All About Passion (4 page)

Charles rose and they shook hands. "I understand," Charles said as he walked Gyles to the door, "that you saw Francesca yesterday."

Gyles halted and looked at his host. "Yes, but only briefly." She must have seen him watching her and been artful enough to give no sign.

"Nevertheless. Even a glimpse would be enough. She's a captivating young lady, don't you think?" Gyles considered Charles. He was a softer, gentler man than himself; mild-mannered ladies were doubtless more his style. Gyles returned Charles's smile. "I believe Miss Rawlings will fill my countess's shoes admirably."

He turned to the door; Charles opened it. Bulwer was waiting to show him out. With a nod, Gyles left. He elected to stroll to the stables as he had the day before. Ambling down the paths of the parterre, he scanned his surroundings.

He'd told Charles he had no wish to meet his bride-to-be formally. There was nothing to be gained from such an exercise as far as he could see. However, now that she'd stipulated a three-day wait…

It might be wise to meet the young lady who had calmly requested three days in which to consider him. Him and his exceedingly generous offer. That smacked of a resolution he found odd in a woman of Francesca Rawlings's character. No matter that he'd only glimpsed her, he was an expert at judging women. Yet he'd clearly misjudged his intended in one respect; it seemed prudent to check that she harbored no further surprises.

Fate was smiling on him—she was walking beside the lake, alone but for a bevy of spaniels. Head up, spine straight, she was striding away from him, the dogs gamboling about her feet. He set out in pursuit. He drew near as she rounded the end of the lake. "Miss Rawlings!" She stopped and turned. The shawl she clutched about her shoulders fluttered, its blue highlighting her pale blond hair, fine, straight, and drawn back in a loose chignon. Wafting wisps framed a sweet face, pretty rather than beautiful. Her most memorable feature was her eyes, very pale blue edged by blond lashes.

"Yes?"

She watched him approach without recognition, and just a touch of wariness. Gyles remembered that he'd insisted his offer be made in his titular name; she clearly did not connect him with the gentleman she was considering marrying. "Gyles Rawlings." He bowed, smiling as he straightened. Someone else must have seen him watching her yesterday and reported it to Charles—the woman who had called her, perhaps? "I'm a distant cousin. I wonder if I might walk a little way with you?" She blinked, then smiled back, as mild as he'd imagined her to be. "If you're a relative, then I suppose that's all right." With a wave, she indicated the path by the lake. "I'm taking the dogs for their constitutional. I do that every day."

"There seem to be quite a number of them." All snuffling at his boots. They weren't gun dogs, but the smaller version—house dog, almost lapdog. He had a sudden thought. "Are they yours?"

"Oh, no. They just live here."

He glanced at her to see if she'd meant that as a joke. Her expression stated she hadn't. Falling into step beside her, he swiftly assessed her figure. She was of average height, her head just lower than his chin; she was slightly built, somewhat lacking in curves, but passable. Passable.

"That dog there"—she pointed to one with a ragged ear—"she's the oldest. Her name is Bess." As they continued around the lake, she continued naming dogs—for the life of him he couldn't think of any suitable conversational distraction. Every opening his normally agile mind supplied seemed inappropriate in light of her naiveté and undisguised innocence. It had been, he reflected, a long time since he'd last conversed with an innocent.

But there was nothing to find fault with in her manners or her deportment. After the seventh dog, he managed a comment, to which she replied readily. She displayed a guileless openness that was, as Charles had noted, oddly soothing. Perhaps because it was undemanding.

They reached the end of the lake and she turned toward the parterre. He was about to follow when a flash of emerald caught his eye. His gaze locked on a green-habited figure riding—streaking—across a distant glade. The trees afforded him only a brief glimpse, then she was gone. Frowning, he lengthened his stride and rejoined his intended.

"Dolly is quite good at catching rats…"

As they crossed the lawns, his companion continued with her canine family tree. He paced beside her but his attention had flown.

The damned gypsy had been riding fast—exceedingly fast. And the horse she'd been on—had it just been the distance and her small self that had made the beast appear so huge?

Reaching the parterre, his companion turned onto the path that led around the formal garden. He halted.

"I must be on my way." Remembering why he was there, he summoned a charming smile and bowed.

"Thank you for your company, my dear. I daresay we'll meet again." She smiled ingenuously. "That would be pleasant. You are a very good listener, sir." With a cynical nod, he left her.

He strode through the shrubbery, keeping an eye out for green-habited dervishes. None appeared. Reaching the stable, he looked in, then called a "Hoi!" Receiving no reply, he walked the long aisle, but could discover no stablelad. He found his chestnut, but could see no sign of any horse that had just been brought in. Yet the gypsy
should
have reached the stable by now; she'd been heading in this direction. Returning to the yard, he looked around; there seemed to be no one about. Shaking his head, he turned to go in and fetch his own horse when a patter of feet heralded the stablelad. He came racing into the yard, lugging a double-panniered picnic basket—he skidded to a halt when he saw Gyles.

"Oh. Sorry, sir. Umm." The boy glanced to the side of the stable, looked at Gyles, then at the basket.

"Umm…"

"Who's that for?" Gyles indicated the basket.

"Miss said to fetch it right away."

Miss who? Gyles nearly asked, but how many misses could there be at Rawlings Hall. "Here. Give it to me. I'll take it to her while you get my horse. Where is she?"

The lad handed over the basket; it was empty. "In the orchard." He nodded to the side of the stable. Gyles set out, then glanced back. "If I haven't returned by the time you have the horse ready, just leave it tethered to the door. I'm sure you have other work to do."

"Aye, sir." The boy touched his forelock, then disappeared into the stable. A slow smile curving his lips, Gyles walked into the orchard.

Pausing, he looked around; the orchard stretched for some distance, full of apple and plum trees, all laden with fruit as yet unripe. Then he saw the horse—a huge bay gelding at least seventeen hands high with a massive chest and a rump to be wary of—standing, saddled, reins trailing, chomping grass. He started toward it and heard her voice.

"My, what a pretty boy you are."

The smoky, sultry voice oozed seduction.

"Come, let me stroke you—let me run my fingers over your head.
Ooooh,
that's a
good boy."
The voice continued, murmuring, cajoling, whispering terms of endearment, invitations to surrender. Gyles's face hardened. He strode forward, scanning the long grass, looking for the vixen in green and the lad she was seducing…

She stopped talking; Gyles strode faster. He reached the apple tree beside which the bay stood. He searched the surrounding grass, but couldn't see a soul.

"Josh," she murmured, "have you got the basket?"

Gyles looked up. She lay stretched full length along a branch, one arm outstretched, reaching, fingers straining…

Her skirts had rucked up to her knees, revealing a froth of white petticoats and a tantalizing glimpse of bare leg above the tops of her boots.

Gyles felt giddy. Feelings and emotions whirled and clashed within him. He felt foolish, with unjustified anger bubbling through his veins and having no outlet; he was half-aroused and rocked by the fact that such a minor glimpse of honey-toned skin should have the power to so affect him. Added to all that was flaring concern.

The damned gypsy was a good nine feet off the ground.

"Got you!" She plucked what looked to be a large ball of fluff from among a clump of apples, then she tucked it to her ample bosom, sat, and swiveled—revealing a twin bundle of fluff in her other hand. She saw him.

"Oh!" She rocked, then clutched both kittens in one hand, grabbing the branch just in time to keep from falling.

The kittens mewled piteously; Gyles would have traded places in a blink.

Eyes wide, skirts now trapped above her knees, she stared down at him. "What are you doing here?" He smiled. Wolfishly. "I brought the basket. Josh is otherwise engaged." She narrowed her eyes at him—indeed, she came very close to scowling at him. "Well, since you've brought it, you may as well be useful." She pointed to the lump of fur that had just discovered the toe of his boot. "They need to be collected and taken back indoors."

Setting down the basket, Gyles scooped up the fluffball at his feet and slipped it in. Then he scanned the immediate area; once assured he was not about to commit murder, he stepped beneath the branch and reached up. "Give them here."

That proved difficult, given she had to hold on to the branch at the same time. In the end, she placed one kitten in her lap and handed the other down, then handed the second down. Returning to the basket, Gyles hunkered down, sliding each kitten in without letting any out. At the edge of his vision, he caught a flash of fur and pounced. Stuffing the runaway into the basket, he asked, "How many are there?"

"Nine. Here's another."

Standing, he took receipt of a ginger fluffball. He added it to the collection. "Can a cat have nine?"

"Ruggles obviously believes so."

Another came tumbling through the grass. He was insinuating it into the furry mewling pile writhing inside the basket when he heard a twig snap.

"Oh—
oh
!"

He turned just in time to take a giant step and catch her as she tumbled from the branch. She landed in his arms in a jumble of velvet skirts. He hefted her up easily, then juggled her into a more comfortable position.

It took two attempts before Francesca managed to fill her lungs. "Th-thank you." She stared at him, and wondered if there was something else she should say. He was carrying her as if she weighed no more than one of the kittens. His eyes were locked on hers; she couldn't think. Then those grey eyes darkened, turned stormy and turbulent. His gaze shifted to her lips.

"I think," he murmured, "that I deserve a reward."

He didn't ask—he simply took. Bending his head, he set his lips to hers.

The first touch was a shock—his lips were cool, firm. They hardened, moving on hers, somehow demanding. Instinctively, she tried to appease him, her lips softening, yielding. Then she remembered that she was considering marrying him. She slid her hands up, over his chest, over his shoulders. Locking them at his nape, she kissed him back.

She sensed a fleeting hesitation, a momentary hiatus as if she'd shocked him—a heartbeat later it was wiped from her mind by a surge of fiery demand. The sudden pressure shook her. She parted her lips on a gasp—he surged in, ruthless and relentless, taking and claiming and demanding more. For a moment, she clung, helplessly aware of her surrender, aware of being taken—driven—rapidly out of her depth. Aware of sensations streaking through her body, through her limbs, aware of her toes slowly curling. Far from frightening her, the feelings thrilled her. This was what she'd been created for—she'd known that all her life. But this was only half of it, half of the adventure, half of the apple when she wanted the whole. Without resistance, she let the wave of passion flow through her; as it ebbed, she gathered her will, then set about turning the tide.

She kissed him back passionately, and caught him—surprised him. He hadn't expected it; by the time he realized, he was trapped in the game with her—the heated duel of tongues that she'd always imagined must be. She'd never kissed any man like this, but she'd watched and imagined and wanted—she'd suspected mirroring his caresses would work. That, she'd assumed, was how ladies learned the art—by kissing and loving with someone who knew.

He knew.

Hot, urgent, their mouths melded, tongues tangling, sliding, caressing. Her flesh heated, her nerves tightened; sharp excitement gripped her. Then the tenor of the kiss altered, slowed, strengthened, until his deep, sliding, rhythmic thrusts became the dominant theme.

She shuddered, felt something in her yield, something open, unfurl. React. Her whole body felt glorious, buoyed, languidly heated. Seduced.

Gyles was drowning, sinking beneath a wave of desire more powerful than any he'd previously known. It drew him under with the force of a tidal wave, eroding, washing away his control. Abruptly, he broke the kiss. Jerked his head back and looked down at her. Clinging to his shoulders, held tight in his arms, she blinked, struggling to reorient.

His features hardened. He muttered a curse, followed by, "God, you're so damned
easy."
Her eyes widened, then her lips set. She wriggled furiously; he swung her down, set her on her feet. She pulled away, stepped back, briskly brushing her bodice free of leaves, then shaking and straightening her skirts.

Francesca recalled she'd been miffed at him—even before that comment. He'd said he'd call in the morning—it must have been
noon
before he'd deigned to arrive. She'd lain in wait to waylay him. When he hadn't shown, she'd gone riding to calm herself. What did
noon
say of his eagerness to win her?

As for his attitude! No wooing, no loverlike embraces—just hot passion and bold seduction. All very well that the latter appealed to her rather more than the former—
he
couldn't have known that. Was he so uneager… or was it, perhaps, that he was so sure she'd accept him?

And what, exactly, did he mean by her being "
easy"
?

She threw him a sharp glance as she knelt to check the kittens. "I understand you've made an offer, my lord."

Gyles stared at her back as she counted the kittens; he kept his frown from his face. If she'd heard about that… "I have."