His lordship smiled, fascinated, clearly intent on satisfying his curiosity, apparently unaware of the danger he was courting. She felt Gyles stiffen; she tensed herself, expecting him to excuse them with some cold remark-
“Gyles! How good to see you again.” A lady, tall and imposing, appeared at Gyles’s side. She was handsome in a hard, glittering way. Her gaze locked with Francesca’s. “I did hear that you’d gone down to the country to get yourself a wife-I take it this is she?”
Silence stretched. Tense before, Gyles was now rigid; Francesca sank her fingers warningly into his arm. She held the woman’s gaze.
Eventually, Gyles drawled, glancing briefly her way, “My dear, allow me to present Lady Herron.”
Francesca waited, her expression serene, her head high. After a moment, two flags of color appeared in Lady Herron’s cheeks. Less than cordially, she curtsied. “Lady Chillingworth.”
Franc
esca smiled coolly, inclined her head, and looked away.
Unfortunately, toward Lord Albemarle.
“My dear Lady Chillingworth, I believe the musicians are going to favor us with a waltz. If you would-”
“Sorry, Albemarle.” Gyles caught his lordship’s surprised glance. “This waltz”-he put emphasis on the word so Albemarle would understand-“is mine.”
With a curt nod to his lordship, another to Lady Herron, he stepped back. With a haughty nod for his lordship, Francesca followed. She ignored Lady Herron completely.
The instant Gyles drew Francesca into his arms, he knew they were in trouble. Thanks to Lord Albemarle, he was feeling too much like his barbarian self, his civilized mask thinned to a veneer. On top of that, one glance at Francesca’s face, at the contemptuous light in her eyes, was enough to tell him that she’d guessed the connection between himself and Louise Herron. Through his hand at her back, he felt the tension vibrating through her, felt the ripple as her temper unfurled.
He steeled himself, inwardly swearing that whatever she said, he would not let her down; he would not, in this arena, react-
She looked up; the expression in her eyes was one of haughty disgust. “That woman is ill-mannered.” Her gaze dropped to his lips; a moment passed, then her eyes rose to meet his again. The disgust was gone-something else, something very like possessiveness, flared in the green. “Don’t you think so?”
Gyles found himself scrambling-mentally jettisoning the notion she was about to enact him a scene over his past liaisons, trying to grasp the fact that she was angry, yes, but not with him. And that anger, in this case, had given rise to… intent of a different sort.
The sudden surge of his reaction caught him; he tightened his hold on her. Without a blink, she stepped nearer. Her breasts brushed his coat, and she shivered and pressed closer yet.
He should have been praying all those watching would be struck blind; instead, he whirled her slowly down the floor, caught, willingly trapped, in the fire of her eyes.
Francesca understood-suddenly, blindingly-and instinctively reached for what she needed. Possessiveness, jealousy-she’d seen both in him, but never thought to find the same clawing need eating her from inside out. Tension held them, swelled and grew, like to like, reflected and intensified between them. It was she who shifted her hand to his nape, scored her nails lightly through the short hairs, he who held her so tight through a turn that their bodies sensuously rubbed, locked for one instant, then parted.
The tight sheath of emerald satin was suddenly constricting, a skin she needed to shed. They were both breathing shallowly, too quickly, when the music died.
“Come.” Face graven, he kept hold of her hand, turned, and towed her toward the door.
“Wait.” Francesca glanced back. “I came with your mother and Henni.”
Halting under the archway, he looked down at her. “They’ll guess you’ve left with me.”
There was no question in his eyes, only a challenge. Francesca didn’t hesitate-with a nod, she stepped past him.
He’d brought the town carriage. He handed her up, called a terse, “Home!” then followed her in. The instant the door shut, in the instant the carriage lurched and rolled forward, she turned to him, reached for him.
He reached for her.
She framed his face and their lips met, fused. She parted her lips, drew him in, invited, incited him to take. And he took. Greedy as she, as hungry, as urgent. Their tongues touched, tangled, dueled. She pressed closer, spread her hands over his chest, then found a stud and slid it free.
He pulled back, chest heaving, and caught her hands. “No. Not here.”
“Why not?” She shifted against him, one knee over his.
“Because we’re nearly home.” He paused, then added, his voice gravelly and low, “And I want to peel this gown from you.” He grazed one palm over the peak of her breast; they both watched the nipple pebble under the tight silk. “Inch by slow inch, and I want to watch as I do it.” He raised his hand, speared his fingers through her hair, tipped her face up to his. Bent his head. His breath washed over her lips as he murmured, “I want to watch you. Your eyes. Your body.”
His lips closed over hers, and she let him sweep her away, into a sea of hot desire.