All About Passion (8 page)

All he'd known was that she was openly flouting his decree, flagrantly disregarding his worry; all he'd known was an elemental need to impress on her that she was his—to possess her so utterly she couldn't deny it, deny him, deny his right to command her. He hadn't cared that he'd forced her to flee like a wild thing—his whole being had been concentrated on capturing her, subduing her, on making her his. Even now, the remembered feelings—the primal force that had flowed through him and made the transformation from gentleman to conquering barbarian—rocked him.

Scared him.

He glanced at the window; the light had almost died. Crossing to the bed, he picked up his crop and the gloves he'd flung there earlier, then headed for the door.

It was time to call on Charles Rawlings and arrange the final details of his wedding. He would leave Hampshire immediately after.

* * * * *

"Good evening, my lord."

Gyles turned as Charles Rawlings entered the study and shut the door.

Charles approached, concern in his eyes. "I hope nothing's amiss."

"Not at all." His elegant mask in place, Gyles shook Charles's hand. "My apologies for calling so late, but an unexpected matter intervened and prevented me from calling earlier."

"Well, no harm done." Charles waved Gyles to a chair. "Now, are you sure you wouldn't rather hear Francesca's decision from her lips…?"

"Quite sure." Gyles waited while Charles sat. "What is her decision?"

"As you're no doubt expecting, she's agreed to your proposal. She's very conscious of the honor you do her—"

Gyles waved the formal words aside. "I fancy we both know where we stand. I am, of course, pleased that she's consented to become my countess. Unfortunately, I must return to Lambourn immediately, so I'd like to confirm the details of the marriage settlements—Waring, my man-of-business, will send you the contracts in the next few days—and we'll need to discuss the wedding itself." Charles looked slightly stunned. "Well—"

"If Miss Rawlings is agreeable," Gyles ruthlessly continued, "I would prefer the wedding be held at Lambourn Castle—the chapel there is the traditional place in which our ancestors have celebrated their nuptials. It's now the end of August—four weeks will give sufficient time for the banns to be read and should allow ample time for Miss Rawlings to assemble her bride clothes." Without pause, he switched to the details of the marriage settlements, forcing Charles to scurry to his desk and take notes.

After half an hour, he'd tied every loose end—tied himself into matrimony as tightly as he could.

"Now"—Gyles rose—"if there's nothing else, I must be on my way." Charles had surrendered long since. "Once again, it's a most generous offer and Francesca is delighted—

"

"Indeed. Please convey my respects to her. I look forward to seeing her at Lambourn two days before the wedding." Gyles headed for the door, forcing Charles to catch up with him. "My mother will coordinate the social details—I'm sure Miss Rawlings will receive a missive within a few days." Charles opened the door and accompanied him down the corridor and into the front hall. Pausing before the front door as Bulwer hurried to open it, Gyles smiled sincerely and offered Charles his hand. "Thank you for your help. And thank you for taking such good care of your niece—I look forward to taking on that duty in four weeks' time."

The concern that had hovered in Charles's eyes lifted. He grasped Gyles's hand. "You won't regret this evening's work, you may be sure of that."

With a brief nod, Gyles strode out. The stablelad was walking his horse in the courtyard. Mounting, he raised a hand in salute to Charles, then he tapped his heels to the chestnut's flanks and cantered down the drive.

Never, Gyles vowed, would he return to Rawlings Hall.

If he'd turned around and looked at the house, he might have seen her, a shadowy figure at an upstairs window, watching him—her betrothed—ride away. He didn't.

Francesca watched until he disappeared into the trees, then, frowning, turned inside. Something was not right.

By the time she'd reached the lane home that afternoon, she'd accepted that making love
al fresco
might not have been the way he'd wanted to celebrate their first joining. Her practical side had also pointed out that, despite her eagerness, beneath the trees might not have been the best venue to commence her career in that sphere.

So she'd accepted his decree and ridden home at nothing more than a canter. But why, after all that had passed between them, had he held to his determination not to speak with her face-to-face?

Where was the logic in that?

Immediately after lunch, she'd gone to Charles and informed him of her decision. Then she'd waited for her would-be husband to call.

And waited.

They'd been finishing dinner when he'd finally arrived.

A tap on her door had her smoothing the frown from her face. "Come in." Charles looked in, then entered. He noticed the window open at her back. "You saw?" She nodded. "Did he say…?" She gestured.
Had he mentioned her
?

Charles smiled fondly; coming forward, he took her hands. "My dear, I'm sure everything will work out splendidly. Business kept him from calling earlier, and he must return to Lambourn immediately. He did say all that was proper."

Francesca returned Charles's smile with equal fondness. Her mind was all but spitting the word "proper."
Proper?
There was nothing "proper" about what lay between them—"proper" was certainly not what she would settle for. Not once she was his wife.

But she pressed Charles's hands and allowed him to believe all was well. Indeed, she wasn't seriously worried.

Not after their interlude today.

After experiencing what had risen between them, flowed like a raging river through them, regardless of her betrothed's insistence on the publicly cold-blooded approach, there was patently no need to worry. A letter from Chillingworth's mother arrived three days later. The Dowager Countess, Lady Elizabeth, wrote to welcome Francesca into the family with such transparent joy and goodwill that all qualms Francesca had harbored on that front were laid to rest.

"She says the rest of the family is delighted with the news…" Francesca shuffled the leaves of the lengthy letter. She was sitting on the window seat in the downstairs parlor; Franni was curled on the seat's other end, clutching a cushion, her blue eyes wide. Ester listened from a nearby chair. "And she's working on Chillingworth to allow her to extend the guest list, as the family's such a far-flung one, and there are so many branches, etcetera."

Francesca paused. That was not the first hint that Lady Elizabeth, while immensely pleased over the wedding, was not at one with her son over the details. As for the family members invited—the fact was there was only one family involved. She and Chillingworth were cousins, umpteen times removed perhaps, but that
should
make assembling the guest list easier. Shouldn't it?

Setting aside the point, she continued, "She says the castle staff are busy opening up the wings and polishing everything, and that I may rely on her to see that all is just so. She suggests I write with any requests or questions, and assures me she'll be delighted to advise in any way." Her tone signified "the end." She refolded the letter.

Franni sighed. "It sounds wonderful! Don't you think so, Aunt Ester?"

"I do, indeed." Ester smiled. "Francesca will make a wonderful countess. But now we must think of a wedding gown."

"Oh, yes!" Franni sat bolt upright. "The gown! Why—"

"I'm going to wear my mother's wedding gown," Francesca quickly said. Franni was given to overenthusiasms which sometimes turned difficult. "Something old and borrowed, you know."

"Oh—yes." Franni frowned.

"A very nice idea," Ester said. "We must have Gilly up from the village and check that it fits." Franni had been mumbling. Now she lifted her head. "That leaves something new and blue."

"Garters, perhaps?" Ester suggested.

Francesca nodded, grateful for the suggestion.

"Can we go into Lyndhurst and buy them tomorrow?" Franni fixed huge eyes on Ester's face. Ester glanced at Francesca. "I don't see why not."

"No, indeed. Tomorrow, then," Francesca said.

"Good, good,
good
!" Franni leapt up and flung her arms wide. The cushion went tumbling. "Tomorrow morning! Tomorrow morning!" She waltzed around the room. "We're going to get Francesca something new and blue tomorrow morning!" Reaching the open door, she waltzed through. "Papa! Did you hear?

We're going…"

Ester smiled as Franni's voice died away. "I hope you don't mind, dear, but you know how she is."

"I don't mind at all." Shifting her gaze from the door to Ester's face, Francesca lowered her voice.

"Charles told me he was worried that Franni would become querulous once she realizes I'm leaving, but she seems quite happy."

"To be truthful, dear, I don't think Franni will realize you're leaving—not coming back—until we return here without you. Things that are obvious to us often don't occur to her at all, and then she's upset by the surprise."

Francesca nodded, although she had never truly understood Franni's vagueness. "I'd intended to ask her to be bridesmaid, but Uncle Charles said no." She'd shown her letter to her uncle first, and he'd been adamant on that point.

"He said he wouldn't even like to say Franni will be at the wedding—he said she might not wish to be there."

Ester reached out and squeezed Francesca's hand. "That has nothing to do with what she feels for you. But she might become frightened at the last minute and not want to appear. As bridesmaid, that really wouldn't do."

"I suppose not. Charles suggested that I ask Lady Elizabeth's advice on who should stand with me—I don't even know if Chillingworth has sisters."

"Sisters, or close cousins of the bridegroom, given we have no one of suitable age on our side. Asking Lady Elizabeth would be wisest."

Ester rose; Francesca did, too. She glanced at the letter in her hand. "I'll write this afternoon." She smiled as she recalled Lady Elizabeth's warmth. "I have lots of questions, and she seems like the best person to ask."

Despite Charles's worry, Franni's transparent happiness over Francesca's wedding did not dim, although to everyone's relief, her expressions of joy became less extreme. Franni's temper remained sunny; engrossed though she was in the myriad preparations for her nuptials and her researches into her husband-to-be, his house and the estate, Francesca noted that with a certain happiness of her own. Charles, Ester, and Franni were now her family; she wanted them there, at her wedding, and as happy as she was.

When, four days before the wedding, they set out in the lumbering coach, Charles and Ester on one seat with Francesca and Franni facing them, Francesca was as excited as Franni and even more impatient. They would spend two days on the road, arriving at Lambourn Castle on the second day, two nights before the wedding as Chillingworth had stipulated. On that point he'd remained firm, unmoved by Lady Elizabeth's pleas for more time before the wedding to become acquainted with her future daughter-in-law. Lady Elizabeth hadn't accepted his refusal with anything like good grace—Francesca had laughed at the diatribe the Dowager Countess had, in her next letter, heaped on her son's head. After their first exchange of letters, correspondence between Lambourn Castle and Rawlings Hall had proliferated dramatically, letters crossing and recrossing. By the time Francesca left Rawlings Hall, she was almost as eager to meet her mother-in-law-to-be as she was to see her handsome fiancé again. The first day passed easily as the coach rocked its way north.

At noon on the second day, it started to rain.

Then it poured.

The road turned to mud. By late afternoon, the coach was crawling along. Heavy grey clouds had massed, then lowered; an unnatural twilight had descended, darkened further by the rain. The coach rocked to a stop. Then it tilted, and they heard a splat as the coachman jumped down. He rapped on the door.

Charles opened it. "Yes?"

Barton stood in the road, the rain streaming off his oilskin, pouring off his hat. "Sorry, sir, but we're a long ways away from Lambourn and we're not going to be able to go much farther. The light's going. Even if you was willing to risk the horses, we can't see what muck we'd be driving into, so we'd bog for sure within a mile."

Charles grimaced. "Is there somewhere we can take shelter, at least until the rain stops?"

"There's an inn just up there." Barton nodded to the left. "We can see it from the box. Looks neat enough, but it's not a coaching inn. Other than that, we're miles from any town." Charles hesitated, then nodded. "Take us to the inn. I'll have a look and see if we can stop there." Barton shut the door. Charles sat back and looked at Francesca. "I'm sorry, my dear, but…" Francesca managed a shrug. "At least we have a day's grace. If the rain stops during the night, we'll be able to reach Lambourn tomorrow."

"Good God, yes!" Charles uttered a hollow laugh. "After all his planning, I wouldn't want to have to face Chillingworth and explain why his bride had missed the wedding."

Francesca grinned and patted Charles's knee. "It'll all come right—you'll see." For some reason, she felt confident of that.

The inn proved better than they'd hoped for, small but clean and very willing to cater to four unexpected guests and their servants. As the rain showed no sign of easing, they accepted their fate and settled in. The inn boasted three bedchambers. Charles took one, Ester another, while Francesca and Franni shared the largest with its canopied bed.

They gathered in the tap for a hearty meal, then retired to their rooms, agreeing on an early start the next morning, heartened by the prediction of the innwife's father who assured them tomorrow would dawn fine. Reassured, Francesca settled in the big bed beside Franni and snuffed out the candle. They'd left the curtains open; moonlight streamed in, broken by the shadows thrown by nearby trees. After spending the day dozing in the coach, neither of them was sleepy. Francesca wasn't surprised when Franni stirred, and asked, "Tell me about the castle."