He took them, and her, and she urged him on. Desire, passion and need filled them, caught them in a net of pleasure and bound them together, linked them ever more deeply as their bodies searched for, and found, delight.
Experienced delight. As she shattered in his arms, Francesca inwardly smiled, and waited, feeling her body surrender, unfurl and soften, feeling him plunder even more deeply. Then, with a harsh cry, he joined her, and filled her with a warmth far more pervasive than the physical. Joy, happiness-intangible but priceless.
Together they clung, together they gloried. She gloried even more that he’d come to her outside of her bedchamber. There was no possibility this was a duty-driven exercise, not that she’d seriously imagined their nightly interludes were such, but the confirmation was comforting. Encouraging.
She stroked his hair, soft against her palm, listened to his breathing ease, felt his heart slow.
Felt ridiculously exposed-vulnerable beyond belief, even with his strength surrounding her.
But if that’s what it took, she was willing. More than willing to take the risk. She was committed to loving him and could not now draw back. Never would.
She’d crossed her Rubicon to put herself in his arms.
Chapter 11
They walked back through the park in the deepening twilight, his arm around her, her head on his shoulder. Neither said a word. Increasingly Gyles felt that between them there was too much to say, and no words in which to say it.
None of his experience had prepared him for this. She seemed more proficient, more attuned, yet even she was wary, careful. Even she protected her heart and screened her thoughts and feelings.
Feelings. Something he could not escape, could not deny. The unfettered joy he experienced when they loved was new. Achingly precious, wholly addictive. Despite that last, he was grateful-for the experience of loving at that level where the physical was subsumed by the ephermal and feelings were elevated to a different plane.
As they neared the house, he glanced at her face. He was grateful for all she was, for all she had brought him.
Raising his head, he looked up at his front door.
And was conscious he wanted still more.
He knew what he wanted-had known for some time. Yet how could he demand let alone claim her love if he was not willing to love her, openly and honestly, in return?
They climbed the porch steps in silence. He opened the door; with a soft, sated smile, she stepped into the hall. He hesitated, then, face hardening, followed her into the house.
They met over the dinner table two hours later. Francesca’s heart was light, her body still aglow as she took her seat beside Gyles. Irving oversaw the serving, then the staff withdrew as she and Gyles tasted the delicate soup Ferdinand had prepared.
Gyles glanced at her. “If you write a letter to Charles, Wallace will see it gets sent immediately.”
“I’ll write tomorrow.” She wanted to get the question of what Franni felt about their marriage clarified. It was a black cloud hovering at the edge of her mental horizon; she wanted it dispersed so, when the time came, she could celebrate with an unfettered heart.
Never had she felt so confident of converting her dream to reality. Although she accepted they still had work to do in establishing the framework of their marriage, after this afternoon, she no longer harbored any doubt as to the basic structure, or the foundation on which they would build.
She knew better than to let her heart overflow, let her expectations show. Throughout the meal, she kept up a steady flow of general conversation, aware but unconcerned that Gyles made no effort, beyond that first comment, to introduce any subjects of his own.
At the end of the meal, they strolled side by side into the hall. She turned toward the family parlor.
Wallace stepped from the shadows and addressed his master. “I’ve left the documents from the study in the library as you requested, my lord.”
Francesca turned and looked at Gyles.
He met her gaze. “You’ll have to excuse me. There’s some research I must do on certain parliamentary matters.”
She couldn’t read his eyes, could read nothing in his bland expression. Thus far, he’d always joined her in the parlor; she would read a book while he read the London papers. A chill like a raindrop slithered down her spine. “Perhaps I could help.” When he didn’t immediately reply, she added, “With the research.”
His face hardened. “No.” After an instant’s hesitation, he added, “These are not matters with which my countess need concern herself.”
She couldn’t breathe. She stood there, disbelieving, stopping herself from believing, stopping herself from reacting. Only when she was sure her mask was in place and would not fall, when she was sure she could speak and her voice wouldn’t falter, she inclined her head. “As you wish.”
Turning, she walked toward the parlor.
Gyles watched her go, aware Wallace was still standing in the shadows. Then he turned. A footman threw open the library door; he walked in. The door closed behind him.