Accent and coloring-the gypsy could be Italian. As for behavior, no meek, mild-mannered English young lady would ever have boldly appraised him as she had. Italian, then, either friend or companion of his bride-to-be. She was certainly no maid-not dressed as she had been-and no maid would have dared behave so forwardly, not on first or even second sight.
Reining in where the drive wound into the trees, Gyles looked back at Rawlings Hall. How best to play the cards he’d just been dealt he wasn’t yet sure. Securing his amenable bride remained his primary objective; despite the carnal need she evoked, seducing the gypsy had to take second place.
He narrowed his eyes, seeing, not faded bricks but a pair of emerald eyes bright with understanding, with knowledge and speculation beyond the ken of any modest young lady.
He would have her.
Once his amenable bride declared she was willing, he’d turn to a conquest more to his taste. Savoring the prospect, he wheeled the chestnut and galloped down the drive.
Chapter 2
Francesca rushed into the house through the garden hall. Abruptly halting, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. Waited for her wits to stop whirling.
Gracious! She’d spent the last year privately bemoaning the lack of fire in English men, and now look what the gods had thrown at her. Even if it had taken them twelve months to find him, she wasn’t about to complain.
She wasn’t sure she shouldn’t go down on her knees and give thanks.
The vision that evoked brought a laugh bubbling up, set the dimple in her left cheek quivering. Then her levity faded. Whoever he was, he hadn’t come to see her; she might never meet him again. Yet he was a relative assuredly-she’d noted the resemblance to her father and uncle. A frown in her eyes, she headed into the house.
She’d just returned from a ride when she’d heard Ester call. Leaving the stables, she’d pelted for the house. She’d stayed out longer than usual; Ester and Charles might be worrying. Then she’d collided with the stranger.
A gentleman, definitely, and possibly titled-difficult to tell if Chillingworth was surname or title. Chillingworth. She said it in her mind, rolled it on her tongue. It had a certain ring to it, one that suited the man. Whatever else he might be-and she had a few ideas on the subject-he was the antithesis of the boring, unexciting provincial gentlemen she’d been assessing for the past year. Chillingworth, whoever he might be, was not boring.
Her pulse was still racing, her blood still up, far more so than could be accounted for by her ride. Indeed, she didn’t think her racing pulse or the breathlessness that was only now easing owed anything to her ride-they’d come into being because he’d held her too close and smiled at her like a leopard eyeing his next meal-and because she’d known precisely what he’d been thinking.
His grey eyes had kindled, sparking yet darkening, and his lips had curved just so… because he’d been thinking wicked thoughts. Thoughts of flesh pressed to naked flesh, of silk sheets sliding and shushing as bodies moved in an ancient rhythm upon them. The brazen images formed readily in her mind.
Blushing, she banished them and strode on down the corridor. Glancing around and seeing no one, she waved a hand before her face. She didn’t want to have to explain her blush to Ester.
The thought had her wondering where Ester was. Entering the central wing, she detoured to the kitchen. No Ester there. The staff had heard Ester call, but didn’t know where she’d gone. Francesca pushed through the door into the front hall.
The hall was empty. Her bootheels clacked on the tiles as she crossed to the stairs. She was halfway up the first flight when the door to her uncle’s study opened. Ester came out, saw her, and smiled. “There you are, dear.”
Francesca reversed direction. “I’m so sorry-it was such a fine day I just rode and rode and forgot the time. I heard you call and came running. Is anything wrong?”
“No, indeed.” A tall lady with a horsey face but the kindest of eyes, Ester smiled fondly as Francesca halted before her. Reaching out, Ester eased the frivolous riding cap from Francesca’s unruly locks. “Your uncle wishes to speak with you, but contrary to there being anything wrong, I suspect you’ll be very interested in what he has to say. I’ll take this”-Ester spied the riding gloves and crop Francesca held in one hand and took them-“and these, upstairs for you. Go along now-he’s waiting to tell you.”
Ester’s nod indicated the open study door. Intrigued, Francesca entered, shutting the door behind her. Charles was seated behind his desk, studying a letter. Hearing the latch click, he looked up, and beamed.
“Francesca, dear girl, come and sit down. I’ve just had the most amazing news.”
Crossing to the chair to which he waved her, not before the desk but beside it, Francesca could see that for herself. Charles’s eyes were alight, not shadowed with some unnameable worry as they so often were. Too often careworn and sad, his face now glowed with unmistakable good cheer. She sank onto the chair. “And this news concerns me?”
“It does, indeed.” Swinging to face her, Charles leaned his forearms on his knees so his head was more level with hers. “My dear, I’ve just received an offer for your hand.”
Francesca stared at him. “From whom?”
She heard the calm query and marveled that she’d managed to get it out. Her mind was streaking in a dozen different directions, her heart racing again, speculation running riot. It was a battle to remain still, to counsel herself to the prim and proper.
“From a gentleman-well, actually, he’s a nobleman. The offer is from Chillingworth.”
“Chillingworth?” Even to her, her voice sounded strained. She hardly dared trust her ears. The vision in her mind…
Charles leaned forward and took her hand. “My dear, the Earl of Chillingworth has made you a formal offer of marriage.”
When Charles finished explaining it to her, in painstaking and repetitive detail, Francesca was even more astonished.
“An arranged marriage.” She couldn’t credit it. From another gentleman, yes-the English were so… phlegmatic. But from him-from the man who had held her in his arms and wondered what it would be like to… with her… Something was not right.
“He’s adamant that you understand that.” Charles’s gentle, serious gaze remained fixed on her face. “My dear, I would not urge you to accept unless you felt comfortable with the arrangement, but I would be failing in my duty as your guardian if I didn’t tell you that while Chillingworth’s approach may appear cold, it is honest. Many men feel the same, but would cloak their offers in more fanciful guise thinking to win your romantic heart.”
Francesca gestured dismissively.
Charles smiled. “I know you’re not a flighty girl who would have your head turned by false protestations. Indeed, I know you well enough to be sure you would see through any disguise. Chillingworth is not the sort of man to employ one-that’s not his style. He’s of the first rank-his estates, as I’ve told you, are extensive. His offer is more than generous.” Charles paused. “Is there anything more you’d like to know-any questions at all?”
Francesca had dozens, but they were not the sort her uncle could answer. Her suitor himself would have to explain. He was not the sort of man to countenance a bloodless, unemotional union. He had fire and passion in his veins, just as she had.
So what was this all about?
Then the truth dawned. “He spoke with you this afternoon while I was out riding?” When Charles nodded, she asked, “He’s never seen me, has he? I can’t recall meeting him before.”
“I don’t believe he’s seen you…” Charles frowned. “Did you meet him?”
“On my way from the stables. He was… leaving.”