All About Passion (39 page)

She didn't wait for an answer but swung away. Fury shimmered in the air about her. She halted, her back to him. Folding her arms, she stared at the window.

Gyles let a moment pass—it would be unwise to agree too quickly—then said, coldly and evenly, "As you wish. I'll give orders that you'll accompany me tomorrow."

Throughout her tirade, he'd held to the shadows. He'd schemed and got what he wanted, what he needed—and rather more besides. The story of their marriage.

He heard her sniff. Without turning, she inclined her head in haughty agreement. Face set, he crossed to the door to his room. Opening it, he saw Wallace, waiting patiently.

"Her ladyship and I will leave for London as early as possible tomorrow. We anticipate taking up residence in the capital for the immediate future. See to it."

Wallace bowed. "Indeed, sir." He considered for only a moment. "I believe we can be ready to depart by eleven o'clock."

Gyles nodded. "You may go—I won't need you again tonight."

Wallace bowed again. Gyles watched him go, then turned—and discovered Francesca close beside him. He shut the door. "Satisfied?"

They were close, face-to-face in the dimness. She rose on her toes, bringing their faces closer still. Her expression was belligerent; banked anger lit her eyes. "Rawlingses are so
very
stubborn." Her eyes, narrowed, held his for an instant, then she flung away, crossing the room in a glide of swishing silk.

His own eyes narrowing, Gyles watched her go, replaying her words, then he realized. She was a Rawlings, had been born a Rawlings, too.

Releasing the doorknob, he followed her to her bed.

She'd risked a lot on a stubborn man changing his mind.

As she sat in the swaying carriage the next day, Francesca had ample time to dwell on that fact. To consider all she'd risked—her future happiness, indeed her life, for she was too deeply committed, now, to draw back. She'd placed her heart on the scales in allowing herself to fall in love with him; that was done and could not be undone.

It wasn't just her future, either, but his, too, if only he would acknowledge it. She was sure he saw the truth, but getting him to admit it, act on it? There lay the rub.

How to get him to change his mind? The question fully absorbed her as the miles rolled past. It all seemed to hinge on who was the more stubborn—on whether she was willing to risk all to gain her dream.

She tried to see forward, to think ahead, imagining the possibilities. Thoughts of the past night kept intruding. She didn't want to think about that.

About the way he'd closed a hand in the hair at her nape and swung her to him, tipped her head back, and kissed her as if he'd been starving. About the way his hands had raced over her, stripping the silk from her, greedy for her skin, her flesh, her body. The feel of him over her, around her, inside her, hard and commanding, demanding. He'd wanted and taken with the ruthlessness of a conqueror, and she'd been with him every step of the way. Taunting, defiant, taking her own pleasure in his possessiveness, recklessly urging him on.

Holding him to her long after, when the tempest had passed and left them drained. She flicked a glance sideways, briefly studied his profile. One elbow propped on the window ledge, his chin supported in that hand, he was watching the streetscape of London roll by. She'd woken in the night to find him curled around her, his chest to her back, one hand splayed protectively over her stomach. When she'd woken in the morning—been woken by the maids scurrying furiously—he'd been gone. The chaos of the morning had left her no time to think, let alone reflect, not until they'd rolled out of the park and Jacobs had turned his team toward the capital. They'd stopped at the Dower House, but Lady Elizabeth and Henni had been out walking. Horace had received them, jovial as ever, unsurprised that they might indulge in "a bolt to the capital." They'd left messages of farewell with him.

It had been Horace who'd been the focus of her thoughts as they'd bowled through Berkshire. Horace who'd been Gyles's father figure through his formative years—the years in which a boy learned by observation the ways in which men behaved to women. It was obvious that Horace was sincerely devoted to Henni, but that perception owed more to Henni's calm happiness than any overt behavior on Horace's part.

Horace had taught Gyles to be a gentleman, and Horace eschewed all outward shows of affection, of love, toward his wife, regardless of his true feelings.

Eyeing Gyles, Francesca mentally ran through the catalogue she'd assembled of the actions, the small gestures all but buried beneath the activities of their lives, that had left her hope intact. He'd tried, deliberately, to dash that hope, to lead her to believe he was denying her absolutely, denying any chance of her dream transmuting to reality, yet all the while his actions spoke differently. Not just his actions in their bed, although their tenor certainly did not support the facade he'd tried to project—that of an expert lover who nevertheless remained emotionally indifferent to her. She suppressed a dismissive humph: he had
never
been emotionally indifferent to her—the idea!

How he could expect her to believe it she didn't know.

Especially when there were a thousand other things that gave him away. Like his fussing when they'd stopped for lunch at an inn. Was she well wrapped and warm enough? The bricks at her feet hot enough?

Was the food to her liking?

Did he think she was blind?

He knew she wasn't. That puzzled her. It was as if he'd accepted that she'd know or at least suspect that he felt more for her, but that he was hoping, if not expecting, that she'd pretend she didn't know. That didn't, to her mind, make sense, yet it wasn't, she was sure, an inaccurate summation of their present state.

He said one thing but meant, and wanted, another. He'd said they would go their separate ways—she'd be greatly surprised if that came to pass.

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.