Then those grey eyes darkened, turned stormy and turbulent. His gaze shifted to her lips.
“I think,” he murmured, “that I deserve a reward.”
He didn’t ask—he simply took. Bending his head, he set his lips to hers.
The first touch was a shock—his lips were cool, firm. They hardened, moving on hers, somehow demanding. Instinctively, she tried to appease him, her lips softening, yielding. Then she remembered that she was considering marrying him. She slid her hands up, over his chest, over his shoulders. Locking them at his nape, she kissed him back.
She sensed a fleeting hesitation, a momentary hiatus as if she’d shocked him—a heartbeat later it was wiped from her mind by a surge of fiery demand. The sudden pressure shook her. She parted her lips on a gasp—he surged in, ruthless and relentless, taking and claiming and demanding more.
For a moment, she clung, helplessly aware of her surrender, aware of being taken—driven—rapidly out of her depth. Aware of sensations streaking through her body, through her limbs, aware of her toes slowly curling. Far from frightening her, the feelings thrilled her. This was what she’d been created for—she’d known that all her life. But this was only half of it, half of the adventure, half of the apple when she wanted the whole. Without resistance, she let the wave of passion flow through her; as it ebbed, she gathered her will, then set about turning the tide.
She kissed him back passionately, and caught him—surprised him. He hadn’t expected it; by the time he realized, he was trapped in the game with her—the heated duel of tongues that she’d always imagined must be. She’d never kissed any man like this, but she’d watched and imagined and wanted—she’d suspected mirroring his caresses would work. That, she’d assumed, was how ladies learned the art—by kissing and loving with someone who knew.
He knew.
Hot, urgent, their mouths melded, tongues tangling, sliding, caressing. Her flesh heated, her nerves tightened; sharp excitement gripped her. Then the tenor of the kiss altered, slowed, strengthened, until his deep, sliding, rhythmic thrusts became the dominant theme.
She shuddered, felt something in her yield, something open, unfurl. React. Her whole body felt glorious, buoyed, languidly heated. Seduced.
Gyles was drowning, sinking beneath a wave of desire more powerful than any he’d previously known. It drew him under with the force of a tidal wave, eroding, washing away his control.
Abruptly, he broke the kiss. Jerked his head back and looked down at her. Clinging to his shoulders, held tight in his arms, she blinked, struggling to reorient.
His features hardened. He muttered a curse, followed by, “God, you’re so damned easy.”
Her eyes widened, then her lips set. She wriggled furiously; he swung her down, set her on her feet. She pulled away, stepped back, briskly brushing her bodice free of leaves, then shaking and straightening her skirts.
Francesca recalled she’d been miffed at him—even before that comment. He’d said he’d call in the morning—it must have been noon before he’d deigned to arrive. She’d lain in wait to waylay him. When he hadn’t shown, she’d gone riding to calm herself. What did noon say of his eagerness to win her?
As for his attitude! No wooing, no loverlike embraces—just hot passion and bold seduction. All very well that the latter appealed to her rather more than the former—he couldn’t have known that. Was he so uneager . . . or was it, perhaps, that he was so sure she’d accept him?
And what, exactly, did he mean by her being “easy”?
She threw him a sharp glance as she knelt to check the kittens. “I understand you’ve made an offer, my lord.”
Gyles stared at her back as she counted the kittens; he kept his frown from his face. If she’d heard about that . . . ”I have.”
Who the hell is she? Before he could ask, she said, “There’s six here—we’re missing three.” She stood and looked about. “This house of yours—Lambourn Castle. Is it really a castle? Does it have battlements and towers and a drawbridge and moat?”
“No moat or drawbridge.” Gyles glimpsed a grey kitten hiding beside a rock. He went to fetch it and it danced away. “There’s a section of battlements remaining over the front entrance, and two towers at either end. And there’s the gatehouse, too—that’s now the Dower House.”
“Dower House? Is your mother still alive?”
“Yes.” He pounced on the kitten and collared it. Holding it by the scruff, he carried it to the basket.
“What does she think of your offer?”
“I haven’t asked.” Gyles concentrated on sliding the squirming kitten into the basket while simultaneously holding the others in. “It’s nothing to do with her.”
Only as he stood did he realize what he’d said. The truth, admittedly, but why the devil was he telling her? Turning to frown—openly—at her, he spied another bumbling feline heading for the end of the orchard. With a muttered curse, he strode after it.
“Do you live at Lambourn all of the year, or only for a few months?”
She asked the question as he returned, the wriggling, squirming bundle in one hand. She was cradling a ginger kitten in her hands, snuggled between her remarkable breasts. It was purring fit to rupture its eardrums.
The sight distracted him completely. Gyles watched, his mouth drying, his mind blank, as she bent at the waist and eased the kitten from its nesting place to lay it in the basket.
“Ah . . .” He blinked as she straightened. “I spend about half the year at Lambourn. I usually go to London for the Season, and then again for the autumn session of Parliament.”
“Oh?” Real interest lit her green eyes. “So you take your seat in Parliament and speak?”
He shrugged as he stuffed the last of the kittens into the basket. “When there’s a matter that interests me, yes, of course.” He frowned. How had they got onto this topic?
Securing the basket’s lids, he lifted it and straightened.
“Here.” She held out the gelding’s reins and reached for the basket. “You can lead Sultan. I’ll take them.”
Before he knew it, he was standing with the reins in his hand watching her walk up the orchard. Watching her delightfully rounded derriere sway as, the skirt of her habit draped over one arm, she negotiated the slight climb. Setting his jaw, he headed after her—then realized why she’d left him with the gelding.
It took a good minute before he could convince the brute that he really was serious about moving. Finally, the huge horse consented to amble after him as he strode after the witch. She who was interrogating him. As he closed the distance between them, he wondered what she thought she was about. One possible answer had him slowing.
She’d known of his offer. That argued that she was in Francesca Rawlings’s confidence. Was it possible that, having confessed to meeting him, she was interrogating him on Francesca’s behalf? Francesca certainly hadn’t known who he was, but if the gypsy hadn’t described him . . . it was possible.
Falling in behind her, he murmured, “So tell me, what else does Miss Rawlings wish to know?”
Francesca glanced back at him—was he making fun of her? She faced forward again. “Miss Rawlings,” she said, somewhat tartly, “wishes to know if your town house in London is large.”
“Reasonably. It’s a relatively new acquisition, not even fifty years old, so it has all the modern conveniences.”
“I expect you lead a very busy life while in London, at least during the Season.”
“It can be hectic, but the entertainments tend to cluster in the evenings.”
“I imagine there’s quite a demand for your company.”
Gyles narrowed his gaze on the back of her curly black head. Without seeing her face, he couldn’t be sure, but . . . surely she wouldn’t dare. “I am in demand among the ton’s hostesses.”
Let her make of that what she would.
“Indeed? And are there any specific commitments, to any specific hostesses, that you presently have?”
The brazen witch was asking if he had a mistress. Reaching the stable yard, she stepped onto the cobbles and turned—the green eyes that met his aggravated gaze held a power all their own.
Halting before her, he regarded her. After a fraught moment, he slowly and clearly stated, “Not at present.” The fact that he was considering altering that situation heavily underscored the words.
Holding his gaze, Francesca found it easy not to smile. His grey eyes conveyed a meaning she wasn’t sure she understood. Was he challenging her to be good enough, fascinating enough, to keep him from other ladies’ beds? Was he telling her that whether he kept a mistress or not was up to her? There was a certain temptation in the thought, but she had her pride. Drawing herself up, she let her eyes flash censoriously, then haughtily nodded. “I must get these kittens inside. If you’ll give Sultan to Josh . . .” Head regally high, she swept around and headed for the kitchens.
Gyles very nearly reached out and spun her back; his hands fisted as he fought the urge.
“Ruggles!” she called. A ginger-and-black tabby came running. It stood to sniff the basket, then mewed and ran along beside her.
Gyles drew in his temper; the effort left him seething. That final look of hers had been the last straw. He’d been about to demand to be told precisely who she was and in what relation she stood to Francesca Rawlings when the damned witch had summarily dismissed him!
He couldn’t recall the last time any lady had dared dismiss him, not like that.
Through narrowed eyes, he watched her disappear into the kitchen garden, crooning to the kittens and their mother. Unless he much mistook the matter, the gypsy had just put him firmly in his place.
Chapter 3
He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Couldn’t get the taste of her—so wildly passionate—out of his mouth, couldn’t free his senses from her spell.
It was the next morning, and he was still ensnared.
Trotting through the forest, Gyles snorted disgustedly. With a little more persuasion, he could have had her under that damned apple tree. Why the fact so irritated him he couldn’t decide—because seducing her had proved so easy? Or because he hadn’t had the sense to press his advantage? If he had, she might not be tormenting him still, a thorn in his flesh, an itch he’d yet to scratch.
On the other hand . . .
He pushed the niggling thought aside. She didn’t mean that much to him—she was simply a resistant witch issuing a blatant, flagrant challenge, and he’d never been able to turn his back on a challenge. That was all. He was not obsessed with her.
Not yet.
He let the warning slide from his mind. He was too old, too experienced to get caught. That was why he was here, organizing his marriage to a meek, mild-mannered cipher. Recalling that fact, he checked his position, then took the next bridle path toward Rawlings Hall.
He was earlier than he’d been the day before; he caught her as she was setting out from the kennels. She welcomed him with a sunny smile and a “Good morning, Mr. Rawlings. About again?”
He replied with a smile, but watched her closely. He’d assumed after yesterday and the report no doubt made by the gypsy that Francesca would have realized who he was.
If she had, she was a better actress than Sarah Siddons; no trace of awareness showed in her eyes, her expression or her attitude. With an inwardly raised brow, he accepted it. After mulling the situation over, he saw no reason to inform her of his identity—not now. He’d only fluster her.
As before, he found it easy to stroll beside her. Only when they’d reached the other side of the lake and she paused to admire a tree and ask him what sort he thought it might be, did he realize he hadn’t been attending. He covered the gaffe easily—the tree was a birch; after that, he paid more attention. Only to discover that his intended was, indeed, the perfect choice for his needs. Her voice was airy and light, not smoky and sultry; it held no power to capture his thoughts. She was sweet and demure and unexciting—he spent more time looking at the spaniels than at her.
If he’d been walking with the gypsy, he’d have tripped over the spaniels.
Shaking his head—wishing he could shake all images of the witch out of it, especially the taunting visions that had kept him awake half the night—he hauled his mind back to the young lady presently by his side.
She evoked not the smallest spark of sexual interest; the contrast between her and her Italian companion could not have been more marked. She was precisely what he needed as his amenable bride—a young lady who aroused his passionate nature not at all. Doing his duty would be easy enough; siring a child or two on her would be no great feat. She might not be a beauty, but she was passable, unassuming, and likable enough. If she would accept his proposal, accept him without love, they would deal well enough together.
Meanwhile, given the gypsy and his bride were friends, it might be wise to ascertain the depth of their friendship before he seduced the gypsy. The thought of some grand emotional scene between himself and his wife because he had her friend in keeping was the closest thing to anathema he’d ever imagined, yet he doubted it would come to that. Who knew? Their friendship might even thrive; such arrangements were not unknown in the ton.
That niggling warning sounded again in his mind; this time, he paid it more heed. It would be wise to play safe with the gypsy, at least until he had his wife and his life secured as he wanted them.
The gypsy was wild and unpredictable. Until his marriage was fact, he’d steer clear of her temptation.
As before, he left his bride-to-be at the parterre. She accepted his departure with a smile, displaying no inclination to cling or demand more of his time. Entirely satisfied with his choice, Gyles headed for the stables.
Josh was waiting; he ran to get the chestnut. Gyles looked around. Then Josh was back. Gyles took his time mounting, dallying as long as he could before he cantered down the drive and turned into the lane to Lyndhurst.
He’d just decided to avoid the witch—it would be illogical to feel disappointed at not seeing her.
Then he did, and his heart leapt. She was a flash of graceful movement deep in a deserted ride. Before he’d thought, he’d loosed the chestnut’s reins and was pounding after her.
She slowed at the end of the ride, debating which of two paths to take, then she heard the thud of the chestnut’s hooves and glanced back.
A smile spread across her face, on a changing spectrum that traveled from welcoming to glorious. With an exuberant laugh, she flashed him a look of blatant challenge, then plunged down the nearest path.
Gyles followed.
The chestnut he was on was an excellent beast, but the grey she was riding was better. He rode heavier, too, and didn’t know the paths she flung her mount down with such alacrity. But he kept doggedly on in her wake, knowing that, eventually, she’d let him catch her.
She glanced back at him as they thundered beneath the trees; he caught a glimpse of her teasing smile. The feather in her scrap of a cap waved as she bobbed and weaved, expertly shifting as the grey took each curve at speed.
Then they burst from the forest into a wide meadow bounded only by more trees. With a “Whoop!” Gyles let his reins fall and rode the big chestnut hands and knees, urging him on. They gained on the flying gypsy. Although she rode fast, he was relieved to note that she held the grey in. The massive hunter had to be one of Charles’s mounts, bred for stamina and the chase. In this terrain it was the fastest and surest bet, especially as, at present, it was running with only a fraction of its accustomed weight.
The witch heard him closing; she flung a laugh over her shoulder. “More?”
She didn’t wait for an answer but set the grey for another path.
They twisted and turned, then raced across another glade; exhilaration sang in his ears. It had been years since he’d felt such a tug, years since he’d surrendered so completely to the thrill of sheer speed, to the relentless pounding of his horse’s hooves, to the echo in his blood.
She felt it, too, knew it, too—it was there in her sparkling eyes. They met his, sharing the moment, then she was off again.
It required no conscious decision to follow; as one they flowed through the forest. It enfolded them, held them within its green bosom as if they ran in a place out of time.
But time still ran.
Gyles had ridden from the age of three; he possessed an inner guide that sensed his horse’s strength, how long they’d been flying at speed. A moment came when he checked. His mount still had some way to go; he’d only cantered to and from the Hall.
The thought focused his mind on the grey. He would have bet his matched pair that the gypsy had been flying from the moment she’d left the stable.
He started worrying.
His pulse leapt at every blind twist in the path; he caught his breath at every rough patch she flew over. Unbidden, images crowded into his mind—of her lying injured, fallen across a log, thrown on her lovely head, her neck twisted at an impossible angle—
He couldn’t get the visions out of his mind.
The trees thinned. They exploded into another clearing. He called her back, but she’d already sprung the grey. Her face was alight—she threw back her head and laughed, then her gaze fixed ahead, she gathered the reins . . .
Gyles glanced ahead.
A fence, old and decrepit, overgrown with young saplings divided the field in two. She put the grey at it.
“No!”
His shout merged with the thunder of hooves—the grey’s and the chestnut’s. She was too far ahead for him to catch her eye. Then she was too close to the fence for him to risk distracting her.
Still yards ahead of him, the grey soared. In his heart, he prayed. The heavy hooves cleared the fence easily. The grey landed, then stumbled.
She shrieked.
Gyles lost sight of her as the beast went down, then the grey was up again—riderless.
All About Passion Page 4