All About Passion

Chapter 18

Two weeks later, Gyles stood by the side of Lady Matheson’s ballroom, reconsidering the madness that had made him bring Francesca to London. His need to protect her had forced his hand; she was safer here, away from the strange happenings at Lambourn, in a smaller, more secure house, yet her emergence into the ton had brought dangers of a different sort.

The sort that ate away his civilized facade and left his true self much too close to his surface.

“Gyles?”

He turned, smiled and bent to kiss Henni’s cheek. “I didn’t realize you’d be here.”

“Well of course we’re here, dear. The Mathesons are connections of Horace’s, don’t you remember?”

These days he thought of little beyond his wife.

“Where’s Francesca?” Henni looked inquiringly at him, obviously expecting him to know.

“Sitting with Her Grace of St. Ives.” He directed Henni’s gaze across the room.

“Ah. Thank you, dear. Incidentally, that was an excellent dinner the other night, and the little gathering the week before went very well, I thought.”

Gyles nodded. Henni left him, wending her way through the crowd toward Francesca. The dinner had been their first-Francesca’s first in London, his first as a married man. The anticipation had drawn them together, had had them working together even more closely than before.

It had been a triumph; the sharing had added an extra dimension. When Henni had labeled the dinner “excellent,” she hadn’t been referring to the quality of the dishes, although with Ferdinand seeking to please, that had been exceptional. It had been Francesca who’d sparkled and fascinated; he’d found it easy to enact the role of proud husband and do his part to carry the evening.

The small party they’d hosted the week before had been Francesca’s first foray into the wider arena of tonnish entertaining-that had been an outright success, too.

She was a success, and she was taking it in her stride. The support of his mother, Henni, and the Cynster ladies helped. He was grateful for their interest, but he knew very well to whom he owed the bulk of his gratitude.

He watched as Francesca, deep in a dramatic discussion with Honoria, looked up as Henni approached. Her smile-that glorious, heartwarming smile-wreathed her face, and she stood to kiss his aunt’s cheek. Then she turned back to Honoria, drawing Henni into their conversation.

Gyles couldn’t help a small smile. She threw herself into things wholeheartedly; she’d done the same with the ton, honestly intrigued, enjoying the offered entertainments. Her delight, not that of an innocent but a newcomer, had shown him his old, worn world in a new light.

Settling his shoulders against the wall, he continued to watch her, keeping watch over her.

On the chaise beside Honoria, Francesca was aware of her husband’s regard. She’d grown used to it; indeed, she found it comforting knowing that if anyone less than desirable approached her, he would be there, at her side, in a heartbeat. The ton was large, and while she now knew some of the right faces and names, there were many she didn’t know-and some of those she didn’t need to know.

One such was Lord Carnegie, but his lordship was too wise to approach-not yet. But she knew what he was, what he was thinking; every time his gaze touched her, she had to quell a shiver as if some slimy slithering thing had touched her bare arm. His lordship hove into view and bowed. Francesca pointedly looked away.

Honoria glared. “Disreputable popinjay!” She lowered her voice. “They say he killed his first wife, and two mistresses, too.”

Francesca pulled a face, then switched to a smile as Osbert Rawlings approached and bowed before them.

“Cousin Francesca.” Hand over his heart, Osbert shook her hand, then bowed and shook Honoria’s.

“Just saw Carnegie move off.” Osbert glanced back, then stepped closer. “Not a nice man.”

“No, indeed,” Honoria agreed. “I was just telling Francesca…” She gestured vaguely.

“Quite.” Osbert nodded, then decided Carnegie was too dark a subject for discussion in such company; the way his face suddenly lit made that clear. “I say! I’ve just been hearing about the latest production at the Theatre Royal.”

Osbert was never vague about anything to do with verbal performance. He kept them entertained for the next ten minutes with a vivid account of Mrs. Siddons’s latest triumph. Amused, Francesca listened, aware Gyles was watching, aware of what he would be thinking, yet despite his dismissiveness, he didn’t disapprove of Osbert.

Indeed, Osbert had become her cavalier. He attended the majority of functions they did and was always ready to put himself out to amuse and entertain her. If she ever needed an escort, and Gyles was not to hand, she would take Osbert’s arm without a qualm. And if she was starting to suspect that Osbert claimed her company at least in part as a defense against the mothers who still had him in their sights, she was happy to keep that suspicion to herself.

Osbert was too much of a dear to throw to the lions.

“Well, well-how the mighty have fallen.”

Gyles drew his gaze from his wife, and fastened it on Devil as he lounged beside him. “You can talk.”

Devil glanced across the room at Honoria, and shrugged. “It comes to us all.” He grinned wickedly. “Am I allowed to say ‘I told you so’?”

“No.”

“Still in denial, are we?”

“One can but try.”

“Give it up. It’s hopeless.”

“Not yet.”

Devil snorted. “So-what’s the real reason you’re standing here propping up the wall?”

Gyles made no attempt to answer.

Devil shot him a measuring glance. “Actually, I wanted to ask-what are the chances of your cousin Osbert inheriting these days?”

“Few and diminishing.”

“And when might those chances vanish?”

Gyles frowned. “Midsummer. Why?”

“Hmm-so you’ll be up for the Season?”

“I expect so.”

“Good.” Devil met Gyles’s gaze. “We’re going to need to push harder with those bills if we’re to succeed.”

Gyles nodded. He looked at their wives. “It’s occurred to me that we might be missing an opportunity to persuade some of our peers to our cause.”

Devil followed his gaze. “You think so?”

“Francesca understands the salient points as well as I.”

“So does Honoria.”

“Well, why not? While in town, they spend the better half of their days talking with the other wives. Why shouldn’t they steer the conversation-introduce the notion, plant seeds and nurture them-all in a good cause?”

After a moment, Devil grinned. “I’ll suggest it to Honoria.” Glancing at Gyles, he straightened, an unholy gleam in his eyes. “Of course, you realize that in making such a suggestion, you’re going to encourage Francesca to invest even more time in the social whirl.” With spurious concern, Devil frowned. “I’ll understand if you can’t bring yourself to do it-it must be frustrating, recently married as you are, to find your wife in such demand.”

Gyles scowled before he could stop himself, then scowled even more when Devil grinned devilishly and, with a salute, stepped out of reach.

He was not that transparent. Devil had been able to put his finger on the one sore point created by Francesca’s social success only because he’d felt, or perhaps still did feel, the same way. The social whirl of the ton had not been created to foster marriage. Weddings, yes, but not what came after. And it was that-the after-the-wedding stage-that now consumed him.

And Francesca. It wasn’t as if the difficulty was his alone, and for that, he was thankful. She, too, clung to the few hours they could spend together, in his library, comfortably reading, sometimes discussing, exchanging views-learning more about each other.

But as the ton discovered her, those private hours had shrunk. Then disappeared.

Her mornings were consumed with visits-at-homes, morning teas-usually in the company of his mother and Henni, Honoria, or one of the other ladies with whom she’d become friends. All right and proper.

She was rarely in for luncheon, but neither was he. While she spent her afternoons making further connections and strengthening those already made, he waded through the myriad administrative demands made by the estate, or met his friends at their clubs. He and she met again for dinner but never dined alone-they were now in constant demand as more and more hostesses discovered her.

After dinner, there were balls and parties to attend; they always returned home late. And if she still came to his arms eager and wanting, while they loved as passionately as ever, there yet remained a sense of deprivation, a lack.

He was an earl-he shouldn’t have to lack.

“A message from North Audley Street, ma’am.”

Francesca set aside her toast and lifted the folded note from Wallace’s salver. “Thank you.” Opening the note, she read it, then glanced at Gyles. “Your mama and Henni are both feeling under the weather, but they say I shouldn’t stop by to visit them. They say it’s just the sniffles.”

“No need to risk catching them, too.” Gyles looked at her over the top of that morning’s Gazette. “Does their indisposition affect your plans?”

“We were going to attend a morning tea with the Misses Berry, but I really don’t feel like going alone.”

“Indeed not. You’d be the youngest present by a decade.” Gyles laid aside the Gazette. “I have a suggestion.”

“Oh?” Francesca looked up.

“Come walking with me. There’s something I want to show you.”

She was intrigued. “Where?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

To Francesca’s astonishment, “there” proved to be Asprey, the jewelers, in Bond Street. The “something” was an emerald necklace.

The assistant snibbed the catch at her nape. Wonderingly, she raised a hand to touch the large, oval-cut emeralds that hung from the collar, itself made of oval-cut stones. Gyles had insisted she remain in her morning gown with its scooped neckline; she now understood why. The emeralds flared, green fire against her skin.

She shifted this way, then that, watching the light play in the stones, noting how her eyes deepened, as if reflecting the emerald’s fire. The necklace was neither too heavy nor too ornate. Neither was it so delicate that it risked being overwhelmed by her own dramatic coloring.

It could have been made just for her…

She looked past her own reflection and saw Gyles, behind her, exchange an approving glance with the old jeweler who’d come from the back of the shop to watch.

Francesca turned and caught Gyles’s hand. “You had this made for me?”

He looked down at her. “They had nothing quite right.” He held her gaze for a moment, then squeezed her fingers before sliding his hand free. “Leave it on.”

While he complimented the jeweler, the assistant helped her into her pelisse. Francesca buttoned it up to her throat. It was chilly outside, but that wasn’t the reason. She suspected the necklace would be worth a small fortune. Over the past weeks, she’d seen many jewels, but nothing of such simple, dramatic worth.

Gyles slid the necklace’s velvet case into his pocket, then collected her, and they left the shop. On the pavement, he noted her pelisse’s high collar and smiled. Taking her arm, he led her farther up the street.

“Where are we going now?” Francesca asked. They’d left the carriage in Piccadilly-in the opposite direction.

“Now you have the necklace, you need something to go with it.”

What he had in mind was a gown, another item created to his specifications. He’d commanded the services of one of the ton’s most exclusive modistes; Francesca stood before the long mirror in the private room off the Bruton Street salon; all she could do was stare.

The gown was simple, reserved in its lines, yet on her, it became a statement of sensual confidence. In heavy emerald silk, the bodice fitted her like a second skin, the triangular neckline neither high nor low, yet because of the gown’s fit, her breasts would draw all eyes-if it wasn’t for the necklace. Gown and necklace complemented each other perfectly, neither detracting from the other. From the raised waist, the silk fell sleekly, flaring over her hips into a stylish layered skirt.

Francesca stared at the lady in the mirror, watched her breasts rise and fall, watched the emeralds wink green fire. Her eyes appeared enormous, her hair a froth of black curls anchored atop her head.

She glanced at Gyles, sitting relaxed in an armchair to one side. He caught her gaze, then turned his head and said something in French to the modiste-Francesca didn’t catch it. The modiste slipped out, closing the door.

Gyles rose; he came to stand behind her. He looked at her reflection. “Do you like it?”

His gaze roamed over her. Francesca considered her answer, considered what she could see in his face, unmasked in that instant.

“The gown, the necklace.” She held out her arms, palms up. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

For what he’d allowed her to become. He’d made her his countess in name and in fact. She was now his. His to bejewel, his to gown. His.

She’d wanted that, dreamed of it, accepted it. She’d prayed he would, too. She turned her head, laid a hand along his cheek, and guided his lips to hers. His hands, warm through the silk, closed about her waist as their lips met, brushed, then settled. But only for a heartbeat.

The sudden rush of heat, of desire, had them both reining quickly back. Their eyes met; their lips curved in identical, knowing smiles.

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 him 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.

With her hands on his thighs, balanced before him, she felt like a prize, one he’d won.

As she watched, his face hardened. His hands closed about her waist.

She lifted her arms, reached back, up, to rest her hands on his shoulders. His lips curved as he bent his head and touched his lips to her temple.

His hands closed about her breasts. She gasped and arched more definitely. He kneaded knowingly, avoiding the tight peaks, then his hands drifted, wandered, curving over her hips, over her stomach. His touch was not gentle but possessive, a conqueror mapping his domain.

Watching from beneath her lashes, she deliberately shifted against him, rolling her hips against his thighs, wordlessly taunting.

He reached out, grasped the back of a nearby chair, and swung it to stand with the seat beside her.

“Take off your stockings.”

For me. The words were unsaid; their meaning hung in the air. Without hesitation, she rebalanced, kicked off her slippers, then bent one knee and placed her foot on the seat. And gave all her attention to performing the simple act of sliding her garter down her leg, then removing her silk stocking. She let her hands linger, smoothing over the sleek curves of her leg as she eased the stocking down. Then she shook out the wisp of silk, draped it over the chair back, and repeated the exercise.

Every iota of his concentration was locked on her, on her legs, on each deliberately sensuous movement of her arms and hands. She knew without looking; she could feel his desire like a warm weight on her skin.

Finally, it was done; she pushed the chair away, then straightened, leaned back against him, against his chest, against his thighs-and met his gaze in the mirror.

His face was set, the stamp of passion naked upon it. His chest swelled, then he lifted his hands to the ribbons anchoring her chemise. Two tugs and the ribbons slithered free; he stripped the chemise from her in a single stroke.

And she stood naked before him, breasts high and peaked, full and lightly rosy, her stomach taut, the curves of her hips and thighs creating a frame for the dark curls that drew his eyes. Francesca savored the moment, drank in the blank lust that, for one instant, dominated his expression, then she turned and surprised him.

He blinked, looking over her head at the reflection in the mirror. It distracted him long enough for her to unbutton his shirt and slip free the hooks at his waistband.

He glanced down as she pressed her palms to his chest, then slid them outward, spreading the shirt wide. He reached for her; she quickly whipped the shirt back over his shoulders, trapping his arms.

“It’s hardly any fun if I’m the only one naked.”

His gaze fixed on the mirror. “I’m not sure about that.”

She left his arms trapped and concentrated on easing his breeches down, avoiding touching his rampant erection. While she bent and dealt with the closures below his knees, he watched, unlacing his cuffs as he did. She felt his gaze; she would have only one chance to seize the initiative and push their interaction in the direction she wished.

Crouching, she drew down both breeches and hose; he freed one foot, then the other, then flung his shirt aside-

She went to her knees before him, sank her fingers into the backs of his thighs, then smiled, wickedly, up at him.

Gyles read her intention in her eyes. He scrambled to protest, to say “No!” but the word lodged in his suddenly dry throat. Her smile deepened; her lashes lowered. Knees between his feet, she rose, leaned closer. The silken caress of her hair, swinging forward to brush his taut thighs, distracted him. He glanced at the mirror, caught his breath at the sight, then watched as her head bent.

He felt the touch of her breath like a brand on that most sensitive part of his body. Then her lips touched, kissed, lingered teasingly, then they parted and she took him into the hot haven of her mouth.

His eyes closed, his spine tensed, then tensed again as she caressed him. His fingers found her head, speared through the lush locks to close about her skull. He cracked open his lids, stared into the mirror, watched her shift and press closer, then he saw her take him deeper. The heat in his loins exploded; his eyes closed. He heard a moan.

So did Francesca. The sound delighted her. She’d wanted to do this for weeks, but while he’d allowed her to caress him thus, he invariably cut short the moment. Not this time. She was determined to do it her way, to take her time and give him all he deserved. To take him, possess him, as she wished. The constrast of strength and exquisite softness had always fascinated her; his body was so strong, so invincible, yet this one part was so sensitive.

With her hands locked about the backs of his thighs, fingers sunk deep, with her on her knees before him, her mouth locked about him, he couldn’t easily break free.

She gave herself up to the moment, to her task, aware that every second of her devotions drained his resolve and made it less likely that he’d interfere. This time, it was he who would have to endure, to let his senses dance to her command, to let her brand him with her loving.

The salty tang of him filled her senses. Releasing one thigh, she cradled the tight balls in their pouches, then stroked the base of his shaft.

Felt his reaction. Felt the tension coil, felt him lock his spine, felt his hands close hard about her head, holding her still…

“Enough!”

She heard the hoarse command; releasing him, she looked up.

He brushed her hands aside, swooped, locked his hands about her waist, and lifted her. Lifted her high-she grabbed his arms for balance-then he swung her to him.

She locked her legs about his hips. In the same instant, he entered her. Hands locked about her waist, he steadied her and thrust in, deeper, then deeper still. She tightened her legs and pressed closer, pressed down, until their bodies were locked, fused, joined.

They were both gasping.

Running her hands over his shoulders, she wound her arms about his neck, hauled his face to hers, and kissed him. He kissed her back-ravaging and voracious. She met every challenge and hurled it back, took as much as she gave. Using her legs for leverage, she eased up upon him, then slid down. Hands spread, curved around her bottom, he supported and guided her. Used her body as she used his, pressing pleasure on her, taking it in.

Their joining became, not a battle of wills, but a battle of hearts-who could take more, give more. There was no answer. No winner, no loser. Just them, together, wrapped in sensual pleasure.

Held by a sensual need only the other could fulfill.

Time suspended as they let their bodies couple unrestrained. Their eyes met in heated glances, lips met in heated kisses while their bodies met in growing urgency.

It wasn’t enough, not for either of them. Gyles carried her to the bed.

“Don’t you dare lay me down.” It took all the breath she had to gasp the words.

The look he cast her was inexpressibly masculine. “Damn difficult woman,” he ground out. But he sat, then swung his legs up on the bed, then juggled her and came up on his knees. Spreading them wide, he settled her so she was still wrapped about him, her thighs riding his hips.

He met her eyes. “Satisfied?”

She smiled, closed her hands in his hair, and kissed him.

It was the same position in which they’d first made love, yet so much had changed since then. Not them, themselves, but what lay between them, the flame, the fire, the commitment, the devotion.

The acceptance.

As they continued to love and the lamps burned low, Francesca sensed the last barriers fade. Not only in him, but in her, too, until there was just them, together, facing the reality of what that truly meant. Coping with it.

Her gaze was locked with his when she finally crested the bright peak; as her lids lowered and fell, he joined her. They held still for a long minute, struggling to breathe, waiting for their whirling senses to slow, then she tightened her arms about his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. And felt his arms tighten about her, holding her to him.

She smiled. He was hers just as much as she was his.