All About Passion (Cynster 7)

She waited, patently expecting him to come nearer, to take her hand and raise her.

When he didn’t, she arched one brow.

He waved to the door. “Shall we?”

She met his gaze, then rose and came to him. One part of him wanted to turn, walk away-run away-and take refuge in his study. Most of him wanted-

He wrenched his gaze from the creamy expanse of her breasts exposed by the magnificent bronze-silk gown. The gown was simple; in it, she was stunning. He couldn’t stop his senses from drinking in the sight, from skating over her face, her hair, her lips.

He met her gaze briefly, then offered his arm. She placed her hand on his sleeve; soft and supple she glided beside him as they headed for the dining room-he felt as stiff as a board.

The meal provided a welcome diversion. He knew it wouldn’t last.

“The Festival went well, don’t you think?”

He inclined his head and nodded to a footman to serve him more beans. “Indeed.”

“Was there anything you noted, anything that might have been better done otherwise?” She gestured with her fork. “Any complaints?”

He met her gaze briefly. “No. None.”

He’d assumed the presence of Irving and the footmen would spike her guns temporarily; suddenly he wasn’t so sure.

As if she’d read his mind, she smiled, slipped a piece of pumpkin between her lips, and looked down.

Despite the determination he’d glimpsed in her eyes, she made no further reference to recent events, but asked instead about London. He appreciated her acquiescence to his wishes. He would have to speak with her-her dress declared her stance on that-but any such exchange would be at a time of his choosing and, most importantly, in her bedroom, a venue in which he could end all discussion whenever he wished.

“Have you heard from St. Ives?”

He answered briefly, revealing as little as possible. Lines would need to be drawn; he’d already drawn some but hadn’t yet decided where others would lie.

The meal ended. They rose and walked into the corridor. Pausing, she half turned and met his gaze.

He could feel her warmth, not just of her flesh but a deeper, womanly warmth, infinitely more tempting. The green of her eyes called him; the promise of her body showcased in bronze silk tugged at his senses. Drew him to her.

Her hand was rising to touch his arm when he stepped back.

Lids lowered, he inclined his head. “There’s much I have to attend to. I suggest you don’t wait up.”

He turned and strode for his study. He didn’t need to see her face.

Outwardly calm, Francesca retired to the family parlor. She sat by the fire for an hour, then Wallace pushed in the tea trolley. She allowed him to pour for her, then dismissed him. She sat beside the fire for another hour, then set aside her cup, rose, and went upstairs.

She changed, setting the bronze dress aside. Then she dismissed Millie.

In a fine silk nightgown beneath a peignoir of heavier silk, she stood by one window in the darkened room and gazed out at the moon-drenched night.

And waited.

Another hour passed before she heard the door to the room next to hers open, then close. She heard Gyles’s footsteps cross the floor. Heard him speak to Wallace.

She imagined Gyles undressing…

She turned her head, stared at the connecting door. Then she was crossing to it, reaching for the handle. If they were going to discuss anything, she wanted her husband fully clothed.

She flung open the door and walked through. “I wish to speak with you.”

Coatless, his cravat loose about his neck, Gyles paused, then he drew the linen free. “I’ll join you in a moment.”