She’d asked him last night, and he’d refused to answer. There was no point asking again, even if the context was somewhat altered. At base, it was the same question-the question she kept tripping over, again and again.
So she’d have to forge on, try to find a way forward, without the answer. It was as if she were doing battle on a field obscured by mist-fighting for her future, and his, without knowing where or what obstac
les were in her path. If he thought she’d grow discouraged, give in, and settle for less than the enduring, open love she’d always wanted, especially now she knew it could exist if he would allow it to be, he would need to think again. Resigning battles was not her forte.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t his either.
She slanted an assessing glance at him. They would see.
The coach slowed, then turned a corner. A huge park appeared on the right.
Gyles glanced at her. “Hyde Park. Where the fashionable go to be seen.”
She leaned closer to look past him. “And should I be seen there?”
He hesitated, then said, “I’ll take you for a drive around the Avenue one day.”
She sat back as the carriage rounded another corner. Almost immediately, it slowed.
“We’ve arrived.”
Francesca glanced out at a row of elegant mansions. The carriage halted before one; the number 17 glowed against the stonework flanking the door.
The carriage door was opened. Gyles moved past her and descended, then handed her down to the pavement. She looked up at the green-painted door, at the gleaming brass knocker.
Behind her, Gyles murmured, “Our London home.”
He led her up the steps and into the blaze of the hall. The servants were waiting, lined up to greet her, Wallace at their head, Ferdinand farther down the row. They’d traveled up in Gyles’s curricle ahead of the main carriage. Wallace introduced her to Irving the Younger, then stood back while Irving introduced her to Mrs. Hart, the housekeeper, a thin, somewhat ascetic woman, a Londoner from her speech. Between them, Irving and Mrs. Hart introduced all the others, then Mrs. Hart murmured, “I daresay you’re eager to rest, my lady. I’ll show you to your room.”
Francesca glanced about. Gyles was standing under the chandelier, watching her.
She started toward him, glancing back at Mrs. Hart. “I’m not tired, but I would love some tea. Please bring it to the library.”
“At once, ma’am.”
Reaching Gyles, she slid her arm through his. “Come, my lord. Show me your lair.”
He should have put his foot down and ushered her into the drawing room. Two days later, Gyles could see his mistake clearly. Now the library, which in this house doubled as his study, was as much her lair as his.
He quelled a sigh and frowned at the letter spread on his blotter. It was from Gallagher. He glanced to where Francesca sat reading in an armchair before the hearth. “The Wenlows’ cottage-do you remember it?”
She looked up. “In that hollow south of the river?”
“The roof’s leaking.”
“It’s one of three, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “They’re all the same, built at the same time. I’m wondering if I should order all three roofs replaced.”
He looked at her, watched consideration flow across her face.
“Winter’s nearly here-if one of the other roofs spring a leak, it’ll be hard to fix if it’s snowing.”
“Even if it isn’t. Those old roofs get so iced, even without snow it’s too dangerous to send men up.” Setting a fresh sheet on the blotter, Gyles reached for a pen. “I’ll tell Gallagher to replace all three.”
She read while he wrote, but looked up as he sealed the letter. “Is there any other news?”
He recounted all Gallagher had told him. From there, they got onto the subject of the bills he was researching. They were deep in a discussion of demographics relating to the voting franchise when Irving entered. “Mr. Osbert Rawlings has called, my lord. Are you receiving?”