“It sounds like you’ll have barely a moment to yourself.”
Francesca glanced at him-mentally replayed his words, analyzed their tone-then she smiled and pressed his arm. “Nonsense.” She glanced around, then sighed. “Nevertheless, I do think I’ve made enough plans for one night.” She turned to him. “Perhaps we should go home.”
“Home?”
“Hmm-home, and to bed.” She tilted her head. “Of course, if you wished, we could stop by the library.”
“The library?”
“Wallace will have built up the fire-it should be rather cozy.”
“Cozy.”
“Mmm-warm.” She rolled the word on her tongue. “Pleasant and… relaxing.”
The sultry promise in her voice sent heat pouring through him. Gyles stopped, changed tack, and headed for the door.
Chapter 18
Two weeks later, Gyles stood by the side of Lady Matheson’s ballroom, reconsidering the madness that had made him bring Francesca to London. His need to protect her had forced his hand; she was safer here, away from the strange happenings at Lambourn, in a smaller, more secure house, yet her emergence into the ton had brought dangers of a different sort.
The sort that ate away his civilized facade and left his true self much too close to his surface.
“Gyles?”
He turned, smiled and bent to kiss Henni’s cheek. “I didn’t realize you’d be here.”
“Well of course we’re here, dear. The Mathesons are connections of Horace’s, don’t you remember?”
These days he thought of little beyond his wife.
“Where’s Francesca?” Henni looked inquiringly at him, obviously expecting him to know.
“Sitting with Her Grace of St. Ives.” He directed Henni’s gaze across the room.
“Ah. Thank you, dear. Incidentally, that was an excellent dinner the other night, and the little gathering the week before went very well, I thought.”
Gyles nodded. Henni left him, wending her way through the crowd toward Francesca. The dinner had been their first-Francesca’s first in London, his first as a married man. The anticipation had drawn them together, had had them working together even more closely than before.
It had been a triumph; the sharing had added an extra dimension. When Henni had labeled the dinner “excellent,” she hadn’t been referring to the quality of the dishes, although with Ferdinand seeking to please, that had been exceptional. It had been Francesca who’d sparkled and fascinated; he’d found it easy to enact the role of proud husband and do his part to carry the evening.
The small party they’d hosted the week before had been Francesca’s first foray into the wider arena of tonnish entertaining-that had been an outright success, too.
She was a success, and she was taking it in her stride. The support of his mother, Henni, and the Cynster ladies helped. He was grateful for their interest, but he knew very well to whom he owed the bulk of his gratitude.
He watched as Francesca, deep in a dramatic discussion with Honoria, looked up as Henni approached. Her smile-that glorious, heartwarming smile-wreathed her face, and she stood to kiss his aunt’s cheek. Then she turned back to Honoria, drawing Henni into their conversation.
Gyles couldn’t help a small smile. She threw herself into things wholeheartedly; she’d done the same with the ton, honestly intrigued, enjoying the offered entertainments. Her delight, not that of an innocent but a newcomer, had shown him his old, worn world in a new light.
Settling his shoulders against the wall, he continued to watch her, keeping watch over her.
On the chaise beside Honoria, Francesca was aware of her husband’s regard. She’d grown used to it; indeed, she found it comforting knowing that if anyone less than desirable approached her, he would be there, at her side, in a heartbeat. The ton was large, and while she now knew some of the right faces and names, there were many she didn’t know-and some of those she didn’t need to know.
One such was Lord Carnegie, but his lordship was too wise to approach-not yet. But she knew what he was, what he was thinking; every time his gaze touched her, she had to quell a shiver as if some slimy slithering thing had touched her bare arm. His lordship hove into view and bowed. Francesca pointedly looked away.
Honoria glared. “Disreputable popinjay!” She lowered her voice. “They say he killed his first wife, and two mistresses, too.”
Francesca pulled a face, then switched to a smile as Osbert Rawlings approached and bowed before them.