The gown was simple, reserved in its lines, yet on her, it became a statement of sensual confidence. In heavy emerald silk, the bodice fitted her like a second skin, the triangular neckline neither high nor low, yet because of the gown’s fit, her breasts would draw all eyes-if it wasn’t for the necklace. Gown and necklace complemented each other perfectly, neither detracting from the other. From the raised waist, the silk fell sleekly, flaring over her hips into a stylish layered skirt.
Francesca stared at the lady in the mirror, watched her breasts rise and fall, watched the emeralds wink green fire. Her eyes appeared enormous, her hair a froth of black curls anchored atop her head.
She glanced at Gyles, sitting relaxed in an armchair to one side. He caught her gaze, then turned his head and said something in French to the modiste-Francesca didn’t catch it. The modiste slipped out, closing the door.
Gyles rose; he came to stand behind her. He looked at her reflection. “Do you like it?”
His gaze roamed over her. Francesca considered her answer, considered what she could see in his face, unmasked in that instant.
“The gown, the necklace.” She held out her arms, palms up. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
For what he’d allowed her to become. He’d made her his countess in name and in fact. She was now his. His to bejewel, his to gown. His.
She’d wanted that, dreamed of it, accepted it. She’d prayed he would, too. She turned her head, laid a hand along his cheek, and guided his lips to hers. His hands, warm through the silk, closed about her waist as their lips met, brushed, then settled. But only for a heartbeat.
The sudden rush of heat, of desire, had them both reining quickly back. Their eyes met; their lips curved in identical, knowing smiles.
He held her gaze, then raised a hand and lightly brushed the tight peak of one breast.
“You can thank me later.”
* * *
She did, spending the better part of the night in that endeavor. Throughout the following day, while she chatted and visited, drank tea and listened, Francesca’s mind constantly slid away, seduced by her memories. At one point Honoria arched a knowing brow a
nd left her blushing. She wondered who else saw through her social veil and correctly guessed the cause of her distraction.
The following morning, she breakfasted with Gyles, as was becoming their invariable habit. He questioned her about her day’s engagements, then suggested she don her pelisse and come for a short drive with him in his curricle to try out the paces of his new team of bays.
He kidnapped her for the entire day.
Deaf to her protests, he bowled through the streets, taking her into the City, to St. Paul’s, where they walked hand in hand, gazing at the brasses and monuments, to the Tower and London Bridge, then off to see Cleopatra’s Needle, then on to the Museum.
It was, in many ways, a journey of joint discovery; when she peppered him with questions, he admitted he hadn’t visited the sights recently, not since he’d been ten.
That made her laugh-he retaliated by subjecting her to an inquisition on her life in Italy.
Indeed, his questions came so readily, rolled so easily from one point to the next, that she started to suspect that the purpose behind the outing was at least in part so he could learn more of her.
She answered his queries with a light and joyous heart.
Gyles caught her shrewd glances, saw the light dancing in her eyes. She would have been even more thrilled had she known his principal motivation. True, he did want to know more about her, but his deepest, most compelling reason for spending the entire day with her was simply because he needed to.
Needed the time with her to soothe an odd uneasiness, to reassure the barbarian that she was still his during the day as much as she was during the night. Needed the time to draw her to him with more than just his arms, his kisses. Needed to prove to himself that he could.
When he turned the bays for home, Francesca sighed; smiling softly, she leaned her head against his shoulder. He bent his head and dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. Her smile deepened, and she snuggled closer. It occurred to him that he was wooing her, although not in the accepted sense. He wasn’t wooing her to make her fall in love with him. He was wooing his wife to keep her loving him.
He would do it until he died.
Almack’s. Francesca had heard of it, of course, but she hadn’t imagined it would be so plain, so… boring. Tonight was not one of the usual subscription balls-it was too late in the year for that. Instead, the hostesses had graciously invited those of their accepted circle still in town for one last evening within the hallowed halls.
Casting a critical glance around as she strolled the main room on Osbert’s arm, Francesca felt that the hallowed halls could do with redecorating. Then again, the throng that filled them was glittering and glamorous enough to deflect attention from the dull, rather shabby decor.
Lady Elizabeth and Henni had encouraged her to accompany them; they’d explained it was an occasion at which a new countess could not afford not to be seen. On learning of her plans over the breakfast table, Gyles had suggested she wear her new gown and her emeralds.
Encountering her in the hall as she was leaving, he’d paused, hesitated. Shadows had hidden his face, then he’d taken her hand, carried it to his lips, and told her she looked ravishing.
The gown and necklace bolstered her confidence. They felt like armor, so carefully scrutinized had they been. Knowing she looked well had allowed her to meet the sharp eyes with unimpaired serenity. Under the auspices of Lady Elizabeth and Lady Henrietta, as Henni was more properly known, she’d been introduced to all the hostesses. All had signified their approval; all had expressed the wish that she would be a frequent visitor in the years to come.