It would be up to her what she did with it next. She’d never been part of a large family; she was feeling her way, yet she could see the possibilities. The potential. Ideas, still amorphous, floated through her head but she couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t make any decision on such matters-not yet.
Not until she’d discovered what was going on in her marriage, and decided what to do about that.
Distracted by their own chatter, neither Lady Elizabeth nor Henni had noticed her initial abstraction. She’d left without mentioning her sudden, unwelcome uncertainties. She hadn’t asked why Gyles’s reasonable concern should suddenly erupt into such overprotectiveness. The answer was one she needed to learn for herself-the matter lay between him and her.
That overprotectiveness irked-the two footman crunching in her wake were a constant reminder. She felt caged, but it wasn’t that that hurt.
Gyles was avoiding her, refusing to reveal whatever the problem that had caused this reaction was.
He’d withdrawn from her, drawn back from her…
She paused and forced herself to take a breath.
She’d thought they’d drawn close, but he’d stepped away, turned away. Had she imagined it-all that had gone before? She’d been so certain he was close to loving her as she wished… and now this. In a matter of hours, he’d cut himself off from her and retreated to a formal, conventional distance. He’d put up walls against her.
She didn’t feel just caged, she felt shut out.
Drawing another breath, she set off again. The house stood amid its trees; she made for the front steps.
With every stride she took, her determination welled.
He’d said he would see her at dinner. Reaching the porch, she flung open the front door, strode into the hall and headed for the stairs.
She’d make sure he did.
Frustrated fury bubbled within her; she had to rein it in, had to wait. She swung into the gallery, making for the private wing.
A figure stepped out and bowed deeply. Ferdinand.
She halted before him. “Yes?”
“My lady.” He straightened. He was only just taller than she was. Despite his olive skin, he looked wan.
When he simply stared at her, looking tortured, Francesca frowned. “What is it?”
Ferdinand swallowed, then blurted out, “I would never have tried to harm you, my lady-you must believe that!” A torrent of Italian, impassioned and more, followed.
Conscious of the two footmen ten yards behind her, Francesca reached out, grasped Ferdinand’s sleeve, and shook hard. “Stop this! No one imagined you’d tried to harm me, or, indeed, done anything wrong.”
Ferdinand looked sceptical. “The master?”
Francesca caught his gaze. “If your master believed you harbored any intention to harm me, you would no longer be at Lambourn.” She could taste the truth in the words. “Now go back to your duties, and stop imagining anyone blames you.”
Ferdinand bowed low. Francesca walked on, her mind whirling. Gyles knew-accepted-that the dressing hadn’t been poisoned. So why had the incident acted as a catalyst for such change?
More questions only her husband could answer. Would answer-tonight.
She picked up her pace. The footmen didn’t follow her into the private wing. They weren’t needed there because there were already two footmen, one stationed at either end of the corridor, keeping watch over her rooms.
Teeth clenched, she flung open her door before either footman could reach it.
“Millie?” Her little maid jumped up from a straight-backed chair. Francesca closed the door. “I…” Haven’t rung for you yet. “What are you doing here?”
Millie bobbed. “Wallace said as how I should wait here, ma’am.”
Francesca stared. “When was this?”
“This afternoon, ma’am. After you went for your walk.” Millie came to take Francesca’s cloak.
“You’ve been up here, waiting, all afternoon?”
Millie shrugged; she shook out the cloak. “I had your things to tidy. Tomorrow, I’ll bring up the mending.”
Francesca watched her hang up the cloak, then turned away. “Call for water. I wish to bathe.”
A long soak in hot water did not improve her temper. It did, however, give her time to plan her strategy, organize her arguments, and rehearse what she would later say.
To her husband, face-to-face.
The sooner such an interview was brought about, the better. Wrapped in a silk robe, her hair curling wildly from the steam, Francesca waved Millie to the two large wardrobes that held her clothes. “Open them both-I wish to select a special gown for this evening.”
Gyles knew what he was facing the instant he set eyes on his wife that evening. He entered the family parlor with Irving on his heels. She looked up from the chair beside the fireplace, and smiled.
He stopped. Watched her while Irving announced that dinner was served.
She waited, patently expecting him to come nearer, to take her hand and raise her.
When he didn’t, she arched one brow.
He waved to the door. “Shall we?”
She met his gaze, then rose and came to him. One part of him wanted to turn, walk away-run away-and take refuge in his study. Most of him wanted-
He wrenched his gaze from the creamy expanse of her breasts exposed by the magnificent bronze-silk gown. The gown was simple; in it, she was stunning. He couldn’t stop his senses from drinking in the sight, from skating over her face, her hair, her lips.
He met her gaze briefly, then offered his arm. She placed her hand on his sleeve; soft and supple she glided beside him as they headed for the dining room-he felt as stiff as a board.
The meal provided a welcome diversion. He knew it wouldn’t last.
“The Festival went well, don’t you think?”
He inclined his head and nodded to a footman to serve him more beans. “Indeed.”
“Was there anything you noted, anything that might have been better done otherwise?” She gestured with her fork. “Any complaints?”
He met her gaze briefly. “No. None.”
He’d assumed the presence of Irving and the footmen would spike her guns temporarily; suddenly he wasn’t so sure.
As if she’d read his mind, she smiled, slipped a piece of pumpkin between her lips, and looked down.
Despite the determination he’d glimpsed in her eyes, she made no further reference to recent events, but asked instead about London. He appreciated her acquiescence to his wishes. He would have to speak with her-her dress declared her stance on that-but any such exchange would be at a time of his choosing and, most importantly, in her bedroom, a venue in which he could end all discussion whenever he wished.
“Have you heard from St. Ives?”
He answered briefly, revealing as little as possible. Lines would need to be drawn; he’d already drawn some but hadn’t yet decided where others would lie.
The meal ended. They rose and walked into the corridor. Pausing, she half turned and met his gaze.
He could feel her warmth, not just of her flesh but a deeper, womanly warmth, infinitely more tempting. The green of her eyes called him; the promise of her body showcased in bronze silk tugged at his senses. Drew him to her.
Her hand was rising to touch his arm when he stepped back.
Lids lowered, he inclined his head. “There’s much I have to attend to. I suggest you don’t wait up.”
He turned and strode for his study. He didn’t need to see her face.
Outwardly calm, Francesca retired to the family parlor. She sat by the fire for an hour, then Wallace pushed in the tea trolley. She allowed him to pour for her, then dismissed him. She sat beside the fire for another hour, then set aside her cup, rose, and went upstairs.
She changed, setting the bronze dress aside. Then she dismissed Millie.