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?”