All About Passion (25 page)

"Oh! How
beautiful."
Stepping up to the polished floor, Francesca looked around, then was drawn to the windows. "What a magnificent view!"

"I'd forgotten," Gyles murmured, closing the door. "I haven't been here for years." Francesca glanced around at the comfortable furniture. "Well, someone comes here—it's aired, and there's not a speck of dust in sight."

"Mrs. Cantle. She says the walk does her good." Leaving Francesca by the windows, Gyles walked to where, beside a sofa, a tapestry frame stood, a piece of linen stretched on the hoop, silks dangling. "My mother used to spend a lot of time here."

The tapestry stirred long-buried memories; Gyles eventually recognized it as the one his mother had been working on at the time of his father's death. "It's too far for her these days." And she wouldn't come anyway—that he now understood. Francesca had asked if he'd ever watched his parents making love—he'd denied it. But he had seen them together once. He'd been playing on the ledge and had heard their voices. He couldn't make out what they were saying, it had all been a jumble of sounds, so he'd crept closer and peeked in. They'd been here, on the sofa, in each other's arms, kissing and murmuring. He hadn't understood what they were doing, and it had interested him not at all. He'd gone back to playing and had given the incident no further thought.

His mother had loved his father deeply—he'd known that all along. Known the reason for her overwhelming sadness at his death, her withdrawal from the world at the time. He'd never questioned that love, never doubted its existence. But he'd forgotten just how strong love was—how enduring. How it held true through all the years.

Now he was here with Francesca. His wife.

A sound reached him; he turned and watched her open a window, pushing the halves wide. The back of the folly butted against the bluff, but its other walls were half window. A sill ran around the room at hip height, with windows set in panels reaching up, nearly to the ceiling.

Placing her hands on the wide sill, Francesca leaned out and looked down, then to either side. "The river's so close you can hear it murmuring."

"Can you?" Halting behind her, Gyles slid his arms around her and drew her back against him. She chuckled warmly and leaned back, tipped her head back. Gyles bent his head and set his lips to the curve of her throat. She shuddered delicately.

"The view is tantalizing."

He murmured the words against her skin, then shifted his hands to cup her breasts. His teeth grazed the taut line of her throat, then lightly nipped.

She reached back, down, sliding her hands down his thighs. "It's the
ambiance,"
she whispered. "I can feel it."

It was his turn to chuckle; he knew precisely what she could feel. She pressed her head against his shoulder and her eyes found his, searched them, read them. He didn't try to hide his desire, his need, what he wanted, that minute, from her.

Her lips curved, sirenlike, and she turned in his arms, turned to him.

Her hand touched his cheek as he bent his head. They kissed, and it was sweet. Addictive enough for them to take, and give, and take again.

They didn't stop until they were breathless, both aching and wanting and eager. It was she who stepped back, drawing him with her, until her back met the ledge.

He arched a brow at her. "Here?"

She arched a brow back—pure challenge. "Here, my lord."

She'd never pretended to an innocence she didn't possess. He closed his hands about her waist and lifted her; she wriggled and got her balance. He lifted her skirts and pushed them back to her hips. She parted her thighs eagerly and he touched her, cupped her, lingeringly caressed her, then slid one long finger deeply into her.

"Oh!" She clutched his shoulder as her lids drooped in involuntary reaction. He stroked, then reached deeper and she gasped.

"Don't you dare," she managed, but he only smiled. He stroked and probed until she was frantic. She was hot and wet; he delighted in the abandoned response of her body to his touch, to him. Then she pushed his hand away and her fingers were at his waistband. He was fully erect, iron-hard, and very ready when her fingers found him and stroked, then closed. But they couldn't afford to let her have her way with him. He drew her hand away, pressed her knees wide, and guided himself to her entrance. He pressed in and she gasped, tightened, then eased and wriggled. He clamped her hips between his hands and pressed deeper, then deeper still. Her body welcomed him, slick, scalding hot, yielding. She laced her fingers behind his nape and leaned back, gripping his flanks with her thighs, tilting her hips to take him all, settling herself about him.

With one final thrust he seated himself fully, embedded within her lustiness. Their eyes met; all laughter was gone. She lifted one hand, laid it along his cheek, and guided his lips to hers, offering them to him. He took them, and her, and she urged him on. Desire, passion and need filled them, caught them in a net of pleasure and bound them together, linked them ever more deeply as their bodies searched for, and found, delight.

Experienced delight. As she shattered in his arms, Francesca inwardly smiled, and waited, feeling her body surrender, unfurl and soften, feeling him plunder even more deeply. Then, with a harsh cry, he joined her, and filled her with a warmth far more pervasive than the physical. Joy, happiness—intangible but priceless.

Together they clung, together they gloried. She gloried even more that he'd come to her outside of her bedchamber. There was no possibility this was a duty-driven exercise, not that she'd seriously imagined their nightly interludes were such, but the confirmation was comforting. Encouraging. She stroked his hair, soft against her palm, listened to his breathing ease, felt his heart slow. Felt ridiculously exposed—vulnerable beyond belief, even with his strength surrounding her. But if that's what it took, she was willing. More than willing to take the risk. She was committed to loving him and could not now draw back. Never would.

She'd crossed her Rubicon to put herself in his arms.

Chapter 11

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They walked back through the park in the deepening twilight, his arm around her, her head on his shoulder. Neither said a word. Increasingly Gyles felt that between them there was too much to say, and no words in which to say it.

None of his experience had prepared him for this. She seemed more proficient, more attuned, yet even she was wary, careful. Even she protected her heart and screened her thoughts and feelings. Feelings. Something he could not escape, could not deny. The unfettered joy he experienced when they loved was new. Achingly precious, wholly addictive. Despite that last, he was grateful—for the experience of loving at that level where the physical was subsumed by the ephermal and feelings were elevated to a different plane.

As they neared the house, he glanced at her face. He was grateful for all she was, for all she had brought him.

Raising his head, he looked up at his front door.

And was conscious he wanted still more.

He knew what he wanted—had known for some time. Yet how could he demand let alone claim her love if he was not willing to love her, openly and honestly, in return?

They climbed the porch steps in silence. He opened the door; with a soft, sated smile, she stepped into the hall. He hesitated, then, face hardening, followed her into the house. They met over the dinner table two hours later. Francesca's heart was light, her body still aglow as she took her seat beside Gyles. Irving oversaw the serving, then the staff withdrew as she and Gyles tasted the delicate soup Ferdinand had prepared.

Gyles glanced at her. "If you write a letter to Charles, Wallace will see it gets sent immediately."

"I'll write tomorrow." She wanted to get the question of what Franni felt about their marriage clarified. It was a black cloud hovering at the edge of her mental horizon; she wanted it dispersed so, when the time came, she could celebrate with an unfettered heart.

Never had she felt so confident of converting her dream to reality. Although she accepted they still had work to do in establishing the framework of their marriage, after this afternoon, she no longer harbored any doubt as to the basic structure, or the foundation on which they would build. She knew better than to let her heart overflow, let her expectations show. Throughout the meal, she kept up a steady flow of general conversation, aware but unconcerned that Gyles made no effort, beyond that first comment, to introduce any subjects of his own.

At the end of the meal, they strolled side by side into the hall. She turned toward the family parlor. Wallace stepped from the shadows and addressed his master. "I've left the documents from the study in the library as you requested, my lord."

Francesca turned and looked at Gyles.

He met her gaze. "You'll have to excuse me. There's some research I must do on certain parliamentary matters."

She couldn't read his eyes, could read nothing in his bland expression. Thus far, he'd always joined her in the parlor; she would read a book while he read the London papers. A chill like a raindrop slithered down her spine. "Perhaps I could help." When he didn't immediately reply, she added, "With the research."

His face hardened. "No." After an instant's hesitation, he added, "These are not matters with which my countess need concern herself."

She couldn't breathe. She stood there, disbelieving, stopping herself from believing, stopping herself from reacting. Only when she was sure her mask was in place and would not fall, when she was sure she could speak and her voice wouldn't falter, she inclined her head. "As you wish." Turning, she walked toward the parlor.

Gyles watched her go, aware Wallace was still standing in the shadows. Then he turned. A footman threw open the library door; he walked in. The door closed behind him.

He'd done it for her own good.

An hour later, Gyles rubbed his hands over his face, then stared at the three hefty volumes open on the desk before him, their pages lit by the desk lamp. On the blotter sat the drafts of three bills he and a number of like-minded lords had been discussing for some time. Given he'd decided to miss the autumn session, he'd volunteered to research the key points in their deliberations. He'd done little to further their goals tonight.

Every time he started reading, the expression in Francesca's eyes, the sudden blanking of happiness from her face, rose to haunt him.

Lips compressing, he tugged one tome so the light fell better on the page. He'd done the honorable thing. He was not prepared to love her, not as she wished to be loved—it was better to make that plain now and not encourage her to extrapolate—to invent, to imagine—to dream any further. Focusing on the tiny print, he forced himself to read.

The door opened. Gyles raised his head. Wallace materialized from the gloom.

"Excuse me, my lord, do you wish for anything further? Her ladyship's retired—she mentioned a slight headache. Do you wish tea to be brought to you here?"

A moment passed before Gyles replied, "No. Nothing further." He looked away as Wallace bowed.

"Very good, my lord. Good night."

Gyles stared unseeing across the darkened room. He heard the door shut; still he sat and stared. Then he pushed back his chair, rose, and walked to the long windows. The curtains were open; the west lawn was awash with moonlight, the orchard a sea of shifting shadows beyond.

He stood and stared; inside, a battle raged.

He didn't want to hurt her yet he had. She was his wife—
his.
His most deeply entrenched instinct was to protect her, yet how could he protect her from himself? From the fact he had an eminently sound reason for refusing to admit love into his life. That his decision was absolute, that he would not be swayed. That he'd long ago made up his mind never to take that risk again.

The consequences were too dire, the misery too great.

There seemed no other choice. Hurt her, or accept the risk of being destroyed himself. He stood before the windows as the moon traversed the sky. When he finally turned inside, lowered the lamp wick and blew out the flame, then crossed the dark room to the door, one question—only one—

echoed in his mind.

How much of a coward was he?

Four days later, Francesca cracked open the second door to the library and peeked in. The second door lay down a side corridor, out of sight of the main door and the footmen in the front hall. If they saw her approaching any door, they would instantly fling it wide—in this instance, the opposite of what she wished.

Gyles was not at his desk. It stood directly across the room. The chair behind it was empty, but books lay open, scattered across the desktop.

Francesca eased the door farther open and scanned the room. No tall figure stood by the long windows, nor yet by the shelves.

Swiftly, she entered and quietly shut the door. Moving to the nearest corner, she started along the bookshelves, scanning the titles.

Her caution had nothing to do with her search—she wasn't engaged in any reprehensible act. But she wanted to avoid any unnecessary encounter with Gyles. If he didn't want her in his life, so be it—she was too proud to beg. Since the evening he'd elected to spend his after-dinner hours separate from her, she'd ensured she made no demands on his time beyond the absolutely necessary. He still came to her bed and her arms every night, but that was different. Neither she nor he would allow what occurred between them outside her bedchamber to interfere with what lay between them
inside
it. On that, at least, they were as one.

She hadn't been back to the Dower House. While she would have liked to indulge in the comfort and support of her mother-in-law and aunt-in-law, the first question they would ask was how she was getting on, meaning getting on with her husband.

She didn't know how to answer, couldn't conceive how to explain or make sense of it. His rejection—

how else was she to interpret it?—had been a blow, yet, stubbornly, she refused to give up hope. Not while he continued to come to her every night—not while, during the day, she would catch him watching her, a frown, not one of displeasure but of uncertainty, in his grey eyes. No—she hadn't lost hope, but she'd learned not to prod. Henni had definitely been right about that. He was a latent tyrant; tyrants did not appreciate being dictated
to.
She had to let him find his own road, and pray it was one that led to her desired destination.