She’d wanted that, dreamed of it, accepted it. She’d prayed he would, too. She turned her head, laid a hand along his cheek, and guided his lips to hers. His hands, warm through the silk, closed about her waist as their lips met, brushed, then settled. But only for a heartbeat.
The sudden rush of heat, of desire, had them both reining quickly back. Their eyes met; their lips curved in identical, knowing smiles.
He held her gaze, then raised a hand and lightly brushed the tight peak of one breast.
“You can thank me later.”
She did, spending the better part of the night in that endeavor. Throughout the following day, while she chatted and visited, drank tea and listened, Francesca’s mind constantly slid away, seduced by her memories. At one point Honoria arched a knowing brow and left her blushing. She wondered who else saw through her social veil and correctly guessed the cause of her distraction.
The following morning, she breakfasted with Gyles, as was becoming their invariable habit. He questioned her about her day’s engagements, then suggested she don her pelisse and come for a short drive with him in his curricle to try out the paces of his new team of bays.
He kidnapped her for the entire day.
Deaf to her protests, he bowled through the streets, taking her into the City, to St. Paul’s, where they walked hand in hand, gazing at the brasses and monuments, to the Tower and London Bridge, then off to see Cleopatra’s Needle, then on to the Museum.
It was, in many ways, a journey of joint discovery; when she peppered him with questions, he admitted he hadn’t visited the sights recently, not since he’d been ten.
That made her laugh-he retaliated by subjecting her to an inquisition on her life in Italy.
Indeed, his questions came so readily, rolled so easily from one point to the next, that she started to suspect that the purpose behind the outing was at least in part so he could learn more of her.
She answered his queries with a light and joyous heart.
Gyles caught her shrewd glances, saw the light dancing in her eyes. She would have been even more thrilled had she known his principal motivation. True, he did want to know more about her, but his deepest, most compelling reason for spending the entire day with her was simply because he needed to.
Needed the time with her to soothe an odd uneasiness, to reassure the barbarian that she was still his during the day as much as she was during the night. Needed the time to draw her to him with more than just his arms, his kisses. Needed to prove to himself that he could.
When he turned the bays for home, Francesca sighed; smiling softly, she leaned her head against his shoulder. He bent his head and dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. Her smile deepened, and she snuggled closer. It occurred to him that he was wooing her, although not in the accepted sense. He wasn’t wooing her to make her fall in love with him. He was wooing his wife to keep her loving him.
He would do it until he died.
Almack’s. Francesca had heard of it, of course, but she hadn’t imagined it would be so plain, so… boring. Tonight was not one of the usual subscription balls-it was too late in the year for that. Instead, the hostesses had graciously invited those of their accepted circle still in town for one last evening within the hallowed halls.
Casting a critical glance around as she strolled the main room on Osbert’s arm, Francesca felt that the hallowed halls could do with redecorating. Then again, the throng that filled them was glittering and glamorous enough to deflect attention from the dull, rather shabby decor.
Lady Elizabeth and Henni had encouraged her to accompany them; they’d explained it was an occasion at which a new countess could not afford not to be seen. On learning of her plans over the breakfast table, Gyles had suggested she wear her new gown and her emeralds.
Encountering her in the hall as she was leaving, he’d paused, hesitated. Shadows had hidden his face, then he’d taken her hand, carried it to his lips, and told her she looked ravishing.
The gown and necklace bolstered her confidence. They felt like armor, so carefully scrutinized had they been. Knowing she looked well had allowed her to meet the sharp eyes with unimpaired serenity. Under the auspices of Lady Elizabeth and Lady Henrietta, as Henni was more properly known, she’d been introduced to all the hostesses. All had signified their approval; all had expressed the wish that she would be a frequent visitor in the years to come.
“Why?” Francesca shook Osbert’s sleeve. He’d arrived shortly after they had, and had made a beeline for her side. “Why would I wish to attend here often?”
“Well,” Osbert temporized, “in your case, I suppose there isn’t any great need. You’ll want to look in every so often to keep in touch-find out who the favored of the latest crop of young ladies are, which gentlemen are looking to take the plunge, and so on. But until you have a daughter to establish, I can’t see that this place will help you. Except on occasions like this, of course.”
“Even then.” Francesca waved at the crowd. “Where are the gentlemen? Most of those here are so young, and they look like they’ve been dragged along by their mamas. Half of them are sulking.” They reminded her forcibly of Lancelot Gilmartin. “There are only a few like you who’ve braved the dangers.” She patted his arm. “I’m grateful.”
Osbert colored and looked exceedingly conscious; Francesca smiled. Scanning the throng, she sighed. “There are no gentlemen like Gyles here.”
Osbert cleared his throat. “Gentlemen like Gyles usually… er, stick to their clubs.”
“After spending all day in their clubs, I would have thought they’d prefer to spend their evenings with feminine company.”
Osbert swallowed. “Cousin Gyles and his sort aren’t exactly encouraged to cross the threshold here. Well, they’re not likely to want a young bride, are they?”
Francesca caught Osbert’s eye. “Are you sure,” she murmured, “that it isn’t a case of the hostesses avoiding guests they can’t control?”
Osbert’s brows rose; he appeared much struck. “You know, I never thought of it quite like that, but…”
A stir about the main entry arch drew their attention. Francesca couldn’t see through the crowd; Osbert craned his neck, looked, then turned back to Francesca, his expression amazed. “Well! What a turn up.”
“What?” Francesca tugged his sleeve, but Osbert was looking again. He raised his hand in a salute.
An instant later, the crowd before them thinned, then parted. Gyles came stalking through.
“Madam.” He nodded curtly, taking her hand, ignoring her stunned expression.
He glanced at Osbert, who was struggling to hide a grin. Gyles caught his eye; Osbert abruptly took refuge behind his habitual vague mask. He nodded. “Cousin.”
Gyles returned the nod, then looked at Francesca.
Smiling delightedly, she slid her fingers from his grasp only to place them on his sleeve, slipping into her usual position at his side where she felt so comfortable. “I thought gentlemen like you weren’t encouraged to attend?”
Hard grey eyes met hers. “You’re here.”
Gyles skated his gaze over her shoulders, over the emeralds winking against her fine skin. The rustle of approaching skirts had him turning, saving him from saying something even more revealing.
“Gyles, dear-what a surprise!” His mother quizzed him with her eyes. He kissed her cheek and glanced at Henni.
With her head, Henni indicated the main archway. “You certainly made an entrance. Countess Lieven’s still standing there, shocked to her toes.”
“It’ll do her good.” Gyles glanced over the crowd. Not as many gentleman as he’d expected. Better than he’d hoped. “Come.” He glanced at Francesca. “Now I’ve made the supreme sacrifice of donning knee breeches, we may as well stroll.”