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 forwardly, 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.
Her pulse was still racing, her blood still up, far more so than could be accounted for by her ride. Indeed, she didn’t think her racing pulse or the breathlessness that was only now easing owed anything to her ride-they’d come into being because he’d held her too close and smiled at her like a leopard eyeing his next meal-and because she’d known precisely what he’d been thinking.
His grey eyes had kindled, sparking yet darkening, and his lips had curved just so… because he’d been thinking wicked thoughts. Thoughts of flesh pressed to naked flesh, of silk sheets sliding and shushing as bodies moved in an ancient rhythm upon them. The brazen images formed readily in her mind.
Blushing, she banished them and strode on down the corridor. Glancing around and seeing no one, she waved a hand before her face. She didn’t want to have to explain her blush to Ester.
The thought had her wondering where Ester was. Entering the central wing, she detoured to the kitchen. No Ester there. The staff had heard Ester call, but didn’t know where she’d gone. Francesca pushed through the door into the front hall.
The hall was empty. Her bootheels clacked on the tiles as she crossed to the stairs. She was halfway up the first flight when the door to her uncle’s study opened. Ester came out, saw her, and smiled. “There you are, dear.”