All About Passion (14 page)

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
un
willing. 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 risqué; 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.