She would accept Chillingworth tomorrow afternoon. No-she would instruct her uncle to accept him, if that was how Chillingworth wanted the scene played.
The breeze from the forest was cool. Rising from the window seat, she headed for her bed, inwardly shaking her head.
He was who he was-no matter what he said, he could not, in his heart, still be set on a loveless, cold-blooded relationship, not now he’d met her. Kissed her. He might stubbornly adhere to the role he’d scripted for himself; he might still cling to the fiction before Charles, herself-even to himself. But that could not be what his real self wanted.
Halting by her bed, Francesca tilted her head, considering her future-considering him. A challenge?
Lips firming, she set aside her shawl and climbed between the sheets.
The possibility was there-she felt confident of that-but to gain what she wanted from their marriage, she’d need much more than he’d offered thus far.
She’d need his heart.
Given openly, freely, without reservation.
Would he ever be willing to offer her that?
With a sigh, she closed her eyes and surrendered her destiny to the gods. In her sleepy mind, a distant fantasy took shape… of her streaking across the downs she’d read lay just north of his castle on a fleet-footed Arabian mare. With him by her side.
Across the forest, Gyles sat staring out at the night. A glass of brandy in one hand, the window open before his chair, he brooded on his soul-on its propensities. He didn’t like what he saw; he didn’t feel comfortable with the possibilities.
The gypsy was dangerous. Too dangerous to risk seducing. A wise man knew when to leave temptation alone.
He’d determined to give her a wide berth, yet the instant he’d seen her, he’d given chase. Without thought. Without hesitation.
The gypsy had his measure.
As for what he’d felt in the instant she’d fallen…
He’d offered for Francesca Rawlings. Tomorrow, he’d call at Rawlings Hall and receive her acceptance of his suit. He’d make arrangements to marry her-his perfect, meek, mild-mannered cipher-as swiftly as possible.
Then he would leave.
His hand clenched about the glass, then he downed the contents and stood.
He would not meet with the gypsy again.
Chapter 4
Francesca spoke with Charles as she’d promised. While sympathetic to Chillingworth’s concern, he’d also been touchingly aware of her need to ride.
“I can’t see why,” Charles had said, “as long as you exercise reasonable caution, you shouldn’t continue to ride my hunters until you marry and he can supply you with a suitable mount. After all, you’ve been riding through the forest for t
wo years without mishap.”
Those sentiments echoed Francesca’s. Consequently, early the next morning, hours earlier than she normally rode, she was on the bay gelding heading down a bridle path miles away from her normal route between the Hall and Lyndhurst. Her mood was sunny, her heart light as she galloped along. Not a smidgen of guilt disturbed her; she’d done everything she could to spare Chillingworth.
She rode into the next glade at a clipping pace.
Mounted on his chestnut, he was riding toward her.
The first thing she felt was a sense of betrayal.
Then she saw his face-watched it harden-saw fury flare, then coalesce into something hotter. Betrayal was swamped by alarm.
Then he dug in his heels and came for her.
She fled. She didn’t stop to think-rational thought had no place in her brain. When a man looked at a woman like that, then charged at her, there was only one sane reaction.