“Ah…” He blinked as she straightened. “I spend about half the year at Lambourn. I usually go to London for the Season, and then again for the autumn session of Parliament.”

“Oh?” Real interest lit her green eyes. “So you take your seat in Parliament and speak?”

He shrugged as he stuffed the last of the kittens into the basket. “When there’s a matter that interests me, yes, of course.” He frowned. How had they got onto this topic?

Securing the basket’s lids, he lifted it and straightened.

“Here.” She held out the gelding’s reins and reached for the basket. “You can lead Sultan. I’ll take them.”

Before he knew it, he was standing with the reins in his hand watching her walk up the orchard. Watching her delightfully rounded derriere sway as, the skirt of her habit draped over one arm, she negotiated the slight climb. Setting his jaw, he headed after her-then realized why she’d left him with the gelding.

It took a good minute before he could convince the brute that he really was serious about moving. Finally, the huge horse consented to amble after him as he strode after the witch. She who was interrogating him. As he closed the distance between them, he wondered what she thought she was about. One possible answer had him slowing.

She’d known of his offer. That argued that she was in Francesca Rawlings’s confidence. Was it possible that, having confessed to meeting him, she was interrogating him on Francesca’s behalf? Francesca certainly hadn’t known who he was, but if the gypsy hadn’t described him… it was possible.

Falling in behind her, he murmured, “So tell me, what else does Miss Rawlings wish to know?”

Francesca glanced back at him-was he making fun of her? She faced forward again. “Miss Rawlings,” she said, somewhat tartly, “wishes to know if your town house in London is large.”

“Reasonably. It’s a relatively new acquisition, not even fifty years old, so it has all the modern conveniences.”

“I expect you lead a very busy life while in London, at least during the Season.”

“It can be hectic, but the entertainments tend to cluster in the evenings.”

“I imagine there’s quite a demand for your company.”

Gyles narrowed his gaze on the back of her curly black head. Without seeing her face, he couldn’t be sure, but… surely she wouldn’t dare. “I am in demand among the ton’s hostesses.”

Let her make of that what she would.

“Indeed? And are there any specific commitments, to any specific hostesses, that you presently have?”

The brazen witch was asking if he had a mistress. Reaching the stable yard, she stepped onto the cobbles and turned-the green eyes that met his aggravated gaze held a power all their own.

Halting before her, he regarded her. After a fraught moment, he slowly and clearly stated, “Not at present.” The fact that he was considering altering that situation heavily underscored the words.

Holding his gaze, Francesca found it easy not to smile. His grey eyes conveyed a meaning she wasn’t sure she understood. Was he challenging her to be good enough, fascinating enough, to keep him from other ladies’ beds? Was he telling her that whether he kept a mistress or not was up to her? There was a certain temptation in the thought, but she had her pride. Drawing herself up, she let her eyes flash censoriously, then haughtily nodded. “I must get these kittens inside. If you’ll give Sultan to Josh…” Head regally high, she swept around and headed for the kitchens.

Gyles very nearly reached out and spun her back; his hands fisted as he fought the urge.

“Ruggles!” she called. A ginger-and-black tabby came running. It stood to sniff the basket, then mewed and ran along beside her.

Gyles drew in his temper; the effort left him seething. That final look of hers had been the last straw. He’d been about to demand to be told precisely who she was and in what relation she stood to Francesca Rawlings when the damned witch had summarily dismissed him!

He couldn’t recall the last time any lady had dared dismiss him, not like that.

Through narrowed eyes, he watched her disappear into the kitchen garden, crooning to the kittens and their mother. Unless he much mistook the matter, the gypsy had just put him firmly in his place.

Chapter 3

He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Couldn’t get the taste of her-so wildly passionate-out of his mouth, couldn’t free his senses from her spell.

It was the next morning, and he was still ensnared.

Trotting through the forest, Gyles snorted disgustedly. With a little more persuasion, he could have had her under that damned apple tree. Why the fact so irritated him he couldn’t decide-because seducing her had proved so easy? Or because he hadn’t had the sense to press his advantage? If he had, she might not be tormenting him still, a thorn in his flesh, an itch he’d yet to scratch.

On the other hand…

He pushed the niggling thought aside. She didn’t mean that much to him-she was simply a resistant witch issuing a blatant, flagrant challenge, and he’d never been able to turn his back on a challenge. That was all. He was not obsessed with her.

Not yet.

He let the warning slide from his mind. He was too old, too experienced to get caught. That was why he was here, organizing his marriage to a meek, mild-mannered cipher. Recalling that fact, he checked his position, then took the next bridle path toward Rawlings Hall.

He was earlier than he’d been the day before; he caught her as she was setting out from the kennels. She welcomed him with a sunny smile and a “Good morning, Mr. Rawlings. About again?”

He replied with a smile, but watched her closely. He’d assumed after yesterday and the report no doubt made by the gypsy that Francesca would have realized who he was.

If she had, she was a better actress than Sarah Siddons; no trace of awareness showed in her eyes, her expression or her attitude. With an inwardly raised brow, he accepted it. After mulling the situation over, he saw no reason to inform her of his identity-not now. He’d only fluster her.

As before, he found it easy to stroll beside her. Only when they’d reached the other side of the lake and she paused to admire a tree and ask him what sort he thought it might be, did he realize he hadn’t been attending. He covered the gaffe easily-the tree was a birch; after that, he paid more attention. Only to discover that his intended was, indeed, the perfect choice for his needs. Her voice was airy and light, not smoky and sultry; it held no power to capture his thoughts. She was sweet and demure and unexciting-he spent more time looking at the spaniels than at her.

If he’d been walking with the gypsy, he’d have tripped over the spaniels.

Shaking his head-wishing he could shake all images of the witch out of it, especially the taunting visions that had kept him awake half the night-he hauled his mind back to the young lady presently by his side.

She evoked not the smallest spark of sexual interest; the contrast between her and her Italian companion could not have been more marked. She was precisely what he needed as his amenable bride-a young lady who aroused his passionate nature not at all. Doing his duty would be easy enough; siring a child or two on her would be no great feat. She might not be a beauty, but she was passable, unassuming, and likable enough. If she would accept his proposal, accept him without love, they would deal well enough together.

Meanwhile, given the gypsy and his bride were friends, it might be wise to ascertain the depth of their friendship before he seduced the gypsy. The thought of some grand emotional scene between himself and his wife because he had her friend in keeping was the closest thing to anathema he’d ever imagined, yet he doubted it would come to that. Who knew? Their friendship might even thrive; such arrangements were not unknown in the ton.

That niggling warning sounded again in his mind; this time, he paid it more heed. It would be wise to play safe with the gypsy, at least until he had his wife and his life secured as he wanted them.

The gypsy was wild and unpredictable. Until his marriage was fact, he’d steer clear of her temptation.

As before, he left his bride-to-be at the parterre. She accepted his departure with a smile, displaying no inclination to cling or demand more of his time. Entirely satisfied with his choice, Gyles headed for the stables.

Josh was waiting; he ran to get the chestnut. Gyles looked around. Then Josh was back. Gyles took his time mounting, dallying as long as he could before he cantered down the drive and turned into the lane to Lyndhurst.

He’d just decided to avoid the witch-it would be illogical to feel disappointed at not seeing her.

Then he did, and his heart leapt. She was a flash of graceful movement deep in a deserted ride. Before he’d thought, he’d loosed the chestnut’s reins and was pounding after her.

She slowed at the end of the ride, debating which of two paths to take, then she heard the thud of the chestnut’s hooves and glanced back.

A smile spread across her face, on a changing spectrum that traveled from welcoming to glorious. With an exuberant laugh, she flashed him a look of blatant challenge, then plunged down the nearest path.

Gyles followed.

The chestnut he was on was an excellent beast, but the grey she was riding was better. He rode heavier, too, and didn’t know the paths she flung her mount down with such alacrity. But he kept doggedly on in her wake, knowing that, eventually, she’d let him catch her.