Francesca poured the tea. They all sat and sipped. The afternoon passed in easy contentment.
“Maria vergine! Impossibile!”
Gyles was in his room dressing for dinner; he heard the exclamations and the spate of frenzied Italian that followed them, delivered in a definitely masculine voice.
Wallace, holding Gyles’s cravat, stilled. “Ferdinand.” He laid aside the linen band. “I’ll remove him immediately.”
“No.” Gyles stayed Wallace with an upraised hand; although he couldn’t hear her words, he could hear Francesca speaking. “Stay here.”
Gyles crossed to the door leading to Francesca’s bedchamber. Opening it, he saw Millie standing in the middle of the room, staring at the open door leading to Francesca’s sitting room, through which another tirade of frantic Italian rolled forth.
Millie started as Gyles entered the room. He ignored her and crossed to the open door.
In the middle of her sitting room, Francesca stood wrapped in a dressing robe, arms folded, and waited for Ferdinand to run out of breath.
When he did, and paused, she spoke in a tone that effectively put an end to his hopes. “You’re supposedly an experienced chef. It’s beyond my comprehension that you are, so you say, unable to place a meal of any merit on the table before eight o’clock, despite having been warned this morning that dinner tonight will be at seven.”
He answered with another torrent of Italian; once she caught his gist, she silenced him with an upraised hand.
Her expression severe, she studied him, then nodded. “Very well, if you are unable to perform your duties, Cook will take charge. I’m sure she’ll manage to feed your master in appropriate fashion at seven o’clock.”
“No! You cannot-” Ferdinand choked back the words. “Bellisima, I beg…”
Francesca let him prattle a little more, then cut him off with a slash of her hand. “Enough! If you’re half the chef you believe yourself, you’ll have a magnificent meal ready to serve”-she glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf-“in one hour.” Looking back at Ferdinand, she waved to the door. “Now go! And one thing. Do not again seek me out here. If you wish to speak with me, you will consult with Wallace, as is proper. I will not have you disrupting my husband’s household in any way-you are living in England and must abide by English ways. Now, go. Go!” With an intensely Italian gesture, she shooed him away.
Cast down, Ferdinand slunk off, closing the door behind him.
Francesca regarded the door, then nodded. Swinging around, she headed back to her bedchamber, loosening her robe as she went. She approached the doorway-only then did she realize Gyles was standing in it.
Rapidly replaying Ferdinand’s more impassioned passages, Francesca inwardly winced. No need to look too far for the reason behind her husband’s stony countenance. He understood Italian well enough to have translated the worst of Ferdinand’s histrionics.
Gyles’s gaze, hard as granite, had moved past her.
“I could send him back to London.” His gaze returned to her face. “If you wish…”
She tilted her head and considered. Considered the fact Ferdinand had unknowingly put his continued employment in jeopardy. Considered the revelation that her husband was an exceedingly jealous man. His gaze hadn’t even lowered despite the fact her robe had slithered open and she was wearing only a thin chemise beneath.
She shook her head. “No. If you’re to wield influence in political circles, then we’ll need to host dinners and for that, Ferdinand’s skills will be helpful. It’s best he gets used to us making unexpected demands now, here, rather than later in London.”
Gyles’s gaze remained on her face. His expression softened not at all, but she got the impression she’d said something right-enough to appease the possessiveness prowling behind his eyes. Then he inclined his head. “If you believe he’s capable of adapting, he may stay.”
She stepped forward. His gaze drifted lower, a warm caress over her breasts, stomach and bare legs.
He stepped back and let her walk past him. His gaze flicked to Millie. “One thing.” His voice was pitched so only she could hear. He met her gaze as she turned. “He is not again to come into this wing.”
“You heard all I said?”
He nodded.
“Then you know he will not.”
He held her gaze for an instant longer, then nodded curtly. He looked at Millie. “I’ll let you finish dressing.”
Gyles sat at the head of his dining table, Henni on his left, Ester on his right, and tried to keep his mind on their conversation. Tried to keep his gaze from straying to his wife, glorious in teal silk at the table’s other end. Tried to keep his mind from dwelling on the scene he’d witnessed in her sitting room.
He’d been unprepared for the possessiveness that had roared through him, powerful, forceful, and unsettling. Equally unprepared for her calmness, her cool head in dealing with the Italian, for the rock-solid, unwavering loyalty he’d sensed behind her words.
Was that what love meant? What having her love would mean-never having to worry, to wonder, to consider where her loyalties might lie?
He tried to wrench his mind away but couldn’t. He answered a question from Henni absentmindedly, unable to take his mental eyes from the prize.
She’d talked in terms of “we” and “us.” She’d done so instinctively, without calculation-that was how she truly thought, how she saw them, their lives.
The barbarian within wanted that, wanted to seize the prize and gloat, while the gentleman had convinced himself he’d never desire any such thing at all.
“Gyles, stop woolgathering.”
He focused, and quickly came to his feet as Henni and Ester, along with the other ladies, rose.
Henni grinned. She patted his arm as she turned away. “Don’t dally so long over the port this time. I have an answer to your question.”
The only question Gyles could recall was his wish to know Henni’s opinion of Franni. That wasn’t incentive enough to make him cut short his time in the comfortable company of Charles and Horace and rush to the drawing room, where he would once gain be exposed to Franni’s disturbing presence.
No one else seemed to find her disturbing-odd and awkward, yes, but not unsettling.
After forty minutes, he drained his glass and bowed to the inevitable.
From the drawing room’s threshold, he scanned the assembled ladies and located Francesca talking to Henni by the hearth. Charles and Horace ambled over to join Lady Elizabeth and Ester who were sitting on the chaise.
Franni was in an armchair beside Ester; Gyles felt her pale blue gaze as he strolled to Francesca’s side but gave no sign he was aware of her.
“Well! There you are!” Henni turned to Francesca. “You’ll have to take him in hand, my dear-that was far too long over the port for just a family gathering.” Henni shook her head disapprovingly. “We can’t have him developing bad habits.” She patted Francesca’s hand and moved to join those about the chaise.
Gyles watched her go, then met Francesca’s emerald eyes. “Do you intend taking me in hand, madam?”
She held his gaze, then her lips curved. Her lashes fell as she leaned closer, her voice lowering to the smoky, sultry sound that shot heat straight to his loins. “I take you in hand every night, my lord.” She looked into his eyes, then arched a brow. “But perhaps, tonight, you should remind me. I wouldn’t want you developing bad habits.”
His fingers had found hers, stroking across her palm. He raised her hand to his lips. “Rest assured I’ll remind you. There’s a habit or two you might like to try.”
Her brows rose in artful consideration, then she turned as Horace joined them. Gyles learned it was Horace who’d told Francesca where the urns and troughs from the forecourt had been hidden. Watching her charm his uncle, he had to admire her skill-Horace was not at all susceptible, yet he was very willing to extend himself for Francesca.