“Gyles was devasted,” Lady Elizabeth continued. “He adored Gerald-they were extremely close. Gyles was Gerald’s only child and heir, but more than that, they shared many pursuits-riding, shooting, that sort of thing.”
“I remember,” Henni said, “when we drove up in a lather, Gyles met us in the hall. He was so shocked yet contained-so obviously cut up and quivering inside. Horace stayed with him.”
Lady Elizabeth sighed. “It was a dreadful time, but Gyles was never any trouble. Indeed, he was very quiet, as I remember.”
“You know,” Henni said, her gaze fixed in the past, “I don’t believe I ever saw Gyles cry, not even at the funeral.”
“He didn’t,” Elizabeth said. “I mentioned it to Horace after the funeral, and he said Gyles had behaved very properly, stiff upper lip and all that. Just how he should have behaved now he was Chillingworth, and head of the family and so on.” She sniffed. “I would much rather he had cried-he was only seven, after all-but you know how men are.”
“Gyles was remarkably quiet afterward, but then it was time for him to go up to Eton. That seemed to bring him out of his shell.”
“Indeed.” Lady Elizabeth shook out her skirt. “He fell in with Devil Cynster and that brood, and from then on, well, it really was just the usual things-going up to Oxford, then onto the town.”
“And then all the rest of it.” Henni gestured dismissively. “But you needn’t bother your head on that score. Remarkably faithful, all the Rawlings men, no matter how they might behave before they front the altar.”
“Very true,” Lady Elizabeth confirmed. “Which brings us back to where we started and this nonsense of Gyles’s marriage of convenience.” She uttered the phrase with highbred contempt. “The truth, my dear, is that he might say it, he might even think he believes it, but it’s so utterly contrary to his nature, he’ll never be able to live the fiction for long.”
Henni snorted. “I’ll second that. It’s going to be quite entertaining watching him trying to force himself to toe such a ridiculous line.”
“Yes, but we won’t, unfortunately, see it firsthand.” Lady Elizabeth focused consideringly on Francesca. “This news makes me even more determined to remove to the Dower House with all possible dispatch.”
Francesca returned her gaze. “Why?”
“So that the only person Gyles will share this great house with-the only companion he will have here-will be you. He needs time with you without distraction, enough to come to his senses.” Lady Elizabeth stood, her grey eyes stern. “And the sooner he does that, the better.”
Chapter 9
Lady Elizabeth and Henni retired for a nap before dinner. Francesca retired to her bedchamber, too, but was too restless to lie down.
Hope was welling within her; she wasn’t sure it was wise to let it rise again. She had before, ignoring his specific declarations, purely on the grounds of her intuitive sense of him. He’d told her she was wrong.
She had no guarantee that his mother’s and aunt’s understanding of him was accurate, not now he was a man.
Yet she couldn’t help hoping.
Shaking her head, she scanned her surroundings, searching for distraction. Beyond her window, she saw the stable block just visible through the trees.
Ten minutes later, she entered the stable.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Francesca smiled at the bowlegged man who came hurrying up. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Jacobs, ma’am.” He doffed his cloth cap. “I’m head stableman here.” His gaze raked the stalls. “In charge of all these beauties.”
“Beauties, indeed. I’m after the mare.”
“The Arab? Aye, she’s a darling. The master mentioned she was yours. I’ll fetch a saddle and bridle.”
While he saddled the mare, Francesca crooned sweet nothings, idly stroking the mare’s velvet nose. Then she was up in the saddle and trotting out. As she left the stable yard, she was conscious of Jacobs’s gaze on her back, but he seemed satisfied she knew what she was doing.
She also knew where she was going.
Although it was September, the evenings were still long, long enough for a ride before dressing for dinner. Cantering toward the escarpment and the angled track that led up to the downs, Francesca surveyed the neat fields, already harvested, in which cattle had been turned loose to graze. Fields and fences, the meadows by the river, all appeared quietly prosperous. She reached the track; the mare eagerly bounded up.
“You haven’t got a name, have you, my beauty?”
They burst onto the downs. The mare tossed her head. For some time, Francesca just rode, enjoying the sheer exhilaration of speed. She let her thoughts slide, left them in abeyance, and gave herself up to the moment.
She retraced her direction of two nights before, as well as she could remember it.
She saw him-and he saw her-while there was still some distance between them. She rode on, then sent the mare in a wide, wheeling arc, dropping in to pace beside his grey. He didn’t slow, but kept on at an easy canter.
Their gazes touched, held, then his lifted-to her cap, with its jaunty plume. She looked ahead; a moment passed, then he did, too. By mutual consent, they rode through the last of the day in an oddly companionable silence.
As they neared the escarpment, the ground broke up. She slowed and let him lead. As he went forward, she glanced at his face, all hard angles and granite impassivity, and tried to imagine the young boy who’d seen his father thrown and left dying. Tried to imagine the panic, and the wrenching emotion in the decision to leave and ride for help. Not easy at any age, but at seven? The incident couldn’t have passed and left no mark. It hadn’t dulled his love of riding, but what other scars did he possess?
They started down the track, the mare behind the grey. Her gaze on his swaying shoulders, drinking in the controlled strength in every line of his large body, Francesca considered-him. Them. Their marriage.
Earlier, she’d been on the verge of casting her dream of finding enduring love within their marriage from the castle’s parapet. Now…
The evening was drawing in. They cantered through the lengthening shadows and into the stable yard. Jacobs came running. She handed him the mare’s reins, then wriggled her boots from the stirrups. Turning to slide from the saddle, she discovered Gyles already there. He reached up, closed his hands about her waist, and lifted her down.
The mare chose that moment to shift, nudging Francesca’s back, pushing her into Gyles.
His grip firmed, his fingers sank deeper. His gaze shifted to her face; she sensed the sudden focusing of his attention. She lifted her head and met his gaze. Their faces were close. She read his eyes, saw desire in the grey, and was about to lift her face to invite his kiss-when hooves clinked and the horses screening them ambled away.
“I’ll get them settled,” Jacobs called back.
Gyles released her. “Yes. Good night.”
Francesca echoed the sentiment, then glanced at Gyles. He gestured to the house; she fell in beside him. Although fully clothed, encased in heavy velvet, she felt his nearness like silk caressing naked flesh.
She lifted her head as they stepped into the yew walk. “The mare-does she have a name?”
After a moment, he answered, “I’d thought to leave that to you.”
Not to his wife, but the woman he’d thought she’d been. Francesca ignored the point, even though she knew it was echoing in his mind. “She’s quite regal in her bearing-I thought perhaps Regina would suit.”
“A queen.” He nodded. “It fits.”
Francesca glanced at his face; in the half-light his expression was unreadable. She pressed her palms together. Tight. “I do thank you for the mare.” She gestured. “It was a very kind thought.”