All About Passion (3 page)

A strangled "Oh!" escaped her.

She looked up.

The green feather in the scrap of a cap perched atop her glossy curls brushed his cheek. Gyles barely noticed.

Her eyes were green—a green more intense than the emerald of her gown. Wide and wondering, they were darkly and thickly lashed. Her skin was flawless ivory tinged a faint gold, her lips a dusky rose, delicately curved, the lower sensuously full. Her hair was pulled back and anchored across her crown, revealing a wide forehead and the delicate arch of black brows. Curls large and small tumbled down, framing a heart-shaped face that was irresistibly piquant and utterly intriguing; Gyles was seized by a need to know what she was thinking.

Those startled green eyes met his, roved his face, then, widening even more, returned to his.

"I'm sorry. I didn't see you coming."

He felt her voice more than heard it—felt it like a caress inside, an invitation purely physical. The sound itself was… smoky—a sultry sound that somehow clouded his senses.

His very willing senses. Like recognized like in the blink of an eye.
Oh, yes,
the beast inside him purred. His lips curved subtly although his thoughts were anything but.

Her gaze lowered, fastened on his lips, then she swallowed. Light color rose in her cheeks. Her heavy lids lowered, hiding her eyes. She eased back in his arms. "If you would release me, sir…" He didn't want to, but he did—slowly, with deliberately obvious reluctance. She'd felt more than good in his arms—she'd felt warm and intensely vital. Intensely alive.

She stepped back, color deepening as his hands brushed her hips as his arms fell from her. She shook out her skirts, refusing to meet his eyes.

"If you'll pardon me, I must go."

Without waiting for any answer, she slipped past him, then strode quickly down the path. Turning, he watched her retreat.

Her steps slowed. She stopped.

Then she whirled and looked back at him, meeting his gaze with neither consciousness nor guile. "Who are you?"

She was a gypsy in green framed by the hedges. The directness in her gaze, in her stance, was challenge incarnate.

"Chillingworth." Turning fully, he swept her a bow, his eyes never leaving hers. Straightening, he added, "And very definitely at your service."

She stared at him, then gestured vaguely. "I'm late…"

For all the world as if she hadn't been…

Their gazes held; something primitive arced between them—some promise that needed no words to be made.

Her gaze slid from his, traveling avidly, greedily over him as if she would commit him to memory; he did the same, no less hungry for the sight of her, poised to take flight. Then she did. She whirled, snatched up her trailing habit, and fled, ducking down a side path toward the house, disappearing from his view.

Gaze locked on the empty avenue, Gyles suppressed an urge to give chase. His arousal gradually faded; he turned. The smile curving his lips was not one of amusement. Sensual anticipation was a currency he dealt in regularly; the gypsy knew well how to bargain.

He reached the stable and sent the lad to fetch the chestnut; settling to wait, it occurred to him that, at this juncture, he might be expected to be thinking about his bride-to-be. He mentally focused on the pale young lady with her book; within seconds, the image was overlaid by the more vibrant, more sensually appealing picture of the gypsy as he'd last seen her, with that age-old consideration blazoned in her eyes. Switching his attention back to the former required real effort.

Gyles inwardly laughed. That was, after all, precisely the point in marrying such a cypher—her existence would not interfere with his more carnal pursuits. In that, Francesca Rawlings had indeed proved perfect—within minutes of seeing her, his mind had been full of lascivious thoughts involving another woman.

His gypsy. Who was she? Her voice came back to him, that husky, sultry sound. There was an accent there—just discernible—vowels richer, consonants more dramatic than the English were wont to make them. The accent lent further sensual flavor to that evocative voice. He recalled the olive tinge that had turned the gypsy's skin golden; he also recalled that Francesca Rawlings had lived most of her life in Italy.

The stablelad led the big chestnut out; Gyles thanked the boy and mounted, then cantered down the drive.

Accent and coloring—the gypsy could be Italian. As for behavior, no meek, mild-mannered English young lady would ever have boldly appraised him as she had. Italian, then, either friend or companion of his bride-to-be. She was certainly no maid—not dressed as she had been—and no maid would have dared behave so forwardly, not on first or even second sight.

Reining in where the drive wound into the trees, Gyles looked back at Rawlings Hall. How best to play the cards he'd just been dealt he wasn't yet sure. Securing his amenable bride remained his primary objective; despite the carnal need she evoked, seducing the gypsy had to take second place. He narrowed his eyes, seeing, not faded bricks but a pair of emerald eyes bright with understanding, with knowledge and speculation beyond the ken of any modest young lady.

He would have her.

Once his amenable bride declared she was willing, he'd turn to a conquest more to his taste. Savoring the prospect, he wheeled the chestnut and galloped down the drive.

Chapter 2

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Francesca rushed into, the house through the garden hall. Abruptly halting, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. Waited for her wits to stop whirling.

Gracious!
She'd spent the last year privately bemoaning the lack of fire in English men, and now look what the gods had thrown at her. Even if it had taken them twelve months to find him, she wasn't about to complain.

She wasn't sure she shouldn't go down on her knees and give thanks.

The vision that evoked brought a laugh bubbling up, set the dimple in her left cheek quivering. Then her levity faded. Whoever he was, he hadn't come to see her; she might never meet him again. Yet he was a relative assuredly—she'd noted the resemblance to her father and uncle. A frown in her eyes, she headed into the house.

She'd just returned from a ride when she'd heard Ester call. Leaving the stables, she'd pelted for the house. She'd stayed out longer than usual; Ester and Charles might be worrying. Then she'd collided with the stranger.

A gentleman, definitely, and possibly titled—difficult to tell if Chillingworth was surname or title. Chillingworth. She said it in her mind, rolled it on her tongue. It had a certain ring to it, one that suited the man. Whatever else he might be—and she had a few ideas on the subject—he was the antithesis of the boring, unexciting provincial gentlemen she'd been assessing for the past year. Chillingworth, whoever he might be, was not boring.

Her pulse was still racing, her blood still up, far more so than could be accounted for by her ride. Indeed, she didn't think her racing pulse or the breathlessness that was only now easing owed anything to her ride—they'd come into being because he'd held her too close and smiled at her like a leopard eyeing his next meal—and because she'd known precisely what he'd been thinking.

His grey eyes had kindled, sparking yet darkening, and his lips had curved just so… because he'd been thinking wicked thoughts. Thoughts of flesh pressed to naked flesh, of silk sheets sliding and shushing as bodies moved in an ancient rhythm upon them. The brazen images formed readily in her mind. Blushing, she banished them and strode on down the corridor. Glancing around and seeing no one, she waved a hand before her face. She didn't want to have to explain her blush to Ester. The thought had her wondering where Ester was. Entering the central wing, she detoured to the kitchen. No Ester there. The staff had heard Ester call, but didn't know where she'd gone. Francesca pushed through the door into the front hall.

The hall was empty. Her bootheels clacked on the tiles as she crossed to the stairs. She was halfway up the first flight when the door to her uncle's study opened. Ester came out, saw her, and smiled. "There you are, dear."

Francesca reversed direction. "I'm so sorry—it was
such
a fine day I just rode and rode and forgot the time. I heard you call and came running. Is anything wrong?"

"No, indeed." A tall lady with a horsey face but the kindest of eyes, Ester smiled fondly as Francesca halted before her. Reaching out, Ester eased the frivolous riding cap from Francesca's unruly locks.

"Your uncle wishes to speak with you, but contrary to there being anything wrong, I suspect you'll be very interested in what he has to say. I'll take this"—Ester spied the riding gloves and crop Francesca held in one hand and took them—"and these, upstairs for you. Go along now—he's waiting to tell you." Ester's nod indicated the open study door. Intrigued, Francesca entered, shutting the door behind her. Charles was seated behind his desk, studying a letter. Hearing the latch click, he looked up, and beamed.

"Francesca, dear girl, come and sit down. I've just had the most amazing news." Crossing to the chair to which he waved her, not before the desk but beside it, Francesca could see that for herself. Charles's eyes were alight, not shadowed with some unnameable worry as they so often were. Too often careworn and sad, his face now glowed with unmistakable good cheer. She sank onto the chair. "And this news concerns me?"

"It does, indeed." Swinging to face her, Charles leaned his forearms on his knees so his head was more level with hers. "My dear, I've just received an offer for your hand." Francesca stared at him. "From whom?"

She heard the calm query and marveled that she'd managed to get it out. Her mind was streaking in a dozen different directions, her heart racing again, speculation running riot. It was a battle to remain still, to counsel herself to the prim and proper.

"From a gentleman—well, actually, he's a nobleman. The offer is from Chillingworth."

"Chillingworth?" Even to her, her voice sounded strained. She hardly dared trust her ears. The vision in her mind…

Charles leaned forward and took her hand. "My dear, the Earl of Chillingworth has made you a formal offer of marriage."

When Charles finished explaining it to her, in painstaking and repetitive detail, Francesca was even more astonished.

"An arranged marriage." She couldn't credit it. From another gentleman, yes—the English were so…

phlegmatic. But from
him
—from the man who had held her in his arms and wondered what it would be like to… with her… Something was not right.

"He's adamant that you understand that." Charles's gentle, serious gaze remained fixed on her face. "My dear, I would not urge you to accept unless you felt comfortable with the arrangement, but I would be failing in my duty as your guardian if I didn't tell you that while Chillingworth's approach may appear cold, it is honest. Many men feel the same, but would cloak their offers in more fanciful guise thinking to win your romantic heart."

Francesca gestured dismissively.

Charles smiled. "I know you're not a flighty girl who would have your head turned by false protestations. Indeed, I know you well enough to be sure you would see through any disguise. Chillingworth is not the sort of man to employ one—that's not his style. He's of the first rank—his estates, as I've told you, are extensive. His offer is more than generous." Charles paused. "Is there anything more you'd like to know—any questions at all?"

Francesca had dozens, but they were not the sort her uncle could answer. Her suitor himself would have to explain. He was
not
the sort of man to countenance a bloodless, unemotional union. He had fire and passion in his veins, just as she had.

So what was this all about?

Then the truth dawned. "He spoke with you this afternoon while I was out riding?" When Charles nodded, she asked, "He's never seen me, has he? I can't recall meeting him before."

"I don't believe he's seen you…" Charles frowned. "Did you meet him?"

"On my way from the stables. He was… leaving."

"Well, then." Charles straightened, perceptibly brightening. "So…" His gaze had moved beyond Francesca; now he brought it back to her face. They had talked and talked; it was almost time for dinner.

"He'll be back tomorrow morning to hear your answer. What should I tell him?"
That she didn't believe him.

Francesca met Charles's earnest gaze. "Tell him… that I need three days—seventy-two hours from this afternoon—to consider his proposal. Given the suddenness and… unexpected nature of his offer, I must think things over carefully. Three afternoons from now, I'll say yes or no." Charles's brows had risen; by the time she'd finished speaking he was nodding. "An excellent notion. You may reassure yourself in your own mind, then give him—" Charles grimaced. "Give me, I suspect, your answer."

"Indeed." Francesca stood, determination rising within her. "I will discover what answer I'm comfortable with—and then he may have it."

It was nearly noon the next day when Gyles once again rode up the Rawlings Hall drive. Shown into the study, he saw Charles rounding the desk, his hand outstretched and a smile on his face. Not that he'd expected anything else. Shaking hands, he consented to sit.

Resuming his seat, Charles met his gaze. "I've spoken to Francesca at some length. She was not averse to your proposal, but she did ask for a period of time—three days—in which to consider her answer." Gyles felt his brows rise. The request was eminently reasonable; what surprised him was that she'd made it.

Charles was regarding him with concern, unable to read his expression. "Is that a problem?"

"No." Gyles considered, then refocused on Charles.

"While I wish to settle this matter expeditiously, Miss Rawlings's request is impossible to deny. Marriage is, after all, a serious business—a point I wished to emphasize."

"Indeed. Francesca is not a flighty girl—her feet are planted firmly on the ground. She engaged to give a simple yes or no on the third afternoon from yesterday."

"Two days from today." Gyles nodded and stood. "Very well. I'll remain in the area and will call again on the afternoon of the agreed day."