As for his attitude! No wooing, no loverlike embraces-just hot passion and bold seduction. All very well that the latter appealed to her rather more than the former-he couldn’t have known that. Was he so uneager… or was it, perhaps, that he was so sure she’d accept him?
And what, exactly, did he mean by her being “easy”?
She threw him a sharp glance as she knelt to check the kittens. “I understand you’ve made an offer, my lord.”
Gyles stared at her back as she counted the kittens; he kept his frown from his face. If she’d heard about that… ”I have.”
Who the hell is she? Before he could ask, she said, “There’s six here-we’re missing three.” She stood and looked about. “This house of yours-Lambourn Castle. Is it really a castle? Does it have battlements and towers and a drawbridge and moat?”
“No moat or drawbridge.” Gyles glimpsed a grey kitten hiding beside a rock. He went to fetch it and it danced away. “There’s a section of battlements remaining over the front entrance, and two towers at either end. And there’s the gatehouse, too-that’s now the Dower House.”
“Dower House? Is your mother still alive?”
“Yes.” He pounced on the kitten and collared it. Holding it by the scruff, he carried it to the basket.
“What does she think of your offer?”
“I haven’t asked.” Gyles concentrated on sliding the squirming kitten into the basket while simultaneously holding the others in. “It’s nothing to do with her.”
Only as he stood did he realize what he’d said. The truth, admittedly, but why the devil was he telling her? Turning to frown-openly-at her, he spied another bumbling feline heading for the end of the orchard. With a muttered curse, he strode after it.
“Do you live at Lambourn all of the year, or only for a few months?”
She asked the question as he returned, the wriggling, squirming bundle in one hand. She was cradling a ginger kitten in her hands, snuggled between her remarkable breasts. It was purring fit to rupture its eardrums.
The sight distracted him completely. Gyles watched, his mouth drying, his mind blank, as she bent at the waist and eased the kitten from its nesting place to lay it in the basket.
“Ah…” He blinked as she straightened. “I spend about half the year at Lambourn. I usually go to London for the Season, and then again for the autumn session of Parliament.”
“Oh?” Real interest lit her green eyes. “So you take your seat in Parliament and speak?”
He shrugged as he stuffed the last of the kittens into the basket. “When there’s a matter that interests me, yes, of course.” He frowned. How had they got onto this topic?
Securing the basket’s lids, he lifted it and straightened.
“Here.” She held out the gelding’s reins and reached for the basket. “You can lead Sultan. I’ll take them.”
Before he knew it, he was standing with the reins in his hand watching her walk up the orchard. Watching her delightfully rounded derriere sway as, the skirt of her habit draped over one arm, she negotiated the slight climb. Setting his jaw, he headed after her-then realized why she’d left him with the gelding.
It took a good minute before he could convince the brute that he really was serious about moving. Finally, the huge horse consented to amble after him as he strode after the witch. She who was interrogating him. As he closed the distance between them, he wondered what she thought she was about. One possible answer had him slowing.
She’d known of his offer. That argued that she was in Francesca Rawlings’s confidence. Was it possible that, having confessed to meeting him, she was interrogating him on Francesca’s behalf? Francesca certainly hadn’t known who he was, but if the gypsy hadn’t described him… it was possible.
Falling in behind her, he murmured, “So tell me, what else does Miss Rawlings wish to know?”
Francesca glanced back at him-was he making fun of her? She faced forward again. “Miss Rawlings,” she said, somewhat tartly, “wishes to know if your town house in London is large.”
“Reasonably. It’s a relatively new acquisition, not even fifty years old, so it has all the modern conveniences.”
“I expect you lead a very busy life while in London, at least during the Season.”
“It can be hectic, but the entertainments tend to cluster in the evenings.”
“I imagine there’s quite a demand for your company.”
Gyles narrowed his gaze on the back of her curly black head. Without seeing her face, he couldn’t be sure, but… surely she wouldn’t dare. “I am in demand among the ton’s hostesses.”
Let her make of that what she would.
“Indeed? And are there any specific commitments, to any specific hostesses, that you presently have?”
The brazen witch was asking if he had a mistress. Reaching the stable yard, she stepped onto the cobbles and turned-the green eyes that met his aggravated gaze held a power all their own.
Halting before her, he regarded her. After a fraught moment, he slowly and clearly stated, “Not at present.” The fact that he was considering altering that situation heavily underscored the words.
Holding his gaze, Francesca found it easy not to smile. His grey eyes conveyed a meaning she wasn’t sure she understood. Was he challenging her to be good enough, fascinating enough, to keep him from other ladies’ beds? Was he telling her that whether he kept a mistress or not was up to her? There was a certain temptation in the thought, but she had her pride. Drawing herself up, she let her eyes flash censoriously, then haughtily nodded. “I must get these kittens inside. If you’ll give Sultan to Josh…” Head regally high, she swept around and headed for the kitchens.
Gyles very nearly reached out and spun her back; his hands fisted as he fought the urge.
“Ruggles!” she called. A ginger-and-black tabby came running. It stood to sniff the basket, then mewed and ran along beside her.
Gyles drew in his temper; the effort left him seething. That final look of hers had been the last straw. He’d been about to demand to be told precisely who she was and in what relation she stood to Francesca Rawlings when the damned witch had summarily dismissed him!
He couldn’t recall the last time any lady had dared dismiss him, not like that.
Through narrowed eyes, he watched her disappear into the kitchen garden, crooning to the kittens and their mother. Unless he much mistook the matter, the gypsy had just put him firmly in his place.
Chapter 3
He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Couldn’t get the taste of her-so wildly passionate-out of his mouth, couldn’t free his senses from her spell.
It was the next morning, and he was still ensnared.
Trotting through the forest, Gyles snorted disgustedly. With a little more persuasion, he could have had her under that damned apple tree. Why the fact so irritated him he couldn’t decide-because seducing her had proved so easy? Or because he hadn’t had the sense to press his advantage? If he had, she might not be tormenting him still, a thorn in his flesh, an itch he’d yet to scratch.
On the other hand…
He pushed the niggling thought aside. She didn’t mean that much to him-she was simply a resistant witch issuing a blatant, flagrant challenge, and he’d never been able to turn his back on a challenge. That was all. He was not obsessed with her.
Not yet.
He let the warning slide from his mind. He was too old, too experienced to get caught. That was why he was here, organizing his marriage to a meek, mild-mannered cipher. Recalling that fact, he checked his position, then took the next bridle path toward Rawlings Hall.
He was earlier than he’d been the day before; he caught her as she was setting out from the kennels. She welcomed him with a sunny smile and a “Good morning, Mr. Rawlings. About again?”