“Why?” Francesca shook Osbert’s sleeve. He’d arrived shortly after they had, and had made a beeline for her side. “Why would I wish to attend here often?”
“Well,” Osbert temporized, “in your case, I suppose there isn’t any great need. You’ll want to look in every so often to keep in touch-find out who the favored of the latest crop of young ladies are, which gentlemen are looking to take the plunge, and so on. But until you have a daughter to establish, I can’t see that this place will help you. Except on occasions like this, of course.”
“Even then.” Francesca waved at the crowd. “Where are the gentlemen? Most of those here are so young, and they look like they’ve been dragged along by their mamas. Half of them are sulking.” They reminded her forcibly of Lancelot Gilmartin. “There are only a few like you who’ve braved the dangers.” She patted his arm. “I’m grateful.”
Osbert colored and looked exceedingly conscious; Francesca smiled. Scanning the throng, she sighed. “There are no gentlemen like Gyles here.”
Osbert cleared his throat. “Gentlemen like Gyles usually… er, stick to their clubs.”
“After spending all day in their clubs, I would have thought they’d prefer to spend their evenings with feminine company.”
Osbert swallowed. “Cousin Gyles and his sort aren’t exactly encouraged to cross the threshold here. Well, they’re not likely to want a young bride, are they?”
Francesca caught Osbert’s eye. “Are you sure,” she murmured, “that it isn’t a case of the hostesses avoiding guests they can’t control?”
Osbert’s brows rose; he appeared much struck. “You know, I never thought of it quite like that, but…”
A stir about the main entry arch drew their attention. Francesca couldn’t see through the crowd; Osbert craned his neck, looked, then turned back to Francesca, his expression amazed. “Well! What a turn up.”
“What?” Francesca tugged his sleeve, but Osbert was looking again. He raised his hand in a salute.
An instant later, the crowd before them thinned, then parted. Gyles came stalking through.
“Madam.” He nodded curtly, taking her hand, ignoring her stunned expression.
He glanced at Osbert, who was struggling to hide a grin. Gyles caught his eye; Osbert abruptly took refuge behind his habitual vague mask. He nodded. “Cousin.”
Gyles returned the nod, then looked at Francesca.
Smiling delightedly, she slid her fingers from his grasp only to place them on his sleeve, slipping into her usual position at his side where she felt so comfortable. “I thought gentlemen like you weren’t encouraged to attend?”
Hard grey eyes met hers. “You’re here.”
Gyles skated his gaze over her shoulders, over the emeralds winking against her fine skin. The rustle of approaching skirts had him turning, saving him from saying something even more revealing.
“Gyles, dear-what a surprise!” His mother quizzed him with her eyes. He kissed her cheek and glanced at Henni.
With her head, Henni indicated the main archway. “You certainly made an entrance. Countess Lieven’s still standing there, shocked to her toes.”
“It’ll do her good.” Gyles glanced over the crowd. Not as many gentleman as he’d expected. Better than he’d hoped. “Come.” He glanced at Francesca. “Now I’ve made the supreme sacrifice of donning knee breeches, we may as well stroll.”
“Yes, do.” His mother caught his eye. “Go that way.” She pointed to an arch that led into a succession of anterooms. Gyles inclined his head and turned Francesca in that direction. Presumably there was someone that way who needed to know that he was protective of his wife.
His stunning, ravishing, too-delectable-to-take-his-eyes-off wife. His arrant stupidity in suggesting she wear her new gown had rebounded with a vengeance. He’d only done so because he’d been dying to see her in it, and Almack’s was surely the most innocuous of venues-that had been his rapid reasoning. The truth had hit him between the eyes when, smugly expectant, he’d come out of the library having heard her footsteps on the stairs, and seen her, gowned and jeweled, a hundred times more sensually evocative than his imagination had painted her.
The company at Almack’s was largely innocuous. Any gentlemen present would not be of his ilk. Few wolves would bother poking their noses in there. He’d told himself all that and more while struggling to concentrate on a legislative draft.
Hopeless. He’d tossed aside his papers and gone up to change-he’d caught Wallace grinning when he’d asked for his knee breeches.
If it hadn’t been for the effect Francesca had on him, dressed as she was, so close beside him, he’d be scowling. Instead… he wasn’t all that averse to spending an hour strolling in her company.
He was known to most of the matrons. He and Francesca were stopped frequently; some dared to quiz him, but most were genuinely intrigued-entertained-by his presence. Francesca chatted with her usual assurance. He had all but relaxed when, turning from Lady Chatham, they found themselves facing a large, rather portly gentleman with florid features.
“Chillingworth.” With a genial nod, Lord Albemarle shifted his gaze to Francesca. “And this, I take it, is your new countess who I’ve heard so much about.”
Gyles gritted his teeth and made the introduction. His hand lay over Francesca’s on his sleeve; he squeezed her fingers warningly.
“My lord.” Francesca acknowledged the introduction haughtily and made no move to slide her fingers from beneath the comfort of Gyles’s warm hand. Lord Albemarle’s eyes were too cool, his gaze too assessing.