“So your principal argument for repealing the bill is a financial one?”

“For the Lords, the financial arguments must be strong, but to my mind, the other arguments are stronger. Having legal title to their estates didn’t save the French aristocracy. Those who won’t see that, who refuse to see that times have changed and that the populace in general has rights, too, are denying a self-evident truth.”

“Is this what you’ve been researching-how to repeal the Corn Laws?”

“That and a number of related issues. Reformation of the voting franchise is the key, but we’re years away from getting anything passed.”

“What’s this idea about voting? Tell me.”

“Well-”

He explained, and she questioned. A spirited discussion arose over the extent of the franchise necessary to satisfy the inherent demand from the presently unenfranchised.

Gyles was surprised to see the sun slanting low, surprised to realize they’d been talking for hours. Although her experience was foreign, she, too, had seen the need for wider suffrage, for establishing a broader common goal.

“Waterloo was the end of it-the point where everything became clear. We’ve been distracted with the French for over two decades and not paying enough attention at home. Now there’s no war to bind us together, to keep people and government acting as one, the social fabric’s starting to unravel.”

“And so things must change.” Francesca nodded. She’d risen and started pacing sometime before.

“Times change.” Gyles watched her parade before him. “And the survivors will always be those who adapt.”

That was a truism and applied in many circumstances, in many arenas.

She nodded and paced, her expression alive with intelligence and her own intrinsic energy. He couldn’t escape the obvious-that with her beauty, understanding, and vitality, he couldn’t have found a more suitable wife to partner and support him in the political sphere. That had been the consideration furthest from his mind in arranging his marriage, yet how very important it would indeed be. If he took her to London, she would become one of the political hostesses, socially adept, quick-witted, and manipulative-all in the best interests of their cause.

He knew she had the power to manipulate men-that she knew how just as she knew how to breathe, knew how to make love with him. But she’d never made the mistake of trying to manipulate him, not even in these last days when he would almost think her justified.

For one of her temperament, that couldn’t have been easy.

Times change.

And those who wish to survive adapt.

She swished past him and turned. He reached out and curled his fingers about her wrist, locked them. Surprised, she looked down at him.

He met her eyes. “We’ve discussed politics enough… for the present. I have something else I’d like to discuss with you. Another matter on which I’d value your opinion.”

His gaze locked with hers, he lifted the papers from his lap and dropped them beside his chair. Rising, he stood beside her, and with his free hand gripped the high back of the chair and pushed it around until it faced the windows. He stepped around it and sat, drew her closer, drew her down. She let him sit her across his lap, facing him.

Her neckline was cut wide and scooped but modestly filled in with diaphanous gauze, opening shirtlike from the point between her breasts to fold back in an open collar. Closing his hands about her waist, he bent his head and touched the tip of his tongue to the bare skin at the top of her cleavage, then he stroked slowly upward, nudging her head back, feeling her shudder between his hands as he set his lips like a brand to the base of her throat.

She was his, so totally, unquestioningly his, he was starting to believe he must be hers.

Within seconds the atmosphere in the small room changed from the politically charged to the intensely passionate.

Intensely erotic.

That was his idea, one she fell in with eagerly, searching his face only briefly before complying with his command to turn and face the windows. He lifted her slightly, settled her bottom on his thighs, then, sitting upright, his chest not quite touching her back, he bent his head and trailed his lips up the column of her throat from the curve of her shoulder to the sensitive spot beneath her ear. “Place your hands on the arms of the chair.”

Without hesitation, she did. He glanced up, out of the window. “See that large oak-the one directly in front?”

Her head rose and she looked, then nodded.

“I want you to watch the top branches. Don’t look away. Don’t think of anything else. Just think of those branches.” Releasing her waist, he trailed his fingertips-just the tips-up and around to tantalizingly trace her breasts. Her spine locked. “Concentrate on the branches.”

She shifted slightly. “But… they’re bare.”

“Hmm. There’s one or two leaves yet to fall.”

He didn’t touch so much as tease. One hand administering to each ripe mound, he watched from over her shoulder as he mirrored the movements of his hands, circling but never touching the tightening peaks, his fingertips whispering over the fine fabric as he enticed her body to respond, to react.

Her breasts swelled and firmed. He could see her tightly furled nipples taut beneath the restricting bodice. She shifted in his lap.

“Are you concentrating on those branches?”

“Mmm. Gyles-”

“Think of how bare they are.”

How bare she wished to be; he didn’t need telling, but that wasn’t in his rapidly yet expertly designed script for this afternoon. Gently, he cupped her breasts, tested their firmness, then he took his palms from her. “Totally naked.” Using only his fingertips, he closed them about her nipples, gently at first, then with increasing pressure. She gasped, and tilted her head back. “Totally exposed.”

He squeezed, and her back bowed, then he released her and returned to his gently teasing touches.

“Keep watching the branches.”

He repeated the torture-she was a very willing victim-until she was breathing rapidly, shallowly, and her skin was lightly flushed. She slumped against him, tipping her head back to look into his face.

She searched his eyes. “I want you inside me.”

“I know.”

“Well?” There was more than a hint of imperiousness in her tone.

His lips curved. “Raise up for a moment.”

Her legs had remained to one side of his; bracing her weight on the chair arms, she rose just a little. He drew up the back of her skirt, lifted it and her petticoat and the back of her silk chemise to him, then slipped his hands beneath the froth of materials. Setting his palms to her naked bottom, he briefly gloried in the firm contours, satisfied to find her silky skin lightly dewed. Then, grasping her hip with one hand, he sent the other sliding between the backs of her thighs to gently cup her.

She gasped; her arms wobbled. He drew her down. She gasped again as her weight pressed her into his hand, fully exposed to his touch.

Francesca sensed the strength in his hand, felt his long fingers trace. Heart thundering, she wriggled, then shifted one leg to swing it over his and open herself to him, to his tantalizing touches.

“No. Sit as you were-demurely.”

Demurely? She was finding it difficult to breathe. Both his hands were under her skirts, one splayed across her stomach, gently kneading, while the other touched her intimately, explored her.

She could feel the slickness, feel how hot and swollen she was. Her naked thighs and bottom rested on the fabric of his trousers, a constant reminder of her vulnerability.

“Keep studying the tree.”

She dragged in a breath, lifted her head, and fixed her gaze on the collection of bare branches.

One finger pressed possessively into her. She clutched the chair arms, vainly bracing against the jolt. Her lungs seized. He stroked, then pressed deeper. She felt her body tense, had never been so aware of how her nerves coiled and tightened. An ache swelled inside her. She wanted more, much more.

Another finger slid in with the first. Her body reacted, eagerly, hungrily-she’d reached a point of strange detachment where she could feel, enjoy, yet also observe. He reached deeper, his bunched hand moving beneath her. Spine rigid, she shook her head wildly. “No!”

The movements of his fingers between her thighs, within her, slowed. “Demanding woman.”

His tone was deep, gravelly-taunting.

Then he pressed his fingers deep inside her and held still, hand pressed to her swollen softness.

“Are you still concentrating on the branches?”

Her gaze was pointed in that direction, but she hadn’t been seeing anything for some time. “Yes.”

“Some are knobbly, aren’t they?”

She looked, noting what he’d directed her eyes to see. She was dimly aware of him shifting, that the hand at her stomach had slid away, that behind her he was opening his trousers, releasing himself. Impulsively, she let go of one chair arm and groped behind her.

He slapped her hand away.

“You’re supposed to be concentrating on branches. Knobbly ones. Something nice and thick and smooth.”

There was only one nice, thick, smooth and knobbly object in her mind, and it had nothing to do with trees. Family trees, perhaps, not physical ones. The reason she’d come to the library floated through her mind, and out. She looked at the tree, forced herself to see it.

His hand returned, slipping under her skirts to curve possessively over her bare stomach. “Look at the tree. Concentrate on the branches.”