All About Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  Gyles caught Demon’s glance, recognized the ploy, recognized the fellow feeling that had prompted it. He hesitated for only an instant before asking, “Where, precisely?”

  “The other end of the room.”

  To the bewildered disappointment of the gentlemen about them, Gyles excused himself and Francesca. Her hand anchored on his sleeve, he led her through the crowd, Demon equally large and discouraging on her other side.

  Francesca glanced from one hard male face to the other—both were scanning the crowd as they strolled, watching for any gentleman who might attempt to accost her. She had to hide a smile as they delivered her to the chaise where Lady Osbaldestone sat, resplendent in puce trimmed with feathers. Alongside her sat another grande dame.

  “Lady Horatia Cynster, my dear.” The lady pressed her hand. “I’m very glad to meet you.” She shifted her gaze to Gyles. “Chillingworth.” She gave him her hand and watched as he bowed. “You’re an exceedingly lucky man—I do hope you appreciate that?”

  Gyles arched a brow. “Naturally.”

  “Good. Then you may fetch me some orgeat, and her ladyship would like a glass, too. You may take Harry with you.” She waved them away.

  Francesca was intrigued when, after an instant’s hesitation, Gyles inclined his head, collected Harry Cynster with a glance, and left them.

  “Here—sit down, gel.” Lady Osbaldestone shifted, as did Lady Horatia. Francesca sat between them.

  “You needn’t worry about all those others.” Lady Horatia waved in the direction from which they’d come. “They’ll melt into the woodwork once they realize you’re not for them.”

  “Good thing, too.” Lady Osbaldestone thumped her cane and turned gleaming black eyes on Francesca. “If the rumors are even half-true, you’ll have enough on your plate with that husband of yours.”

  Francesca felt heat rise in her cheeks. She quickly turned, as Lady Horatia said, “Indeed, in such situations, it’s wise to keep your husband occupied—busy. No need to let him work himself into a lather over nothing, if you take my meaning.”

  Francesca blinked, then nodded, rather weakly.

  “No saying what he might do if he got overly exercised on that point.” Lady Osbaldestone nodded sagely. “One of the difficulties when marrying Cynsters—one has to draw a very firm line. Too prone to revert to their ancestral selves if rubbed the wrong way.”

  “But . . . I don’t understand.” Francesca glanced from one to the other. “Gyles isn’t a Cynster.”

  Lady Osbaldestone snorted.

  Lady Horatia grinned. “They made him one by decree—unusually farsighted of them, but it was doubtless Devil’s idea.” She patted Francesca’s hand. “What we’re saying is that there’s not a whisker to chose between them—what applies to the Cynsters applies equally to Chillingworth.”

  “Come to that,” Lady Osbaldestone opined, “the same applies to most of the Rawlingses, but the others are generally milder sorts.”

  “Do you know them? The other Rawlingses?”

  “A good few,” Lady Osbaldestone admitted. “Why?”

  Francesca told her.

  Gyles and Harry returned with two glasses of orgeat and one of champagne for Francesca, to find all three ladies with their heads together, discussing the Rawlings family tree. Harry exchanged a glance with Gyles, then strolled off. Fifteen minutes passed before Gyles was able to extract Francesca from the discussion.

  “I’ll see you at my at-home next week,” Lady Horatia said, as he finally drew Francesca to her feet.

  “I’ll be there, too,” Lady Osbaldestone said. “I’ll let you know what I’ve learned then.”

  Gyles gave mute thanks that the old tartar wasn’t planning on calling in Green Street. “Mama and Henni are near the main door.” He steered Francesca through the crowd.

  After another fifteen minutes, during which his mother, Henni, and Francesca made numerous social plans, he dragged Francesca away.

  “It sounds like you’ll have barely a moment to yourself.”

  Francesca glanced at him—mentally replayed his words, analyzed their tone—then she smiled and pressed his arm. “Nonsense.” She glanced around, then sighed. “Nevertheless, I do think I’ve made enough plans for one night.” She turned to him. “Perhaps we should go home.”

  “Home?”

  “Hmm—home, and to bed.” She tilted her head. “Of course, if you wished, we could stop by the library.”

  “The library?”

  “Wallace will have built up the fire—it should be rather cozy.”

  “Cozy.”

  “Mmm—warm.” She rolled the word on her tongue. “Pleasant and . . . relaxing.”

  The sultry promise in her voice sent heat pouring through him. Gyles stopped, changed tack, and headed for the door.

  Chapter 18

  Two weeks later, Gyles stood by the side of Lady Matheson’s ballroom, reconsidering the madness that had made him bring Francesca to London. His need to protect her had forced his hand; she was safer here, away from the strange happenings at Lambourn, in a smaller, more secure house, yet her emergence into the ton had brought dangers of a different sort.

  The sort that ate away his civilized facade and left his true self much too close to his surface.

  “Gyles?”

  He turned, smiled and bent to kiss Henni’s cheek. “I didn’t realize you’d be here.”

  “Well of course we’re here, dear. The Mathesons are connections of Horace’s, don’t you remember?”

  These days he thought of little beyond his wife.

  “Where’s Francesca?” Henni looked inquiringly at him, obviously expecting him to know.

  “Sitting with Her Grace of St. Ives.” He directed Henni’s gaze across the room.

  “Ah. Thank you, dear. Incidentally, that was an excellent dinner the other night, and the little gathering the week before went very well, I thought.”

  Gyles nodded. Henni left him, wending her way through the crowd toward Francesca. The dinner had been their first—Francesca’s first in London, his first as a married man. The anticipation had drawn them together, had had them working together even more closely than before.

  It had been a triumph; the sharing had added an extra dimension. When Henni had labeled the dinner “excellent,” she hadn’t been referring to the quality of the dishes, although with Ferdinand seeking to please, that had been exceptional. It had been Francesca who’d sparkled and fascinated; he’d found it easy to enact the role of proud husband and do his part to carry the evening.

  The small party they’d hosted the week before had been Francesca’s first foray into the wider arena of tonnish entertaining—that had been an outright success, too.

  She was a success, and she was taking it in her stride. The support of his mother, Henni, and the Cynster ladies helped. He was grateful for their interest, but he knew very well to whom he owed the bulk of his gratitude.

  He watched as Francesca, deep in a dramatic discussion with Honoria, looked up as Henni approached. Her smile—that glorious, heartwarming smile—wreathed her face, and she stood to kiss his aunt’s cheek. Then she turned back to Honoria, drawing Henni into their conversation.

  Gyles couldn’t help a small smile. She threw herself into things wholeheartedly; she’d done the same with the ton, honestly intrigued, enjoying the offered entertainments. Her delight, not that of an innocent but a newcomer, had shown him his old, worn world in a new light.

  Settling his shoulders against the wall, he continued to watch her, keeping watch over her.

  On the chaise beside Honoria, Francesca was aware of her husband’s regard. She’d grown used to it; indeed, she found it comforting knowing that if anyone less than desirable approached her, he would be there, at her side, in a heartbeat. The ton was large, and while she now knew some of the right faces and names, there were many she didn’t know—and some of those she didn’t need to know.

  One such was Lord Carnegie, but his lordship was too w
ise to approach—not yet. But she knew what he was, what he was thinking; every time his gaze touched her, she had to quell a shiver as if some slimy slithering thing had touched her bare arm. His lordship hove into view and bowed. Francesca pointedly looked away.

  Honoria glared. “Disreputable popinjay!” She lowered her voice. “They say he killed his first wife, and two mistresses, too.”

  Francesca pulled a face, then switched to a smile as Osbert Rawlings approached and bowed before them.

  “Cousin Francesca.” Hand over his heart, Osbert shook her hand, then bowed and shook Honoria’s.

  “Just saw Carnegie move off.” Osbert glanced back, then stepped closer. “Not a nice man.”

  “No, indeed,” Honoria agreed. “I was just telling Francesca . . .” She gestured vaguely.

  “Quite.” Osbert nodded, then decided Carnegie was too dark a subject for discussion in such company; the way his face suddenly lit made that clear. “I say! I’ve just been hearing about the latest production at the Theatre Royal.”

  Osbert was never vague about anything to do with verbal performance. He kept them entertained for the next ten minutes with a vivid account of Mrs. Siddons’s latest triumph. Amused, Francesca listened, aware Gyles was watching, aware of what he would be thinking, yet despite his dismissiveness, he didn’t disapprove of Osbert.

  Indeed, Osbert had become her cavalier. He attended the majority of functions they did and was always ready to put himself out to amuse and entertain her. If she ever needed an escort, and Gyles was not to hand, she would take Osbert’s arm without a qualm. And if she was starting to suspect that Osbert claimed her company at least in part as a defense against the mothers who still had him in their sights, she was happy to keep that suspicion to herself.

  Osbert was too much of a dear to throw to the lions.

  “Well, well—how the mighty have fallen.”

  Gyles drew his gaze from his wife, and fastened it on Devil as he lounged beside him. “You can talk.”

  Devil glanced across the room at Honoria, and shrugged. “It comes to us all.” He grinned wickedly. “Am I allowed to say ‘I told you so’?”

  “No.”

  “Still in denial, are we?”

  “One can but try.”

  “Give it up. It’s hopeless.”

  “Not yet.”

  Devil snorted. “So—what’s the real reason you’re standing here propping up the wall?”

  Gyles made no attempt to answer.

  Devil shot him a measuring glance. “Actually, I wanted to ask—what are the chances of your cousin Osbert inheriting these days?”

  “Few and diminishing.”

  “And when might those chances vanish?”

  Gyles frowned. “Midsummer. Why?”

  “Hmm—so you’ll be up for the Season?”

  “I expect so.”

  “Good.” Devil met Gyles’s gaze. “We’re going to need to push harder with those bills if we’re to succeed.”

  Gyles nodded. He looked at their wives. “It’s occurred to me that we might be missing an opportunity to persuade some of our peers to our cause.”

  Devil followed his gaze. “You think so?”

  “Francesca understands the salient points as well as I.”

  “So does Honoria.”

  “Well, why not? While in town, they spend the better half of their days talking with the other wives. Why shouldn’t they steer the conversation—introduce the notion, plant seeds and nurture them—all in a good cause?”

  After a moment, Devil grinned. “I’ll suggest it to Honoria.” Glancing at Gyles, he straightened, an unholy gleam in his eyes. “Of course, you realize that in making such a suggestion, you’re going to encourage Francesca to invest even more time in the social whirl.” With spurious concern, Devil frowned. “I’ll understand if you can’t bring yourself to do it—it must be frustrating, recently married as you are, to find your wife in such demand.”

  Gyles scowled before he could stop himself, then scowled even more when Devil grinned devilishly and, with a salute, stepped out of reach.

  He was not that transparent. Devil had been able to put his finger on the one sore point created by Francesca’s social success only because he’d felt, or perhaps still did feel, the same way. The social whirl of the ton had not been created to foster marriage. Weddings, yes, but not what came after. And it was that—the after-the-wedding stage—that now consumed him.

  And Francesca. It wasn’t as if the difficulty was his alone, and for that, he was thankful. She, too, clung to the few hours they could spend together, in his library, comfortably reading, sometimes discussing, exchanging views—learning more about each other.

  But as the ton discovered her, those private hours had shrunk. Then disappeared.

  Her mornings were consumed with visits—at-homes, morning teas—usually in the company of his mother and Henni, Honoria, or one of the other ladies with whom she’d become friends. All right and proper.

  She was rarely in for luncheon, but neither was he. While she spent her afternoons making further connections and strengthening those already made, he waded through the myriad administrative demands made by the estate, or met his friends at their clubs. He and she met again for dinner but never dined alone—they were now in constant demand as more and more hostesses discovered her.

  After dinner, there were balls and parties to attend; they always returned home late. And if she still came to his arms eager and wanting, while they loved as passionately as ever, there yet remained a sense of deprivation, a lack.

  He was an earl—he shouldn’t have to lack.

  “A message from North Audley Street, ma’am.”

  Francesca set aside her toast and lifted the folded note from Wallace’s salver. “Thank you.” Opening the note, she read it, then glanced at Gyles. “Your mama and Henni are both feeling under the weather, but they say I shouldn’t stop by to visit them. They say it’s just the sniffles.”

  “No need to risk catching them, too.” Gyles looked at her over the top of that morning’s Gazette. “Does their indisposition affect your plans?”

  “We were going to attend a morning tea with the Misses Berry, but I really don’t feel like going alone.”

  “Indeed not. You’d be the youngest present by a decade.” Gyles laid aside the Gazette. “I have a suggestion.”

  “Oh?” Francesca looked up.

  “Come walking with me. There’s something I want to show you.”

  She was intrigued. “Where?”

  “You’ll see when we get there.”

  To Francesca’s astonishment, “there” proved to be Asprey, the jewelers, in Bond Street. The “something” was an emerald necklace.

  The assistant snibbed the catch at her nape. Wonderingly, she raised a hand to touch the large, oval-cut emeralds that hung from the collar, itself made of oval-cut stones. Gyles had insisted she remain in her morning gown with its scooped neckline; she now understood why. The emeralds flared, green fire against her skin.

  She shifted this way, then that, watching the light play in the stones, noting how her eyes deepened, as if reflecting the emerald’s fire. The necklace was neither too heavy nor too ornate. Neither was it so delicate that it risked being overwhelmed by her own dramatic coloring.

  It could have been made just for her. . . .

  She looked past her own reflection and saw Gyles, behind her, exchange an approving glance with the old jeweler who’d come from the back of the shop to watch.

  Francesca turned and caught Gyles’s hand. “You had this made for me?”

  He looked down at her. “They had nothing quite right.” He held her gaze for a moment, then squeezed her fingers before sliding his hand free. “Leave it on.”

  While he complimented the jeweler, the assistant helped her into her pelisse. Francesca buttoned it up to her throat. It was chilly outside, but that wasn’t the reason. She suspected the necklace would be worth a small fortune. Over the past weeks, she�
��d seen many jewels, but nothing of such simple, dramatic worth.

  Gyles slid the necklace’s velvet case into his pocket, then collected her, and they left the shop. On the pavement, he noted her pelisse’s high collar and smiled. Taking her arm, he led her farther up the street.

  “Where are we going now?” Francesca asked. They’d left the carriage in Piccadilly—in the opposite direction.

  “Now you have the necklace, you need something to go with it.”

  What he had in mind was a gown, another item created to his specifications. He’d commanded the services of one of the ton’s most exclusive modistes; Francesca stood before the long mirror in the private room off the Bruton Street salon; all she could do was stare.

  The gown was simple, reserved in its lines, yet on her, it became a statement of sensual confidence. In heavy emerald silk, the bodice fitted her like a second skin, the triangular neckline neither high nor low, yet because of the gown’s fit, her breasts would draw all eyes—if it wasn’t for the necklace. Gown and necklace complemented each other perfectly, neither detracting from the other. From the raised waist, the silk fell sleekly, flaring over her hips into a stylish layered skirt.

  Francesca stared at the lady in the mirror, watched her breasts rise and fall, watched the emeralds wink green fire. Her eyes appeared enormous, her hair a froth of black curls anchored atop her head.

  She glanced at Gyles, sitting relaxed in an armchair to one side. He caught her gaze, then turned his head and said something in French to the modiste—Francesca didn’t catch it. The modiste slipped out, closing the door.

  Gyles rose; he came to stand behind her. He looked at her reflection. “Do you like it?”

  His gaze roamed over her. Francesca considered her answer, considered what she could see in his face, unmasked in that instant.

  “The gown, the necklace.” She held out her arms, palms up. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

  For what he’d allowed her to become. He’d made her his countess in name and in fact. She was now his. His to bejewel, his to gown. His.