All About Passion by Stephanie Laurens Page A

It had saved his sanity. He'd refused Devil's offer to ride out with him, even though he could have used the help. His temper was worn too thin to allow him to deflect Devil's ribbing, which would have turned to probing the instant he lost his temper and snapped. Devil had known him too long to be easily avoided. And despite his protestations to the contrary, Devil was sure that, like all the Bar Cynster, he'd succumbed to Cupid and was, in reality, in love with his soon-to-be wife.
    Devil would know the truth soon enough—the instant he laid eyes on Gyles's meek, mild-mannered bride.
    Turning his grey onto the path across the downs, he let the reins lie loose, letting the beast plod at his own pace.
    His thoughts were no faster. At least he'd managed to keep the guest list to a manageable hundred or so. He'd had to fight his mother every step of the way; she'd been writing furiously to Francesca over the past weeks, but he was sure it wasn't at his bride's insistence his mother had pushed and prodded, trying to make the wedding into a grand occasion. That had never been a part of his plan. It occurred to him to wonder if his bride had actually arrived. The service, after all, was scheduled for eleven tomorrow morning. His impulse was to shrug. She'd either be there, or she'd arrive later and they'd marry whenever. It was of little real moment.
    He was hardly an impatient bridegroom.
    Once he'd gained Francesca's agreement and ridden away from Rawlings Hall, all urgency had left him. The matter was sealed, settled; she'd subsequently signed the marriage settlements. Since leaving Hampshire, he'd barely thought of his bride-to-be, only when his mother brandished a letter and made another demand. Otherwise…
    He'd been thinking of the gypsy.
    The memory of her haunted him. Every hour of every day, every hour of the long nights. She even haunted his dreams, and that was undoubtedly the worst, for in dreams there were no restrictions, no limits, and for a few brief moments after he awoke, he'd imagine…
    Nothing he did, nothing he told himself, had diminished his obsession. His need for her was absolute and unwavering; despite knowing he'd escaped eternal enslavement by the skin of his teeth, he still dreamed… of her. Of having her. Of holding her, his, forever.
    No other woman had affected him to this degree, driven him so close to the edge. He was not looking forward to his wedding night. Just thinking of the gypsy was enough to arouse him, but he couldn't, it seemed, assuage his desire with any other woman. He'd thought about trying, hoping to break her spell—he hadn't managed to leave his armchair. His body might ache, but the only woman his mind would accept ease from was the gypsy. He was in a bad way, certainly not in the right mood to ease a delicate bride into harness.
    But that would be on his wedding night; he'd cross that bridge when he reached it. Before then, he had to endure a wedding and wedding breakfast at which the gypsy would most likely be present, albeit swamped by a hundred other guests. He hadn't asked if any Italian friend of Francesca's was expected to be present. He hadn't dared. Any such question would have alerted his mother and aunt, and then there would have been hell to pay. It was going to be bad enough when they met his bride face-to-face. He hadn't explained to them that his was an arranged marriage, and from what they'd let fall, Horace hadn't either. Henni and his mother would know the truth the instant they laid eyes on Francesca Rawlings. No meek, mild-mannered female had ever held his interest, and they knew it. They'd see his reasoning instantly, and disapprove mightily, but by then there'd be nothing they could do. It was also because of them—Henni and his equally perspicacious mother—that he'd insisted on restricting the time the bridal party spent at the castle prior to the wedding. The less time for unexpected meetings with the gypsy the better. One exchange observed and they