The passionate glow in Lancelot’s eyes suggested he was about to fling himself on his knees and pour out his callow heart.
“Yes, I know,” she said.
He blinked. “You do?”
She nodded. She eased up, forcing him to step back so she could stand. “People-men-are always telling me that. It matters little to me, because, of course, I can’t see it.”
She’d used such lines before to confuse overardent gentlemen. Lancelot stood there, frowning, replaying her words in his head, trying to determine the correct response. Francesca slipped around him.
“Lady Gilmartin?”
“What?” Her ladyship started and dropped the scone she’d been eating. “Oh, yes, my dear?”
Francesca smiled charmingly. “It’s such a lovely day outside, I wonder if you’d care to stroll in the Italian garden. Perhaps Clarissa could come, too?”
Clarissa scowled and turned a pugnacious countenance on her mother, who brushed crumbs from her skirt while peering shortsightedly at the long windows.
“Well, dear, I would love to, of course, but I rather think it’s time we were leaving. Wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome.” Lady Gilmartin uttered one of her horsey laughs. Rising, she stepped close to Francesca and lowered her voice. “I know what men-lords or earls though they may be-are like, dear. Quite ungovernable in the early days. But it passes, you know-trust me on that.” With a pat on Francesca’s hand, Lady Gilmartin swept toward the door.
Francesca hurried after her, to make absolutely certain she headed the right way. Clarissa stumped after them; Lancelot, still puzzling, followed. Gyles and Lord Gilmartin brought up the rear.
With hearty cheer, Lady Gilmartin took her leave, her offspring silent at her heels. Lord Gilmartin was the last to quit the porch; he bowed over Francesca’s hand.
“My dear, you’re radiant, and Gyles is a lucky dog indeed to have won you.” His lordship smiled, gentle and sweet, then nodded and went down the steps.
“Remember!” Lady Gilmartin called from the coach. “You’re free to call anytime you feel the need of ladylike company.”
Francecsa managed a smile and a nod. “What on earth,” she murmured to Gyles beside her, “does she think your mother and aunt are? Social upstarts?”
He didn’t reply. They raised their hands in farewell as the coach rocked away down the drive. “That was neatly done-you must tell Mama. She was always at a loss to save herself.”
“It was an act of desperation.” Francesca continued to smile and wave. “You should have warned me.”
“There is no way adequately to warn anyone of Lady Gilmartin and her brood.” An instant’s pause ensued, then Gyles murmured, “You didn’t think being my countess would be easy, did you?”
Francesca’s smile deepened into a real one. His tone was easy, easy enough to confuse with banter-underlying it ran his real question. Meeting his eyes, she let her smile soften. “Being your countess is quite pleasurable.”
One brow quirked. “Pleasurable?”
He was not holding her, yet she felt held. His eyes searched hers, then steadied. “That wasn’t what I asked.”
His voice was a murmur, drifting past her ear.
“Wasn’t it?” She had to fight to keep her gaze from lowering to his lips.
Gyles studied her emerald eyes, wanting more yet not knowing how to ask for it. He had to try, to press her-
“My lord? Oh.”
He turned. Wallace stood by the door which he’d just hauled open. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry, my lord, but you wished to be informed when Gallagher arrived.”
“Very good-show him into the office. I’ll join him in a moment.”
He turned back to be met by a bright smile and a gesture suggesting they reenter the house.
Francesca led the way into the hall. “Gallagh