He reached the stable and sent the lad to fetch the chestnut; settling to wait, it occurred to him that, at this juncture, he might be expected to be thinking about his bride-to-be. He mentally focused on the pale young lady with her book; within seconds, the image was overlaid by the more vibrant, more sensually appealing picture of the gypsy as he’d last seen her, with that age-old consideration blazoned in her eyes. Switching his attention back to the former required real effort.

Gyles inwardly laughed. That was, after all, precisely the point in marrying such a cypher-her existence would not interfere with his more carnal pursuits. In that, Francesca Rawlings had indeed proved perfect-within minutes of seeing her, his mind had been full of lascivious thoughts involving another woman.

His gypsy. Who was she? Her voice came back to him, that husky, sultry sound. There was an accent there-just discernible-vowels richer, consonants more dramatic than the English were wont to make them. The accent lent further sensual flavor to that evocative voice. He recalled the olive tinge that had turned the gypsy’s skin golden; he also recalled that Francesca Rawlings had lived most of her life in Italy.

The stablelad led the big chestnut out; Gyles thanked the boy and mounted, then cantered down the drive.

Accent and coloring-the gypsy could be Italian. As for behavior, no meek, mild-mannered English young lady would ever have boldly appraised him as she had. Italian, then, either friend or companion of his bride-to-be. She was certainly no maid-not dressed as she had been-and no maid would have dared behave so forwardly, not on first or even second sight.

Reining in where the drive wound into the trees, Gyles looked back at Rawlings Hall. How best to play the cards he’d just been dealt he wasn’t yet sure. Securing his amenable bride remained his primary objective; despite the carnal need she evoked, seducing the gypsy had to take second place.