All About Passion (Cynster 7)

Pins clamped between her lips, Francesca said nothing. Once her hair was secured, she stood and let Millie help her into the gown. As it sheathed her in soft silk, she suppressed a shiver.

And wondered what she was doing-very likely riding hell-bent for a fall. There was nothing to say that she could soften his heart by going to such lengths with her appearance. He was an experienced rake, used to dallying with the most beautiful of London’s ladies. Her birth might be on a par with his, but by London standards she was, and would remain until proven otherwise, a provincial. Not one of the gilded circle.

Her person, however, was exceedingly attractive to male senses-that was one point on which she felt supremely confident. Her mother had raised her to appreciate and make the most of all God had given her.

And she wasn’t going to relinquish her dream without a fight.

Drawing in a breath, she turned to her cheval mirror. Swiveling, she surveyed the effect of the inch-wide stripes running vertically down the gown. She’d never worn the gown before-she’d been saving it. Styled in Italy, the gown had been expertly cut to showcase her figure.

Judging by Millie’s open mouth and platter-sized eyes, the gown succeeded in its purpose.

No jewelry or shawl, Francesca decided-nothing to detract from the effect. Satisfied, she headed for the door.

They foregathered in the family parlor. Lady Elizabeth’s eyes lit the instant she saw her. Henni chuckled. Gyles, however, was not there to witness her entrance. He appeared in the doorway just ahead of Irving.

Francesca smiled and rose, silks softly rustling. Gyles crossed to where they were gathered before the fireplace. His gaze swiftly scanned her from head to toe-then back again. Then his eyes met hers, and she wished that Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace had already transferred to the Dower House, and there was just the two of them, alone.

He concealed his reaction admirably, but his eyes gave him away. He took the hand she offered, bowed, then tucked

it in the crook of his elbow. “Come.” His glance gathered his mother, aunt, and uncle. “We’d better go in, or Ferdinand’ll have fits.”

He led her into the smaller dining room the family used when alone. Even so, the table without any leaves could seat ten, and tradition dictated she sit at one end and he at the other. He led her to her seat. His fingers brushed the bare skin of her inner forearm as he released her; she fought to suppress a shiver, fought to keep the heat from her eyes. He hesitated; she felt his gaze touch her cheek, then sweep over the expanse of her breasts revealed by the gown, then he straightened and continued along the table. Horace had given both Henni and Elizabeth an arm; they all sat, and Irving signaled the footmen to serve.

The conversation, thanks largely to Lady Elizabeth and Henni, with Horace, all unknowing, roped in, remained general and animated, perfect cover for the wordless communication between Francesca and Gyles that persisted throughout the meal.

An unimpeded view of each other was the only benefit of their relative positions. They were too far apart to read each other’s eyes, and in public, neither he nor she was willing to allow their expressions to reveal too much. Their silent discussion, albeit conducted in the presence of others, was intensely personal. Totally private.

And extremely unsettling.

By the time she laid aside her napkin and, with a smile for Irving, stood, Francesca was not at all sure she could disguise her reaction if Gyles laid his hand on her bare arm. Having denied any wish for port, he rose, as did Horace; she was conscious of Gyles prowling close behind her, his gaze on her, as they left the room.

They congregated in the corridor.

As hostess, Francesca gestured toward the family parlor, her gaze gathering the dowager and Henni, then she glanced at her husband and raised a questioning brow.

He met her gaze, and she felt heat flare, felt the tension coiled inside her increase.

Then he glanced at Horace. “The library?”

“Where else?” Horace set off in that direction.

With a nod for his mother and aunt, and a last look and an abbreviated bow for Francesca, Gyles followed.

Lady Elizabeth and Henni waited until the door to the family parlor closed behind them before they started cackling.

Francesca blushed, but could hardly deny what they’d seen.

She left them early. Glancing up from the cribbage board, they only smiled and murmured their good-nights, then went back to their game. Francesca climbed the stairs. And wondered how long she’d have to wait before Gyles quit the library and came to her.

Gyles was leaning against the connecting door to Francesca’s bedchamber, his gaze fixed unseeing on the darkness beyond his windows, when he heard the main door to her room open, heard her quick step. Heard the scurrying patter as her maid rushed to help her undress. Imagined the rest.

Then the door opened and closed again. The maid’s light footsteps faded away. Gyles waited, giving her a moment to collect her thoughts…

He didn’t want to examine his. He kept them from him as he waited. When the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece grew too mocking, he pushed away from the door, opened it, and went in.

She was standing before the long windows to one side of the bed. She half turned as he entered; through the shadows, their gazes touched.

There was no lamp burning, yet there was lingering light enough to see-the ivory-satin robe she wore, to note how, fashioned in the form of a Greco-Roman dress, it draped and concealed her body. Enough light to see the invitation in her stance, to sense the acceptance behind it.