Frustrated, she glanced at Lady Elizabeth, who read her emotion correctly but misinterpreted the cause. Her mother-in-law clapped her hands. “It’s time we moved on to the dining room. Now make way and let them go ahead, then you can greet them at the door and we can all chat and enjoy ourselves over the wedding breakfast.”
Francesca cast her a grateful smile. Chillingworth’s arm appeared before her, and she took it, preserving her mask of a radiant, joyful bride as they ran a gauntlet of rice all the way up the aisle.
Outside the chapel, her smile evaporated. Before she could turn to him, he grasped her hand. “This way.”
She had to grab her skirts and run to keep up with his long strides. He cut down corridors, down stairs, around corners, leading her away from their guests, away from the reception rooms. At no stage did he moderate his pace. Then they were rushing down a narrow, dimly lit corridor-she thought they were on the ground floor. The door at the end was shut.
She was about to dig in her heels and demand to be told where he was taking her when, just before the door, Chillingworth stopped dead, whirled her about, and backed her against the wall.
Francesca felt the wall cool at her back, felt the heat of his body before her, around her. She sucked in a breath as he leaned closer, trapping her. She caught his gaze, held it.
Gyles was aware they were both breathing rapidly. The pulse throbbing at the base of her throat dragged at his senses, but he didn’t take his gaze from her eyes.
Any other woman, and he would have exploited their sexual linkage to unnerve her, to gain the upper hand.
With her, he didn’t dare.
There was too much between them, even now, even here. It was a hot breath caressing skin, something almost palpable, an awareness of sin as old as time.
They only had minutes, and he had no idea what she intended, whether she was going to play out the scene to its end, or erupt midway through.
“Franni-”
The sheer fury that lit her eyes-lit her-silenced him. Her rage was so potent he nearly stepped back.
“I am not Franni.”
Every carefully enunciated word slapped him.
“You’re Francesca Hermione Rawlings.” She’d better be, or he’d wring her neck.
She nodded. “And my cousin, Charles’s daughter, is Frances Mary Rawlings. Known to all as Franni.”
“Charles’s daughter?” The fog started to clear. “Why the devil was she given such a similar name to you?”
“We were born within weeks of each other, me in Italy, Franni in Hampshire, and we were both named after our paternal grandfather.”
“Francis Rawlings?”
She nodded again. “Now we have that settled, I have a few questions. Did you meet Franni when you visited Rawlings Hall?”
He hesitated. “I strolled with her twice.”
She breathed in; her breasts rose. “Did you at any time say anything to lead Franni to believe you were considering offering for her?”
“No.”
“No?” She widened her eyes at him. “You came to Rawlings Hall to find an amenable bride, you thought you’d found her, you walked twice with her-and you said nothing-gave no hint whatever of your intentions?”
“No.” His temper was on a leash as tight as hers. “If you recall, I insisted on adhering to the most distant and rigid formality. It would have run counter to my plans to woo your cousin in even the most cursory way.”
He could see she didn’t know whether to believe him or not. He exhaled through his teeth. “I swear on my honor I never said or did anything to give her the slightest reason to imagine I had any interest whatever in her.”
She hesitated, then stiffly inclined her head. “Did you see what happened to her? She wasn’t in the chapel when we left, but I didn’t see her leave.”
He wasn’t sure what was going on. “I only glimpsed her in the instant before you joined me. She recognized me and seemed shocked. There was an older lady with her.”
“Ester-Charles’s sister-in-law, Franni’s aunt. She lives with them.”