All About Passion (22 page)

They were driven, yet determined not to hurry, urgent yet unwilling to rush. Her fascination with his body was unfeigned; he let her have her way—let her press him to the bed and straddle his waist the better to skate her hands over him, then duck and glide her breasts across his chest. He couldn't help wondering…

"Did that come from watching your parents?"

Her eyes found his in the warm gloom. "No—not that. That I just… made up." He curled his hands about the smooth hemispheres of her bottom and kneaded. "I'll make a bargain with you—you can invent as you wish but don't tell me what you're replaying from memory." She paused, then leaned her arms on his chest and lowered her breasts until skin met skin, bringing her face closer to his.

She studied his eyes, serious but unconcerned—curious. "Didn't you ever watch your parents?"

"Good God, no!"

She chuckled, the smoky sound the epitome of wickedness, lying naked in the dark as they were. Ducking her head, she put out her tongue and lingeringly traced his collarbone. "You've led a sheltered life, my lord."

The touch and her purr poured heat through his veins. Closing his hands, he shifted her hips, then held her steady as, with his aching erection, he probed the slick swollen flesh between her thighs.

"Despite my sheltered life—" He broke off as he found her entrance and pressed in, past the constriction and into her hot sheath. Her gasp feathered across his chest; he felt the instinctive resistance of her body and stopped, waited. "Despite my conservative background"—
despite being one of the most successful
rakes in the ton
—"I believe there are still a few things I could teach you." He glanced down and found her eyes. He couldn't see their expression, yet he could sense hers, feel her simple honesty when she murmured, "I'm very willing to learn."

Their gazes held. He could feel her heart beating, in her breast, in the soft heat of her sheath. Grasping her hips, he held her down and eased farther into her, inch by deliberate inch, slowly filling her until she was full, until he was seated deeply within her. All the while he watched her eyes, watched them darken, cloud, until, at the last, her lids lowered and hid them.

He felt to his marrow the soft sigh that shuddered through her, the melting of her body about his. He ducked his head and she raised hers; their lips met, and nothing else mattered beyond what was between them.

Beyond the passion, the desire—and the driving need that fanned them.

It wasn't such a bad basis for a marriage.

* * *

"Get out!"

Francesca woke to Gyles's clipped accents. Pushing the covers from her face, she peeked out—in time to see her bedroom door closing. Bemused, she turned to Gyles, slumped large, hot, hard—and very naked—beside her. "What…?"

"What's your maid's name?"

"Millie."

"You need to instruct Millie not to come to your room in the morning until you ring for her."

"Why?"

Turning his head on the pillow, he looked at her, then started softly laughing. His mirth rocked her in the bed. His expression still amused, he turned on his side and reached for her. "I take it," he said, "you never watched your parents in the mornings."

"No, of course not. Why…" Francesca broke off as she studied his eyes. Then she licked her lips and looked at his. "The morning?"

"Hmm," he said, and drew her against him.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, it won't happen again, I swear—"

"It's all right, Millie. It was my oversight—I should have mentioned. We'll say no more about it." Francesca hoped she wasn't blushing. She hadn't mentioned because she hadn't imagined… Looking away from Millie, who was still wringing her hands, she straightened her morning gown. "Now, I'm ready. Please tell Mrs. Cantle I wish to see her in the family parlor at ten."

"Yes, ma'am." Still subdued, Millie bobbed a curtsy.

Francesca headed for the door. And the breakfast parlor. Sustenance. Her mother's quite remarkable appetite in the mornings was now explained.

Gyles and Horace had breakfasted earlier, and Gyles had gone out riding. Where he found the energy, Francesca could not guess but she was grateful not to have to endure his too-knowing grey gaze over the teacups.

Lady Elizabeth and Henni joined her. Once they were gustatorily satisfied, they retired to the family parlor. Mrs. Cantle, no taller than Francesca but rather more buxom and garbed in dull black, appeared promptly at ten o'clock.

She bobbed a curtsy, then clasped her hands. "You wished to see me, ma'am?" The question was addressed impartially, directed somewhere between Francesca and Lady Elizabeth, who was clearly nonplussed.

Francesca smiled. "I did. As Lady Elizabeth is removing to the Dower House this afternoon, she and I wish to use the morning to go over the house and review household practices. I wondered if you have time to accompany us?"

Mrs. Cantle struggled not to beam, but her eyes shone. "If we could just decide the menus, ma'am." She addressed Francesca directly. "I don't dare leave the heathen to his own devices, if you take my meaning. Needs constant reining in, he does."

The heathen had to be Ferdinand. "You have another cook here, I believe?" Francesca shot a glance at Lady Elizabeth, but it was Mrs. Cantle who answered.

"Indeed, ma'am, and that's the better half of the problem. None of us would deny Ferdinand's…"

"Artistry?"

"Aye—that's it. He's a right one with food, no doubt of it. But Cook, she's been with the family for years—fed the master since he was a boy, knows all his favorite dishes… and she and Ferdinand don't get on."

It wasn't hard to see why. Cook was the cook until Ferdinand appeared, and then she was demoted.

"What is Cook's specialty?" Mrs. Cantle frowned. "What manner of food is she especially good at?

Soups? Pastries?"

"Puddings, ma'am. Her lemon curd pudding is one of the master's favorites, and her treacle tart will curl your toes."

"Very well." Francesca stood. "We'll start our tour in the kitchens. I'll speak with Ferdinand, and we'll decide the menu, and we'll see if I can help smooth matters over."

Intrigued, Lady Elizabeth joined them. Mrs. Cantle led them through the green baize door and into a warren of corridors and small rooms. They passed Irving in his pantry and paused to survey the household silver and plate.

As they continued in Mrs. Cantle's wake, Francesca turned to Lady Elizabeth. "I hadn't thought to ask—

how will you manage at the Dower House? You'll need a butler, and a cook and maids—"

"It's all taken care of, dear." Lady Elizabeth touched her arm. "On an estate this size, there's always many eager for work. The Dower House has been standing ready for us this past week. Henni's maid and mine, and Horace's man, are presently ferrying the last of our belongings across the park, and, this afternoon, we'll go to our new home."

Francesca hesitated, then nodded. It was not her place, certainly not at that moment, to allude to what Lady Elizabeth would undoubtedly feel on leaving the house she had come to as a bride and managed for so many years.

Lady Elizabeth chuckled. "No—I don't regret leaving." Her voice was pitched low, for Francesca's ears only. "This house is so large, and Gyles's needs here and in London are more than I have energy to oversee properly. I'm more glad than I can say to have you here, willing and able to take on the responsibility."

Francesca met her ladyship's eyes. They were grey, like her son's, but softer. "I'll do my best to keep all running as smoothly and as well as you have."

Lady Elizabeth squeezed her arm. "My dear, if you can manage Ferdinand, you're destined to do better." The kitchens opened before them—two huge rooms, the first cavernous, the second only marginally less so. The first room contained an entire wall of hearth filled with brick ovens, roasting spits, and griddles suspended over huge grates. A deal table ran down the center of the room; a smaller table, presumably for staff dining, sat in an alcove. Pots and pans gleamed—from the walls, from shelves, and suspended from hooks high above. The room was warm; savory aromas filled the air. Francesca glimpsed a pantry to one side. The adjoining room apparently housed the scullery and preparation area. The rooms were a hive of activity. The central table was piled high with vegetables. A ruddy-faced woman stood at the far end, her large hands plunged into a basin of dough. Mrs. Cantle whispered to Francesca, "That's Cook—her name's Doherty, but we always call her Cook." Numerous juniors—scullions and kitchen maids—darted about. Concentrating on her dough, Cook didn't look up—the scuffle of boots on the flags and the clank of pots and bowls had masked their arrival.

Despite the melee, Ferdinand was easy to spot. A slim, olive-skinned male, jet-black hair falling over his forehead as he wielded a knife in a blur of motion, he stood on the other side of the central table, issuing a stream of orders in heavily accented English to the two kitchen maids who hovered and buzzed around him like bees.

Mrs. Cantle cleared her throat. Ferdinand glanced up.

His eyes found Mrs. Cantle, then passed on to Francesca. His knife halted in mid-stroke. Ferdiand's mouth dropped open.

Because of her late arrival for her wedding, this was the first time Ferdinand had seen her. Francesca was grateful when Mrs. Cantle clapped her hands to gain the attention of all the others. Everyone stopped. Everyone stared.

"Her ladyship has come to look over the kitchens."

Francesca smiled and moved past Mrs. Cantle. She let her gaze travel the room, touching each face briefly, stopping at the last on Cook. She inclined her head. "You are Cook, I believe?" The woman colored and bobbed, lifting her hands, only to plunge them back in the dough. "Ah—I'm sorry, ma'am." She desperately looked about for a cloth.

"No, no—don't let me interrupt you." Francesca peeked into the bowl. "Is that for the day's bread?" After an instant's pause, Cook replied, "The afternoon's baking, ma'am."

"You bake twice a day?"

"Aye—it's not that much more effort, and it means all's fresh." Francesca nodded. She heard Ferdinand shift and turned to him. "And you are Ferdinand?" He crossed the knife over his chest and bowed.
"Bellisima"
he murmured. Francesca asked him which part of Rome he hailed from. In Italian.

His mouth dropped open again, then he recovered and a torrent of impassioned Italian poured forth. Francesca let him rave for only a moment, then shushed him. "Now," she said, "I wish to discuss the menus for today. Mrs. Cantle—do you have pencil and paper?"

Mrs. Cantle bustled off to fetch them from her room. Ferdinand grasped the moment to rattle off his suggestions—in Italian. Francesca nodded and listened. When Mrs. Cantle returned and sat ready to write, Francesca halted Ferdinand with an upraised finger, then listed dishes she'd selected from his repertoire for the luncheon table. Then she turned to Cook. "And for tea, I'm very partial to scones." Cook looked up, surprise in her eyes, but she nodded very readily. "Aye—I can do those for you." Ferdinand broke in with voluble suggestions; Francesca waved him to silence. "Now, for tonight…" She detailed the dinner menu, making it clear that Ferdinand was in charge of the various courses, which smoothed his ruffled plumage. Then she came to the dessert course. "Puddings. I've heard of a dish—a lemon curd pudding." She looked at Cook. "Do you know it?" Cook shot a glance at Mrs. Cantle, but nodded. "Aye."

"Good. For the present, Cook, you will be responsible for preparing the puddings for our dinners." Ferdinand's expression was outraged. "But—" He followed with a string of Italian desserts. Francesca fixed him with a direct look, and in Italian said, "You do realize, do you not, that your master is English?"

Puzzled, Ferdinand looked at her. Continuing in Italian, Francesca said, "While you and I know of Italian dishes, it might be as well for you to extend your expertise in English puddings."

"I know nothing of these puddings."

The word "puddings" was loaded with contempt. Francesca only smiled. "If you were truly wise and wished to succeed, you would ask Cook to teach you the ways of English puddings." Ferdinand sulked. "She does not like me, that one."

"Ah, but now you realize that her teachings may prove useful, then you could find a way—perhaps offer to show her your decorations to use on her puddings. Making sure, of course, that she realizes you understand the importance of her puddings to the overall meal. I will expect you to work with her to ensure the balance of tastes."

Ferdinand stared at her. The Italian portion of their conversation had been conducted at a rapid-fire pace and had taken less than a minute. With a serene smile, Francesca nodded approvingly. "Very good. Now—" She swept around and made for the door leading back into the house, startling Irving and a small army of footmen who had gathered to listen. Francesca nodded graciously and sailed past. "Mrs. Cantle?"

"Coming, ma'am."

Lady Elizabeth brought up the rear, struggling to hide a grin.

The rest of their tour was much less eventful, but loaded with detail. By the time they returned to the ground floor, Francesca had a staunch supporter in Mrs. Cantle. She was relieved the housekeeper had proved so easy to win over. Given the size of the house and the complexities of its management, reliable support was something she would need.

"That was very well done of you, my dear." Lady Elizabeth sank into her chair in the family parlor. Mrs. Cantle had returned to her duties; Henni was knitting in her chair, ready to hear their report. "You had Cantle in the palm of your hand from the moment you showed yourself ready to ease Cook's way. She and Cantle go back many years—they've been here from the time they were girls." Lady Elizabeth looked across the parlor to where Francesca had settled on the daybed. "Mind you, you already had Cantle leaning your way—inviting her to accompany us from the first was a stroke of genius."

Francesca smiled. "I wanted to be sure she understood I valued her."

"You succeeded in making them all believe that."

"I also value what you and Henni have done to ease my way. It would have been much more difficult without your help."