Beyond the passion, the desire-and the driving need that fanned them.
It wasn’t such a bad basis for a marriage.
* * *
“Get out!”
Francesca woke to Gyles’s clipped accents. Pushing the covers from her face, she peeked out-in time to see her bedroom door closing. Bemused, she turned to Gyles, slumped large, hot, hard-and very naked-beside her. “What…?”
“What’s your maid’s name?”
“Millie.”
“You need to instruct Millie not to come to your room in the morning until you ring for her.”
“Why?”
Turning his head on the pillow, he looked at her, then started softly laughing. His mirth rocked her in the bed. His expression still amused, he turned on his side and reached for her. “I take it,” he said, “you never watched your parents in the mornings.”
“No, of course not. Why…” Francesca broke off as she studied his eyes. Then she licked her lips and looked at his. “The morning?”
“Hmm,” he said, and drew her against him.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, it won’t happen again, I swear-”
“It’s all right, Millie. It was my oversight-I should have mentioned. We’ll say no more about it.” Francesca hoped she wasn’t blushing. She hadn’t mentioned because she hadn’t imagined… Looking away from Millie, who was still wringing her hands, she straightened her morning gown. “Now, I’m ready. Please tell Mrs. Cantle I wish to see her in the family parlor at ten.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Still subdued, Millie bobbed a curtsy.
Francesca headed for the door. And the breakfast parlor. Sustenance. Her mother’s quite remarkable appetite in the mornings was now explained.
Gyles and Horace had breakfasted earlier, and Gyles had gone out riding. Where he found the energy, Francesca could not guess but she was grateful not to have to endure his too-knowing grey gaze over the teacups.
Lady Elizabeth and Henni joined her. Once they were gustatorily satisfied, they retired to the family parlor. Mrs. Cantle, no taller than Francesca but rather more buxom and garbed in dull black, appeared promptly at ten o’clock.
She bobbed a curtsy, then clasped her hands. “You wished to see me, ma’am?” The question was addressed impartially, directed somewhere between Francesca and Lady Elizabeth, who was clearly nonplussed.
Francesca smiled. “I did. As Lady Elizabeth is removing to the Dower House this afternoon, she and I wish to use the morning to go over the house and review household practices. I wondered if you have time to accompany us?”
Mrs. Cantle struggled not to beam, but her eyes shone. “If we could just decide the menus, ma’am.” She addressed Francesca directly. “I don’t dare leave the heathen to his own devices, if you take my meaning. Needs constant reining in, he does.”
The heathen had to be Ferdinand. “You have another cook here, I believe?” Francesca shot a glance at Lady Elizabeth, but it was Mrs. Cantle who answered.
“Indeed, ma’am, and that’s the better half of the problem. None of us would deny Ferdinand’s…”
“Artistry?”
“Aye-that’s it. He’s a right one with food, no doubt of it. But Cook, she’s been with the family for years-fed the master since he was a boy, knows all his favorite dishes… and she and Ferdinand don’t get on.”
It wasn’t hard to see why. Cook was the cook until Ferdinand appeared, and then she was demoted. “What is Cook’s specialty?” Mrs. Cantle frowned. “What manner of food is she especially good at? Soups? Pastries?”
“Puddings, ma’am. Her lemon curd pudding is one of the master’s favorites, and her treacle tart will curl your toes.”
“Very well.” Francesca stood. “We’ll start our tour in the kitchens. I’ll speak with Ferdinand, and we’ll decide the menu, and we’ll see if I can help smooth matters over.”
Intrigued, Lady Elizabeth joined them. Mrs. Cantle led them through the green baize door and into a warren of corridors and small rooms. They passed Irving in his pantry and paused to survey the household silver and plate.
As they continued in Mrs. Cantle’s wake, Francesca turned to Lady Elizabeth. “I hadn’t thought to ask-how will you manage at the Dower House? You’ll need a butler, and a cook and maids-”