He was the one whose carefully laid plans had been turned on their head-who had got far more than he wanted, indeed, precisely what he hadn’t wanted, from the day.

And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

As the courses came and went, he struggled to ignore the constant tug on his senses, an effort frustrated by having to play the role of pleased and proud groom. The toasts became increasingly risque; the sincerity of the good wishes that flowed around him gradually sank through to his brain.

Most would consider him inordinately lucky. Virtually every man in the room bar only Devil would trade places with him in a blink. He was married to a fascinatingly beautiful woman, who was also, it seemed, a past master in the social arts. She was so freely charming, so effortlessly engaging-he wasn’t blind to her qualities.

They were married-man and wife. He couldn’t change it. All he could do was make the best of it.

And from what he’d already learned of his bride, if he wanted to rule his roost, he had better make a push to establish the rules. His rules.

He might have married her-that didn’t mean he’d surrendered. Not even she could take from him that which he didn’t wish to give. He was stronger, and infinitely more experienced than she…

While he chatted to Charles and others across the table, he let his mind skate back over the previous night. Prior to that, there was nothing in his behavior with her she could legitimately rail at. Last night, however…

He would need to rebuild a few bridges other than the one that had washed away.

Francesca was talking to Honoria across the table, the fingers of her left hand draped loosely about the stem of her wineglass where it stood on the white linen between them. He reached out and insinuated his fingers between hers, twining them about hers. He felt the tiny shiver she instantly suppressed, felt primal recognition tighten his gut.

He waited.

Minutes later, the next course was set out. In the general hubbub as people were served, Francesca turned his way. She didn’t try to withdraw her hand but when she met his gaze, he couldn’t read her eyes.

“The mistake I made.” She arched a brow, and he continued, “There was a reason. I had, still have, a very definite idea of what I want from marriage. And you-” He broke off. She watched him calmly. “You… and I…” He exhaled sharply. “I didn’t mean to suggest you are not a perfectly acceptable bride.”

She raised her brows haughtily; her eyes flashed. Then she smiled gloriously, leaned close, and patted his hand, sliding her fingers deftly from his, then she turned away to speak to Henni.

Gyles bit back his temper, reined in the urge to grab her hand and spin her back to face him. Those watching would have seen the exchange as delightful flirting; he could do nothing to disturb the image. Letting his lips curve, he turned to another conversation.

He bided his time. Obsessed with his problem, obsessed with her, to him the hours flew. Eventually, the banquet ended and everyone adjourned to the adjoining ballroom. A small orchestra played in an alcove at one end. The first order of the afternoon was the bridal waltz.

Francesca heard the opening bars and steeled herself. She turned to Chillingworth with a smile on her lips, an easy expression on her face. He drew her to him; they both felt the tremor that shook her as her thigh brushed his, and his instantaneous tensing. Only she felt the possessiveness in his grasp, in the hard palm at her back-only she was near enough to see the steely glint in his grey eyes. A fractional hesitation gripped them as they remembered just how many eyes were watching, and both, again, reined in their tempers. Without words, they stepped out, revolving slowly at first, cautiously on her part, then she recognized his prowess and relaxed.

He was an expert at waltzing. She was good at it herself. She had matters of far greater moment on her mind.

He swung her into the first turn, and she let herself flow with his stride. Let him draw her as close as he wished, so their thighs brushed and hips met-knowing every touch affected him as much as it affected her. She fixed her gaze on his and kept her lips curved. “I married you because I had no choice-we had no choice. The settlements were signed, the guests all here. While I might deplore your approach to marriage-your approach to me-I see no reason to acquaint the world or, indeed, anyone at all, with my disappointment.”

She held his gaze for a moment more, then glanced aside. She’d spent the last hour preparing that speech, mentally rehearsing her tone. Given the tightness about her chest, the peculiar sensitivity that had affected her skin, she was pleased to have delivered it so creditably.

They’d completed one revolution of the large ballroom; she smiled as she watched other couples join them on the floor.

“Your disappointment?”

She turned back to the man in whose arms she was. His tone had been flat, disturbing. She raised a haughty brow, then, remembering the many onlookers, let the expression dissolve into one of laughing happiness.

“I wasn’t aware”-the chill in his words warned her she was skating on thin ice-“that you have any justifiable cause for feeling dissatisfied with our dealings.”

His expression was that of a groom thoroughly pleased with his bride, but there was an arrogant air, even there, in his mask, that she longed to shake. As for the coldness behind the mask, like steel doors shutting her out…

She shook her head on an airy laugh. “My disappointment stems from the discrepancy between what I believed-had reason to believe-I would in reality receive from the man, and what I am now being offered”-boldly she surveyed him, as much as she could see while held in his arms-“by the earl. Had I known of it, I would never have signed those wretched settlements, and we wouldn’t now be condemned to living a lie.”

Just the thought of the tangle he’d landed them in sent her temper into orbit. His hand tightened about hers; he drew her closer-she sucked in a breath and felt her breasts brush his chest. Raising her head, she met his gaze, defiance and a warning in hers. “I suggest, my lord, that we leave any discussion of such matters until we are private, unless you wish to risk our afternoon’s hard work.”

His reserve broke-just for an instant-and she saw the prowling predator in his eyes. And wondered if they were about to indulge in their first argument, in public, in the middle of the ballroom in the middle of their wedding. The same thought occurred to him-she saw it in his eyes. The fact he hesitated, considered, before drawing back amazed her, intrigued her-and shook her confidence.

The musicians came to her aid and ended the waltz with a flourish. With a laugh and a smile, she stepped out of his arms and swept him an elaborate curtsy. He was forced to bow, then he raised her. All smiling delight, she turned from him, expecting to slip her fingers from his and part, each to talk to the many guests eager to have a word.

His fingers locked about her hand.

He stepped close, beside and behind her.

“Oh, no, my dear-our dance has just begun.”

The murmured words brushed her ear; sensation streaked down her spine.

Lifting her chin, she smiled at Lord and Lady Charteris, and gave his lordship her other hand.

Beside her, Gyles suavely acknowledged Lady Charteris’s greeting and exchanged nods with his lordship. He was operating wholly on long-ingrained habit, his mind, his senses focused on the woman by his side.

When it came to her, he was ruled by instinct, no matter how he wished it otherwise. She was who she was, invoked all he was, and he was powerless to rein that part of himself in, not with her beside him.

Disappointed, was she? Already? So soon?

They hadn’t got to their marriage bed yet. Then they-she-would see. He might refuse to love her-he would refuse to love her. But he’d never said anything about not desiring her. Never denied he lusted after her. The fact that theirs was an arranged marriage changed that not at all.

He was looking forward to correcting her mistake.

They left Lord and Lady Charteris; Francesca turned to him. His hold on her hand kept her close; he bent his head so they were closer still. Her gaze touched his lips, paused, then she blinked and looked into his eyes. “I must speak with your aunt.”

He smiled. Wolfishly. “She’s across the room.” Between them, he raised her hand. Holding her gaze, he lifted her wrist to his lips and pressed a kiss to the sensitive inner face.

Her eyes flared. He felt the tremor she fought to suppress.

His smile widened; he let his lids veil his eyes. “Come. I’ll take you to her.”

For the next twenty minutes, all went as he dictated. Under cover of their new relationship, he touched her cheek, her throat, trailed a finger up the inside of her bare arm. He felt her start, quiver, soften. Felt her nerves tighten, sensed her expectation swell. He played to it, letting his palm brush her bare shoulder, skate possessively over her back, down over her hips and the curves of her bottom.

Closed his hands about her tiny waist as he steered her through the crowd.

His touch was light, his actions that of a possessive man to his new bride. Any seeing them would have smiled indulgently. Only she knew his intention. Only she knew because he wanted her to know that, with him, the sensual game was one she couldn’t win. Wouldn’t win. Yet it was a game they were going to play.

No one, not Henni, not even his mother, saw through his mask, but Francesca, his beautiful, sensual bride, definitely did.