All About Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  She was his wife, after all, and if he was having his cake and eating it, too, thanks to her sensible acceptance of his plan, then it seemed only fair that she should at least be satisfied with her new life.

  But he couldn’t ask the simple question, and she stubbornly answered all his queries literally, smiling and sidestepping his point. That only made him wonder all the more.

  At the top of the rise, she paused, drew in a savoring breath, then she slanted him a catlike smile. Her eyes held his as he joined her, daring him to look at her breasts, at her figure clearly outlined as the breeze plastered her gown to it.

  Another of her ploys—distraction. He arched a brow, and she laughed. The husky sound spiraled through him, reminding him of the night just gone and they games they’d played.

  She was an expert at distraction.

  Smiling, she linked her arm through his. They started across the lawns, fallen leaves crunching under their feet, the scent of autumn in the air.

  “If there is anything you would like—anything to do with the household or the house—I take it you know you have only to ask?”

  His dry comment had her lips twitching. She inclined her head; silken black tendrils fleetingly caressed his cheek. “If I should discover anything I need, I’ll remember you said so.”

  She glanced at him from under her lashes, a habit she had—one he’d learned. He caught her gaze, trapped it, held it. After a long moment, he slowly arched a brow.

  Francesca wrenched her gaze from his and looked ahead. “If I discover a need . . . but at present, I have everything I . . . Who is this?”

  Breathless, glad to have a distraction from her lie, she gestured to the black carriage drawn up in the forecourt.

  “I wondered how long it would be.”

  Gyles’s tone had her glancing his way, this time with open puzzlement.

  “The coach belongs to our nearest neighbors, the Gilmartins. I’m surprised Lady Gilmartin was prevailed upon to wait the full week.”

  “They weren’t at the wedding?”

  Gyles shook his head. Taking her hand, he led her up the steps. “They were visiting in Scotland, thank God.” He glanced her way. “Prepare to be exclaimed over.”

  She threw him a puzzled frown, but let him open the door and hand her over the threshold—

  “Ah! There they are! Well, my goodness!” A large, amply bosomed matron fluttering a pink-fringed shawl descended on Francesca. “Well, my lord.” The woman threw an arch glance at Gyles. “You are a dark horse. And here all the local ladies were certain you had an aversion to matrimony! Ha-ha!” The lady beamed at Francesca, then swooped, and brushed cheeks. “Wallace was trying to say you were indisposed, but we saw you plain as day by the bluff.”

  Francesca exchanged a glance with the stony-faced Wallace, then took the lady’s hand in hers. “Lady Gilmartin, I take it?”

  “Ah-ha!” Her ladyship twinkled at Gyles. “I see my reputation goes before me. Indeed, my dear, we live just past the village.”

  Grasping her ladyship’s elbow, Francesca steered her toward the drawing room. Irving hurried to open the door.

  Lady Gilmartin prattled on. “You must come and take tea, of course, but we thought to drop by this afternoon and welcome you to our little circle. Eldred?”

  Reaching the center of the drawing room, Francesca released her ladyship and turned to see an anemic gentleman entering by Gyles’s side. Next to Gyles, he looked wilted and withered. He bowed and smiled weakly; Francesca smiled back. Drawing in a bracing breath, she waved Lady Gilmartin to the chaise. “Please be seated. Wallace—we’ll have tea.”

  Subsiding into an armchair, Francesca watched as Lady Gilmartin sorted her shawls.

  “Now, where were we?” Her ladyship looked up. “Oh, yes—Clarissa? Clarissa? Where have you got to, gel?”

  A pale, pudgy girl wearing an unladylike scowl flounced into the room, bobbed a curtsy to Francesca, then plopped down beside her mother on the chaise.

  “This is my darling.” Lady Gilmartin patted her daughter’s knee. “Just a fraction too young to compete with you, my dear”—her ladyship indicated Gyles with her head—“but we have high hopes. Clarissa will be going up for the Season next year.”

  Francesca made the right noises and avoided her husband’s eye. A second later, her gaze fixed on the slight gentleman belatedly strolling into the room. She blinked, and missed all Lady Gilmartin was saying. Her ladyship swiveled. “Ah, Lancelot. Come and make your bow.”

  Dark-haired, interestingly pale, quite startlingly handsome albeit in a studied way, the youth—for he was no more than that—swept the room with a disdainful glance. A glance that stopped, dead, on Francesca.

  “Oh. I say!” The dark eyes, until then hooded by languid lids, opened wide. With considerably greater speed, Lancelot came around the chaise to bow with romantic abandon before Francesca. “I say!” he said again as he straightened.

  “Lancelot will be coming up to town with us for the Season.” Lady Gilmartin beamed. “I think I can say without fear of contradiction that we will cause quite a stir. Quite a stir!”

  Francesca managed a polite smile, grateful that Wallace appeared with the tea tray, followed by Irving with the cake platter. While she poured and their guests sipped and devoured, she did her best to steer the conversation into more conventional straits.

  Gyles kept his distance, talking quietly with Lord Gilmartin by the windows. When Francesca at last caught his eye, a very clear message in hers, he arched one brow fleetingly, then, with a resigned air, ushered Lord Gilmartin closer to his family.

  The result was not felicitous. The instant she realized Gyles was near, Clarissa simpered. Then she giggled in a manner Francesca could only consider ill-bred and cast coy glances at Gyles.

  Before Francesca could think how to rearrange the room and reseparate her husband and Clarissa, Lancelot stepped in front of her, blocking her view. Startled, she looked up.

  “You’re most awfully beautiful, you know.”

  The passionate glow in Lancelot’s eyes suggested he was about to fling himself on his knees and pour out his callow heart.

  “Yes, I know,” she said.

  He blinked. “You do?”

  She nodded. She eased up, forcing him to step back so she could stand. “People—men—are always telling me that. It matters little to me, because, of course, I can’t see it.”

  She’d used such lines before to confuse overardent gentlemen. Lancelot stood there, frowning, replaying her words in his head, trying to determine the correct response. Francesca slipped around him.

  “Lady Gilmartin?”

  “What?” Her ladyship started and dropped the scone she’d been eating. “Oh, yes, my dear?”

  Francesca smiled charmingly. “It’s such a lovely day outside, I wonder if you’d care to stroll in the Italian garden. Perhaps Clarissa could come, too?”

  Clarissa scowled and turned a pugnacious countenance on her mother, who brushed crumbs from her skirt while peering shortsightedly at the long windows.

  “Well, dear, I would love to, of course, but I rather think it’s time we were leaving. Wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome.” Lady Gilmartin uttered one of her horsey laughs. Rising, she stepped close to Francesca and lowered her voice. “I know what men—lords or earls though they may be—are like, dear. Quite ungovernable in the early days. But it passes, you know—trust me on that.” With a pat on Francesca’s hand, Lady Gilmartin swept toward the door.

  Francesca hurried after her, to make absolutely certain she headed the right way. Clarissa stumped after them; Lancelot, still puzzling, followed. Gyles and Lord Gilmartin brought up the rear.

  With hearty cheer, Lady Gilmartin took her leave, her offspring silent at her heels. Lord Gilmartin was the last to quit the porch; he bowed over Francesca’s hand.

  “My dear, you’re radiant, and Gyles is a lucky dog indeed to have won you.” His lordship smiled, gentle and sweet, then nodded and went down the
steps.

  “Remember!” Lady Gilmartin called from the coach. “You’re free to call anytime you feel the need of ladylike company.”

  Francecsa managed a smile and a nod. “What on earth,” she murmured to Gyles beside her, “does she think your mother and aunt are? Social upstarts?”

  He didn’t reply. They raised their hands in farewell as the coach rocked away down the drive. “That was neatly done—you must tell Mama. She was always at a loss to save herself.”

  “It was an act of desperation.” Francesca continued to smile and wave. “You should have warned me.”

  “There is no way adequately to warn anyone of Lady Gilmartin and her brood.” An instant’s pause ensued, then Gyles murmured, “You didn’t think being my countess would be easy, did you?”

  Francesca’s smile deepened into a real one. His tone was easy, easy enough to confuse with banter—underlying it ran his real question. Meeting his eyes, she let her smile soften. “Being your countess is quite pleasurable.”

  One brow quirked. “Pleasurable?”

  He was not holding her, yet she felt held. His eyes searched hers, then steadied. “That wasn’t what I asked.”

  His voice was a murmur, drifting past her ear.

  “Wasn’t it?” She had to fight to keep her gaze from lowering to his lips.

  Gyles studied her emerald eyes, wanting more yet not knowing how to ask for it. He had to try, to press her—

  “My lord? Oh.”

  He turned. Wallace stood by the door which he’d just hauled open. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry, my lord, but you wished to be informed when Gallagher arrived.”

  “Very good—show him into the office. I’ll join him in a moment.”

  He turned back to be met by a bright smile and a gesture suggesting they reenter the house.

  Francesca led the way into the hall. “Gallagher?”

  “My foreman.” Gyles glanced at her. The moment had passed. “There are various matters I need to discuss with him.”

  “Of course.” Her smile was a mask. “I must have a word with Irving.” She hesitated, then added, “I suspect we’ll have a visit from Mr. Gilmartin tomorrow. I wish to tell Irving to deny me.”

  Gyles met her gaze, then nodded. He turned away—then turned back. “If you encounter any problem—”

  Her smile flashed. “I’m more than capable of managing a callow youth, my lord.” She turned toward the family parlor. “Worry not.”

  Her words floated back to him. Gyles watched her walk away, and wondered just what it was he didn’t need to worry about.

  * * *

  The next day dawned as crisply beautiful as the last. Gyles spent the morning riding his lands, checking with his tenants, learning what needed attention before winter. He made sure he was back at the Castle in time for luncheon, in time to spend an hour with his wife.

  “It’s such a glorious day!” She took her seat at his right—they’d agreed to dispense with the tradition that decreed they sit at either end of the table, too far apart to converse. “Jacobs told me about the track along the river. I followed it as far as the new bridge.” She smiled at him. “It looks very sturdy.”

  “So I should hope.” The bill for the lumber doubtless lay waiting in his study. Gyles pushed such mundane thoughts from his mind and turned instead to enjoying the meal, and the company.

  He didn’t charm her or tease her—for some reason, his usually ready tongue fell quiet in her presence. Light banter he could manage and did, but they were both aware it masked deeper feelings, the gloss over the undercurrents of their joint lives. She was more adept, more confident in this arena than he, so he let her steer the conversation, noting that she rarely let it stray to any topic that would touch too closely to them—to what lay between them.

  “Mrs. Cantle said the plums are coming along wonderfully. Indeed, the orchard looks to be burgeoning.”

  He listened while she reported all the little things he’d always known happened at the Castle. He’d known as a boy, but forgotten as a man. Now, seeing them through her eyes, having her bring them once more to his attention, whisked him back to childhood—and reminded him that simple pleasures didn’t cease to be as one grew older, not if one remembered to look, to see, to appreciate.

  “I finally found Edwards and asked about the hedges in the Italian garden.”

  Gyles’s lips twitched. “And did he reply?”

  Edwards, the head gardener, was a dour Lancashireman who lived for his trees and took note of little else.

  “He did—he agreed to trim them tomorrow.”

  Gyles studied the twinkle in Francesca’s eye. “Did you threaten him with instant dismissal if he didn’t comply?”

  “Of course not!” Her grin widened. “I merely pointed out that hedges were composed of little trees, and they were getting so scraggly . . . well, they might need to be pulled out if they weren’t clipped and given a new life.”

  Gyles laughed.

  Then the meal was over, and it was time for them to part, yet they both lingered at the table.

  Francesca glanced through the window. “It’s so warm outside.” She looked at Gyles. “Are you going riding again?”

  He grimaced and shook his head. “No. I have to deal with the accounts, or Gallagher will be floundering. I have to work out the prices I’ll accept for the harvest.”

  “Is there much to do?”

  He pushed back his chair. “Mostly checking and entering, then some arithmetic.”

  She hesitated for only a heartbeat. “I could help, if you like. I used to help my parents with their accounts.”

  He held her gaze but she could read nothing in his eyes. Then his lips compressed, and he shook his head and rose. “No. It’ll be easier if I do them.”

  She plastered on a bright smile—too bright, too brittle. “Well!” Pushing away from the table, she rose and led the way from the room. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  He hesitated, then followed her out.

  If she wasn’t allowed to help with the estate’s affairs, she would go and talk with his mother. Who would probably wheedle the whole story from her and then commiserate, which would make her feel better and more able to shrug the incident aside.

  It was early days yet; Lady Elizabeth and Henni had warned her she’d need to be patient.

  Patience was not her strong suit.

  “What a dolt! He hates arithmetic—always did,” was Henni’s opinion.

  “Actually, I think it’s encouraging.” Lady Elizabeth looked at Francesca. “He thought about it, you say?”

  “For all of one second.” Arms tightly crossed, Francesca paced the Dower House parlor. The walk through the park had invigorated her, and awoken her mind to a different tack. When it came to contributing to their shared lives, she had numerous options, after all. “Tell me about the family. The Rawlingses.” Stopping by an armchair, she sank into it. “From all I gathered over the wedding, the clan, as it were, seems fragmented.”

  Henni snorted. “Fractured’s more like it.” She considered then added, “Mind you, there’s no real reason that’s so. It just happened through the years.”

  “People drift apart,” Lady Elizabeth said.

  “If no effort is made to hold them together.”

  Lady Elizabeth eyed her shrewdly. “Just what do you have in mind?”

  “I’m not sure. I need to know more, first, but I am, after all, the . . .” She searched for the word. “Matriarch, am I not? If Gyles is the head of the family and I’m his countess, then it falls to me to draw the family together. Doesn’t it?”

  “I can’t say I’ve ever heard it put so directly, but yes.” Henni nodded. “If you want to expend the effort, that is. I have to tell you it won’t be easy. The Rawlingses have always been a fiercely independent lot.”

  Francesca studied Henni, then smiled. “The men, perhaps, and the women, too, to some degree. But women are wise enough to know what strength lies in banding tog
ether, no?”

  Lady Elizabeth laughed. “My dear, if you’re willing to supply the energy, we’ll be happy to supply the knowledge. What say you, Henni?”

  “Oh, I’m all for it,” Henni averred. “It’s just that I’ve spent years in the company of male Rawlingses, so the family’s disjunction seems normal. But you’re quite right. We’d all be better off if we knew each other better. Why, we barely know all the names!”

  “No, indeed! Do you remember that dreadful Egbert Rawlings who married that little slip of a thing—what was her name?”

  Francesca listened as Lady Elizabeth and Henni climbed about the family tree, pointing to this limb, then that.

  “There’s a partial family tree in the old Bible in the library,” Lady Elizabeth said when, exhausted, they finally sat sipping tea. “Just the principal line but it’ll give you—and us—a place to start.”

  “I’ll find it and make a copy.” Placing her empty cup on the tray, Francesca stood. “I’d better get back. It’s cold once the sun goes down.”

  She kissed their cheeks and left them, knowing they’d spend the next hour speculating on all she hadn’t said. Setting that and the sprawling Rawlingses aside, she gave herself up to the simple pleasure of walking through the great park with the sun slanting through the trees, lighting drifts of leaves and sending the scent of autumn rising through the still air.

  It was quiet and peaceful. Free, her mind wandered—to that other treed place she’d loved, the New Forest. From there, it was a hop and a skip to Rawlings Hall, to those living there. To Franni. Her own not-quite-happy state pricked and prodded, pushing her to consider how to reassure herself that Franni hadn’t been hurt by the events leading to her marriage.

  The solution, when she thought of it, was so simple.

  He saw her walking through the golden splendor of the trees, through his park, coming home to him. The urge to go to her, to meet her and draw her to him was so strong, he felt it like a tug.