All About Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  She held his gaze for a moment more, then glanced aside. She’d spent the last hour preparing that speech, mentally rehearsing her tone. Given the tightness about her chest, the peculiar sensitivity that had affected her skin, she was pleased to have delivered it so creditably.

  They’d completed one revolution of the large ballroom; she smiled as she watched other couples join them on the floor.

  “Your disappointment?”

  She turned back to the man in whose arms she was. His tone had been flat, disturbing. She raised a haughty brow, then, remembering the many onlookers, let the expression dissolve into one of laughing happiness.

  “I wasn’t aware”—the chill in his words warned her she was skating on thin ice—“that you have any justifiable cause for feeling dissatisfied with our dealings.”

  His expression was that of a groom thoroughly pleased with his bride, but there was an arrogant air, even there, in his mask, that she longed to shake. As for the coldness behind the mask, like steel doors shutting her out . . .

  She shook her head on an airy laugh. “My disappointment stems from the discrepancy between what I believed—had reason to believe—I would in reality receive from the man, and what I am now being offered”—boldly she surveyed him, as much as she could see while held in his arms—“by the earl. Had I known of it, I would never have signed those wretched settlements, and we wouldn’t now be condemned to living a lie.”

  Just the thought of the tangle he’d landed them in sent her temper into orbit. His hand tightened about hers; he drew her closer—she sucked in a breath and felt her breasts brush his chest. Raising her head, she met his gaze, defiance and a warning in hers. “I suggest, my lord, that we leave any discussion of such matters until we are private, unless you wish to risk our afternoon’s hard work.”

  His reserve broke—just for an instant—and she saw the prowling predator in his eyes. And wondered if they were about to indulge in their first argument, in public, in the middle of the ballroom in the middle of their wedding. The same thought occurred to him—she saw it in his eyes. The fact he hesitated, considered, before drawing back amazed her, intrigued her—and shook her confidence.

  The musicians came to her aid and ended the waltz with a flourish. With a laugh and a smile, she stepped out of his arms and swept him an elaborate curtsy. He was forced to bow, then he raised her. All smiling delight, she turned from him, expecting to slip her fingers from his and part, each to talk to the many guests eager to have a word.

  His fingers locked about her hand.

  He stepped close, beside and behind her.

  “Oh, no, my dear—our dance has just begun.”

  The murmured words brushed her ear; sensation streaked down her spine.

  Lifting her chin, she smiled at Lord and Lady Charteris, and gave his lordship her other hand.

  Beside her, Gyles suavely acknowledged Lady Charteris’s greeting and exchanged nods with his lordship. He was operating wholly on long-ingrained habit, his mind, his senses focused on the woman by his side.

  When it came to her, he was ruled by instinct, no matter how he wished it otherwise. She was who she was, invoked all he was, and he was powerless to rein that part of himself in, not with her beside him.

  Disappointed, was she? Already? So soon?

  They hadn’t got to their marriage bed yet. Then they—she—would see. He might refuse to love her—he would refuse to love her. But he’d never said anything about not desiring her. Never denied he lusted after her. The fact that theirs was an arranged marriage changed that not at all.

  He was looking forward to correcting her mistake.

  They left Lord and Lady Charteris; Francesca turned to him. His hold on her hand kept her close; he bent his head so they were closer still. Her gaze touched his lips, paused, then she blinked and looked into his eyes. “I must speak with your aunt.”

  He smiled. Wolfishly. “She’s across the room.” Between them, he raised her hand. Holding her gaze, he lifted her wrist to his lips and pressed a kiss to the sensitive inner face.

  Her eyes flared. He felt the tremor she fought to suppress.

  His smile widened; he let his lids veil his eyes. “Come. I’ll take you to her.”

  For the next twenty minutes, all went as he dictated. Under cover of their new relationship, he touched her cheek, her throat, trailed a finger up the inside of her bare arm. He felt her start, quiver, soften. Felt her nerves tighten, sensed her expectation swell. He played to it, letting his palm brush her bare shoulder, skate possessively over her back, down over her hips and the curves of her bottom.

  Closed his hands about her tiny waist as he steered her through the crowd.

  His touch was light, his actions that of a possessive man to his new bride. Any seeing them would have smiled indulgently. Only she knew his intention. Only she knew because he wanted her to know that, with him, the sensual game was one she couldn’t win. Wouldn’t win. Yet it was a game they were going to play.

  No one, not Henni, not even his mother, saw through his mask, but Francesca, his beautiful, sensual bride, definitely did.

  When, from behind her, he closed his hand about her upper arm, briefly guiding her through the throng, simultaneously letting his thumb caress the side of her breast, Francesca wondered just how far he would go. She decided she no longer cared. Raising her head, she glanced over her shoulder, deliberately tentative.

  A light blush had risen to her cheeks; her breathing was no longer steady. She had a very good idea how delicately, quiveringly hesitant she appeared.

  He bent his head; his grip tightened, slowing her. His wayward thumb stroked deliberately, again.

  She halted, tilted her head up, and turned toward him. Leaned back against him.

  Her lips were suddenly just beneath his. Her hip rode against him. His eyes flared, grey turning stormy. They locked on hers. She sensed the catch in his breath. Holding his gaze, she shifted against him, against the ridge of his erection.

  “My lord?” She breathed the words against his lips, and made them an outright challenge.

  His eyes, stormy dark, hardened. She shifted back, tilting her head playfully, smiling—reminding him to smile, too.

  He did, his lips curving easily—the light in his eyes, the tenor of that smile, sent a shiver coursing through her.

  “My lady.” He arched a brow but there was no question.

  Battle was joined.

  He drew first blood, whirling her into another waltz that ripped her breath away. She struck back with her own brand of teasing, artfully flirting with three gentlemen at once. When he ruthlessly cut short her exhibition, she smiled knowingly and watched his temper rise.

  Shortly after, she discovered he had an advantage she couldn’t match. He could touch her anywhere and her senses leapt. Her whole body, all of her skin, was sensitized—not just to his touch, but to his breath, to his very nearness. She was acutely aware of every little brush, every gliding, illicit caress.

  He deserved his reputation—she’d seen enough, Lady Elizabeth had hinted at enough, for her to have a good idea of what it was. Only a past master could have accomplished what he did—done all he did—in the middle of a crowded ballroom. Very rarely did anyone see; only on a few occasions did she catch an understanding smirk or a too-wide smile.

  For a full twenty minutes, he had her running ragged, her breathing increasingly fractured, her senses skittering wildly, trying to imagine what next he would do. Trying to anticipate so she could take evasive action. . . .

  It suddenly dawned on her that that was the road to defeat. But she had so few avenues for attack.

  She turned her mind to it—and discovered the outer edge of his ear was one sensitive spot. The side of his throat, too, but his cravat got in her way. His arms, his shoulders, his hips—those might have been more useful if they’d been bare. But his chest—when she let herself stumble against him, and splayed her hands across the wide muscles, she felt his breathing lock.

/>   The exercise cost her another episode of feeling his hands too firm about her waist, but she slipped out of his hold smiling. Intently.

  They continued to chat, to play chief attraction for the gathered throng, all the while pursuing their game. The necessity of concealing their increasingly physical clashes raised the stakes, heightened the challenge.

  Finally, she found what she sought. His thighs—he tensed visibly when she artfully trailed her fingers down the long muscles, taut beneath his trousers.

  For a fraction of a second, his mask slipped, and she glimpsed the man who had kissed her in the forest. Then he avoided her hand and spun her into the crowd. A second later she felt his hand on her hip, felt it slide lower, then close. Thanking heaven for her heavy skirts and petticoats, she stepped away with a teasing look.

  Ten minutes later, she caught him again. With his back to the wall and her before him, her wide skirts hiding her hands, she spread her fingers about his thighs, then ran her hands upward—

  Gyles caught her wrists in an iron grip. He found himself staring into brilliant green eyes, widening slightly—and wondered what the hell they were doing. He didn’t need her to touch him to arouse him; he was already aching. Their game—and her unexpected participation—had wound him tight.

  If she touched him—

  He flicked a glance at the crowd. They’d spent time with everyone, done their social duty; the event was drawing to a close. It was early evening, still light outside. The majority of guests would head home that night. Most would leave as soon as Francesca and he retired.

  He looked into his bride’s challenging eyes. “Let’s continue this in private.”

  Her brows rose, then she inclined her head. “As you wish.”

  She straightened, then looked down when he didn’t release her wrists. Gyles forced himself to do it—to uncurl his long fingers and let her go. She watched him do it, watched his fingers unfurl. He saw one brow arch, and realized she could feel it, sense it—the effort it cost him, and all that he was hiding, even from her.

  “The door along the wall to our right—go out, take the first right, third left, first right. You’ll come to a flight of stairs. Go up—it’ll bring you out beside a gallery. A maid will be waiting to lead you to the countess’s suite.”

  She’d glanced up again; he couldn’t read her eyes. “And you?”

  “I’ll cut through the crowd and take a different exit. That way, we’ll avoid any unnecessary fuss.” He paused, then asked, “Assuming, of course, that you’re not partial to fuss?”

  She held his gaze for an instant, then, mask gone, inclined her head haughtily. “I’ll see you upstairs.”

  She turned and glided away from him.

  Gyles watched until she disappeared through the door, then he straightened and sauntered into the crowd to make good his own escape.

  Chapter 7

  “Wallace?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Get out. And take any staff in the wing with you.”

  “At once, sir.”

  Gyles watched the door close behind his majordomo, then started to pace, to give Wallace time to fetch Francesca’s maid and depart the private wing. He suspected his first private meeting with his wife would not be a quiet one. She was as far removed from the meek and mild-mannered as it was possible to get—

  He heard a door close. He paused, then crossed to the door into Francesca’s bedchamber. He reached for the handle, then stopped. Had she realized the door was there—that it was a connecting door and not a cupboard?

  Would she scream if he walked through?

  Muttering a curse, he swung around and stalked to the corridor door.

  In her luxurious emerald green bedchamber, Francesca sat before the dressing table and studiously brushed her hair, her eyes never leaving the door to her right, farther along the wall—the door that, so Millie had informed her, led to the earl’s bedchamber.

  Through there he would come. She was ready, waiting—

  A glimmer of movement caught her eye. She looked into the mirror—and smothered a shriek! Leaping up from the stool she whirled, the silver-backed brush clutched like a weapon. “What are you doing here?” Her heart thumped. “How did you get in?”

  Halting three feet away, he narrowed his eyes at her. To her relief, he ignored her first witless question. “Through the door. The main one.”

  He was wearing a robe nonchalantly belted over a pair of loose silk trousers. She forced her gaze past him to the corridor door, then looked back at him, at his face. “A gentleman would have knocked.”

  Gyles had thought about it. “I’m your husband. I own this house. I don’t have to knock.”

  The look she cast him should have withered him. Instead, it had the opposite effect. With a gesture very like a flounce, she turned and set her brush down. It clicked on the tabletop.

  He had long ago observed that the best courtesans perfected the contradictory art of dressing demurely yet appearing lushly sensual. His new wife was apparently a natural in that sphere—the ivory-silk nightgown that draped her curves was in no way outrageous, yet in it she epitomized every man’s secret fantasy. The neckline was not low; it exposed very little of her breasts. Simplicity itself, the gown had no sleeves. Instead, a negligee of diaphanous gauze, liberally edged with lace, hazed the warm tone of her bare arms, the fall of lace at wrists, around the neckline and down the open front, tempting a man to reach, to touch, to brush aside and reach farther.

  Her hair, fully out, was longer than he’d thought, the curling strands hanging down her back to her waist.

  “Very well.” She swung to face him. Eyes glittering, she crossed her arms. He had to fight to keep his gaze on her face, away from the peaks of her breasts outlined beneath the taut silk.

  “You may now explain how it was that you thought my cousin was the woman you were marrying.”

  The demand, and her tone, refocused his mind wonderfully. When he didn’t immediately respond, she flung out her hands. “How could you have made such a mistake?”

  “Very easily. I had perfectly reasonable grounds to imagine your cousin was the lady for whom I was offering.”

  Her eyes, her expression dared him to convince her. He mentally gritted his teeth. “The day I made my offer, I walked to the stable via the shrubbery.”

  She nodded exaggeratedly. “I remember that quite well.”

  “Before I met you, I saw your cousin sitting in the walled garden reading a book. I don’t think she saw me.”

  “She often sits there.”

  “While I was watching, some woman called your name.”

  “Ester called me. I heard her and came running—”

  “When Ester called, Franni reacted. She shut her book, gathered her shawl.”

  Francesca grimaced. “She’s childish—always curious. If someone’s called, she’ll come to find out why. But surely, just from that, you didn’t assume—”

  “Ester called again. ‘Francesca—Franni’—and Franni answered, ‘I’m here.’ Naturally, I assumed Franni was a diminutive of Francesca. I was convinced she was you.”

  She studied him. Her anger faded; worry clouded her eyes. “You said you met Franni—walked with her—twice. What did you say to her?”

  He set his jaw. “I swore on my honor I said nothing—” He broke off when she waved the words aside.

  “I accept that you didn’t mention your offer, but Franni, as I said—you heard what Charles said—she’s childish. She exaggerates wildly.” Her hands gestured; her eyes willed him to understand. “What did you speak with her about?”

  He frowned. “Why is it important?”

  She pressed her lips together, then gave in. “Franni mentioned she had a gentleman caller, one who called twice. She interpreted his visits as meaning he would offer for her. She told me this days ago. I couldn’t get her to reveal anything more—she’s often secretive. And often what she’s sure happened is pure fantasy.”

  His frowned dee
pened; she hurried on, “I don’t even know if the man she was thinking of was you, but it might have been, and she might have . . .”

  “Imagined the rest.” Gyles thought back. “I introduced myself as Gyles Rawlings, a distant—” He broke off. Francesca’s eyes had widened. “What?”

  “I—we—Ester, Charles, and I—always spoke of you as Chillingworth. When we arrived here, your mother and the others did the same, at least in Franni’s hearing. She might not have realized—”

  “Who I was before the ceremony? That might explain her reaction. Sheer surprise makes more sense than her having read anything into our meetings.”

  “Those meetings?”

  “The first time I walked with her all we spoke of was the dogs. I asked if they were hers. She said they just lived there. I later made a comment about their spots, with which she agreed. Then I left her. The next day, she was absorbed with trees. She was asking which was which.” He shook his head. “I think I answered twice. Other than that, and saying good-bye, I can’t recall saying anything more.”

  He studied Francesca’s face. “If your cousin imagined anything, it was unfounded. Neither you nor I can do anything about that. You said yourself you don’t know if it was me she was referring to or some other. Or no one. You don’t know if that’s why she reacted in the chapel as she did. It might, as Charles suggested, simply be overexcitement.”

  Francesca held his gaze. He was right—there was nothing either of them could do, at least not at present. He reached for her—she whisked away.

  “Your mistake over Franni is only the first bone we have between us, my lord.” She caught his eye as she paced around him. “I wish to understand why, imagining you were offering for Franni, you were so . . .”—she gestured—“intent on me.” She was sure he’d understand her allusion; the hardening of his already hard face confirmed he did. Swinging to face him, she spread her arms wide. “If you thought she was me, who did you think I was?”

  His eyes narrowed to slate shards. His gaze flashed over her—she felt it like a touch, a brush of long fingers over her bare skin. Beneath her gown, her skin flickered. She suppressed a shiver and kept her gaze on his eyes.