Her mornings were consumed with visits-at-homes, morning teas-usually in the company of his mother and Henni, Honoria, or one of the other ladies with whom she’d become friends. All right and proper.

She was rarely in for luncheon, but neither was he. While she spent her afternoons making further connections and strengthening those already made, he waded through the myriad administrative demands made by the estate, or met his friends at their clubs. He and she met again for dinner but never dined alone-they were now in constant demand as more and more hostesses discovered her.

After dinner, there were balls and parties to attend; they always returned home late. And if she still came to his arms eager and wanting, while they loved as passionately as ever, there yet remained a sense of deprivation, a lack.

He was an earl-he shouldn’t have to lack.


“A message from North Audley Street, ma’am.”

Francesca set aside her toast and lifted the folded note from Wallace’s salver. “Thank you.” Opening the note, she read it, then glanced at Gyles. “Your mama and Henni are both feeling under the weather, but they say I shouldn’t stop by to visit them. They say it’s just the sniffles.”

“No need to risk catching them, too.” Gyles looked at her over the top of that morning’s Gazette. “Does their indisposition affect your plans?”

“We were going to attend a morning tea with the Misses Berry, but I really don’t feel like going alone.”

“Indeed not. You’d be the youngest present by a decade.” Gyles laid aside the Gazette. “I have a suggestion.”

“Oh?” Francesca looked up.

“Come walking with me. There’s something I want to show you.”

She was intrigued. “Where?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

To Francesca’s astonishment, “there” proved to be Asprey, the jewelers, in Bond Street. The “something” was an emerald necklace.

The assistant snibbed the catch at her nape. Wonderingly, she raised a hand to touch the large, oval-cut emeralds that hung from the collar, itself made of oval-cut stones. Gyles had insisted she remain in her morning gown with its scooped neckline; she now understood why. The emeralds flared, green fire against her skin.

She shifted this way, then that, watching the light play in the stones, noting how her eyes deepened, as if reflecting the emerald’s fire. The necklace was neither too heavy nor too ornate. Neither was it so delicate that it risked being overwhelmed by her own dramatic coloring.

It could have been made just for her…

She looked past her own reflection and saw Gyles, behind her, exchange an approving glance with the old jeweler who’d come from the back of the shop to watch.

Francesca turned and caught Gyles’s hand. “You had this made for me?”

He looked down at her. “They had nothing quite right.” He held her gaze for a moment, then squeezed her fingers before sliding his hand free. “Leave it on.”

While he complimented the jeweler, the assistant helped her into her pelisse. Francesca buttoned it up to her throat. It was chilly outside, but that wasn’t the reason. She suspected the necklace would be worth a small fortune. Over the past weeks, she’d seen many jewels, but nothing of such simple, dramatic worth.

Gyles slid the necklace’s velvet case into his pocket, then collected her, and they left the shop. On the pavement, he noted her pelisse’s high collar and smiled. Taking her arm, he led her farther up the street.

“Where are we going now?” Francesca asked. They’d left the carriage in Piccadilly-in the opposite direction.

“Now you have the necklace, you need something to go with it.”

What he had in mind was a gown, another item created to his specifications. He’d commanded the services of one of the ton’s most exclusive modistes; Francesca stood before the long mirror in the private room off the Bruton Street salon; all she could do was stare.

The gown was simple, reserved in its lines, yet on her, it became a statement of sensual confidence. In heavy emerald silk, the bodice fitted her like a second skin, the triangular neckline neither high nor low, yet because of the gown’s fit, her breasts would draw all eyes-if it wasn’t for the necklace. Gown and necklace complemented each other perfectly, neither detracting from the other. From the raised waist, the silk fell sleekly, flaring over her hips into a stylish layered skirt.

Francesca stared at the lady in the mirror, watched her breasts rise and fall, watched the emeralds wink green fire. Her eyes appeared enormous, her hair a froth of black curls anchored atop her head.

She glanced at Gyles, sitting relaxed in an armchair to one side. He caught her gaze, then turned his head and said something in French to the modiste-Francesca didn’t catch it. The modiste slipped out, closing the door.

Gyles rose; he came to stand behind her. He looked at her reflection. “Do you like it?”

His gaze roamed over her. Francesca considered her answer, considered what she could see in his face, unmasked in that instant.

“The gown, the necklace.” She held out her arms, palms up. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

For what he’d allowed her to become. He’d made her his countess in name and in fact. She was now his. His to bejewel, his to gown. His.

She’d wanted that, dreamed of it, accepted it. She’d prayed he would, too. She turned her head, laid a hand along his cheek, and guided his lips to hers. His hands, warm through the silk, closed about her waist as their lips met, brushed, then settled. But only for a heartbeat.

The sudden rush of heat, of desire, had them both reining quickly back. Their eyes met; their lips curved in identical, knowing smiles.

He held her gaze, then raised a hand and lightly brushed the tight peak of one breast.

“You can thank me later.”


* * *

She did, spending the better part of the night in that endeavor. Throughout the following day, while she chatted and visited, drank tea and listened, Francesca’s mind constantly slid away, seduced by her memories. At one point Honoria arched a knowing brow and left her blushing. She wondered who else saw through her social veil and correctly guessed the cause of her distraction.

The following morning, she breakfasted with Gyles, as was becoming their invariable habit. He questioned her about her day’s engagements, then suggested she don her pelisse and come for a short drive with him in his curricle to try out the paces of his new team of bays.

He kidnapped her for the entire day.

Deaf to her protests, he bowled through the streets, taking her into the City, to St. Paul’s, where they walked hand in hand, gazing at the brasses and monuments, to the Tower and London Bridge, then off to see Cleopatra’s Needle, then on to the Museum.

It was, in many ways, a journey of joint discovery; when she peppered him with questions, he admitted he hadn’t visited the sights recently, not since he’d been ten.

That made her laugh-he retaliated by subjecting her to an inquisition on her life in Italy.

Indeed, his questions came so readily, rolled so easily from one point to the next, that she started to suspect that the purpose behind the outing was at least in part so he could learn more of her.

She answered his queries with a light and joyous heart.

Gyles caught her shrewd glances, saw the light dancing in her eyes. She would have been even more thrilled had she known his principal motivation. True, he did want to know more about her, but his deepest, most compelling reason for spending the entire day with her was simply because he needed to.

Needed the time with her to soothe an odd uneasiness, to reassure the barbarian that she was still his during the day as much as she was during the night. Needed the time to draw her to him with more than just his arms, his kisses. Needed to prove to himself that he could.

When he turned the bays for home, Francesca sighed; smiling softly, she leaned her head against his shoulder. He bent his head and dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. Her smile deepened, and she snuggled closer. It occurred to him that he was wooing her, although not in the accepted sense. He wasn’t wooing her to make her fall in love with him. He was wooing his wife to keep her loving him.

He would do it until he died.


Almack’s. Francesca had heard of it, of course, but she hadn’t imagined it would be so plain, so… boring. Tonight was not one of the usual subscription balls-it was too late in the year for that. Instead, the hostesses had graciously invited those of their accepted circle still in town for one last evening within the hallowed halls.

Casting a critical glance around as she strolled the main room on Osbert’s arm, Francesca felt that the hallowed halls could do with redecorating. Then again, the throng that filled them was glittering and glamorous enough to deflect attention from the dull, rather shabby decor.

Lady Elizabeth and Henni had encouraged her to accompany them; they’d explained it was an occasion at which a new countess could not afford not to be seen. On learning of her plans over the breakfast table, Gyles had suggested she wear her new gown and her emeralds.

Encountering her in the hall as she was leaving, he’d paused, hesitated. Shadows had hidden his face, then he’d taken her hand, carried it to his lips, and told her she looked ravishing.

The gown and necklace bolstered her confidence. They felt like armor, so carefully scrutinized had they been. Knowing she looked well had allowed her to meet the sharp eyes with unimpaired serenity. Under the auspices of Lady Elizabeth and Lady Henrietta, as Henni was more properly known, she’d been introduced to all the hostesses. All had signified their approval; all had expressed the wish that she would be a frequent visitor in the years to come.