He had to let her go; he forced himself to do it, forced himself to let Hector take her hands and buss her cheek.
Devil elbowed him in the back.
“Nice duty, if one can get it.”
Gyles turned—only to have Devil nudge him aside.
“Stand back, Hector. It’s my turn.”
Their well-wishers surrounded them. Gyles stood by her side and refused to budge as the guests pressed forward, eager to greet his ravishing countess, to pump his hand and tell him what a lucky dog he was.
The ladies made straight for Francesca. Horace thumped him on the back. “A sly one, you are! All that talk of marrying for the family and property—well! Not that I blame you, mind—she’s a demmed fetching piece.”
“She did bring the Gatting property.”
“Yes, well, I expect that influenced you mightily.” Horace grinned at Francesca. “Must kiss the bride, what?” He moved on.
Gyles inwardly sighed. If not even Horace believed . . .
Francesca greeted Horace with a social grace quite at odds with what was running through her mind. Indeed, she was grateful to those who pressed near to squeeze her hand, kiss her cheek, and offer their congratulations—they provided her with an opportunity to catch her breath. Such occasions held no terrors; as her parents’ only child, she’d been their social companion for years and was confidently at ease amidst fashionable crowds.
It wasn’t the demands of the wedding that concerned her.
She wasn’t at all sure what was going on in her husband’s mind, but that was presently the least of her concerns. After he’d returned her to her bed, she hadn’t been able to think. To her surprise, she’d fallen deeply asleep. She’d woken only just in time to hide the evidence of her nighttime excursion before Millie and Lady Elizabeth arrived to help her with her preparations. Ester had joined them, and assured her Franni was highly excited and looking forward to witnessing the wedding.
She hadn’t known what to make of that.
On waking, her first thought had been that she should give him what he wanted—what he was expecting—and reorganize things so Franni walked up the aisle. She would give the Gatting property he was so set on acquiring to Franni . . . it was then she’d remembered the marriage settlements. They’d been signed and sealed, and it was her name, not Franni’s, in all the crucial spots.
While their marriage was the crux of the arrangement, the ceremony was only part of that, the public acknowledgment of an agreement entered into. Legally, albeit contingent on their wedding taking place, the Gatting property was already his.
Both Charles and Chillingworth’s man-of-business, a Mr. Waring, who’d traveled into Hampshire with the documents, had taken great pains to impress on her the inviolability of the agreement once signed.
She’d signed. She couldn’t now refuse to marry him.
And she certainly could not thrust Franni into such an arena. He’d been out of his mind to think she could cope . . . which made her wonder if Chillingworth had spoken with Franni at all.
She had no idea what Franni thought. Was Chillingworth the gentleman her cousin had referred to? She’d had no chance before the ceremony to speak with Franni alone. Indeed, Franni had been innocently excited when she’d hurried off to the chapel with Ester.
When she’d walked up the aisle, she’d seen Chillingworth glance toward where Franni should have been, but with all eyes on her, she hadn’t dared look herself. She’d been playing a part, and she’d had to play it well—had to make people believe she was a willing and happy bride. She’d hoped to glance Franni’s way once she’d halted before the altar, perhaps as Charles stepped back—but the instant she’d reached Chillingworth’s side . . .
Shaking aside the memory, she tried again to glimpse the pew where Franni had been, but Chillingworth had, thanks to the melee, ended on that side. He hadn’t budged an inch since; she couldn’t see past him. Neither Ester nor Franni had come to kiss her. Charles was hanging back. But he was smiling.
Frustrated, she glanced at Lady Elizabeth, who read her emotion correctly but misinterpreted the cause. Her mother-in-law clapped her hands. “It’s time we moved on to the dining room. Now make way and let them go ahead, then you can greet them at the door and we can all chat and enjoy ourselves over the wedding breakfast.”
Francesca cast her a grateful smile. Chillingworth’s arm appeared before her, and she took it, preserving her mask of a radiant, joyful bride as they ran a gauntlet of rice all the way up the aisle.
Outside the chapel, her smile evaporated. Before she could turn to him, he grasped her hand. “This way.”
She had to grab her skirts and run to keep up with his long strides. He cut down corridors, down stairs, around corners, leading her away from their guests, away from the reception rooms. At no stage did he moderate his pace. Then they were rushing down a narrow, dimly lit corridor—she thought they were on the ground floor. The door at the end was shut.
She was about to dig in her heels and demand to be told where he was taking her when, just before the door, Chillingworth stopped dead, whirled her about, and backed her against the wall.
Francesca felt the wall cool at her back, felt the heat of his body before her, around her. She sucked in a breath as he leaned closer, trapping her. She caught his gaze, held it.
Gyles was aware they were both breathing rapidly. The pulse throbbing at the base of her throat dragged at his senses, but he didn’t take his gaze from her eyes.
Any other woman, and he would have exploited their sexual linkage to unnerve her, to gain the upper hand.
With her, he didn’t dare.
There was too much between them, even now, even here. It was a hot breath caressing skin, something almost palpable, an awareness of sin as old as time.
They only had minutes, and he had no idea what she intended, whether she was going to play out the scene to its end, or erupt midway through.
“Franni—”
The sheer fury that lit her eyes—lit her—silenced him. Her rage was so potent he nearly stepped back.
“I am not Franni.”
Every carefully enunciated word slapped him.
“You’re Francesca Hermione Rawlings.” She’d better be, or he’d wring her neck.
She nodded. “And my cousin, Charles’s daughter, is Frances Mary Rawlings. Known to all as Franni.”
“Charles’s daughter?” The fog started to clear. “Why the devil was she given such a similar name to you?”
“We were born within weeks of each other, me in Italy, Franni in Hampshire, and we were both named after our paternal grandfather.”
“Francis Rawlings?”
She nodded again. “Now we have that settled, I have a few questions. Did you meet Franni when you visited Rawlings Hall?”
He hesitated. “I strolled with her twice.”
She breathed in; her breasts rose. “Did you at any time say anything to lead Franni to believe you were considering offering for her?”
“No.”
“No?” She widened her eyes at him. “You came to Rawlings Hall to find an amenable bride, you thought you’d found her, you walked twice with her—and you said nothing—gave no hint whatever of your intentions?”
“No.” His temper was on a leash as tight as hers. “If you recall, I insisted on adhering to the most distant and rigid formality. It would have run counter to my plans to woo your cousin in even the most cursory way.”
He could see she didn’t know whether to believe him or not. He exhaled through his teeth. “I swear on my honor I never said or did anything to give her the slightest reason to imagine I had any interest whatever in her.”
She hesitated, then stiffly inclined her head. “Did you see what happened to her? She wasn’t in the chapel when we left, but I didn’t see her leave.”
He wasn’t sure what was going on. “I only glimpsed her in the instant before you joined me. She recognized me and seemed shocked. There was an older lady with her
.”
“Ester—Charles’s sister-in-law, Franni’s aunt. She lives with them.”
“I didn’t see either of them later. They must have left when everyone was crowding around.”
Francesca grimaced. “Charles didn’t seem worried . . .”
Her gaze grew distant. Gyles wondered why she’d seemed so certain he’d spoken of his offer to her cousin. Did she believe he’d raised her cousin’s hopes? But she’d known all along. . . .
He needed more time—a lot more time—to sort out who’d known what.
Voices reached them through the door.
He straightened. “Our presence is required.” Catching her hand, he opened the door and walked out into the hall before the formal dining room.
“There they are!”
The crowd, having arrived and discovered them not where they were supposed to be, turned and, en masse, smiled widely.
Francesca knew what they were thinking. Her blush only reinforced the picture created by her husband and the smirk on his too-handsome lips.
“Just a little detour to show Francesca more of her new domain.”
The crowd laughed and parted for them. As she went forward at his side to lead the way into the formal dining room, to the banquet laid out in their honor, Francesca heard numerous ribald references as to with which part of her domain she’d recently become familiar.
Such comments did nothing to improve her mood, but she hid her temper, her feelings, well. Not one guest, nor any member of his family or hers, would have any inkling what seethed beneath her unremittingly joyful facade.
Chillingworth and she stood side by side, the perfect couple, and greeted their guests as they entered the room. Charles was among the first—he shook hands with Gyles, then embraced her warmly and kissed her cheek.
“I’m so happy for you, my dear.”
“And I have so much to thank you for.” Francesca squeezed his hands. “And Franni?”
Charles’s smile faded. “I’m afraid the excitement proved too much, as we’d feared it would.” He glanced at Gyles, who was listening attentively. “Franni isn’t strong, and excitement can overwhelm her.” Charles turned back to Francesca. “Ester’s with her at the moment, but will join us later. Franni’s simply a little disoriented—you know how she gets.”
Francesca didn’t, not really, but she couldn’t talk longer with Charles. With an understanding smile, she released his hand and he moved on as the next guest took his place.
A tall, lanky gentleman, unquestionably another Rawlings, pumped Gyles’s hand and beamed delightedly. “Capital, coz! Can’t thank you enough! Huge load off my mind, I can tell you.” Wearing an unfitted coat, a dark, drab waistcoat, and a soft, floppy cravat, the gentleman was some years younger than Chillingworth.
Gyles turned to Francesca. “Allow me to present my cousin, Osbert Rawlings. At present, Osbert’s my heir.”
“Only for the present—ha, ha!” Beaming, Osbert turned to her, then realized what he’d said. “Well, I mean to say—well, it’s not as if . . .”
He slowly flushed beet red.
Francesca flashed a look at Chillingworth, then smiled radiantly at Osbert and took the limp hand he’d extended and left hanging in the air between them. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”
Osbert blinked, swallowed, and refocused. “A great pleasure.” Still holding her hand, he remained standing before her, staring, then he said, “You’re quite devilishly beautiful, you know.”
Francesca laughed, but not unkindly. “Thank you, but it’s not my doing—I was born this way.”
“Still,” Osbert persisted. “Have to say—that moment in the chapel when you appeared, it was quite the most galvanizing instant.” He stepped closer to Francesca as those behind jostled. “I was thinking of writing an ode—”
“Osbert.” Gyles intervened, displeasure clear in his tone.
“Oh! Yes—of course.” Osbert shook Francesca’s hand, then released it. “I’ll speak with you later.”
He stepped away; others quickly took his place.
Moments later, when she had a chance, Francesca glanced at Chillingworth. “What’s wrong with an ode?”
“Not odes. Osbert’s odes.” Gyles met her gaze. “Wait until you’ve heard one.”
They continued shaking hands as the guests trooped past them. Gyles succeeded in preserving an acceptable facade, but his temper was wearing thin, his senses constantly abraded by Francesca’s nearness, by every breath she took. When the last guest had moved on to find a seat, he offered her his arm. With her hand on his sleeve, he paraded her up the long room to the applause of all present. Two long tables ran the length of the room, guests seated on both sides. Across the head of those tables ran a third, at which the guests of honor sat facing the long room.
He handed Francesca to the chair beside his. His mother sat on his left, while Horace was on Francesca’s right. Charles and Henni made up the table. At the other tables, the closest places were taken by Devil and Honoria, and three other peers and their wives. Beyond that, family and close connections filled the room. By tightly controlling the guest list, he’d ensured that other than Devil, Honoria, and a few close friends, society at large was not present.
Irving drew back his chair. Gyles sat, and footmen rushed forward to charge the glasses. The toasts and the feasting began.
They put on a good show. Gyles was conscious that no one guessed the truth, not even his perspicacious mother. Francesca played her part to perfection—then again, she’d been perfectly willing to marry him until she’d learned of his mistake. Even then, she hadn’t been unwilling. Furious perhaps, but it wasn’t as if she hadn’t secured precisely all he’d offered her.
He was the one whose carefully laid plans had been turned on their head—who had got far more than he wanted, indeed, precisely what he hadn’t wanted, from the day.
And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
As the courses came and went, he struggled to ignore the constant tug on his senses, an effort frustrated by having to play the role of pleased and proud groom. The toasts became increasingly risqué; the sincerity of the good wishes that flowed around him gradually sank through to his brain.
Most would consider him inordinately lucky. Virtually every man in the room bar only Devil would trade places with him in a blink. He was married to a fascinatingly beautiful woman, who was also, it seemed, a past master in the social arts. She was so freely charming, so effortlessly engaging—he wasn’t blind to her qualities.
They were married—man and wife. He couldn’t change it. All he could do was make the best of it.
And from what he’d already learned of his bride, if he wanted to rule his roost, he had better make a push to establish the rules. His rules.
He might have married her—that didn’t mean he’d surrendered. Not even she could take from him that which he didn’t wish to give. He was stronger, and infinitely more experienced than she. . . .
While he chatted to Charles and others across the table, he let his mind skate back over the previous night. Prior to that, there was nothing in his behavior with her she could legitimately rail at. Last night, however . . .
He would need to rebuild a few bridges other than the one that had washed away.
Francesca was talking to Honoria across the table, the fingers of her left hand draped loosely about the stem of her wineglass where it stood on the white linen between them. He reached out and insinuated his fingers between hers, twining them about hers. He felt the tiny shiver she instantly suppressed, felt primal recognition tighten his gut.
He waited.
Minutes later, the next course was set out. In the general hubbub as people were served, Francesca turned his way. She didn’t try to withdraw her hand but when she met his gaze, he couldn’t read her eyes.
“The mistake I made.” She arched a brow, and he continued, “There was a reason. I had, still have, a very definite idea of what I want from marriage. And you
—” He broke off. She watched him calmly. “You . . . and I . . .” He exhaled sharply. “I didn’t mean to suggest you are not a perfectly acceptable bride.”
She raised her brows haughtily; her eyes flashed. Then she smiled gloriously, leaned close, and patted his hand, sliding her fingers deftly from his, then she turned away to speak to Henni.
Gyles bit back his temper, reined in the urge to grab her hand and spin her back to face him. Those watching would have seen the exchange as delightful flirting; he could do nothing to disturb the image. Letting his lips curve, he turned to another conversation.
He bided his time. Obsessed with his problem, obsessed with her, to him the hours flew. Eventually, the banquet ended and everyone adjourned to the adjoining ballroom. A small orchestra played in an alcove at one end. The first order of the afternoon was the bridal waltz.
Francesca heard the opening bars and steeled herself. She turned to Chillingworth with a smile on her lips, an easy expression on her face. He drew her to him; they both felt the tremor that shook her as her thigh brushed his, and his instantaneous tensing. Only she felt the possessiveness in his grasp, in the hard palm at her back—only she was near enough to see the steely glint in his grey eyes. A fractional hesitation gripped them as they remembered just how many eyes were watching, and both, again, reined in their tempers. Without words, they stepped out, revolving slowly at first, cautiously on her part, then she recognized his prowess and relaxed.
He was an expert at waltzing. She was good at it herself. She had matters of far greater moment on her mind.
He swung her into the first turn, and she let herself flow with his stride. Let him draw her as close as he wished, so their thighs brushed and hips met—knowing every touch affected him as much as it affected her. She fixed her gaze on his and kept her lips curved. “I married you because I had no choice—we had no choice. The settlements were signed, the guests all here. While I might deplore your approach to marriage—your approach to me—I see no reason to acquaint the world or, indeed, anyone at all, with my disappointment.”
She held his gaze for a moment more, then glanced aside. She’d spent the last hour preparing that speech, mentally rehearsing her tone. Given the tightness about her chest, the peculiar sensitivity that had affected her skin, she was pleased to have delivered it so creditably.