All About Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Ahem!” Edwards shuffled, then raised a hand to the frame and lightly knocked.

  Francesca recovered first. “Yes, Edwards?”

  He gripped his cap between his hands. “I was wondering if I might have a word, ma’am.”

  “Yes?”

  He drew breath, glanced at Gyles, then looked at Francesca. “It’s the plums, ma’am. They need to be harvested tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? But tomorrow’s the last day before the Festival.”

  “Aye, well, trees and fruit and weather don’t allow for festivals, like. The season’s been late, and the fruit’s just ripe—we need to get it in as soon as we have a dry patch long enough so it won’t be damp.” He glanced at the sky. “It’s been clear for the last few days. By tomorrow, the fruit’ll be right to pick—we daren’t risk the crop by waiting till after the Festival.”

  Francesca had learned that the plum crop and the jam it produced was almost as old a Castle tradition as the Festival.

  “So you’ll need all the gardeners and stablelads?”

  “Aye, and the footmen, too. Even then, it’ll take the whole day.”

  Francesca frowned. They would never manage the preparations for the festival without all those hands.

  Lady Elizabeth turned to her. “You can have the staff from the Dower House, if that would help.”

  Francesca nodded, then refocused on Edwards. “What if all of us pick? How long would it take then?”

  “All?”

  “The entire staff—everyone in the house. And the staff from the Dower House. Every pair of hands. That’s more than double the number you need to do it in a day. If you have that many, how many hours will it take?”

  Edwards cogitated. “A few. . . .” He nodded. “Aye—three hours would do it if we had that many. We’ve plenty of ladders and such.”

  Francesca almost sighed with relief. “Tomorrow afternoon. We’ll complete all the preparations for the Festival, then have a late luncheon—then we’ll all gather in the orchard and bring in the crop.”

  “That’s an excellent idea.” Henni nodded approvingly.

  “I’ll spread the word and speak to my lads.” Edwards bowed and strode off.

  “I must come over,” Horace said as they moved to the now vacant doorway. “Sounds quite an event in itself.”

  “Do come,” Francesca said. “We can have tea and scones as a celebratory picnic at the end.”

  “What a delightful idea!” Lady Elizabeth declared.

  Gyles noted the look in Francesca’s eyes—the look she got when she was busily scheming.

  She flashed them all a smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I must speak with Wallace immediately.”

  “Of course! We’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.” They waved as she disappeared back into the house, then Henni took Horace’s arm and they stepped out onto the path.

  Gyles gave his mother his arm. He helped her out onto the flags, conscious of her gaze on his face. She didn’t move to join Henni and Horace, strolling slowly toward the park. Resigned, he met her gaze, then arched a brow.

  She smiled. “You’ve been unbelievably lucky, you know.”

  He held her gaze. “I know.”

  Her smile deepened. She patted his arm, then set out in Henni and Horace’s wake.

  He knew very well how lucky he was.

  The next afternoon, Gyles walked beneath the plum trees, surrounded by every last member of the Castle staff as well as those from the Dower House, and drank in the music of their chatter. His mother, Horace, and Henni had arrived—Francesca had presented them with baskets and directed them to a section of low-hanging branches. Henni had plum stains on her old dimity gown; both she and his mother were giggling as they picked.

  Ladders were set up around six trees; there were two pickers on every ladder and four gatherers beneath waiting to place the fruit in the big wicker baskets. The orchard was a hive of activity, powered by a celebratory air.

  The preparations for the Festival were complete. Everything was ready; the staff had thrown themselves into Francesca’s revised plans with single-minded determination—the present exercise was their reward.

  A time to play after all their work. Francesca had turned what was usually viewed as a chore into an entertainment. As he searched for her, Gyles felt sure he was witnessing a tradition in the making.

  “We’ll just take this basket to the dray, ma’am.”

  “Be careful.”

  Gyles looked up. His exquisite wife, dressed in a simple apple green day gown, was perched high on a ladder. She reached for two plums, deftly plucked them, then cradled them to her bosom and waited for her helpers to return.

  Gyles moved into her line of vision.

  She smiled gloriously. “I wondered where you were.”

  “I’ve been chasing you.” He reached up, and she handed him the plums.

  Then she opened her arms wide. “Here I am.”

  Their eyes met. “So I see.”

  One hand on a rung, she reached out and picked another plum, then carried it to her mouth and took a bite. Red juice stained her full lips as she chewed, then swallowed.

  “They’re luscious.” She took another bite, then held the fruit out to him. “Try it.”

  He hesitated, then reached up and took the plum, turned it and bit, drew in a mouthful. His gaze never left her. The fruit was as luscious as she’d said. He savored the taste as he watched her tongue slide out and around her lips.

  “My lord?”

  Gyles looked down. Francesca’s assistants had returned with a fresh basket. “Leave it there.” He nodded at the ground beside him. “I’ll gather for her ladyship. There’s others who need help.”

  The boys grinned and dashed off, eager to check on their friends.

  Gyles finished the plum, then looked up at his wife. “Shall we?”

  She laughed and reached for more plums.

  There was a competition running to see which group could denude the first tree. Edwards was the judge. When whoops announced one group thought they’d finished, he stumped up, scrutinized the tree for any missed plums, then declared the competition won.

  The successful group whooped and danced. The others cheered, then quickly returned to finish their trees, then move the ladders to the next row.

  There were twenty-four plum trees in the orchard, all gnarled veterans kept in excellent condition by Edwards’s focused attention. The dray was sent rolling, groaning under the weight, to the kitchens twice before they reached the final trees.

  The sun peeked out from under grey clouds, sending golden beams slanting through the trees as first one group, then another, finished their last tree. The ladders were carted away. Cook and Mrs. Cantle gathered the kitchen maids and hurried off to the house. Anticipating the fare to come, those already finished crowded around, helping those still picking.

  Ten minutes later, just as the final plum was picked, Cook and Mrs. Cantle reappeared, leading a procession of maids each bearing a tray loaded with scones, freshly churned butter, and the last of the previous year’s plum jam. Four footmen followed, carting two huge urns of tea.

  A cheer went up, then rose even higher as Cook led the way into the orchard. Francesca stepped off her ladder. Gyles took her hand, and they walked to meet Cook.

  She bobbed a curtsy and served them. They both took a scone, buttered it, and piled it high with jam. Then Francesca turned to the waiting multitude.

  Smiling, she raised the scone to them. “Thank you all—for today and tomorrow.”

  “And my thanks, too.” Gyles raised his scone high. “To Lambourn!”

  The rousing cheers raised the birds from the branches. With a wave, Gyles directed everyone to the trays. Exchanging a glance, he and Francesca retreated to where Mrs. Cantle was serving his mother, Henni, and Horace.

  All three were liberally stained with plum juice. They were beaming.

  “My dear, this has been a wonderful event.”

  “We’ll have
to do it next year.”

  “Every year.”

  Gyles checked; other than a few splatters, he’d escaped lightly. Francesca’s gown was smeared at hip and breast, where she’d forgotten and wiped her sticky fingers.

  Two grooms produced flutes. As the scones were washed down, a party atmosphere took hold. Gyles and Francesca, side by side, passed through their people, thanking and being thanked.

  “No need to rush in again,” Gyles told Wallace, ignoring the red juice running down the side of his dapper majordomo’s face. “Everything’s done. They deserve to enjoy themselves.”

  “The evening will bring a natural end to things.” Francesca leaned on Gyles’s arm and smiled at Wallace.

  He smiled back. “Indeed, ma’am. We’re on top of everything and can rest on our laurels, so to speak.”

  “Enjoy our laurels,” Gyles murmured as they moved on. “Tomorrow’s for the estate, but the plums are the Castle’s harvest. This is the Castle’s celebration.” His arm slid around Francesca’s waist and tightened—he swung her into the country dance just beginning, much to the delight of the staff.

  Francesca laughed and danced, following his lead, his directions. People clapped and cheered them on; they whirled until she was giddy and breathless, drunk on happiness.

  “Oh!” She collapsed against Gyles when he finally drew her from the throng.

  “Mama’s leaving.”

  They waved to Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace, then watched the three stroll away across the park. The sunlight was dimming, the last westering rays fading, yet the party in the orchard was still in full spate.

  Gyles bent his head and murmured in Francesca’s ear. “I think we should leave them to it. If we stay, we’ll remind them of their duties.”

  Francesca leaned back against him, folding her hands over his at her waist. “If they see us leaving, they’ll feel compelled to come inside, too.”

  “In that case, it behooves us to slip away without them seeing, somewhere other than inside.”

  The seductive murmur tickled her ear. She smiled. “Where do you suggest?”

  They slipped away through the trees, and only Wallace saw them go. Gyles signaled him not to notice. Francesca was not surprised when, her hand in his, Gyles headed down the path zigzagging down the bluff. Down to the ledge on which the folly stood.

  Her heart was light; she laughed and let him pull her along. Her world was as rosy as the western sky. She’d been right to keep a rein on her temper, to muzzle her impatience, to mute all demands—to resist the urge to push and let him come to love her in his own way, in his own time.

  She’d exercised more discipline than ever in her life before, and was reaping her reward. Poised to gather in the only harvest she’d ever wanted. He was so strong, so controlled, so resistant, yet he was almost persuaded. Soon, he would be, and her dream would become reality.

  There was not a single dark cloud left on her horizon.

  They reached the ledge as the sun dipped and the strip of sky between the clouds and the horizon burned a hot cerise. They paused to watch; she slipped her fingers from his, slid her arm about his waist and leaned against him. His gaze left the sunset and touched her face, then lowered. His head bent; his lips grazed the whorl of her ear.

  She turned. Eyes met, then she lowered her lids and stretched upward as his lips covered hers. They kissed, long, lingeringly, fighting to keep the building urgency at bay.

  And not entirely succeeding.

  “Come to the folly.”

  His words, his arm around her, urged her feet to follow his. Their lips touched again, brushed again; they stopped again to feast.

  By the time they finally reached the folly and he opened the door, desire had them firmly in its grip. Francesca smiled, feeling like a cat with a bowl of cream set before it; she led the way in, crossing to the middle of the room.

  She’d been here often, drawn by the privacy and the silence, by the lingering scent of emotion. This was a place of quiet joys and shared pleasures; the past had made it so; now it was theirs. She turned and held out her arms. He closed the door, studied her, then paced slowly toward her.

  His eyes were very dark; she smiled into them and reached for his cravat. His gaze lowered to her breasts; his fingers found the laces on either side of her gown.

  “You’ve reorganized.”

  “A little.” She’d moved his mother’s abandoned tapestry into a corner. It belonged here, but not at center stage where he would always see it. “I had Irving bring the daybed down.” With her head, she directed his attention to the large daybed beside them, placed to catch the view. “It’ll be pleasant to lie here in summer and relax.”

  She let her voice convey her real meaning. His eyes lifted to hers briefly; they were turbulent, stormy. She caught only the barest flash of intention—lightning against the grey—before his fingers slipped through her open laces and skittered along her ribs.

  She shrieked. Laughing, she flung away—she was ticklish, and he knew it. He stayed with her, the knowing trail of his fingers quickly reducing her to a giggling wreck. She tried to escape but found herself trapped against the daybed. “Oh, stop!” She clutched the daybed’s back for support, halfdoubled over the cushions as she tried to catch her breath.

  He stopped. From behind her, he closed his arms around her, pressing close, holding her against him. Still laughing, almost sobbing, she let him draw her upright, let him mold her hips against his thighs. Let him press closer still so she could feel the strength of his erection.

  “What about autumn?” The deep whisper feathered her ear. “Do you think it would be pleasant to lie here now”—he shifted his hips against her—“and relax?”

  He invested the word with far more sexual nuance than she had.

  “Yes.” From all she could feel, she would shortly be sobbing from quite a different cause. Anticipation streaked like silver fire down her veins. She licked her lips. “We could watch the sunset.”

  She felt him look up, then he murmured, in the same devilishly dark tone, “So we could.”

  He had her trapped between him and the daybed. Her gown was already loose. She felt him shrug. Turning her head, she saw his coat land on a nearby chair.

  Arms clothed in soft linen closed around her, hard hands splayed across her curves. “I thought you were going to watch the sky change.”

  She shifted her gaze to the horizon. He bent his head and his lips brushed her nape. Then his lips and teeth grazed the long line of her throat, and his hands moved over her.

  They knew her well, those wicked, wanton hands, knew how to make her shiver, shudder, knew how to make her flower for him beneath her skirts. His touch was not delicate but possessive, each caress tending to the primitive. He made her hunger for more, made her want with a level of desperation that strangled her breath in her throat.

  Her breasts were swollen and aching although he’d yet to lower the gaping gown and take them in his hands. Her nipples tingled; her stomach was a tight knot of need. He seemed to know; one hand closed possessively over her stomach, kneaded provocatively. Head back against his shoulder, she moaned and shifted her hips against him. The hand slid down; pressing her skirts between her thighs, he rubbed the side of his hand against her, slowly, deliberately, until she thought she’d go mad.

  “I’ve”—she had to stop to swallow—“I’ve had enough of the sunset.”

  “But it’s not dark yet.”

  She lifted her heavy lids. A pale wash of color was rapidly fading into the blue of the night. “It’s dark enough.”

  “Are you sure?”

  There was no humor in the question. If she’d had any doubt who it was who stood behind her, rapacious lord or smoothly elegant lover, his tone made it clear. The steely arms that held her, the hard body behind her, were in no mood to be gentle. Their coupling would be heated, furious—primal. The prospect—the promise in his voice, in his body—sent excitement lancing through her. “Yes.”

&nb
sp; His hands closed about her waist and he lifted her forward.

  “On your knees, my lady.”

  His gravelly purr sent heat curling through her. He set her on the daybed, her knees close to its edge. He straddled her calves, keeping her knees more or less together.

  “Bend forward. Hold on to the back of the bed.”

  She did. The daybed was wider than a chaise, but she could reach.

  He flipped her skirts up, pushing them and her chemise over her waist, baring her bottom and legs. The cool air feathered over her fevered flesh; anticipation seared her. Then his palms curved almost reverently about her bottom, lightly caressing before trailing down the backs of her bare thighs. One left her; she imagined him unbuttoning his trousers while his other hand slowly slid upward, long fingers tracing the inner face of her thighs, higher and higher—he stopped before he touched her.

  Her body reacted as if he had.

  He shifted, moved closer. His hands gripped her hips.

  The blunt head of his erection pressed between her thighs, probed her swollen flesh.

  She would have wriggled and taken him in, but he anchored her hips, held her steady as he searched and found her entrance, then pressed inside.

  He held her still. Inexorably he pushed into her, filling her inch by inch, stretching her softness, claiming it as his. She thought he’d gone as far as he could when his hips met her bottom, then he thrust and she gasped.

  He drew back and filled her slowly again, again thrust at the last, jolting her breathing. Then he settled to a slow rhythm of thrust and withdrawl; within a minute she was melting.

  Her body rocked with each thrust, each possessive claiming.

  She tried to ease her knees apart, to gain some purchase in the dance. The rigid columns of his legs gave not an inch. He kept her knees trapped together as he plumbed her, entirely at his whim. As if to confirm that, he increased the pace, then, just as she thought the inferno would ignite, he slowed again to that same steady, pleasant but unfulfilling rhythm.

  She could do little to influence his script. Could do nothing other than close her body like a glove about him and give herself up to his possession.