All About Passion (Cynster 7)

“Not odes. Osbert’s odes.” Gyles met her gaze. “Wait until you’ve heard one.”

They continued shaking hands as the guests trooped past them. Gyles succeeded in preserving an acceptable facade, but his temper was wearing thin, his senses constantly abraded by Francesca’s nearness, by every breath she took. When the last guest had moved on to find a seat, he offered her his arm. With her hand on his sleeve, he paraded her up the long room to the applause of all present. Two long tables ran the length of the room, guests seated on both sides. Across the head of those tables ran a third, at which the guests of honor sat facing the long room.

He handed Francesca to the chair beside his. His mother sat on his left, while Horace was on Francesca’s right. Charles and Henni made up the table. At the other tables, the closest places were taken by Devil and Honoria, and three other peers and their wives. Beyond that, family and close connections filled the room. By tightly controlling the guest list, he’d ensured that other than Devil, Honoria, and a few close friends, society at large was not present.

Irving drew back his chair. Gyles sat, and footmen rushed forward to charge the glasses. The toasts and the feasting began.

They put on a good show. Gyles was conscious that no one guessed the truth, not even his perspicacious mother. Francesca played her part to perfection-then again, she’d been perfectly willing to marry him until she’d learned of his mistake. Even then, she hadn’t been unwilling. Furious perhaps, but it wasn’t as if she hadn’t secured precisely all he’d offered her.

He was the one whose carefully laid plans had been turned on their head-who had got far more than he wanted, indeed, precisely what he hadn’t wanted, from the day.

And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

As the courses came and went, he struggled to ignore the constant tug on his senses, an effort frustrated by having to play the role of pleased and proud groom. The toasts became increasingly risque; the sincerity of the good wishes that flowed around him gradually sank through to his brain.

Most would consider him inordinately lucky. Virtually every man in the room bar only Devil would trade places with him in a blink. He was married to a fascinatingly beautiful woman, who was also, it seemed, a past master in the social arts. She was so freely charming, so effortlessly engaging-he wasn’t blind to her qualities.

They were married-man and wife. He couldn’t change it. All he could do was make the best of it.

And from what he’d already learned of his bride, if he wanted to rule his roost, he had better make a push to establish the rules. His rules.

He might have married her-that didn’t mean he’d surrendered. Not even she could take from him that which he didn’t wish to give. He was stronger, and infinitely more experienced than she…

While he chatted to Charles and others across the table, he let his mind skate back over the previous night. Prior to that, there was nothing in his behavior with her she could legitimately rail at. Last night, however…

He would need to rebuild a few bridges other than the one that had washed away.

Francesca was talking to Honoria across the table, the fingers of her left hand draped loosely about the stem of her wineglass where it stood on the white linen between them. He reached out and insinuated his fingers between hers, twining them about hers. He felt the tiny shiver she instantly suppressed, felt primal recognition tighten his gut.

He waited.

Minutes later, the next course was set out. In the general hubbub as people were served, Francesca turned his way. She didn’t try to withdraw her hand but when she met his gaze, he couldn’t read her eyes.

“The mistake I made.” She arched a brow, and he continued, “There was a reason. I had, still have, a very definite idea of what I want from marriage. And you-” He broke off. She watched him calmly. “You… and I…” He exhaled sharply. “I didn’t mean to suggest you are not a perfectly acceptable bride.”

She raised her brows haughtily; her eyes flashed. Then she smiled gloriously, leaned close, and patted his hand, sliding her fingers deftly from his, then she turned away to speak to Henni.

Gyles bit back his temper, reined in the urge to grab her hand and spin her back to face him. Those watching would have seen the exchange as delightful flirting; he could do nothing to disturb the image. Letting his lips curve, he turned to another conversation.

He bided his time. Obsessed with his problem, obsessed with her, to him the hours flew. Eventually, the banquet ended and everyone adjourned to the adjoining ballroom. A small orchestra played in an alcove at one end. The first order of the afternoon was the bridal waltz.

Francesca heard the opening bars and steeled herself. She turned to Chillingworth with a smile on her lips, an easy expression on her face. He drew her to him; they both felt the tremor that shook her as her thigh brushed his, and his instantaneous tensing. Only she felt the possessiveness in his grasp, in the hard palm at her back-only she was near enough to see the steely glint in his grey eyes. A fractional hesitation gripped them as they remembered just how many eyes were watching, and both, again, reined in their tempers. Without words, they stepped out, revolving slowly at first, cautiously on her part, then she recognized his prowess and relaxed.

He was an expert at

waltzing. She was good at it herself. She had matters of far greater moment on her mind.

He swung her into the first turn, and she let herself flow with his stride. Let him draw her as close as he wished, so their thighs brushed and hips met-knowing every touch affected him as much as it affected her. She fixed her gaze on his and kept her lips curved. “I married you because I had no choice-we had no choice. The settlements were signed, the guests all here. While I might deplore your approach to marriage-your approach to me-I see no reason to acquaint the world or, indeed, anyone at all, with my disappointment.”

She held his gaze for a moment more, then glanced aside. She’d spent the last hour preparing that speech, mentally rehearsing her tone. Given the tightness about her chest, the peculiar sensitivity that had affected her skin, she was pleased to have delivered it so creditably.

They’d completed one revolution of the large ballroom; she smiled as she watched other couples join them on the floor.

“Your disappointment?”

She turned back to the man in whose arms she was. His tone had been flat, disturbing. She raised a haughty brow, then, remembering the many onlookers, let the expression dissolve into one of laughing happiness.

“I wasn’t aware”-the chill in his words warned her she was skating on thin ice-“that you have any justifiable cause for feeling dissatisfied with our dealings.”