All About Passion (13 page)

Hector's expression changed. His eyes widened, then sparkled. His cheeks pinkened. "Well!" he murmured. "My
word!"

Gyles froze. What the devil had his meek and mild bride done?

Skirts shushed as ladies shuffled about to see. The expectant hush was shattered by whispers—excited ones. A wave of gasps and smothered exclamations rolled forward. Gyles felt Devil stiffen, fighting the impulse, then Devil turned his head and looked. And stilled.

Temper rising—surely Charles knew better than to let the girl appear in anything outre?—Gyles decided he may as well learn what everyone else already knew. Lips compressed, he turned—

His gaze swept the front pew on the other side of the aisle, the one reserved for the bride's family. An angular middle-aged woman sat smiling mistily, watching the bride approach. Beside her, pale blue eyes even wider than he remembered them, her mouth agape, staring straight at him as if she'd seen a ghost, sat…

His meek, mild-mannered bride.

Gyles couldn't wrench his gaze from her.

He couldn't breathe—his head was spinning.

If she was there, then who…

A
frisson
of awareness raced up his spine.

Slowly, stiffly, he completed his turn—confirmed with his eyes what his beleagured brain was screaming.

Even when he saw, he still couldn't believe.

Still couldn't breathe.

She was a vision to make strong men weak. A veil of fine lace edged with seed pearls was anchored across her crown, covering but not concealing the rampant lushness of her hair, black as a crow's wing against the ivory. Behind the veil, her emerald eyes glowed, vibrantly intense. From where he stood, the veil's edge hid her lips; his memory supplied their fullness.

Her gown was an old-fashioned fantasy in stiff ivory silk heavily sewn with pearls. She filled it to perfection, the low, square-cut neckline the perfect showcase for her magnificent breasts. The golden hue of her complexion, the darkness of her hair, and her vivid eyes allowed her to carry the ivory with dramatic flair; it wasn't the gown that dominated the vision.

From the fullness of her breasts, the gown narrowed to tightly encircle her waist before spreading in heavy folds over her hips. That tiny waist invited male hands to seize, while her rich skirts evoked images of plunder.

She was a goddess designed to fill male minds with salacious imaginings, to claim their senses, snare their hearts, and trap them forever in a world of sensual longing.

And she was his.

And furious.

With him.

Gyles dragged in a breath as, with a susurration of silks, she stepped to her place beside him. He was dimly aware that to all eyes but his, she appeared a radiant bride, her lips curving in a smile of joyful happiness beneath her veil.

Only for him did her eyes flash. With a warning, and a promise.

Then she looked at Hector and smiled.

Hector nearly dropped his Bible. While he shuffled and reshuffled, trying to find his place, Gyles looked down and struggled to breathe. She was handling this better than he was, but then, she'd known who he was all along—

He hauled his mind off that track. He couldn't afford to let his temper rule him. He had to think. He tried, but felt trapped, as if he was fleeing through a maze meeting blank walls at every turn. Devil nudged him. He lifted his head as Hector, finally ready, cleared his throat.

"We are gathered here today…"

He barely registered the words. In a daze, he repeated the phrases he had to say. Then she spoke, and instantly captured every last shred of his awareness.

In her sultry, smoky voice, she—Francesca Hermione Rawlings—vowed to be his wife, in sickness and in health, for better, for worse, until death should them part.

He had to stand there and let it happen.

Devil gave Hector the ring. Hector blessed it, then held out the open Bible, the ring balanced on the page.

Gyles picked it up and turned to her.

She extended her left hand. He closed his fingers about hers, so small and delicately boned. He slid the ring on her finger. It slipped down, but he had to ease it over her second knuckle. It fitted perfectly. The ring glowed against her skin; the emeralds winked, their fire an echo of her eyes. He looked up and caught her gaze. The fire burned brightly there.

She returned his regard, then her lips firmed. Surreptitiously she tugged, trying to free her hand. Gyles tightened his hold.

For good or ill, she was his.

The realization swept him. A turbulent power, basic, elemental—wholly primitive—flowed through him.

"And now, by the grace vested in me, I pronounce you man and wife." Hector closed his Bible and beamed upon them. "You may now kiss the bride."

Gyles released her hand. With apparent calm, she raised her veil and set it back. Sliding his hand around her waist, he drew her to him. She quickly looked up, eyes widening, lips parting—

He bent his head and covered her lips with his.

It should have been a gentle kiss, a mere formality.

It wasn't.

His arm tightened, locking her against him. His tongue plundered—a warning of his own. It was a kiss of claiming, one that spoke of primal rights, of promises made, vows taken, bargains made that would be kept.

After an instant's surprise, she caught her breath and kissed him back—with fire, with defiance—with unadulterated passion.

It was he who broke the kiss, aware that this was not the time or place. Their eyes met—they both remembered where they were and what they had to face. Silent agreement flashed between them. Because she was so much shorter, and he'd caught her so close, no one had witnessed the quality of their exchange.

About them, music swelled; Hector's wife had started the processional.

Francesca blinked, then glanced at Hector. She tried to draw back—Gyles tightened his hold on her. Only to feel Hector's hand on his shoulder.

"Well! Might I be the first to congratulate the bride?"

He had to let her go; he forced himself to do it, forced himself to let Hector take her hands and buss her cheek.

Devil elbowed him in the back.

"Nice
duty
, if one can get it."

Gyles turned—only to have Devil nudge him aside.

"Stand back, Hector. It's my turn."

Their well-wishers surrounded them. Gyles stood by her side and refused to budge as the guests pressed forward, eager to greet his ravishing countess, to pump his hand and tell him what a lucky dog he was. The ladies made straight for Francesca. Horace thumped him on the back. "A sly one, you are! All that talk of marrying for the family and property—well! Not that I blame you, mind—she's a dammed fetching piece."

"She did bring the Gatting property."

"Yes, well, I expect that influenced you mightily." Horace grinned at Francesca. "Must kiss the bride, what?" He moved on.

Gyles inwardly sighed. If not even Horace believed…

Francesca greeted Horace with a social grace quite at odds with what was running through her mind. Indeed, she was grateful to those who pressed near to squeeze her hand, kiss her cheek, and offer their congratulations—they provided her with an opportunity to catch her bream. Such occasions held no terrors; as her parents' only child, she'd been their social companion for years and was confidently at ease amidst fashionable crowds.

It wasn't the demands of the wedding that concerned her.

She wasn't at all sure what was going on in her husband's mind, but that was presently the least of her concerns. After he'd returned her to her bed, she hadn't been able to think. To her surprise, she'd fallen deeply asleep. She'd woken only just in time to hide the evidence of her nighttime excursion before Millie and Lady Elizabeth arrived to help her with her preparations. Ester had joined them, and assured her Franni was highly excited and looking forward to witnessing the wedding. She hadn't known what to make of that.

On waking, her first thought had been that she should give him what he wanted—what he was expecting—and reorganize things so Franni walked up the aisle. She would give the Gatting property he was so set on acquiring to Franni… it was then she'd remembered the marriage settlements. They'd been signed and sealed, and it was her name, not Franni's, in all the crucial spots. While their marriage was the crux of the arrangement, the ceremony was only part of that, the public acknowledgment of an agreement entered into. Legally, albeit contingent on their wedding taking place, the Gatting property was already his.

Both Charles and Chillingworth's man-of-business, a Mr. Waring, who'd traveled into Hampshire with the documents, had taken great pains to impress on her the inviolability of the agreement once signed. She'd signed. She couldn't now refuse to marry him.

And she certainly could not thrust Franni into such an arena. He'd been out of his mind to think she could cope… which made her wonder if Chillingworth had spoken with Franni at all. She had no idea what Franni thought. Was Chillingworth the gentleman her cousin had referred to?

She'd had no chance before the ceremony to speak with Franni alone. Indeed, Franni had been innocently excited when she'd hurried off to the chapel with Ester.

•When she'd walked up the aisle, she'd seen Chillingworth glance toward where Franni should have been, but with all eyes on her, she hadn't dared look herself. She'd been playing a part, and she'd had to play it well—had to make people believe she was a willing and happy bride. She'd hoped to glance Franni's way once she'd halted before the altar, perhaps as Charles stepped back—but the instant she'd reached Chillingworth's side…

Shaking aside the memory, she tried again to glimpse the pew where Franni had been, but Chillingworth had, thanks to the melee, ended on that side. He hadn't budged an inch since; she couldn't see past him. Neither Ester nor Franni had come to kiss her. Charles was hanging back. But he was smiling. Frustrated, she glanced at Lady Elizabeth, who read her emotion correctly but misinterpreted the cause. Her mother-in-law clapped her hands. "It's time we moved on to the dining room. Now make way and let them go ahead, then you can greet them at the door and we can all chat and enjoy ourselves over the wedding breakfast."

Francesca cast her a grateful smile. Chillingworth's arm appeared before her, and she took it, preserving her mask of a radiant, joyful bride as they ran a gauntlet of rice all the way up the aisle. Outside the chapel, her smile evaporated. Before she could turn to him, he grasped her hand. "This way."

She had to grab her skirts and run to keep up with his long strides. He cut down corridors, down stairs, around corners, leading her away from their guests, away from the reception rooms. At no stage did he moderate his pace. Then they were rushing down a narrow, dimly lit corridor—she thought they were on the ground floor. The door at the end was shut.

She was about to dig in her heels and demand to be told where he was taking her when, just before the door, Chillingworth stopped dead, whirled her about, and backed her against the wall. Francesca felt the wall cool at her back, felt the heat of his body before her, around her. She sucked in a breath as he leaned closer, trapping her. She caught his gaze, held it.

Gyles was aware they were both breathing rapidly. The pulse throbbing at the base of her throat dragged at his senses, but he didn't take his gaze from her eyes.

Any other woman, and he would have exploited their sexual linkage to unnerve her, to gain the upper hand.

With her, he didn't dare.

There was too much between them, even now, even here. It was a hot breath caressing skin, something almost palpable, an awareness of sin as old as time.

They only had minutes, and he had no idea what she intended, whether she was going to play out the scene to its end, or erupt midway through.

"Franni—"

The sheer fury that lit her eyes—lit her—silenced him. Her rage was so potent he nearly stepped back.

"I am
not Franni
."

Every carefully enunciated word slapped him.

"You're Francesca Hermione Rawlings." She'd better be, or he'd wring her neck. She nodded. "And my cousin, Charles's daughter, is Frances Mary Rawlings. Known to all as Franni."

"Charles's
daughter?"
The fog started to clear. "Why the devil was she given such a similar name to you?"

"We were born within weeks of each other, me in Italy, Franni in Hampshire, and we were both named after our paternal grandfather."

"Francis Rawlings?"

She nodded again. "Now we have that settled, I have a few questions. Did you meet Franni when you visited Rawlings Hall?"

He hesitated. "I strolled with her twice."

She breathed in; her breasts rose. "Did you at any time say anything to lead Franni to believe you were considering offering for her?"

"No."

"No?" She widened her eyes at him. "You came to Rawlings Hall to find an amenable bride, you thought you'd found her, you walked twice with her—and you said nothing—gave no hint whatever of your intentions?"

"No." His temper was on a leash as tight as hers. "If you recall, I insisted on adhering to the most distant and rigid formality. It would have run counter to my plans to woo your cousin in even the most cursory way."

He could see she didn't know whether to believe him or not. He exhaled through his teeth. "I swear on my honor I never said or did
anything
to give her the slightest reason to imagine I had any interest whatever in her."

She hesitated, then stiffly inclined her head. "Did you see what happened to her? She wasn't in the chapel when we left, but I didn't see her leave."

He wasn't sure what was going on. "I only glimpsed her in the instant before you joined me. She recognized me and seemed shocked. There was an older lady with her."

"Ester—Charles's sister-in-law, Franni's aunt. She lives with them."

"I didn't see either of them later. They must have left when everyone was crowding around." Francesca grimaced. "Charles didn't seem worried…"

Her gaze grew distant. Gyles wondered why she'd seemed so certain he'd spoken of his offer to her cousin. Did she believe he'd raised her cousin's hopes? But
she'd
known all along…