All About Passion (19 page)

"And the Gatting property lies to the east?"

"Southeast." He waited, then added, "I'll take you to see it sometime, if you like." She inclined her head, then waved to where a glimmer of silver marked the course of the river. "The bridge that washed away—was it over there?"

"Farther upriver."

"Was it wrecked?"

"Most of it's gone. The only span still standing is badly weakened. We'll have to rebuild completely, but meanwhile we've rigged a pulley system to ferry necessities across to the farms that way. I should go and inspect the progress—perhaps later today after the others have left." She started to slowly stroll, fingers trailing the stones. He followed, equally slowly, as she circled the tower.

"How many 'others' are still here? Who are they?"

"Mostly relatives too ancient to set out immediately after a feast. They'll be leaving this afternoon. Your uncle, of course, is still here. He told me he planned to take a different route home and wanted to leave before luncheon. Devil and Honoria left last night—they asked me to explain that with their newest child so young, they felt they had to hurry back."

Devil had seen him on his way out of the ballroom and mouthed one word:
Coward.
He had, however, winked, then smoothly intercepted one of Gyles's uncles who'd been about to bend his ear, allowing him to escape unimpeded.

"Yes—Honoria told me." Francesca glanced back briefly, very briefly met his eye. "She's invited us to visit at Somersham."

"We might go later in the year. We'll certainly see them in town."

"You've known Devil a long time?"

"Since Eton."

She continued to stroll, leaving him studying her back—and wondering just what was going on. Just what tack she intended to take. Wondering why she, thus far so forthright, was being so elusive. She strolled out of the tower's shadow and onto the parapet.

"All right—I give in. What the devil are you thinking?"

She flashed him a glance. "About what?"

"Our marriage." He halted. Eventually, she did, too, still facing away from him with two yards between them. "I'm aware that, prior to yesterday, your expectations and mine were not the same." She turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes were wide, but her glance was too brief for him to place the expression in them. Turning back to the view, she peered over the coping at the forecourt below. "That was before we were wed." Her husky tones reached him clearly, but conveyed nothing more than her words. "It would be faster, I think, if we left the past behind and considered instead what we each wish of our marriage now."

He was very ready to leave the past behind. "What we wish now?"

"Yes. So—what do you wish of me as your wife?"

She started to stroll again. He hesitated, watching her hips sway, then fell in again at her heels. Her question was reasonable, sensible. Her tack was rationality incarnate. The wooden planks were firm under his feet—so why did he feel he was walking on thin ice?

"My requirements haven't changed—I need you to fill the role of my countess, which you're patently well able to do. I need you to provide me with heirs, meaning two, so there's no chance of Osbert inheriting. Beyond that, your life will be yours to live as you wish." She said nothing for sometime, walking slowly ahead of him, then she softly echoed, "As I wish." He wished he could see her face, her eyes. He could tell very little from her voice, other than it wasn't as strong as usual.

"Tell me, my lord." She stopped beside the parapet and looked down. He stopped a few feet away, watching her.

"Are you saying that, beyond the bearing of your heirs, I will not need to be faithful?" The thought rocked him. It took him some time to formulate an answer, one he could force himself to say. "I am not encouraging you to be
un
faithful, but if, after providing me with the necessary heirs, you wish to develop liaisons, that will be entirely up to you."

"Provided I was discreet."

He thought he saw her lips lift wryly as she turned away and started strolling again. "I would expect my countess always to be discreet."

"And you? Will you always be discreet in pursuing the liaisons I assume you wish to be free to pursue?" There were always whispers, rumors. "To the best of my ability, I am always discreet."

"But I—you expect me to always
succeed
in being discreet." Before he could answer, she continued,

"Tell me, my lord, when would this mutual discretion of ours start?" He frowned. "Once you've given me the heirs I require—"

"I do not think that is a viable option. Who knows how many girls you may sire? I may never get a chance to exercise
my
discretion, although I'm quite sure you will be exercising yours." He wasn't about to discuss that point, and he was getting very tired of talking to her back.

"I do not think that is fair. What I propose is that we
both
agree to remain faithful until such time as we are satisfied I'm carrying your child. From that agreed date, we go our separate ways, until I'm delivered of the child. Then, once again, we return to faithfulness, and so on, until you have your heirs. Once that point is reached, we will both henceforth be free to pursue whatever liaisons and
discreet
connections we please."

He stopped walking.

He hadn't realized the barbarian was so close to his surface. He was suddenly very glad she was facing the other way. Hands clenched at his sides, he struggled to contain his reaction. It took him a good minute to suppress the reactive rage, the instinctive urge to roar
"No!"
It took another thirty seconds before he could say, "If that's what you wish." She heard the change, the undercurrent of violence in his voice. She halted, stiffened; her head rose. Then she spoke in a tone he had not before heard from her. "I have desires, needs, and requirements of my own that you have chosen not to fulfill within our marriage. I'm merely ensuring that while fulfilling
your
requirements, I'll be able to pursue my own goals."

Abruptly, she swung to face him, head high, her expression reflecting a determination as stubborn as his own.
"That
is my requirement of our marriage. I do not think it's one you can refuse." Her eyes were brilliant but screened. The distance between them had grown to several yards; he was content that it was so. It took every ounce of control he possessed to remain still, to stop himself reaching for her, to stop himself…

When he could trust himself to move that much, he inclined his head. "Very well, madam. We have an agreement."

If his clipped tones bothered her, she gave no sign. Coolly, she inclined her head back, then turned and strolled on to the second tower's door. "I imagine breakfast will be served soon." He had to breathe deeply before he could say, "If you wish, you may remain in our apartments." He started after her. "No one will be counting on seeing us this morning, or even today." Opening the door, she turned as he neared. Her gaze touched his, then shifted past him. One brow arched, her expression calmly considering. Then she shook her head, turned, and stepped into the tower.

"I do not think hiding is a good idea. I believe I had best start out as I mean to go on." Holding the door, Gyles watched her cross the tower room and start down the stairs. Not once did she glance back. Stepping over the threshold, he closed the door, and followed her down the stairs. She'd agreed to be everything he wished for in a wife. Within an hour, he'd been put on notice that she could, and would, deliver on her side of their agreement handsomely.

Why that left him so grumpy he couldn't understand. Perhaps because it meant that, once she was pregnant, coping with the practicalities of being his countess was clearly not going to challenge her enough to distract her from pursuing her own, currently unstated goals.

Not that he needed to hear them stated—he could guess what they were.

While he sat at the head of the breakfast table, coffee cup in hand, and lent a deaf ear to one of his greatuncle Mortimer's war stories, Gyles inwardly kicked himself for agreeing to anything. At the other end of the table, separated from him by sixteen interested elderly relatives, his wife serenely dispensed calm and gracious order along with cups of tea.

Francesca could feel his gaze on her, could sense his disaffection with the bargain they'd struck. It wasn't the bargain she'd wished for, but it was a bargain she'd accept. She hadn't been sure he would agree to her proposal, her alternate plan, but now he had, they both knew where they stood, and it was simply a matter of getting on with life.

And reconciling herself to second best.

"Well, my dear—or should I say 'my lady'?"

Francesca looked up to see Charles smiling down at her as he drew out the chair beside her. The distant cousin who had filled it had just departed to oversee her packing.

"Uncle." Impulsively, she stood and kissed Charles's cheek.

He beamed and patted her hand. "So, all's well with you?"

"Indeed." With a quick smile, Francesca sat. As Charles took his seat, she glanced around. "Is Ester coming down?"

"Shortly." Charles flicked out the napkin a footman handed him. "Franni's still asleep."

"Asleep?" Franni was usually up at daybreak.

"We had to dose her last night. She wouldn't quiet without it." Franni sometimes needed laudanum when she became overwrought. Francesca nibbled her toast while Charles made his selection from the platters the footmen offered.

"Will Franni wake soon?" she asked as the last footman stepped back.

"I hope so."

"I'd like to talk to her before you leave."

Charles smiled. "Of course. I'm sure she won't want to leave without at least saying good-bye." Good-byes weren't what Francesca had in mind, but she was distracted by Lord Walpole—Horace as he'd insisted she call him. He stopped beside her and patted her shoulder.

"My dear Francesca, you look radiant. Nothing like marriage to put a glow in a young lady's eyes, I always say."

"Sit down, Horace, and stop trying to make the girl blush." Coming up beside him, Henni poked him in the ribs, prodding him along the table. She smiled at Francesca. "Don't mind him. Old reprobates are the worst."

Francesca smiled back. Turning, she discovered she'd missed Ester's entrance. As she sank into a chair two places along from Charles, Ester caught her eye and smiled.

"Franni?" Francesca mouthed.

"Still sleeping," Ester mouthed back.

Francesca poured a cup of tea for Ester, then turned to the ancient cousin seated on her other side. Hostessly matters kept her busy for some time, then Charles laid a hand on her sleeve.

"My dear, we plan to leave in two hours—before luncheon. I hope you know I have every confidence in your abilities, and in your marriage, else I would never be retreating in such fashion. But I can see you're in good hands." His smiling nod referred not just to Chillingworth but also to Lady Elizabeth and Henni.

"I feel I can leave you with a clear conscience."

"Oh, indeed." Francesca squeezed his hand. "I'm content."

"Good." Charles closed his hand over hers. "We've decided to travel on to Bath. It's possible the waters might help Franni. Given we're already on the road, so to speak, we thought to take her there."

"She seemed to enjoy riding in the coach."

"More so than I'd expected. It's an opportunity too good to miss, but I want to make a good start, so we'll be saying farewell soon."

Francesca returned the pressure of his fingers. "I'll be there to wave you on your way."

"As the Countess of Chillingworth." Releasing her hand, Charles rose. Francesca smiled briefly; her smile faded as she glanced at the figure at the table's end. "Indeed." Charles's words proved prophetic—"Good-bye" was all Franni was able to say. To mumble. When they helped her down the great staircase, Ester on one side, Charles on the other, Franni was still so drugged it was all she could do to focus on Francesca's face.

Any hope Francesca had of ascertaining what it was that had overset Franni was doomed. She was forced to smile, exchange hugs and good wishes, and push her concern over what Franni might have imagined into the background. Chillingworth was there, shaking hands with Charles, charming Ester—bowing very correctly over Franni's hand. Franni smiled dazedly—there was no sign that she was in any way conscious of him other than as a handsome gentleman who was now Francesca's husband.

As they stood on the porch to wave the travelers away, Francesca caught Gyles's eye. The coachman gave his horses the office; the coach lurched, then rolled away. Flanked by Lady Elizabeth and Henni, they waved. Ester waved back. Another small white hand poked out of the other window and floppily waved, too.

"Just overexcited."

Francesca heard Gyles's murmur. "So it seems."

The rest of the company assembled for luncheon, a light meal designed for geriatric stomachs about to travel. Lady Elizabeth and Francesca had put their heads together and come up with a selection of dishes which, by the eagerness with which they were greeted, had fitted the bill. The early afternoon was filled with departures, a steady stream of well-dressed old ladies and garrulous gentlemen passing through the front hall, picking their way past mountains of luggage and footmen struggling with trunks and bandboxes.

At four, the last carriage rumbled away. There were five of them standing on the porch when the carriage rounded the curve in the drive and disappeared from sight. Five pairs of shoulders sagged. Gyles was the first to straighten and break formation. "I need to ride down to the bridge and check how the work's faring." His comment was general, but his gaze met Francesca's, quickly searched her face. She nodded. "Of course." She hesitated, then added, "We'll see you at dinner." With a nod, he went down the steps, then strode toward the stables.

Horace turned inside. "I'm going to have a nap in the library."

"I'll wake you for dinner," Henni dryly replied.

Francesca grinned, as did Lady Elizabeth. They followed the others into the hall.

"I think we deserve a soothing cup of tea." Lady Elizabeth raised a brow at Francesca. She went to gesture to the drawing room, then caught herself. "The back parlor?" Lady Elizabeth smiled. "Yes, dear."