After a moment, Devil grinned. “I’ll suggest it to Honoria.” Glancing at Gyles, he straightened, an unholy gleam in his eyes. “Of course, you realize that in making such a suggestion, you’re going to encourage Francesca to invest even more time in the social whirl.” With spurious concern, Devil frowned. “I’ll understand if you can’t bring yourself to do it-it must be frustrating, recently married as you are, to find your wife in such demand.”
Gyles scowled before he could stop himself, then scowled even more when Devil grinned devilishly and, with a salute, stepped out of reach.
He was not that transparent. Devil had been able to put his finger on the one sore point created by Francesca’s social success only because he’d felt, or perhaps still did feel, the same way. The social whirl of the ton had not been created to foster marriage. Weddings, yes, but not what came after. And it was that-the after-the-wedding stage-that now consumed him.
And Francesca. It wasn’t as if the difficulty was his alone, and for that, he was thankful. She, too, clung to the few hours they could spend together, in his library, comfortably reading, sometimes discussing, exchanging views-learning more about each other.
But as the ton discovered her, those private hours had shrunk. Then disappeared.
Her mornings were consumed with visits-at-homes, morning teas-usually in the company of his mother and Henni, Honoria, or one of the other ladies with whom she’d become friends. All right and proper.
She was rarely in for luncheon, but neither was he. While she spent her afternoons making further connections and strengthening those already made, he waded through the myriad administrative demands made by the estate, or met his friends at their clubs. He and she met again for dinner but never dined alone-they were now in constant demand as more and more hostesses discovered her.
After dinner, there were balls and parties to attend; they always returned home late. And if she still came to his arms eager and wanting, while they loved as passionately as ever, there yet remained a sense of deprivation, a lack.
He was an earl-he shouldn’t have to lack.
“A message from North Audley Street, ma’am.”
Francesca set aside her toast and lifted the folded note from Wallace’s salver. “Thank you.” Opening the note, she read it, then glanced at Gyles. “Your mama and Henni are both feeling under the weather, but they say I shouldn’t stop by to visit them. They say it’s just the sniffles.”
“No need to risk catching them, too.” Gyles looked at her over the top of that morning’s Gazette. “Does their indisposition affect your plans?”
“We were going to attend a morning tea with the Misses Berry, but I really don’t feel like going alone.”
“Indeed not. You’d be the youngest present by a decade.” Gyles laid aside the Gazette. “I have a suggestion.”
“Oh?” Francesca looked up.
“Come walking with me. There’s something I want to show you.”
She was intrigued. “Where?”
“You’ll see when we get there.”
To Francesca’s astonishment, “there” proved to be Asprey, the jewelers, in Bond Street. The “something” was an emerald necklace.
The assistant snibbed the catch at her nape. Wonderingly, she raised a hand to touch the large, oval-cut emeralds that hung from the collar, itself made of oval-cut stones. Gyles had insisted she remain in her morning gown with its scooped neckline; she now understood why. The emeralds flared, green fire against her skin.
She shifted this way, then that, watching the light play in the stones, noting how her eyes deepened, as if reflecting the emerald’s fire. The necklace was neither too heavy nor too ornate. Neither was it so delicate that it risked being overwhelmed by her own dramatic coloring.
It could have been made just for her…
She looked past her own reflection and saw Gyles, behind her, exchange an approving glance with the old jeweler who’d come from the back of the shop to watch.
Francesca turned and caught Gyles’s hand. “You had this made for me?”
He looked down at her. “They had nothing quite right.” He held her gaze for a moment, then squeezed her fingers before sliding his hand free. “Leave it on.”
While he complimented the jeweler, the assistant helped her into her pelisse. Francesca buttoned it up to her throat. It was chilly outside, but that wasn’t the reason. She suspected the necklace would be worth a small fortune. Over the past weeks, she’d seen many jewels, but nothing of such simple, dramatic worth.
Gyles slid the necklace’s velvet case into his pocket, then collected her, and they left the shop. On the pavement, he noted her pelisse’s high collar and smiled. Taking her arm, he led her farther up the street.
“Where are we going now?” Francesca asked. They’d left the carriage in Piccadilly-in the opposite direction.
“Now you have the necklace, you need something to go with it.”
What he had in mind was a gown, another item created to his specifications. He’d commanded the services of one of the ton’s most exclusive modistes; Francesca stood before the long mirror in the private room off the Bruton Street salon; all she could do was stare.