Immediately after lunch, she’d gone to Charles and informed him of her decision. Then she’d waited for her would-be husband to call.
And waited.
They’d been finishing dinner when he’d finally arrived.
A tap on her door had her smoothing the frown from her face. “Come in.”
Charles looked in, then entered. He noticed the window open at her back. “You saw?”
She nodded. “Did he say…?” She gestured. Had he mentioned her?
Charles smiled fondly; coming forward, he took her hands. “My dear, I’m sure everything will work out splendidly. Business kept him from calling earlier, and he must return to Lambourn immediately. He did say all that was proper.”
Francesca returned Charles’s smile with equal fondness. Her mind was all b
ut spitting the word “proper.” Proper? There was nothing “proper” about what lay between them-“proper” was certainly not what she would settle for. Not once she was his wife.
But she pressed Charles’s hands and allowed him to believe all was well. Indeed, she wasn’t seriously worried.
Not after their interlude today.
After experiencing what had risen between them, flowed like a raging river through them, regardless of her betrothed’s insistence on the publicly cold-blooded approach, there was patently no need to worry.
A letter from Chillingworth’s mother arrived three days later. The Dowager Countess, Lady Elizabeth, wrote to welcome Francesca into the family with such transparent joy and goodwill that all qualms Francesca had harbored on that front were laid to rest.
“She says the rest of the family is delighted with the news…” Francesca shuffled the leaves of the lengthy letter. She was sitting on the window seat in the downstairs parlor; Franni was curled on the seat’s other end, clutching a cushion, her blue eyes wide. Ester listened from a nearby chair. “And she’s working on Chillingworth to allow her to extend the guest list, as the family’s such a far-flung one, and there are so many branches, etcetera.”
Francesca paused. That was not the first hint that Lady Elizabeth, while immensely pleased over the wedding, was not at one with her son over the details. As for the family members invited-the fact was there was only one family involved. She and Chillingworth were cousins, umpteen times removed perhaps, but that should make assembling the guest list easier. Shouldn’t it?
Setting aside the point, she continued, “She says the castle staff are busy opening up the wings and polishing everything, and that I may rely on her to see that all is just so. She suggests I write with any requests or questions, and assures me she’ll be delighted to advise in any way.”
Her tone signified “the end.” She refolded the letter.
Franni sighed. “It sounds wonderful! Don’t you think so, Aunt Ester?”
“I do, indeed.” Ester smiled. “Francesca will make a wonderful countess. But now we must think of a wedding gown.”
“Oh, yes!” Franni sat bolt upright. “The gown! Why-”
“I’m going to wear my mother’s wedding gown,” Francesca quickly said. Franni was given to overenthusiasms which sometimes turned difficult. “Something old and borrowed, you know.”
“Oh-yes.” Franni frowned.
“A very nice idea,” Ester said. “We must have Gilly up from the village and check that it fits.”
Franni had been mumbling. Now she lifted her head. “That leaves something new and blue.”
“Garters, perhaps?” Ester suggested.
Francesca nodded, grateful for the suggestion.
“Can we go into Lyndhurst and buy them tomorrow?” Franni fixed huge eyes on Ester’s face.
Ester glanced at Francesca. “I don’t see why not.”
“No, indeed. Tomorrow, then,” Francesca said.
“Good, good, good!” Franni leapt up and flung her arms wide. The cushion went tumbling. “Tomorrow morning! Tomorrow morning!” She waltzed around the room. “We’re going to get Francesca something new and blue tomorrow morning!” Reaching the open door, she waltzed through. “Papa! Did you hear? We’re going…”