Her pulse was still racing, her blood still up, far more so than could be accounted for by her ride. Indeed, she didn’t think her racing pulse or the breathlessness that was only now easing owed anything to her ride—they’d come into being because he’d held her too close and smiled at her like a leopard eyeing his next meal—and because she’d known precisely what he’d been thinking.
His grey eyes had kindled, sparking yet darkening, and his lips had curved just so . . . because he’d been thinking wicked thoughts. Thoughts of flesh pressed to naked flesh, of silk sheets sliding and shushing as bodies moved in an ancient rhythm upon them. The brazen images formed readily in her mind.
Blushing, she banished them and strode on down the corridor. Glancing around and seeing no one, she waved a hand before her face. She didn’t want to have to explain her blush to Ester.
The thought had her wondering where Ester was. Entering the central wing, she detoured to the kitchen. No Ester there. The staff had heard Ester call, but didn’t know where she’d gone. Francesca pushed through the door into the front hall.
The hall was empty. Her bootheels clacked on the tiles as she crossed to the stairs. She was halfway up the first flight when the door to her uncle’s study opened. Ester came out, saw her, and smiled. “There you are, dear.”
Francesca reversed direction. “I’m so sorry—it was such a fine day I just rode and rode and forgot the time. I heard you call and came running. Is anything wrong?”
“No, indeed.” A tall lady with a horsey face but the kindest of eyes, Ester smiled fondly as Francesca halted before her. Reaching out, Ester eased the frivolous riding cap from Francesca’s unruly locks. “Your uncle wishes to speak with you, but contrary to there being anything wrong, I suspect you’ll be very interested in what he has to say. I’ll take this”—Ester spied the riding gloves and crop Francesca held in one hand and took them—“and these, upstairs for you. Go along now—he’s waiting to tell you.”
Ester’s nod indicated the open study door. Intrigued, Francesca entered, shutting the door behind her. Charles was seated behind his desk, studying a letter. Hearing the latch click, he looked up, and beamed.
“Francesca, dear girl, come and sit down. I’ve just had the most amazing news.”
Crossing to the chair to which he waved her, not before the desk but beside it, Francesca could see that for herself. Charles’s eyes were alight, not shadowed with some unnameable worry as they so often were. Too often careworn and sad, his face now glowed with unmistakable good cheer. She sank onto the chair. “And this news concerns me?”
“It does, indeed.” Swinging to face her, Charles leaned his forearms on his knees so his head was more level with hers. “My dear, I’ve just received an offer for your hand.”
Francesca stared at him. “From whom?”
She heard the calm query and marveled that she’d managed to get it out. Her mind was streaking in a dozen different directions, her heart racing again, speculation running riot. It was a battle to remain still, to counsel herself to the prim and proper.
“From a gentleman—well, actually, he’s a nobleman. The offer is from Chillingworth.”
“Chillingworth?” Even to her, her voice sounded strained. She hardly dared trust her ears. The vision in her mind . . .
Charles leaned forward and took her hand. “My dear, the Earl of Chillingworth has made you a formal offer of marriage.”
* * *
When Charles finished explaining it to her, in painstaking and repetitive detail, Francesca was even more astonished.
“An arranged marriage.” She couldn’t credit it. From another gentleman, yes—the English were so . . . phlegmatic. But from him—from the man who had held her in his arms and wondered what it would be like to . . . with her . . . Something was not right.
“He’s adamant that you understand that.” Charles’s gentle, serious gaze remained fixed on her face. “My dear, I would not urge you to accept unless you felt comfortable with the arrangement, but I would be failing in my duty as your guardian if I didn’t tell you that while Chillingworth’s approach may appear cold, it is honest. Many men feel the same, but would cloak their offers in more fanciful guise thinking to win your romantic heart.”
Francesca gestured dismissively.
Charles smiled. “I know you’re not a flighty girl who would have your head turned by false protestations. Indeed, I know you well enough to be sure you would see through any disguise. Chillingworth is not the sort of man to employ one—that’s not his style. He’s of the first rank—his estates, as I’ve told you, are extensive. His offer is more than generous.” Charles paused. “Is there anything more you’d like to know—any questions at all?”
Francesca had dozens, but they were not the sort her uncle could answer. Her suitor himself would have to explain. He was not the sort of man to countenance a bloodless, unemotional union. He had fire and passion in his veins, just as she had.
So what was this all about?
Then the truth dawned. “He spoke with you this afternoon while I was out riding?” When Charles nodded, she asked, “He’s never seen me, has he? I can’t recall meeting him before.”
“I don’t believe he’s seen you . . .” Charles frowned. “Did you meet him?”
“On my way from the stables. He was . . . leaving.”
“Well, then.” Charles straightened, perceptibly brightening. “So . . .” His gaze had moved beyond Francesca; now he brought it back to her face. They had talked and talked; it was almost time for dinner. “He’ll be back tomorrow morning to hear your answer. What should I tell him?”
That she didn’t believe him.
Francesca met Charles’s earnest gaze. “Tell him . . . that I need three days—seventy-two hours from this afternoon—to consider his proposal. Given the suddeness and . . . unexpected nature of his offer, I must think things over carefully. Three afternoons from now, I’ll say yes or no.”
Charles’s brows had risen; by the time she’d finished speaking he was nodding. “An excellent notion. You may reassure yourself in your own mind, then give him—” Charles grimaced. “Give me, I suspect, your answer.”
“Indeed.” Francesca stood, determination rising within her. “I will discover what answer I’m comfortable with—and then he may have it.”
It was nearly noon the next day when Gyles once again rode up the Rawlings Hall drive. Shown into the study, he saw Charles rounding the desk, his hand outstretched and a smile on his face. Not that he’d expected anything else. Shaking hands, he consented to sit.
Resuming his seat, Charles met his gaze. “I’ve spoken to Francesca at some length. She was not averse to your proposal, but she did ask for a period of time—three days—in which to consider her answer.”
Gyles felt his brows rise. The request was eminently reasonable; what surprised him was that she’d made it.
Charles was regarding him with concern, unable to read his expression. “Is that a problem?”
“No.” Gyles considered, then refocused on Charles. “While I wish to settle this matter expeditiously, Miss Rawlings’s request is impossible to deny. Marriage is, after all, a serious business—a point I wished to emphasize.”
“Indeed. Francesca is not a flighty girl—her feet are planted firmly on the ground. She engaged to give a simple yes or no on the third afternoon from yesterday.”
“Two days from today.” Gyles nodded and stood. “Very well. I’ll remain in the area and will call again on the afternoon of the agreed day.”
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 naïveté 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.