Then the door opened and closed again. The maid’s light footsteps faded away. Gyles waited, giving her a moment to collect her thoughts…

He didn’t want to examine his. He kept them from him as he waited. When the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece grew too mocking, he pushed away from the door, opened it, and went in.

She was standing before the long windows to one side of the bed. She half turned as he entered; through the shadows, their gazes touched.

There was no lamp burning, yet there was lingering light enough to see-the ivory-satin robe she wore, to note how, fashioned in the form of a Greco-Roman dress, it draped and concealed her body. Enough light to see the invitation in her stance, to sense the acceptance behind it.

She watched him as he neared. He let his gaze drift over her, and wondered how many such gowns she possessed, how many different facets of Aphrodite she could project.

He stopped by her side, facing her as she stood draped in satin and shadow. Their gazes met, held. There was no need for words, for reasons-the desire that flared between them was real and strong, and in this arena all the justification either of them required.

That simple-and he couldn’t begin to explain how grateful he was. Didn’t want to think why that was so.

He reached for her, his hands sliding over the satin to find and fasten about her waist, drawing her to him as he lowered his head. Their lips touched, brushed, then fused, but they both held the heat at bay, content to savor the approaching prospect, and all the steps along the way.

He drew back from the kiss, raised his head-and felt the sash at his waist release. She opened his robe, then pushed it back over his shoulders-he obliged and let it fall to the floor. Lips curved, she splayed her hands over his chest, touching, exploring, with a greed both overt and refined.

He would have smiled but couldn’t. “Are you always so direct?”

His voice was a gravelly rumble. She glanced up, her eyes dark pools of emerald clouded by desire. “Usually.”

Palms to his chest, she searched his eyes, his face. Then, hands sliding, fingers gripping, she pressed closer, her face tilted to his. “You like it.”

A statement. He reached for the twin clips, one at each shoulder, that anchored her gown. “Yes.”

The clips clicked and she stilled, then looked down as the gown slithered over her body to pool about her feet. She stood still and naked before him, then she angled her head and looked up at him from beneath her lashes.

He felt her glance but didn’t meet it. His attention was riveted on her curves, pale skin kissed by the fading light. On the contrast provided by the wild tumble of her hair, black as a raven’s wing, and the dark curls at the base of her stomach. A contrast of color, and of textures-he lifted one long strand of hair and let it slide through his fingers. Light silk, while her skin felt more like soft satin.

The thought sent his hand reaching for her waist. He lifted his gaze to her face, found her eyes, then her lips. Recalled the luscious pliant softness of those full lips beneath his, of her body beneath his.

She came to him, offering both with a simple confidence that slew him. Enslaved him. He drew her against him and their lips met, then melded. Her hands slid sensuously upward, from his waist up over his chest, then she wound her arms about his neck and pressed herself to him.

He ravished her mouth, a prelude to the ravishment to come, to the ultimate pleasuring of their senses.

She met him and matched him and urged him on.

He let his hands roam, greedily tracing, possessing her curves, then he lifted her in his arms. Two steps had him by the bed. He laid her down, then stripped off his silk sleeping trousers and joined her. She welcomed him with open arms and a passion to match his.

They were driven, yet determined not to hurry, urgent yet unwilling to rush. Her fascination with his body was unfeigned; he let her have her way-let her press him to the bed and straddle his waist the better to skate her hands over him, then duck and glide her breasts across his chest.

He couldn’t help wondering…

“Did that come from watching your parents?”

Her eyes found his in the warm gloom. “No-not that. That I just… made up.”

He curled his hands about the smooth hemispheres of her bottom and kneaded. “I’ll make a bargain with you-you can invent as you wish but don’t tell me what you’re replaying from memory.”

She paused, then leaned her arms on his chest and lowered her breasts until skin met skin, bringing her face closer to his. She studied his eyes, serious but unconcerned-curious. “Didn’t you ever watch your parents?”

“Good God, no!”

She chuckled, the smoky sound the epitome of wickedness, lying naked in the dark as they were. Ducking her head, she put out her tongue and lingeringly traced his collarbone. “You’ve led a sheltered life, my lord.”

The touch and her purr poured heat through his veins. Closing his hands, he shifted her hips, then held her steady as, with his aching erection, he probed the slick swollen flesh between her thighs.

“Despite my sheltered life-” He broke off as he found her entrance and pressed in, past the constriction and into her hot sheath. Her gasp feathered across his chest; he felt the instinctive resistance of her body and stopped, waited. “Despite my conservative background”-despite being one of the most successful rakes in the ton-“I believe there are still a few things I could teach you.”

He glanced down and found her eyes. He couldn’t see their expression, yet he could sense hers, feel her simple honesty when she murmured, “I’m very willing to learn.”

Their gazes held. He could feel her heart beating, in her breast, in the soft heat of her sheath. Grasping her hips, he held her down and eased farther into her, inch by deliberate inch, slowly filling her until she was full, until he was seated deeply within her. All the while he watched her eyes, watched them darken, cloud, until, at the last, her lids lowered and hid them.

He felt to his marrow the soft sigh that shuddered through her, the melting of her body about his. He ducked his head and she raised hers; their lips met, and nothing else mattered beyond what was between them.

Beyond the passion, the desire-and the driving need that fanned them.

It wasn’t such a bad basis for a marriage.


* * *

“Get out!”

Francesca woke to Gyles’s clipped accents. Pushing the covers from her face, she peeked out-in time to see her bedroom door closing. Bemused, she turned to Gyles, slumped large, hot, hard-and very naked-beside her. “What…?”

“What’s your maid’s name?”

“Millie.”

“You need to instruct Millie not to come to your room in the morning until you ring for her.”

“Why?”

Turning his head on the pillow, he looked at her, then started softly laughing. His mirth rocked her in the bed. His expression still amused, he turned on his side and reached for her. “I take it,” he said, “you never watched your parents in the mornings.”

“No, of course not. Why…” Francesca broke off as she studied his eyes. Then she licked her lips and looked at his. “The morning?”

“Hmm,” he said, and drew her against him.


“I’m sorry, ma’am, it won’t happen again, I swear-”

“It’s all right, Millie. It was my oversight-I should have mentioned. We’ll say no more about it.” Francesca hoped she wasn’t blushing. She hadn’t mentioned because she hadn’t imagined… Looking away from Millie, who was still wringing her hands, she straightened her morning gown. “Now, I’m ready. Please tell Mrs. Cantle I wish to see her in the family parlor at ten.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Still subdued, Millie bobbed a curtsy.

Francesca headed for the door. And the breakfast parlor. Sustenance. Her mother’s quite remarkable appetite in the mornings was now explained.

Gyles and Horace had breakfasted earlier, and Gyles had gone out riding. Where he found the energy, Francesca could not guess but she was grateful not to have to endure his too-knowing grey gaze over the teacups.

Lady Elizabeth and Henni joined her. Once they were gustatorily satisfied, they retired to the family parlor. Mrs. Cantle, no taller than Francesca but rather more buxom and garbed in dull black, appeared promptly at ten o’clock.

She bobbed a curtsy, then clasped her hands. “You wished to see me, ma’am?” The question was addressed impartially, directed somewhere between Francesca and Lady Elizabeth, who was clearly nonplussed.

Francesca smiled. “I did. As Lady Elizabeth is removing to the Dower House this afternoon, she and I wish to use the morning to go over the house and review household practices. I wondered if you have time to accompany us?”

Mrs. Cantle struggled not to beam, but her eyes shone. “If we could just decide the menus, ma’am.” She addressed Francesca directly. “I don’t dare leave the heathen to his own devices, if you take my meaning. Needs constant reining in, he does.”

The heathen had to be Ferdinand. “You have another cook here, I believe?” Francesca shot a glance at Lady Elizabeth, but it was Mrs. Cantle who answered.

“Indeed, ma’am, and that’s the better half of the problem. None of us would deny Ferdinand’s…”

“Artistry?”

“Aye-that’s it. He’s a right one with food, no doubt of it. But Cook, she’s been with the family for years-fed the master since he was a boy, knows all his favorite dishes… and she and Ferdinand don’t get on.”

It wasn’t hard to see why. Cook was the cook until Ferdinand appeared, and then she was demoted. “What is Cook’s specialty?” Mrs. Cantle frowned. “What manner of food is she especially good at? Soups? Pastries?”

“Puddings, ma’am. Her lemon curd pudding is one of the master’s favorites, and her treacle tart will curl your toes.”

“Very well.” Francesca stood. “We’ll start our tour in the kitchens. I’ll speak with Ferdinand, and we’ll decide the menu, and we’ll see if I can help smooth matters over.”

Intrigued, Lady Elizabeth joined them. Mrs. Cantle led them through the green baize door and into a warren of corridors and small rooms. They passed Irving in his pantry and paused to survey the household silver and plate.

As they continued in Mrs. Cantle’s wake, Francesca turned to Lady Elizabeth. “I hadn’t thought to ask-how will you manage at the Dower House? You’ll need a butler, and a cook and maids-”

“It’s all taken care of, dear.” Lady Elizabeth touched her arm. “On an estate this size, there’s always many eager for work. The Dower House has been standing ready for us this past week. Henni’s maid and mine, and Horace’s man, are presently ferrying the last of our belongings across the park, and, this afternoon, we’ll go to our new home.”

Francesca hesitated, then nodded. It was not her place, certainly not at that moment, to allude to what Lady Elizabeth would undoubtedly feel on leaving the house she had come to as a bride and managed for so many years.

Lady Elizabeth chuckled. “No-I don’t regret leaving.” Her voice was pitched low, for Francesca’s ears only. “This house is so large, and Gyles’s needs here and in London are more than I have energy to oversee properly. I’m more glad than I can say to have you here, willing and able to take on the responsibility.”

Francesca met her ladyship’s eyes. They were grey, like her son’s, but softer. “I’ll do my best to keep all running as smoothly and as well as you have.”

Lady Elizabeth squeezed her arm. “My dear, if you can manage Ferdinand, you’re destined to do better.”

The kitchens opened before them-two huge rooms, the first cavernous, the second only marginally less so. The first room contained an entire wall of hearth filled with brick ovens, roasting spits, and griddles suspended over huge grates. A deal table ran down the center of the room; a smaller table, presumably for staff dining, sat in an alcove. Pots and pans gleamed-from the walls, from shelves, and suspended from hooks high above. The room was warm; savory aromas filled the air. Francesca glimpsed a pantry to one side. The adjoining room apparently housed the scullery and preparation area.

The rooms were a hive of activity. The central table was piled high with vegetables. A ruddy-faced woman stood at the far end, her large hands plunged into a basin of dough.

Mrs. Cantle whispered to Francesca, “That’s Cook-her name’s Doherty, but we always call her Cook.”