“If you mean do I have a mistress of long standing whom I don’t wish to set aside, or something of that nature, the answer is no.” Gyles considered Charles, considered his open and honest brown eyes. “The reason I wish to keep my marriage—every aspect of it—on a businesslike footing is because I have absolutely no patience with the concept of love in marriage. It’s a highly overrated circumstance—one, moreover, with which I desire no closer acquaintance. I do not wish my prospective wife to entertain any notion that I offer love, either now or in some rosy-hued future. From the first, I want her to know that love is not part of our equation. I see no benefit in raising the prospect, and will and do insist that my intent is made clear from the outset.”
Charles regarded him for some time, then nodded. “It could be said that you’re only being more honest than others who think the same.”
Gyles made no answer.
“Very well—I now understand what you’re seeking, but why consider Francesca?”
“Because of the Gatting property. It was, centuries ago, a dower property. Indeed, it was probably the reason for an arranged marriage back then—the property completes the circle of my Lambourn lands. It should never have been separated, but because it wasn’t part of the entail, some misguided ancestor bequeathed it to a younger son, and that became something of a tradition . . .” Gyles frowned. “Gerrard was the elder, wasn’t he? How is it you inherited this place and he inherited Gatting?”
“My father.” Charles grimaced. “He fell out with Gerrard, as it happens because Gerrard refused to marry as he’d arranged. Gerrard married for love and went to Italy, while I . . .”
“Made the arranged marriage your brother refused?”
Charles nodded. “So Papa reorganized his will. Gerrard got the Gatting property, which I should have received, and I got the Hall.” He smiled. “Gerrard didn’t give a damn. Even after Papa died, he remained in Italy.”
“Until he died. How did that happen?”
“A boating accident on Lake Lugano one night. No one knew until the next day. Both Gerrard and Katrina drowned.”
“And so Francesca came to you.”
“Yes. She’s been with us for nearly two years.”
“How would you describe her?”
“Francesca?” Charles’s expression softened. “She’s a wonderful girl! A breath of fresh air and a beam of sunshine in one. It’s odd, but although she’s quite lively, she’s also restful—a contradiction, I know, but . . .” Charles looked at Gyles.
“I understand she’s twenty-three. Is there some reason she hasn’t married?”
“Not specifically. Prior to their deaths, Gerrard and Katrina, and Francesca, too, had discussed addressing the question of a husband more seriously, but the accident intervened. Francesca was adamant on observing the full period of mourning—she was an only child and greatly attached to her parents. So it was only a year or so ago that she started going about.” Charles grimaced lightly. “For reasons with which I won’t burden you, we don’t entertain. Francesca attends the assemblies and the local dances under the auspices of Lady Willingdon, one of our neighbors . . .”
Charles’s recital died away. Gyles raised a brow. “What?”
Charles regarded him speculatively, then seemed to come to some decision. “For the past year, Francesca has been actively looking for a husband. It was at her request I solicited the help of Lady Willingdon.”
“And has she met anyone she considers suitable?”
“No. Indeed, I believe she’s quite despondent over finding any suitable prospect locally.”
Gyles regarded Charles steadily. “Indelicate question though it is, do you think your niece might find me suitable?”
Charles’s brief smile was wry. “From all I’ve ever heard, if you wished her to find you suitable, she would. You could sweep any naive young lady off her feet.”
Gyles’s smile mirrored Charles’s. “Unfortunately, in this case, using those particular talents might prove counterproductive. I want an amenable bride, not a besotted one.”
“True.”
Gyles considered Charles, then stretched out his legs and crossed his booted ankles. “Charles, I’m going to place you in an invidious position and claim the right of help you owe me as head of the family. Do you know of any reason that would argue against making Francesca Rawlings the next Countess of Chillingworth?”
“None. Absolutely none.” Charles returned his regard steadily. “Francesca would fill the position to the admiration of all the family.”
Gyles held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded. “Very well.” He felt as if a vise had released from about his chest. “In that case, I’d like to make a formal offer for your niece’s hand.”
Charles blinked. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Well”—Charles started to rise—“I’ll send for her—”
“No.” Gyles waved him back. “You forget—I wish this entire matter to be treated with the utmost formality. I want it made clear, not only by word but also by deed, that this is an arranged marriage, nothing more. Your description of your niece confirms the opinions of others—grandes dames of the ton richly experienced in evaluating the worth of marriageable young ladies. Everyone declares Francesca Rawlings an unexceptionable parti—I need no further assurances. In the circumstances, I see no reason to meet Miss Rawlings socially. You are her guardian—it’s through you I’ll apply for her hand.”
Charles considered arguing; Gyles knew precisely when the realization that it would be wasted effort, and rather impertinent at that, dawned. He, after all, was the head of the family.
“Very well. If that’s your wish, if you’ll give me the details, I’ll speak with Francesca this evening . . . I’d better write it down.” Charles searched for pen and paper.
When he was ready, Gyles dictated and Charles transcribed the formal offer of a contract of marriage between the Earl of Chillingworth and Francesca Hermione Rawlings. As Charles scribbled the last of the settlements, Gyles mused, “It might be as well not to mention the relationship, distant as it is. It’s not of any practical relevance. I’d prefer that the offer was specifically made as coming from the earl.”
Charles shrugged. “It can’t hurt. Women like titles.”
“Good. If there’s no further information you need from me, I’ll leave you.” Gyles stood.
Charles came to his feet. He opened his mouth, then hesitated. “I was going to insist you stay with us here, or at least dine . . .”
Gyles shook his head. “Another time, perhaps. I’m staying at the Lyndhurst Arms should you need to reach me.” He turned to the door.
Charles yanked the bellpull, then followed. “I’ll discuss this with Francesca this evening—”
“And I’ll call tomorrow morning to hear her answer.” Gyles paused as Charles joined him at the door. “One last impertinence. You mentioned your marriage was an arranged one—tell me, were you happy?”
Charles met his gaze. “Yes. We were.”
Gyles hesitated, then inclined his head. “Then you know Francesca has nothing to fear in the arrangement I propose.”
There’d been pain in Charles’s eyes. Gyles knew Charles was a widower, but he hadn’t anticipated that depth of feeling; Charles had clearly felt the loss of his wife keenly. A chill touched his nape. Gyles stepped into the hall. Charles followed. They shook hands, then the butler arrived. Gyles followed him back through the house.
As they neared the front hall, the butler murmured, “I’ll just send the footman for your horse, my lord.”
They stepped into the hall to find no footman in sight, but the green baize door at the hall’s end was swinging wildly. A second later, a shrieking scullery maid raced out. She ignored Gyles and rushed for the butler.
“Oh, Mr. Bulwer, you got to come quick! There’s a chook got loose in the kitchen! Cook’s chasing it with a cleaver, but it won’t stand still!”
The butler looked o
ffended and guilty simultaneously. He slid a helpless glance at Gyles as the maid dragged with all her might on his sleeve. “I do apologize, my lord—I’ll get help—”
Gyles laughed. “Don’t worry—I’ll find my way. By the sound of it, you’d better settle things in the kitchen if you want any dinner tonight.”
Relief washed over Bulwer’s face. “Thank you, my lord. The stable lad will have your horse ready.” Before he could say more, he was dragged away. Gyles heard him scolding the maid as they went through the swinging door.
Grinning, Gyles strolled to the front door. Letting himself out, he descended the steps, then, on impulse, turned left. He strolled the parterre, admiring the trimmed hedges and conifers. On his left, the stone wall bordered the path, then a yew hedge continued the line unbroken. He turned left again at the earliest opportunity—an archway in the hedge giving onto a path through the shrubbery. He looked ahead; the stable’s roof rose beyond the hedges.
Stepping through the archway, he paused. An intersecting path ran both right and left. Glancing toward the house, he discovered he could see all the way to where the stone wall he’d earlier paced along joined the corner of the house. Close by the house, a stone seat was built out from the wall.
On the seat sat a young lady.
She was reading a book lying open in her lap. The late-afternoon sun beamed down, bathing her in golden light. Fair hair the color of flax was drawn back from her face; fair skin glowed faintly pink. From this distance, he couldn’t see her eyes yet the general set of her features appeared unremarkable, pleasant but not striking. Her pose, head tilted, shoulders low, suggested she was a woman easily dominated, naturally submissive.
She was not the sort of woman to stir him at all, not the sort of woman he would normally take the time to study.
She was precisely the sort of wife he was looking for. Could she be Francesca Rawlings?
As if some higher power had heard his thought, a woman’s voice called, “Francesca?”
The girl looked up. She was shutting her book, gathering her shawl as the woman called again. “Francecsa? Franni?”
Rising, the girl called, “I’m here, Aunt Ester.” Her voice was delicate and light.
Stepping out, she disappeared from Gyles’s view.
Gyles smiled and resumed his stroll. He’d trusted Charles and Charles had not deceived him—Francesca Rawlings possessed precisely the right attributes to be his amenable bride.
The path opened onto a grassed courtyard. Gyles stepped into it—
A dervish in emerald green did her best to mow him down.
She landed against him like a force of nature—a small woman barely topping his shoulder. His first impression was of wild black hair curling riotously over her shoulders and back. The emerald green was a velvet riding habit; she was booted and carried a crop in one hand.
He caught her, steadied her—she would have fallen if he hadn’t closed his arms about her.
Even before she’d caught her breath, his hands had gentled, his rakish senses avidly relaying the fact that she was abundantly curvaceous, her flesh firm yet yielding, quintessentially feminine—for him, elementally challenging. His hands spread over her back, then his arms locked, but lightly, trapping her against him. Full breasts warmed his chest, soft hips his thighs.
A strangled “Oh!” escaped her.
She looked up.
The green feather in the scrap of a cap perched atop her glossy curls brushed his cheek. Gyles barely noticed.
Her eyes were green—a green more intense than the emerald of her gown. Wide and wondering, they were darkly and thickly lashed. Her skin was flawless ivory tinged a faint gold, her lips a dusky rose, delicately curved, the lower sensuously full. Her hair was pulled back and anchored across her crown, revealing a wide forehead and the delicate arch of black brows. Curls large and small tumbled down, framing a heart-shaped face that was irresistibly piquant and utterly intriguing; Gyles was seized by a need to know what she was thinking.
Those startled green eyes met his, roved his face, then, widening even more, returned to his.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t see you coming.”
He felt her voice more than heard it—felt it like a caress inside, an invitation purely physical. The sound itself was . . . smoky—a sultry sound that somehow clouded his senses.
His very willing senses. Like recognized like in the blink of an eye. Oh, yes, the beast inside him purred. His lips curved subtly although his thoughts were anything but.
Her gaze lowered, fastened on his lips, then she swallowed. Light color rose in her cheeks. Her heavy lids lowered, hiding her eyes. She eased back in his arms. “If you would release me, sir . . .”
He didn’t want to, but he did—slowly, with deliberately obvious reluctance. She’d felt more than good in his arms—she’d felt warm and intensely vital. Intensely alive.
She stepped back, color deepening as his hands brushed her hips as his arms fell from her. She shook out her skirts, refusing to meet his eyes.
“If you’ll pardon me, I must go.”
Without waiting for any answer, she slipped past him, then strode quickly down the path. Turning, he watched her retreat.
Her steps slowed. She stopped.
Then she whirled and looked back at him, meeting his gaze with neither consciousness nor guile. “Who are you?”
She was a gypsy in green framed by the hedges. The directness in her gaze, in her stance, was challenge incarnate.
“Chillingworth.” Turning fully, he swept her a bow, his eyes never leaving hers. Straightening, he added, “And very definitely at your service.”
She stared at him, then gestured vaguely. “I’m late . . .”
For all the world as if she hadn’t been . . .
Their gazes held; something primitive arced between them—some promise that needed no words to be made.
Her gaze slid from his, traveling avidly, greedily over him as if she would commit him to memory; he did the same, no less hungry for the sight of her, poised to take flight.
Then she did. She whirled, snatched up her trailing habit, and fled, ducking down a side path toward the house, disappearing from his view.
Gaze locked on the empty avenue, Gyles suppressed an urge to give chase. His arousal gradually faded; he turned. The smile curving his lips was not one of amusement. Sensual anticipation was a currency he dealt in regularly; the gypsy knew well how to bargain.
He reached the stable and sent the lad to fetch the chestnut; settling to wait, it occurred to him that, at this juncture, he might be expected to be thinking about his bride-to-be. He mentally focused on the pale young lady with her book; within seconds, the image was overlaid by the more vibrant, more sensually appealing picture of the gypsy as he’d last seen her, with that age-old consideration blazoned in her eyes. Switching his attention back to the former required real effort.
Gyles inwardly laughed. That was, after all, precisely the point in marrying such a cypher—her existence would not interfere with his more carnal pursuits. In that, Francesca Rawlings had indeed proved perfect—within minutes of seeing her, his mind had been full of lascivious thoughts involving another woman.
His gypsy. Who was she? Her voice came back to him, that husky, sultry sound. There was an accent there—just discernible—vowels richer, consonants more dramatic than the English were wont to make them. The accent lent further sensual flavor to that evocative voice. He recalled the olive tinge that had turned the gypsy’s skin golden; he also recalled that Francesca Rawlings had lived most of her life in Italy.
The stablelad led the big chestnut out; Gyles thanked the boy and mounted, then cantered down the drive.
Accent and coloring—the gypsy could be Italian. As for behavior, no meek, mild-mannered English young lady would ever have boldly appraised him as she had. Italian, then, either friend or companion of his bride-to-be. She was certainly no maid—not dressed as she had been—and no maid would have dared behave so forwar
dly, not on first or even second sight.
Reining in where the drive wound into the trees, Gyles looked back at Rawlings Hall. How best to play the cards he’d just been dealt he wasn’t yet sure. Securing his amenable bride remained his primary objective; despite the carnal need she evoked, seducing the gypsy had to take second place.
He narrowed his eyes, seeing, not faded bricks but a pair of emerald eyes bright with understanding, with knowledge and speculation beyond the ken of any modest young lady.
He would have her.
Once his amenable bride declared she was willing, he’d turn to a conquest more to his taste. Savoring the prospect, he wheeled the chestnut and galloped down the drive.
Chapter 2
Francesca rushed into the house through the garden hall. Abruptly halting, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. Waited for her wits to stop whirling.
Gracious! She’d spent the last year privately bemoaning the lack of fire in English men, and now look what the gods had thrown at her. Even if it had taken them twelve months to find him, she wasn’t about to complain.
She wasn’t sure she shouldn’t go down on her knees and give thanks.
The vision that evoked brought a laugh bubbling up, set the dimple in her left cheek quivering. Then her levity faded. Whoever he was, he hadn’t come to see her; she might never meet him again. Yet he was a relative assuredly—she’d noted the resemblance to her father and uncle. A frown in her eyes, she headed into the house.
She’d just returned from a ride when she’d heard Ester call. Leaving the stables, she’d pelted for the house. She’d stayed out longer than usual; Ester and Charles might be worrying. Then she’d collided with the stranger.
A gentleman, definitely, and possibly titled—difficult to tell if Chillingworth was surname or title. Chillingworth. She said it in her mind, rolled it on her tongue. It had a certain ring to it, one that suited the man. Whatever else he might be—and she had a few ideas on the subject—he was the antithesis of the boring, unexciting provincial gentlemen she’d been assessing for the past year. Chillingworth, whoever he might be, was not boring.