All About Passion (40 page)

Honoria gestured to the three other ladies sharing the barouche. "Allow me to introduce you to Devil's aunt, Lady Louise Cynster, and her daughters, Amanda and Amelia."

Francesca exchanged greetings, smiling as she recognized the thoughts behind the girls' wide eyes. Each was the epitome of a fair English beauty, with golden ringlets, cornflower blue eyes, and delicate, milky complexions. "You're twins?"

"Yes." Amanda's gaze was still skating over her.

Amelia sighed. "You're most amazingly lovely, Lady Francesca."

Francesca smiled. "You're very lovely yourselves."

A thought popped into her head; her eyes widened, and she smothered a laugh. "Oh—excuse me!" She shot a wicked glance at Honoria and Louise. "It just occurred to me that if we made an entrance, all three together—Amelia on one side, me in the middle and Amanda on my other side, it would look quite extraordinary."

The contrast between their fairness and her exotic coloring was marked.

Louise grinned. The twins looked intrigued.

Honoria laughed. "It would cause a sensation."

Gyles caught Honoria's eye and glared.

Honoria's smile deepened; she turned to Francesca. "We must have you around for dinner—Devil will want to meet you again, and we must introduce you to the others. For how long are you down?" Gyles left Francesca to answer. Perched beside her on the curricle's box seat, he felt increasingly exposed. He was pleased when, all relevant details exchanged, they took their leave of Honoria and her companions and he could drive on.

They didn't get far.

"Chillingworth!"

He knew the voice. It took a moment to locate the turban, perched above a pair of obsidian eyes that were the terror of the ton. Lady Osbaldestone beckoned imperiously. Seated beside her in her old brougham, watching with a too-knowing smile, was the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives. Gyles swallowed his curse—Francesca would only wonder, and he had no choice anyway. Angling the curricle into the verge, he drew up beside the brougham.

Lady Osbaldestone smiled widely, leaned over and introduced herself. "I knew your parents, my dear—

visited with them in Italy—you were only three at the time." She sat back and nodded benignly, her black eyes gleaming with deep satisfaction. "I was
exceedingly pleased
to hear of your marriage." Gyles knew the comment was directed at him.

Francesca smiled. "Thank you."

"And I, my dear, must also add my congratulations." The Dowager, her pale green eyes warm, took Francesca's hand. "And yes," she said, smiling in response to the question dawning in Francesca's face,

"you have met my son and he spoke highly of you and, of course, Honoria told me all."

"I'm delighted to meet you, Your Grace."

"And you will be seeing more of us, my dear, I have no doubt, so we will not keep you and Chillingworth any longer. It will soon grow chilly, and I'm sure your husband will want to whisk you away."

The twinkle in her eyes was not lost on Gyles, but retaliation was out of the question—it was far too dangerous. Both he and Francesca bowed; he escaped as fast as he dared.

"Are they—how is it described?
Grandes dames
?"

"The grandest. Do not be fooled. They wield considerable power despite their age."

"They're rather formidable, but I liked them. Don't you?"

Gyles snorted and drove on.

"Gyles! Yoo-faw!"

Gyles slowed his horses. "Mama?" Both he and Francesca searched, then he saw Henni waving from a carriage farther up the line. "Good Lord." He drove up and reined in. "What on earth are you doing here?"

His mother opened her eyes at him. "You're not the only ones who might fancy a bolt to the capital." She released Francesca's hand. "And of course, Henni and I wanted to be here to support Francesca. It's a good opportunity to get to know the major hostess without the distraction of the Season."

"We've already met Honoria and Lady Louise Cynster, and the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives and Lady Osbaldestone," Francesca said.

"A very good start." Henni nodded determinedly. "Tomorrow we'll take you up with us, and we'll visit a few more."

Gyles hid a frown.

"But where are you staying?" Francesca asked.

"Walpole House," Lady Elizabeth answered. "It's just around the corner in North Audley Street, so we're close."

Gyles let his horses prance. "Mama—my horses. It's getting cold…"

"Oh, indeed you must get on, but no matter—we'll see you tonight at the Stanleys.'" He felt Francesca's glance but didn't meet it. They made their farewells and parted. He took the shortest route away from the Avenue, then headed out of the park.

Francesca sat back and considered him. "Are we going to the Stanleys' tonight?" Gyles shrugged. "We have an invitation. I suppose it's as good a place as any to start."

"Start what?"

Features grim, he guided his pair out of the gates. "Your emergence into the ton." He'd wanted to put it off for as long as he could—he realized that now. And he knew why. His wife would exert the same visceral tug on the ton's rakes as honey exerted on bees. At this time of year, those present were of the most dangerous variety, undiluted by the more innocuous bucks up from the country for the Season. Those at the Stanleys' would be the London wolves, those who, as he had done, rarely hunted outside the capital with its alluringly scented prey.

He'd made up his mind that he wouldn't leave Francesca's side before they'd even greeted their hostess. She, predictably, was thrilled.

"A great pleasure to see you here, my lord." Lady Stanley nodded approvingly, then shifted her gaze to Francesca. Her expression warmed. "And I'm delighted to be one of the first to welcome you to the capital, Lady Francesca."

Francesca and her ladyship exchanged the customary phrases. Gyles noted her ladyship's transparent friendliness, not something to be taken for granted in the cut and thrust of the ton. Then again, the ton had been back in London for some weeks; the news that he'd married and that his marriage had been an arranged one would have circulated widely.

That news would gain Francesca greater sympathy and acceptance than would otherwise have been the case. She'd never been in competition with the ton's ladies or their daughters given that the position of his countess had never been put on the marriage mart.

That was the good news. As they parted from their hosts, and he steered Francesca into the crowd, Gyles took in the creamy mounds of her breasts revealed by the neckline of her teal-silk evening gown, and wished he could retreat. Take her home to his library and lock her in, so that only those men he approved of would see her.

None knew better than he that the news that their marriage had been arranged would expose her to the immediate scrutiny of those who'd recently been his peers. One look, and any rake worthy of the name would come running. She exuded the air of a woman of sensual appetites, one who would never be content with the mild attentions of an indifferent husband.

The thought was laughable. He shook his head. She noticed and raised a brow.

"Nothing." Inwardly, he shook his head again. He must have been mad to have set himself up for this.

"Lady Chillingworth?" Lord Pendleton bowed elegantly before them; straightening, he glanced at Gyles.

"Come, my lord—do introduce us."

Mentally gritting his teeth, Gyles did. He couldn't very well do otherwise. And so it began—within ten minutes, they were surrounded by a pack of politely slavering wolves, all waiting for him to excuse himself and leave her to them.

Hell would freeze before he did.

Francesca chatted easily. Her social confidence increased her attractiveness to this particular audience. He knew them all, knew the question he was raising in their minds by remaining anchored by her side. How to escape before one of his ex-peers guessed his true position and decided to make hay of it was the primary question exercising his mind.

Relief appeared in an unexpected guise. A tall, fair-haired gentleman shouldered his way through the crowd.

Francesca was surprised when, apparently without exerting himself, the newcomer won through to her side. Intrigued, she offered her hand. He took it and bowed.

"Harry Cynster, Lady Francesca. As your husband has been elected an honorary Cynster, that makes you one of the clan, too, so I'll claim the prerogative of a relative to dispense with formal introductions." Harry exchanged a glance with Gyles over her head, then concluded, his blue eyes wickedly alight, "I'm honored to meet you. I always did wonder who would trip Gyles up."

Francesca returned his smile.

"I'm exceedingly surprised to see you here."

She turned at Gyles's drawl; he was looking over the heads, scanning the room.

"She's not here." Harry met Francesca's gaze. "My wife, Felicity. She's expecting our first child." He glanced at Gyles. "She's at home in Newmarket. I had to come up for the sales at Tattersalls."

"Ah—the mystery's explained."

Harry grinned, tightly. "Indeed." He paused for a heartbeat, then looked at Francesca. "But I would have thought you'd guess." He again smiled his winning smile. "I'm here on a mission. My mama would like to meet you." He glanced again at Gyles. "She's sitting with Lady Osbaldestone." Gyles caught Demon's glance, recognized the ploy, recognized the fellow feeling that had prompted it. He hesitated for only an instant before asking, "Where, precisely?"

"The other end of the room."

To the bewildered disappointment of the gentlemen about them, Gyles excused himself and Francesca. Her hand anchored on his sleeve, he led her through the crowd, Demon equally large and discouraging on her other side.

Francesca glanced from one hard male face to the other—both were scanning the crowd as they strolled, watching for any gentleman who might attempt to accost her. She had to hide a smile as they delivered her to the
chaise
where Lady Osbaldestone sat, resplendent in puce trimmed with feathers. Alongside her sat another
grande dame.

"Lady Horatia Cynster, my dear." The lady pressed her hand. "I'm very glad to meet you." She shifted her gaze to Gyles. "Chillingworth." She gave him her hand and watched as he bowed. "You're an exceedingly lucky man—I do hope you appreciate that?"

Gyles arched a brow. "Naturally."

"Good. Then you may fetch me some orgeat, and her ladyship would like a glass, too. You may take Harry with you." She waved them away.

Francesca was intrigued when, after an instant's hesitation, Gyles inclined his head, collected Harry Cynster with a glance, and left them.

"Here—sit down, gel." Lady Osbaldestone shifted, as did Lady Horatia. Francesca sat between them.

"You needn't worry about all those others." Lady Horatia waved in the direction from which they'd come. "They'll melt into the woodwork once they realize you're not for them."

"Good thing, too." Lady Osbaldestone thumped her cane and turned gleaming black eyes on Francesca.

"If the rumors are even half-true, you'll have enough on your plate with that husband of yours." Francesca felt heat rise in her cheeks. She quickly turned, as Lady Horatia said, "Indeed, in such situations, it's wise to keep your husband occupied—busy. No need to let him work himself into a lather over nothing, if you take my meaning."

Francesca blinked, then nodded, rather weakly.

"No saying what he might do if he got overly exercised on that point." Lady Osbaldestone nodded sagely. "One of the difficulties when marrying Cynsters—one has to draw a very firm line. Too prone to revert to their ancestral selves if rubbed the wrong way."

"But… I don't understand." Francesca glanced from one to the other. "Gyles isn't a Cynster." Lady Osbaldestone snorted.

Lady Horatia grinned. "They made him one by decree—unusually farsighted of them, but it was doubtless Devil's idea." She patted Francesca's hand. "What we're saying is that there's not a whisker to chose between them—what applies to the Cynsters applies equally to Chillingworth."

"Come to that," Lady Osbaldestone opined, "the same applies to most of the Rawlingses, but the others are generally milder sorts."

"Do you know them? The other Rawlingses?"

"A good few," Lady Osbaldestone admitted. "Why?"

Francesca told her.

Gyles and Harry returned with two glasses of orgeat and one of champagne for Francesca, to find all three ladies with their heads together, discussing the Rawlings family tree. Harry exchanged a glance with Gyles, then strolled off. Fifteen minutes passed before Gyles was able to extract Francesca from the discussion.

"I'll see you at my at-home next week," Lady Horatia said, as he finally drew Francesca to her feet.

"I'll be there, too," Lady Osbaldestone said. "I'll let you know what I've learned then." Gyles gave mute thanks that the old tartar wasn't planning on calling in Green Street. "Mama and Henni are near the main door." He steered Francesca through the crowd.

After another fifteen minutes, during which his mother, Henni, and Francesca made numerous social plans, he dragged Francesca away.

"It sounds like you'll have barely a moment to yourself."

Francesca glanced at him—mentally replayed his words, analyzed their tone—then she smiled and pressed his arm. "Nonsense." She glanced around, then sighed. "Nevertheless, I do think I've made enough plans for one night." She turned to him. "Perhaps we should go home."

"Home?"

"Hmm—home, and to bed." She tilted her head. "Of course, if you wished, we could stop by the library."

"The library?"

"Wallace will have built up the fire—it should be rather cozy."

"Cozy."

"Mmm—warm." She rolled the word on her tongue. "Pleasant and…relaxing." The sultry promise in her voice sent heat pouring through him. Gyles stopped, changed tack, and headed for the door.

Chapter 18

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Two weeks later
,
Gyles stood by the side of Lady Matheson's ballroom, reconsidering the madness that had made him bring Francesca to London. His need to protect her had forced his hand; she was safer here, away from the strange happenings at Lambourn, in a smaller, more secure house, yet her emergence into the ton had brought dangers of a different sort.