Releasing her, Lady Elizabeth held her away, shrewd grey eyes much like her son’s quickly taking stock, then the countess’s face lit. “My dear, Gyles has surprised me—I hadn’t credited him with such good sense.”
Francesca returned Lady Elizabeth’s smile, then turned to meet the second lady, of similar age to the countess and equally elegant but with brown hair rather than the countess’s pale curls.
The lady took her hand, then drew her closer to kiss her cheek. “I’m Henrietta Walpole, my dear—Gyles’s paternal aunt. Gyles calls me Henni, and I’ll expect you to as well. I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.” Henni patted her hand, then released it. “You’ll do wonderfully.”
“And this,” Lady Elizabeth waved to a portly gentleman emerging from the hall, “is Horace, Henni’s husband.”
In her letters, Lady Elizabeth had explained that Henni and Horace had lived at the Castle since Gyles’s father’s death. Horace had been Gyles’s guardian until he’d reached his majority; Henni was his favorite aunt. Francesca had been keyed up to make a good impression, and was relieved that Henni had accepted her so readily. As Horace strolled up, she saw surprise sweep his face as he took in the sight of her.
Her breath caught in her throat. Then Horace returned his bemused gaze to her face, and smiled. Broadly.
“Well, then!” He took her hand and bussed her cheek. “You’re a pretty little thing—suppose I should know better than to imagine m’nephew’s taste would run in any other vein.”
The comment earned him censorious looks from Lady Elizabeth and Henni, of which he remained oblivious, too engrossed in smiling at Francesca.
Smiling in return, she looked expectantly past him. There was a very correct butler standing in the doorway, but . . . no one else. The front hall stretched away, tiled floors gleaming, woodwork glowing, doors to either side, a footman here and there, but it was otherwise empty. She heard voices as Charles, Ester, and Franni climbed the steps. Lady Elizabeth’s arm came around her; the countess steered her toward the welcoming warmth of the hall.
“I’m afraid, my dear, that Gyles could not be here to greet you.” Lady Elizabeth had lowered her head and her voice; her words were just for Francesca. “An emergency arose on the estate late this afternoon, and Gyles had to ride out to deal with it. He’d expected to be here to meet you, and hoped to be back in time, but . . .”
Francesca glanced up in time to see Lady Elizabeth grimace. The older woman’s eyes met hers, then Lady Elizabeth squeezed her hand. “I’m so sorry, my dear. It’s not what any of us wanted.”
Lady Elizabeth turned to greet Charles, Ester, and Franni; Francesca realized her mother-in-law-to-be was giving her a moment to absorb the unexpected blow. For a gentleman of Chillingworth’s standing not to be present to greet his betrothed on her arrival for their wedding . . .
Francesca dimly heard Lady Elizabeth making her son’s excuses to Charles. She forced herself to straighten her shoulders and turn to her uncle with a reassuring smile, conveying the impression that she found Chillingworth’s absence disappointing but not distressing. For that she earned a grateful look from the countess. The greetings continued, then they passed into the house. Lady Elizabeth introduced Francesca to the elderly butler, Irving—“Irving the Younger is the butler at the London house—you’ll meet him when you go up to town,” and to a dapper little man who stood in Irving’s imposing shadow.
“This is Wallace, my dear. He’s Chillingworth’s majordomo and has been with my son for many years. If there’s anything you need, now or in the future, Wallace will arrange it.”
Not much taller than she was, Wallace bowed low.
“Now!” Lady Elizabeth turned to address them all. “With your arrival being delayed and you having to sit cramped in the coach for so long, we thought we’d spare you the ordeal of having to greet all the others gathered for the wedding. Everyone’s here, but we’ve asked them to remain apart”—she gestured into the great house, to the maze of reception rooms that doubtless lay beyond the hall—“to let you get your bearings. Time enough to meet everyone tomorrow. However, if you do wish to be introduced tonight, you have only to say the word. Otherwise, your rooms are ready, there’s plenty of hot water, and dinner will be brought up whenever you desire.”
Lady Elizabeth’s gaze came to rest on Francesca. She glanced at Charles. “It has been a long few days. I would rather retire, if that’s possible.” Being introduced to a host of distant relatives, as well as tonnish peers and their sharp-eyed wives, without her fiancé by her side, was not an ordeal she’d come prepared to face.
Charles and Ester murmured their agreement. Franni said nothing; she was gazing wide-eyed about the hall.
“Of course! That’s what we expected. You’ll need your rest—tomorrow’s the important day, after all, and we’ll all need to be at our best.” With reassurances and admonishments to ask for anything they needed, Lady Elizabeth ushered them upstairs. They parted in the gallery. Henni went with Ester and Franni; Horace strolled off with Charles. The countess, imparting inconsequential information, accompanied Francesca down corridors and through another gallery, eventually leading her into a pleasant chamber, warmed by a blazing fire, with wide windows looking north over the downs.
“I know it’s only for one night, but I wanted you to have peace and quiet, and have enough space for donning your bridal gown tomorrow. Also, getting from here to the chapel, you won’t have to cross Gyles’s path.”
Surveying the comfortable chamber, Francesca smiled. “It’s lovely—thank you.”
She was aware of the shrewdness behind Lady Elizabeth’s gaze. “Would you rather eat or bathe first?”
“A bath, please.” Francesca smiled at the little maid who darted up to help her with her coat. “I can’t wait to get out of these clothes.”
Lady Elizabeth gave orders; the maid bobbed and hurried out. As soon as the door shut, Lady Elizabeth sank down on the bed and grimaced at Francesca. “My dear, thank you. You’re taking this awfully well. I could wring Gyles’s neck, but . . .”—she lifted her hands palms up—“he did have to go. It was too serious to leave to his foreman.”
“What happened?” Francesca sat in a chair by the hearth, grateful for the warmth of the fire.
“A bridge collapsed. Upriver a little way, but on the estate. Gyles had to go and actually see it to decide what was best to be done. The bridge is the only link to part of the estate. There are families stranded and so on—lots of decisions, small and large, for Gyles to make.”
“I see.” She did. She’d been trained to be a gentleman’s wife; she knew about the responsibilities large estates entailed. Francesca glanced at the window. “Will he be safe riding back in the dark?”
The countess smiled. “He’s been riding the downs since he could get atop a horse, and indeed, the downs are quite safe for riding, even in poor light. You needn’t worry—he’ll be here, safe and sound, and quite impatient to marry you come morning.”
Francesca cast a shy glance at the countess. Lady Elizabeth caught it and nodded. “Oh, yes, he’s been decidedly testy all day—and was exceedingly grim about having to go out and risk not being here when you arrived. Still, it will only whet his appetite for tomorrow.” She rose as the maid returned with footmen carrying steaming pails.
When the bath had been readied and only the maid remained, Lady Elizabeth crossed to Francesca, who rose. The countess kissed her on both cheeks. “I’ll leave you now, but if you need anything, or wish to speak with me again, whatever the hour, you only need ring and Millie here will answer, and she’ll come and fetch me. Now, are you sure you have everything you need?”
Touched, Francesca nodded.
“Very well, then. Good night.”
“Good night.” Francesca watched Lady Elizabeth leave, then beckoned to the maid to assist her with her gown.
Once she’d bathed, she felt much more relaxed, much more forgiving; she could hardly blame him for the rain, or its effe
cts, after all. Leaning back in the tub, she instructed Millie in unpacking her trunks and laying out all she would need for the morrow. Her eyes round with awe, Millie carefully shook out the ivory silk wedding gown.
“Ooh, ma’am, it’s just beautiful!”
The gown had been reverently pressed and packed by the staff at Rawlings Hall; it only needed a good shake and a night hanging up to be absolutely perfect. “Leave it in the wardrobe. Everything else I need for tomorrow should be packed next.”
Millie emerged from the wardrobe and shut the door with a soft sigh. “A rare sight you’ll be in that, ma’am, pardon my saying so.” She returned to Francesca’s trunks. “I’ll just get out your wedding finery, and your nightgown and brushes, and we’ll move all the rest to the countess’s suite tomorrow morning, if that’s all right?”
Francesca nodded. A ripple of nervousness shivered over her skin. Tomorrow morning, she’d become his countess. His. The sensation behind the shiver intensified. She sat up and reached for the towel. Millie came running.
Later, wrapped in a bedgown, she sat by the fire and ate the simple but elegant dinner Millie had brought up on a tray. Then she dismissed the little maid, turned down the lamps, and thought about climbing into bed. Instead, she found herself drawn to the window, to the wide vista of the downs. The high, largely treeless plateau stretched away in gently rolling waves as far as her eyes could see. The sky was almost clear; the only remnants of yesterday’s storms were the tattered clouds that streamed before the wind.
The moon was rising, sending a wash of silvery light over the scene.
The downs possessed a wild beauty that called to her—she’d suspected that would be the case. A sense of freedom, of nature unfettered, unrestrained, rose from the barren landscape.
And tempted her.
Tonight would be her last night alone—the last night she would have only herself to answer to. Tomorrow would bring her a husband, and she already knew—or could guess—his feelings about her riding wild through the night.
She wasn’t sleepy. The long hours in the coach, hours of increasing tension, the disappointment, the anticlimax at finding him not here to greet her when she’d spent so many hours dreaming of how it would be—dreaming of the look in his eyes when next he saw her—had left her disaffected, more restless, more edgy than ever before.
Her riding habit was in her second trunk. She wrestled it free, then unearthed her riding boots, gloves and crop. The hat she could do without.
Ten minutes saw her dressed and booted, sliding through the huge house. She heard deep voices—she turned in the opposite direction. She found a secondary stair and took it down to the ground floor, then followed a corridor and found a parlor with French doors opening onto the terrace. Leaving the doors closed but unlocked, she headed for the stable block she’d glimpsed through the trees.
The trees were old oaks and beeches; they welcomed her into their shadows. She strode along, secure in the knowledge no one could see her from the house. The stable block proved to be interestingly large, two long stables and a coach barn built around a courtyard. She slipped into the nearest stable, and started down the aisle, gauging the nature of the horse in each box. She passed three hunters, even larger and more powerful than those she’d ridden at Rawlings Hall. Recalling Chillingworth’s comments, she continued on, looking to see if he had a smaller mount—
The door at the end of the aisle opened. Light bobbed, illuminating tack stored in the room beyond, then the light danced into the aisle as two stablelads, one carrying a lantern, stepped through and pulled the door shut.
Halfway along the aisle, Francesca had no chance of regaining the stable door. The light had yet to reach her. Slipping the latch of the stall she stood beside, she eased the door open, then whisked around it and pressed it closed, then reached over and lifted the latch into place.
A quick glance over her shoulder reassured her. The horse whose stall she’d invaded was well mannered, and not large. It had turned its head to view her, but with her vision affected by the lamplight, she could see little more. But there was plenty of room for her to slide down against the stall door and wait for the stablelads to pass by.
“There she is—a beauty, ain’t she?”
The light suddenly intensified; glancing up, Francesca saw the lamp appear just above her head. The stablelad rested it on the top of the stall door.
“Aye,” the second lad agreed. “Smashing.” The door shifted as two bodies leaned against it. Francesca held her breath and prayed they wouldn’t look over and down. They were talking about the horse. She looked, and for the first time, saw.
Her eyes widened; she only just managed to suppress an appreciative sigh. The horse was more than merely beautiful. There was power and grace in every line, a living testimony to superior breeding. This was precisely the sort of horse Chillingworth had spoken of—a fleet-footed Arabian mare. Her bay coat glowed richly in the lamp light, dark mane and tail a nice contrast. The horse’s eyes were large, dark, alert. Its ears were pricked.
Francesca prayed it wouldn’t come to investigate her—not until the stableboys moved on.
“Heard tell the master bought her for some lady.”
“Aye—that be right. The mare’s hardly up to his weight, after all.”
The other boy chortled. “Seems like the lady was.”
Francesca glanced up—to see the lamp disappear. The stablelads pushed away from the door; the light retreated. She waited until the dark returned, then rose and peeked over the stall door just in time to see the two lads step out of the stable, taking the lantern with them.
“Thank God!”
A soft nose butted her in the back. She turned, equally eager to make friends. “Oh, but you’re a gorgeous girl, aren’t you?” The mare’s long nose was velvet soft. Francesca ran her hands along the sleek coat, gauging by feel; her night vision had yet to return.
“He told me I should be riding an Arab mare, and he’s just bought you for some lady.” Returning to the horse’s head, she stroked its ears. “Coincidence, do you think?”
The horse turned its head and looked at her. She looked at it. And grinned. “I don’t think so.” She threw her arms about the mare’s neck and hugged. “He bought you for me!”
The thought sent her spirits soaring. Higher and higher, tumbling and turning. The mare was a wedding present—she would bet her life on it. Five minutes before, she’d been anything but pleased with Chillingworth, anything but sure of him. Now, however . . . she would forgive a man a great deal for such a present, and the thought behind it.
On such a horse, she could ride like the wind—and now she would be living on the edge of a wilderness made for riding wild. Suddenly, the future looked a lot more rosy. The dream that had teased her for the past several weeks—of riding Lambourn Downs on a fleet-footed Arabian mare with him by her side—was so close to coming true.
“Having bought you for me, he must expect me to ride you.” She couldn’t have resisted to save her soul. “Wait here. I have to find a saddle.”
Gyles rode home through the dark, weary in mind rather than in body. He was damp after wrestling with wet timbers, but the summons to the wrecked bridge had been a godsend. It had saved his sanity.
He’d refused Devil’s offer to ride out with him, even though he could have used the help. His temper was worn too thin to allow him to deflect Devil’s ribbing, which would have turned to probing the instant he lost his temper and snapped. Devil had known him too long to be easily avoided. And despite his protestations to the contrary, Devil was sure that, like all the Bar Cynster, he’d succumbed to Cupid and was, in reality, in love with his soon-to-be wife.
Devil would know the truth soon enough—the instant he laid eyes on Gyles’s meek, mild-mannered bride.
Turning his grey onto the path across the downs, he let the reins lie loose, letting the beast plod at his own pace.
His thoughts were no faster. At least he’d managed to keep the gue
st list to a manageable hundred or so. He’d had to fight his mother every step of the way; she’d been writing furiously to Franscesca over the past weeks, but he was sure it wasn’t at his bride’s insistence his mother had pushed and prodded, trying to make the wedding into a grand occasion. That had never been a part of his plan.
It occured to him to wonder if his bride had actually arrived. The service, after all, was scheduled for eleven tomorrow morning. His impulse was to shrug. She’d either be there, or she’d arrive later and they’d marry whenever. It was of little real moment.
He was hardly an impatient bridegroom.
Once he’d gained Francesca’s agreement and ridden away from Rawlings Hall, all urgency had left him. The matter was sealed, settled; she’d subsequently signed the marriage settlements. Since leaving Hampshire, he’d barely thought of his bride-to-be, only when his mother brandished a letter and made another demand. Otherwise . . .
He’d been thinking of the gypsy.
The memory of her haunted him. Every hour of every day, every hour of the long nights. She even haunted his dreams, and that was undoubtedly the worst, for in dreams there were no restrictions, no limits, and for a few brief moments after he awoke, he’d imagine . . .
Nothing he did, nothing he told himself, had diminished his obsession. His need for her was absolute and unwavering; despite knowing he’d escaped eternal enslavement by the skin of his teeth, he still dreamed . . . of her. Of having her. Of holding her, his, forever.
No other woman had affected him to this degree, driven him so close to the edge.
He was not looking forward to his wedding night. Just thinking of the gypsy was enough to arouse him, but he couldn’t, it seemed, assuage his desire with any other woman. He’d thought about trying, hoping to break her spell—he hadn’t managed to leave his armchair. His body might ache, but the only woman his mind would accept ease from was the gypsy. He was in a bad way, certainly not in the right mood to ease a delicate bride into harness.
All About Passion Page 8