All About Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  Did he want some sort of facade in place, like Horace and Henni? Was he hoping she’d agree to that? Could she?

  In all honesty, she doubted she could. Her temperament was not amenable to hiding her emotions.

  Was that the direction he wished to steer them in?

  If so, why?

  She’d asked him last night, and he’d refused to answer. There was no point asking again, even if the context was somewhat altered. At base, it was the same question—the question she kept tripping over, again and again.

  So she’d have to forge on, try to find a way forward, without the answer. It was as if she were doing battle on a field obscured by mist—fighting for her future, and his, without knowing where or what obstacles were in her path. If he thought she’d grow discouraged, give in, and settle for less than the enduring, open love she’d always wanted, especially now she knew it could exist if he would allow it to be, he would need to think again. Resigning battles was not her forte.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t his either.

  She slanted an assessing glance at him. They would see.

  The coach slowed, then turned a corner. A huge park appeared on the right.

  Gyles glanced at her. “Hyde Park. Where the fashionable go to be seen.”

  She leaned closer to look past him. “And should I be seen there?”

  He hesitated, then said, “I’ll take you for a drive around the Avenue one day.”

  She sat back as the carriage rounded another corner. Almost immediately, it slowed.

  “We’ve arrived.”

  Francesca glanced out at a row of elegant mansions. The carriage halted before one; the number 17 glowed against the stonework flanking the door.

  The carriage door was opened. Gyles moved past her and descended, then handed her down to the pavement. She looked up at the green-painted door, at the gleaming brass knocker.

  Behind her, Gyles murmured, “Our London home.”

  He led her up the steps and into the blaze of the hall. The servants were waiting, lined up to greet her, Wallace at their head, Ferdinand farther down the row. They’d traveled up in Gyles’s curricle ahead of the main carriage. Wallace introduced her to Irving the Younger, then stood back while Irving introduced her to Mrs. Hart, the housekeeper, a thin, somewhat ascetic woman, a Londoner from her speech. Between them, Irving and Mrs. Hart introduced all the others, then Mrs. Hart murmured, “I daresay you’re eager to rest, my lady. I’ll show you to your room.”

  Francesca glanced about. Gyles was standing under the chandelier, watching her.

  She started toward him, glancing back at Mrs. Hart. “I’m not tired, but I would love some tea. Please bring it to the library.”

  “At once, ma’am.”

  Reaching Gyles, she slid her arm through his. “Come, my lord. Show me your lair.”

  He should have put his foot down and ushered her into the drawing room. Two days later, Gyles could see his mistake clearly. Now the library, which in this house doubled as his study, was as much her lair as his.

  He quelled a sigh and frowned at the letter spread on his blotter. It was from Gallagher. He glanced to where Francesca sat reading in an armchair before the hearth. “The Wenlows’ cottage—do you remember it?”

  She looked up. “In that hollow south of the river?”

  “The roof’s leaking.”

  “It’s one of three, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “They’re all the same, built at the same time. I’m wondering if I should order all three roofs replaced.”

  He looked at her, watched consideration flow across her face.

  “Winter’s nearly here—if one of the other roofs spring a leak, it’ll be hard to fix if it’s snowing.”

  “Even if it isn’t. Those old roofs get so iced, even without snow it’s too dangerous to send men up.” Setting a fresh sheet on the blotter, Gyles reached for a pen. “I’ll tell Gallagher to replace all three.”

  She read while he wrote, but looked up as he sealed the letter. “Is there any other news?”

  He recounted all Gallagher had told him. From there, they got onto the subject of the bills he was researching. They were deep in a discussion of demographics relating to the voting franchise when Irving entered. “Mr. Osbert Rawlings has called, my lord. Are you receiving?”

  Gyles bit back a “no.” Osbert wasn’t in the habit of calling for no reason. “Show him in here.”

  Irving bowed and departed; a minute later he returned, Osbert in tow. Announced, Osbert nodded to Gyles, who rose. “Cousin.” His gaze swung to Francesca; Osbert beamed. “Dear cousin Francesca—” He broke off, glanced at Gyles, then back at her. “I may call you that, may I not?”

  “Of course.” Francesca smiled and held out her hand. Osbert took it and bowed over it. “Pray be seated, or is your business with Gyles?”

  “No, no!” Osbert eagerly sank into the other armchair. “I heard you were in town and felt I must call to welcome you to the capital.”

  “How kind,” Francesca replied.

  Suppressing a humph, Gyles sank back into the chair behind his desk.

  “And”—Osbert searched his pockets—“I do hope you don’t consider it impertinent, but I’ve written an ode—to your eyes. Ah, here it is!” He brandished a parchment. “Would you like me to read it?”

  Gyles smothered a groan and took refuge behind a news sheet. Still, he couldn’t help but hear Osbert’s verse. It wasn’t, in fact, bad—merely uninspired. He could have thought of ten better phrases to more adequately convey the fascinating allure of his wife’s emerald eyes.

  Francesca politely thanked Osbert and said various encouraging things, which led Osbert to fill her ears with predictions of how much she would enjoy the ton, and how much the ton would enjoy her. That last had Gyles compressing his lips, but then Francesca appealed to him over some point and he had to lower the news sheet and answer, sans scowl.

  He bore with Osbert’s prattle for five minutes more before desperation gave birth to inspiration. Rising, he crossed to where Francesca and Osbert sat. Francesca looked up.

  “If you recall, my dear, I’d mentioned taking you for a drive in the park.” Gyles turned his easy expression on Osbert. “I’m afraid, cousin, that if I’m to give Francesca a taste of all you’ve been describing so eloquently, we’ll need to go now.”

  “Oh, yes! Of course!” Osbert unraveled his long legs and stood. He took Francesca’s hand. “You’ll enjoy it, I’m sure.”

  Francesca said her farewells. Osbert took his leave of Gyles and quite happily departed.

  Gyles watched his retreating back through narrowed eyes.

  “Well, my lord.”

  He turned to see Francesca, head tilted, regarding him with a smile.

  “If we’re to go driving in the park, I’d better go and change.”

  A pity—she looked delectable as she was, the scooped neckline of her day gown drawing his eyes, the soft material, clinging to her curves, drawing his senses. But she’d be too cold in his curricle. Catching her hand, he carried it to his lips. “I’ll order the carriage. Fifteen minutes, in the hall.”

  She left him with a laugh and one of her glorious smiles.

  It was the fashionable hour, and the Avenue was packed with carriages of every description. The larger, more staid broughams and landaus were pulled up along the verge, while the smaller, racier curricles and phaetons tacked along between. Speed was not of the essence—no one was in any rush; the whole purpose of the exercise was to see and be seen.

  “There’s so many here!” From her perch on the box seat, Francesca looked around. “I’d thought at this time of year, the town would be half-empty.”

  “This is half-empty.” Gyles divided his attention between the carriage in front and the occupants of the carriages beside them. “During the Season, the lawns are half-covered, and there’re more horsemen about. What you’re seeing is primarily the elite of the ton, those who have business, usually politics, that brings them
up for the autumn session.”

  Francesca surveyed the ranks. “So these are the ladies I most need to get to know.”

  Gyles’s brows rose, but he inclined his head.

  Then he slowed his horses, drawing the curricle closer to a carriage on the verge. Francesca looked, then beamed. “Honoria!”

  “Francesca! How delightful!” Honoria looked at Gyles and, still smiling, nodded. “My lord. I can’t tell you how delighted I am to see you here.”

  Gyles’s answering smile was chilly. Francesca raised her brows fleetingly at Honoria—the swift look she received in reply clearly stated: I’ll explain later.

  Honoria gestured to the three other ladies sharing the barouche. “Allow me to introduce you to Devil’s aunt, Lady Louise Cynster, and her daughters, Amanda and Amelia.”

  Francesca exchanged greetings, smiling as she recognized the thoughts behind the girls’ wide eyes. Each was the epitome of a fair English beauty, with golden ringlets, cornflower blue eyes, and delicate, milky complexions. “You’re twins?”

  “Yes.” Amanda’s gaze was still skating over her.

  Amelia sighed. “You’re most amazingly lovely, Lady Francesca.”

  Francesca smiled. “You’re very lovely yourselves.”

  A thought popped into her head; her eyes widened, and she smothered a laugh. “Oh—excuse me!” She shot a wicked glance at Honoria and Louise. “It just occurred to me that if we made an entrance, all three together—Amelia on one side, me in the middle and Amanda on my other side, it would look quite extraordinary.”

  The contrast between their fairness and her exotic coloring was marked.

  Louise grinned. The twins looked intrigued.

  Honoria laughed. “It would cause a sensation.”

  Gyles caught Honoria’s eye and glared.

  Honoria’s smile deepened; she turned to Francesca. “We must have you around for dinner—Devil will want to meet you again, and we must introduce you to the others. For how long are you down?”

  Gyles left Francesca to answer. Perched beside her on the curricle’s box seat, he felt increasingly exposed. He was pleased when, all relevant details exchanged, they took their leave of Honoria and her companions and he could drive on.

  They didn’t get far.

  “Chillingworth!”

  He knew the voice. It took a moment to locate the turban, perched above a pair of obsidian eyes that were the terror of the ton. Lady Osbaldestone beckoned imperiously. Seated beside her in her old brougham, watching with a too-knowing smile, was the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives.

  Gyles swallowed his curse—Francesca would only wonder, and he had no choice anyway. Angling the curricle into the verge, he drew up beside the brougham.

  Lady Osbaldestone smiled widely, leaned over and introduced herself. “I knew your parents, my dear—visited with them in Italy—you were only three at the time.” She sat back and nodded benignly, her black eyes gleaming with deep satisfaction. “I was exceedingly pleased to hear of your marriage.”

  Gyles knew the comment was directed at him.

  Francesca smiled. “Thank you.”

  “And I, my dear, must also add my congratulations.” The Dowager, her pale green eyes warm, took Francesca’s hand. “And yes,” she said, smiling in response to the question dawning in Francesca’s face, “you have met my son and he spoke highly of you and, of course, Honoria told me all.”

  “I’m delighted to meet you, Your Grace.”

  “And you will be seeing more of us, my dear, I have no doubt, so we will not keep you and Chillingworth any longer. It will soon grow chilly, and I’m sure your husband will want to whisk you away.”

  The twinkle in her eyes was not lost on Gyles, but retaliation was out of the question—it was far too dangerous. Both he and Francesca bowed; he escaped as fast as he dared.

  “Are they—how is it described? Grandes dames?”

  “The grandest. Do not be fooled. They wield considerable power despite their age.”

  “They’re rather formidable, but I liked them. Don’t you?”

  Gyles snorted and drove on.

  “Gyles! Yoo-hoo!”

  Gyles slowed his horses. “Mama?” Both he and Francesca searched, then he saw Henni waving from a carriage farther up the line. “Good Lord.” He drove up and reined in. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  His mother opened her eyes at him. “You’re not the only ones who might fancy a bolt to the capital.” She released Francesca’s hand. “And of course, Henni and I wanted to be here to support Francesca. It’s a good opportunity to get to know the major hostess without the distraction of the Season.”

  “We’ve already met Honoria and Lady Louise Cynster, and the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives and Lady Osbaldestone,” Francesca said.

  “A very good start.” Henni nodded determinedly. “Tomorrow we’ll take you up with us, and we’ll visit a few more.”

  Gyles hid a frown.

  “But where are you staying?” Francesca asked.

  “Walpole House,” Lady Elizabeth answered. “It’s just around the corner in North Audley Street, so we’re close.”

  Gyles let his horses prance. “Mama—my horses. It’s getting cold . . .”

  “Oh, indeed you must get on, but no matter—we’ll see you tonight at the Stanleys.’ “

  He felt Francesca’s glance but didn’t meet it. They made their farewells and parted. He took the shortest route away from the Avenue, then headed out of the park.

  Francesca sat back and considered him. “Are we going to the Stanleys’ tonight?”

  Gyles shrugged. “We have an invitation. I suppose it’s as good a place as any to start.”

  “Start what?”

  Features grim, he guided his pair out of the gates. “Your emergence into the ton.”

  He’d wanted to put it off for as long as he could—he realized that now. And he knew why. His wife would exert the same visceral tug on the ton’s rakes as honey exerted on bees. At this time of year, those present were of the most dangerous variety, undiluted by the more innocuous bucks up from the country for the Season. Those at the Stanleys’ would be the London wolves, those who, as he had done, rarely hunted outside the capital with its alluringly scented prey.

  He’d made up his mind that he wouldn’t leave Francesca’s side before they’d even greeted their hostess.

  She, predictably, was thrilled.

  “A great pleasure to see you here, my lord.” Lady Stanley nodded approvingly, then shifted her gaze to Francesca. Her expression warmed. “And I’m delighted to be one of the first to welcome you to the capital, Lady Francesca.”

  Francesca and her ladyship exchanged the customary phrases. Gyles noted her ladyship’s transparent friendliness, not something to be taken for granted in the cut and thrust of the ton. Then again, the ton had been back in London for some weeks; the news that he’d married and that his marriage had been an arranged one would have circulated widely.

  That news would gain Francesca greater sympathy and acceptance than would otherwise have been the case. She’d never been in competition with the ton’s ladies or their daughters given that the position of his countess had never been put on the marriage mart.

  That was the good news. As they parted from their hosts, and he steered Francesca into the crowd, Gyles took in the creamy mounds of her breasts revealed by the neckline of her teal-silk evening gown, and wished he could retreat. Take her home to his library and lock her in, so that only those men he approved of would see her.

  None knew better than he that the news that their marriage had been arranged would expose her to the immediate scrutiny of those who’d recently been his peers. One look, and any rake worthy of the name would come running. She exuded the air of a woman of sensual appetites, one who would never be content with the mild attentions of an indifferent husband.

  The thought was laughable. He shook his head. She noticed and raised a brow.

  “Nothing.” Inwardly, he sho
ok his head again. He must have been mad to have set himself up for this.

  “Lady Chillingworth?” Lord Pendleton bowed elegantly before them; straightening, he glanced at Gyles. “Come, my lord—do introduce us.”

  Mentally gritting his teeth, Gyles did. He couldn’t very well do otherwise. And so it began—within ten minutes, they were surrounded by a pack of politely slavering wolves, all waiting for him to excuse himself and leave her to them.

  Hell would freeze before he did.

  Francesca chatted easily. Her social confidence increased her attractiveness to this particular audience. He knew them all, knew the question he was raising in their minds by remaining anchored by her side. How to escape before one of his ex-peers guessed his true position and decided to make hay of it was the primary question exercising his mind.

  Relief appeared in an unexpected guise. A tall, fair-haired gentleman shouldered his way through the crowd.

  Francesca was surprised when, apparently without exerting himself, the newcomer won through to her side. Intrigued, she offered her hand. He took it and bowed.

  “Harry Cynster, Lady Francesca. As your husband has been elected an honorary Cynster, that makes you one of the clan, too, so I’ll claim the prerogative of a relative to dispense with formal introductions.” Harry exchanged a glance with Gyles over her head, then concluded, his blue eyes wickedly alight, “I’m honored to meet you. I always did wonder who would trip Gyles up.”

  Francesca returned his smile.

  “I’m exceedingly surprised to see you here.”

  She turned at Gyles’s drawl; he was looking over the heads, scanning the room.

  “She’s not here.” Harry met Francesca’s gaze. “My wife, Felicity. She’s expecting our first child.” He glanced at Gyles. “She’s at home in Newmarket. I had to come up for the sales at Tattersalls.”

  “Ah—the mystery’s explained.”

  Harry grinned, tightly. “Indeed.” He paused for a heartbeat, then looked at Francesca. “But I would have thought you’d guess.” He again smiled his winning smile. “I’m here on a mission. My mama would like to meet you.” He glanced again at Gyles. “She’s sitting with Lady Osbaldestone.”