Free All About Passion by Stephanie Laurens Page A

around and looked at the house, he might have seen her, a shadowy figure at an upstairs window, watching him—her betrothed—ride away. He didn't.
    Francesca watched until he disappeared into the trees, then, frowning, turned inside. Something was not right.
    By the time she'd reached the lane home that afternoon, she'd accepted that making love al fresco might not have been the way he'd wanted to celebrate their first joining. Her practical side had also pointed out that, despite her eagerness, beneath the trees might not have been the best venue to commence her career in that sphere.
    So she'd accepted his decree and ridden home at nothing more than a canter. But why, after all that had passed between them, had he held to his determination not to speak with her face-to-face?
    Where was the logic in that?
    Immediately after lunch, she'd gone to Charles and informed him of her decision. Then she'd waited for her would-be husband to call.
    And waited.
    They'd been finishing dinner when he'd finally arrived.
    A tap on her door had her smoothing the frown from her face. "Come in." Charles looked in, then entered. He noticed the window open at her back. "You saw?" She nodded. "Did he say…?" She gestured. Had he mentioned her ?
    Charles smiled fondly; coming forward, he took her hands. "My dear, I'm sure everything will work out splendidly. Business kept him from calling earlier, and he must return to Lambourn immediately. He did say all that was proper."
    Francesca returned Charles's smile with equal fondness. Her mind was all but spitting the word "proper." Proper? There was nothing "proper" about what lay between them—"proper" was certainly not what she would settle for. Not once she was his wife.
    But she pressed Charles's hands and allowed him to believe all was well. Indeed, she wasn't seriously worried.
    Not after their interlude today.
    After experiencing what had risen between them, flowed like a raging river through them, regardless of her betrothed's insistence on the publicly cold-blooded approach, there was patently no need to worry. A letter from Chillingworth's mother arrived three days later. The Dowager Countess, Lady Elizabeth, wrote to welcome Francesca into the family with such transparent joy and goodwill that all qualms Francesca had harbored on that front were laid to rest.
    "She says the rest of the family is delighted with the news…" Francesca shuffled the leaves of the lengthy letter. She was sitting on the window seat in the downstairs parlor; Franni was curled on the seat's other end, clutching a cushion, her blue eyes wide. Ester listened from a nearby chair. "And she's working on Chillingworth to allow her to extend the guest list, as the family's such a far-flung one, and there are so many branches, etcetera."
    Francesca paused. That was not the first hint that Lady Elizabeth, while immensely pleased over the wedding, was not at one with her son over the details. As for the family members invited—the fact was there was only one family involved. She and Chillingworth were cousins, umpteen times removed perhaps, but that should make assembling the guest list easier. Shouldn't it?
    Setting aside the point, she continued, "She says the castle staff are busy opening up the wings and polishing everything, and that I may rely on her to see that all is just so. She suggests I write with any requests or questions, and assures me she'll be delighted to advise in any way." Her tone signified "the end." She refolded the letter.
    Franni sighed. "It sounds wonderful! Don't you think so, Aunt Ester?"
    "I do, indeed." Ester smiled. "Francesca will make a wonderful countess. But now we must think of a wedding gown."
    "Oh, yes!" Franni sat bolt upright. "The gown! Why—"
    "I'm going to wear my mother's wedding gown," Francesca quickly said. Franni was given to overenthusiasms which sometimes turned difficult. "Something old and borrowed, you know."
    "Oh—yes." Franni frowned.
    "A very nice idea," Ester