined them. Mrs. Cantle led them through the green baize door and into a warren of corridors and small rooms. They passed Irving in his pantry and paused to survey the household silver and plate.

  As they continued in Mrs. Cantle’s wake, Francesca turned to Lady Elizabeth. “I hadn’t thought to ask—how will you manage at the Dower House? You’ll need a butler, and a cook and maids—”

  “It’s all taken care of, dear.” Lady Elizabeth touched her arm. “On an estate this size, there’s always many eager for work. The Dower House has been standing ready for us this past week. Henni’s maid and mine, and Horace’s man, are presently ferrying the last of our belongings across the park, and, this afternoon, we’ll go to our new home.”

  Francesca hesitated, then nodded. It was not her place, certainly not at that moment, to allude to what Lady Elizabeth would undoubtedly feel on leaving the house she had come to as a bride and managed for so many years.

  Lady Elizabeth chuckled. “No—I don’t regret leaving.” Her voice was pitched low, for Francesca’s ears only. “This house is so large, and Gyles’s needs here and in London are more than I have energy to oversee properly. I’m more glad than I can say to have you here, willing and able to take on the responsibility.”

  Francesca met her ladyship’s eyes. They were grey, like her son’s, but softer. “I’ll do my best to keep all running as smoothly and as well as you have.”

  Lady Elizabeth squeezed her arm. “My dear, if you can manage Ferdinand, you’re destined to do better.”

  The kitchens opened before them—two huge rooms, the first cavernous, the second only marginally less so. The first room contained an entire wall of hearth filled with brick ovens, roasting spits, and griddles suspended over huge grates. A deal table ran down the center of the room; a smaller table, presumably for staff dining, sat in an alcove. Pots and pans gleamed—from the walls, from shelves, and suspended from hooks high above. The room was warm; savory aromas filled the air. Francesca glimpsed a pantry to one side. The adjoining room apparently housed the scullery and preparation area.

  The rooms were a hive of activity. The central table was piled high with vegetables. A ruddy-faced woman stood at the far end, her large hands plunged into a basin of dough.

  Mrs. Cantle whispered to Francesca, “That’s Cook—her name’s Doherty, but we always call her Cook.”

  Numerous juniors—scullions and kitchen maids—darted about. Concentrating on her dough, Cook didn’t look up—the scuffle of boots on the flags and the clank of pots and bowls had masked their arrival.

  Despite the melee, Ferdinand was easy to spot. A slim, olive-skinned male, jet-black hair falling over his forehead as he wielded a knife in a blur of motion, he stood on the other side of the central table, issuing a stream of orders in heavily accented English to the two kitchen maids who hovered and buzzed around him like bees.

  Mrs. Cantle cleared her throat. Ferdinand glanced up.

  His eyes found Mrs. Cantle, then passed on to Francesca. His knife halted in mid-stroke. Ferdiand’s mouth dropped open.

  Because of her late arrival for her wedding, this was the first time Ferdinand had seen her. Francesca was grateful when Mrs. Cantle clapped her hands to gain the attention of all the others.

  Everyone stopped. Everyone stared.

  “Her ladyship has come to look
over the kitchens.”

  Francesca smiled and moved past Mrs. Cantle. She let her gaze travel the room, touching each face briefly, stopping at the last on Cook. She inclined her head. “You are Cook, I believe?”

  The woman colored and bobbed, lifting her hands, only to plunge them back in the dough. “Ah—I’m sorry, ma’am.” She desperately looked about for a cloth.

  “No, no—don’t let me interrupt you.” Francesca peeked into the bowl. “Is that for the day’s bread?”

  After an instant’s pause, Cook replied, “The afternoon’s baking, ma’am.”

  “You bake twice a day?”

  “Aye—it’s not that much more effort, and it means all’s fresh.”

  Francesca nodded. She heard Ferdinand shift and turned to him. “And you are Ferdinand?”

  He crossed the knife over his chest and bowed. “Bellisima,” he murmured.

  Francesca asked him which part of Rome he hailed from. In Italian.

  His mouth dropped open again, then he recovered and a torrent of impassioned Italian poured forth. Francesca let him rave for only a moment, then shushed him. “Now,” she said, “I wish to discuss the menus for today. Mrs. Cantle—do you have pencil and paper?”

  Mrs. Cantle bustled off to fetch them from her room. Ferdinand grasped the moment to rattle off his suggestions—in Italian. Francesca nodded and listened. When Mrs. Cantle returned and sat ready to write, Francesca halted Ferdinand with an upraised finger, then listed dishes she’d selected from his repertoire for the luncheon table. Then she turned to Cook. “And for tea, I’m very partial to scones.”

  Cook looked up, surprise in her eyes, but she nodded very readily. “Aye—I can do those for you.”

  Ferdinand broke in with voluble suggestions; Francesca waved him to silence. “Now, for tonight . . .” She detailed the dinner menu, making it clear that Ferdinand was in charge of the various courses, which smoothed his ruffled plumage. Then she came to the dessert course. “Puddings. I’ve heard of a dish—a lemon curd pudding.” She looked at Cook. “Do you know it?”

  Cook shot a glance at Mrs. Cantle, but nodded. “Aye.”

  “Good. For the present, Cook, you will be responsible for preparing the puddings for our dinners.”

  Ferdinand’s expression was outraged. “But—” He followed with a string of Italian desserts. Francesca fixed him with a direct look, and in Italian said, “You do realize, do you not, that your master is English?”

  Puzzled, Ferdinand looked at her. Continuing in Italian, Francesca said, “While you and I know of Italian dishes, it might be as well for you to extend your expertise in English puddings.”

  “I know nothing of these puddings.”

  The word “puddings” was loaded with contempt. Francesca only smiled. “If you were truly wise and wished to succeed, you would ask Cook to teach you the ways of English puddings.”

  Ferdinand sulked. “She does not like me, that one.”

  “Ah, but now you realize that her teachings may prove useful, then you could find a way—perhaps offer to show her your decorations to use on her puddings. Making sure, of course, that she realizes you understand the importance of her puddings to the overall meal. I will expect you to work with her to ensure the balance of tastes.”

  Ferdinand stared at her. The Italian portion of their conversation had been conducted at a rapid-fire pace and had taken less than a minute. With a serene smile, Francesca nodded approvingly. “Very good. Now—” She swept around and made for the door leading back into the house, startling Irving and a small army of footmen who had gathered to listen. Francesca nodded graciously and sailed past. “Mrs. Cantle?”

  “Coming, ma’am.”

  Lady Elizabeth brought up the rear, struggling to hide a grin.

  The rest of their tour was much less eventful, but loaded with detail. By the time they returned to the ground floor, Francesca had a staunch supporter in Mrs. Cantle. She was relieved the housekeeper had proved so easy to win over. Given the size of the house and the complexities of its management, reliable support was something she would need.

  “That was very well done of you, my dear.” Lady Elizabeth sank into her chair in the family parlor. Mrs. Cantle had returned to her duties; Henni was knitting in her chair, ready to hear their report. “You had Cantle in the palm of your hand from the moment you showed yourself ready to ease Cook’s way. She and Cantle go back many years—they’ve been here from the time they were girls.”

  Lady Elizabeth looked across the parlor to where Francesca had settled on the daybed. “Mind you, you already had Cantle leaning your way—inviting her to accompany us from the first was a stroke of genius.”

  Francesca smiled. “I wanted to be sure she understood I valued her.”

  “You succeeded in making them all believe that.”

  “I also value what you and Henni have done to ease my way. It would have been much more difficult without your help.”

  Both older women looked startled, then blushed.

  “Well, just in case you don’t realize,” Henni said gruffly, “we’ll expect regular reports once we’re ensconced at the Dower House.”

  “Frequent regular reports.” Lady Elizabeth’s lips thinned. “I still can’t believe any son of mine would be so idiotic as to imagine any Rawlings could possibly make do with a”—she gestured airily—“distant marriage. You’ll have to come and reassure me that he is, in fact, coming to his senses.”

  * * *

  Would he come to his senses? That was the question that concerned Francesca. She was less worried over how long it might take. She’d married him; marriage lasted for a lifetime. A few months, even a year—she was willing to wait. She’d waited until now, for him.

  For a chance at making her dream a reality.

  After luncheon, they all walked to the Dower House, crossing the park under the huge trees. It wasn’t far, but the Dower House was not visible from the Castle, screened by the trees and a fold in the land.

  After looking around the pretty Georgian house, then partaking of tea served by a maid clearly overawed by her recent promotion, Francesca and Gyles returned to the Castle, alone.

  In the hall, Gyles was summoned by Wallace on a matter of estate business. He excused himself and left her; Francesca climbed the stairs to her bedchamber in unaccustomed solitude—a luxury she had not recently enjoyed. Although it was nearly time to dress for dinner, she didn’t ring for Millie but grasped the moment to stand by her window and let her thoughts wander.

  It didn’t take much pondering to accept that any pressure on her part, any overt demand for more from him, would drive him away—at least emotionally. His defenses would lock into place, and she wouldn’t be able to reach him—he was strong enough to resist her if he wished.

  She would have to be patient. And hope. And try to guard her heart.

  And do the only thing she could to weight the scales.

  Unfortunately, that action was incompatible with guarding her heart.

  Drawing in a breath, she held it, then exhaled and turned into the room. Crossing to the bellpull, she rang for Millie.

  Chapter 10

  A stableboy came running as Gyles trotted into the stable yard. He dismounted; the boy led the horse away. Gyles hesitated, then went into the stable. He stopped before the stall in which Regina stood placidly munching.

  “Her ladyship didn’t go out today.”

  Gyles turned to see Jacobs coming up the aisle.

  “She went for a walk. Saw her heading off to the bluff.”

  Gyles inclined his head. There seemed little point in denying he’d been wondering where she was. He strolled back into the sunshine. It was early afternoon and very pleasant out of doors. Too pleasant to go inside to the ledgers that awaited him.

  He discovered her on the bluff overlooking the bend in the river. Seated on a bench set amongst flowering shrubs with her back to the old rampart, she was gazing out over the river and fields. In her primrose day gown wit
h a simple yellow ribbon threaded through her dark curls, she looked like a Florentine princess, pensive and far away. Untouchable. Unknowable. He paused, oddly unsure of his right to disturb her, so sunk in her thoughts and so still that sparrows hopped on the grass at her feet.

  Her face was serene, composed—distant. Then she turned her head and looked directly at him, and smiled gloriously.

  She gestured. “It’s so lovely here. I was admiring the view.”

  He studied her face, then walked the last steps to the bench. “I’ve been at the bridge.”

  “Oh?” She swept aside her skirts so he could sit. “Is it finished?”

  “Almost.” He sat and looked out over the land—his land, his fields, his meadows. “The new bracing should ensure we don’t lose it again.”

  “How many families live on the estate?”

  “About twenty.” He pointed. “See those roofs? That’s one of the villages.”

  She looked, then pointed east. “Is that another?”

  “Yes.” He glanced at her. “You must have been here for some time to spot it.” The three thatched roofs were all but concealed by trees.

  She lifted her face to the breeze, clearly enjoying having it ripple through her hair. “I’ve come here a few times. It’s a perfect vantage point from which to learn the lay of the land.”

  He waited, his gaze on her face, but she kept her gaze on the rolling green and said no more.

  “Have you had trouble with the staff?”

  Her head whipped around. “No.” She considered him. “Did you think I would?”

  “No.” He could see the subtle amusement lurking in her eyes. “But I did wonder how you were getting on.”

  Her smile dawned. “Very well.” He lost contact with her eyes as she stood. “But I should be getting back.”

  Suppressing a spurt of irritation, he rose, too, and matched her stride as she climbed the sloping bank. He’d been trying for the last two days to get some indication of how she was faring, how she was coping. Whether she was happy. It wasn’t a question he could ask outright, not as things were. But a week had now passed since they’d wed, and while he had no complaints, he did wonder if she was content.