All About Passion

Chapter 10

A stableboy came running as Gyles trotted into the stable yard. He dismounted; the boy led the horse away. Gyles hesitated, then went into the stable. He stopped before the stall in which Regina stood placidly munching.

“Her ladyship didn’t go out today.”

Gyles turned to see Jacobs coming up the aisle.

“She went for a walk. Saw her heading off to the bluff.”

Gyles inclined his head. There seemed little point in denying he’d been wondering where she was. He strolled back into the sunshine. It was early afternoon and very pleasant out of doors. Too pleasant to go inside to the ledgers that awaited him.

He discovered her on the bluff overlooking the bend in the river. Seated on a bench set amongst flowering shrubs with her back to the old rampart, she was gazing out over the river and fields. In her primrose day gown with a simple yellow ribbon threaded through her dark curls, she looked like a Florentine princess, pensive and far away. Untouchable. Unknowable. He paused, oddly unsure of his right to disturb her, so sunk in her thoughts and so still that sparrows hopped on the grass at her feet.

Her face was serene, composed-distant. Then she turned her head and looked directly at him, and smiled gloriously.

She gestured. “It’s so lovely here. I was admiring the view.”

He studied her face, then walked the last steps to the bench. “I’ve been at the bridge.”

“Oh?” She swept aside her skirts so he could sit. “Is it finished?”

“Almost.” He sat and looked out over the land-his land, his fields, his meadows. “The new bracing should ensure we don’t lose it again.”

“How many families live on the estate?”

“About twenty.” He pointed. “See those roofs? That’s one of the villages.”

She looked, then pointed east. “Is that another?”

“Yes.” He glanced at her. “You must have been here for some time to spot it.” The three thatched roofs were all but concealed by trees.

She lifted her face to the breeze, clearly enjoying having it ripple through her hair. “I’ve come here a few times. It’s a perfect vantage point from which to learn the lay of the land.”

He waited, his gaze on her face, but she kept her gaze on the rolling green and said no more.

“Have you had trouble with the staff?”

Her head whipped around. “No.” She considered him. “Did you think I would?”

“No.” He could see the subtle amusement lurking in her eyes. “But I did wonder how you were getting on.”

Her smile dawned. “Very well.” He lost contact with her eyes as she stood. “But I should be getting back.”

Suppressing a spurt of irritation, he rose, too, and matched her stride as she climbed the sloping bank. He’d been trying for the last two days to get some indication of how she was faring, how she was coping. Whether she was happy. It wasn’t a question he could ask outright, not as things were. But a week had now passed since they’d wed, and while he had no complaints, he did wonder if she was content.

She was his wife, after all, and if he was having his cake and eating it, too, thanks to her sensible acceptance of his plan, then it seemed only fair that she should at least be satisfied with her new life.

But he couldn’t ask the simple question, and she stubbornly answered all his queries literally, smiling and sidestepping his point. That only made him wonder all the more.

At the top of the rise, she paused, drew in a savoring breath, then she slanted him a catlike smile. Her eyes held his as he joined her, daring him to look at her breasts, at her figure clearly outlined as the breeze plastered her gown to it.

Another of her ploys-distraction. He arched a brow, and she laughed. The husky sound spiraled through him, reminding him of the night just gone and they games they’d played.

She was an expert at distraction.

Smiling, she linked her arm through his. They started across the lawns, fallen leaves crunching under their feet, the scent of autumn in the air.

“If there is anything you would like-anything to do with the household or the house-I take it you know you have only to ask?”

His dry comment had her lips twitching. She inclined her head; silken black tendrils fleetingly caressed his cheek. “If I should discover anything I need, I’ll remember you said so.”

She glanced at him from under her lashes, a habit she had-one he’d learned. He caught her gaze, trapped it, held it. After a long moment, he slowly arched a brow.

Francesca wrenched her gaze from his and looked ahead. “If I discover a need… but at present, I have everything I… Who is this?”

Breathless, glad to have a distraction from her lie, she gestured to the black carriage drawn up in the forecourt.

“I wondered how long it would be.”

Gyles’s tone had her glancing his way, this time with open puzzlement.

“The coach belongs to our nearest neighbors, the Gilmartins. I’m surprised Lady Gilmartin was prevailed upon to wait the full week.”

“They weren’t at the wedding?”

Gyles shook his head. Taking her hand, he led her up the steps. “They were visiting in Scotland, thank God.” He glanced her way. “Prepare to be exclaimed over.”

She threw him a puzzled frown, but let him open the door and hand her over the threshold-

“Ah! There they are! Well, my goodness!” A large, amply bosomed matron fluttering a pink-fringed shawl descended on Francesca. “Well, my lord.” The woman threw an arch glance at Gyles. “You are a dark horse. And here all the local ladies were certain you had an aversion to matrimony! Ha-ha!” The lady beamed at Francesca, then swooped, and brushed cheeks. “Wallace was trying to say you were indisposed, but we saw you plain as day by the bluff.”

Francesca exchanged a glance with the stony-faced Wallace, then took the lady’s hand in hers. “Lady Gilmartin, I take it?”

“Ah-ha!” Her ladyship twinkled at Gyles. “I see my reputation goes before me. Indeed, my dear, we live just past the village.”

Grasping her ladyship’s elbow, Francesca steered her toward the drawing room. Irving hurried to open the door.

Lady Gilmartin prattled on. “You must come and take tea, of course, but we thought to drop by this afternoon and welcome you to our little circle. Eldred?”

Reaching the center of the drawing room, Francesca released her ladyship and turned to see an anemic gentleman entering by Gyles’s side. Next to Gyles, he looked wilted and withered. He bowed and smiled weakly; Francesca smiled back. Drawing in a bracing breath, she waved Lady Gilmartin to the chaise. “Please be seated. Wallace-we’ll have tea.”

Subsiding into an armchair, Francesca watched as Lady Gilmartin sorted her shawls.

“Now, where were we?” Her ladyship looked up. “Oh, yes-Clarissa? Clarissa? Where have you got to, gel?”

A pale, pudgy girl wearing an unladylike scowl flounced into the room, bobbed a curtsy to Francesca, then plopped down beside her mother on the chaise.

“This is my darling.” Lady Gilmartin patted her daughter’s knee. “Just a fraction too young to compete with you, my dear”-her ladyship indicated Gyles with her head-“but we have high hopes. Clarissa will be going up for the Season next year.”

Francesca made the right noises and avoided her husband’s eye. A second later, her gaze fixed on the slight gentleman belatedly strolling into the room. She blinked, and missed all Lady Gilmartin was saying. Her ladyship swiveled. “Ah, Lancelot. Come and make your bow.”

Dark-haired, interestingly pale, quite startlingly handsome albeit in a studied way, the youth-for he was no more than that-swept the room with a disdainful glance. A glance that stopped, dead, on Francesca.

“Oh. I say!” The dark eyes, until then hooded by languid lids, opened wide. With considerably greater speed, Lancelot came around the chaise to bow with romantic abandon before Francesca. “I say!” he said again as he straightened.

“Lancelot will be coming up to town with us for the Season.” Lady Gilmartin beamed. “I think I can say without fear of contradiction that we will cause quite a stir. Quite a stir!”

Francesca managed a polite smile, grateful that Wallace appeared with the tea tray, followed by Irving with the cake platter. While she poured and their guests sipped and devoured, she did her best to steer the conversation into more conventional straits.

Gyles kept his distance, talking quietly with Lord Gilmartin by the windows. When Francesca at last caught his eye, a very clear message in hers, he arched one brow fleetingly, then, with a resigned air, ushered Lord Gilmartin closer to his family.

The result was not felicitous. The instant she realized Gyles was near, Clarissa simpered. Then she giggled in a manner Francesca could only consider ill-bred and cast coy glances at Gyles.

Before Francesca could think how to rearrange the room and reseparate her husband and Clarissa, Lancelot stepped in front of her, blocking her view. Startled, she looked up.

“You’re most awfully beautiful, you know.”

The passionate glow in Lancelot’s eyes suggested he was about to fling himself on his knees and pour out his callow heart.

“Yes, I know,” she said.

He blinked. “You do?”

She nodded. She eased up, forcing him to step back so she could stand. “People-men-are always telling me that. It matters little to me, because, of course, I can’t see it.”

She’d used such lines before to confuse overardent gentlemen. Lancelot stood there, frowning, replaying her words in his head, trying to determine the correct response. Francesca slipped around him.

“Lady Gilmartin?”

“What?” Her ladyship started and dropped the scone she’d been eating. “Oh, yes, my dear?”

Francesca smiled charmingly. “It’s such a lovely day outside, I wonder if you’d care to stroll in the Italian garden. Perhaps Clarissa could come, too?”

Clarissa scowled and turned a pugnacious countenance on her mother, who brushed crumbs from her skirt while peering shortsightedly at the long windows.

“Well, dear, I would love to, of course, but I rather think it’s time we were leaving. Wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome.” Lady Gilmartin uttered one of her horsey laughs. Rising, she stepped close to Francesca and lowered her voice. “I know what men-lords or earls though they may be-are like, dear. Quite ungovernable in the early days. But it passes, you know-trust me on that.” With a pat on Francesca’s hand, Lady Gilmartin swept toward the door.

Francesca hurried after her, to make absolutely certain she headed the right way. Clarissa stumped after them; Lancelot, still puzzling, followed. Gyles and Lord Gilmartin brought up the rear.

With hearty cheer, Lady Gilmartin took her leave, her offspring silent at her heels. Lord Gilmartin was the last to quit the porch; he bowed over Francesca’s hand.

“My dear, you’re radiant, and Gyles is a lucky dog indeed to have won you.” His lordship smiled, gentle and sweet, then nodded and went down the steps.

“Remember!” Lady Gilmartin called from the coach. “You’re free to call anytime you feel the need of ladylike company.”

Francecsa managed a smile and a nod. “What on earth,” she murmured to Gyles beside her, “does she think your mother and aunt are? Social upstarts?”

He didn’t reply. They raised their hands in farewell as the coach rocked away down the drive. “That was neatly done-you must tell Mama. She was always at a loss to save herself.”

“It was an act of desperation.” Francesca continued to smile and wave. “You should have warned me.”

“There is no way adequately to warn anyone of Lady Gilmartin and her brood.” An instant’s pause ensued, then Gyles murmured, “You didn’t think being my countess would be easy, did you?”

Francesca’s smile deepened into a real one. His tone was easy, easy enough to confuse with banter-underlying it ran his real question. Meeting his eyes, she let her smile soften. “Being your countess is quite pleasurable.”

One brow quirked. “Pleasurable?”

He was not holding her, yet she felt held. His eyes searched hers, then steadied. “That wasn’t what I asked.”

His voice was a murmur, drifting past her ear.

“Wasn’t it?” She had to fight to keep her gaze from lowering to his lips.

Gyles studied her emerald eyes, wanting more yet not knowing how to ask for it. He had to try, to press her-

“My lord? Oh.”

He turned. Wallace stood by the door which he’d just hauled open. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry, my lord, but you wished to be informed when Gallagher arrived.”

“Very good-show him into the office. I’ll join him in a moment.”

He turned back to be met by a bright smile and a gesture suggesting they reenter the house.

Francesca led the way into the hall. “Gallagher?”

“My foreman.” Gyles glanced at her. The moment had passed. “There are various matters I need to discuss with him.”

“Of course.” Her smile was a mask. “I must have a word with Irving.” She hesitated, then added, “I suspect we’ll have a visit from Mr. Gilmartin tomorrow. I wish to tell Irving to deny me.”

Gyles met her gaze, then nodded. He turned away-then turned back. “If you encounter any problem-”

Her smile flashed. “I’m more than capable of managing a callow youth, my lord.” She turned toward the family parlor. “Worry not.”

Her words floated back to him. Gyles watched her walk away, and wondered just what it was he didn’t need to worry about.

The next day dawned as crisply beautiful as the last. Gyles spent the morning riding his lands, checking with his tenants, learning what needed attention before winter. He made sure he was back at the Castle in time for luncheon, in time to spend an hour with his wife.

“It’s such a glorious day!” She took her seat at his right-they’d agreed to dispense with the tradition that decreed they sit at either end of the table, too far apart to converse. “Jacobs told me about the track along the river. I followed it as far as the new bridge.” She smiled at him. “It looks very sturdy.”

“So I should hope.” The bill for the lumber doubtless lay waiting in his study. Gyles pushed such mundane thoughts from his mind and turned instead to enjoying the meal, and the company.

He didn’t charm her or tease her-for some reason, his usually ready tongue fell quiet in her presence. Light banter he could manage and did, but they were both aware it masked deeper feelings, the gloss over the undercurrents of their joint lives. She was more adept, more confident in this arena than he, so he let her steer the conversation, noting that she rarely let it stray to any topic that would touch too closely to them-to what lay between them.

“Mrs. Cantle said the plums are coming along wonderfully. Indeed, the orchard looks to be burgeoning.”

He listened while she reported all the little things he’d always known happened at the Castle. He’d known as a boy, but forgotten as a man. Now, seeing them through her eyes, having her bring them once more to his attention, whisked him back to childhood-and reminded him that simple pleasures didn’t cease to be as one grew older, not if one remembered to look, to see, to appreciate.

“I finally found Edwards and asked about the hedges in the Italian garden.”

Gyles’s lips twitched. “And did he reply?”

Edwards, the head gardener, was a dour Lancashireman who lived for his trees and took note of little else.

“He did-he agreed to trim them tomorrow.”

Gyles studied the twinkle in Francesca’s eye. “Did you threaten him with instant dismissal if he didn’t comply?”

“Of course not!” Her grin widened. “I merely pointed out that hedges were composed of little trees, and they were getting so scraggly… well, they might need to be pulled out if they weren’t clipped and given a new life.”

Gyles laughed.

Then the meal was over, and it was time for them to part, yet they both lingered at the table.

Francesca glanced through the window. “It’s so warm outside.” She looked at Gyles. “Are you going riding again?”

He grimaced and shook his head. “No. I have to deal with the accounts, or Gallagher will be floundering. I have to work out the prices I’ll accept for the harvest.”

“Is there much to do?”

He pushed back his chair. “Mostly checking and entering, then some arithmetic.”

She hesitated for only a heartbeat. “I could help, if you like. I used to help my parents with their accounts.”

He held her gaze but she could read nothing in his eyes. Then his lips compressed, and he shook his head and rose. “No. It’ll be easier if I do them.”

She plastered on a bright smile-too bright, too brittle. “Well!” Pushing away from the table, she rose and led the way from the room. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He hesitated, then followed her out.

If she wasn’t allowed to help with the estate’s affairs, she would go and talk with his mother. Who would probably wheedle the whole story from her and then commiserate, which would make her feel better and more able to shrug the incident aside.

It was early days yet; Lady Elizabeth and Henni had warned her she’d need to be patient.

Patience was not her strong suit.

“What a dolt! He hates arithmetic-always did,” was Henni’s opinion.

“Actually, I think it’s encouraging.” Lady Elizabeth looked at Francesca. “He thought about it, you say?”

“For all of one second.” Arms tightly crossed, Francesca paced the Dower House parlor. The walk through the park had invigorated her, and awoken her mind to a different tack. When it came to contributing to their shared lives, she had numerous options, after all. “Tell me about the family. The Rawlingses.” Stopping by an armchair, she sank into it. “From all I gathered over the wedding, the clan, as it were, seems fragmented.”

Henni snorted. “Fractured’s more like it.” She considered then added, “Mind you, there’s no real reason that’s so. It just happened through the years.”

“People drift apart,” Lady Elizabeth said.

“If no effort is made to hold them together.”

Lady Elizabeth eyed her shrewdly. “Just what do you have in mind?”

“I’m not sure. I need to know more, first, but I am, after all, the…” She searched for the word. “Matriarch, am I not? If Gyles is the head of the family and I’m his countess, then it falls to me to draw the family together. Doesn’t it?”

“I can’t say I’ve ever heard it put so directly, but yes.” Henni nodded. “If you want to expend the effort, that is. I have to tell you it won’t be easy. The Rawlingses have always been a fiercely independent lot.”

Francesca studied Henni, then smiled. “The men, perhaps, and the women, too, to some degree. But women are wise enough to know what strength lies in banding together, no?”

Lady Elizabeth laughed. “My dear, if you’re willing to supply the energy, we’ll be happy to supply the knowledge. What say you, Henni?”

“Oh, I’m all for it,” Henni averred. “It’s just that I’ve spent years in the company of male Rawlingses, so the family’s disjunction seems normal. But you’re quite right. We’d all be better off if we knew each other better. Why, we barely know all the names!”

“No, indeed! Do you remember that dreadful Egbert Rawlings who married that little slip of a thing-what was her name?”

Francesca listened as Lady Elizabeth and Henni climbed about the family tree, pointing to this limb, then that.

“There’s a partial family tree in the old Bible in the library,” Lady Elizabeth said when, exhausted, they finally sat sipping tea. “Just the principal line but it’ll give you-and us-a place to start.”

“I’ll find it and make a copy.” Placing her empty cup on the tray, Francesca stood. “I’d better get back. It’s cold once the sun goes down.”

She kissed their cheeks and left them, knowing they’d spend the next hour speculating on all she hadn’t said. Setting that and the sprawling Rawlingses aside, she gave herself up to the simple pleasure of walking through the great park with the sun slanting through the trees, lighting drifts of leaves and sending the scent of autumn rising through the still air.

It was quiet and peaceful. Free, her mind wandered-to that other treed place she’d loved, the New Forest. From there, it was a hop and a skip to Rawlings Hall, to those living there. To Franni. Her own not-quite-happy state pricked and prodded, pushing her to consider how to reassure herself that Franni hadn’t been hurt by the events leading to her marriage.

The solution, when she thought of it, was so simple.

He saw her walking through the golden splendor of the trees, through his park, coming home to him. The urge to go to her, to meet her and draw her to him was so strong, he felt it like a tug.

She’d gone to the Dower House. He’d been pacing by the windows for the last half hour, knowing she’d return soon, knowing from which direction. He’d been trying to concentrate on his ledgers all afternoon, telling himself it would have been worse if he’d let her help. Yet she’d still inhabited his mind, flirting like a ghost in the dim corners, waiting to lure him into daydreams at the first lapse in his determination.

The ledgers were only half-done. He glanced at them, lying open on his desk.

Determination be damned-he had to get out. Stretch his legs, draw the crisp air into his lungs.

He passed Wallace in the hall. “If Gallagher calls, I’ve left the estimates on my desk.”

“Very good, sir.”

On the porch, he paused, searched-and spotted her climbing over the stile into the orchard. Descending the steps, he strode for the gap in the low stone wall that separated the Italian garden from the acre filled with old fruit trees. Most were laden with ripening fruit. The heady scents wreathed about him as he walked beneath the groaning branches.

The sun was low in the sky, its light golden. Francesca stood in one beam, surrounded by a nimbus of shimmering light. No angel but a goddess-an Aphrodite come to tame him. Her head was tilted back; she was looking up. He slowed, then realized she was talking to someone in a tree.

Edwards. Spotting his head gardener perched on a branch and wielding a saw, Gyles halted.

Francesca saw him-she glanced his way, then Edwards said something and she looked back at the tree.

Gyles walked nearer, but kept at Edwards’s back. If Francesca was working her wiles on the old codger, he didn’t want to be appealed to for help. Finding Edwards in the orchard was no surprise-the orchard contained trees. In all the years he’d been head gardener, getting him to acknowledge the existence of plant life smaller than a sapling had defeated Gyles, his mother, and even Wallace. If Francesca had any chance of succeeding, Gyles had no intention of queering her pitch.

He waited while she listened to a gruff explantion of why that particular limb in that particular tree needed to come off. Listened to her laugh, smile, cajole, and finally get Edwards’s grudging agreement to consider the state of the flower beds before the forecourt.

The flower beds before the forecourt were empty, had been for as long as Gyles could recall. They resembled miniature barrows, mounds covering the dead remains.

Gyles shifted, impatience growing as Edwards began another long ramble. Francesca glanced his way, then looked up at Edwards-a minute later, she smiled, waved to Edwards, and started toward him.

About time, said his mind. At last, said his senses.

“I’m sorry.” Smiling, she joined him. “He’s very long-winded.”

“I know. He relies on the fact to drive off anyone thinking to give him instructions.”

She looped her arm through his. “Have you finished inside?” She looked down, shaking leaves from her hem.

“I was just out for a walk, to get some air.” He hesitated. “Have you been to the folly?”

She lifted her head. “I didn’t know there was one.”

“Come. I’ll show you.”

He turned her toward the river, the man within ridiculously pleased to see her eyes light with the expectation of pleasure, with anticipation over spending time with him.

“Before I forget.” She glanced briefly at his face. “I wanted to ask if you would mind if I invited Charles and Ester, and Franni, too, for a visit?”

Francesca looked down as she descended the steps to a flagged walk above the river, grateful for the support of Gyles’s hand and the fact he was watching her steps, rather than her face.

“For how long?”

His tone suggested he didn’t really care.

“A week. Perhaps a little longer.”

It was the obvious solution to her worry over Franni. She would write to Charles and insist he read her invitation to Franni. She would make it clear that if Franni didn’t wish to come, she’d understand.

And she would. Franni had enjoyed traveling in the coach. The only reason she’d refuse another journey would be if she had indeed been upset by Gyles marrying Francesca, having imagined that he was interested in her.

“I thought I’d write tomorrow, then they could come up in a few weeks.”

Gyles considered, then nodded. “If you wish.”

He didn’t wish, but voicing his reasons for wanting to keep her to himself, keeping others at bay, was beyond him. And the last thing he wanted was to disturb the moment, having successfully escaped to spend some time alone with her, away from the house, away from his responsibilities, and hers, away from their servants and all other interested eyes.

Time alone with her had become precious.

“This way.” He turned her sharply, to where another path joined the one they’d been following.

“Good heavens! I would have walked right past and not known this path was here.”

“It was created like that. The folly’s hidden, very private.”

They descended a series of steps traversing the bluff. The stone steps were clear of leaves courtesy of the army of undergardeners, all more attuned to their noble employer’s wishes than Edwards. The path led to a wide ledge jutting out from the bluff, much closer to the river than the top of the bluff yet still well above the flood line.

The ledge was thickly grassed. Shrubs lined its edge, while closer to the wall of the towering bluff, trees grew and leaned out, casting their shade over the path and the folly at the path’s end. A solid structure built of the same grey stone as the castle, the folly filled the end of the ledge, stretching from the bluff wall to the drop to the river. It was not an open structure, but had windows and a proper door.

“It’s a garden room out in the gardens.” Francesca studied it as they approached along the path.

Gyles opened the door.

“Oh! How beautiful.” Stepping up to the polished floor, Francesca looked around, then was drawn to the windows. “What a magnificent view!”

“I’d forgotten,” Gyles murmured, closing the door. “I haven’t been here for years.”

Francesca glanced around at the comfortable furniture. “Well, someone comes here-it’s aired, and there’s not a speck of dust in sight.”

“Mrs. Cantle. She says the walk does her good.” Leaving Francesca by the windows, Gyles walked to where, beside a sofa, a tapestry frame stood, a piece of linen stretched on the hoop, silks dangling. “My mother used to spend a lot of time here.”

The tapestry stirred long-buried memories; Gyles eventually recognized it as the one his mother had been working on at the time of his father’s death. “It’s too far for her these days.”

And she wouldn’t come anyway-that he now understood. Francesca had asked if he’d ever watched his parents making love-he’d denied it. But he had seen them together once. He’d been playing on the ledge and had heard their voices. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, it had all been a jumble of sounds, so he’d crept closer and peeked in. They’d been here, on the sofa, in each other’s arms, kissing and murmuring. He hadn’t understood what they were doing, and it had interested him not at all. He’d gone back to playing and had given the incident no further thought.

His mother had loved his father deeply-he’d known that all along. Known the reason for her overwhelming sadness at his death, her withdrawal from the world at the time. He’d never questioned that love, never doubted its existence. But he’d forgotten just how strong love was-how enduring. How it held true through all the years.

Now he was here with Francesca. His wife.

A sound reached him; he turned and watched her open a window, pushing the halves wide. The back of the folly butted against the bluff, but its other walls were half window. A sill ran around the room at hip height, with windows set in panels reaching up, nearly to the ceiling.

Placing her hands on the wide sill, Francesca leaned out and looked down, then to either side. “The river’s so close you can hear it murmuring.”

“Can you?” Halting behind her, Gyles slid his arms around her and drew her back against him. She chuckled warmly and leaned back, tipped her head back. Gyles bent his head and set his lips to the curve of her throat. She shuddered delicately.

“The view is tantalizing.”

He murmured the words against her skin, then shifted his hands to cup her breasts. His teeth grazed the taut line of her throat, then lightly nipped.

She reached back, down, sliding her hands down his thighs. “It’s the ambiance,” she whispered. “I can feel it.”

It was his turn to chuckle; he knew precisely what she could feel. She pressed her head against his shoulder and her eyes found his, searched them, read them. He didn’t try to hide his desire, his need, what he wanted, that minute, from her.

Her lips curved, sirenlike, and she turned in his arms, turned to him.

Her hand touched his cheek as he bent his head. They kissed, and it was sweet. Addictive enough for them to take, and give, and take again.

They didn’t stop until they were breathless, both aching and wanting and eager. It was she who stepped back, drawing him with her, until her back met the ledge.

He arched a brow at her. “Here?”

She arched a brow back-pure challenge. “Here, my lord.”

She’d never pretended to an innocence she didn’t possess. He closed his hands about her waist and lifted her; she wriggled and got her balance. He lifted her skirts and pushed them back to her hips. She parted her thighs eagerly and he touched her, cupped her, lingeringly caressed her, then slid one long finger deeply into her.

“Oh!” She clutched his shoulder as her lids drooped in involuntary reaction.

He stroked, then reached deeper and she gasped.

“Don’t you dare,” she managed, but he only smiled. He stroked and probed until she was frantic. She was hot and wet; he delighted in the abandoned response of her body to his touch, to him.

Then she pushed his hand away and her fingers were at his waistband. He was fully erect, iron-hard, and very ready when her fingers found him and stroked, then closed. But they couldn’t afford to let her have her way with him. He drew her hand away, pressed her knees wide, and guided himself to her entrance.

He pressed in and she gasped, tightened, then eased and wriggled. He clamped her hips between his hands and pressed deeper, then deeper still. Her body welcomed him, slick, scalding hot, yielding. She laced her fingers behind his nape and leaned back, gripping his flanks with her thighs, tilting her hips to take him all, settling herself about him.

With one final thrust he seated himself fully, embedded within her lushness. Their eyes met; all laughter was gone. She lifted one hand, laid it along his cheek, and guided his lips to hers, offering them to him.

He took them, and her, and she urged him on. Desire, passion and need filled them, caught them in a net of pleasure and bound them together, linked them ever more deeply as their bodies searched for, and found, delight.

Experienced delight. As she shattered in his arms, Francesca inwardly smiled, and waited, feeling her body surrender, unfurl and soften, feeling him plunder even more deeply. Then, with a harsh cry, he joined her, and filled her with a warmth far more pervasive than the physical. Joy, happiness-intangible but priceless.

Together they clung, together they gloried. She gloried even more that he’d come to her outside of her bedchamber. There was no possibility this was a duty-driven exercise, not that she’d seriously imagined their nightly interludes were such, but the confirmation was comforting. Encouraging.

She stroked his hair, soft against her palm, listened to his breathing ease, felt his heart slow.

Felt ridiculously exposed-vulnerable beyond belief, even with his strength surrounding her.

But if that’s what it took, she was willing. More than willing to take the risk. She was committed to loving him and could not now draw back. Never would.

She’d crossed her Rubicon to put herself in his arms.