All About Passion by Stephanie Laurens Page B

rationally as long as her interlocutor did not switch subjects quickly or ask a question beyond Franni's ken. If her train of thought was broken, her vagueness quickly became apparent, but if it wasn't triggered, then there was nothing to disturb the image of a quiet, unassuming young lady.
    Francesca knew there was something amiss with Franni, that her vagueness and retreat into childish ways was not a condition that was improving with time. Charles and Ester's care and concern underscored the truth, but Francesca had never asked, never forced either Charles or Ester to acknowledge that truth by explaining it to her.
    That Franni's condition was a source of pain and sorrow to both Charles and Ester was something Francesca knew without asking; she strove to do nothing to add to that pain. So she considered carefully what Franni had said, considered whether and how much she should tell Charles. Not Charles, she eventually decided. A gentleman might not understand a lonely girl's dreams. Francesca had dreamed enough in her time; Franni's gentleman might live only in Franni's mind. Turning onto her side, Francesca snuggled down. Tomorrow she'd warn Ester—just in case Franni's gentleman had, in fact, been real.
    Decision made, she relaxed and let her mind drift. Like a slow, inexorable tide, the emotions that had swept her earlier returned, inching up, then pooling inside, a well of impatient longing. She'd waited for him for years; at his insistence, she'd waited four weeks more. Soon, it would be her wedding night. She'd wait no more.
    Her dreams were ones of passion, of longing and love, of a love so deep, so enduring, it would never wane.
    Morning came and she rose, restless, oddly breathless, more impatient than she'd ever been. She dressed and went downstairs. She joined the innwife's old father as he stood in the open doorway. He glanced at her, then nodded outside. "Told you. It's cleared and gone. You'll get to your wedding on time, young mistress."

    Chapter 5
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    The old man's prophecy held true, but they cut it very fine. The state of the roads as they pushed north deteriorated; the rains had been heavier here. They crossed the Lambourn River, swollen and running high, via a stone bridge; if the crossing had been a ford, they would never have made it. It was too dark to see much of Lambourn village beyond a cluster of roofs off to one side, huddling between the river and the escarpment of the downs.
    The escarpment lowered over them as the road swung left, following the river, gradually rising above it. It was almost full dark when they slowed and turned between huge gateposts, their wrought-iron gates set wide. The crest in the gate on Francesca's side, illuminated briefly by the coach lamps, had a wolf's head as the principal device.
    She leaned closer to the window, peering through the gloom. The Dower House had been on the coach's other side; she'd barely glimpsed it. They rattled along a well-graded drive, the horses at last picking up speed. Parkland dotted with huge oaks stretched as far as she could see.
    The coach slowed. The tension that had steadily built all day knotted tight; her stomach was a hard ball pressing into her lungs, making it difficult to breathe. The coach halted. The door opened. A footman stood ready to assist them to the ground. Flickering light from flares lit the scene. Francesca went first. The footman handed her down to a flagged forecourt. Releasing her skirts, she looked around.
    Lambourn Castle, her new home, was exactly as she'd imagined it. The Palladian facade stretched away on either side. Tall windows were set into the pale stone at regular intervals, some with curtains drawn, others with lights glowing. The second story was topped by a stone frieze, which she knew hid the old battlements behind it. Directly before her, a sweep of steps led up to the imposing entrance, the pedimented porch held aloft by tall columns flanking double doors.
    Those doors