How to get him to change his mind? The question fully absorbed her as the miles rolled past. It all seemed to hinge on who was the more stubborn-on whether she was willing to risk all to gain her dream.
She tried to see forward, to think ahead, imagining the possibilities. Thoughts of the past night kept intruding. She didn’t want to think about that.
About the way he’d closed a hand in the hair at her nape and swung her to him, tipped her head back, and kissed her as if he’d been starving. About the way his hands had raced over her, stripping the silk from her, greedy for her skin, her flesh, her body. The feel of him over her, around her, inside her, hard and commanding, demanding. He’d wanted and taken with the ruthlessness of a conqueror, and she’d been with him every step of the way. Taunting, defiant, taking her own pleasure in his possessiveness, recklessly urging him on.
Holding him to her long after, when the tempest had passed and left them drained.
She flicked a glance sideways, briefly studied his profile. One elbow propped on the window ledge, his chin supported in that hand, he was watching the streetscape of London roll by.
She’d woken in the night to find him curled around her, his chest to her back, one hand splayed protectively over her stomach. When she’d woken in the morning-been woken by the maids scurrying furiously-he’d been gone. The chaos of the morning had left her no time to think, let alone reflect, not until they’d rolled out of the park and Jacobs had turned his team toward the capital.
They’d stopped at the Dower House, but Lady Elizabeth and Henni had been out walking. Horace had received them, jovial as ever, unsurprised that they might indulge in “a bolt to the capital.” They’d left messages of farewell with him.
It had been Horace who’d been the focus of her thoughts as they’d bowled through Berkshire. Horace who’d been Gyles’s father figure through his formative years-the years in which a boy learned by observation the ways in which men behaved to women. It was obvious that Horace was sincerely devoted to Henni, but that perception owed more to Henni’s calm happiness than any overt behavior on Horace’s part.
Horace had taught Gyles to be a gentleman, and Horace eschewed all outward shows of affection, of love, toward his wife, regardless of his true feelings.
Eyeing Gyles, Francesca mentally ran through the catalogue she’d assembled of the actions, the small gestures all but buried beneath the activities of their lives, that had left her hope intact.
He’d tried, deliberately, to dash that hope, to lead her to believe he was denying her absolutely, denying any chance of her dream transmuting to reality, yet all the while his actions spoke differently.
Not just his actions in their bed, although their tenor certainly did not support the facade he’d tried to project-that of an expert lover who nevertheless remained emotionally indifferent to her. She suppressed a dismissive humph: he had never been emotionally indifferent to her-the idea!
How he could expect her to believe it she didn’t know.
Especially when there were a thousand other things that gave him away. Like his fussing when they’d stopped for lunch at an inn. Was she well wrapped and warm enough? The bricks at her feet hot enough? Was the food to her liking?
Did he think she was blind?
He knew she wasn’t. That puzzled her. It was as if he’d accepted that she’d know or at least suspect that he felt more for her, but that he was hoping, if not expecting, that she’d pretend she didn’t know.
That didn’t, to her mind, make sense, yet it wasn’t, she was sure, an inaccurate summation of their present state.
He said one thing but meant, and wanted, another. He’d said they would go their separate ways-she’d be greatly surprised if that came to pass.
Did he want some sort of facade in place, like Horace and Henni? Was he hoping she’d agree to that? Could she?
In all honesty, she doubted she could. Her temperament was not amenable to hiding her emotions.
Was that the direction he wished to steer them in?
If so, why?
She’d asked him last night, and he’d refused to answer. There was no point asking again, even if the context was somewhat altered. At base, it was the same question-the question she kept tripping over, again and again.
So she’d have to forge on, try to find a way forward, without the answer. It was as if she were doing battle on a field obscured by mist-fighting for her future, and his, without knowing where or what obstacles were in her path. If he thought she’d grow discouraged, give in, and settle for less than the enduring, open love she’d always wanted, especially now she knew it could exist if he would allow it to be, he would need to think again. Resigning battles was not her forte.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t his either.
She slanted an assessing glance at him. They would see.
The coach slowed, then turned a corner. A huge park appeared on the right.
Gyles glanced at her. “Hyde Park. Where the fashionable go to be seen.”
She leaned closer to look past him. “And should I be seen there?”
He hesitated, then said, “I’ll take you for a drive around the Avenue one day.”
She sat back as the carriage rounded another corner. Almost immediately, it slowed.
“We’ve arrived.”
Francesca glanced out at a row of elegant mansions. The carriage halted before one; the number 17 glowed against the stonework flanking the door.
The carriage door was opened. Gyles moved past her and descended, then handed her down to the pavement. She looked up at the green-painted door, at the gleaming brass knocker.
Behind her, Gyles murmured, “Our London home.”
He led her up the steps and into the blaze of the hall. The servants were waiting, lined up to greet her, Wallace at their head, Ferdinand farther down the row. They’d traveled up in Gyles’s curricle ahead of the main carriage. Wallace introduced her to Irving the Younger, then stood back while Irving introduced her to Mrs. Hart, the housekeeper, a thin, somewhat ascetic woman, a Londoner from her speech. Between them, Irving and Mrs. Hart introduced all the others, then Mrs. Hart murmured, “I daresay you’re eager to rest, my lady. I’ll show you to your room.”
Francesca glanced about. Gyles was standing under the chandelier, watching her.
She started toward him, glancing back at Mrs. Hart. “I’m not tired, but I would love some tea. Please bring it to the library.”
“At once, ma’am.”
Reaching Gyles, she slid her arm through his. “Come, my lord. Show me your lair.”
He should have put his foot down and ushered her into the drawing room. Two days later, Gyles could see his mistake clearly. Now the library, which in this house doubled as his study, was as much her lair as his.
He quelled a sigh and frowned at the letter spread on his blotter. It was from Gallagher. He glanced to where Francesca sat reading in an armchair before the hearth. “The Wenlows’ cottage-do you remember it?”
She looked up. “In that hollow south of the river?”
“The roof’s leaking.”
“It’s one of three, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “They’re all the same, built at the same time. I’m wondering if I should order all three roofs replaced.”
He looked at her, watched consideration flow across her face.
“Winter’s nearly here-if one of the other roofs spring a leak, it’ll be hard to fix if it’s snowing.”
“Even if it isn’t. Those old roofs get so iced, even without snow it’s too dangerous to send men up.” Setting a fresh sheet on the blotter, Gyles reached for a pen. “I’ll tell Gallagher to replace all three.”
She read while he wrote, but looked up as he sealed the letter. “Is there any other news?”
He recounted all Gallagher had told him. From there, they got onto the subject of the bills he was researching. They were deep in a discussion of demographics relating to the voting franchise when Irving entered. “Mr. Osbert Rawlings has called, my lord. Are you receiving?”