His grey eyes had kindled, sparking yet darkening, and his lips had curved just so... because he'd been thinking wicked thoughts. Thoughts of flesh pressed to naked flesh, of silk sheets sliding and shushing as bodies moved in an ancient rhythm upon them. The brazen images formed readily in her mind.

Blushing, she banished them and strode on down the corridor. Glancing around and seeing no one, she waved a hand before her face. She didn't want to have to explain her blush to Ester.

The thought had her wondering where Ester was. Entering the central wing, she detoured to the kitchen. No Ester there. The staff had heard Ester call, but didn't know where she'd gone. Francesca pushed through the door into the front hall.

The hall was empty. Her bootheels clacked on the tiles as she crossed to the stairs. She was halfway up the first flight when the door to her uncle's study opened. Ester came out, saw her, and smiled. "There you are, dear."

Francesca reversed direction. "I'm so sorry-it was such a fine day I just rode and rode and forgot the time. I heard you call and came running. Is anything wrong?"

"No, indeed." A tall lady with a horsey face but the kindest of eyes, Ester smiled fondly as Francesca halted before her. Reaching out, Ester eased the frivolous riding cap from Francesca's unruly locks. "Your uncle wishes to speak with you, but contrary to there being anything wrong, I suspect you'll be very interested in what he has to say. I'll take this"-Ester spied the riding gloves and crop Francesca held in one hand and took them-"and these, upstairs for you. Go along now-he's waiting to tell you."

Ester's nod indicated the open study door. Intrigued, Francesca entered, shutting the door behind her. Charles was seated behind his desk, studying a letter. Hearing the latch click, he looked up, and beamed.

"Francesca, dear girl, come and sit down. I've just had the most amazing news."

Crossing to the chair to which he waved her, not before the desk but beside it, Francesca could see that for herself. Charles's eyes were alight, not shadowed with some unnameable worry as they so often were. Too often careworn and sad, his face now glowed with unmistakable good cheer. She sank onto the chair. "And this news concerns me?"

"It does, indeed." Swinging to face her, Charles leaned his forearms on his knees so his head was more level with hers. "My dear, I've just received an offer for your hand."

Francesca stared at him. "From whom?"

She heard the calm query and marveled that she'd managed to get it out. Her mind was streaking in a dozen different directions, her heart racing again, speculation running riot. It was a battle to remain still, to counsel herself to the prim and proper.

"From a gentleman-well, actually, he's a nobleman. The offer is from Chillingworth."

"Chillingworth?" Even to her, her voice sounded strained. She hardly dared trust her ears. The vision in her mind...

Charles leaned forward and took her hand. "My dear, the Earl of Chillingworth has made you a formal offer of marriage."

When Charles finished explaining it to her, in painstaking and repetitive detail, Francesca was even more astonished.

"An arranged marriage." She couldn't credit it. From another gentleman, yes-the English were so... phlegmatic. But from him-from the man who had held her in his arms and wondered what it would be like to... with her... Something was not right.

"He's adamant that you understand that." Charles's gentle, serious gaze remained fixed on her face. "My dear, I would not urge you to accept unless you felt comfortable with the arrangement, but I would be failing in my duty as your guardian if I didn't tell you that while Chillingworth's approach may appear cold, it is honest. Many men feel the same, but would cloak their offers in more fanciful guise thinking to win your romantic heart."

Francesca gestured dismissively.

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 suddenness 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?"