She'd crossed her Rubicon to put herself in his arms.

Chapter 11.

They walked back through the park in the deepening twilight, his arm around her, her head on his shoulder. Neither said a word. Increasingly Gyles felt that between them there was too much to say, and no words in which to say it.

None of his experience had prepared him for this. She seemed more proficient, more attuned, yet even she was wary, careful. Even she protected her heart and screened her thoughts and feelings.

Feelings. Something he could not escape, could not deny. The unfettered joy he experienced when they loved was new. Achingly precious, wholly addictive. Despite that last, he was grateful-for the experience of loving at that level where the physical was subsumed by the ephermal and feelings were elevated to a different plane.

As they neared the house, he glanced at her face. He was grateful for all she was, for all she had brought him.

Raising his head, he looked up at his front door.

And was conscious he wanted still more.

He knew what he wanted-had known for some time. Yet how could he demand let alone claim her love if he was not willing to love her, openly and honestly, in return?

They climbed the porch steps in silence. He opened the door; with a soft, sated smile, she stepped into the hall. He hesitated, then, face hardening, followed her into the house.

They met over the dinner table two hours later. Francesca's heart was light, her body still aglow as she took her seat beside Gyles. Irving oversaw the serving, then the staff withdrew as she and Gyles tasted the delicate soup Ferdinand had prepared.

Gyles glanced at her. "If you write a letter to Charles, Wallace will see it gets sent immediately."

"I'll write tomorrow." She wanted to get the question of what Franni felt about their marriage clarified. It was a black cloud hovering at the edge of her mental horizon; she wanted it dispersed so, when the time came, she could celebrate with an unfettered heart.

Never had she felt so confident of converting her dream to reality. Although she accepted they still had work to do in establishing the framework of their marriage, after this afternoon, she no longer harbored any doubt as to the basic structure, or the foundation on which they would build.

She knew better than to let her heart overflow, let her expectations show. Throughout the meal, she kept up a steady flow of general conversation, aware but unconcerned that Gyles made no effort, beyond that first comment, to introduce any subjects of his own.

At the end of the meal, they strolled side by side into the hall. She turned toward the family parlor.

Wallace stepped from the shadows and addressed his master. "I've left the documents from the study in the library as you requested, my lord."

Francesca turned and looked at Gyles.

He met her gaze. "You'll have to excuse me. There's some research I must do on certain parliamentary matters."

She couldn't read his eyes, could read nothing in his bland expression. Thus far, he'd always joined her in the parlor; she would read a book while he read the London papers. A chill like a raindrop slithered down her spine. "Perhaps I could help." When he didn't immediately reply, she added, "With the research."

His face hardened. "No." After an instant's hesitation, he added, "These are not matters with which my countess need concern herself."

She couldn't breathe. She stood there, disbelieving, stopping herself from believing, stopping herself from reacting. Only when she was sure her mask was in place and would not fall, when she was sure she could speak and her voice wouldn't falter, she inclined her head. "As you wish."

Turning, she walked toward the parlor.

Gyles watched her go, aware Wallace was still standing in the shadows. Then he turned. A footman threw open the library door; he walked in. The door closed behind him.

He'd done it for her own good.

An hour later, Gyles rubbed his hands over his face, then stared at the three hefty volumes open on the desk before him, their pages lit by the desk lamp. On the blotter sat the drafts of three bills he and a number of like-minded lords had been discussing for some time. Given he'd decided to miss the autumn session, he'd volunteered to research the key points in their deliberations.

He'd done little to further their goals tonight.

Every time he started reading, the expression in Francesca's eyes, the sudden blanking of happiness from her face, rose to haunt him.

Lips compressing, he tugged one tome so the light fell better on the page. He'd done the honorable thing. He was not prepared to love her, not as she wished to be loved-it was better to make that plain now and not encourage her to extrapolate-to invent, to imagine-to dream any further.

Focusing on the tiny print, he forced himself to read.

The door opened. Gyles raised his head. Wallace materialized from the gloom.

"Excuse me, my lord, do you wish for anything further? Her ladyship's retired-she mentioned a slight headache. Do you wish tea to be brought to you here?"

A moment passed before Gyles replied, "No. Nothing further." He looked away as Wallace bowed.

"Very good, my lord. Good night."

Gyles stared unseeing across the darkened room. He heard the door shut; still he sat and stared. Then he pushed back his chair, rose, and walked to the long windows. The curtains were open; the west lawn was awash with moonlight, the orchard a sea of shifting shadows beyond.

He stood and stared; inside, a battle raged.

He didn't want to hurt her yet he had. She was his wife-his. His most deeply entrenched instinct was to protect her, yet how could he protect her from himself? From the fact he had an eminently sound reason for refusing to admit love into his life. That his decision was absolute, that he would not be swayed. That he'd long ago made up his mind never to take that risk again.

The consequences were too dire, the misery too great.

There seemed no other choice. Hurt her, or accept the risk of being destroyed himself.

He stood before the windows as the moon traversed the sky. When he finally turned inside, lowered the lamp wick and blew out the flame, then crossed the dark room to the door, one question-only one-echoed in his mind.

How much of a coward was he?

Four days later, Francesca cracked open the second door to the library and peeked in. The second door lay down a side corridor, out of sight of the main door and the footmen in the front hall. If they saw her approaching any door, they would instantly fling it wide-in this instance, the opposite of what she wished.

Gyles was not at his desk. It stood directly across the room. The chair behind it was empty, but books lay open, scattered across the desktop.

Francesca eased the door farther open and scanned the room. No tall figure stood by the long windows, nor yet by the shelves.

Swiftly, she entered and quietly shut the door. Moving to the nearest corner, she started along the bookshelves, scanning the titles.

Her caution had nothing to do with her search-she wasn't engaged in any reprehensible act. But she wanted to avoid any unnecessary encounter with Gyles. If he didn't want her in his life, so be it-she was too proud to beg. Since the evening he'd elected to spend his after-dinner hours separate from her, she'd ensured she made no demands on his time beyond the absolutely necessary.

He still came to her bed and her arms every night, but that was different. Neither she nor he would allow what occurred between them outside her bedchamber to interfere with what lay between them inside it.

On that, at least, they were as one.

She hadn't been back to the Dower House. While she would have liked to indulge in the comfort and support of her mother-in-law and aunt-in-law, the first question they would ask was how she was getting on, meaning getting on with her husband.

She didn't know how to answer, couldn't conceive how to explain or make sense of it. His rejection-how else was she to interpret it?-had been a blow, yet, stubbornly, she refused to give up hope. Not while he continued to come to her every night-not while, during the day, she would catch him watching her, a frown, not one of displeasure but of uncertainty, in his grey eyes.