“If we go through the Colonnades, we’ll come out close to our booth.”
Francesca could see the square outline of what must be the Colonnades ahead. The crowd was so thick, they kept halting, pausing. In one such interval, she looked around, and saw, not ten feet away, Lord Carnegie.
His lordship saw her. His gaze flicked to Gyles, then returned to her. He smiled, bowed.
The crowd shifted, blocking him from view. Francesca looked ahead and quelled a shiver.
They reached the Colonnades. Gyles turned under the first arch-just as a tide of revelers rolled out in the opposite direction. Francesca was caught, wrenched from Gyles’s side and pushed back along the path.
She thought she’d lose her footing and fall. Regaining her balance, she struggled to break free of the melee. Her voluminous cloak was pulled this way, then that.
Hands grabbed at her arms-even through her cloak, she knew it wasn’t Gyles. She jerked free, turned, but in the jostling crowd she couldn’t see who’d grabbed her.
Dragging in a breath, she tried to forge her way back to the Colonnades. The crowd parted, and Gyles was there.
“Thank heavens!” He hauled her to him, locked her close. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, closing her fist in his coat.
“Come on.”
Gyles tried to ignore the primitive uneasiness rippling through him. He held her close as they made their way through the Colonnades. They reached the Rotunda. From there, the way was easier, the crowd composed primarily of gentlefolk less inclined to jostle.
As he’d arranged, their guests were waiting in the booth he’d hired. Francesca was disarmed and delighted.
“Thank you,” she said when, radiant, she returned to his side. “I didn’t expect this. You’ve been busy.”
“It seemed a good idea.”
Devil and Honoria were there, as were his mother, Henni, and Horace. The Markhams and Sir Mark and Lady Griswold, old acquaintances who’d grown closer with Francesca’s entrance into his life, rounded out the party.
The evening passed pleasantly. The booth was in a prime position; they had an easy stroll to the Rotunda, where seats had been reserved for the ladies for the performance. The gentlemen seated their wives, then retreated to a safe distance to discuss the bills they’d been working on and other important matters, such as the hunting and shooting they might have during the winter.
At the end of the performance, Francesca rose, delighted. With Honoria, she headed to where their husbands stood.
“Well!” A crabbed hand shot out and snagged her wrist.
Francesca turned, then smiled. “Good evening.”
“And a very good one it is for you, quite clearly.” Lady Osbaldestone turned to Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, seated beside her. “Told you it’d happen sooner rather than later.” Turning back to Francesca, she released her hand and struck it admonishingly. “Now you’ve got him in harness, just make sure you keep him right up to the bit, gel! Understand?”
Struggling to hide a grin, Francesca didn’t attempt a reply.
“If you don’t, just ask Honoria there. She hasn’t done too badly at all.”
Lady Osbaldestone grinned wickedly. Honoria bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you.”
Smiling, the Dowager touched Francesca’s hand. “It’s a great joy to see Gyles suitably settled at last, but it is true-you will have to make sure he doesn’t slide. At least until the role becomes second nature. Then…” She gave a Gallic shrug signifying that then, all would take care of itself.
Parting from the older ladies, Francesca whispered to Honoria, “How do they know?”
Honoria glanced at her, then whispered back, “It’s written all over your face, and his.”
Her nod directed Francesca’s gaze ahead, to where their husbands stood waiting. Two tall, strikingly handsome, broad-shouldered men with eyes just for them.
Honoria flicked her an understanding glance as they neared. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Mmm” was Francesa’s reply. Smiling, she took Gyles’s arm, and they turned toward their booth.
“Mmm, what?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Francesca dimpled up at him. “Are we dancing, my lord?”
Gyles looked to where couples were waltzing in the area before the booths. “Why not?”
So they whirled. Gyles was aware of the admiring male glances they drew; he could hardly complain. She was happy so she glowed, her eyes sparkling, her lips curved. That smile and the light in her eyes were all for him.
The dance ended; as they headed back to the booth, they came upon another area of congestion. Gyles held Francesca’s hand firmly and led her through; she walked behind him, sheltered by his body.
They turned the corner toward the booth door, and the crowd eased.
A lady halted directly in front of Gyles, startling him into halting, too. She smiled like a cat and stepped closer.
“My lord-what a surprise.”
Gyles blinked. Her tone was a poor imitation of Francesca’s seductive purr. That instant’s hesitation encouraged the woman. Smile widening, she pressed close.
“I had heard you were no longer receiving, but that can’t be right, surely. Just because you’re married… well, a leopard doesn’t lose his spots overnight, does he?”
Who the devil is she? Gyles couldn’t recall.
“This leopard,” came a voice from beside him, “is spoken for.”
The madam’s eyes flew wide; to Gyles’s surprise, she took an involuntary step back as Francesca stepped between them.
She looked the woman down, then up, then tipped up her nose haughtily. “You may be interested to know that I take an active interest in my husband’s social life-all requests for his company on any but business matters should henceforth be addressed to me. And as for his spots, you may be sure I appreciate them and have every intention of enjoying their benefits for many years to come.”
The woman blinked. So did Gyles.
Francesca’s head rose another notch; he would have given a great deal to see her face as she imperiously, asked, “I trust I have made myself clear?”
The unknown lady cast him a very fleeting glance, then-and he would have sworn to her own surprise-bobbed a curtsy. “Indeed, my lady.”
“Good.” Francesca waved. “You may leave us.”
Blushing vividly, the woman did.
Gyles shook his head. Curving a hand about Francesca’s waist, he urged her on. “Remind me to send any further importuning ladies your way.”
“Do.” On the threshold of the booth, she whirled and faced him. Her eyes burned with green fire-not the warm sort. With her chin set the way it was, he could understand why the lady had retreated.
“I’ll be happy to deal with them.” Her expression stated she would relish the dealing. Her eyes met his, then haughtily, she turned into the box. “I am, I believe, more than a match for them.”
Gyles wasn’t about to argue. She was more, much more, than any who had gone before. Aside from all else, she was a Rawlings-they shared, it seemed, quite a few character traits.
Smiling, he stepped into the booth, sliding one hand about her waist to draw her to him.
In the aftermath of that scene, in light of the thanks Francesca spent the night bestowing on him, Gyles found it impossible to deny her her wish to visit her old governess in Muswell Hill. She left immediately after luncheon. He retired to the library, confident that with two extra grooms riding with John Coachman, he had no need to fret.
Three hours later, a commotion erupted in the hall. He rose-before he could take a step, Wallace threw open the door. “There’s been an incident, my lord.”
Before his heart could plummet, Francesca swept in. “No one was hurt.”
Tugging off her gloves, she crossed toward him. Gyles took in her frown, took in the fact she was clearly unharmed. “What happened?”
A cough drew his attention. John Coachman stood on the threshold beside Wallace. “Highwaymen, m’lord. But what with the lads on top-they were carrying their pistols like you ordered-we came to no harm.”