He wrenched his gaze back to her eyes. She read his, tentatively tilted her head. "I won't be going out in this. Do you have anything-any legal cases or information-you'd like me to find?"

The purr of her voice was like a caress, a gentle, understanding one. Gyles held her gaze, then looked back at his desk. He searched and drew out a list. "If you could find these references...?"

Taking the list, she perused it, then moved down the room. Under cover of replying to a letter, Gyles watched her, studied her-looked within and studied himself. After last night, she had every reason to hope, yet she wasn't pushing, wasn't presuming, even though he knew that in her heart, she knew. As did he.

How to cope? After last night, when they'd both knowingly, deliberately, allowed passion to strip their souls bare, that seemed the only question left.

She returned carrying a large tome. As she set it on the desk, he reached out and snagged her wrist. She looked up, brows rising. He laid down his pen-the ink had dried on the nib-and tugged; she let him draw her around the desk.

"Are you happy here in London, going about within the ton?" Reluctantly releasing her, he sat back.

She leaned against the desk and looked at him, eyes clear, gaze direct-wondering what tack he was taking. "It's been entertaining-a novel experience."

"You've become very popular."

Her lips curved lightly. "Any lady who was your countess would attract a certain amount of attention."

"But the sort of attention you attract..."

There it was-that much admitted, brought into the light. She held his gaze, then looked away. Moments ticked by, then she said, "I cannot choose whom I attract, nor can I dictate the nature of their attentions. However"-she again met his eyes-"that doesn't mean that I return or value such attentions."

He inclined his head, accepting that. "What elements"-he paused, then continued-"would cause you to smile upon, to hold dear, a particular gentleman's attention?"

She hadn't expected that question; her eyes darkened, turned distant as she searched for the answer.

"Honesty. Loyalty. Devotion." She refocused and met his gaze. "What does anyone-man or woman, lady or gentleman-desire in such a sphere?"

He hadn't expected such simple truths, hadn't counted on her courage, her propensity to follow, reckless and regardless, wherever he led.

Gazes locked, they both considered, wondered... hoped.

Gyles knew very well where they stood. Teettering on the brink. "There's a Madame Tulane, an Italian soprano, performing at the final gala at Vauxhall tonight." He drew a playbill from beneath his blotter,

Francesca's face lit; he handed her the playbill and watched her devour the details. "She's from Florence! Oh, it's been so long since I heard-" She glanced up. "Vauxhall-is it a place I can go?"

"Yes and no. You can only go if I take you." Not precisely true, yet not a lie.

"Will you take me?"

Her excitement was palpable. He waved at the shelves. "If you help me with these references, we can leave immediately after dinner."

"Oh, thank you!" The playbill went fluttering; she flung her arms about his neck and kissed him.

It was the first time they'd touched since last night, or, more precisely, that morning.

She drew back. Their gazes locked. Green and grey without any masks, any veils. Then she smiled, sank onto his lap, and thanked him properly.

The rain stopped at noon; by eight o'clock that evening, Vauxhall Gardens was packed with revelers, all eager to enjoy one last fling. A chill dampness hung in the air; the minor avenues were dark and gloomy yet still crowded, occasional feminine shrieks attesting to their attraction.

Gyles inwardly cursed as he steered Francesca through the throng. Who would have believed half of London would turn out on such an evening? The jostling hordes included every class of Londoner, from ladies like Francesca wrapped in velvet cloaks, to shopkeepers' wives, primly neat, looking around curiously, to whores, painted, feathered, bawdily trying to catch gentlemen's eyes.

"If we go through the Colonnades, we'll come out close to our booth."

Francesca could see the square outline of what must be the Colonnades ahead. The crowd was so thick, they kept halting, pausing. In one such interval, she looked around, and saw, not ten feet away, Lord Carnegie.

His lordship saw her. His gaze flicked to Gyles, then returned to her. He smiled, bowed.

The crowd shifted, blocking him from view. Francesca looked ahead and quelled a shiver.

They reached the Colonnades. Gyles turned under the first arch-just as a tide of revelers rolled out in the opposite direction. Francesca was caught, wrenched from Gyles's side and pushed back along the path.

She thought she'd lose her footing and fall. Regaining her balance, she struggled to break free of the melee. Her voluminous cloak was pulled this way, then that.

Hands grabbed at her arms-even through her cloak, she knew it wasn't Gyles. She jerked free, turned, but in the jostling crowd she couldn't see who'd grabbed her.

Dragging in a breath, she tried to forge her way back to the Colonnades. The crowd parted, and Gyles was there.

"Thank heavens!" He hauled her to him, locked her close. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, closing her fist in his coat.

"Come on."

Gyles tried to ignore the primitive uneasiness rippling through him. He held her close as they made their way through the Colonnades. They reached the Rotunda. From there, the way was easier, the crowd composed primarily of gentlefolk less inclined to jostle.

As he'd arranged, their guests were waiting in the booth he'd hired. Francesca was disarmed and delighted.

"Thank you," she said when, radiant, she returned to his side. "I didn't expect this. You've been busy."

"It seemed a good idea."

Devil and Honoria were there, as were his mother, Henni, and Horace. The Markhams and Sir Mark and Lady Griswold, old acquaintances who'd grown closer with Francesca's entrance into his life, rounded out the party.

The evening passed pleasantly. The booth was in a prime position; they had an easy stroll to the Rotunda, where seats had been reserved for the ladies for the performance. The gentlemen seated their wives, then retreated to a safe distance to discuss the bills they'd been working on and other important matters, such as the hunting and shooting they might have during the winter.

At the end of the performance, Francesca rose, delighted. With Honoria, she headed to where their husbands stood.

"Well!" A crabbed hand shot out and snagged her wrist.

Francesca turned, then smiled. "Good evening."

"And a very good one it is for you, quite clearly." Lady Osbaldestone turned to Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, seated beside her. "Told you it'd happen sooner rather than later." Turning back to Francesca, she released her hand and struck it admonishingly. "Now you've got him in harness, just make sure you keep him right up to the bit, gel! Understand?"

Struggling to hide a grin, Francesca didn't attempt a reply.

"If you don't, just ask Honoria there. She hasn't done too badly at all."

Lady Osbaldestone grinned wickedly. Honoria bobbed a curtsy. "Thank you."