Ten minutes later, she caught him again. With his back to the wall and her before him, her wide skirts hiding her hands, she spread her fingers about his thighs, then ran her hands upward-
Gyles caught her wrists in an iron grip. He found himself staring into brilliant green eyes, widening slightly-and wondered what the hell they were doing. He didn’t need her to touch him to arouse him; he was already aching. Their game-and her unexpected participation-had wound him tight.
If she touched him-
He flicked a glance at the crowd. They’d spent time with everyone, done their social duty; the event was drawing to a close. It was early evening, still light outside. The majority of guests would head home that night. Most would leave as soon as Francesca and he retired.
He looked into his bride’s challenging eyes. “Let’s continue this in private.”
Her brows rose, then she inclined her head. “As you wish.”
She straightened, then looked down when he didn’t release her wrists. Gyles forced himself to do it-to uncurl his long fingers and let her go. She watched him do it, watched his fingers unfurl. He saw one brow arch, and realized she could feel it, sense it-the effort it cost him, and all that he was hiding, even from her.
“The door along the wall to our right-go out, take the first right, third left, first right. You’ll come to a flight of stairs. Go up-it’ll bring you out beside a gallery. A maid will be waiting to lead you to the countess’s suite.”
She’d glanced up again; he couldn’t read her eyes. “And you?”
“I’ll cut through the crowd and take a different exit. That way, we’ll avoid any unnecessary fuss.” He paused, then asked, “Assuming, of course, that you’re not partial to fuss?”
She held his gaze for an instant, then, mask gone, inclined her head haughtily. “I’ll see you upstairs.”
She turned and glided away from him.
Gyles watched until she disappeared through the door, then he straightened and sauntered into the crowd to make good his own escape.
Chapter 7
“Wallace?”
“Yes, sir?”
“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.
“I accept that you didn’t mention your offer, but Franni, as I said-you heard what Charles said-she’s childish. She exaggerates wildly.” Her hands gestured; her eyes willed him to understand. “What did you speak with her about?”
He frowned. “Why is it important?”
She pressed her lips together, then gave in. “Franni mentioned she had a gentleman caller, one who called twice. She interpreted his visits as meaning he would offer for her. She told me this days ago. I couldn’t get her to reveal anything more-she’s often secretive. And often what she’s sure happened is pure fantasy.”
His frowned deepened; she hurried on, “I don’t even know if the man she was thinking of was you, but it might have been, and she might have…”
“Imagined the rest.” Gyles thought back. “I introduced myself as Gyles Rawlings, a distant-” He broke off. Francesca’s eyes had widened. “What?”
“I-we-Ester, Charles, and I-always spoke of you as Chillingworth. When we arrived here, your mother and the others did the same, at least in Franni’s hearing. She might not have realized-”
“Who I was before the ceremony? That might explain her reaction. Sheer surprise makes more sense than her having read anything into our meetings.”
“Those meetings?”