His arm tightened, locking her against him. His tongue plundered-a warning of his own. It was
a kiss of claiming, one that spoke of primal rights, of promises made, vows taken, bargains made that would be kept.
After an instant’s surprise, she caught her breath and kissed him back-with fire, with defiance-with unadulterated passion.
It was he who broke the kiss, aware that this was not the time or place. Their eyes met-they both remembered where they were and what they had to face. Silent agreement flashed between them. Because she was so much shorter, and he’d caught her so close, no one had witnessed the quality of their exchange.
About them, music swelled; Hector’s wife had started the processional.
Francesca blinked, then glanced at Hector. She tried to draw back-Gyles tightened his hold on her.
Only to feel Hector’s hand on his shoulder.
“Well! Might I be the first to congratulate the bride?”
He had to let her go; he forced himself to do it, forced himself to let Hector take her hands and buss her cheek.
Devil elbowed him in the back.
“Nice duty, if one can get it.”
Gyles turned-only to have Devil nudge him aside.
“Stand back, Hector. It’s my turn.”
Their well-wishers surrounded them. Gyles stood by her side and refused to budge as the guests pressed forward, eager to greet his ravishing countess, to pump his hand and tell him what a lucky dog he was.
The ladies made straight for Francesca. Horace thumped him on the back. “A sly one, you are! All that talk of marrying for the family and property-well! Not that I blame you, mind-she’s a demmed fetching piece.”
“She did bring the Gatting property.”
“Yes, well, I expect that influenced you mightily.” Horace grinned at Francesca. “Must kiss the bride, what?” He moved on.
Gyles inwardly sighed. If not even Horace believed…
Francesca greeted Horace with a social grace quite at odds with what was running through her mind. Indeed, she was grateful to those who pressed near to squeeze her hand, kiss her cheek, and offer their congratulations-they provided her with an opportunity to catch her breath. Such occasions held no terrors; as her parents’ only child, she’d been their social companion for years and was confidently at ease amidst fashionable crowds.
It wasn’t the demands of the wedding that concerned her.
She wasn’t at all sure what was going on in her husband’s mind, but that was presently the least of her concerns. After he’d returned her to her bed, she hadn’t been able to think. To her surprise, she’d fallen deeply asleep. She’d woken only just in time to hide the evidence of her nighttime excursion before Millie and Lady Elizabeth arrived to help her with her preparations. Ester had joined them, and assured her Franni was highly excited and looking forward to witnessing the wedding.
She hadn’t known what to make of that.
On waking, her first thought had been that she should give him what he wanted-what he was expecting-and reorganize things so Franni walked up the aisle. She would give the Gatting property he was so set on acquiring to Franni… it was then she’d remembered the marriage settlements. They’d been signed and sealed, and it was her name, not Franni’s, in all the crucial spots.
While their marriage was the crux of the arrangement, the ceremony was only part of that, the public acknowledgment of an agreement entered into. Legally, albeit contingent on their wedding taking place, the Gatting property was already his.
Both Charles and Chillingworth’s man-of-business, a Mr. Waring, who’d traveled into Hampshire with the documents, had taken great pains to impress on her the inviolability of the agreement once signed.
She’d signed. She couldn’t now refuse to marry him.
And she certainly could not thrust Franni into such an arena. He’d been out of his mind to think she could cope… which made her wonder if Chillingworth had spoken with Franni at all.
She had no idea what Franni thought. Was Chillingworth the gentleman her cousin had referred to? She’d had no chance before the ceremony to speak with Franni alone. Indeed, Franni had been innocently excited when she’d hurried off to the chapel with Ester.
When she’d walked up the aisle, she’d seen Chillingworth glance toward where Franni should have been, but with all eyes on her, she hadn’t dared look herself. She’d been playing a part, and she’d had to play it well-had to make people believe she was a willing and happy bride. She’d hoped to glance Franni’s way once she’d halted before the altar, perhaps as Charles stepped back-but the instant she’d reached Chillingworth’s side…
Shaking aside the memory, she tried again to glimpse the pew where Franni had been, but Chillingworth had, thanks to the melee, ended on that side. He hadn’t budged an inch since; she couldn’t see past him. Neither Ester nor Franni had come to kiss her. Charles was hanging back. But he was smiling.