Stephanie Laurens - All About Passion

“A good few,” Lady Osbaldestone admitted. “Why?”

Francesca told her.

Gyles and Harry returned with two glasses of orgeat and one of champagne for Francesca, to find all three ladies with their heads together, discussing the Rawlings family tree. Harry exchanged a glance with Gyles, then strolled off. Fifteen minutes passed before Gyles was able to extract Francesca from the discussion.

“I’ll see you at my at-home next week,” Lady Horatia said, as he finally drew Francesca to her feet.

“I’ll be there, too,” Lady Osbaldestone said. “I’ll let you know what I’ve learned then.”

Gyles gave mute thanks that the old tartar wasn’t planning on calling in Green Street. “Mama and Henni are near the main door.” He steered Francesca through the crowd.

After another fifteen minutes, during which his mother, Henni, and Francesca made numerous social plans, he dragged Francesca away.

“It sounds like you’ll have barely a moment to yourself.”

Francesca glanced at him-mentally replayed his words, analyzed their tone-then she smiled and pressed his arm. “Nonsense.” She glanced around, then sighed. “Nevertheless, I do think I’ve made enough plans for one night.” She turned to him. “Perhaps we should go home.”

“Home?”

“Hmm-home, and to bed.” She tilted her head. “Of course, if you wished, we could stop by the library.”

“The library?”

“Wallace will have built up the fire-it should be rather cozy.”

“Cozy.”

“Mmm-warm.” She rolled the word on her tongue. “Pleasant and… relaxing.”

The sultry promise in her voice sent heat pouring through him. Gyles stopped, changed tack, and headed for the door.

Two weeks later, Gyles stood by the side of Lady Matheson’s ballroom, reconsidering the madness that had made him bring Francesca to London. His need to protect her had forced his hand; she was safer here, away from the strange happenings at Lambourn, in a smaller, more secure house, yet her emergence into the ton had brought dangers of a different sort.

The sort that ate away his civilized facade and left his true self much too close to his surface.

“Gyles?”

He turned, smiled and bent to kiss Henni’s cheek. “I didn’t realize you’d be here.”

“Well of course we’re here, dear. The Mathesons are connections of Horace’s, don’t you remember?”

These days he thought of little beyond his wife.

“Where’s Francesca?” Henni looked inquiringly at him, obviously expecting him to know.

“Sitting with Her Grace of St. Ives.” He directed Henni’s gaze across the room.

“Ah. Thank you, dear. Incidentally, that was an excellent dinner the other night, and the little gathering the week before went very well, I thought.”

Gyles nodded. Henni left him, wending her way through the crowd toward Francesca. The dinner had been their first-Francesca’s first in London, his first as a married man. The anticipation had drawn them together, had had them working together even more closely than before.

It had been a triumph; the sharing had added an extra dimension. When Henni had labeled the dinner “excellent,” she hadn’t been referring to the quality of the dishes, although with Ferdinand seeking to please, that had been exceptional. It had been Francesca who’d sparkled and fascinated; he’d found it easy to enact the role of proud husband and do his part to carry the evening.

The small party they’d hosted the week before had been Francesca’s first foray into the wider arena of tonnish entertaining-that had been an outright success, too.

She was a success, and she was taking it in her stride. The support of his mother, Henni, and the Cynster ladies helped. He was grateful for their interest, but he knew very well to whom he owed the bulk of his gratitude.

He watched as Francesca, deep in a dramatic discussion with Honoria, looked up as Henni approached. Her smile-that glorious, heartwarming smile-wreathed her face, and she stood to kiss his aunt’s cheek. Then she turned back to Honoria, drawing Henni into their conversation.

Gyles couldn’t help a small smile. She threw herself into things wholeheartedly; she’d done the same with the ton, honestly intrigued, enjoying the offered entertainments. Her delight, not that of an innocent but a newcomer, had shown him his old, worn world in a new light.

Settling his shoulders against the wall, he continued to watch her, keeping watch over her.

On the chaise beside Honoria, Francesca was aware of her husband’s regard. She’d grown used to it; indeed, she found it comforting knowing that if anyone less than desirable approached her, he would be there, at her side, in a heartbeat. The ton was large, and while she now knew some of the right faces and names, there were many she didn’t know-and some of those she didn’t need to know.

One such was Lord Carnegie, but his lordship was too wise to approach-not yet. But she knew what he was, what he was thinking; every time his gaze touched her, she had to quell a shiver as if some slimy slithering thing had touched her bare arm. His lordship hove into view and bowed. Francesca pointedly looked away.

Honoria glared. “Disreputable popinjay!” She lowered her voice. “They say he killed his first wife, and two mistresses, too.”

Francesca pulled a face, then switched to a smile as Osbert Rawlings approached and bowed before them.

“Cousin Francesca.” Hand over his heart, Osbert shook her hand, then bowed and shook Honoria’s.

“Just saw Carnegie move off.” Osbert glanced back, then stepped closer. “Not a nice man.”

“No, indeed,” Honoria agreed. “I was just telling Francesca…” She gestured vaguely.

“Quite.” Osbert nodded, then decided Carnegie was too dark a subject for discussion in such company; the way his face suddenly lit made that clear. “I say! I’ve just been hearing about the latest production at the Theatre Royal.”

Osbert was never vague about anything to do with verbal performance. He kept them entertained for the next ten minutes with a vivid account of Mrs. Siddons’s latest triumph. Amused, Francesca listened, aware Gyles was watching, aware of what he would be thinking, yet despite his dismissiveness, he didn’t disapprove of Osbert.

Indeed, Osbert had become her cavalier. He attended the majority of functions they did and was always ready to put himself out to amuse and entertain her. If she ever needed an escort, and Gyles was not to hand, she would take Osbert’s arm without a qualm. And if she was starting to suspect that Osbert claimed her company at least in part as a defense against the mothers who still had him in their sights, she was happy to keep that suspicion to herself.

Osbert was too much of a dear to throw to the lions.

“Well, well-how the mighty have fallen.”

Gyles drew his gaze from his wife, and fastened it on Devil as he lounged beside him. “You can talk.”

Devil glanced across the room at Honoria, and shrugged. “It comes to us all.” He grinned wickedly. “Am I allowed to say ‘I told you so’?”

“No.”

“Still in denial, are we?”

“One can but try.”

“Give it up. It’s hopeless.”

“Not yet.”

Devil snorted. “So-what’s the real reason you’re standing here propping up the wall?”

Gyles made no attempt to answer.

Devil shot him a measuring glance. “Actually, I wanted to ask-what are the chances of your cousin Osbert inheriting these days?”

“Few and diminishing.”

“And when might those chances vanish?”

Gyles frowned. “Midsummer. Why?”

“Hmm-so you’ll be up for the Season?”

“I expect so.”

“Good.” Devil met Gyles’s gaze. “We’re going to need to push harder with those bills if we’re to succeed.”

Gyles nodded. He looked at their wives. “It’s occurred to me that we might be missing an opportunity to persuade some of our peers to our cause.”

Devil followed his gaze. “You think so?”

“Francesca understands the salient points as well as I.”

“So does Honoria.”

“Well, why not? While in town, they spend the better half of their days talking with the other wives. Why shouldn’t they steer the conversation-introduce the notion, plant seeds and nurture them-all in a good cause?”

After a moment, Devil grinned. “I’ll suggest it to Honoria.” Glancing at Gyles, he straightened, an unholy gleam in his eyes. “Of course, you realize that in making such a suggestion, you’re going to encourage Francesca to invest even more time in the social whirl.” With spurious concern, Devil frowned. “I’ll understand if you can’t bring yourself to do it-it must be frustrating, recently married as you are, to find your wife in such demand.”

Gyles scowled before he could stop himself, then scowled even more when Devil grinned devilishly and, with a salute, stepped out of reach.

He was not that transparent. Devil had been able to put his finger on the one sore point created by Francesca’s social success only because he’d felt, or perhaps still did feel, the same way. The social whirl of the ton had not been created to foster marriage. Weddings, yes, but not what came after. And it was that-the after-the-wedding stage-that now consumed him.

And Francesca. It wasn’t as if the difficulty was his alone, and for that, he was thankful. She, too, clung to the few hours they could spend together, in his library, comfortably reading, sometimes discussing, exchanging views-learning more about each other.

But as the ton discovered her, those private hours had shrunk. Then disappeared.