He’d been unprepared for the possessiveness that had roared through him, powerful, forceful, and unsettling. Equally unprepared for her calmness, her cool head in dealing with the Italian, for the rock-solid, unwavering loyalty he’d sensed behind her words.
Was that what love meant? What having her love would mean-never having to worry, to wonder, to consider where her loyalties might lie?
He tried to wrench his mind away but couldn’t. He answered a question from Henni absentmindedly, unable to take his mental eyes from the prize.
She’d talked in terms of “we” and “us.” She’d done so instinctively, without calculation-that was how she truly thought, how she saw them, their lives.
The barbarian within wanted that, wanted to seize the prize and gloat, while the gentleman had convinced himself he’d never desire any such thing at all.
“Gyles, stop woolgathering.”
He focused, and quickly came to his feet as Henni and Ester, along with the other ladies, rose.
Henni grinned. She patted his arm as she turned away. “Don’t dally so long over the port this time. I have an answer to your question.”
* * *
The only question Gyles could recall was his wish to know Henni’s opinion of Franni. That wasn’t incentive enough to make him cut short his time in the comfortable company of Charles and Horace and rush to the drawing room, where he would once gain be exposed to Franni’s disturbing presence.
No one else seemed to find her disturbing-odd and awkward, yes, but not unsettling.
After forty minutes, he drained his glass and bowed to the inevitable.
From the drawing room’s threshold, he scanned the assembled ladies and located Francesca talking to Henni by the hearth. Charles and Horace ambled over to join Lady Elizabeth and Ester who were sitting on the chaise.
Franni was in an armchair beside Ester; Gyles felt her pale blue gaze as he strolled to Francesca’s side but gave no sign he was aware of her.
“Well! There you are!” Henni turned to Francesca. “You’ll have to take him in
hand, my dear-that was far too long over the port for just a family gathering.” Henni shook her head disapprovingly. “We can’t have him developing bad habits.” She patted Francesca’s hand and moved to join those about the chaise.
Gyles watched her go, then met Francesca’s emerald eyes. “Do you intend taking me in hand, madam?”
She held his gaze, then her lips curved. Her lashes fell as she leaned closer, her voice lowering to the smoky, sultry sound that shot heat straight to his loins. “I take you in hand every night, my lord.” She looked into his eyes, then arched a brow. “But perhaps, tonight, you should remind me. I wouldn’t want you developing bad habits.”
His fingers had found hers, stroking across her palm. He raised her hand to his lips. “Rest assured I’ll remind you. There’s a habit or two you might like to try.”
Her brows rose in artful consideration, then she turned as Horace joined them. Gyles learned it was Horace who’d told Francesca where the urns and troughs from the forecourt had been hidden. Watching her charm his uncle, he had to admire her skill-Horace was not at all susceptible, yet he was very willing to extend himself for Francesca.
The action of glancing about the room, scanning his guests, was purely reflexive. Everyone was chatting, all except Franni. Gyles’s gaze stopped on her; he’d expected her to be bored, possibly frowning. Instead…
She was smug, there was no other word for it. She was all but hugging herself with smirking satisfaction. Her gaze was on him and Francesca, but she wasn’t really seeing-she hadn’t realized he was watching her. Her lips were curved in a peculiar, distant smile. Her whole expression spoke of faraway thoughts and pleasurable imaginings.
Gyles stepped closer to Francesca. Franni’s smugness increased. She was, very definitely, watching them.
Frances Rawlings was an exceedingly strange woman.
Horace turned to Gyles. “How’s the bridge going?”
Francesca listened to Gyles’s reply, then squeezed his fingers, slid her hand free, and strolled over to Franni.
“Are you all right?” With a swish of silk skirts, she sat on the arm of Franni’s chair.
“Yes!” Franni sat back, smiling. “I’ve had a lovely visit. I’m sure we’ll come more often, now.”
Francesa smiled back. She turned the conversation to Rawlings Hall, avoiding all mention of Bath.
Charles and Ester joined them; Francesca stood so they could speak more easily. Then Ester sat on the chair arm the better to talk to Franni. Charles laid a hand on Francesca’s arm. She turned to him.