All About Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  Franni was in an armchair beside Ester; Gyles felt her pale blue gaze as he strolled to Francesca’s side but gave no sign he was aware of her.

  “Well! There you are!” Henni turned to Francesca. “You’ll have to take him in hand, my dear—that was far too long over the port for just a family gathering.” Henni shook her head disapprovingly. “We can’t have him developing bad habits.” She patted Francesca’s hand and moved to join those about the chaise.

  Gyles watched her go, then met Francesca’s emerald eyes. “Do you intend taking me in hand, madam?”

  She held his gaze, then her lips curved. Her lashes fell as she leaned closer, her voice lowering to the smoky, sultry sound that shot heat straight to his loins. “I take you in hand every night, my lord.” She looked into his eyes, then arched a brow. “But perhaps, tonight, you should remind me. I wouldn’t want you developing bad habits.”

  His fingers had found hers, stroking across her palm. He raised her hand to his lips. “Rest assured I’ll remind you. There’s a habit or two you might like to try.”

  Her brows rose in artful consideration, then she turned as Horace joined them. Gyles learned it was Horace who’d told Francesca where the urns and troughs from the forecourt had been hidden. Watching her charm his uncle, he had to admire her skill—Horace was not at all susceptible, yet he was very willing to extend himself for Francesca.

  The action of glancing about the room, scanning his guests, was purely reflexive. Everyone was chatting, all except Franni. Gyles’s gaze stopped on her; he’d expected her to be bored, possibly frowning. Instead . . .

  She was smug, there was no other word for it. She was all but hugging herself with smirking satisfaction. Her gaze was on him and Francesca, but she wasn’t really seeing—she hadn’t realized he was watching her. Her lips were curved in a peculiar, distant smile. Her whole expression spoke of faraway thoughts and pleasurable imaginings.

  Gyles stepped closer to Francesca. Franni’s smugness increased. She was, very definitely, watching them.

  Frances Rawlings was an exceedingly strange woman.

  Horace turned to Gyles. “How’s the bridge going?”

  Francesca listened to Gyles’s reply, then squeezed his fingers, slid her hand free, and strolled over to Franni.

  “Are you all right?” With a swish of silk skirts, she sat on the arm of Franni’s chair.

  “Yes!” Franni sat back, smiling. “I’ve had a lovely visit. I’m sure we’ll come more often, now.”

  Francesa smiled back. She turned the conversation to Rawlings Hall, avoiding all mention of Bath.

  Charles and Ester joined them; Francesca stood so they could speak more easily. Then Ester sat on the chair arm the better to talk to Franni. Charles laid a hand on Francesca’s arm. She turned to him.

  “My dear, it’s been such an enjoyable stay. I have to say it’s made me feel thoroughly vindicated in urging you to accept Chillingworth’s offer. Seeing you so settled has set my mind at rest.”

  Francesca smiled. “I’m happy, and very glad you came and got to know Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace—we’re all related, after all.”

  “Indeed. It’s a pity we’re so out of touch.”

  Francesca said nothing of her plans, her familial aims. Time enough when she’d set them in train. But she was sincerely happy and relieved by how well the visit had gone. It was, in a way, the first feather in her social cap.

  Ester stood, and the conversation veered to their journey the next day. Franni made a querulous comment over the detour to Bath; Charles sat on the end of the chaise to reassure her.

  Ester raised a brow at Francesca, then murmured, “I do hope she won’t refuse to drink the waters when we get there.”

  “Do they really help her?”

  Ester regarded Franni, then quietly said, “Franni’s very like her mother . . . as you know, Elise died. We can’t be sure, yet, but Charles lives in hope.”

  Before Francesca could frame her next question, Ester said, “I haven’t yet told Charles about Franni’s gentleman. I will once we reach home. No need to worry before that. But I did speak with Franni, and she told me he exists, but he’s definitely not Chillingworth.” Ester met Francesca’s eyes. “That must have been so unsettling for you—I’m glad we’ve sorted that much out.”

  Francesca nodded. “You’ll write and let me know. . . .”

  “Of course.” Ester looked again at Franni, at Charles leaning close, speaking slowly and evenly. “She has improved, you know.” After another moment, she softly said, “Who can say? Perhaps the cloud will pass.”

  The tone of Ester’s voice, vulnerability mixed with sadness, made Francesca swallow her questions.

  At the other end of the chaise, Gyles drew Henni aside. “Now, cut line. What answer do you have for me.”

  Henni glanced to where Franni sat slumped in the armchair, Charles hovering over her. “She’s odd.”

  “I know,” Gyles replied pointedly.

  “I’d be tempted to say she’s softheaded, or to use a vulgar but appropriate term, dicked in the nob, yet that’s not quite it. She’s perfectly lucid if a little simple, yet, after talking to her for a while, you look into those eyes and wonder if she’s truly there, and who it is you’ve been talking to.”

  “She seems . . . innocuous enough.”

  “Oh, entirely—not dangerous in any way. It’s more a case of not being at home.” Henni looked at Francesca. “There’s nothing like it on the Rawlings side—Frances must have got it from her mother, although Ester is as rational as you please.” Henni glanced at Gyles. “We’ve never been anything but hardheaded on our side of the family, and from all I ever heard of Francesca’s mother, she was a strong-willed woman—too strong-willed for old Francis Rawlings to cow. No need to think any of Frances’s traits will come into this arm of the family via Francesca.”

  Gyles blinked. He looked at Francesca, now exchanging gossip with his mother. “That never occurred to me.” After a moment, his gaze still on Francesca, he murmured, “There’s no element of her behavior I wish to change.”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Henni grin. She patted his arm and gruffly said, “Horace keeps on about you being a lucky dog—for what it’s worth, I agree with him.”

  Gyles looked down at her. “Thank you for your opinion.”

  Henni opened her eyes at him. “Which one?”

  Gyles smiled. He stepped forward, drawing Henni with him, returning to the general conversations. He moved to Charles’s side, to share a few companionable words, ignoring Franni’s wide gaze.

  They were leaving tomorrow morning; for Francesca’s sake, he would bear with Franni’s oddity for one last hour.

  Chapter 14

  The next morning, they waved their guests away. As Charles’s carriage rounded the bend in the drive, Francesca sighed. Gyles glanced at her, pleased the sigh had been a contented one.

  “I was thinking of riding out to check on the bridge.” He waited until she looked up and met his eyes to ask, “Would you like to come?”

  He’d wanted to see anticipation flare in her eyes; he wasn’t disappointed. But then she grimaced; the light faded. “No—not today. I’ve accomplished so little in the last three days, I need to catch up. The Harvest Festival’s only a week away, and I do so want everything to be perfect.”

  He hesitated, then said, “I don’t need to check the bridge today—is there anything I can do to help?”

  Disappointment vanished from her eyes. Smiling, she linked her arm through his, looking down as they turned back into the house. “If you would exercise your memory and tell me all you can remember of the day—what happened, when, and so on—it would be a great help. Cook knows some things, Mrs. Cantle knows others, and your mother and aunt remember still other bits, but I can’t find anyone who remembers the day as a child.” She glanced at him. “But you must. We have so many children on the estate, I want the day to be filled for them, too.”

  “If it’s no
t, we’ll be fishing them out of the pond and the fountain. That’s what always happened when the younger crew got bored.”

  “Being wet at this time of year isn’t wise, so we must ensure the younger ones aren’t bored.”

  “Being wet never hurt me.” Gyles steered her to his study.

  “That,” she declared as she swept over the threshold, “is not what your mother said.”

  They spent the rest of the day organizing their Harvest Festival—the first for twenty-eight years. Gyles recounted his memories, then they added the events mentioned by Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace.

  After lunch, they called in Wallace and Irving, Mrs. Cantle and Cook. By late afternoon, they had a battle plan.

  Gyles sat in an armchair and watched Francesca, the general, seated behind his desk, outline her campaign. Their troops were ranged about the room on chairs, nodding, occasionally putting in a suggestion or correction. The enthusiasm swirling about the room was palpable.

  “I know where we can get the right-size barrels for the bobbing,” Irving volunteered.

  Wallace nodded. “And we’ll need to speak with Harris about the ale.”

  “Yes indeed.” Francesca scribbled a note. “Now, Cook—you advise we get pasties from Mrs. Duckett?”

  “Aye—my bread’s as good as hers, but no one hereabouts has a hand for pastry like Duckett. And she’ll be thrilled to be doing it again, too.”

  “Very good.” Francesca scribbled on, then looked up. “Now, is there anything we’ve forgotten?”

  They all shook their heads. Lips twisting, Gyles volunteered, “Edwards.”

  They all stilled, all exchanged glances, then Wallace cleared his throat. “If you would leave Edwards to me and Mrs. Cantle, ma’am, I believe we can sort out all the arrangements without creating any undue disturbance.”

  Francesca looked down to hide her smile. “Indeed, that might be best. Very well.” Laying down her pen, she looked at them all. “That’s it—if we all do our parts, I’m sure it will be a wonderful, most memorable day.”

  “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

  Francesca snuggled deeper under her satin covers and tried to will away the hand curving about her shoulder, gently shaking her.

  “It’s past eight and the morning’s clear,” a familiar voice murmured in her ear. “Come riding with me.”

  She frowned. “We already did—didn’t we?”

  He laughed, his chest to her back, rocking her. “I mean on the downs, on Regina. She must be missing your runs.”

  “Oh.” Wriggling up, Francesca pushed her hair back. Gyles was lounging on her bed, already dressed but without cravat or coat. Sitting straighter, she peered past him to the window. “Is it really fine?”

  “As fine as we’re going to get at this time of year.” Rising and heading for his room, he threw her a challenging look. “Come on.”

  Francesca struggled out of bed. By the time Millie had appeared with her water and she’d washed and climbed into her habit, the anticipation of a rousing gallop had stirred her blood. Millie had left her crop and gloves on the bed; she swiped them up and looked about. “My cap?”

  Millie’s head was buried in the wardrobe. “I know it was here with the whip and gloves, but I can’t find it.”

  Francesca heard striding footsteps in the corridor, then a tap sounded on her door. “Never mind. You can hunt it out later.”

  Gyles was waiting in the corridor. His gaze raked her as she emerged, then returned to her hair.

  “We can’t find it at the moment.”

  He waved her on, then fell in beside her, his gaze drifting again to her uncovered head. “I have to admit I’ve got used to that flirting feather.”

  She threw him a grin and started down the stairs. “I don’t need a feather.”

  He caught her gaze, and stepped down in her wake. “Neither do I.”

  They reached the stable yard to find Gyles’s grey saddled and held waiting, but no sign of Regina. They entered the stable and headed for the mare’s stall, from which Jacob’s voice could be heard, crooning.

  He heard them coming and stepped out. “Don’t ask me how it happened, but she picked up a stone. Wedged tight in her rear hoof it was, poor lamb. I just got it out.” He showed them the small, sharp rock.

  Gyles frowned. “How could that happen? She couldn’t have been put into the stall without someone noticing.”

  “Aye—but there it is, plain as day.” Jacobs shook his head. “All I can think is some rascally lad didn’t take enough care and a stone got lobbed in with the straw. I’ll be speaking with them, you may be sure, but for now, I’m right sorry, ma’am, but the mare’s not for riding.”

  Francesca had gone into the stall to inspect her darling; she nodded and came out again. “No—you’re quite right. That hoof’s obviously tender.”

  Jacobs looked uncomfortable; he glanced from her to Gyles. “I’m not sure we’ve another mount suitable, ma’am.”

  Francesca scanned the huge hunters, then arched a brow at Gyles.

  He sighed. “If you promise not to go tearing off, faster than the wind over the downs, then I suppose, seeing I’ll be with you—”

  “Thank you.” Francesca gifted him with a glorious smile, then turned it on Jacobs. “That one, I think.”

  Gyles glanced at the black she’d selected, then nodded, ignoring Jacobs’s stunned look. “Wizard’s at least reasonably biddable.”

  Francesca pulled a face at him. They walked back out to the yard. In a minute, Jacobs, still looking unsure, walked the black out.

  His hand at her waist, Gyles urged Francesca forward. She stopped by the black’s side and he lifted her to the saddle. Jacobs held the horse steady while she got settled. Gyles mounted and picked up his reins, glanced at the small figure perched atop the massive hunter, then wheeled. She brought the black alongside as they trotted out of the yard.

  “Is it possible to ride through the village, then up to the downs that way?”

  “Yes.” He glanced at her. “Why?”

  “We need to speak with Mrs. Duckett and Harris about the supplies for the Festival—I thought we might kill two birds with one stone.”

  He nodded. Instead of taking the track to the escarpment, he led the way along a ride that circled the house, running under the trees of the park to eventually join the main drive.

  When they slowed and clattered through the main gates, Francesca laughed. “That’s a lovely gallop.”

  They trotted on to the village.

  Francesca went into the bakery to speak with Mrs. Duckett. Gyles strode down to the Red Pigeon, arranged the supply of ale with Harris, then returned to liberate Francesca from Mrs. Duckett’s clutches, that lady having been as honored and delighted as Cook had predicted.

  Both once more in the saddle, Gyles led the way up the street to the church. A path to the downs lay beyond it. Five minutes later, they crested the escarpment, the horses stepping into the wide, treeless expanse with evident anticipation.

  The black pranced; Francesca held the big gelding back, waiting, watching for Gyles’s direction. He glanced her way. “Any preference?”

  A fleeting recollection popped into her head. “What about those barrows Lancelot Gilmartin mentioned? They must be close.”

  “A few miles.” Gyles studied her, then added, “I wouldn’t, myself, term them romantic.”

  “Well, you may take me there and let me see for myself.” Francesca looked around as the black jigged impatiently. “Which way?”

  “North.”

  Gyles sprang the grey and she went with him. Shoulder to shoulder, the huge hunters thundered across the rolling green. The wind of their passing whipped back Francesca’s curls; exhilaration sang in her veins.

  The sky was slate grey and no sun shone, yet there was a glow in her heart as they swept on. Again and again, she felt Gyles’s gaze, on her face, her hands, checking her posture. This was no race; although they rode hard, the gallop was severely controlled, judge
d to a whisker so as not to feel restricted—an indulgence, yes, one held just within the limits of safety.

  It was comforting to feel so watched over, to know that he was there, with her.

  They gained the top of a low rise and he slowed. She followed suit, drawing the black in. The gelding was still frisky, still wanting to run. She patted his glossy neck as she trotted up to Gyles.

  He nodded ahead. “See those mounds?”

  She saw a cluster of earth mounds about a mile further on. “Is that it?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  His tone alerted her; she looked and found him gazing at a point much nearer to hand. Another rider, previously hidden in a dip, came riding toward them.

  “Lancelot Gilmartin?”

  “Indeed.”

  Lancelot had seen them. They waited. Gyles steadied his grey as Lancelot came pounding up. Pounding too furiously. He hauled his bay to a too-precipitous halt. It snorted, backed, reared.

  The black jerked and sidled; Francesca’s arms were tugged sharply as he shook his head.

  Gyles angled the grey closer. The presence of the more experienced horse calmed the black.

  By then, Lancelot had his showy bay under control. “Lady Chillingworth.” He swept her a bow, then nodded at Gyles. “My lord.” Before either could reply, his glowing gaze locked on Francesca’s face. “I knew you wouldn’t resist the lure of the Barrows. I was on my way there when I saw you and turned back.” He glanced at Gyles. “My lord, I would be happy to escort her ladyship farther. No doubt you have much business to attend to.”

  Francesca jumped in before Gyles could annihilate Lancelot. “Mr. Gilmartin, you misunderstand. I really couldn’t presume—”

  “Oh, nonsense. I insist. Tell you what, I’ll race you.”

  Lancelot wheeled the fractious bay to come alongside—the horse stumbled sideways. Rumps bumped, Lancelot’s mount jarring the increasingly nervous black, bumping it into Gyles’s grey.

  “No!” Francesca felt a tremor of panic rush through the black, felt the bunching of powerful muscles beneath her. “Hold steady,” she snapped at Lancelot.