Frustrated, she glanced at Lady Elizabeth, who read her emotion correctly but misinterpreted the cause. Her mother-in-law clapped her hands. “It’s time we moved on to the dining room. Now make way and let them go ahead, then you can greet them at the door and we can all chat and enjoy ourselves over the wedding breakfast.”

Francesca cast her a grateful smile. Chillingworth’s arm appeared before her, and she took it, preserving her mask of a radiant, joyful bride as they ran a gauntlet of rice all the way up the aisle.

Outside the chapel, her smile evaporated. Before she could turn to him, he grasped her hand. “This way.”

She had to grab her skirts and run to keep up with his long strides. He cut down corridors, down stairs, around corners, leading her away from their guests, away from the reception rooms. At no stage did he moderate his pace. Then they were rushing down a narrow, dimly lit corridor-she thought they were on the ground floor. The door at the end was shut.

She was about to dig in her heels and demand to be told where he was taking her when, just before the door, Chillingworth stopped dead, whirled her about, and backed her against the wall.

Francesca felt the wall cool at her back, felt the heat of his body before her, around her. She sucked in a breath as he leaned closer, trapping her. She caught his gaze, held it.

Gyles was aware they were both breathing rapidly. The pulse throbbing at the base of her throat dragged at his senses, but he didn’t take his gaze from her eyes.

Any other woman, and he would have exploited their sexual linkage to unnerve her, to gain the upper hand.

With her, he didn’t dare.

There was too much between them, even now, even here. It was a hot breath caressing skin, something almost palpable, an awareness of sin as old as time.

They only had minutes, and he had no idea what she intended, whether she was going to play out the scene to its end, or erupt midway through.

“Franni-”

The sheer fury that lit her eyes-lit her-silenced him. Her rage was so potent he nearly stepped back.

“I am not Franni.”

Every carefully enunciated word slapped him.

“You’re Francesca Hermione Rawlings.” She’d better be, or he’d wring her neck.

She nodded. “And my cousin, Charles’s daughter, is Frances Mary Rawlings. Known to all as Franni.”

“Charles’s daughter?” The fog started to clear. “Why the devil was she given such a similar name to you?”

“We were born within weeks of each other, me in Italy, Franni in Hampshire, and we were both named after our paternal grandfather.”

“Francis Rawlings?”

She nodded again. “Now we have that settled, I have a few questions. Did you meet Franni when you visited Rawlings Hall?”

He hesitated. “I strolled with her twice.”

She breathed in; her breasts rose. “Did you at any time say anything to lead Franni to believe you were considering offering for her?”

“No.”

“No?” She widened her eyes at him. “You came to Rawlings Hall to find an amenable bride, you thought you’d found her, you walked twice with her-and you said nothing-gave no hint whatever of your intentions?”

“No.” His temper was on a leash as tight as hers. “If you recall, I insisted on adhering to the most distant and rigid formality. It would have run counter to my plans to woo your cousin in even the most cursory way.”

He could see she didn’t know whether to believe him or not. He exhaled through his teeth. “I swear on my honor I never said or did anything to give her the slightest reason to imagine I had any interest whatever in her.”

She hesitated, then stiffly inclined her head. “Did you see what happened to her? She wasn’t in the chapel when we left, but I didn’t see her leave.”

He wasn’t sure what was going on. “I only glimpsed her in the instant before you joined me. She recognized me and seemed shocked. There was an older lady with her.”

“Ester-Charles’s sister-in-law, Franni’s aunt. She lives with them.”

“I didn’t see either of them later. They must have left when everyone was crowding around.”

Francesca grimaced. “Charles didn’t seem worried…”

Her gaze grew distant. Gyles wondered why she’d seemed so certain he’d spoken of his offer to her cousin. Did she believe he’d raised her cousin’s hopes? But she’d known all along…

He needed more time-a lot more time-to sort out who’d known what.

Voices reached them through the door.

He straightened. “Our presence is required.” Catching her hand, he opened the door and walked out into the hall before the formal dining room.

“There they are!”

The crowd, having arrived and discovered them not where they were supposed to be, turned and, en masse, smiled widely.

Francesca knew what they were thinking. Her blush only reinforced the picture created by her husband and the smirk on his too-handsome lips.

“Just a little detour to show Francesca more of her new domain.”

The crowd laughed and parted for them. As she went forward at his side to lead the way into the formal dining room, to the banquet laid out in their honor, Francesca heard numerous ribald references as to with which part of her domain she’d recently become familiar.

Such comments did nothing to improve her mood, but she hid her temper, her feelings, well. Not one guest, nor any member of his family or hers, would have any inkling what seethed beneath her unremittingly joyful facade.

Chillingworth and she stood side by side, the perfect couple, and greeted their guests as they entered the room. Charles was among the first-he shook hands with Gyles, then embraced her warmly and kissed her cheek.

“I’m so happy for you, my dear.”

“And I have so much to thank you for.” Francesca squeezed his hands. “And Franni?”

Charles’s smile faded. “I’m afraid the excitement proved too much, as we’d feared it would.” He glanced at Gyles, who was listening attentively. “Franni isn’t strong, and excitement can overwhelm her.” Charles turned back to Francesca. “Ester’s with her at the moment, but will join us later. Franni’s simply a little disoriented-you know how she gets.”

Francesca didn’t, not really, but she couldn’t talk longer with Charles. With an understanding smile, she released his hand and he moved on as the next guest took his place.

A tall, lanky gentleman, unquestionably another Rawlings, pumped Gyles’s hand and beamed delightedly. “Capital, coz! Can’t thank you enough! Huge load off my mind, I can tell you.” Wearing an unfitted coat, a dark, drab waistcoat, and a soft, floppy cravat, the gentleman was some years younger than Chillingworth.

Gyles turned to Francesca. “Allow me to present my cousin, Osbert Rawlings. At present, Osbert’s my heir.”

“Only for the present-ha, ha!” Beaming, Osbert turned to her, then realized what he’d said. “Well, I mean to say-well, it’s not as if…”

He slowly flushed beet red.

Francesca flashed a look at Chillingworth, then smiled radiantly at Osbert and took the limp hand he’d extended and left hanging in the air between them. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

Osbert blinked, swallowed, and refocused. “A great pleasure.” Still holding her hand, he remained standing before her, staring, then he said, “You’re quite devilishly beautiful, you know.”

Francesca laughed, but not unkindly. “Thank you, but it’s not my doing-I was born this way.”

“Still,” Osbert persisted. “Have to say-that moment in the chapel when you appeared, it was quite the most galvanizing instant.” He stepped closer to Francesca as those behind jostled. “I was thinking of writing an ode-”

“Osbert.” Gyles intervened, displeasure clear in his tone.

“Oh! Yes-of course.” Osbert shook Francesca’s hand, then released it. “I’ll speak with you later.”

He stepped away; others quickly took his place.

Moments later, when she had a chance, Francesca glanced at Chillingworth. “What’s wrong with an ode?”

“Not odes. Osbert’s odes.” Gyles met her gaze. “Wait until you’ve heard one.”

They continued shaking hands as the guests trooped past them. Gyles succeeded in preserving an acceptable facade, but his temper was wearing thin, his senses constantly abraded by Francesca’s nearness, by every breath she took. When the last guest had moved on to find a seat, he offered her his arm. With her hand on his sleeve, he paraded her up the long room to the applause of all present. Two long tables ran the length of the room, guests seated on both sides. Across the head of those tables ran a third, at which the guests of honor sat facing the long room.

He handed Francesca to the chair beside his. His mother sat on his left, while Horace was on Francesca’s right. Charles and Henni made up the table. At the other tables, the closest places were taken by Devil and Honoria, and three other peers and their wives. Beyond that, family and close connections filled the room. By tightly controlling the guest list, he’d ensured that other than Devil, Honoria, and a few close friends, society at large was not present.

Irving drew back his chair. Gyles sat, and footmen rushed forward to charge the glasses. The toasts and the feasting began.

They put on a good show. Gyles was conscious that no one guessed the truth, not even his perspicacious mother. Francesca played her part to perfection-then again, she’d been perfectly willing to marry him until she’d learned of his mistake. Even then, she hadn’t been unwilling. Furious perhaps, but it wasn’t as if she hadn’t secured precisely all he’d offered her.