Stepping through the archway, he paused. An intersecting path ran both right and left. Glancing toward the house, he discovered he could see all the way to where the stone wall he’d earlier paced along joined the corner of the house. Close by the house, a stone seat was built out from the wall.

On the seat sat a young lady.

She was reading a book lying open in her lap. The late-afternoon sun beamed down, bathing her in golden light. Fair hair the color of flax was drawn back from her face; fair skin glowed faintly pink. From this distance, he couldn’t see her eyes yet the general set of her features appeared unremarkable, pleasant but not striking. Her pose, head tilted, shoulders low, suggested she was a woman easily dominated, naturally submissive.

She was not the sort of woman to stir him at all, not the sort of woman he would normally take the time to study.

She was precisely the sort of wife he was looking for. Could she be Francesca Rawlings?

As if some higher power had heard his thought, a woman’s voice called, “Francesca?”

The girl looked up. She was shutting her book, gathering her shawl as the woman called again. “Francecsa? Franni?”

Rising, the girl called, “I’m here, Aunt Ester.” Her voice was delicate and light.

Stepping out, she disappeared from Gyles’s view.

Gyles smiled and resumed his stroll. He’d trusted Charles and Charles had not deceived him-Francesca Rawlings possessed precisely the right attributes to be his amenable bride.

The path opened onto a grassed courtyard. Gyles stepped into it-

A dervish in emerald green did her best to mow him down.

She landed against him like a force of nature-a small woman barely topping his shoulder. His first impression was of wild black hair curling riotously over her shoulders and back. The emerald green was a velvet riding habit; she was booted and carried a crop in one hand.

He caught her, steadied her-she would have fallen if he hadn’t closed his arms about her.

Even before she’d caught her breath, his hands had gentled, his rakish senses avidly relaying the fact that she was abundantly curvaceous, her flesh firm yet yielding, quintessentially feminine-for him, elementally challenging. His hands spread over her back, then his arms locked, but lightly, trapping her against him. Full breasts warmed his chest, soft hips his thighs.

A strangled “Oh!” escaped her.

She looked up.

The green feather in the scrap of a cap perched atop her glossy curls brushed his cheek. Gyles barely noticed.

Her eyes were green-a green more intense than the emerald of her gown. Wide and wondering, they were darkly and thickly lashed. Her skin was flawless ivory tinged a faint gold, her lips a dusky rose, delicately curved, the lower sensuously full. Her hair was pulled back and anchored across her crown, revealing a wide forehead and the delicate arch of black brows. Curls large and small tumbled down, framing a heart-shaped face that was irresistibly piquant and utterly intriguing; Gyles was seized by a need to know what she was thinking.

Those startled green eyes met his, roved his face, then, widening even more, returned to his.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see you coming.”

He felt her voice more than heard it-felt it like a caress inside, an invitation purely physical. The sound itself was… smoky-a sultry sound that somehow clouded his senses.

His very willing senses. Like recognized like in the blink of an eye. Oh, yes, the beast inside him purred. His lips curved subtly although his thoughts were anything but.

Her gaze lowered, fastened on his lips, then she swallowed. Light color rose in her cheeks. Her heavy lids lowered, hiding her eyes. She eased back in his arms. “If you would release me, sir…”

He didn’t want to, but he did-slowly, with deliberately obvious reluctance. She’d felt more than good in his arms-she’d felt warm and intensely vital. Intensely alive.

She stepped back, color deepening as his hands brushed her hips as his arms fell from her. She shook out her skirts, refusing to meet his eyes.

“If you’ll pardon me, I must go.”

Without waiting for any answer, she slipped past him, then strode quickly down the path. Turning, he watched her retreat.

Her steps slowed. She stopped.

Then she whirled and looked back at him, meeting his gaze with neither consciousness nor guile. “Who are you?”

She was a gypsy in green framed by the hedges. The directness in her gaze, in her stance, was challenge incarnate.

“Chillingworth.” Turning fully, he swept her a bow, his eyes never leaving hers. Straightening, he added, “And very definitely at your service.”

She stared at him, then gestured vaguely. “I’m late…”

For all the world as if she hadn’t been…

Their gazes held; something primitive arced between them-some promise that needed no words to be made.

Her gaze slid from his, traveling avidly, greedily over him as if she would commit him to memory; he did the same, no less hungry for the sight of her, poised to take flight.

Then she did. She whirled, snatched up her trailing habit, and fled, ducking down a side path toward the house, disappearing from his view.

Gaze locked on the empty avenue, Gyles suppressed an urge to give chase. His arousal gradually faded; he turned. The smile curving his lips was not one of amusement. Sensual anticipation was a currency he dealt in regularly; the gypsy knew well how to bargain.

He reached the stable and sent the lad to fetch the chestnut; settling to wait, it occurred to him that, at this juncture, he might be expected to be thinking about his bride-to-be. He mentally focused on the pale young lady with her book; within seconds, the image was overlaid by the more vibrant, more sensually appealing picture of the gypsy as he’d last seen her, with that age-old consideration blazoned in her eyes. Switching his attention back to the former required real effort.

Gyles inwardly laughed. That was, after all, precisely the point in marrying such a cypher-her existence would not interfere with his more carnal pursuits. In that, Francesca Rawlings had indeed proved perfect-within minutes of seeing her, his mind had been full of lascivious thoughts involving another woman.

His gypsy. Who was she? Her voice came back to him, that husky, sultry sound. There was an accent there-just discernible-vowels richer, consonants more dramatic than the English were wont to make them. The accent lent further sensual flavor to that evocative voice. He recalled the olive tinge that had turned the gypsy’s skin golden; he also recalled that Francesca Rawlings had lived most of her life in Italy.

The stablelad led the big chestnut out; Gyles thanked the boy and mounted, then cantered down the drive.

Accent and coloring-the gypsy could be Italian. As for behavior, no meek, mild-mannered English young lady would ever have boldly appraised him as she had. Italian, then, either friend or companion of his bride-to-be. She was certainly no maid-not dressed as she had been-and no maid would have dared behave so forwardly, not on first or even second sight.

Reining in where the drive wound into the trees, Gyles looked back at Rawlings Hall. How best to play the cards he’d just been dealt he wasn’t yet sure. Securing his amenable bride remained his primary objective; despite the carnal need she evoked, seducing the gypsy had to take second place.

He narrowed his eyes, seeing, not faded bricks but a pair of emerald eyes bright with understanding, with knowledge and speculation beyond the ken of any modest young lady.

He would have her.

Once his amenable bride declared she was willing, he’d turn to a conquest more to his taste. Savoring the prospect, he wheeled the chestnut and galloped down the drive.

Chapter 2

Francesca rushed into the house through the garden hall. Abruptly halting, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. Waited for her wits to stop whirling.

Gracious! She’d spent the last year privately bemoaning the lack of fire in English men, and now look what the gods had thrown at her. Even if it had taken them twelve months to find him, she wasn’t about to complain.

She wasn’t sure she shouldn’t go down on her knees and give thanks.

The vision that evoked brought a laugh bubbling up, set the dimple in her left cheek quivering. Then her levity faded. Whoever he was, he hadn’t come to see her; she might never meet him again. Yet he was a relative assuredly-she’d noted the resemblance to her father and uncle. A frown in her eyes, she headed into the house.

She’d just returned from a ride when she’d heard Ester call. Leaving the stables, she’d pelted for the house. She’d stayed out longer than usual; Ester and Charles might be worrying. Then she’d collided with the stranger.

A gentleman, definitely, and possibly titled-difficult to tell if Chillingworth was surname or title. Chillingworth. She said it in her mind, rolled it on her tongue. It had a certain ring to it, one that suited the man. Whatever else he might be-and she had a few ideas on the subject-he was the antithesis of the boring, unexciting provincial gentlemen she’d been assessing for the past year. Chillingworth, whoever he might be, was not boring.

Her pulse was still racing, her blood still up, far more so than could be accounted for by her ride. Indeed, she didn’t think her racing pulse or the breathlessness that was only now easing owed anything to her ride-they’d come into being because he’d held her too close and smiled at her like a leopard eyeing his next meal-and because she’d known precisely what he’d been thinking.

His grey eyes had kindled, sparking yet darkening, and his lips had curved just so… because he’d been thinking wicked thoughts. Thoughts of flesh pressed to naked flesh, of silk sheets sliding and shushing as bodies moved in an ancient rhythm upon them. The brazen images formed readily in her mind.

Blushing, she banished them and strode on down the corridor. Glancing around and seeing no one, she waved a hand before her face. She didn’t want to have to explain her blush to Ester.

The thought had her wondering where Ester was. Entering the central wing, she detoured to the kitchen. No Ester there. The staff had heard Ester call, but didn’t know where she’d gone. Francesca pushed through the door into the front hall.

The hall was empty. Her bootheels clacked on the tiles as she crossed to the stairs. She was halfway up the first flight when the door to her uncle’s study opened. Ester came out, saw her, and smiled. “There you are, dear.”

Francesca reversed direction. “I’m so sorry-it was such a fine day I just rode and rode and forgot the time. I heard you call and came running. Is anything wrong?”

“No, indeed.” A tall lady with a horsey face but the kindest of eyes, Ester smiled fondly as Francesca halted before her. Reaching out, Ester eased the frivolous riding cap from Francesca’s unruly locks. “Your uncle wishes to speak with you, but contrary to there being anything wrong, I suspect you’ll be very interested in what he has to say. I’ll take this”-Ester spied the riding gloves and crop Francesca held in one hand and took them-“and these, upstairs for you. Go along now-he’s waiting to tell you.”

Ester’s nod indicated the open study door. Intrigued, Francesca entered, shutting the door behind her. Charles was seated behind his desk, studying a letter. Hearing the latch click, he looked up, and beamed.

“Francesca, dear girl, come and sit down. I’ve just had the most amazing news.”

Crossing to the chair to which he waved her, not before the desk but beside it, Francesca could see that for herself. Charles’s eyes were alight, not shadowed with some unnameable worry as they so often were. Too often careworn and sad, his face now glowed with unmistakable good cheer. She sank onto the chair. “And this news concerns me?”

“It does, indeed.” Swinging to face her, Charles leaned his forearms on his knees so his head was more level with hers. “My dear, I’ve just received an offer for your hand.”

Francesca stared at him. “From whom?”

She heard the calm query and marveled that she’d managed to get it out. Her mind was streaking in a dozen different directions, her heart racing again, speculation running riot. It was a battle to remain still, to counsel herself to the prim and proper.

“From a gentleman-well, actually, he’s a nobleman. The offer is from Chillingworth.”