Ester’s nod indicated the open study door. Intrigued, Francesca entered, shutting the door behind her. Charles was seated behind his desk, studying a letter. Hearing the latch click, he looked up, and beamed.

“Francesca, dear girl, come and sit down. I’ve just had the most amazing news.”

Crossing to the chair to which he waved her, not before the desk but beside it, Francesca could see that for herself. Charles’s eyes were alight, not shadowed with some unnameable worry as they so often were. Too often careworn and sad, his face now glowed with unmistakable good cheer. She sank onto the chair. “And this news concerns me?”

“It does, indeed.” Swinging to face her, Charles leaned his forearms on his knees so his head was more level with hers. “My dear, I’ve just received an offer for your hand.”

Francesca stared at him. “From whom?”

She heard the calm query and marveled that she’d managed to get it out. Her mind was streaking in a dozen different directions, her heart racing again, speculation running riot. It was a battle to remain still, to counsel herself to the prim and proper.

“From a gentleman-well, actually, he’s a nobleman. The offer is from Chillingworth.”

“Chillingworth?” Even to her, her voice sounded strained. She hardly dared trust her ears. The vision in her mind…

Charles leaned forward and took her hand. “My dear, the Earl of Chillingworth has made you a formal offer of marriage.”

* * *

When Charles finished explaining it to her, in painstaking and repetitive detail, Francesca was even more astonished.

“An arranged marriage.” She couldn’t credit it. From another gentleman, yes-the English were so… phlegmatic. But from him-from the man who had held her in his arms and wondered what it would be like to… with her… Something was not right.