All About Passion (Cynster 7)

Charles’s brief smile was wry. “From all I’ve ever heard, if you wished her to find you suitable, she would. You could sweep any naive young lady off her feet.”

Gyles’s smile mirrored Charles’s. “Unfortunately, in this case, using those particular talents might prove counterproductive. I want an amenable bride, not a besotted one.”

“True.”

Gyles considered Charles, then stretched out his legs and crossed his booted ankles. “Charles, I’m going to place you in an invidious position and claim the right of help you owe me as head of the family. Do you know of any reason that would argue against making Francesca Rawlings the next Countess of Chillingworth?”

“None. Absolutely none.” Charles returned his regard steadily. “Francesca would fill the position to the admiration of all the family.”

Gyles held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded. “Very well.” He felt as if a vise had released from about his chest. “In that case, I’d like to make a formal offer for your niece’s hand.”

Charles blinked. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Well”-Charles started to rise-“I’ll send for her-”

“No.” Gyles waved him back. “You forget-I wish this entire matter to be treated with the utmost formality. I want it made clear, not only by word but also by deed, that this is an arranged marriage, nothing more. Your description of your niece confirms the opinions of others-grandes dames of the ton richly experienced in evaluating the worth of marriageable young ladies. Everyone declares Francesca Rawlings an unexceptionable parti-I need no further assurances. In the circumstances, I see no reason to meet Miss Rawlings socially. You are her guardian-it’s through you I’ll apply for her hand.”

Charles considered arguing; Gyles knew precisely when the realization that it would be wasted effort, and rather impertinent at that, dawned. He, after all, was the head of the family.

“Very well. If that’s your wish, if you’ll give me the details, I’ll speak with Francesca this evening… I’d better write it down.” Charles searched for pen and paper.

When he was ready, Gyles dictated and Charles transcribed the formal offer of a contract of marriage between the Earl of Chillingworth and Francesca Hermione Rawlings. As Charles scribbled the last of the settlements, Gyles mused, “It might be as well not to mention the relationship, distant as it is. It’s not of any practical relevance. I’d prefer that the offer was specifically made as coming from the earl.”

Charles shrugged. “It can’t hurt. Women like titles.”

“Good. If there’s no further information you need from me, I’ll leave you.” Gyles stood.

Charles came to his feet. He opened his mouth, then hesitated. “I was going to insist you stay with us here, or at least dine…”

Gyles shook his head. “Another time, perhaps. I’m staying at the Lyndhurst Arms should you need to reach me.” He turned to the door.

Charles yanked the bellpull, then followed. “I’ll discuss this with Francesca this evening-”

“And I’ll call tomorrow morning to hear her answer.” Gyles paused as Charles joined him at the door. “One last impertinence. You mentioned your marriage was an arranged one-tell me, were you happy?”

Charles met his gaze. “Yes. We were.”

Gyles hesitated, then inclined his head. “Then you know Francesca has nothing to fear in the arrangement I propose.”

There’d been pain in Charles’s eyes. Gyles knew Charles was a widower, but he hadn’t anticipated that depth of feeling; Charles had clearly felt the loss of his wife keenly. A chill touched his nape. Gyles stepped into the hall. Charles followed. They shook hands, then the butler arrived. Gyles followed him back through the house.

As they neared the front hall, the butler murmured, “I’ll just send the footman for your horse, my lord.”

They stepped into the hall to find no footman in sight, but the green baize door at the hall’s end was swinging wildly. A second later, a shrieking scullery maid raced out. She ignored Gyles and rushed for the butler.

“Oh, Mr. Bulwer, you got to come quick! There’s a chook got loose in the kitchen! Cook’s chasing it with a cleaver, but it won’t stand still!”

The butler looked offended and guilty simultaneously. He slid a helpless glance at Gyles as the maid dragged with all her might on his sleeve. “I do apologize, my lord-I’ll get help-”

Gyles laughed. “Don’t worry-I’ll find my way. By the sound of it, you’d better settle things in the kitchen if you want any dinner tonight.”

Relief washed over Bulwer’s face. “Thank you, my lord. The stable lad will have your horse ready.” Before he could say more, he was dragged away. Gyles heard him scolding the maid as they went through the swinging door.

Grinning, Gyles strolled to the front door. Letting himself out, he descended the steps, then, on impulse, turned left. He strolled the parterre, admiring the trimmed hedges and conifers. On his left, the stone wall bordered the path, the

n a yew hedge continued the line unbroken. He turned left again at the earliest opportunity-an archway in the hedge giving onto a path through the shrubbery. He looked ahead; the stable’s roof rose beyond the hedges.