All About Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  Was it any wonder he was struggling?

  It would have been easier if she’d made demands. Instead, she’d left the choice to him, avoiding the pitfall of setting her will against his. He was conditioned and prepared for such battles; the outcome would have been swift and certain.

  And he wouldn’t now be lying here, engulfed in uncertainty.

  She’d made her position clear. He ruled, he made the decisions—and if she didn’t like them, she would go her own way.

  He didn’t doubt she would. At her core lay a stubborness he recognized, an unswerving devotion to her cause.

  A devotion he coveted for himself. Not just for his political ambitions, not just for his marriage, not even for the effect such a devotion would have on his life.

  He wanted her devoted to him.

  Wanted to see it in her eyes as she took him in, feel it in her lips as she kissed him, in her touch as she caressed him. All she gave him now, he wanted—forever.

  He glanced at her dark head, felt the warmth of her body, relaxed and boneless against him. Felt an immediate urge to seize, to lock her to him.

  Looking back at the canopy, he wrenched his thoughts back to his problem.

  He wanted her love, her devotion, wanted her exclusively focused on him. She was prepared to offer him that. In return, she wanted one thing.

  He wanted to give it to her—wanted to love her—but . . . that, in and of itself, was the very last thing he wanted to do.

  The ultimate contradiction.

  There had to be a way around it. For his sanity’s sake, he had to find it. Had to find an option that would satisfy her, but still leave him unexposed, emotionally invulnerable.

  The alternative was unthinkable. Still was and always would be.

  Chapter 13

  “Well, my dear! Married life clearly agrees with you.”

  Francesca beamed. On tiptoe, she kissed Charles’s cheek, then turned to greet Ester. “I’m so glad you could come. It hasn’t been long, I know, but I’ve missed you.”

  “And we’ve missed you, dear.” Ester brushed cheeks, then gave way to Franni.

  Francesca searched Franni’s pale blue eyes; her cousin smiled blithely, stepped forward, and kissed her. Then she looked around. “It’s a very big house, isn’t it? I didn’t see much of it, last time.”

  They were on the front porch. Charles’s traveling coach was being unloaded in the forecourt.

  “I’ll take you on a tour, if you like.” Francesca looked at Ester and Charles, extending the invitation to them all.

  “Why not?” Charles turned from shaking hands with Gyles. “I’d enjoy a guided tour about the ancestral home.”

  “Let’s go upstairs and get you settled, then it’ll be time for lunch. After that, I’ll show you the Castle.”

  Francesca started to gather Ester and Franni, but Franni slipped aside and went to stand before Gyles. She curtsied deeply. Gyles hesitated, then took her hand and raised her.

  Franni looked into his face, and smiled. “Hello, Cousin Gyles.”

  Gyles nodded. “Cousin Frances.” He released her and waved them all inside. Franni joined Francesca and Ester, eagerly looking around her as they traversed the huge hall.

  “A big house,” Franni echoed, as they climbed the stairs.

  “So we’ll only be here three nights.” Charles smiled at Francesca. It was evening, and they were all gathered in the family parlor, waiting for dinner to be announced. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

  They were standing by the chaise. Before the hearth, Gyles was chatting to Ester, with Franni hanging on his every word.

  “Nonsense.” Francesca squeezed Charles’s arm. “If the waters at Bath really do help Franni, then of course you must seize the chance and take her there again.” Charles had warned her in a last-minute letter that their visit would be curtailed; he’d just explained why. Bath’s sulphurous springs had given Franni more energy, but while Charles and Ester were keen to travel there again, they’d only been able to get Franni to agree by linking the trip to their visit to Lambourn.

  “Indeed,” Francesca continued, “if you wish to take her there in the future, you must write and let me know. You’ll always be welcome here.” She smiled. “For however many nights.”

  “Thank you, my dear.” Charles’s gaze rested on Franni. “I confess we’re more hopeful than previously. Both Ester and I were worried that your leaving and the excitement of the wedding might prove too much, might even precipitate some worsening of Franni’s condition. Instead, since recovering from the laudanum the day after the wedding, she seems only to have improved. It’s been a relief.”

  Francesca nodded. She’d never understood the basis of Franni’s “condition,” but if Charles and Ester were relieved and hopeful, she could only be glad.

  Irving entered and announced that dinner was served, much to Franni’s delight. Gyles very correctly offered both her and Ester an arm; Charles and Francesca followed.

  They settled about the table in the family dining room. Francesca watched as Irving and the footmen served. Franni seemed delighted with everything. She held forth to Gyles on all she’d seen during their extended excursion around the Castle. Gyles had lunched with them, then retreated to his study; Franni had been unconcerned. Now, beneath her cousin’s artlessness, Francesca could detect no sign of unease, sorrow, or upset.

  She must have misinterpreted, and Gyles was not Franni’s gentleman caller after all.

  Charles, on her right, asked about a dish; Francesca replied. She chatted with her uncle and Ester, on her left. Franni sat beyond Charles, to Gyles’s left, an arrangement dictated by custom rather than Francesca’s wish. But it seemed her worry over her cousin’s possible sensibility had been misplaced. If that were so, she was grateful, yet . . .

  She turned to Ester. “Does Franni still rise very early?”

  Ester nodded. “You might want to warn your staff.”

  Francesca made a mental note to mention the fact to Wallace.

  “My dear, you must give me this recipe so I can take it home for Cook.”

  “Of course.” Francesca wondered if Ferdinand could write in English.

  “Good morning, Franni.”

  At the end of the terrace, Franni whirled, mouth gaping, then she relaxed and smiled as Francesca joined her.

  “It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?” Francesca said.

  “Yes.” Franni turned back to the view. “Although it’s such a large house, it’s quiet. I thought it would be noisy.”

  “There’s only the staff and Gyles and me living here at present. Last time, there were all the wedding guests.” Francesca leaned against the balustrade, unsurprised when Franni said no more. She let the silence stretch, aware it would help given she wanted to nudge Franni’s mind onto a different tack.

  Minutes later, she asked, “Franni, do you remember telling me about your gentleman—the gentleman who walked with you twice?”

  Franni frowned, puzzled rather than defensive. “Did I?”

  “Yes, at the inn. I wondered . . . do you know who he is?”

  Her gaze on the horizon, Franni just smiled.

  Accepting she wasn’t going to get that answer, Francesca tried her next question. “Has he visited you recently—since you last came here?”

  Franni shook her head almost violently, but she was grinning; Francesca thought she giggled.

  Steeling herself, she spoke slowly and evenly, as they all did when speaking to Franni. “Franni, I just want to make sure you haven’t confused your gentleman with Chillingworth. I—”

  She broke off as Franni shook her head again, still grinning fit to burst. “No, no, no!” Franni swung to face Francesca; her eyes danced—she was almost laughing. “I have it all straight—yes, I do! My gentleman has a different name. He comes and walks with me, and listens to me and talks to me. And he’s not Chillingworth. No, no, no. Chillingworth’s an earl. He married you for your land.”

  A some
what malicious gleam shone in Franni’s blue eyes. “I’m not like you. The earl married you for your land. I don’t have the right sort of land, but my gentleman wants to marry me—I’m sure he does.”

  She swung away and all but skipped along the terrace. “He’ll marry me—you’ll see. In the end.”

  Francesca watched her go, then turned inside.

  The gentleman wasn’t—had never been—Chillingworth. So who was he?

  * * *

  After breakfast, Franni went walking in the park, a footman trailing after her. After dealing with her household duties, Francesca joined Ester in the family parlor.

  Ester looked up from her embroidery with a smile.

  Francesca returned it. “I’m glad to have a moment alone with you, Aunt Ester.” Crossing to the chair beside the hearth, she sank into it. Ester watched her, brows rising.

  “Are you having any problems—”

  “No—it’s not me.” Francesca studied Ester’s blue eyes, like Franni’s yet so different. “This is difficult, because Franni told me in what might be classed as confidence, except that Franni doesn’t think in terms like that.”

  “No, dear, she doesn’t. And if this is something to do with Franni, then yes, you should definitely tell me, confidence or not.”

  There was such resolve in Ester’s voice that Francesca set aside all hesitation. “At the inn on our way to Lambourn . . .”

  She recounted all Franni had told her, both at the inn and on the terrace that morning. “I’d worried that it was Chillingworth—he did walk with her twice. But he says he barely spoke a word to her, so it seemed odd she would have made anything of it, but . . .”

  “But one never does know with Franni.” Ester nodded. “I can see why you thought that, especially with her reaction during the ceremony. But if she says it wasn’t him, then . . .”

  “Precisely. It could be someone else—someone who’s been meeting her when she walks about at Rawlings Hall. It wouldn’t be hard to do without being seen. And she will inherit Uncle Charles’s property, after all.”

  “Indeed.” Ester’s lips had firmed. “My dear, thank you for telling me—you’ve done exactly right. Leave the matter with me. I’ll speak with Charles, and we’ll deal with it.”

  Francesca smiled, sincerely relieved. “Thank you. And I do hope it all turns out well.”

  Ester made no reply. Frowning, she returned to her embroidery.

  “Is this where you hide?”

  Startled, Gyles turned. He’d been standing by the window in the library gallery, consulting a list of trials. In the doorway from the inner gallery, Francesca’s cousin stood, smiling smugly.

  Her gaze had already left him to travel the shelves.

  “You have a lot of books.”

  He watched as she advanced, pirouetting to scan the room.

  “There must be thousands and thousands.”

  “Yes. There are.”

  She stopped, facing him, head tilted, her gaze distant. After a moment, she said, “It’s very quiet up here.”

  “Yes.” When she said nothing more, simply stood gazing vaguely at him, he asked, “Did you enjoy your walk?”

  “Yes, but I liked seeing the Castle more. Francesca was naughty—she didn’t bring us here.”

  “There are some places Francesca would consider private.”

  He might as well have saved his breath; Gyles seriously doubted Frances took in anything she didn’t wish to hear.

  She stood silently staring straight ahead. Wracking his memory, he recalled their conversations at Rawlings Hall. “We have many trees here.”

  Her gaze focused on the window. She stepped closer to look. “Are they birches?”

  “No. Most are oaks.”

  “No birches?”

  “None close. There are some farther into the park.”

  “I’ll look when I go for my walks.”

  Clasping her hands behind her back, she settled before the window as if intending to study the treetops. Gyles glanced at the journal in his hands.

  “I’m afraid I must leave you—there’s work I need to do.” He’d intended doing it here, but his study suddenly seemed a wiser choice. There were always footmen in the hall; he made a mental note to tell Wallace he did not wish to be disturbed by their female guests.

  Franni nodded, then turned abruptly to face him, meeting his eyes for the first time.

  “Yes,” she said, “that might be a good idea.” She smiled; her pale eyes glowed. “It wouldn’t do for Francesca to come up and find us together.”

  She continued to smile. Gyles studied her for a moment, then, his expression impassive, stepped back, bowed, and left her.

  The clocks struck four as Francesca reached her bedroom door—too early to dress for dinner, but she could indulge in a long soak first. Opening the door, she stepped inside—

  Someone was on her bed, sitting in the emerald-draped shadows.

  Then the figure turned, and she recognized the pale hair, the pale face.

  Exhaling, Francesca closed the door and crossed to the bed. “What are you doing here, Franni?”

  She was sitting on the bed, more or less in the middle. She bounced. “I came in to see. The servants told me I couldn’t come up here, but I knew you wouldn’t mind.” Lifting the coverlet, Franni rubbed her cheek against it, then reached out and trailed her fingers down the silk curtains tied back about the posts. Then she frowned. “It’s so luxurious.”

  “Chillingworth’s mama had it done for me.” Francesca sat on the bed. “Remember? I read her letters to you back at Rawlings Hall before we came for the wedding.”

  Franni frowned harder, staring at the emerald coverlet, then her brows lowered even farther. She glanced at Francesca. “Does he sleep here with you? In this bed?”

  Francesca hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Why ‘of course’? Why does he?”

  “Well . . .” She didn’t know how much Franni understood, but her pugnacious expression confirmed she wasn’t going to let the point slide. “It’s necessary for him to sleep with me to beget children.”

  Franni blinked; the intense expression drained from her face, leaving it even more blank than usual. “Oh.”

  Another something to mention to Ester. Francesca stood; with an apologetic smile, she gestured to the door. “I’m going to have a bath now, Franni, so you must go.”

  Franni blinked again, then looked at the door, then she scrambled from the bed.

  “Come,” Francesca said. “I’ll walk you back to the main wing.”

  Francesca had arranged a small dinner party for that evening, seizing the opportunity to begin entertaining locally, entertaining Charles and Ester in the process.

  They gathered in the drawing room to await their guests. Lord and Lady Gilmartin and their offspring arrived first, with Sir Henry and Lady Middlesham close behind. Francesca made the introductions, then left Charles and Ester with the Middleshams while she sat beside Lady Gilmartin and listened to a catalogue of Clarissa’s accomplishments. Gyles was chatting to Lord Gilmartin. Franni, meanwhile, had taken an instant interest in Clarissa and was talking at her, rather than with her, nonstop; Clarissa was looking a trifle dazed. Lancelot retired to stand before one window, striking a dramatic pose which singularly failed to attract any attention, everyone else being otherwise engaged.

  Lady Elizabeth and Henni, accompanied by Horace in expansive mood, arrived before Francesca wilted under Lady Gilmartin’s onslaught; with the round of introductions, the groupings changed.

  Sir Henry and Horace, old friends, drew Lord Gilmartin into their circle. Gyles left them to their discussion of coverts. He surveyed the room. His mother had engaged Charles and Ester while Henni had taken Francesca’s place beside Lady Gilmartin. Francesca was chatting with Lady Middlesham; as he watched, Clarrisa joined them. Lancelot was brooding by the window. That left . . .

  Instinctive self-protection reared its head—

  “Good e
vening, Cousin Gyles. Do you like my gown?”

  Franni had circled the room to come up beside him. Gyles turned and briefly scanned her blue muslin gown. “Very nice.”

  “Yes, it is. Of course, I’ll eventually have gowns like Francesca’s, all silks and satins—gowns your countess would wear.”

  “Indeed.” Why was it that one minute in Franni’s company was enough to make him long to shake free of her and escape?

  “I like this house—it’s big, but it’s comfortable, and your staff seem well trained.”

  Gyles nodded distantly. She was neither cloying nor snide; she displayed none of the usual behaviors he deplored. His aversion was primitive, instinctive—not easy to explain.

  “However, there is one little man I don’t like. He wears black, not livery—he wouldn’t let me go into your rooms.”

  “Wallace.” Gyles stared at Franni. “No one goes into my rooms except those who have a right to be there.”

  He spoke slowly, clearly—just like Francesca and Charles did when speaking to this strange young woman.

  Her expression turned mutinous. “Is Francesca allowed in?”

  “If she wishes, naturally. But I don’t think she’s been in.”

  “Well, her room is beautiful, all in emerald silk and satin.” Franni shot him an unreadable look. “But you’d know that because you sleep in her bed.”

  This was without question the strangest conversation he’d ever had with a young lady. “Yes.” He kept his tone calm and low. “Francesca’s my wife, so I sleep in her bed.” Looking up, about to search for help, he saw Irving enter the room. “Ah—I believe dinner is served.”

  She looked and smiled. “Oh, good!” She turned to him, clearly expecting him to offer his arm.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I must take my aunt in to dinner. Lancelot will lead you in.” Gyles beckoned the young man over. He came readily enough, clearly prepared, after his moments of isolation, to be passably agreeable.

  Franni’s blanked face—so utterly without expression—remained in Gyles’s mind as, with Henni on his arm, he led the procession into the dining room. Inwardly, he heaped praises on his wife’s dark head. With the extra guests at table, Franni would be seated somewhere in the middle, well away from him.