Stephanie Laurens - All About Passion

Charles smiled. “I know you’re not a flighty girl who would have your head turned by false protestations. Indeed, I know you well enough to be sure you would see through any disguise. Chillingworth is not the sort of man to employ one-that’s not his style. He’s of the first rank-his estates, as I’ve told you, are extensive. His offer is more than generous.” Charles paused. “Is there anything more you’d like to know-any questions at all?”

Francesca had dozens, but they were not the sort her uncle could answer. Her suitor himself would have to explain. He was not the sort of man to countenance a bloodless, unemotional union. He had fire and passion in his veins, just as she had.

So what was this all about?

Then the truth dawned. “He spoke with you this afternoon while I was out riding?” When Charles nodded, she asked, “He’s never seen me, has he? I can’t recall meeting him before.”

“I don’t believe he’s seen you…” Charles frowned. “Did you meet him?”

“On my way from the stables. He was… leaving.”

“Well, then.” Charles straightened, perceptibly brightening. “So…” His gaze had moved beyond Francesca; now he brought it back to her face. They had talked and talked; it was almost time for dinner. “He’ll be back tomorrow morning to hear your answer. What should I tell him?”

That she didn’t believe him.

Francesca met Charles’s earnest gaze. “Tell him… that I need three days-seventy-two hours from this afternoon-to consider his proposal. Given the suddeness and… unexpected nature of his offer, I must think things over carefully. Three afternoons from now, I’ll say yes or no.”

Charles’s brows had risen; by the time she’d finished speaking he was nodding. “An excellent notion. You may reassure yourself in your own mind, then give him-” Charles grimaced. “Give me, I suspect, your answer.”

“Indeed.” Francesca stood, determination rising within her. “I will discover what answer I’m comfortable with-and then he may have it.”

It was nearly noon the next day when Gyles once again rode up the Rawlings Hall drive. Shown into the study, he saw Charles rounding the desk, his hand outstretched and a smile on his face. Not that he’d expected anything else. Shaking hands, he consented to sit.

Resuming his seat, Charles met his gaze. “I’ve spoken to Francesca at some length. She was not averse to your proposal, but she did ask for a period of time-three days-in which to consider her answer.”

Gyles felt his brows rise. The request was eminently reasonable; what surprised him was that she’d made it.

Charles was regarding him with concern, unable to read his expression. “Is that a problem?”

“No.” Gyles considered, then refocused on Charles. “While I wish to settle this matter expeditiously, Miss Rawlings’s request is impossible to deny. Marriage is, after all, a serious business-a point I wished to emphasize.”

“Indeed. Francesca is not a flighty girl-her feet are planted firmly on the ground. She engaged to give a simple yes or no on the third afternoon from yesterday.”

“Two days from today.” Gyles nodded and stood. “Very well. I’ll remain in the area and will call again on the afternoon of the agreed day.”

Charles rose and they shook hands. “I understand,” Charles said as he walked Gyles to the door, “that you saw Francesca yesterday.”

Gyles halted and looked at his host. “Yes, but only briefly.” She must have seen him watching her and been artful enough to give no sign.

“Nevertheless. Even a glimpse would be enough. She’s a captivating young lady, don’t you think?”

Gyles considered Charles. He was a softer, gentler man than himself; mild-mannered ladies were doubtless more his style. Gyles returned Charles’s smile. “I believe Miss Rawlings will fill my countess’s shoes admirably.”

He turned to the door; Charles opened it. Bulwer was waiting to show him out. With a nod, Gyles left.

He elected to stroll to the stables as he had the day before. Ambling down the paths of the parterre, he scanned his surroundings.

He’d told Charles he had no wish to meet his bride-to-be formally. There was nothing to be gained from such an exercise as far as he could see. However, now that she’d stipulated a three-day wait…

It might be wise to meet the young lady who had calmly requested three days in which to consider him. Him and his exceedingly generous offer. That smacked of a resolution he found odd in a woman of Francesca Rawlings’s character. No matter that he’d only glimpsed her, he was an expert at judging women. Yet he’d clearly misjudged his intended in one respect; it seemed prudent to check that she harbored no further surprises.

Fate was smiling on him-she was walking beside the lake, alone but for a bevy of spaniels. Head up, spine straight, she was striding away from him, the dogs gamboling about her feet. He set out in pursuit.

He drew near as she rounded the end of the lake. “Miss Rawlings!”

She stopped and turned. The shawl she clutched about her shoulders fluttered, its blue highlighting her pale blond hair, fine, straight, and drawn back in a loose chignon. Wafting wisps framed a sweet face, pretty rather than beautiful. Her most memorable feature was her eyes, very pale blue edged by blond lashes.

“Yes?”

She watched him approach without recognition, and just a touch of wariness. Gyles remembered that he’d insisted his offer be made in his titular name; she clearly did not connect him with the gentleman she was considering marrying. “Gyles Rawlings.” He bowed, smiling as he straightened. Someone else must have seen him watching her yesterday and reported it to Charles-the woman who had called her, perhaps? “I’m a distant cousin. I wonder if I might walk a little way with you?”

She blinked, then smiled back, as mild as he’d imagined her to be. “If you’re a relative, then I suppose that’s all right.” With a wave, she indicated the path by the lake. “I’m taking the dogs for their constitutional. I do that every day.”

“There seem to be quite a number of them.” All snuffling at his boots. They weren’t gun dogs, but the smaller version-house dog, almost lapdog. He had a sudden thought. “Are they yours?”

“Oh, no. They just live here.”

He glanced at her to see if she’d meant that as a joke. Her expression stated she hadn’t. Falling into step beside her, he swiftly assessed her figure. She was of average height, her head just lower than his chin; she was slightly built, somewhat lacking in curves, but passable. Passable.

“That dog there”-she pointed to one with a ragged ear-“she’s the oldest. Her name is Bess.”

As they continued around the lake, she continued naming dogs-for the life of him he couldn’t think of any suitable conversational distraction. Every opening his normally agile mind supplied seemed inappropriate in light of her naivete and undisguised innocence. It had been, he reflected, a long time since he’d last conversed with an innocent.

But there was nothing to find fault with in her manners or her deportment. After the seventh dog, he managed a comment, to which she replied readily. She displayed a guileless openness that was, as Charles had noted, oddly soothing. Perhaps because it was undemanding.

They reached the end of the lake and she turned toward the parterre. He was about to follow when a flash of emerald caught his eye. His gaze locked on a green-habited figure riding-streaking-across a distant glade. The trees afforded him only a brief glimpse, then she was gone. Frowning, he lengthened his stride and rejoined his intended.

“Dolly is quite good at catching rats…”