As he handed Henni to the chair beside his, he murmured, “Charles’s daughter, Frances—what do you make of her?”
“Haven’t had much chance to form an opinion.” Henni glanced down the table to where Franni sat.
“When you do, let me know.”
Henni raised a brow at him.
Gyles shook his head and turned to greet Lady Middlesham on his other side.
The ritual of the port which he deliberately prolonged, not a difficult feat given the conversational abilities of Horace, Sir Henry, and even Lord Gilmartin in such an amiable setting, saved Gyles from having to deal with Francesca’s cousin in the drawing room. Even so, he wasn’t blind to the eager look in Franni’s eye when he led the gentlemen back in just ahead of the tea trolley. Nor to the fact that her look turned to one of confusion, then frustration as the disparate groups gathered to chat over the teacups.
When their guests rose to take their leave, he held to Francesca’s side, taking refuge in the dictates of formality. As they moved into the hall, Ester paused beside Francesca and whispered in her ear. Francesca nodded and smiled. Over the melee as Irving and the footmen brought coats and scarves, Gyles saw Ester draw Franni up the stairs.
He was conscious of relaxing his guard, smiling as he shook hands and exchanged farewells, eventually braving the chill outside with Francesca to wave the carriages off.
Charles was waiting when they reentered the hall. He took Francesca’s hands. “That was a most enjoyable evening. Thank you.” He kissed her cheek. “It’s been such a long time since we’ve entertained . . . well.” He stepped back, and they turned and started up the stairs. “I’d almost forgotten what it was like. How pleasant such an evening can be.”
Francesca’s smile was radiant. “There’s no reason you couldn’t entertain on a similar scale at Rawlings Hall. Franni seemed to enjoy it.”
Charles nodded. “Indeed. I’ll speak to Ester about it.” He halted at the top of the stairs. “Who knows? It might be a good thing all around.”
With a nod and a “good night,” he left them.
His hand at her back, Gyles steered Francesca to their private wing, listening to her happy chatter.
Francesca slipped from the warmth of Gyles’s arms as early as she could the next morning, but she wasn’t early enough to catch up with Franni before she left the house.
Tugging her shawl about her shoulders, Francesca stepped onto the terrace overlooking the Castle’s gardens. The air was crisp and chilly, but the sun shone and the birds sang; the day beckoned.
Strolling to the steps, she descended to the lawns. Searching for Franni, she walked to the rampart, then descended to the lower level and her favorite seat. She didn’t sit, but lingered long enough to drink in the view, drink in the fact that this land—his land—now felt like home to her.
Pondering that, she returned to the lawns and started walking a wide circle around the house. Wallace had said Franni had gone walking; she would be somewhere close.
Reaching the lawns before the stables, Francesca saw a figure in cambric striding along under the trees. Franni’s carriage was distinctive, stiff, slightly jerky. She had a thick shawl wrapped about her, making her appear peculiarly bulky above the waist. Francesca set out on an intersecting course. Franni saw her as she drew near.
“Are you enjoying the morning?” she called.
Franni smiled with her usual hint of secretiveness. “Yes. It’s been a lovely morning so far.”
“Have you been looking at the horses?”
Joining her, Francesca walked beside her.
“They’re big—bigger than Papa’s. Do you ride them?”
“No. Gyles gave me an Arab mare for a wedding gift. I ride her, now.”
“Did he?” Franni’s expression blanked, then she murmured, “Do you?” A slow smile suffused her face. “That’s good. I expect she gallops fast.”
“Yes, she does.” Francesca was inured to Franni’s fluctuating moods.
“So you ride every day?”
“Most days. Not necessarily every day.”
“Good. Good.” Nodding, Franni paced beside Francesca, her strides longer, rather mannish.
They walked on in silence until they reached the boundary where the park met the nearest fields. Francesca turned back.
Franni kept walking, veering toward the track that led between the fields.
Francesca halted. “Franni?” With an impatient shake of her head, Franni kept walking. “Franni, there’s nothing but fields that way.” When Franni didn’t slow, she added, “Breakfast will be served soon.”
Without looking back, Franni waved. “I want to walk up here a little way. I want to walk alone. I’ll come back soon.”
Nothing of any possible danger lay between the house and the escarpment. Francesca doubted Franni would go far up the steep track.
Turning, she started back to the house. Franni would be safe enough—and if she hadn’t returned within the hour, she’d send a groom after her. Meanwhile, thanks to her husband’s penchant for games at dawn, her stomach was growling. Breakfast sounded like a very good idea.
Over breakfast, Francesca, Charles, and Ester agreed to walk across the park to visit at the Dower House. Lady Elizabeth had issued the invitation last night.
Francesca looked up the table and raised a brow at Gyles. He shook his head. He needed to get on with his researching—what better time than with the house to himself?
Ester turned to Franni, who had recently joined them. “You’ll like to see the Dower House. Remember? We passed it when we drove through the gates.”
Franni’s expression was blank, as if she’d gone within in search of the memory. Slowly, she shook her head. “I don’t want to go. I’ll stay here.”
Charles leaned across and laid his hand over Franni’s. “You’ll enjoy the walk across the park under the trees.”
Franni shook her head. Her face took on a mulish cast Charles, Ester, and Francesca knew well. “No. I’ll stay here.”
Charles eased back, glancing at Ester and Francesca. Francesca smiled reassuringly. She looked at Franni. “That’s quite all right. You can stay here by all means, but if you should go walking, do remember to take a footman, just in case you get lost.”
Franni blinked at her, then nodded and went back to her kedgeree.
Ester sighed. Francesca turned to her. “How soon shall we leave?”
Charles drained his coffee cup. “Give me five minutes to change my coat.”
“You may take ten.” Ester pushed back her chair. “I must change into a walking dress, and Francesca will want to do the same.”
The three of them rose and left the breakfast parlor. Gyles strolled out with them. Reaching the top of the stairs, Francesca glanced back and saw Gyles hesitating in the hall, looking back at the breakfast parlor. Then he swung on his heel and walked to his study.
Ten minutes later, she, Charles, and Ester descended the front steps and strolled onto the forecourt.
“What a lovely arrangement of trees.” Ester studied the six pencil pines set in mirror image on either side of the drive. “And those troughs set the whole off wonderfully. Such lovely old things.”
Francesca’s inner smile was wider than the one on her lips. The troughs had been disinterred without mishap and had cleaned up remarkably well. “Autumn crocuses are so pretty massed like that.”
Behind them, the front door opened, then shut. They all looked around.
Gyles came down the steps, then strode up.
Francesca blinked. “I thought you were busy.”
Gyles smiled charmingly, knowing that while he would fool Charles and Ester, his wife was immune to his wiles. “It’s such a glorious day, and we won’t have many more. The chance of a walk was too good to pass up, and there’s one or two points I want to check with Horace, so duty can, in this instance, justifiably bow to inclination.”
Charles and Ester accepted his excuse readily. Francesca studied his eyes, but
refrained from asking the questions he could see forming in hers. He offered his arm, and she took it. Charles offered his to Ester, and they headed off beneath the nearly bare branches.
They passed a comfortable morning with Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace, then returned through the park in time for lunch. Franni didn’t join them.
“She’s sleeping,” Ester reported as she took her seat at the table.
“Just as well,” Charles returned. “She’s been walking here even more than she does at home. Although she enjoys it, we’ll be leaving tomorrow, so it’s all to the good if she rests.”
During the meal, Charles and Gyles discussed estate matters while Francesca caught up with the news from Rawlings Hall.
“I could do with a nap myself,” Ester confided to Francesca as they left the dining room. “I find it hard to sleep in a rocking coach, and it’ll be a long drive to Bath tomorrow.”
Francesca watched Ester climb the stairs. In the hall behind her, she heard Gyles giving instructions to Edwards, who had presented himself at Gyles’s request. Charles wished to view the succession houses. Francesca turned to see her uncle stride off with Edwards. She met her husband’s eye as he turned her way. She smiled, then turned toward the family parlor.
His hand closed about her arm and she halted. His grip eased; his fingers trailed down to tangle with hers. Surprised, she turned to face him.
His eyes held hers, then he said, “I wondered . . . if you haven’t anything pressing, would you help me with my research?”
She tried to keep her heart from leaping, or at least keep the fact from showing. “Your parliamentary research?”
“There’s a hundred references to check and cross-check. If you’re not busy . . . ?”
She smiled, aware that his fingers had already closed firmly about hers. “I’m not busy. I’ll be happy to help.”
She spent the entire afternoon with him. He had a list of books with notes on what he needed from each one. They worked down the list, book by book, Gyles at his desk, reading and taking notes, while she searched for the next volume or, having found it, sat in a chair beside the desk and located the information he was after.
When he finished a book, she’d exchange it for the next, pointing out the relevant text. He’d accept the new book and start reading while she returned the previous volume to its shelf. In the first few exchanges, he read the entire section, but thereafter she noted he focused only on the passage she indicated. She inwardly smiled. Their researching went faster.
Charles looked in a few hours later. He saw what they were about and asked after Gyles’s interest. An amicable discussion ensued, which lasted until Ester, fresh from her nap, joined them, and it was time for afternoon tea.
Francesca rang and instructed Wallace to serve them in the library.
“Franni?” she asked, looking at Ester.
“She’s awake but dozy—you know how she gets. Happy as a lark, but she wants nothing more than to loll in her bed. Ginny’s with her, and knows to get her ready for dinner, so all’s well.”
Ginny was Franni’s old maid. She’d been Franni’s nurse and was devoted to her charge. Given Francesca had not been with them in the coach this time, Ginny had been brought to help with Franni, who was not easy over having maids she didn’t know attend her.
Francesca poured the tea. They all sat and sipped. The afternoon passed in easy contentment.
“Maria vergine! Impossibile!”
Gyles was in his room dressing for dinner; he heard the exclamations and the spate of frenzied Italian that followed them, delivered in a definitely masculine voice.
Wallace, holding Gyles’s cravat, stilled. “Ferdinand.” He laid aside the linen band. “I’ll remove him immediately.”
“No.” Gyles stayed Wallace with an upraised hand; although he couldn’t hear her words, he could hear Francesca speaking. “Stay here.”
Gyles crossed to the door leading to Francesca’s bedchamber. Opening it, he saw Millie standing in the middle of the room, staring at the open door leading to Francesca’s sitting room, through which another tirade of frantic Italian rolled forth.
Millie started as Gyles entered the room. He ignored her and crossed to the open door.
In the middle of her sitting room, Francesca stood wrapped in a dressing robe, arms folded, and waited for Ferdinand to run out of breath.
When he did, and paused, she spoke in a tone that effectively put an end to his hopes. “You’re supposedly an experienced chef. It’s beyond my comprehension that you are, so you say, unable to place a meal of any merit on the table before eight o’clock, despite having been warned this morning that dinner tonight will be at seven.”
He answered with another torrent of Italian; once she caught his gist, she silenced him with an upraised hand.
Her expression severe, she studied him, then nodded. “Very well, if you are unable to perform your duties, Cook will take charge. I’m sure she’ll manage to feed your master in appropriate fashion at seven o’clock.”
“No! You cannot—” Ferdinand choked back the words. “Bellisima, I beg . . .”
Francesca let him prattle a little more, then cut him off with a slash of her hand. “Enough! If you’re half the chef you believe yourself, you’ll have a magnificent meal ready to serve”—she glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf—“in one hour.” Looking back at Ferdinand, she waved to the door. “Now go! And one thing. Do not again seek me out here. If you wish to speak with me, you will consult with Wallace, as is proper. I will not have you disrupting my husband’s household in any way—you are living in England and must abide by English ways. Now, go. Go!” With an intensely Italian gesture, she shooed him away.
Cast down, Ferdinand slunk off, closing the door behind him.
Francesca regarded the door, then nodded. Swinging around, she headed back to her bedchamber, loosening her robe as she went. She approached the doorway—only then did she realize Gyles was standing in it.
Rapidly replaying Ferdinand’s more impassioned passages, Francesca inwardly winced. No need to look too far for the reason behind her husband’s stony countenance. He understood Italian well enough to have translated the worst of Ferdinand’s histrionics.
Gyles’s gaze, hard as granite, had moved past her.
“I could send him back to London.” His gaze returned to her face. “If you wish . . .”
She tilted her head and considered. Considered the fact Ferdinand had unknowingly put his continued employment in jeopardy. Considered the revelation that her husband was an exceedingly jealous man. His gaze hadn’t even lowered despite the fact her robe had slithered open and she was wearing only a thin chemise beneath.
She shook her head. “No. If you’re to wield influence in political circles, then we’ll need to host dinners and for that, Ferdinand’s skills will be helpful. It’s best he gets used to us making unexpected demands now, here, rather than later in London.”
Gyles’s gaze remained on her face. His expression softened not at all, but she got the impression she’d said something right—enough to appease the possessiveness prowling behind his eyes. Then he inclined his head. “If you believe he’s capable of adapting, he may stay.”
She stepped forward. His gaze drifted lower, a warm caress over her breasts, stomach and bare legs.
He stepped back and let her walk past him. His gaze flicked to Millie. “One thing.” His voice was pitched so only she could hear. He met her gaze as she turned. “He is not again to come into this wing.”
“You heard all I said?”
He nodded.
“Then you know he will not.”
He held her gaze for an instant longer, then nodded curtly. He looked at Millie. “I’ll let you finish dressing.”
Gyles sat at the head of his dining table, Henni on his left, Ester on his right, and tried to keep his mind on their conversation. Tried to keep his gaze from straying to his wife, glorious in teal silk at the table’s other end. Tried to keep h
is mind from dwelling on the scene he’d witnessed in her sitting room.
He’d been unprepared for the possessiveness that had roared through him, powerful, forceful, and unsettling. Equally unprepared for her calmness, her cool head in dealing with the Italian, for the rock-solid, unwavering loyalty he’d sensed behind her words.
Was that what love meant? What having her love would mean—never having to worry, to wonder, to consider where her loyalties might lie?
He tried to wrench his mind away but couldn’t. He answered a question from Henni absentmindedly, unable to take his mental eyes from the prize.
She’d talked in terms of “we” and “us.” She’d done so instinctively, without calculation—that was how she truly thought, how she saw them, their lives.
The barbarian within wanted that, wanted to seize the prize and gloat, while the gentleman had convinced himself he’d never desire any such thing at all.
“Gyles, stop woolgathering.”
He focused, and quickly came to his feet as Henni and Ester, along with the other ladies, rose.
Henni grinned. She patted his arm as she turned away. “Don’t dally so long over the port this time. I have an answer to your question.”
* * *
The only question Gyles could recall was his wish to know Henni’s opinion of Franni. That wasn’t incentive enough to make him cut short his time in the comfortable company of Charles and Horace and rush to the drawing room, where he would once gain be exposed to Franni’s disturbing presence.
No one else seemed to find her disturbing—odd and awkward, yes, but not unsettling.
After forty minutes, he drained his glass and bowed to the inevitable.
From the drawing room’s threshold, he scanned the assembled ladies and located Francesca talking to Henni by the hearth. Charles and Horace ambled over to join Lady Elizabeth and Ester who were sitting on the chaise.
All About Passion Page 25
