All About Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Who makes the dressing?” Gyles asked.

  Mrs. Cantle and Cook exchanged glances. Mrs. Cantle answered. “Ferdinand, my lord. He knew what Lady Francesca was describing—he took great care—felt quite chuffed, he did—to be making it for her.”

  “Ferdinand?”

  Gyles looked at Francesca. He could see in her eyes her wish to deny all he was thinking.

  Cook shuffled her feet. “If you don’t mind, m’lord, I’ll get rid of this wicked stuff.”

  Gyles nodded. Cook picked up the bottle and left.

  Wallace cleared his throat. “If you’ll pardon the comment, my lord, I would argue that Ferdinand is the least likely person to have used the dressing to poison Lady Francesca. He’s devoted to her ladyship, and despite his histrionics he’s been unfailingly good at his job; he’s ultimately done all we’ve asked of him. Ever since her ladyship arrived, he’s got on a great deal better with Cook, which was really the only odd kick in his gallop.”

  Mrs. Cantle nodded in agreement. Gyles turned to find Irving nodding, too.

  “And,” Wallace went on, “if Ferdinand wanted to poison anyone, he could do so, very easily and with a great deal less chance of being detected, by introducing poison into the more highly flavored dishes he prepares than by putting bitter almonds into her ladyship’s dressing.”

  Gyles looked at them all. Given what he was feeling, it was difficult to incline his head and accept their argument. Eventually, he did so. “Very well. But then who put the poison in that bottle? Who has access to bitter almonds?”

  Mrs. Cantle grimaced. “All you need is a kernal, my lord, and the trees are common—there’s three on the south lawn.”

  Gyles stared at her.

  A knock sounded on the door. Cook looked in. “Your pardon, m’lord, but I thought you’d want to know.” She came in, closed the door, then, drawing a deep breath, faced them all. “I was tipping the stuff down the drain when Ferdinand came up. He saw what I was doing and asked why. Well, he was about to fly into one of his Italian pelters, so I told him. He was shocked—well and truly shocked. Couldn’t say a word, at first. Then he said, ‘oh—but wait.’ Seems he used the last of an old bottle of almond oil—I do remember he hadn’t enough of the olive last time he made the dressing, and I told him where to find the almond. I use it in my sweet crusts, you see. And I remember him telling me he’d had to use the last bit.” Cook clasped her hands tightly. “So you see, it might have been the almond oil going bad that you all smelled.”

  Gyles looked at Wallace, then at Mrs. Cantle. She nodded. “Could be.”

  Gyles grimaced. “Bring the stuff back . . .”

  Cook blanched. “Can’t, m’lord.” She wrung her hands. “I tipped it all down the drain and put the bottle to soak.”

  Francesca was glad to spend the rest of the day quietly, catching up with the myriad decisions necessary to keep a house the size of Lambourn Castle functioning smoothly—decisions set aside while preparations for the Festival were under way. She and Wallace, Irving and Mrs. Cantle met late in the afternoon to make notes on what had worked well, and detail suggestions for next year. Gyles didn’t join them, but retired to the library; Francesca assumed he was sunk in his research.

  She woke the next day to discover the sun shining weakly. She summoned Millie and dressed in her riding habit, mourning the loss of her cap but determined to let the matter lie. On reaching the breakfast parlor, she learned Gyles had already gone out riding, as she’d supposed. Finishing her toast, she headed for the stables.

  “Aye—she’ll be eager for a run,” Jacobs said when she inquired after Regina. “I’ll have her saddled in a trice.”

  He was as good as his word, leading the mare out and holding her steady while Francesca climbed into the saddle. She was settling her feet when she heard the clop of other hooves. Two grooms, mounted on two of Gyles’s hunters, ambled out of the stable.

  She smiled, nodded, then, gathering Regina’s reins turned the mare toward the stable arch.

  “The lads’ll hang back twenty yards or so, ma’am.”

  Francesca halted. She blinked at Jacobs. “I’m sorry . . . I don’t understand.” She glanced past him to the grooms; they were clearly intending to follow her.

  She looked back at Jacobs. The head stableman had flushed. “Master’s orders, ma’am.” He stepped closer so only she could hear. “He said as how you was not allowed out alone. If you wasn’t with him, I was to send two grooms with you.”

  “Two?” Francesca forced her lips to relax. Whatever was going on wasn’t Jacobs’s fault. She glanced again at the grooms, then nodded. “As he wishes.”

  With that, she tapped the mare’s side. Regina clattered out of the yard.

  Francesca heard the grooms following. She’d intended to go up to the downs, to ride free and fast until she met Gyles. He’d be up there somewhere. They could have ridden together. . . .

  Frowning, she turned onto the track through the park.

  She needed to think.

  Gyles joined her at the luncheon table. Francesca smiled and chatted; he answered, but didn’t smile. Not that he frowned, but his eyes remained hooded, difficult to read. His expression said nothing at all.

  With Irving and his minions constantly about, she had to bide her time. At the end of the meal, she would ask to speak with him—

  “If you’ll excuse me, my dear, I’ve a lot to catch up with.”

  Francesca stared as Gyles waved aside the fruit platter, dropped his napkin by his plate, and stood.

  He nodded her way, his gaze touching her face briefly. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  Before she could say a word, he walked from the room.

  Francesca followed his broad shoulders, then set her knife down with a clack.

  It was possible he truly was swamped with work. In the interests of domestic peace, Francesca called for her cloak and went out for a walk.

  The clouds had closed in; the sun had disappeared. The leaves lay thick under the oaks, a dense carpet muffling her steps. The air beneath the bare branches was still and cool, waiting for winter.

  She tried to decide if she was reading more into the day’s events than they warranted. Was she overreacting? In her heart, she didn’t think so. Logically, she wasn’t sure.

  She’d followed a line parallel to the drive, under the trees—where was she going? With a sigh, she stopped. Going to the ramparts might distract her—she could see what sort of view there was on such a cloudy day. She swung around and stopped, staring at the two footmen who’d been ambling in her wake.

  They halted. Warily waited.

  Lips thinning, she started walking again. They bowed as she passed; she nodded and swept on—she didn’t trust herself to speak. If she opened her lips she would scream, but it wasn’t the footmen she wanted to scream at.

  What did he think he was doing?

  He was jealous, but it couldn’t be that. On what grounds could he excuse such draconian measures? He’d been bothered over her cap’s demise, but she’d explained that. And the ruckus over the odd smell in the dressing had simply been a mistake.

  Reaching the ramparts, she stalked along. She could understand he might harbor some nebulous concern, but did he think she was so helpless he needed to treat her like a child? To be watched over by nursemaids? Two nursemaids?

  Leaves crunched beneath her soles. At the point where the river curved, she halted, looking out over a landscape wreathed in gauzy mist. Her eyes saw; her brain did not.

  She had a good mind to walk down to the folly and lock herself in—and wait until he came before she opened the door. Then he’d have to talk to her.

  That, of course, was what was so irritating—the point that so exercised her temper. He was avoiding her because he didn’t wish to discuss this latest start. He’d decreed, and it was to be, regardless of what she thought or felt.

  She gritted her teeth against a nearly overwhelming urge to shriek. Lips compressed, she swung on her
heel and headed around the house, then on through the park.

  She strode back from the Dower House two hours later. Lady Elizabeth and Henni had welcomed her with praise and congratulations over the success of the Festival and what they were calling the Great Plum Harvest. She’d had to smile, sip her tea, and listen. With barely a pause, they’d moved on to the family, showing her the additions they’d made to the copy of the family tree she’d left with them.

  That had distracted her. She’d become absorbed with their explanations, the names, connections, recollections. They’d gone as far as they could. She’d rolled up the family tree with all its addendums and brought it away with her.

  It would be up to her what she did with it next. She’d never been part of a large family; she was feeling her way, yet she could see the possibilities. The potential. Ideas, still amorphous, floated through her head but she couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t make any decision on such matters—not yet.

  Not until she’d discovered what was going on in her marriage, and decided what to do about that.

  Distracted by their own chatter, neither Lady Elizabeth nor Henni had noticed her initial abstraction. She’d left without mentioning her sudden, unwelcome uncertainties. She hadn’t asked why Gyles’s reasonable concern should suddenly erupt into such overprotectiveness. The answer was one she needed to learn for herself—the matter lay between him and her.

  That overprotectiveness irked—the two footman crunching in her wake were a constant reminder. She felt caged, but it wasn’t that that hurt.

  Gyles was avoiding her, refusing to reveal whatever the problem that had caused this reaction was.

  He’d withdrawn from her, drawn back from her. . . .

  She paused and forced herself to take a breath.

  She’d thought they’d drawn close, but he’d stepped away, turned away. Had she imagined it—all that had gone before? She’d been so certain he was close to loving her as she wished . . . and now this. In a matter of hours, he’d cut himself off from her and retreated to a formal, conventional distance. He’d put up walls against her.

  She didn’t feel just caged, she felt shut out.

  Drawing another breath, she set off again. The house stood amid its trees; she made for the front steps.

  With every stride she took, her determination welled.

  He’d said he would see her at dinner. Reaching the porch, she flung open the front door, strode into the hall and headed for the stairs.

  She’d make sure he did.

  Frustrated fury bubbled within her; she had to rein it in, had to wait. She swung into the gallery, making for the private wing.

  A figure stepped out and bowed deeply. Ferdinand.

  She halted before him. “Yes?”

  “My lady.” He straightened. He was only just taller than she was. Despite his olive skin, he looked wan.

  When he simply stared at her, looking tortured, Francesca frowned. “What is it?”

  Ferdinand swallowed, then blurted out, “I would never have tried to harm you, my lady—you must believe that!” A torrent of Italian, impassioned and more, followed.

  Conscious of the two footmen ten yards behind her, Francesca reached out, grasped Ferdinand’s sleeve, and shook hard. “Stop this! No one imagined you’d tried to harm me, or, indeed, done anything wrong.”

  Ferdinand looked sceptical. “The master?”

  Francesca caught his gaze. “If your master believed you harbored any intention to harm me, you would no longer be at Lambourn.” She could taste the truth in the words. “Now go back to your duties, and stop imagining anyone blames you.”

  Ferdinand bowed low. Francesca walked on, her mind whirling. Gyles knew—accepted—that the dressing hadn’t been poisoned. So why had the incident acted as a catalyst for such change?

  More questions only her husband could answer. Would answer—tonight.

  She picked up her pace. The footmen didn’t follow her into the private wing. They weren’t needed there because there were already two footmen, one stationed at either end of the corridor, keeping watch over her rooms.

  Teeth clenched, she flung open her door before either footman could reach it.

  “Millie?” Her little maid jumped up from a straight-backed chair. Francesca closed the door. “I . . .” Haven’t rung for you yet. “What are you doing here?”

  Millie bobbed. “Wallace said as how I should wait here, ma’am.”

  Francesca stared. “When was this?”

  “This afternoon, ma’am. After you went for your walk.” Millie came to take Francesca’s cloak.

  “You’ve been up here, waiting, all afternoon?”

  Millie shrugged; she shook out the cloak. “I had your things to tidy. Tomorrow, I’ll bring up the mending.”

  Francesca watched her hang up the cloak, then turned away. “Call for water. I wish to bathe.”

  A long soak in hot water did not improve her temper. It did, however, give her time to plan her strategy, organize her arguments, and rehearse what she would later say.

  To her husband, face-to-face.

  The sooner such an interview was brought about, the better. Wrapped in a silk robe, her hair curling wildly from the steam, Francesca waved Millie to the two large wardrobes that held her clothes. “Open them both—I wish to select a special gown for this evening.”

  Gyles knew what he was facing the instant he set eyes on his wife that evening. He entered the family parlor with Irving on his heels. She looked up from the chair beside the fireplace, and smiled.

  He stopped. Watched her while Irving announced that dinner was served.

  She waited, patently expecting him to come nearer, to take her hand and raise her.

  When he didn’t, she arched one brow.

  He waved to the door. “Shall we?”

  She met his gaze, then rose and came to him. One part of him wanted to turn, walk away—run away—and take refuge in his study. Most of him wanted—

  He wrenched his gaze from the creamy expanse of her breasts exposed by the magnificent bronze-silk gown. The gown was simple; in it, she was stunning. He couldn’t stop his senses from drinking in the sight, from skating over her face, her hair, her lips.

  He met her gaze briefly, then offered his arm. She placed her hand on his sleeve; soft and supple she glided beside him as they headed for the dining room—he felt as stiff as a board.

  The meal provided a welcome diversion. He knew it wouldn’t last.

  “The Festival went well, don’t you think?”

  He inclined his head and nodded to a footman to serve him more beans. “Indeed.”

  “Was there anything you noted, anything that might have been better done otherwise?” She gestured with her fork. “Any complaints?”

  He met her gaze briefly. “No. None.”

  He’d assumed the presence of Irving and the footmen would spike her guns temporarily; suddenly he wasn’t so sure.

  As if she’d read his mind, she smiled, slipped a piece of pumpkin between her lips, and looked down.

  Despite the determination he’d glimpsed in her eyes, she made no further reference to recent events, but asked instead about London. He appreciated her acquiescence to his wishes. He would have to speak with her—her dress declared her stance on that—but any such exchange would be at a time of his choosing and, most importantly, in her bedroom, a venue in which he could end all discussion whenever he wished.

  “Have you heard from St. Ives?”

  He answered briefly, revealing as little as possible. Lines would need to be drawn; he’d already drawn some but hadn’t yet decided where others would lie.

  The meal ended. They rose and walked into the corridor. Pausing, she half turned and met his gaze.

  He could feel her warmth, not just of her flesh but a deeper, womanly warmth, infinitely more tempting. The green of her eyes called him; the promise of her body showcased in bronze silk tugged at his senses. Drew him to her.

  Her hand was rising to touc
h his arm when he stepped back.

  Lids lowered, he inclined his head. “There’s much I have to attend to. I suggest you don’t wait up.”

  He turned and strode for his study. He didn’t need to see her face.

  Outwardly calm, Francesca retired to the family parlor. She sat by the fire for an hour, then Wallace pushed in the tea trolley. She allowed him to pour for her, then dismissed him. She sat beside the fire for another hour, then set aside her cup, rose, and went upstairs.

  She changed, setting the bronze dress aside. Then she dismissed Millie.

  In a fine silk nightgown beneath a peignoir of heavier silk, she stood by one window in the darkened room and gazed out at the moon-drenched night.

  And waited.

  Another hour passed before she heard the door to the room next to hers open, then close. She heard Gyles’s footsteps cross the floor. Heard him speak to Wallace.

  She imagined Gyles undressing. . . .

  She turned her head, stared at the connecting door. Then she was crossing to it, reaching for the handle. If they were going to discuss anything, she wanted her husband fully clothed.

  She flung open the door and walked through. “I wish to speak with you.”

  Coatless, his cravat loose about his neck, Gyles paused, then he drew the linen free. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

  She halted ten feet away, crossed her arms beneath her breasts, and looked him in the eye. “I see no reason to wait.”

  Gyles took in the seething emotion in her eyes. He glanced down the room. Wallace was easing out of the door. Jaw setting, he looked at Francesca. “Very well.” His tones were clipped, cold. “What is it?”

  Unwise words; her eyes flared. But the fact she reined her temper in left him even more uneasy. He’d seen her furious before; this time, she was burning with a cold flame—one to cut, rather than scorch.

  “I am not a child.”

  She enunciated the words clearly. His eyes on hers, he raised his brows, then let his gaze slide over her lush figure. “I wasn’t aware I had treated you—”

  He shut up.