He narrowed his eyes, seeing, not faded bricks but a pair of emerald eyes bright with understanding, with knowledge and speculation beyond the ken of any modest young lady.
He would have her.
Once his amenable bride declared she was willing, he’d turn to a conquest more to his taste. Savoring the prospect, he wheeled the chestnut and galloped down the drive.
Chapter 2
Francesca rushed into the house through the garden hall. Abruptly halting, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. Waited for her wits to stop whirling.
Gracious! She’d spent the last year privately bemoaning the lack of fire in English men, and now look what the gods had thrown at her. Even if it had taken them twelve months to find him, she wasn’t about to complain.
She wasn’t sure she shouldn’t go down on her knees and give thanks.
The vision that evoked brought a laugh bubbling up, set the dimple in her left cheek quivering. Then her levity faded. Whoever he was, he hadn’t come to see her; she might never meet him again. Yet he was a relative assuredly-she’d noted the resemblance to her father and uncle. A frown in her eyes, she headed into the house.
She’d just returned from a ride when she’d heard Ester call. Leaving the stables, she’d pelted for the house. She’d stayed out longer than usual; Ester and Charles might be worrying. Then she’d collided with the stranger.
A gentleman, definitely, and possibly titled-difficult to tell if Chillingworth was surname or title. Chillingworth. She said it in her mind, rolled it on her tongue. It had a certain ring to it, one that suited the man. Whatever else he might be-and she had a few ideas on the subject-he was the antithesis of the boring, unexciting provincial gentlemen she’d been assessing for the past year. Chillingworth, whoever he might be, was not boring.