Charles regarded him speculatively, then seemed to come to some decision. “For the past year, Francesca has been actively looking for a husband. It was at her request I solicited the help of Lady Willingdon.”

“And has she met anyone she considers suitable?”

“No. Indeed, I believe she’s quite despondent over finding any suitable prospect locally.”

Gyles regarded Charles steadily. “Indelicate question though it is, do you think your niece might find me suitable?”

Charles’s brief smile was wry. “From all I’ve ever heard, if you wished her to find you suitable, she would. You could sweep any naive young lady off her feet.”

Gyles’s smile mirrored Charles’s. “Unfortunately, in this case, using those particular talents might prove counterproductive. I want an amenable bride, not a besotted one.”

“True.”

Gyles considered Charles, then stretched out his legs and crossed his booted ankles. “Charles, I’m going to place you in an invidious position and claim the right of help you owe me as head of the family. Do you know of any reason that would argue against making Francesca Rawlings the next Countess of Chillingworth?”

“None. Absolutely none.” Charles returned his regard steadily. “Francesca would fill the position to the admiration of all the family.”

Gyles held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded. “Very well.” He felt as if a vise had released from about his chest. “In that case, I’d like to make a formal offer for your niece’s hand.”

Charles blinked. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Well”-Charles started to rise-“I’ll send for her-”

“No.” Gyles waved him back. “You forget-I wish this entire matter to be treated with the utmost formality. I want it made clear, not only by word but also by deed, that this is an arranged marriage, nothing more. Your description of your niece confirms the opinions of others-grandes dames of the ton richly experienced in evaluating the worth of marriageable young ladies. Everyone declares Francesca Rawlings an unexceptionable parti-I need no further assurances. In the circumstances, I see no reason to meet Miss Rawlings socially. You are her guardian-it’s through you I’ll apply for her hand.”

Charles considered arguing; Gyles knew precisely when the realization that it would be wasted effort, and rather impertinent at that, dawned. He, after all, was the head of the family.

“Very well. If that’s your wish, if you’ll give me the details, I’ll speak with Francesca this evening… I’d better write it down.” Charles searched for pen and paper.

When he was ready, Gyles dictated and Charles transcribed the formal offer of a contract of marriage between the Earl of Chillingworth and Francesca Hermione Rawlings. As Charles scribbled the last of the settlements, Gyles mused, “It might be as well not to mention the relationship, distant as it is. It’s not of any practical relevance. I’d prefer that the offer was specifically made as coming from the earl.”

Charles shrugged. “It can’t hurt. Women like titles.”

“Good. If there’s no further information you need from me, I’ll leave you.” Gyles stood.

Charles came to his feet. He opened his mouth, then hesitated. “I was going to insist you stay with us here, or at least dine…”

Gyles shook his head. “Another time, perhaps. I’m staying at the Lyndhurst Arms should you need to reach me.” He turned to the door.

Charles yanked the bellpull, then followed. “I’ll discuss this with Francesca this evening-”

“And I’ll call tomorrow morning to hear her answer.” Gyles paused as Charles joined him at the door. “One last impertinence. You mentioned your marriage was an arranged one-tell me, were you happy?”

Charles met his gaze. “Yes. We were.”

Gyles hesitated, then inclined his head. “Then you know Francesca has nothing to fear in the arrangement I propose.”

There’d been pain in Charles’s eyes. Gyles knew Charles was a widower, but he hadn’t anticipated that depth of feeling; Charles had clearly felt the loss of his wife keenly. A chill touched his nape. Gyles stepped into the hall. Charles followed. They shook hands, then the butler arrived. Gyles followed him back through the house.

As they neared the front hall, the butler murmured, “I’ll just send the footman for your horse, my lord.”

They stepped into the hall to find no footman in sight, but the green baize door at the hall’s end was swinging wildly. A second later, a shrieking scullery maid raced out. She ignored Gyles and rushed for the butler.

“Oh, Mr. Bulwer, you got to come quick! There’s a chook got loose in the kitchen! Cook’s chasing it with a cleaver, but it won’t stand still!”

The butler looked offended and guilty simultaneously. He slid a helpless glance at Gyles as the maid dragged with all her might on his sleeve. “I do apologize, my lord-I’ll get help-”

Gyles laughed. “Don’t worry-I’ll find my way. By the sound of it, you’d better settle things in the kitchen if you want any dinner tonight.”

Relief washed over Bulwer’s face. “Thank you, my lord. The stable lad will have your horse ready.” Before he could say more, he was dragged away. Gyles heard him scolding the maid as they went through the swinging door.

Grinning, Gyles strolled to the front door. Letting himself out, he descended the steps, then, on impulse, turned left. He strolled the parterre, admiring the trimmed hedges and conifers. On his left, the stone wall bordered the path, then a yew hedge continued the line unbroken. He turned left again at the earliest opportunity-an archway in the hedge giving onto a path through the shrubbery. He looked ahead; the stable’s roof rose beyond the hedges.

Stepping through the archway, he paused. An intersecting path ran both right and left. Glancing toward the house, he discovered he could see all the way to where the stone wall he’d earlier paced along joined the corner of the house. Close by the house, a stone seat was built out from the wall.

On the seat sat a young lady.

She was reading a book lying open in her lap. The late-afternoon sun beamed down, bathing her in golden light. Fair hair the color of flax was drawn back from her face; fair skin glowed faintly pink. From this distance, he couldn’t see her eyes yet the general set of her features appeared unremarkable, pleasant but not striking. Her pose, head tilted, shoulders low, suggested she was a woman easily dominated, naturally submissive.

She was not the sort of woman to stir him at all, not the sort of woman he would normally take the time to study.

She was precisely the sort of wife he was looking for. Could she be Francesca Rawlings?

As if some higher power had heard his thought, a woman’s voice called, “Francesca?”

The girl looked up. She was shutting her book, gathering her shawl as the woman called again. “Francecsa? Franni?”

Rising, the girl called, “I’m here, Aunt Ester.” Her voice was delicate and light.

Stepping out, she disappeared from Gyles’s view.

Gyles smiled and resumed his stroll. He’d trusted Charles and Charles had not deceived him-Francesca Rawlings possessed precisely the right attributes to be his amenable bride.

The path opened onto a grassed courtyard. Gyles stepped into it-

A dervish in emerald green did her best to mow him down.

She landed against him like a force of nature-a small woman barely topping his shoulder. His first impression was of wild black hair curling riotously over her shoulders and back. The emerald green was a velvet riding habit; she was booted and carried a crop in one hand.

He caught her, steadied her-she would have fallen if he hadn’t closed his arms about her.

Even before she’d caught her breath, his hands had gentled, his rakish senses avidly relaying the fact that she was abundantly curvaceous, her flesh firm yet yielding, quintessentially feminine-for him, elementally challenging. His hands spread over her back, then his arms locked, but lightly, trapping her against him. Full breasts warmed his chest, soft hips his thighs.

A strangled “Oh!” escaped her.

She looked up.

The green feather in the scrap of a cap perched atop her glossy curls brushed his cheek. Gyles barely noticed.

Her eyes were green-a green more intense than the emerald of her gown. Wide and wondering, they were darkly and thickly lashed. Her skin was flawless ivory tinged a faint gold, her lips a dusky rose, delicately curved, the lower sensuously full. Her hair was pulled back and anchored across her crown, revealing a wide forehead and the delicate arch of black brows. Curls large and small tumbled down, framing a heart-shaped face that was irresistibly piquant and utterly intriguing; Gyles was seized by a need to know what she was thinking.

Those startled green eyes met his, roved his face, then, widening even more, returned to his.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see you coming.”

He felt her voice more than heard it-felt it like a caress inside, an invitation purely physical. The sound itself was… smoky-a sultry sound that somehow clouded his senses.

His very willing senses. Like recognized like in the blink of an eye. Oh, yes, the beast inside him purred. His lips curved subtly although his thoughts were anything but.

Her gaze lowered, fastened on his lips, then she swallowed. Light color rose in her cheeks. Her heavy lids lowered, hiding her eyes. She eased back in his arms. “If you would release me, sir…”

He didn’t want to, but he did-slowly, with deliberately obvious reluctance. She’d felt more than good in his arms-she’d felt warm and intensely vital. Intensely alive.