“Among other things.” Gyles turned as Francesca slipped her hand through his arm. He smiled. As she exchanged some comment with Henni, he took in her appearance.
Tonight, she’d chosen to wear old gold. Her gown was of lush silk in that deep, rich shade that invoked the idea of treasure, the silk shawl draped over her elbows a medley of subtly contrasting hues, all golds and soft browns. Her hair was piled high, artfully cascading to brush her shoulders, the black locks a dramatic contrast against her ivory skin. From her ears, gold earrings dangled; a simple gold chain encircled her throat. And in the midst of the gold, her eyes glowed, intense as any emerald.
She glanced at him.
“You look exquisite.” Gyles raised her hand to his lips, let his gaze touch hers.
“Dinner is served, my lord.”
As one they turned. Joined by Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace, they moved into the small dining room.
By eight-thirty that evening, Gyles was more distracted than he’d been all week. From his position beside Francesca at the top of the stairs leading down to their ballroom, he craned his neck, looking back along the row of guests waiting to greet them.
He couldn’t see the end of the line.
Francesca nudged him. He hauled his gaze back to the elderly lady waiting to speak with him. He took her wizened hand, racking his brain for her name.
“Cousin Helen has traveled up from Merton to be with us tonight.”
Gyles shot a grateful glance at Francesca, then murmured polite phrases to Cousin Helen, who then informed him, in a voice that would have done credit to a sergeant major, that she was deaf as a post.
Patting his hand, she moved on down the stairs. Gyles caught Francesca’s fleeting grin as she turned to greet their next guests.
There had to be three hundred of them-three hundred Rawlingses, plus an assortment of others. Gyles was relieved to welcome Devil and Honoria.
Honoria nodded regally, the twinkle in her eye telling him there was no point trying to hide his astonishment.
“I never imagined there would be this many.”
“You underestimated the power of curiosity-what lady in her right mind would turn down an invitation from your new countess?”
“I’ve never claimed to comprehend the minds of ladies.”
“Very wise.” Honoria cast a glance over the now teeming ballroom. “From what Devil told me of your family tree, there might well be more Rawlingses than Cynsters.”
Devil turned from Francesca in time to catch that; he looked around and nodded. “It’s possible.”
“Heaven forbid!” Gyles muttered sotto voce.
Honoria threw him a disapproving look; Devil grinned, then, sobering, caught Gyles’s eye. “Seems an excellent opportunity to further our recent activities.”
The thought had occurred to Gyles. Surely someone present would know where Walwyn was. “You start. I’ll join you when I’m free.”
Devil nodded.
“What activities?” Honoria asked.
“I told you we’re looking for supporters for our bills.” Devil steered her down to the ballroom’s floor.
Gyles turned to greet the next guests-cousins and connections even more distant, they’d all answered Francesca’s call with an alacrity he found both disarming and disconcerting. As if they’d been waiting for the opportunity to replace the distance developed over recent decades with a more cohesive framework, a stronger sense of shared purpose based on familial ties.
Quite aside from their number, that sense of togetherness distracted him.
The line was thinning when a typically tall and lanky male Rawlings, his face lined and weather-beaten, his clothes sober and unfashionable, approached, a tall, plainly dressed lady on his arm. The man smiled at Francesca and bowed stiffly, but it was the stiffness of disuse rather than haughtiness.
“Walwyn Rawlings, my dear.”
Francesca smiled and gave him her hand.