All About Passion (2 page)

The door opened. Gyles swung around as a gentlemen entered—an older, softer, more careworn version of himself, with the same rangy build, the same chestnut brown hair. Despite the fact he had not previously met Charles Rawlings, Gyles would have instantly recognized him as a relative.

"Chillingworth? Well!" Charles blinked, taking in the resemblance, which rendered any answer to his question superfluous. He recovered quickly. "Welcome, my lord. To what do we owe this pleasure?" Gyles smiled, and told him.

"Francesca?"

They'd repaired to the privacy of Charles's study. After seeing Gyles to a comfortable chair, Charles subsided into the one behind his desk. "I'm sorry—I don't see what interest you might have in Francesca."

"As to that, I'm not certain, but my… dilemma, shall we say? is common enough. As the head of the family, I'm expected to wed. In my case, it's something of a necessity, given it's most seriously necessary I beget myself an heir." Gyles paused, then asked, "Have you met Osbert Rawlings?"

"Osbert? Is he Henry's son?" When Gyles nodded, Charles's expression blanked. "Isn't he the one who wants to be a poet?"

"He did want to be a poet, yes. Now he
is
a poet, and that's infinitely worse."

"Good lord! Vague, gangly, never knows what to do with his hands?"

"That's Osbert. You can see why the family are counting on me to do my duty. To do him justice, Osbert himself is terrified I won't, and he'll have to step into my shoes."

"I can imagine. Even as a lad he had limp wool for a backbone."

"Therefore, having reached the age of thirty-five, I'm engaged in looking about for a wife."

"And you thought of Francesca?"

"Before we discuss particulars, I wish to make one point clear. I'm looking for an amenable bride willing to engage in an arranged marriage."

"An arranged…" Charles frowned. "You mean a marriage of convenience?" Gyles raised his brows. "That always struck me as an oxymoron. How could marriage ever be convenient?"

Charles didn't smile. "Perhaps you'd better explain what you're seeking."

"I wish to contract an arranged marriage with a lady of suitable birth, breeding, and comportment to fill the role of my countess and provide me and the family with the heirs we require. Beyond that, and the household and formal duties pertaining to the role of Countess of Chillingworth, I would make no further demands of the lady. In return, in addition to the position itself and all things reasonably accruing to it, such as her wardrobe, her own carriage and servants, I will settle on her an allowance that will enable her to live in luxury for the rest of her days. I'm hardly a pauper after all."

"With due respect, neither is Francesca."

"So I understand. However, with the exception of the deed to the Gatting property, which I wish to return to the Lambourn estate, her various inheritances will remain hers to do with as she pleases." Charles's brows rose. "That is indeed generous." His gaze grew distant. "I have to admit that my marriage was arranged…" After a moment, he refocused on Gyles. "I fear I must ask, cousin—is there any particular reason you're so insistent your marriage be an arranged one?"

"If you mean do I have a mistress of long standing whom I don't wish to set aside, or something of that nature, the answer is no." Gyles considered Charles, considered his open and honest brown eyes. "The reason I wish to keep my marriage—every aspect of it—on a businesslike footing is because I have absolutely no patience with the concept of love in marriage. It's a highly overrated circumstance—one, moreover, with which I desire no closer acquaintance. I do not wish my prospective wife to entertain any notion that I offer love, either now or in some rosy-hued future. From the first, I want her to know that love is not part of our equation. I see no benefit in raising the prospect, and will and do insist that my intent is made clear from the outset."

Charles regarded him for some time, then nodded. "It could be said that you're only being more honest than others who think the same."

Gyles made no answer.

"Very well—I now understand what you're seeking, but why consider Francesca?"

"Because of the Gatting property. It was, centuries ago, a dower property. Indeed, it was probably the reason for an arranged marriage back then—the property completes the circle of my Lambourn lands. It should never have been separated, but because it wasn't part of the entail, some misguided ancestor bequeathed it to a younger son, and that became something of a tradition…" Gyles frowned. "Gerrard was the elder, wasn't he? How is it you inherited this place and he inherited Gatting?"

"My father." Charles grimaced. "He fell out with Gerrard, as it happens because Gerrard refused to marry as he'd arranged. Gerrard married for love and went to Italy, while

"Made the arranged marriage your brother refused?"

Charles nodded. "So Papa reorganized his will. Gerrard got the Gatting property, which I should have received, and I got the Hall." He smiled. "Gerrard didn't give a damn. Even after Papa died, he remained in Italy."

"Until he died. How did that happen?"

"A boating accident on Lake Lugano one night. No one knew until the next day. Both Gerrard and Katrina drowned."

"And so Francesca came to you."

"Yes. She's been with us for nearly two years."

"How would you describe her?"

"Francesca?" Charles's expression softened. "She's a wonderful girl! A breath of fresh air and a beam of sunshine in one. It's odd, but although she's quite lively, she's also restful—a contradiction, I know, but…" Charles looked at Gyles.

"I understand she's twenty-three. Is there some reason she hasn't married?"

"Not specifically. Prior to their deaths, Gerrard and Katrina, and Francesca, too, had discussed addressing the question of a husband more seriously, but the accident intervened. Francesca was adamant on observing the full period of mourning—she was an only child and greatly attached to her parents. So it was only a year or so ago that she started going about." Charles grimaced lightly. "For reasons with which I won't burden you, we don't entertain. Francesca attends the assemblies and the local dances under the auspices of Lady Willingdon, one of our neighbors…" Charles's recital died away. Gyles raised a brow. "What?"

Charles regarded him speculatively, then seemed to come to some decision. "For the past year, Francesca has been actively looking for a husband. It was at her request I solicited the help of Lady Willingdon."

"And has she met anyone she considers suitable?"

"No. Indeed, I believe she's quite despondent over finding any suitable prospect locally." Gyles regarded Charles steadily. "Indelicate question though it is, do you think your niece might find
me
suitable?"

Charles's brief smile was wry. "From all I've ever heard, if you wished her to find you suitable, she would. You could sweep any naive young lady off her feet."

Gyles's smile mirrored Charles's. "Unfortunately, in this case, using those particular talents might prove counterproductive. I want an amenable bride, not a besotted one."

"True."

Gyles considered Charles, then stretched out his legs and crossed his booted ankles. "Charles, I'm going to place you in an invidious position and claim the right of help you owe me as head of the family. Do you know of any reason that would argue against making Francesca Rawlings the next Countess of Chillingworth?"

"None. Absolutely none." Charles returned his regard steadily. "Francesca would fill the position to the admiration of all the family."

Gyles held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded. "Very well." He felt as if a vise had released from about his chest. "In that case, I'd like to make a formal offer for your niece's hand." Charles blinked. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Well"—Charles started to rise—"I'll send for her—"

"No." Gyles waved him back. "You forget—I wish this entire matter to be treated with the utmost formality. I want it made clear, not only by word but also by deed, that this is an arranged marriage, nothing more. Your description of your niece confirms the opinions of others—
grandes dames
of the ton richly experienced in evaluating the worth of marriageable young ladies. Everyone declares Francesca Rawlings an unexceptionable parti—I need no further assurances. In the circumstances, I see no reason to meet Miss Rawlings socially. You are her guardian—it's through you I'll apply for her hand."

Charles considered arguing; Gyles knew precisely when the realization that it would be wasted effort, and rather impertinent at that, dawned. He, after all, was the head of the family.

"Very well. If that's your wish, if you'll give me the details, I'll speak with Francesca this evening… I'd better write it down." Charles searched for pen and paper.

When he was ready, Gyles dictated and Charles transcribed the formal offer of a contract of marriage between the Earl of Chillingworth and Francesca Hermione Rawlings. As Charles scribbled the last of the settlements, Gyles mused, "It might be as well not to mention the relationship, distant as it is. It's not of any practical relevance. I'd prefer that the offer was specifically made as coming from the earl." Charles shrugged. "It can't hurt. Women like titles."

"Good. If there's no further information you need from me, I'll leave you." Gyles stood. Charles came to his feet. He opened his mouth, then hesitated. "I was going to insist you stay with us here, or at least dine…"

Gyles shook his head. "Another time, perhaps. I'm staying at the Lyndhurst Arms should you need to reach me." He turned to the door.

Charles yanked the bellpull, then followed. "I'll discuss this with Francesca this evening—"

"And I'll call tomorrow morning to hear her answer." Gyles paused as Charles joined him at the door.

"One last impertinence. You mentioned your marriage was an arranged one—tell me, were you happy?" Charles met his gaze. "Yes. We were."

Gyles hesitated, then inclined his head. "Then you know Francesca has nothing to fear in the arrangement I propose."

There'd been pain in Charles's eyes. Gyles knew Charles was a widower, but he hadn't anticipated that depth of feeling; Charles had clearly felt the loss of his wife keenly. A chill touched his nape. Gyles stepped into the hall. Charles followed. They shook hands, then the butler arrived. Gyles followed him back through the house.

As they neared the front hall, the butler murmured, "I'll just send the footman for your horse, my lord." They stepped into the hall to find no footman in sight, but the green baize door at the hall's end was swinging wildly. A second later, a shrieking scullery maid raced out. She ignored Gyles and rushed for the butler.

"Oh, Mr. Bulwer, you got to come quick! There's a chook got loose in the kitchen! Cook's chasing it with a cleaver, but it won't stand still!"

The butler looked offended and guilty simultaneously. He slid a helpless glance at Gyles as the maid dragged with all her might on his sleeve. "I do apologize, my lord—I'll get help—" Gyles laughed. "Don't worry—I'll find my way. By the sound of it, you'd better settle things in the kitchen if you want any dinner tonight."

Relief washed over Bulwer's face. "Thank you, my lord. The stable lad will have your horse ready." Before he could say more, he was dragged away. Gyles heard him scolding the maid as they went through the swinging door.

Grinning, Gyles strolled to the front door. Letting himself out, he descended the steps, then, on impulse, turned left. He strolled the parterre, admiring the trimmed hedges and conifers. On his left, the stone wall bordered the path, then a yew hedge continued the line unbroken. He turned left again at the earliest opportunity—an archway in the hedge giving onto a path through the shrubbery. He looked ahead; the stable's roof rose beyond the hedges.

Stepping through the archway, he paused. An intersecting path ran both right and left. Glancing toward the house, he discovered he could see all the way to where the stone wall he'd earlier paced along joined the corner of the house. Close by the house, a stone seat was built out from the wall. On the seat sat a young lady.

She was reading a book lying open in her lap. The late-afternoon sun beamed down, bathing her in golden light. Fair hair the color of flax was drawn back from her face; fair skin glowed faintly pink. From this distance, he couldn't see her eyes yet the general set of her features appeared unremarkable, pleasant but not striking. Her pose, head tilted, shoulders low, suggested she was a woman easily dominated, naturally submissive.

She was not the sort of woman to stir him at all, not the sort of woman he would normally take the time to study.

She was precisely the sort of wife he was looking for. Could she be Francesca Rawlings?

As if some higher power had heard his thought, a woman's voice called, "Francesca?" The girl looked up. She was shutting her book, gathering her shawl as the woman called again.

"Francecsa? Franni?"

Rising, the girl called, "I'm here, Aunt Ester." Her voice was delicate and light. Stepping out, she disappeared from Gyles's view.

Gyles smiled and resumed his stroll. He'd trusted Charles and Charles had not deceived him—Francesca Rawlings possessed precisely the right attributes to be his amenable bride. The path opened onto a grassed courtyard. Gyles stepped into it—

A dervish in emerald green did her best to mow him down.

She landed against him like a force of nature—a small woman barely topping his shoulder. His first impression was of wild black hair curling riotously over her shoulders and back. The emerald green was a velvet riding habit; she was booted and carried a crop in one hand.

He caught her, steadied her—she would have fallen if he hadn't closed his arms about her. Even before she'd caught her breath, his hands had gentled, his rakish senses avidly relaying the fact that she was abundantly curvaceous, her flesh firm yet yielding, quintessentially feminine—for him, elementally challenging. His hands spread over her back, then his arms locked, but lightly, trapping her against him. Full breasts warmed his chest, soft hips his thighs.