All About Passion

Chapter 16

“My lord, if I could have a moment of your time?”

Caught watching his wife, Gyles turned his head. Wallace had entered the breakfast parlor and stood by his side, a covered salver in one hand.

“Her ladyship’s, too.” Wallace directed a bow down the table.

The morning of the Festival had dawned misty but fine. The sun shone benignly on all those scurrying about the Castle grounds, setting up trestles and boards. Most of the staff were outside; only Irving and one footman were attending them. Wallace caught Irving’s eye; Irving directed the footman to the door, then followed, closing the door behind him.

“What is it?”

“One of the maids was instructed to fill the vase on the stair landing with autumn branches, my lord. To brighten up the spot for the Festival. When she tried to insert the branches, she encountered some difficulty. When she investigated, she discovered…”- Wallace lifted the cover of the salver-“this.”

Gyles stared at a crumpled scrap of green, sodden and darkened. He knew what it was before his fingers touched it. He lifted the fragments. The bedraggled feather, shredded of its fronds, hung limply.

Francesca stared. “My riding cap.”

“Indeed, ma’am. Millie mentioned to Mrs. Cantle that it was not in your room. Mrs. Cantle told the maids to keep an eye out in case it was elsewhere about the house. When Lizzie found it, she brought it straight to Mrs. Cantle.”

Gyles turned the remains of the cap in his fingers. “It’s been destroyed.”

“So it appears, my lord.”

Francesca gestured. “Let me see.”

Gyles dropped the wet scrap back onto the salver. Wallace took it to Francesa. Gyles watched her pick it up, spread it in her hands. The material had been ripped, the feather broken and stripped.

She shook her head. “Who… Why?”

“Indeed.” Gyles heard the steel in his voice. He glanced at Wallace. His majordomo met his gaze, his expression impassive. Wallace knew no more than he.

Francesca’s expression cleared. She dropped the cap on the salver. “It must have been an accident. Get rid of it, Wallace. We’ve more pressing matters to deal with today.”

Replacing the salver’s cover, Wallace glanced at Gyles.

Lips thinning, he looked at his wife. “Francesca-”

The door opened; Irving entered. “I’m sorry to interrupt, my lord, but Harris has arrived with the ale. You wished to be informed.” He bowed to Francesca. “And Mrs. Cantle asked me to tell you, my lady, that Mrs. Duckett has arrived with her pasties.”

“Thank you, Irving.” Laying aside her napkin, Francesca rose. She flicked a hand at the salver. “Dispose of it, please, Wallace.”

She glided up the table, heading for the door. Gyles reached out and shackled her wrist. “Francesca-”

“It’s nothing but a ruined cap.” Leaning closer, she twined her fingers with his and squeezed lightly. “Let be. We’ve so much to do, and I do so want everything to be perfect.”

There was a plea in her eyes. Gyles knew how much she’d invested in the Festival, how much she needed the day to be a success. He held her gaze. “We’ll talk about it later.”

She smiled gloriously and slipped from his hold.

He rose and followed her-into the chaos of the day.

He followed her for most of the day, not on her heels, but she was rarely out of his sight. The more he considered her shredded cap, the less he liked it. He’d never played host at the Harvest Festival yet the role was second nature. He strolled the lawns, greeting his tenants and their families, stopping to chat with those who leased the village shops. He passed his mother and Henni doing likewise, then went down to the archery butts to check on Horace.

While there, he presented the prizes thus far won, promising to escort his countess thither to bestow the major prizes later on. Leaving the butts, he watched Francesca chatting animatedly with Gallagher’s wife.

Informality was the order of the day. Today was the day when the lord and lady rubbed shoulders with their tenants, meeting them man to man, woman to woman. It was not a challenge every gently reared lady met well, but Francesca was enjoying it. Her hands danced as she talked; her eyes sparkled. Her face was alive with interest, her expression focused. Gyles wondered what topic she found so engaging, then she looked down and smiled. He shifted and saw Sally’s youngest child clinging to the front of her skirt.

The little girl was fascinated by Francesca; smiling, Francesca bent down to talk to her.

In a walking dress in green-and-ivory stripes, Francesca was easy to spot among the crowd. As she laughed, straightened, and parted from Sally, others stepped forward to claim her attention. Gyles would have liked to claim it for himself; instead, he turned to greet the blacksmith.

Only those connected with the estate were present. Gyles didn’t, therefore, need to watch for Lancelot Gilmartin and his theatrical posturings. He did, however, wonder if Lancelot was in any way connected with Francesca’s ruined cap.

Finally, Francesca was free. Gyles caught her hand, linked her arm with his.

She smiled up at him. “Everything’s going perfectly.”

“With you, Wallace, Irving, Cantle, Mama, and Henni supervising, I don’t see how anything could go otherwise.”

“You’re doing your part admirably, too.”

Gyles humphed. “Has Lancelot Gilmartin called since our excursion to the Barrows?”

“No-not since then.”

Gyles stilled. “He’d called before?”

“Yes, but I’d instructed Irving to deny me, remember?”

Gyles drew her on; those waiting their turn with her could wait a moment longer. “Could Lancelot have had anything to do with your ruined cap?”

“How? The cap was in my room.”

“You thought it was in your room, but you might have left it somewhere. The Castle may be fully staffed, but it’s so huge it’s easy for someone to slip in undetected.”

Francesca shook her head. “I can’t imagine it. He might have been angry, but attacking my cap seems such a silly-”

“Childish thing to do. Precisely why I thought of Lancelot.”

“I think you’re making too much of the incident.”

“I don’t think you’re taking it seriously enough. But if not Lancelot…”

Gyles halted; Francesca glanced at him, then followed his gaze. He was looking at the pit where a whole ox was roasting under Ferdinand’s exacting eye.

“It makes even less sense to suspect Ferdinand. He’s not the least bit angry with me-or you.”

Gyles glanced at her. “He wasn’t annoyed that you weren’t receptive to his impassioned pleas?”

“He’s Italian-all his pleas are impassioned.” She shook Gyles’s arm. “You’re worrying over nothing.”

“Your riding cap-a favorite possession-was found deliberately ruined and hidden in a vase. Until I discover who did it, and why, I will not let the matter rest.”

She exhaled through her teeth. A farmer and his wife were tentatively approaching. “You’re so stubborn. It’s nothing.” Smiling brilliantly, she released Gyles’s arm.

“It’s very definitely not ‘nothing.’ “ Gyles nodded urbanely to the farmer and stepped forward to greet him.

They separated. Despite her intentions, Francesca found her thoughts returning to the mystery of her ruined cap. There had to be a simple explanation.

After fifteen minutes with a bevy of giggling housemaids, she was certain she’d found it. When Gyles came to escort her to the archery range, she smiled and took his arm. “I have it.”

“ ‘It’ what?”

“A sensible explanation for my cap.”

His gaze sharpened. “Well?”

“For a start, if someone wanted to ruin my cap to make me sorry-to pay me back for something I’d done or not done-then they wouldn’t have hidden it in that vase. It might not have been found for months, even years.”

Gyles frowned.

“But,” she continued, “what if I’d left it somewhere and it was accidentally damaged-say with furniture polish. Any maid would be horrified-she’d be certain she’d be dismissed even if you and I know that wouldn’t happen. What would a maid do? She couldn’t hide the cap and take it away-their dresses and aprons have no pockets. So she’d hide it where no one would find it.”

“It was mangled and pulled apart.”

“That might have happened when the maid tried to put the branches in the vase. I was just speaking with her. She said the cap was tangled in the ends of the branches when she pulled them out to see what the problem was.”

Francesca smiled as they neared the crowd gathered about the improvised archery range. “I think we should forget about my cap. It was only a scrap of velvet, after all. I can always get another.”

Gyles got no chance to reply; she slipped her hand from his arm and stepped forward to present the prizes for the men’s archery competition. He stood back; his mind continued to dwell on her cap.

A scrap of velvet and a flirting feather. It might have had little real worth, but despite her comments, it had been a favorite possession of hers. He’d grown fond of it himself.

Propping his shoulders against a tree, he watched her, careful to keep his expression easy, impassive. Her explanation was possible-he had to concede that. Other than Lancelot and Ferdinand, he could conceive of no one who might want to upset her. Even imagining such a thing of them was extrapolating wildly.

According to the staff, Lancelot had not been sighted on the estate since being warned to keep away, and despite her strictures, Ferdinand seemed as worshipful of Francesca as he’d ever been. Even more telling, while Lancelot or Ferdinand might be enamored of dramatic gestures enough to destroy the cap, they wouldn’t, as she’d pointed out, have hidden the result-where was the gesture in that?

So… the destruction of the cap was an unfortunate accident. All they could do was shrug and forget it.

That conclusion didn’t ease the tightness about his chest, nor the compulsion to remain watchful and alert.

Amid laughter and cheering, Francesca turned away from the archery butts. He stepped to her side. She smiled and allowed him to take her hand, set it on his sleeve. Allowed him to keep her with him for the rest of the day.

The Harvest Festival was a resounding success. When the sun sank low and the tenants finally rolled home, Francesca and Gyles joined their staff, helping to strike the trestles and return the perishables inside before the river mists spread through the park. Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace helped, too. When all was done, they stayed for supper-just soup followed by a cold collation.

Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace were driven home by Jacobs, and the entire household fell exhausted into bed.

It was midday the next day before things got back to normal.

Gyles and Francesca were seated at the luncheon table, serving themselves from the dishes Irving and a footmen offered, when Cook popped her head around the door, then sidled in. Francesca saw her and smiled.

Cook bobbed a curtsy. “I was just bringing this to Irving.” She held up a glass bottle with a silver top. “Your special dressing.”

Francesca’s eyes lit. “You found it!” She held out her hand.

Cook handed over the bottle. “It was stuck away on a shelf in the pantry. I came across it just this minute when I went to put some of the jam away.”

“Thank you.” Francesca smiled delightedly. Cook bobbed her head and retreated.

Gyles watched as Francesca shook the bottle vigorously, then sprinkled the liquid over her vegetables. “Here.” He held out a hand when she finished. “Let me try it.”

She handed the bottle over. It had a conical lid with a hole in the top.

“What’s in it?”

She picked up her knife and fork. “A mixture of olive oil and vinegar, with various herbs and seasonings.”

Gyles did as she’d done, dribbling the shaken liquid over his potatoes, carrots, and beans. He lowered his face and sniffed-he sat back.

He looked at the bottle, still clasped in his hand-looked at Francesca, raising a sliver of carrot to her lips-

He lunged over the table and grabbed her wrist. “Don’t eat that!”

Eyes wide, she stared at him.

He was looking at the piece of carrot speared on her fork; it gleamed with a light coating of dressing. He forced her hand down. “Put it down.”

She released the fork. It clattered on her plate.

“My lord?”

Irving was at his shoulder. Easing back, fingers still locked about Francesca’s wrist, Gyles held the bottle out to his butler. “Smell that.”

Irving took the bottle, sniffed. His eyes widened. He stared at the bottle. “Well, my word! Is that…?”

“Bitter almonds.” Gyles looked at Francesca. “Get Wallace in here. And Mrs. Cantle.”

Irving sent the footman hurrying off. He himself whisked the plates from before them.

Francesca was staring at the bottle. “Let me smell it.”

Irving gingerly brought it to her. She took it, sniffed, then met Gyles’s gaze. He raised a brow.

“It smells like bitter almonds.” She set the bottle down.

The door opened; Mrs. Cantle entered, followed by Wallace. “My lord?”

Gyles explained. The bottle was passed around. The verdict was unanimous-the dressing smelled of bitter almonds.

“I don’t understand how…” Wallace looked at Mrs. Cantle.

Her color high, the housekeeper faced Gyles. “The bottle went missing-it’s been gone at least a week. Cook found it just a few minutes ago.”

Gyles motioned to Irving. “Fetch Mrs. Doherty.” Irving left. Gyles turned to Mrs. Cantle. “Tell me about this dressing.”

“I asked if it could be made.” Francesca twisted her hand and gripped Gyles’s fingers. “It’s a habit I developed since coming to England-I find dishes here too bland…”

Cook arrived, pale and shaken. “I had no idea. I saw the bottle there and grabbed it, and brought it straightaway-I knew m’lady had been missing it this past week.”

“Who makes the dressing?” Gyles asked.

Mrs. Cantle and Cook exchanged glances. Mrs. Cantle answered. “Ferdinand, my lord. He knew what Lady Francesca was describing-he took great care-felt quite chuffed, he did-to be making it for her.”

“Ferdinand?”

Gyles looked at Francesca. He could see in her eyes her wish to deny all he was thinking.

Cook shuffled her feet. “If you don’t mind, m’lord, I’ll get rid of this wicked stuff.”

Gyles nodded. Cook picked up the bottle and left.

Wallace cleared his throat. “If you’ll pardon the comment, my lord, I would argue that Ferdinand is the least likely person to have used the dressing to poison Lady Francesca. He’s devoted to her ladyship, and despite his histrionics he’s been unfailingly good at his job; he’s ultimately done all we’ve asked of him. Ever since her ladyship arrived, he’s got on a great deal better with Cook, which was really the only odd kick in his gallop.”

Mrs. Cantle nodded in agreement. Gyles turned to find Irving nodding, too.

“And,” Wallace went on, “if Ferdinand wanted to poison anyone, he could do so, very easily and with a great deal less chance of being detected, by introducing poison into the more highly flavored dishes he prepares than by putting bitter almonds into her ladyship’s dressing.”

Gyles looked at them all. Given what he was feeling, it was difficult to incline his head and accept their argument. Eventually, he did so. “Very well. But then who put the poison in that bottle? Who has access to bitter almonds?”

Mrs. Cantle grimaced. “All you need is a kernal, my lord, and the trees are common-there’s three on the south lawn.”

Gyles stared at her.

A knock sounded on the door. Cook looked in. “Your pardon, m’lord, but I thought you’d want to know.” She came in, closed the door, then, drawing a deep breath, faced them all. “I was tipping the stuff down the drain when Ferdinand came up. He saw what I was doing and asked why. Well, he was about to fly into one of his Italian pelters, so I told him. He was shocked-well and truly shocked. Couldn’t say a word, at first. Then he said, ‘oh-but wait.’ Seems he used the last of an old bottle of almond oil-I do remember he hadn’t enough of the olive last time he made the dressing, and I told him where to find the almond. I use it in my sweet crusts, you see. And I remember him telling me he’d had to use the last bit.” Cook clasped her hands tightly. “So you see, it might have been the almond oil going bad that you all smelled.”

Gyles looked at Wallace, then at Mrs. Cantle. She nodded. “Could be.”

Gyles grimaced. “Bring the stuff back…”

Cook blanched. “Can’t, m’lord.” She wrung her hands. “I tipped it all down the drain and put the bottle to soak.”

Francesca was glad to spend the rest of the day quietly, catching up with the myriad decisions necessary to keep a house the size of Lambourn Castle functioning smoothly-decisions set aside while preparations for the Festival were under way. She and Wallace, Irving and Mrs. Cantle met late in the afternoon to make notes on what had worked well, and detail suggestions for next year. Gyles didn’t join them, but retired to the library; Francesca assumed he was sunk in his research.

She woke the next day to discover the sun shining weakly. She summoned Millie and dressed in her riding habit, mourning the loss of her cap but determined to let the matter lie. On reaching the breakfast parlor, she learned Gyles had already gone out riding, as she’d supposed. Finishing her toast, she headed for the stables.

“Aye-she’ll be eager for a run,” Jacobs said when she inquired after Regina. “I’ll have her saddled in a trice.”

He was as good as his word, leading the mare out and holding her steady while Francesca climbed into the saddle. She was settling her feet when she heard the clop of other hooves. Two grooms, mounted on two of Gyles’s hunters, ambled out of the stable.

She smiled, nodded, then, gathering Regina’s reins turned the mare toward the stable arch.

“The lads’ll hang back twenty yards or so, ma’am.”

Francesca halted. She blinked at Jacobs. “I’m sorry… I don’t understand.” She glanced past him to the grooms; they were clearly intending to follow her.

She looked back at Jacobs. The head stableman had flushed. “Master’s orders, ma’am.” He stepped closer so only she could hear. “He said as how you was not allowed out alone. If you wasn’t with him, I was to send two grooms with you.”

“Two?” Francesca forced her lips to relax. Whatever was going on wasn’t Jacobs’s fault. She glanced again at the grooms, then nodded. “As he wishes.”

With that, she tapped the mare’s side. Regina clattered out of the yard.

Francesca heard the grooms following. She’d intended to go up to the downs, to ride free and fast until she met Gyles. He’d be up there somewhere. They could have ridden together…

Frowning, she turned onto the track through the park.

She needed to think.

Gyles joined her at the luncheon table. Francesca smiled and chatted; he answered, but didn’t smile. Not that he frowned, but his eyes remained hooded, difficult to read. His expression said nothing at all.

With Irving and his minions constantly about, she had to bide her time. At the end of the meal, she would ask to speak with him-

“If you’ll excuse me, my dear, I’ve a lot to catch up with.”

Francesca stared as Gyles waved aside the fruit platter, dropped his napkin by his plate, and stood.

He nodded her way, his gaze touching her face briefly. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Before she could say a word, he walked from the room.

Francesca followed his broad shoulders, then set her knife down with a clack.

It was possible he truly was swamped with work. In the interests of domestic peace, Francesca called for her cloak and went out for a walk.

The clouds had closed in; the sun had disappeared. The leaves lay thick under the oaks, a dense carpet muffling her steps. The air beneath the bare branches was still and cool, waiting for winter.

She tried to decide if she was reading more into the day’s events than they warranted. Was she overreacting? In her heart, she didn’t think so. Logically, she wasn’t sure.

She’d followed a line parallel to the drive, under the trees-where was she going? With a sigh, she stopped. Going to the ramparts might distract her-she could see what sort of view there was on such a cloudy day. She swung around and stopped, staring at the two footmen who’d been ambling in her wake.

They halted. Warily waited.

Lips thinning, she started walking again. They bowed as she passed; she nodded and swept on-she didn’t trust herself to speak. If she opened her lips she would scream, but it wasn’t the footmen she wanted to scream at.

What did he think he was doing?

He was jealous, but it couldn’t be that. On what grounds could he excuse such draconian measures? He’d been bothered over her cap’s demise, but she’d explained that. And the ruckus over the odd smell in the dressing had simply been a mistake.

Reaching the ramparts, she stalked along. She could understand he might harbor some nebulous concern, but did he think she was so helpless he needed to treat her like a child? To be watched over by nursemaids? Two nursemaids?

Leaves crunched beneath her soles. At the point where the river curved, she halted, looking out over a landscape wreathed in gauzy mist. Her eyes saw; her brain did not.

She had a good mind to walk down to the folly and lock herself in-and wait until he came before she opened the door. Then he’d have to talk to her.

That, of course, was what was so irritating-the point that so exercised her temper. He was avoiding her because he didn’t wish to discuss this latest start. He’d decreed, and it was to be, regardless of what she thought or felt.

She gritted her teeth against a nearly overwhelming urge to shriek. Lips compressed, she swung on her heel and headed around the house, then on through the park.

She strode back from the Dower House two hours later. Lady Elizabeth and Henni had welcomed her with praise and congratulations over the success of the Festival and what they were calling the Great Plum Harvest. She’d had to smile, sip her tea, and listen. With barely a pause, they’d moved on to the family, showing her the additions they’d made to the copy of the family tree she’d left with them.

That had distracted her. She’d become absorbed with their explanations, the names, connections, recollections. They’d gone as far as they could. She’d rolled up the family tree with all its addendums and brought it away with her.

It would be up to her what she did with it next. She’d never been part of a large family; she was feeling her way, yet she could see the possibilities. The potential. Ideas, still amorphous, floated through her head but she couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t make any decision on such matters-not yet.

Not until she’d discovered what was going on in her marriage, and decided what to do about that.

Distracted by their own chatter, neither Lady Elizabeth nor Henni had noticed her initial abstraction. She’d left without mentioning her sudden, unwelcome uncertainties. She hadn’t asked why Gyles’s reasonable concern should suddenly erupt into such overprotectiveness. The answer was one she needed to learn for herself-the matter lay between him and her.

That overprotectiveness irked-the two footman crunching in her wake were a constant reminder. She felt caged, but it wasn’t that that hurt.

Gyles was avoiding her, refusing to reveal whatever the problem that had caused this reaction was.

He’d withdrawn from her, drawn back from her…

She paused and forced herself to take a breath.

She’d thought they’d drawn close, but he’d stepped away, turned away. Had she imagined it-all that had gone before? She’d been so certain he was close to loving her as she wished… and now this. In a matter of hours, he’d cut himself off from her and retreated to a formal, conventional distance. He’d put up walls against her.

She didn’t feel just caged, she felt shut out.

Drawing another breath, she set off again. The house stood amid its trees; she made for the front steps.

With every stride she took, her determination welled.

He’d said he would see her at dinner. Reaching the porch, she flung open the front door, strode into the hall and headed for the stairs.

She’d make sure he did.

Frustrated fury bubbled within her; she had to rein it in, had to wait. She swung into the gallery, making for the private wing.

A figure stepped out and bowed deeply. Ferdinand.

She halted before him. “Yes?”

“My lady.” He straightened. He was only just taller than she was. Despite his olive skin, he looked wan.

When he simply stared at her, looking tortured, Francesca frowned. “What is it?”

Ferdinand swallowed, then blurted out, “I would never have tried to harm you, my lady-you must believe that!” A torrent of Italian, impassioned and more, followed.

Conscious of the two footmen ten yards behind her, Francesca reached out, grasped Ferdinand’s sleeve, and shook hard. “Stop this! No one imagined you’d tried to harm me, or, indeed, done anything wrong.”

Ferdinand looked sceptical. “The master?”

Francesca caught his gaze. “If your master believed you harbored any intention to harm me, you would no longer be at Lambourn.” She could taste the truth in the words. “Now go back to your duties, and stop imagining anyone blames you.”

Ferdinand bowed low. Francesca walked on, her mind whirling. Gyles knew-accepted-that the dressing hadn’t been poisoned. So why had the incident acted as a catalyst for such change?

More questions only her husband could answer. Would answer-tonight.

She picked up her pace. The footmen didn’t follow her into the private wing. They weren’t needed there because there were already two footmen, one stationed at either end of the corridor, keeping watch over her rooms.

Teeth clenched, she flung open her door before either footman could reach it.

“Millie?” Her little maid jumped up from a straight-backed chair. Francesca closed the door. “I…” Haven’t rung for you yet. “What are you doing here?”

Millie bobbed. “Wallace said as how I should wait here, ma’am.”

Francesca stared. “When was this?”

“This afternoon, ma’am. After you went for your walk.” Millie came to take Francesca’s cloak.

“You’ve been up here, waiting, all afternoon?”

Millie shrugged; she shook out the cloak. “I had your things to tidy. Tomorrow, I’ll bring up the mending.”

Francesca watched her hang up the cloak, then turned away. “Call for water. I wish to bathe.”

A long soak in hot water did not improve her temper. It did, however, give her time to plan her strategy, organize her arguments, and rehearse what she would later say.

To her husband, face-to-face.

The sooner such an interview was brought about, the better. Wrapped in a silk robe, her hair curling wildly from the steam, Francesca waved Millie to the two large wardrobes that held her clothes. “Open them both-I wish to select a special gown for this evening.”

Gyles knew what he was facing the instant he set eyes on his wife that evening. He entered the family parlor with Irving on his heels. She looked up from the chair beside the fireplace, and smiled.

He stopped. Watched her while Irving announced that dinner was served.

She waited, patently expecting him to come nearer, to take her hand and raise her.

When he didn’t, she arched one brow.

He waved to the door. “Shall we?”

She met his gaze, then rose and came to him. One part of him wanted to turn, walk away-run away-and take refuge in his study. Most of him wanted-

He wrenched his gaze from the creamy expanse of her breasts exposed by the magnificent bronze-silk gown. The gown was simple; in it, she was stunning. He couldn’t stop his senses from drinking in the sight, from skating over her face, her hair, her lips.

He met her gaze briefly, then offered his arm. She placed her hand on his sleeve; soft and supple she glided beside him as they headed for the dining room-he felt as stiff as a board.

The meal provided a welcome diversion. He knew it wouldn’t last.

“The Festival went well, don’t you think?”

He inclined his head and nodded to a footman to serve him more beans. “Indeed.”

“Was there anything you noted, anything that might have been better done otherwise?” She gestured with her fork. “Any complaints?”

He met her gaze briefly. “No. None.”

He’d assumed the presence of Irving and the footmen would spike her guns temporarily; suddenly he wasn’t so sure.

As if she’d read his mind, she smiled, slipped a piece of pumpkin between her lips, and looked down.

Despite the determination he’d glimpsed in her eyes, she made no further reference to recent events, but asked instead about London. He appreciated her acquiescence to his wishes. He would have to speak with her-her dress declared her stance on that-but any such exchange would be at a time of his choosing and, most importantly, in her bedroom, a venue in which he could end all discussion whenever he wished.

“Have you heard from St. Ives?”

He answered briefly, revealing as little as possible. Lines would need to be drawn; he’d already drawn some but hadn’t yet decided where others would lie.

The meal ended. They rose and walked into the corridor. Pausing, she half turned and met his gaze.

He could feel her warmth, not just of her flesh but a deeper, womanly warmth, infinitely more tempting. The green of her eyes called him; the promise of her body showcased in bronze silk tugged at his senses. Drew him to her.

Her hand was rising to touch his arm when he stepped back.

Lids lowered, he inclined his head. “There’s much I have to attend to. I suggest you don’t wait up.”

He turned and strode for his study. He didn’t need to see her face.

Outwardly calm, Francesca retired to the family parlor. She sat by the fire for an hour, then Wallace pushed in the tea trolley. She allowed him to pour for her, then dismissed him. She sat beside the fire for another hour, then set aside her cup, rose, and went upstairs.

She changed, setting the bronze dress aside. Then she dismissed Millie.

In a fine silk nightgown beneath a peignoir of heavier silk, she stood by one window in the darkened room and gazed out at the moon-drenched night.

And waited.

Another hour passed before she heard the door to the room next to hers open, then close. She heard Gyles’s footsteps cross the floor. Heard him speak to Wallace.

She imagined Gyles undressing…

She turned her head, stared at the connecting door. Then she was crossing to it, reaching for the handle. If they were going to discuss anything, she wanted her husband fully clothed.

She flung open the door and walked through. “I wish to speak with you.”

Coatless, his cravat loose about his neck, Gyles paused, then he drew the linen free. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

She halted ten feet away, crossed her arms beneath her breasts, and looked him in the eye. “I see no reason to wait.”

Gyles took in the seething emotion in her eyes. He glanced down the room. Wallace was easing out of the door. Jaw setting, he looked at Francesca. “Very well.” His tones were clipped, cold. “What is it?”

Unwise words; her eyes flared. But the fact she reined her temper in left him even more uneasy. He’d seen her furious before; this time, she was burning with a cold flame-one to cut, rather than scorch.

“I am not a child.”

She enunciated the words clearly. His eyes on hers, he raised his brows, then let his gaze slide over her lush figure. “I wasn’t aware I had treated you-”

He shut up.

She laughed coldly. “Like an infant incapable of any degree of self-preservation? A lackwit unable to walk through the park without falling and causing herself some hurt? Or was it that you imagined I’d be attacked and ravished under the trees”-she flung out an arm-“there, in your own park?”

She wrapped her arms about her again, as if she was chilled by her own fury. Her eyes locked with his. “You have given orders that have made me a prisoner in this house-this house that is supposedly my home. Why?”

The simple question slipped under his guard and rocked him. He’d expected her to rail against his restrictions, not cut straight to his heart and ask why. He let seconds tick by, let his breathing slow, steeled himself before stating, “Because I wish it.”

She didn’t react-didn’t fling her hands to the sky and berate him. She studied him, her gaze steady and direct. Then, slowly, she shook her head. “That, my lord, is not answer enough.”

“It is, however, all the answer you will get.”

Again, she didn’t react as he expected. Her eyes widened; her gaze raced over his face, then she swung on her heel and walked back to her room.

The door closed, softly, behind her.

Gyles stared at the closed door. The coldness inside him deepened, intensified to pain. He’d thought he couldn’t get any colder; he’d been wrong about that, too.

He’d been wrong about so much.

So wrong in thinking that to love was a decision that was his to make. Yes, or no. It hadn’t been like that.

A sound at the main door made him glance that way. With a curt gesture, he waved Wallace away. He needed a few moments to get his armor back in place, to gird himself to suffer the cold. He’d felt fear before, but it had never been like this. Never this deep, this black, this icy. Every time she caused it to rise, it grew more powerful, more profound. He thought he’d vanquished it, or at least come of an age where he could manage it and triumph. The moment in the forest, replayed with greater intensity on the downs, had left him feeling victorious.

A hollow victory. If he was with her when danger threatened, all was well. He still felt the fear, but he wasn’t helpless against it, and he knew it. He’d proved it. He was who he was, in his prime; there were few dangers from which he couldn’t defend her. Protecting her encouraged the barbarian, fed his baser self.

But his true self had no armor against invisible foes, no ability to protect her from them.

Against all conscious direction, his true self had fallen deeply in love with his wife.

Dropping the cravat, he started loosening his cuffs. He’d felt the first chill touch when he’d lifted her mangled hat from Wallace’s salver. He’d tried not to notice, to pay it no heed, as if by doing so he could deny its existence. Then had come the incident of the dressing.

He been helpless to deny his fear. Ever since, it had ruled him.

Knowing that the dressing had not been poisoned made no difference; it changed nothing.

He was irrevocably in love with his wife. His world had come to revolve about her smile, and he could not face even the faintest possibility that she might be taken from him.

Wallace had returned. Gyles heard the quiet sounds of his valet-cum-majordomo hanging his discarded coat in the wardrobe.

The door to Francesca’s room opened. She came in, agitation flowing about her, whipping the skirts of her peignoir. Her hair looked wild, as if she’d run her hands through it.

Gyles flicked a glance at Wallace to see his majordomo sliding once more from the room. Inwardly bracing, he faced Francesca. “What now?”

Her face was pale. He didn’t want to meet her eyes, didn’t want to see the bruising in the green.

“Why are you doing this?”

Her voice was low, not sultry but shaking with suppressed emotion.

“Because I have to.”

“Why?” Francesca waited, her heart a leaden fist in her chest.

“Francesca…” Gyles sighed through his teeth, then he met her gaze, his eyes stormy, impossible to read. “You married me.” His voice was as low as hers but much harder, more forceful. “Even after that last meeting in the forest, you married me. You knew very well what you were marrying-you, of all women, knew that.”

“Yes. But I still don’t understand.” When he turned, she shifted so she could still see his face. She wasn’t going to retreat, to let him shut her out. Drawing in a strangled breath, she spread her arms wide. “What have I done to deserve this? Why are you treating me like a felon in your house?” That struck a nerve. He flicked her a sharp glance. “Yes,” she went on, “like a would-be thief, someone to be watched over at all times.”

“Everything here is yours-”

“No!” Her eyes clashed with his. “Everything here is not mine!”

Sudden silence enveloped them; they both stilled. Teetered on a precipice. Their gazes were locked. Neither breathed. She felt his will reach her, press her to draw back…

Into that stillness, with great deliberation, she let her words fall, “The one thing I want-the one thing I ever wanted from this marriage-is not mine.”

His face closed. He straightened. “I told you from the first what I would give you-have I reneged on anything I promised?”

“No. But I offered you more, more than we had bargained-and you took. Gladly.”

He couldn’t deny it. His jaw hardened but he said nothing.

“I’ve given you more than we spoke of. I’ve tried hard to be all you wanted in a wife-I’ve managed this house, acted as your hostess, done all I promised. And I’ve done more, given more, been more.”

She held his gaze, then more softly asked, “Now tell me, please-what have I done to deserve your distance?”

It was pointless to pretend he didn’t understand, that he didn’t know what she wanted, what she’d hoped. What she’d dreamed. Gyles held her darkened gaze and wished he could, but they’d gone too far for that. From the first they’d dealt directly, at a level of communication he’d shared with no one else, albeit a communication without words. They were attuned-aware of the other’s moods, of the subtleties in their thinking. She’d been transparent from the first. And he’d let her believe that she could see into his heart, into his soul, when in reality his heart was forever shielded and his soul was locked away where no one could reach.

For that-for all she had been and was-he owed her his honesty. “I never promised to love you.”

The emerald of her eyes darkened. She looked at him for a long moment, then, swallowing, she lifted her chin. “Love is not something one can promise.”

She turned and left him, the skirts of her peignoir trailing behind her.