"You've been up here, waiting, all afternoon?"

Millie shrugged; she shook out the cloak. "I had your things to tidy. Tomorrow, I'll bring up the mending."

Francesca watched her hang up the cloak, then turned away. "Call for water. I wish to bathe."

A long soak in hot water did not improve her temper. It did, however, give her time to plan her strategy, organize her arguments, and rehearse what she would later say.

To her husband, face-to-face.

The sooner such an interview was brought about, the better. Wrapped in a silk robe, her hair curling wildly from the steam, Francesca waved Millie to the two large wardrobes that held her clothes. "Open them both-I wish to select a special gown for this evening."

Gyles knew what he was facing the instant he set eyes on his wife that evening. He entered the family parlor with Irving on his heels. She looked up from the chair beside the fireplace, and smiled.

He stopped. Watched her while Irving announced that dinner was served.

She waited, patently expecting him to come nearer, to take her hand and raise her.

When he didn't, she arched one brow.

He waved to the door. "Shall we?"

She met his gaze, then rose and came to him. One part of him wanted to turn, walk away-run away-and take refuge in his study. Most of him wanted-

He wrenched his gaze from the creamy expanse of her breasts exposed by the magnificent bronze-silk gown. The gown was simple; in it, she was stunning. He couldn't stop his senses from drinking in the sight, from skating over her face, her hair, her lips.

He met her gaze briefly, then offered his arm. She placed her hand on his sleeve; soft and supple she glided beside him as they headed for the dining room-he felt as stiff as a board.

The meal provided a welcome diversion. He knew it wouldn't last.

"The Festival went well, don't you think?"

He inclined his head and nodded to a footman to serve him more beans. "Indeed."

"Was there anything you noted, anything that might have been better done otherwise?" She gestured with her fork. "Any complaints?"

He met her gaze briefly. "No. None."

He'd assumed the presence of Irving and the footmen would spike her guns temporarily; suddenly he wasn't so sure.

As if she'd read his mind, she smiled, slipped a piece of pumpkin between her lips, and looked down.

Despite the determination he'd glimpsed in her eyes, she made no further reference to recent events, but asked instead about London. He appreciated her acquiescence to his wishes. He would have to speak with her-her dress declared her stance on that-but any such exchange would be at a time of his choosing and, most importantly, in her bedroom, a venue in which he could end all discussion whenever he wished.

"Have you heard from St. Ives?"

He answered briefly, revealing as little as possible. Lines would need to be drawn; he'd already drawn some but hadn't yet decided where others would lie.

The meal ended. They rose and walked into the corridor. Pausing, she half turned and met his gaze.

He could feel her warmth, not just of her flesh but a deeper, womanly warmth, infinitely more tempting. The green of her eyes called him; the promise of her body showcased in bronze silk tugged at his senses. Drew him to her.

Her hand was rising to touch his arm when he stepped back.

Lids lowered, he inclined his head. "There's much I have to attend to. I suggest you don't wait up."

He turned and strode for his study. He didn't need to see her face.

Outwardly calm, Francesca retired to the family parlor. She sat by the fire for an hour, then Wallace pushed in the tea trolley. She allowed him to pour for her, then dismissed him. She sat beside the fire for another hour, then set aside her cup, rose, and went upstairs.

She changed, setting the bronze dress aside. Then she dismissed Millie.

In a fine silk nightgown beneath a peignoir of heavier silk, she stood by one window in the darkened room and gazed out at the moon-drenched night.

And waited.

Another hour passed before she heard the door to the room next to hers open, then close. She heard Gyles's footsteps cross the floor. Heard him speak to Wallace.

She imagined Gyles undressing...

She turned her head, stared at the connecting door. Then she was crossing to it, reaching for the handle. If they were going to discuss anything, she wanted her husband fully clothed.

She flung open the door and walked through. "I wish to speak with you."

Coatless, his cravat loose about his neck, Gyles paused, then he drew the linen free. "I'll join you in a moment."

She halted ten feet away, crossed her arms beneath her breasts, and looked him in the eye. "I see no reason to wait."

Gyles took in the seething emotion in her eyes. He glanced down the room. Wallace was easing out of the door. Jaw setting, he looked at Francesca. "Very well." His tones were clipped, cold. "What is it?"

Unwise words; her eyes flared. But the fact she reined her temper in left him even more uneasy. He'd seen her furious before; this time, she was burning with a cold flame-one to cut, rather than scorch.

"I am not a child."

She enunciated the words clearly. His eyes on hers, he raised his brows, then let his gaze slide over her lush figure. "I wasn't aware I had treated you-"

He shut up.

She laughed coldly. "Like an infant incapable of any degree of self-preservation? A lackwit unable to walk through the park without falling and causing herself some hurt? Or was it that you imagined I'd be attacked and ravished under the trees"-she flung out an arm-"there, in your own park?"

She wrapped her arms about her again, as if she was chilled by her own fury. Her eyes locked with his. "You have given orders that have made me a prisoner in this house-this house that is supposedly my home. Why?"

The simple question slipped under his guard and rocked him. He'd expected her to rail against his restrictions, not cut straight to his heart and ask why. He let seconds tick by, let his breathing slow, steeled himself before stating, "Because I wish it."

She didn't react-didn't fling her hands to the sky and berate him. She studied him, her gaze steady and direct. Then, slowly, she shook her head. "That, my lord, is not answer enough."

"It is, however, all the answer you will get."

Again, she didn't react as he expected. Her eyes widened; her gaze raced over his face, then she swung on her heel and walked back to her room.