All About Passion

Chapter 6

“Ready to take the final momentous step?”

Gyles looked up as Devil sauntered into his private sitting room. Breakfast dishes crowded the table before him, but he’d paid them scant attention. Food was the last thing on his mind.

Wallace had come in early to wake him-he hadn’t been asleep but had been grateful for the interruption. He’d spent enough hours with his thoughts. Bathing, dressing, dealing with the inevitable last-minute queries, had kept him busy until Wallace had served him breakfast, then retreated to tidy his bedchamber.

Just as well Devil had arrived.

“Come to witness the condemned man’s last meal?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.” Pulling up a chair, Devil sat facing him across the table and surveyed the dishes he’d disarranged rather than demolished. “Saving our appetite for later, are we?”

“Indeed.” He felt his lips twitch.

“Can’t say I blame you if all that’s being said of your countess-to-be is true.”

He hid a frown. “What’s being said?”

“Just that your selection was precisely as one might expect. Your uncle was quite taken. None of the rest of us met her-they arrived after dark.”

Gyles hadn’t thought Horace’s standards differed that much from his. Then again, his uncle was over sixty-perhaps he now favored the quiet and meek. “You’ll meet her soon enough, then you can form your own opinion.”

Devil reached for a pikelet. “You’re not going to reiterate you’re marrying for duty, not love?”

“And slay your fond hopes? I’m too polite a host.”

Devil snorted.

Gyles sipped his coffee. Misleading Devil wasn’t his aim, but he wasn’t up to explaining. Denying the gypsy-denying his own raging needs-had sapped his energy. He should have been feeling smug, triumphant, anticipating the successful outcome of his careful plans. Instead, he felt inwardly dead, his emotions leaden, dragging him down.

He’d done the right thing-the only thing he could have done-and yet… he felt as if he’d done something wrong. Committed some sin worse than any she’d tempted him to.

He couldn’t shake aside that feeling; he’d been trying to for half the night. Now here he was, about to marry one woman while another dominated his thoughts. The combination of wildness and innocence, wrapped in a package ripe for plunder, beribboned with a promise of uninhibited passion, of unrestrained wantonness… the gypsy was enough to drive any man insane.

She’d shaken him as no woman ever had.

This morning, soon, he’d free himself of her. No matter how attached Francesca was to her, he’d put his foot down. The gypsy would be off his estate, and away from him, by sunset tomorrow at the latest.

He made a mental note to make sure she didn’t forget her horse.

“I hestitate to mention it, but it’s a little late for second thoughts.”

Gyles refocused.

Devil nodded at the clock on the mantelpiece. “We’d better go.”

Gyles turned, and saw it was indeed time. Concealing his ridiculous reluctance, he rose, then checked the set of his sleeves and settled his coat.

“The ring?”

He hunted in his waistcoat pocket, drew it out, and handed it to Devil.

Devil studied the ornate band. “Emeralds?”

“It’s been in the family for generations. Mama happened to mention that emeralds would suit, so…”

His mother hadn’t actually mentioned it; he’d walked into his countess’s bedchamber, the one beyond his, and been hit over the head with the fact. His mother had redecorated the suite in his bride’s favorite color-a vivid, intense emerald. In the adjoining sitting room, the emerald was tastefully muted by inmixing of turquoise and other colors, but in the bedchamber itself, in heavy silks and satins, the solid hue held sway. Touches of gilt and polished wood rendered the result even more decadent.

The room had sent his brows rising. He couldn’t imagine his meek, mild, and very fair bride in it-she’d be overwhelmed by the color. Yet if it was her declared favorite, as his mother insisted, who was he to argue?

He nodded at the ring as Devil tucked it into his pocket. “I hope it fits.” He headed for the door.

Devil fell in on his heels. “Can’t you at least give me a few hints? What does this paragon look like? Dark or fair, tall or tiny-what?”

Opening the door, Gyles glanced over his shoulder. “You’ll see in five minutes.” He hesitated, then added, “Just remember, I did warn you I’m marrying for duty, not love.”

Devil studied his eyes. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Marriages have a tendency to last a long time.”

“That,” Gyles acknowledged, stepping into the corridor, “was one of the aspects that swayed me.”

The chapel was in the oldest part of the castle. They reached it to find the guests already seated. Gyles continued around to the anteroom off the side. There, his father’s cousin, Hector, Bishop of Lewes, was settling his robes.

“Ah-there you are, m’boy!” Hector smiled.

Gyles introduced Devil.

“We met last night.” Hector returned Devil’s nod, then held up a hand as he listened to the music coming from the chapel. “Ah-ha! That’s our cue. The bride has been sighted and we must get to our places. Right, then?”

Gyles waved him on and followed, Devil at his back. Hector slowed as he entered the chapel. Gyles had to concentrate not to walk on his heels. He heard rustling, polite whisperings, but he didn’t look at the guests. Hector led them to the altar. Gyles stopped where he knew he was supposed to, before the single step. Lifting his head, he squared his shoulders. Devil stopped beside him; shoulder to shoulder they faced the altar.

Gyles felt precisely nothing.

Hector climbed the step, then turned majestically to view the congregation. The music, provided by Hector’s wife playing a spinet tucked away to one side, paused, then the opening chords of a bridal march sounded.

Gyles watched Hector. The prelate lifted his head, his cherubic face wearing its usual amiable expression, and looked down the aisle.

Hector’s expression changed. His eyes widened, then sparkled. His cheeks pinkened. “Well!” he murmured. “My word!”

Gyles froze. What the devil had his meek and mild bride done?

Skirts shushed as ladies shuffled about to see. The expectant hush was shattered by whispers-excited ones. A wave of gasps and smothered exclamations rolled forward. Gyles felt Devil stiffen, fighting the impulse, then Devil turned his head and looked. And stilled.

Temper rising-surely Charles knew better than to let the girl appear in anything outre?-Gyles decided he may as well learn what everyone else already knew. Lips compressed, he turned-

His gaze swept the front pew on the other side of the aisle, the one reserved for the bride’s family. An angular middle-aged woman sat smiling mistily, watching the bride approach. Beside her, pale blue eyes even wider than he remembered them, her mouth agape, staring straight at him as if she’d seen a ghost, sat…

His meek, mild-mannered bride.

Gyles couldn’t wrench his gaze from her.

He couldn’t breathe-his head was spinning.

If she was there, then who…

A frisson of awareness raced up his spine.

Slowly, stiffly, he completed his turn-confirmed with his eyes what his beleagured brain was screaming.

Even when he saw, he still couldn’t believe.

Still couldn’t breathe.

She was a vision to make strong men weak. A veil of fine lace edged with seed pearls was anchored across her crown, covering but not concealing the rampant lushness of her hair, black as a crow’s wing against the ivory. Behind the veil, her emerald eyes glowed, vibrantly intense. From where he stood, the veil’s edge hid her lips; his memory supplied their fullness.

Her gown was an old-fashioned fantasy in stiff ivory silk heavily sewn with pearls. She filled it to perfection, the low, square-cut neckline the perfect showcase for her magnificent breasts. The golden hue of her complexion, the darkness of her hair, and her vivid eyes allowed her to carry the ivory with dramatic flair; it wasn’t the gown that dominated the vision.

From the fullness of her breasts, the gown narrowed to tightly encircle her waist before spreading in heavy folds over her hips. That tiny waist invited male hands to seize, while her rich skirts evoked images of plunder.

She was a goddess designed to fill male minds with salacious imaginings, to claim their senses, snare their hearts, and trap them forever in a world of sensual longing.

And she was his.

And furious.

With him.

Gyles dragged in a breath as, with a susurration of silks, she stepped to her place beside him. He was dimly aware that to all eyes but his, she appeared a radiant bride, her lips curving in a smile of joyful happiness beneath her veil.

Only for him did her eyes flash. With a warning, and a promise.

Then she looked at Hector and smiled.

Hector nearly dropped his Bible. While he shuffled and reshuffled, trying to find his place, Gyles looked down and struggled to breathe. She was handling this better than he was, but then, she’d known who he was all along-

He hauled his mind off that track. He couldn’t afford to let his temper rule him. He had to think. He tried, but felt trapped, as if he was fleeing through a maze meeting blank walls at every turn.

Devil nudged him. He lifted his head as Hector, finally ready, cleared his throat.

“We are gathered here today…”

He barely registered the words. In a daze, he repeated the phrases he had to say. Then she spoke, and instantly captured every last shred of his awareness.

In her sultry, smoky voice, she-Francesca Hermione Rawlings-vowed to be his wife, in sickness and in health, for better, for worse, until death should them part.

He had to stand there and let it happen.

Devil gave Hector the ring. Hector blessed it, then held out the open Bible, the ring balanced on the page.

Gyles picked it up and turned to her.

She extended her left hand. He closed his fingers about hers, so small and delicately boned. He slid the ring on her finger. It slipped down, but he had to ease it over her second knuckle. It fitted perfectly.

The ring glowed against her skin; the emeralds winked, their fire an echo of her eyes.

He looked up and caught her gaze. The fire burned brightly there.

She returned his regard, then her lips firmed. Surreptitiously she tugged, trying to free her hand.

Gyles tightened his hold.

For good or ill, she was his.

The realization swept him. A turbulent power, basic, elemental-wholly primitive-flowed through him.

“And now, by the grace vested in me, I pronounce you man and wife.” Hector closed his Bible and beamed upon them. “You may now kiss the bride.”

Gyles released her hand. With apparent calm, she raised her veil and set it back.

Sliding his hand around her waist, he drew her to him. She quickly looked up, eyes widening, lips parting-

He bent his head and covered her lips with his.

It should have been a gentle kiss, a mere formality.

It wasn’t.

His arm tightened, locking her against him. His tongue plundered-a warning of his own. It was a kiss of claiming, one that spoke of primal rights, of promises made, vows taken, bargains made that would be kept.

After an instant’s surprise, she caught her breath and kissed him back-with fire, with defiance-with unadulterated passion.

It was he who broke the kiss, aware that this was not the time or place. Their eyes met-they both remembered where they were and what they had to face. Silent agreement flashed between them. Because she was so much shorter, and he’d caught her so close, no one had witnessed the quality of their exchange.

About them, music swelled; Hector’s wife had started the processional.

Francesca blinked, then glanced at Hector. She tried to draw back-Gyles tightened his hold on her.

Only to feel Hector’s hand on his shoulder.

“Well! Might I be the first to congratulate the bride?”

He had to let her go; he forced himself to do it, forced himself to let Hector take her hands and buss her cheek.

Devil elbowed him in the back.

“Nice duty, if one can get it.”

Gyles turned-only to have Devil nudge him aside.

“Stand back, Hector. It’s my turn.”

Their well-wishers surrounded them. Gyles stood by her side and refused to budge as the guests pressed forward, eager to greet his ravishing countess, to pump his hand and tell him what a lucky dog he was.

The ladies made straight for Francesca. Horace thumped him on the back. “A sly one, you are! All that talk of marrying for the family and property-well! Not that I blame you, mind-she’s a demmed fetching piece.”

“She did bring the Gatting property.”

“Yes, well, I expect that influenced you mightily.” Horace grinned at Francesca. “Must kiss the bride, what?” He moved on.

Gyles inwardly sighed. If not even Horace believed…

Francesca greeted Horace with a social grace quite at odds with what was running through her mind. Indeed, she was grateful to those who pressed near to squeeze her hand, kiss her cheek, and offer their congratulations-they provided her with an opportunity to catch her breath. Such occasions held no terrors; as her parents’ only child, she’d been their social companion for years and was confidently at ease amidst fashionable crowds.

It wasn’t the demands of the wedding that concerned her.

She wasn’t at all sure what was going on in her husband’s mind, but that was presently the least of her concerns. After he’d returned her to her bed, she hadn’t been able to think. To her surprise, she’d fallen deeply asleep. She’d woken only just in time to hide the evidence of her nighttime excursion before Millie and Lady Elizabeth arrived to help her with her preparations. Ester had joined them, and assured her Franni was highly excited and looking forward to witnessing the wedding.

She hadn’t known what to make of that.

On waking, her first thought had been that she should give him what he wanted-what he was expecting-and reorganize things so Franni walked up the aisle. She would give the Gatting property he was so set on acquiring to Franni… it was then she’d remembered the marriage settlements. They’d been signed and sealed, and it was her name, not Franni’s, in all the crucial spots.

While their marriage was the crux of the arrangement, the ceremony was only part of that, the public acknowledgment of an agreement entered into. Legally, albeit contingent on their wedding taking place, the Gatting property was already his.

Both Charles and Chillingworth’s man-of-business, a Mr. Waring, who’d traveled into Hampshire with the documents, had taken great pains to impress on her the inviolability of the agreement once signed.

She’d signed. She couldn’t now refuse to marry him.

And she certainly could not thrust Franni into such an arena. He’d been out of his mind to think she could cope… which made her wonder if Chillingworth had spoken with Franni at all.

She had no idea what Franni thought. Was Chillingworth the gentleman her cousin had referred to? She’d had no chance before the ceremony to speak with Franni alone. Indeed, Franni had been innocently excited when she’d hurried off to the chapel with Ester.

When she’d walked up the aisle, she’d seen Chillingworth glance toward where Franni should have been, but with all eyes on her, she hadn’t dared look herself. She’d been playing a part, and she’d had to play it well-had to make people believe she was a willing and happy bride. She’d hoped to glance Franni’s way once she’d halted before the altar, perhaps as Charles stepped back-but the instant she’d reached Chillingworth’s side…

Shaking aside the memory, she tried again to glimpse the pew where Franni had been, but Chillingworth had, thanks to the melee, ended on that side. He hadn’t budged an inch since; she couldn’t see past him. Neither Ester nor Franni had come to kiss her. Charles was hanging back. But he was smiling.

Frustrated, she glanced at Lady Elizabeth, who read her emotion correctly but misinterpreted the cause. Her mother-in-law clapped her hands. “It’s time we moved on to the dining room. Now make way and let them go ahead, then you can greet them at the door and we can all chat and enjoy ourselves over the wedding breakfast.”

Francesca cast her a grateful smile. Chillingworth’s arm appeared before her, and she took it, preserving her mask of a radiant, joyful bride as they ran a gauntlet of rice all the way up the aisle.

Outside the chapel, her smile evaporated. Before she could turn to him, he grasped her hand. “This way.”

She had to grab her skirts and run to keep up with his long strides. He cut down corridors, down stairs, around corners, leading her away from their guests, away from the reception rooms. At no stage did he moderate his pace. Then they were rushing down a narrow, dimly lit corridor-she thought they were on the ground floor. The door at the end was shut.

She was about to dig in her heels and demand to be told where he was taking her when, just before the door, Chillingworth stopped dead, whirled her about, and backed her against the wall.

Francesca felt the wall cool at her back, felt the heat of his body before her, around her. She sucked in a breath as he leaned closer, trapping her. She caught his gaze, held it.

Gyles was aware they were both breathing rapidly. The pulse throbbing at the base of her throat dragged at his senses, but he didn’t take his gaze from her eyes.

Any other woman, and he would have exploited their sexual linkage to unnerve her, to gain the upper hand.

With her, he didn’t dare.

There was too much between them, even now, even here. It was a hot breath caressing skin, something almost palpable, an awareness of sin as old as time.

They only had minutes, and he had no idea what she intended, whether she was going to play out the scene to its end, or erupt midway through.

“Franni-”

The sheer fury that lit her eyes-lit her-silenced him. Her rage was so potent he nearly stepped back.

“I am not Franni.”

Every carefully enunciated word slapped him.

“You’re Francesca Hermione Rawlings.” She’d better be, or he’d wring her neck.

She nodded. “And my cousin, Charles’s daughter, is Frances Mary Rawlings. Known to all as Franni.”

“Charles’s daughter?” The fog started to clear. “Why the devil was she given such a similar name to you?”

“We were born within weeks of each other, me in Italy, Franni in Hampshire, and we were both named after our paternal grandfather.”

“Francis Rawlings?”

She nodded again. “Now we have that settled, I have a few questions. Did you meet Franni when you visited Rawlings Hall?”

He hesitated. “I strolled with her twice.”

She breathed in; her breasts rose. “Did you at any time say anything to lead Franni to believe you were considering offering for her?”

“No.”

“No?” She widened her eyes at him. “You came to Rawlings Hall to find an amenable bride, you thought you’d found her, you walked twice with her-and you said nothing-gave no hint whatever of your intentions?”

“No.” His temper was on a leash as tight as hers. “If you recall, I insisted on adhering to the most distant and rigid formality. It would have run counter to my plans to woo your cousin in even the most cursory way.”

He could see she didn’t know whether to believe him or not. He exhaled through his teeth. “I swear on my honor I never said or did anything to give her the slightest reason to imagine I had any interest whatever in her.”

She hesitated, then stiffly inclined her head. “Did you see what happened to her? She wasn’t in the chapel when we left, but I didn’t see her leave.”

He wasn’t sure what was going on. “I only glimpsed her in the instant before you joined me. She recognized me and seemed shocked. There was an older lady with her.”

“Ester-Charles’s sister-in-law, Franni’s aunt. She lives with them.”

“I didn’t see either of them later. They must have left when everyone was crowding around.”

Francesca grimaced. “Charles didn’t seem worried…”

Her gaze grew distant. Gyles wondered why she’d seemed so certain he’d spoken of his offer to her cousin. Did she believe he’d raised her cousin’s hopes? But she’d known all along…

He needed more time-a lot more time-to sort out who’d known what.

Voices reached them through the door.

He straightened. “Our presence is required.” Catching her hand, he opened the door and walked out into the hall before the formal dining room.

“There they are!”

The crowd, having arrived and discovered them not where they were supposed to be, turned and, en masse, smiled widely.

Francesca knew what they were thinking. Her blush only reinforced the picture created by her husband and the smirk on his too-handsome lips.

“Just a little detour to show Francesca more of her new domain.”

The crowd laughed and parted for them. As she went forward at his side to lead the way into the formal dining room, to the banquet laid out in their honor, Francesca heard numerous ribald references as to with which part of her domain she’d recently become familiar.

Such comments did nothing to improve her mood, but she hid her temper, her feelings, well. Not one guest, nor any member of his family or hers, would have any inkling what seethed beneath her unremittingly joyful facade.

Chillingworth and she stood side by side, the perfect couple, and greeted their guests as they entered the room. Charles was among the first-he shook hands with Gyles, then embraced her warmly and kissed her cheek.

“I’m so happy for you, my dear.”

“And I have so much to thank you for.” Francesca squeezed his hands. “And Franni?”

Charles’s smile faded. “I’m afraid the excitement proved too much, as we’d feared it would.” He glanced at Gyles, who was listening attentively. “Franni isn’t strong, and excitement can overwhelm her.” Charles turned back to Francesca. “Ester’s with her at the moment, but will join us later. Franni’s simply a little disoriented-you know how she gets.”

Francesca didn’t, not really, but she couldn’t talk longer with Charles. With an understanding smile, she released his hand and he moved on as the next guest took his place.

A tall, lanky gentleman, unquestionably another Rawlings, pumped Gyles’s hand and beamed delightedly. “Capital, coz! Can’t thank you enough! Huge load off my mind, I can tell you.” Wearing an unfitted coat, a dark, drab waistcoat, and a soft, floppy cravat, the gentleman was some years younger than Chillingworth.

Gyles turned to Francesca. “Allow me to present my cousin, Osbert Rawlings. At present, Osbert’s my heir.”

“Only for the present-ha, ha!” Beaming, Osbert turned to her, then realized what he’d said. “Well, I mean to say-well, it’s not as if…”

He slowly flushed beet red.

Francesca flashed a look at Chillingworth, then smiled radiantly at Osbert and took the limp hand he’d extended and left hanging in the air between them. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

Osbert blinked, swallowed, and refocused. “A great pleasure.” Still holding her hand, he remained standing before her, staring, then he said, “You’re quite devilishly beautiful, you know.”

Francesca laughed, but not unkindly. “Thank you, but it’s not my doing-I was born this way.”

“Still,” Osbert persisted. “Have to say-that moment in the chapel when you appeared, it was quite the most galvanizing instant.” He stepped closer to Francesca as those behind jostled. “I was thinking of writing an ode-”

“Osbert.” Gyles intervened, displeasure clear in his tone.

“Oh! Yes-of course.” Osbert shook Francesca’s hand, then released it. “I’ll speak with you later.”

He stepped away; others quickly took his place.

Moments later, when she had a chance, Francesca glanced at Chillingworth. “What’s wrong with an ode?”

“Not odes. Osbert’s odes.” Gyles met her gaze. “Wait until you’ve heard one.”

They continued shaking hands as the guests trooped past them. Gyles succeeded in preserving an acceptable facade, but his temper was wearing thin, his senses constantly abraded by Francesca’s nearness, by every breath she took. When the last guest had moved on to find a seat, he offered her his arm. With her hand on his sleeve, he paraded her up the long room to the applause of all present. Two long tables ran the length of the room, guests seated on both sides. Across the head of those tables ran a third, at which the guests of honor sat facing the long room.

He handed Francesca to the chair beside his. His mother sat on his left, while Horace was on Francesca’s right. Charles and Henni made up the table. At the other tables, the closest places were taken by Devil and Honoria, and three other peers and their wives. Beyond that, family and close connections filled the room. By tightly controlling the guest list, he’d ensured that other than Devil, Honoria, and a few close friends, society at large was not present.

Irving drew back his chair. Gyles sat, and footmen rushed forward to charge the glasses. The toasts and the feasting began.

They put on a good show. Gyles was conscious that no one guessed the truth, not even his perspicacious mother. Francesca played her part to perfection-then again, she’d been perfectly willing to marry him until she’d learned of his mistake. Even then, she hadn’t been unwilling. Furious perhaps, but it wasn’t as if she hadn’t secured precisely all he’d offered her.

He was the one whose carefully laid plans had been turned on their head-who had got far more than he wanted, indeed, precisely what he hadn’t wanted, from the day.

And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

As the courses came and went, he struggled to ignore the constant tug on his senses, an effort frustrated by having to play the role of pleased and proud groom. The toasts became increasingly risque; the sincerity of the good wishes that flowed around him gradually sank through to his brain.

Most would consider him inordinately lucky. Virtually every man in the room bar only Devil would trade places with him in a blink. He was married to a fascinatingly beautiful woman, who was also, it seemed, a past master in the social arts. She was so freely charming, so effortlessly engaging-he wasn’t blind to her qualities.

They were married-man and wife. He couldn’t change it. All he could do was make the best of it.

And from what he’d already learned of his bride, if he wanted to rule his roost, he had better make a push to establish the rules. His rules.

He might have married her-that didn’t mean he’d surrendered. Not even she could take from him that which he didn’t wish to give. He was stronger, and infinitely more experienced than she…

While he chatted to Charles and others across the table, he let his mind skate back over the previous night. Prior to that, there was nothing in his behavior with her she could legitimately rail at. Last night, however…

He would need to rebuild a few bridges other than the one that had washed away.

Francesca was talking to Honoria across the table, the fingers of her left hand draped loosely about the stem of her wineglass where it stood on the white linen between them. He reached out and insinuated his fingers between hers, twining them about hers. He felt the tiny shiver she instantly suppressed, felt primal recognition tighten his gut.

He waited.

Minutes later, the next course was set out. In the general hubbub as people were served, Francesca turned his way. She didn’t try to withdraw her hand but when she met his gaze, he couldn’t read her eyes.

“The mistake I made.” She arched a brow, and he continued, “There was a reason. I had, still have, a very definite idea of what I want from marriage. And you-” He broke off. She watched him calmly. “You… and I…” He exhaled sharply. “I didn’t mean to suggest you are not a perfectly acceptable bride.”

She raised her brows haughtily; her eyes flashed. Then she smiled gloriously, leaned close, and patted his hand, sliding her fingers deftly from his, then she turned away to speak to Henni.

Gyles bit back his temper, reined in the urge to grab her hand and spin her back to face him. Those watching would have seen the exchange as delightful flirting; he could do nothing to disturb the image. Letting his lips curve, he turned to another conversation.

He bided his time. Obsessed with his problem, obsessed with her, to him the hours flew. Eventually, the banquet ended and everyone adjourned to the adjoining ballroom. A small orchestra played in an alcove at one end. The first order of the afternoon was the bridal waltz.

Francesca heard the opening bars and steeled herself. She turned to Chillingworth with a smile on her lips, an easy expression on her face. He drew her to him; they both felt the tremor that shook her as her thigh brushed his, and his instantaneous tensing. Only she felt the possessiveness in his grasp, in the hard palm at her back-only she was near enough to see the steely glint in his grey eyes. A fractional hesitation gripped them as they remembered just how many eyes were watching, and both, again, reined in their tempers. Without words, they stepped out, revolving slowly at first, cautiously on her part, then she recognized his prowess and relaxed.

He was an expert at waltzing. She was good at it herself. She had matters of far greater moment on her mind.

He swung her into the first turn, and she let herself flow with his stride. Let him draw her as close as he wished, so their thighs brushed and hips met-knowing every touch affected him as much as it affected her. She fixed her gaze on his and kept her lips curved. “I married you because I had no choice-we had no choice. The settlements were signed, the guests all here. While I might deplore your approach to marriage-your approach to me-I see no reason to acquaint the world or, indeed, anyone at all, with my disappointment.”

She held his gaze for a moment more, then glanced aside. She’d spent the last hour preparing that speech, mentally rehearsing her tone. Given the tightness about her chest, the peculiar sensitivity that had affected her skin, she was pleased to have delivered it so creditably.

They’d completed one revolution of the large ballroom; she smiled as she watched other couples join them on the floor.

“Your disappointment?”

She turned back to the man in whose arms she was. His tone had been flat, disturbing. She raised a haughty brow, then, remembering the many onlookers, let the expression dissolve into one of laughing happiness.

“I wasn’t aware”-the chill in his words warned her she was skating on thin ice-“that you have any justifiable cause for feeling dissatisfied with our dealings.”

His expression was that of a groom thoroughly pleased with his bride, but there was an arrogant air, even there, in his mask, that she longed to shake. As for the coldness behind the mask, like steel doors shutting her out…

She shook her head on an airy laugh. “My disappointment stems from the discrepancy between what I believed-had reason to believe-I would in reality receive from the man, and what I am now being offered”-boldly she surveyed him, as much as she could see while held in his arms-“by the earl. Had I known of it, I would never have signed those wretched settlements, and we wouldn’t now be condemned to living a lie.”

Just the thought of the tangle he’d landed them in sent her temper into orbit. His hand tightened about hers; he drew her closer-she sucked in a breath and felt her breasts brush his chest. Raising her head, she met his gaze, defiance and a warning in hers. “I suggest, my lord, that we leave any discussion of such matters until we are private, unless you wish to risk our afternoon’s hard work.”

His reserve broke-just for an instant-and she saw the prowling predator in his eyes. And wondered if they were about to indulge in their first argument, in public, in the middle of the ballroom in the middle of their wedding. The same thought occurred to him-she saw it in his eyes. The fact he hesitated, considered, before drawing back amazed her, intrigued her-and shook her confidence.

The musicians came to her aid and ended the waltz with a flourish. With a laugh and a smile, she stepped out of his arms and swept him an elaborate curtsy. He was forced to bow, then he raised her. All smiling delight, she turned from him, expecting to slip her fingers from his and part, each to talk to the many guests eager to have a word.

His fingers locked about her hand.

He stepped close, beside and behind her.

“Oh, no, my dear-our dance has just begun.”

The murmured words brushed her ear; sensation streaked down her spine.

Lifting her chin, she smiled at Lord and Lady Charteris, and gave his lordship her other hand.

Beside her, Gyles suavely acknowledged Lady Charteris’s greeting and exchanged nods with his lordship. He was operating wholly on long-ingrained habit, his mind, his senses focused on the woman by his side.

When it came to her, he was ruled by instinct, no matter how he wished it otherwise. She was who she was, invoked all he was, and he was powerless to rein that part of himself in, not with her beside him.

Disappointed, was she? Already? So soon?

They hadn’t got to their marriage bed yet. Then they-she-would see. He might refuse to love her-he would refuse to love her. But he’d never said anything about not desiring her. Never denied he lusted after her. The fact that theirs was an arranged marriage changed that not at all.

He was looking forward to correcting her mistake.

They left Lord and Lady Charteris; Francesca turned to him. His hold on her hand kept her close; he bent his head so they were closer still. Her gaze touched his lips, paused, then she blinked and looked into his eyes. “I must speak with your aunt.”

He smiled. Wolfishly. “She’s across the room.” Between them, he raised her hand. Holding her gaze, he lifted her wrist to his lips and pressed a kiss to the sensitive inner face.

Her eyes flared. He felt the tremor she fought to suppress.

His smile widened; he let his lids veil his eyes. “Come. I’ll take you to her.”

For the next twenty minutes, all went as he dictated. Under cover of their new relationship, he touched her cheek, her throat, trailed a finger up the inside of her bare arm. He felt her start, quiver, soften. Felt her nerves tighten, sensed her expectation swell. He played to it, letting his palm brush her bare shoulder, skate possessively over her back, down over her hips and the curves of her bottom.

Closed his hands about her tiny waist as he steered her through the crowd.

His touch was light, his actions that of a possessive man to his new bride. Any seeing them would have smiled indulgently. Only she knew his intention. Only she knew because he wanted her to know that, with him, the sensual game was one she couldn’t win. Wouldn’t win. Yet it was a game they were going to play.

No one, not Henni, not even his mother, saw through his mask, but Francesca, his beautiful, sensual bride, definitely did.

When, from behind her, he closed his hand about her upper arm, briefly guiding her through the throng, simultaneously letting his thumb caress the side of her breast, Francesca wondered just how far he would go. She decided she no longer cared. Raising her head, she glanced over her shoulder, deliberately tentative.

A light blush had risen to her cheeks; her breathing was no longer steady. She had a very good idea how delicately, quiveringly hesitant she appeared.

He bent his head; his grip tightened, slowing her. His wayward thumb stroked deliberately, again.

She halted, tilted her head up, and turned toward him. Leaned back against him.

Her lips were suddenly just beneath his. Her hip rode against him. His eyes flared, grey turning stormy. They locked on hers. She sensed the catch in his breath. Holding his gaze, she shifted against him, against the ridge of his erection.

“My lord?” She breathed the words against his lips, and made them an outright challenge.

His eyes, stormy dark, hardened. She shifted back, tilting her head playfully, smiling-reminding him to smile, too.

He did, his lips curving easily-the light in his eyes, the tenor of that smile, sent a shiver coursing through her.

“My lady.” He arched a brow but there was no question.

Battle was joined.

He drew first blood, whirling her into another waltz that ripped her breath away. She struck back with her own brand of teasing, artfully flirting with three gentlemen at once. When he ruthlessly cut short her exhibition, she smiled knowingly and watched his temper rise.

Shortly after, she discovered he had an advantage she couldn’t match. He could touch her anywhere and her senses leapt. Her whole body, all of her skin, was sensitized-not just to his touch, but to his breath, to his very nearness. She was acutely aware of every little brush, every gliding, illicit caress.

He deserved his reputation-she’d seen enough, Lady Elizabeth had hinted at enough, for her to have a good idea of what it was. Only a past master could have accomplished what he did-done all he did-in the middle of a crowded ballroom. Very rarely did anyone see; only on a few occasions did she catch an understanding smirk or a too-wide smile.

For a full twenty minutes, he had her running ragged, her breathing increasingly fractured, her senses skittering wildly, trying to imagine what next he would do. Trying to anticipate so she could take evasive action…

It suddenly dawned on her that that was the road to defeat. But she had so few avenues for attack.

She turned her mind to it-and discovered the outer edge of his ear was one sensitive spot. The side of his throat, too, but his cravat got in her way. His arms, his shoulders, his hips-those might have been more useful if they’d been bare. But his chest-when she let herself stumble against him, and splayed her hands across the wide muscles, she felt his breathing lock.

The exercise cost her another episode of feeling his hands too firm about her waist, but she slipped out of his hold smiling. Intently.

They continued to chat, to play chief attraction for the gathered throng, all the while pursuing their game. The necessity of concealing their increasingly physical clashes raised the stakes, heightened the challenge.

Finally, she found what she sought. His thighs-he tensed visibly when she artfully trailed her fingers down the long muscles, taut beneath his trousers.

For a fraction of a second, his mask slipped, and she glimpsed the man who had kissed her in the forest. Then he avoided her hand and spun her into the crowd. A second later she felt his hand on her hip, felt it slide lower, then close. Thanking heaven for her heavy skirts and petticoats, she stepped away with a teasing look.

Ten minutes later, she caught him again. With his back to the wall and her before him, her wide skirts hiding her hands, she spread her fingers about his thighs, then ran her hands upward-

Gyles caught her wrists in an iron grip. He found himself staring into brilliant green eyes, widening slightly-and wondered what the hell they were doing. He didn’t need her to touch him to arouse him; he was already aching. Their game-and her unexpected participation-had wound him tight.

If she touched him-

He flicked a glance at the crowd. They’d spent time with everyone, done their social duty; the event was drawing to a close. It was early evening, still light outside. The majority of guests would head home that night. Most would leave as soon as Francesca and he retired.

He looked into his bride’s challenging eyes. “Let’s continue this in private.”

Her brows rose, then she inclined her head. “As you wish.”

She straightened, then looked down when he didn’t release her wrists. Gyles forced himself to do it-to uncurl his long fingers and let her go. She watched him do it, watched his fingers unfurl. He saw one brow arch, and realized she could feel it, sense it-the effort it cost him, and all that he was hiding, even from her.

“The door along the wall to our right-go out, take the first right, third left, first right. You’ll come to a flight of stairs. Go up-it’ll bring you out beside a gallery. A maid will be waiting to lead you to the countess’s suite.”

She’d glanced up again; he couldn’t read her eyes. “And you?”

“I’ll cut through the crowd and take a different exit. That way, we’ll avoid any unnecessary fuss.” He paused, then asked, “Assuming, of course, that you’re not partial to fuss?”

She held his gaze for an instant, then, mask gone, inclined her head haughtily. “I’ll see you upstairs.”

She turned and glided away from him.

Gyles watched until she disappeared through the door, then he straightened and sauntered into the crowd to make good his own escape.