All About Passion

Chapter 20

Charles, Ester, and Franni did not stay late. After seeing their guests to the door, Gyles and Francesca retreated to the library. As usual, Wallace had left the fire blazing. Francesca sank into an armchair with a contented sigh.

“That went well, I thought.”

Gyles glanced at her but made no reply. He looked at his desk, then back at her, then crossed to the chaise. Sitting, he stretched out his legs. “Charles seemed very grateful. Was there some reason for that?”

He’d noticed the shared glances, the satisfied looks.

“Franni’s been pestering them to visit here.”

“I see.” Gyles watched Francesca. Staring at the flames, she idly twirled one black curl. He let a moment pass, then asked, “Tell me about Franni.”

Francesca looked at him. “Franni?”

“She’s…” Gyles struggled to find a word that conveyed the reality. “Odd.”

The way Franni’s eyes had gleamed when he’d spoken to her, the way her fingers had fluttered when he’d taken her hand, the way she’d pressed too close as he’d escorted her and Ester to the table-all these were indelibly imprinted on his mind. Throughout, she’d watched him like a hawk, but a cagey hawk-whenever one of the others had glanced her way, she’d been staring at something else.

He’d felt hunted, and felt ridiculous for it. Franni was precisely the cipher he’d first thought her, only more disturbed. Weak and ineffectual, she was a nonentity-certainly no threat. Nevertheless, he’d clung to Francesca’s side as much as possible.

But Franni had caught him when they were leaving. The intensity of her regard, the light in her pale blue eyes, had sent a shiver down his spine. Luckily, Ester had noticed and rescued him, giving him a small, helpless smile. As if asking for understanding, forgiveness.

Gyles frowned. “Franni’s not normal. What’s wrong with her?”

Francesca sighed; she looked into the flames. “I don’t know-I’ve never known. She’s been like that, a bit better, a bit worse, since I met her. I’ve always thought of her as childish, and while that fits in some ways, she’s quite forward in others.”

She glanced at Gyles. “Neither Charles nor Ester ever said, but I gather her condition has something to do with her mother’s death. She died when Franni was very young. I heard from the servants that she-Franni’s mother-threw herself from the tower. It’s been boarded up ever since. I wondered if Franni had witnessed it, and if it had turned her mind in some way.”

Gyles looked into the heart of the fire, staring at the leaping flames. He knew what effect witnessing a parent’s violent death could have on a child. He could imagine all sorts of reactions, could still feel the roil of remembered emotion about his own heart. Yet in all that he couldn’t see what emotional reaction could explain all he’d sensed in Franni.

He glanced at Francesca and found her watching him. “Enough of our guests.” He sat up. A muted crackle reminded him; he reached into his coat pocket. “I forgot to give this back to you.”

He held out her annotated copy of the family tree.

She took it. “Did you find what you wanted?”

“Yes.” He’d spent the hour before dinner making his own copy. “You and your helpers are to be commended-you’ve done an excellent job.”

Francesca hesitated, then lifted her eyes to Gyles’s face. “I’ve been meaning to ask, apropos of this.” She lifted the paper. “The reason we did it was to get an idea of the extent of the family. I wondered… would you be agreeable to us hosting a party? Just for the family, a few close friends and connections. Maybe some dancing, but more an evening to mingle and chat, to get to know each other better.”

He held her gaze. “The year’s almost done.”

“It would be an informal affair. I thought perhaps late next week?”

Gyles read her wish in her eyes and saw no reason to deny her. He suspected she’d get few acceptances, given the season, given the family, but if, as his countess, she wished to play the matriarch… ”Thursday?”

She smiled her wonderful, heart-stopping smile. “Thursday. Your mother and Henni will help with the invitations.”

He drank in her smile, then let his gaze drift down, over her slenderness to the slight bulge below her waist. It was barely visible, even when she was naked, yet when she lay beneath him and he joined with her, he could tell.

She carried his child-even if it was a girl, he didn’t care. Just thinking of it sent a surge of feelings through him, emotions he’d never felt before.

He lifted his gaze to her face, and knew his shields were down, that she could read him like a book. He no longer cared. “Come.” Rising, he held out his hand. “Let’s go upstairs.”

She smiled-a knowing, understanding smile-put her hand in his, and let him draw her to her feet. “As I recall, my lord, I need to teach you more Italian.”

Two days later, Gyles convened another meeting in a private room at White’s. Devil was there, as were Horace and Waring.

“It’s Walwyn.” Gyles closed the door and waved them to the chairs.

Devil sat. “Your heir once removed?”

Gyles nodded. “Walwyn Rawlings-a cousin some number of times removed. We share a great-grandfather.” Fishing his copy of the family tree from his pocket, he handed it to Devil.

Devil studied it, then frowned. “You’ll need to do something about this principal line-you were an only child, and your father was one of two. And the other was a female.”

“Never mind that. Go back to the next generation.”

“Eight. And before that another eight.” Devil’s frown deepened. “I see what you mean. Branches everywhere.”

Devil handed the paper to Horace. Horace squinted at it. “This is what Henni and your mother have been helping Francesca with.”

Gyles nodded. “And they received help from Lady Osbaldestone and others. I doubt we’d get anything more accurate.”

Horace passed the paper to Waring. “Seems clear enough. Osbert’s your heir, and after him, Walwyn. But why did you want to know that?”

Waring, likewise, looked up inquiringly.

Gyles told them.

“That’s… not comforting.” Horace looked deeply troubled.

“Indeed not.” Waring had taken notes. “It appears that the first attempt was on your life, but subsequently, once the possibility of an heir more definitely arose, the would-be murderer turned his sights on Lady Francesca.”

“Blackguard!” Horace thumped the table. “But it would make sense, I suppose, to remove her first.”

“Indeed.” Gyles cut the thought off. “But now we’re alerted and she’s well guarded, we need to focus on laying this would-be murderer by the heels.”

Devil sat up. “So what do we know of Walwyn Rawlings?”

“He must be about fifty,” Gyles said. “I can only recall meeting him once, about the time of my father’s death.”

Horace nodded. “I remember. He was the black sheep no one wanted to acknowledge, a thoroughly disreputable sort. He’d been shipped off to the Indies. The family thought they’d seen the last of him, but like a bad penny, Walwyn turned up just after your father died.” Consulting the family tree, Horace pointed. “His father, old Gisborne, was still alive then-he sent Walwyn to the right-about. Gisborne sent me a letter warning me to have no truck with Walwyn, that he wasn’t to be trusted.”

Waring wrote steadily. “This Walwyn seems a more likely villain than Mr. Osbert Rawlings, I must say. Do we have a description of Walwyn, any idea where he might be found? Is he married?”

Horace snorted. “Unlikely. According to Gisborne, tavern wenches were more Walwyn’s style.”

“Walwyn,” Gyles said, “used to hobnob with those on the fringes of society. He developed a penchant for the company of sailors and, last I heard, he was living above some tavern in Wapping.”

“Wapping.” The fastidious look on Waring’s face elucidated his opinion on that.

The thought that the earldom and Lambourn Castle were a considerable step up from a tavern in Wapping resonated in all their minds.

“With your permission, my lord, I’ll set some men onto locating Mr. Walwyn Rawlings immediately.”

Gyles nodded. “And while you’re scouring Wapping and the docks, we”-his gaze took in Devil and Horace-“had better scout out nearer pastures. If he so chose, Walwyn could, I suspect, still pass for a gentleman.”

“Hmm-while helping Gabriel earlier in the year, I had reason to chat with the owners of the major shipping lines. If Walwyn’s haunting shipping, then he might have come to their attention.” Devil cocked a brow at Gyles. “I could ask if they’d heard of him.”

“Do.” After a moment, Gyles said, “I’ll place a notice in whatever handbills circulate on the docks. There’s no reason we can’t ask outright for information on Walwyn’s whereabouts, not in that quarter. The offer of a reward might locate him faster than anything else.”

“Good idea.”

Waring nodded. “I’ll have my men look for suitable handbills.”

“Think I’ll visit some of the older Rawlingses,” Horace said. “Long-lived folks. It’s possible they may have heard something about Walwyn.”

“So we’ve all got something to do.” Gyles rose. Devil did, too.

Frowning, Horace lumbered to his feet. “But, I say, no need to tell the ladies, what? It’ll only frighten them.”

Gyles and Devil looked at Horace, then exchanged a glance.

“As Francesca’s already under constant guard, and she’s aware of a possible threat, there seems little point in belaboring the matter and raising what might be an unnecessary fuss.” Gyles glanced at Waring. “I think, for the moment, all inquiries should remain confidential.”

“Indeed, my lord.”

“Indeed.” Horace turned to the door. “No need for the Rawlingses to provide the ton with the last scandal of the year. Aside from anything else, our ladies wouldn’t thank us for that.”

“Chillingworth.”

Gyles halted and turned. He’d left Devil with friends in the gaming room but had yet to quit White’s; he’d been strolling absentmindedly toward the door. He hadn’t recognized the voice that had hailed him, and had to dredge his memory to locate the name of the portly gentleman stumping his way.

Lord Carsden eventually halted before him; leaning on his cane, he looked up at him from under scraggy brows. “Hear you, St. Ives, Kingsley and some others are thinking of proposing a few amendments in the spring session.”

Gyles nodded, his mind racing. Carsden rarely concerned himself with politics, but he did have a vote.

“Mind if I inquire what the substance of your amendments might be? I’ve heard they might be worth supporting.”

Hiding his surprise, Gyles waved to an anteroom. “I’ll be happy to explain.”

He led the way into the room, and was immediately collared by Lord Malmsey.

“Just the fellow I was after,” his lordship declared. “Heard a whisper there’s some amendments in the wind that perhaps I ought to take note of, what?”

Gyles ended holding court to four peers, all with a newfound interest in the political sphere. He outlined the basics of what their group intended to propose; all four gentlemen frowned, nodded, and, ultimately, stated their interest in supporting the cause.

None mentioned who had activated their heretofore dormant political consciences and steered them in the group’s direction; Gyles was too wise to ask. But when he reached home later that afternoon and headed upstairs to dress for the evening, he paused outside Francesca’s door.

He hesitated, then tapped.

Light footsteps approached. The door opened, and Millie looked out.

Her eyes grew round when she saw him.

Gyles put his finger to his lips, then beckoned her out. She stepped over the threshold; he put out a hand to stop her closing the door. With his other hand, he gestured down the corridor. “I wish to speak with your mistress-she’ll ring when she needs you.”

The little maid looked scandalized. “But, m’lord-she’s in her bath.”

Gyles looked down at her. “I know.” It was where Francesca usually was at this time of day, relaxing prior to donning her evening gown.

“Off you go.” He waved Millie away.

Looking positively horrified, the maid backed, then turned tail and went.

Gyles grinned and slipped through the door.

A hip bath stood on a rug facing the fire; Francesca, black curls piled high on her head, was sitting facing the flames. Wisps of steam rose, wreathing about her as she smoothed a soapy sponge down one gracefully extended arm while softly crooning what sounded like an Italian lullaby. Gyles listened for a moment, then closed the door.

“Who was it, Millie?”

He strolled forward. “Not Millie.”

She tipped her head back against the rim and watched as he neared. Smiled delightedly. “Good evening, my lord. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

He halted by the bath’s side and smiled down at her. Let his gaze roam the curves of her breasts, sheening wet and laced with suds. “I believe my pleasure is rather greater than yours.”

She arched a brow; he reached for her hand, lifted it, bent and pressed a kiss to her wet knuckles, then turned her hand and ran his tongue over her palm, then sucked lightly at the pulse point at her wrist.

He raised his head reluctantly. “You taste good enough to eat.”

Their gazes met, held; she raised both brows in question. After a moment, he smiled, squeezed her hand and released it. “We have to be at the Godsleys by eight.”

Drawing up a chair, he sat. “I wanted to ask if you’re acquainted with Lady Carsden.”

Francesca nodded. “We meet quite frequently. She moves in the same circles.”

“And Lady Mitchell?”

“Indeed, but Honoria knows her better than I.” Drawing her knees up, wrapping her arms about them, she searched his face. “Have their husbands spoken to you?”

“Much to my amazement. I don’t think Mitchell or Carsden has been in the House since their investiture.”

Francesca grinned. “Well their wives felt it was time they said something-did something-useful. Will it help?”

“Every vote helps. But I wanted to ask-how many have you and Honoria spoken to? Do you have any idea which others might be inclined to support us?”

Eyes sparkling, Francesca leaned forward. “Well…”

They traded names and opinions; from there it was a short step to the overall numbers, the increasing possibilities of success. They lost track of the time, only remembered it when Francesca suddenly shivered and looked down at the cooling water.

Gyles frowned. “Damn-I forgot.” He stood. “I’ll ring for more hot water.”

“No-don’t bother. I was finished anyway.” She pointed at a towel.

Gyles turned to pick it up as she rose. He turned back-and stopped, his mind wiped clean.

Dropping her sponge in the water, Francesca straightened and looked up, instantly noted the stillness that had claimed him, his fixed gaze-the flames flickering behind the grey of his eyes. She let her gaze roam swiftly, then she smiled, reached for the towel, tugged it from his slack grasp.

Dropped it on the floor and reached out her arms to him.

“I’ll write to Lady Godsley that I was in fear of taking a chill. And now, my lord, you had better warm me up.”

Gyles met her gaze, then reached for her, locked his hands about her slender waist, and lifted her from the tub.

Five days later, their select band of searchers still hadn’t found Walwyn, hadn’t unearthed the slightest trace of him, which only made them even more wary, more suspicious. According to Walwyn’s sister’s husband, “the old reprobate” was definitely in London, but where and in what guise they had no idea.

Leaving yet another meeting at White’s, Gyles returned home in time to dress for dinner. Tonight was Francesca’s family party, her attempt to gather the clan. He hoped for her sake the family would rally and enough would attend for the event to be deemed a success. She, his mother, and Henni had had their heads together for the past week, organizing and ordering. Although Francesca had regaled him with their preparations, distracted by his search for Walwyn, Gyles hadn’t taken much in.

He did know tonight’s dinner was to be a small affair with, aside from Francesca, only his mother, Henni, and Horace present.

“There were simply too many to invite,” his mother told him when he joined them in the drawing room.

“Indeed.” Henni took up the tale as he moved to greet her. “Even restricting the list to the heads of the different branches-why, there were over fifty, plus spouses-and if we’d selected amongst them, well-that would have caused ructions, which is precisely what we’re attempting to heal.” She frowned up at him as he straightened. “You’re looking a trifle peaked, dear. Have you been busy with your parliamentary business?”

“Among other things.” Gyles turned as Francesca slipped her hand through his arm. He smiled. As she exchanged some comment with Henni, he took in her appearance.

Tonight, she’d chosen to wear old gold. Her gown was of lush silk in that deep, rich shade that invoked the idea of treasure, the silk shawl draped over her elbows a medley of subtly contrasting hues, all golds and soft browns. Her hair was piled high, artfully cascading to brush her shoulders, the black locks a dramatic contrast against her ivory skin. From her ears, gold earrings dangled; a simple gold chain encircled her throat. And in the midst of the gold, her eyes glowed, intense as any emerald.

She glanced at him.

“You look exquisite.” Gyles raised her hand to his lips, let his gaze touch hers.

“Dinner is served, my lord.”

As one they turned. Joined by Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace, they moved into the small dining room.

By eight-thirty that evening, Gyles was more distracted than he’d been all week. From his position beside Francesca at the top of the stairs leading down to their ballroom, he craned his neck, looking back along the row of guests waiting to greet them.

He couldn’t see the end of the line.

Francesca nudged him. He hauled his gaze back to the elderly lady waiting to speak with him. He took her wizened hand, racking his brain for her name.

“Cousin Helen has traveled up from Merton to be with us tonight.”

Gyles shot a grateful glance at Francesca, then murmured polite phrases to Cousin Helen, who then informed him, in a voice that would have done credit to a sergeant major, that she was deaf as a post.

Patting his hand, she moved on down the stairs. Gyles caught Francesca’s fleeting grin as she turned to greet their next guests.

There had to be three hundred of them-three hundred Rawlingses, plus an assortment of others. Gyles was relieved to welcome Devil and Honoria.

Honoria nodded regally, the twinkle in her eye telling him there was no point trying to hide his astonishment.

“I never imagined there would be this many.”

“You underestimated the power of curiosity-what lady in her right mind would turn down an invitation from your new countess?”

“I’ve never claimed to comprehend the minds of ladies.”

“Very wise.” Honoria cast a glance over the now teeming ballroom. “From what Devil told me of your family tree, there might well be more Rawlingses than Cynsters.”

Devil turned from Francesca in time to catch that; he looked around and nodded. “It’s possible.”

“Heaven forbid!” Gyles muttered sotto voce.

Honoria threw him a disapproving look; Devil grinned, then, sobering, caught Gyles’s eye. “Seems an excellent opportunity to further our recent activities.”

The thought had occurred to Gyles. Surely someone present would know where Walwyn was. “You start. I’ll join you when I’m free.”

Devil nodded.

“What activities?” Honoria asked.

“I told you we’re looking for supporters for our bills.” Devil steered her down to the ballroom’s floor.

Gyles turned to greet the next guests-cousins and connections even more distant, they’d all answered Francesca’s call with an alacrity he found both disarming and disconcerting. As if they’d been waiting for the opportunity to replace the distance developed over recent decades with a more cohesive framework, a stronger sense of shared purpose based on familial ties.

Quite aside from their number, that sense of togetherness distracted him.

The line was thinning when a typically tall and lanky male Rawlings, his face lined and weather-beaten, his clothes sober and unfashionable, approached, a tall, plainly dressed lady on his arm. The man smiled at Francesca and bowed stiffly, but it was the stiffness of disuse rather than haughtiness.

“Walwyn Rawlings, my dear.”

Francesca smiled and gave him her hand.

Gyles only just stopped himself from grabbing her and thrusting her behind him.

Walwyn continued, “Allow me to present my wife, Hettie. We married over a year ago, but I confess I’ve yet to spread the news through the family.” He nodded to Gyles, smiling pleasantly, then glanced at the throng in the ballroom. “It looks like tonight will do the job for me.”

“I’m so pleased you could join us.” Francesca smiled at Hettie and shook hands. “You live in Greenwich, I believe?”

“Yes.” Rising from her curtsy, Hettie glanced at Walwyn. Her voice was soft and sweet. “Walwyn’s the curator of the new museum there.”

Walwyn offered Gyles his hand. “Maritime stuff, you know.”

Gyles grasped Walwyn’s hand and shook it. “Indeed?”

They’d been wrong-on a number of counts. Gyles spent a few minutes chatting with Walwyn-enough to convince himself beyond reasonable doubt. Walwyn had nothing to do with the attacks on Francesca. The years of hard living had stripped Walwyn of any ability to dissemble-the man was as open as the day. And besotted with his wife. Gyles recognized the signs. Where neither his family nor society had held the power to reform Walwyn, love in the guise of gentle Hettie had triumphed.

Guilt-or was it fellow feeling?-prompted Gyles to beckon Osbert over. He introduced Walwyn and his wife and charged Osbert to take them about and introduce them to his mother and others of the clan.

Osbert was pleased to be of use. As he tucked his wife’s hand protectively in his arm, Walwyn caught Gyles’s eye and inclined his head, his gratitude plain to see.

Watching them go down the steps, Gyles inwardly shook his head. How foolish they’d been not to mention their search to their wives. A simple question to Francesca, Henni, or even Honoria would have got them a result a week ago.

“Gyles?”

He turned, smiled and greeted another Rawlings.

Beside him, Francesca smiled and charmed, inwardly amazed. Intrigued. She’d embarked on her plans to draw the Rawlings family together out of a sense of duty, a feeling that, as Gyles’s countess, it was what she should do. Now she’d succeeded, it was patently apparent that the evening was giving rise to something considerably more powerful and profound than social discourse.

The rush of family feeling, rediscovered for some, novel to others, including herself, was a tangible tide flowing through the room. A tide their guests dived into and contributed to with an eagerness that was itself a reward.

“Come. Let’s go down.”

The end of the long line had finally arrived. She glanced at Gyles, handsome as sin beside her. With a smile, she laid her hand on his sleeve; together they descended to join their guests-their family.

Some saw and turned; others followed suit. She saw their smiles, saw them raise their hands.

Had to blink back tears when spontaneous applause rolled through the room.

She smiled, graciously joyous, upon them all, then glanced at Gyles, and saw pride, undisguised, in his eyes.

They reached the ballroom floor and he lifted her hand, touched his lips to her fingers.

“They’re yours.” He held her gaze. “As am I.”

Others approached, and they had to turn aside. Later, with a shared glance and a nod, Gyles drifted from her side. But the triumph remained; it grew as the evening progressed precisely as she, Lady Elizabeth, and Henni had hoped, with a light and festive air.

Gyles moved through the crowd, chatting easily, receiving compliments innumerable on his exquisite wife. Eventually, he found Horace, then Devil, alerting them to Walwyn’s presence and his exoneration.

Devil grimaced. “So now the question is: if not Walwyn, then who?”

“Precisely.” Gyles looked around. “Try as I might, I cannot bring myself to believe that any here tonight wish either Francesca or me harm.”

“No sly glances, no hard looks?”

“Nary a one. Everyone seemed honestly pleased to meet us.”

Devil nodded. “I’ve been listening and watching, and I agree-I haven’t picked up the slightest sign of discontent, let alone malevolent intent.”

“That’s what’s missing. There’s not the smallest whiff of malignancy.”

Devil went to nod, then laughed and clapped Gyles on the shoulder. “We’re hardened cases. Here we are, put out because there’s no dragon present to vanquish.”

Gyles grinned. “True.” He glanced at Devil. “I suspect that, as far as tonight goes, we’d be wiser to set the problem aside and enjoy ourselves.”

Devil had found Honoria. She was watching them through the crowd. “And if we don’t, we’ll only bring an inquisition down on our heads.”

“There is that. We’ll meet tomorrow and see where we stand.”

They parted, Devil to cross the room to Honoria, Gyles to circulate until he found his way to Francesca’s side. He was standing beside her, conscious of pride and something more primal, when Charles, a late arrival, came to make his bow.

“Only me.” He smiled at Francesca. “This wouldn’t do for Franni, as you know, but I couldn’t miss the occasion.”

“I’m very glad you came.” Francesca pressed his hands. “Is Ester well?”

“Indeed-she’s sitting with Franni.”

“And Franni?”

Charles’s eyes dimmed. “She’s… well, it’s hard to say. Her behavior’s erratic… difficult.” He forced a smile. “But in general terms, yes, she’s well.”

A lady approached Francesca-with a last smile for Charles, she had to turn away.

Charles shifted to Gyles’s side. “This is a remarkable turnout. You must be pleased.”

“Indeed-Francesca’s worked wonders.”

“I always knew she would.”

“I do recall you being very certain of her abilities. For that, and your wise counsel last August, you have my undying gratitude.”

“Ah, well.” Charles looked at Francesca. “It seems to me the right choice was made all around.”

Gyles was sure he heard Fate chuckling.

Charles turned back to him. “You’ll understand if I don’t remain long. We’re returning to Hampshire the day after tomorrow, so tomorrow will be busy.”

Gyles felt a pang of relief. He held out his hand. “I’ll wish you and Ester and Franni a good journey now, in case I don’t see you before you leave. But now you’re here, do take the opportunity to meet some of the others.”

“I will.” Charles released his hand, took his leave of Francesca, then wandered into the crowd.

Gyles watched him go. He liked Charles, had from the first, but he was glad to know Franni would soon be leaving London, would, within days, be hidden away once again in deepest Hampshire. He now understood Charles’s wish to live quietly, removed from the eyes of the polite world. Protected from that world, from the whispers, the pointing fingers.

Society was not kind to those like Franni. Gyles understood Charles’s stance and respected him for it.

He glanced at Francesca. He understood her, too, enough to know that loyalty and devotion came naturally, a part of her she wouldn’t deny. A part he couldn’t ask her to deny. Explaining his nebulous unease over Franni was something he’d rather not attempt, given Francesca saw Franni as merely childish, backward, disturbed because of her mother’s death.

There was more to Franni’s strangeness than that-he would take his oath on it-yet she was such a helpless soul, how could he speak against her?

Over the past week, the plans for tonight had taken all Francesca’s time; he hadn’t had to worry she’d try to visit Franni. Given Francesca’s character, forbidding her to see her cousin was out of the question, persuading her to that end wasted breath. But if Franni would soon be gone, he wouldn’t need to speak, to steer Francesca from her company purely to ease his very likely unjustified, totally amorphous concern.

He remembered Franni as he’d last seen her-remembered the burning look in her pale eyes-and uttered a heartfelt silent “thank-you” to Charles for resolving his problem for him.

Francesca turned to him. He smiled as she introduced a young cousin shortly to make her come-out.

For Francesca, the evening was perfect and more, a triumph unmarred by any infelicitous occurrence. All proceeded exactly as planned, and the turn out of Rawlingses exceeded her wildest expectations.

“I never imagined so many would come.” Tired but inexpressibly happy, she leaned against Gyles as, with the house at last quiet about them, the very last guests gone, they strolled toward their apartments.

“I never imagined there were so many.” Gyles’s arm about her waist tightened briefly. “You performed a miracle.”

She laughed, shook her head. “No-I merely gave the miracle the opportunity to be. They came, they made it-they were the miracle.” She understood that now; she squeezed the hand at her waist. “You’ve no idea of the plans being made-for family celebrations, for balls next Season. Why, two of the families discovered their daughters, both to be presented next year, were born on the same day, so they’re now planning a huge event.”

“I can imagine.”

At his dry tone, she paused before her door and looked up at him. “But it’s good, isn’t it? Good that the family’s together again, no longer fragmented and apart?”

Gyles studied her eyes, then raised a hand and traced her cheek. “Yes. It’s good.” He hadn’t thought it important until she’d made him see. He glanced at her door. “Now get rid of Millie so we can celebrate your success as you deserve.”

Her brows rose; her green eyes glowed. “Indeed?” The glance she threw him as she opened her door was provocation incarnate. “As you will, my lord.”

It wasn’t as he willed but as they willed.

They came together in the dimness of her room, earl and countess, lover and loved, partners in life. They were partners in truth, bound by a power nothing on earth could break; Gyles no longer saw any point in denying it, in trying to hide it. Saying the words, out aloud, might still be difficult-might always be beyond him-but living their truth was not. Not with her.

She was life and love-his future life, his only love. They came together with the ease of practice, and the power of their own passionate natures, reflected between them, intensified almost beyond bearing now there were no barriers between. He let the last down, deliberately, intentionally-let it sink without a qualm, without regrets. Fate-and she-had shown him, taught him that love was a force beyond his control, a force whose power he coveted and craved. A force that, having once experienced its majesty, its enthralling allure, he could not exist without.

It was a part of him now and forever. As was she. And if there was still an element of his nature that shook with fear at the realization, at the unequivocal knowledge of how much she meant to him, and how much his life now depended on her, she knew and applied the only balm that could ease him, could soothe the soul of the barbarian he was.

She loved him back-with a powerful passion that burned like a flame in the warm darkness of her bed. A flame that joined with his own and heated them, set them afire, consumed them.

Wrapped in her arms, sheathed in her body, he drove into her and drove them on. Their lips met, fused, tongues tangled. Their hearts thundered and rejoiced.

There were moments in life when simplicity held more power than elaborate gestures. When a direct, undisguised act shattered perceptions and cut to the heart of the truth. So it was that they loved-directly, simply, with no guile to shield their hearts, no remnant of separatedness to keep their souls apart.

When, locked together, they tumbled into the void, into the abyss of creation, the only sound either could hear was the beat of the other’s heart.

Later they stirred, parted, then slumped together in the darkness. Gyles reached down and drew the satin comforter up, over their cooling bodies. He collapsed back on the mounded pillows and drew Francesca into his arms, settled her warm curves against him.

After a while, she stretched, languid as a cat and equally boneless, then she wriggled around and draped her arms about his neck. “I’m so pleased.”

Her purr warmed him. He recognized the ambiguity for what it was. “So you should be.”

She wasn’t talking about the party; her soft chuckle confirmed that. “I suppose we should sleep.”

“We should.” She was increasing-she needed her rest. “No need to be greedy. We’ve all our lives ahead of us.”

“Mmm.” She nestled her head on his shoulder.

Within minutes, she was asleep.

All their lives. Gyles listened to the soft huff of her breathing. Then he closed his eyes and dreamed.