All About Passion (Cynster 7)

“Get out. And take any staff in the wing with you.”

“At once, sir.”

Gyles watched the door close behind his majordomo, then started to pace, to give Wallace time to fetch Francesca’s maid and depart the private wing. He suspected his first private meeting with his wife would not be a quiet one. She was as far removed from the meek and mild-mannered as it was possible to get-

He heard a door close. He paused, then crossed to the door into Francesca’s bedchamber. He reached for the handle, then stopped. Had she realized the door was there-that it was a connecting door and not a cupboard?

Would she scream if he walked through?

Muttering a curse, he swung around and stalked to the corridor door.

In her luxurious emerald green bedchamber, Francesca sat before the dressing table and studiously brushed her hair, her eyes never leaving the door to her right, farther along the wall-the door that, so Millie had informed her, led to the earl’s bedchamber.

Through there he would come. She was ready, waiting-

A glimmer of movement caught her eye. She looked into the mirror-and smothered a shriek! Leaping up from the stool she whirled, the silver-backed brush clutched like a weapon. “What are you doing here?” Her heart thumped. “How did you get in?”

Halting three feet away, he narrowed his eyes at her. To her relief, he ignored her first witless question. “Through the door. The main one.”

He was wearing a robe nonchalantly belted over a pair of loose silk trousers. She forced her gaze past him to the corridor door, then looked back at him, at his face. “A gentleman would have knocked.”

Gyles had thought about it. “I’m your husband. I own this house. I don’t have to knock.”

The look she cast him should have withered him. Instead, it had the opposite effect. With a gesture very like a flounce, she turned and set her brush down. It clicked on the tabletop.

He had long ago observed that the best courtesans perfected the contradictory art of dressing demurely yet appearing lushly sensual. His new wife was apparently a natural in that sphere-the ivory-silk nightgown that draped her curves was in no way outrageous, yet in it she epitomized every man’s secret fantasy. The neckline was not low; it exposed very little of her breasts. Simplicity itself, the gown had no sleeves. Instead, a negligee of diaphanous gauze, liberally edged with lace, hazed the warm tone of her bare arms, the fall of lace at wrists, around the neckline and down the open front, tempting a man to reach, to touch, to brush aside and reach farther.

Her hair, fully out, was longer than he’d thought, the curling strands hanging down her back to her waist.

“Very well.” She swung to face him. Eyes glittering, she crossed her arms. He had to fight to keep his gaze on her face, away from the peaks of her breasts outlined beneath the taut silk.

“You may now explain how it was that you thought my cousin was the woman you were marrying.”

The demand, and her tone, refocused his mind wonderfully. When he didn’t immediately respond, she flung out her hands. “How could you have made such a mistake?”

“Very easily. I had perfectly reasonable grounds to imagine your cousin was the lady for whom I was offering.”

Her eyes, her expression dared him to convince her. He mentally gritted his teeth. “The day I made my offer, I walked to the stable via the shrubbery.”

She nodded exaggeratedly. “I remember that quite well.”

“Before I met you, I saw your cousin sitting in the walled garden reading a book. I don’t think she saw me.”

“She often sits there.”

“While I was watching, some woman called your name.”

“Ester called me. I heard her and came running-”

“When Ester called, Franni reacted. She shut her book, gathered her shawl.”

Francesca grimaced. “She’s childish-always curious. If someone’s called, she’ll come to find out why. But surely, just from that, you didn’t assume-”

“Ester called again. ‘Francesca-Franni’-and Franni answered, ‘I’m here.’ Naturally, I assumed Franni was a diminutive of Francesca. I was convinced she was you.”

She studied him. Her anger faded; worry clouded her eyes. “You said you met Franni-walked with her-twice. What did you say to her?”

He set his jaw. “I swore on my honor I said nothing-” He broke off when she waved the words aside.