He held her gaze, then raised a hand and lightly brushed the tight peak of one breast.
“You can thank me later.”
* * *
She did, spending the better part of the night in that endeavor. Throughout the following day, while she chatted and visited, drank tea and listened, Francesca’s mind constantly slid away, seduced by her memories. At one point Honoria arched a knowing brow and left her blushing. She wondered who else saw through her social veil and correctly guessed the cause of her distraction.
The following morning, she breakfasted with Gyles, as was becoming their invariable habit. He questioned her about her day’s engagements, then suggested she don her pelisse and come for a short drive with him in his curricle to try out the paces of his new team of bays.
He kidnapped her for the entire day.
Deaf to her protests, he bowled through the streets, taking her into the City, to St. Paul’s, where they walked hand in hand, gazing at the brasses and monuments, to the Tower and London Bridge, then off to see Cleopatra’s Needle, then on to the Museum.
It was, in many ways, a journey of joint discovery; when she peppered him with questions, he admitted he hadn’t visited the sights recently, not since he’d been ten.
That made her laugh—he retaliated by subjecting her to an inquisition on her life in Italy.
Indeed, his questions came so readily, rolled so easily from one point to the next, that she started to suspect that the purpose behind the outing was at least in part so he could learn more of her.
She answered his queries with a light and joyous heart.
Gyles caught her shrewd glances, saw the light dancing in her eyes. She would have been even more thrilled had she known his principal motivation. True, he did want to know more about her, but his deepest, most compelling reason for spending the entire day with her was simply because he needed to.
Needed the time with her to soothe an odd uneasiness, to reassure the barbarian that she was still his during the day as much as she was during the night. Needed the time to draw her to him with more than just his arms, his kisses. Needed to prove to himself that he could.
When he turned the bays for home, Francesca sighed; smiling softly, she leaned her head against his shoulder. He bent his head and dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. Her smile deepened, and she snuggled closer. It occurred to him that he was wooing her, although not in the accepted sense. He wasn’t wooing her to make her fall in love with him. He was wooing his wife to keep her loving him.
He would do it until he died.
Almack’s. Francesca had heard of it, of course, but she hadn’t imagined it would be so plain, so . . . boring. Tonight was not one of the usual subscription balls—it was too late in the year for that. Instead, the hostesses had graciously invited those of their accepted circle still in town for one last evening within the hallowed halls.
Casting a critical glance around as she strolled the main room on Osbert’s arm, Francesca felt that the hallowed halls could do with redecorating. Then again, the throng that filled them was glittering and glamorous enough to deflect attention from the dull, rather shabby decor.
Lady Elizabeth and Henni had encouraged her to accompany them; they’d explained it was an occasion at which a new countess could not afford not to be seen. On learning of her plans over the breakfast table, Gyles had suggested she wear her new gown and her emeralds.
Encountering her in the hall as she was leaving, he’d paused, hesitated. Shadows had hidden his face, then he’d taken her hand, carried it to his lips, and told her she looked ravishing.
The gown and necklace bolstered her confidence. They felt like armor, so carefully scrutinized had they been. Knowing she looked well had allowed her to meet the sharp eyes with unimpaired serenity. Under the auspices of Lady Elizabeth and Lady Henrietta, as Henni was more properly known, she’d been introduced to all the hostesses. All had signified their approval; all had expressed the wish that she would be a frequent visitor in the years to come.
“Why?” Francesca shook Osbert’s sleeve. He’d arrived shortly after they had, and had made a beeline for her side. “Why would I wish to attend here often?”
“Well,” Osbert temporized, “in your case, I suppose there isn’t any great need. You’ll want to look in every so often to keep in touch—find out who the favored of the latest crop of young ladies are, which gentlemen are looking to take the plunge, and so on. But until you have a daughter to establish, I can’t see that this place will help you. Except on occasions like this, of course.”
“Even then.” Francesca waved at the crowd. “Where are the gentlemen? Most of those here are so young, and they look like they’ve been dragged along by their mamas. Half of them are sulking.” They reminded her forcibly of Lancelot Gilmartin. “There are only a few like you who’ve braved the dangers.” She patted his arm. “I’m grateful.”
Osbert colored and looked exceedingly conscious; Francesca smiled. Scanning the throng, she sighed. “There are no gentlemen like Gyles here.”
Osbert cleared his throat. “Gentlemen like Gyles usually . . . er, stick to their clubs.”
“After spending all day in their clubs, I would have thought they’d prefer to spend their evenings with feminine company.”
Osbert swallowed. “Cousin Gyles and his sort aren’t exactly encouraged to cross the threshold here. Well, they’re not likely to want a young bride, are they?”
Francesca caught Osbert’s eye. “Are you sure,” she murmured, “that it isn’t a case of the hostesses avoiding guests they can’t control?”
Osbert’s brows rose; he appeared much struck. “You know, I never thought of it quite like that, but . . .”
A stir about the main entry arch drew their attention. Francesca couldn’t see through the crowd; Osbert craned his neck, looked, then turned back to Francesca, his expression amazed. “Well! What a turn up.”
“What?” Francesca tugged his sleeve, but Osbert was looking again. He raised his hand in a salute.
An instant later, the crowd before them thinned, then parted. Gyles came stalking through.
“Madam.” He nodded curtly, taking her hand, ignoring her stunned expression.
He glanced at Osbert, who was struggling to hide a grin. Gyles caught his eye; Osbert abruptly took refuge behind his habitual vague mask. He nodded. “Cousin.”
Gyles returned the nod, then looked at Francesca.
Smiling delightedly, she slid her fingers from his grasp only to place them on his sleeve, slipping into her usual position at his side where she felt so comfortable. “I thought gentlemen like you weren’t encouraged to attend?”
Hard grey eyes met hers. “You’re here.”
Gyles skated his gaze over her shoulders, over the emeralds winking against her fine skin. The rustle of approaching skirts had him turning, saving him from saying something even more revealing.
“Gyles, dear—what a surprise!” His mother quizzed him with her eyes. He kissed her cheek and glanced at Henni.
With her head, Henni indicated the main archway. “You certainly made an entrance. Countess Lieven’s still standing there, shocked to her toes.”
“It’ll do her good.” Gyles glanced over the crowd. Not as many gentleman as he’d expected. Better than he’d hoped. “Come.” He glanced at Francesca. “Now I’ve made the supreme sacrifice of donning knee breeches, we may as well stroll.”
“Yes, do.” His mother caught his eye. “Go that way.” She pointed to an arch that led into a succession of anterooms. Gyles inclined his head and turned Francesca in that direction. Presumably there was someone that way who needed to know that he was protective of his wife.
His stunning, ravishing, too-delectable-to-take-his-eyes-off wife. His arrant stupidity in suggesting she wear her new gown had rebounded with a vengeance. He’d only done so because he’d been dying to see her in it, and Almack’s was surely the most innocuous of venues—that had been his rapid reasoning. The truth had hit hi
m between the eyes when, smugly expectant, he’d come out of the library having heard her footsteps on the stairs, and seen her, gowned and jeweled, a hundred times more sensually evocative than his imagination had painted her.
The company at Almack’s was largely innocuous. Any gentlemen present would not be of his ilk. Few wolves would bother poking their noses in there. He’d told himself all that and more while struggling to concentrate on a legislative draft.
Hopeless. He’d tossed aside his papers and gone up to change—he’d caught Wallace grinning when he’d asked for his knee breeches.
If it hadn’t been for the effect Francesca had on him, dressed as she was, so close beside him, he’d be scowling. Instead . . . he wasn’t all that averse to spending an hour strolling in her company.
He was known to most of the matrons. He and Francesca were stopped frequently; some dared to quiz him, but most were genuinely intrigued—entertained—by his presence. Francesca chatted with her usual assurance. He had all but relaxed when, turning from Lady Chatham, they found themselves facing a large, rather portly gentleman with florid features.
“Chillingworth.” With a genial nod, Lord Albemarle shifted his gaze to Francesca. “And this, I take it, is your new countess who I’ve heard so much about.”
Gyles gritted his teeth and made the introduction. His hand lay over Francesca’s on his sleeve; he squeezed her fingers warningly.
“My lord.” Francesca acknowledged the introduction haughtily and made no move to slide her fingers from beneath the comfort of Gyles’s warm hand. Lord Albemarle’s eyes were too cool, his gaze too assessing.
His lordship smiled, fascinated, clearly intent on satisfying his curiosity, apparently unaware of the danger he was courting. She felt Gyles stiffen; she tensed herself, expecting him to excuse them with some cold remark—
“Gyles! How good to see you again.” A lady, tall and imposing, appeared at Gyles’s side. She was handsome in a hard, glittering way. Her gaze locked with Francesca’s. “I did hear that you’d gone down to the country to get yourself a wife—I take it this is she?”
Silence stretched. Tense before, Gyles was now rigid; Francesca sank her fingers warningly into his arm. She held the woman’s gaze.
Eventually, Gyles drawled, glancing briefly her way, “My dear, allow me to present Lady Herron.”
Francesca waited, her expression serene, her head high. After a moment, two flags of color appeared in Lady Herron’s cheeks. Less than cordially, she curtsied. “Lady Chillingworth.”
Francesca smiled coolly, inclined her head, and looked away.
Unfortunately, toward Lord Albemarle.
“My dear Lady Chillingworth, I believe the musicians are going to favor us with a waltz. If you would—”
“Sorry, Albemarle.” Gyles caught his lordship’s surprised glance. “This waltz”—he put emphasis on the word so Albemarle would understand—“is mine.”
With a curt nod to his lordship, another to Lady Herron, he stepped back. With a haughty nod for his lordship, Francesca followed. She ignored Lady Herron completely.
The instant Gyles drew Francesca into his arms, he knew they were in trouble. Thanks to Lord Albemarle, he was feeling too much like his barbarian self, his civilized mask thinned to a veneer. On top of that, one glance at Francesca’s face, at the contemptuous light in her eyes, was enough to tell him that she’d guessed the connection between himself and Louise Herron. Through his hand at her back, he felt the tension vibrating through her, felt the ripple as her temper unfurled.
He steeled himself, inwardly swearing that whatever she said, he would not let her down; he would not, in this arena, react—
She looked up; the expression in her eyes was one of haughty disgust. “That woman is ill-mannered.” Her gaze dropped to his lips; a moment passed, then her eyes rose to meet his again. The disgust was gone—something else, something very like possessiveness, flared in the green. “Don’t you think so?”
Gyles found himself scrambling—mentally jettisoning the notion she was about to enact him a scene over his past liaisons, trying to grasp the fact that she was angry, yes, but not with him. And that anger, in this case, had given rise to . . . intent of a different sort.
The sudden surge of his reaction caught him; he tightened his hold on her. Without a blink, she stepped nearer. Her breasts brushed his coat, and she shivered and pressed closer yet.
He should have been praying all those watching would be struck blind; instead, he whirled her slowly down the floor, caught, willingly trapped, in the fire of her eyes.
Francesca understood—suddenly, blindingly—and instinctively reached for what she needed. Possessiveness, jealousy—she’d seen both in him, but never thought to find the same clawing need eating her from inside out. Tension held them, swelled and grew, like to like, reflected and intensified between them. It was she who shifted her hand to his nape, scored her nails lightly through the short hairs, he who held her so tight through a turn that their bodies sensuously rubbed, locked for one instant, then parted.
The tight sheath of emerald satin was suddenly constricting, a skin she needed to shed. They were both breathing shallowly, too quickly, when the music died.
“Come.” Face graven, he kept hold of her hand, turned, and towed her toward the door.
“Wait.” Francesca glanced back. “I came with your mother and Henni.”
Halting under the archway, he looked down at her. “They’ll guess you’ve left with me.”
There was no question in his eyes, only a challenge. Francesca didn’t hesitate—with a nod, she stepped past him.
He’d brought the town carriage. He handed her up, called a terse, “Home!” then followed her in. The instant the door shut, in the instant the carriage lurched and rolled forward, she turned to him, reached for him.
He reached for her.
She framed his face and their lips met, fused. She parted her lips, drew him in, invited, incited him to take. And he took. Greedy as she, as hungry, as urgent. Their tongues touched, tangled, dueled. She pressed closer, spread her hands over his chest, then found a stud and slid it free.
He pulled back, chest heaving, and caught her hands. “No. Not here.”
“Why not?” She shifted against him, one knee over his.
“Because we’re nearly home.” He paused, then added, his voice gravelly and low, “And I want to peel this gown from you.” He grazed one palm over the peak of her breast; they both watched the nipple pebble under the tight silk. “Inch by slow inch, and I want to watch as I do it.” He raised his hand, speared his fingers through her hair, tipped her face up to his. Bent his head. His breath washed over her lips as he murmured, “I want to watch you. Your eyes. Your body.”
His lips closed over hers, and she let him sweep her away, into a sea of hot desire.
The carriage slowed. He glanced out, then set her back on the seat. The carriage halted; they straightened their clothes. She felt as if her dress was barely on, barely capable of containing her. He descended and handed her out. Head high, she preceded him into the hall. She could barely breathe. With a nod to Irving, she headed on up the stairs. Gyles paused to speak with Wallace, then followed.
His fingers twined with hers as they walked down the corridor. By unspoken agreement, they touched no more than that—didn’t dare.
“Get rid of your maid—you won’t need her tonight.”
Francesca slipped her fingers from his and opened her door while he walked on to his.
“Are you sure, ma’am?”
“Quite sure.” Francesca shooed Millie to the door. The little maid went, reluctantly closing the door behind her.
The click of the latch echoed from the other side of the room. Francesca turned; she watched as, already coatless, Gyles pushed away from the shadows cloaking the connecting door. Their gazes locked as he approached.
Closed the distance, lifted his hands to frame her face, tipped it to his, then devoured.
They’d
made love so many times, yet it had never been like this. She’d never been so greedy. So determined, so demanding. She taunted, teased—wanted more. Wanted him. He’d claimed her, branded her as his so many times. Tonight it was her turn. His turn to be possessed, to be the one taken—she would settle for nothing less.
She was prepared to settle for more.
Prepared to let him take the reins at the start, to acquiesce when, with their blood already up, pounding in their veins, he roughly drew back, turned her, positioned her so, bathed in the glow of the lamps burning on her dresser and the table by the door, she stood before him, facing her reflection in the long mirror.
“Inch by slow inch.”
He’d warned her; now she watched, waited, as he unhooked her gown. His hands rose, pressing the back opening of the gown wide, then sliding the silk from her shoulders. The bodice fitted her well; he peeled the fabric from her curves. Her breasts suddenly felt cool, deprived of the heated silk, covered only by her fine chemise. He knew but only smiled at her quiver, leaving the gown in folds about her waist, urging her to lift her arms free.
She did, then didn’t know what to do with her hands. Watching their reflection, she leaned her shoulders, now bare, back against his shirt-clad chest, then reached back and set her palms to his hard thighs, fingers gripping.
His expression hardened, but his gaze was fixed on her body, on her hips as he eased the gown lower. She kept expecting him to touch her, to set his hands to her chemise-clad skin to ease the nerves quivering beneath, afire with anticipation. Instead, he touched her not at all as, inch by deliberate inch, he pushed the gown lower, over her thighs.
Until, with a silken swoosh, it slid to the floor.
For one instant, they both gazed at the pool of emerald about her feet. Then, slowly, she lifted her gaze and took in the tableau he’d created. Her hair was still up, startlingly black against the white of his shirt, a mass of curls cascading down to just brush her shoulders. Her arms were bare; from mid-thigh, her legs were, too. In between, the ripe curves of her body were veiled and mysterious beneath her thin chemise. Her skin glowed in the lamplight, its honeyed tones definite against his shirt, soft and feminine against the black of his knee breeches.