A Fine Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  A heat that welled and rose through them both.

  The music faded, then died. Together with the other dancers, they swirled to a halt. She didn’t need to speak, simply smiled into his eyes, let her eyes acknowledge their passion.

  She saw his response etched in gold and green, then his lashes lowered as he raised her hand to his lips and kissed.

  Then his lids rose; their eyes met. The moment held, stretched.

  To them both, for that instant, they were the only people in the room.

  Then reality returned on a wash of sound. She let her smile deepen as he changed his hold on her fingers and set her hand on his sleeve. “I think that’s the first waltz I’ve ever truly waltzed.”

  He didn’t say anything, merely smiled, satisfied.

  They resumed their progress to the door—and saw Moira, mouth open in stunned amazement, standing with two younger ladies by the side of the room, all staring, dumbfounded, at them.

  Distantly, supremely haughtily, Clarice inclined her head without breaking her stride. Jack briefly studied the three ladies, then followed her lead. Once they’d merged with the still-considerable crowd, he murmured, “Who were the other two?”

  “My half sisters. The darker-haired one is Hilda, the other Mildred.”

  “Clearly they hadn’t expected to see you in such surrounds.”

  “No.” They gained the stairs and started down. “Given she intercepted my letters to Alton, Moira must know I’ve been coming up to London every year, but I’ve never before ventured back into the ballrooms.”

  “Do you think she’ll guess why you’ve broken with habit tonight?”

  “Possibly, but possibly not. She and her daughters are avidly devoted to all the gadding about, the balls, dinners, and parties, especially during the Season. It may not immediately occur to them that my return to the ballrooms isn’t simply due to social starvation.”

  “She obviously hadn’t seen you until just now, so she didn’t see you with Nigel and Emily.”

  “Or earlier at the Fortescues’.” Clarice nodded. “Good. Let’s get on to Lady Hartford’s.”

  They did. Like Lady Fortescue, Lady Hartford was thrilled to greet Clarice. Not having any daughter to establish, she hadn’t previously met Jack, but smiled and welcomed him effusively. “Your aunt Cowper was here earlier, but I believe she’s gone on. She mentioned she was exceedingly pleased that you’d returned to town.”

  Jack used his charming, completely noncommittal smile to escape. Leading Clarice into the crowded ballroom, he murmured, “I sent a note to my aunt Davenport—she’ll have passed the message on to Aunt Emily. I requested a meeting tomorrow morning, if possible. No doubt there’ll be a note waiting at the club when I get back.”

  Clarice caught his eye with a speaking glance. “Just as well Amelia Hartford thought to mention Lady Cowper.”

  Unrepentant, Jack shrugged. “I would probably have remembered to tell you, but you’d have coped, regardless.”

  Clarice humphed and gave her attention to the massed throng. Lady Hartford’s ballroom was smaller than the norm, yet if anything, there were more guests than the usual crammed within its walls. “We’re unlikely to achieve much here.” She leaned close as Jack steered her protectively through the crush. “Private conversation will be impossible.”

  Reaching the center of the ballroom, they paused to search for Alton.

  Jack bent his head, and murmured, “By the windows. They just came in.”

  Clarice turned and looked. Alton was just shutting a door leading out onto the terrace. Beside him, eyes only for him, stood a young lady, blond, well coiffed and gowned, graceful and slender.

  Because she was watching, Clarice saw their expressions in the instant before they turned to the crowd, in that moment before they set aside the topic they’d been discussing.

  The sight made her catch her breath in empathy. Was love always so painful?

  “Come on.” Gripping Jack’s sleeve, she tugged him in Alton’s direction.

  Jack caught her hand, linked her arm with his, and by dint of his broad shoulders and grim determination, forged a path through the milling guests.

  Sarah was at first trepidatious over meeting Alton’s powerful sister, but she lost all reticence when Clarice mentioned Moira. Color returned to Sarah’s cheeks and sparks lit her fine blue eyes. Unfortunately, with too many eager ears far too close, they had to converse using subtle references; openly discussing the matter presently exercising them was simply not possible.

  Clarice took Sarah’s hand and squeezed it meaningfully. “We’ll meet again soon, in more congenial surrounds. Meanwhile, if I can—” Clarice stopped, studying a lady she’d glimpsed between two gentlemen’s shoulders. “That’s Claire, isn’t it? Over there?”

  Sarah couldn’t see, but Alton looked over the heads and nodded. “Yes.”

  Clarice glanced at Jack. “Stay here—all of you. I want to speak with Claire alone.” She grimaced as she surveyed the crowd. “If I can manage it.”

  She tacked through the crowd, conscious that both Jack and Alton watched her. It was only fifteen feet to where Claire stood chatting to some gentleman; it took a full ten minutes to cover the distance. Emerging through the crowd opposite Claire, Clarice caught her eye and held it. Claire blinked, recognizing her, paused, then, realizing why Clarice was standing back, she smiled at the gentleman and quickly brought their exchange to an end.

  The gentleman moved on. Claire came to Clarice.

  “Clarice.” They exchanged nods. Claire cast a glance at the shoulders all around them. “This is not a suitable venue in which to discuss the topic I surmise you wish to talk about.”

  Clarice met her eyes. “Indeed. What about the withdrawing room?”

  Claire hestitated, then said, “There’s a small parlor I know of. We could try there.”

  Clarice waved. “Lead on.”

  They slipped from the ballroom. Somewhat to both their surprise, the parlor was empty. “Lucky.” Claire sank into one armchair. She waited while Clarice sat in the other, then said, “I take it you wish to speak of Alton’s wish to marry Sarah. It seems an eminently suitable match to me. I’ll certainly tell Conniston so when he asks.”

  Clarice held Claire’s gaze and swiftly considered how much to reveal. Claire was a few years older than she, more Alton’s age, yet years ago they’d been contemporaries of sorts. Not friends, perhaps even, in the hothouse of tonnish matchmaking they’d been rivals, yet they’d had much in common; Claire had been a viscountess’s well-dowered daughter, beautiful enough to attract the attention of many, sensual and clearheaded enough to know her own mind. To make her own decisions.

  Sitting back in the armchair, Clarice nodded. “While I’m happy to know you’ll support the match—and yes, while I’ve barely had time to make Sarah’s acquaintance, I agree it’s an excellent match on all sides—I’m actually here to discuss Moira.” When Claire’s brows flew up, Clarice smiled grimly. “Moira and her blackmailing schemes.”

  Briefly, she outlined Moira’s threat.

  Claire’s features hardened. “The bitch.”

  Clarice nodded. “Indeed. The reason I thought to speak with you is that you’re in the best position to assess how this situation might play out.” She studied Claire’s face. “How will Conniston react? Are you under threat, too?”

  Frowning, Claire shook her head. “I’m really very fond of Sarah—not as a daughter, of course, more like a younger sister.” She met Clarice’s eyes. “Conniston and I have an agreement, have had from the first. I always tell him who my lovers are. He doesn’t care, but it does make for less awkwardness all around. He knows that Alton and I…but that was nearly ten years ago!”

  “So Conniston won’t mind?”

  “Not about Alton per se, but he won’t stand for what Moira’s proposing. Well, what gentleman would?”

  Clarice grimaced. “So we have to shut Moira up.”

  “Can you?”

  Claric
e wrinkled her nose. “Yes. But it’s reminiscent of descending to her level, not something I’m keen to do.”

  Claire studied her. Clarice would have said that of all the ladies in the ton, Claire understood her the best.

  Eventually, Claire nodded. “A word of advice then, if you’ll take it, from one who has remained within the ton while you escaped it.” She met Clarice’s eyes. “Ladies like us, we’re not the sort to let the river of life toss us where it will. We make our decisions and steer our own courses. You and I, we chose different tacks, but choose them we did. We made our own beds, and, once done, we have to lie in them. In this case, that means that whatever you need to do to stop Moira, you will indeed do, because that’s the sort of lady you are. However, while dealing with Moira and managing the outcome, don’t forget that you haven’t yet finished your bed.”

  Clarice didn’t follow. She frowned, openly inviting elucidation.

  Claire smiled lightly and rose to her feet. “Years ago, I chose to turn my back on love and accept Conniston’s marriage of convenience. For me, that was the right choice, and I don’t regret it in the least. You, on the other hand, chose to turn your back on society and leave the door open for what might come…you haven’t yet chosen finally, haven’t yet completed your bed.”

  Frowning more deeply, Clarice rose, too. “You’re saying I still have…but no. In that respect, I made all my decisions long ago.”

  Mildly shaking her head, Claire turned to the door. “No, you didn’t. You made the first part of a two-part decision. Now you’re back in the ton, trust me, you won’t be allowed to let that second decision remain unresolved, as you patently have for all these years.”

  Hand on the doorknob, Claire looked at Clarice, and grinned. “You know, I’m quite looking forward to seeing what your bed looks like when you finally tuck in the last sheet.”

  Clarice made a disbelieving, dismissive sound, and followed Claire out of the room.

  Clarice found Jack and the other two waiting where she’d left them; after confirming that Claire was on their side, she warned them that they had to tread warily. Until they decided how to spike Moira’s guns, then needed to lie low. In pursuit of that aim, Clarice and Jack left.

  “Well!” She blew out a breath and settled back against the carriage seat. “I must say, I’m amazed that Alton, Roger, and Nigel have all chosen so wisely. Sarah, Alice, and Emily all seem lovely but capable, with the requisite backbone to manage in our circles.”

  Through the shadows intermittently lit by the streetlights outside, Jack studied her face, read her satisfaction. “The males of your family seem to have a penchant for choosing strong women. Your father married your mother, after all.”

  Clarice looked struck, then grimanced. “Even Moira. One can hardly describe her as weak.”

  Jack nodded, his face hardening. “Unprincipled, but not weak.”

  They said little else as they clattered through the streets. When the carriage, Alton’s town carriage borrowed for the evening, halted, Jack descended, handed Clarice down, and let the carriage go on without him. He escorted Clarice into Benedict’s foyer, kissed her hand, caught her eye, then bowed and left her.

  Fifteen minutes later, after dismissing the maid who’d been waiting for her, Clarice opened the door of her suite to him. He wasn’t surprised when, without a word, she led him to the bedroom. But when she turned to him, and paused, studying his face, he reached for her, drew her to him, and kissed her.

  Ravenously. Making no secret of his need for her.

  She responded, ardent and willful, demanding and commanding in her own right. Yet tonight he wasn’t in any mood to let her distract and deflect him; she was still wearing her green satin gown.

  In the instant he’d seen it on her, he’d been visited by a fiery fantasy to strip it from her, inch by slow inch. To reveal each creamy curve, each ivory limb, ultimately to let it fall away, leaving her clad only in the shimmering gauze of her chemise.

  When, at length, the green gown did indeed swoosh to the floor, to his infinite satisfaction, she was heated and urgent. Wrapping her arms about his neck, she pressed herself to him in flagrant entreaty, meeting his lips, his tongue with a bold challenge of her own, taunting and daring, wanting him to take her.

  Lips locked with hers, he shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat, let them fall unheeded to the floor, then he lifted her. To his surprise, she raised her long legs and wound them about his hips.

  Temptation didn’t whisper, it roared.

  Far too loudly to ignore. His arms circling her hips, holding her to him, he walked the few paces to the bed; without breaking from the kiss, without releasing her, he clambered onto the silk coverlet on his knees. Juggling her, he reached beneath her and opened the placket of his trousers, releasing his already aching erection; guiding the head immediately to the slick, swollen flesh of her entrance, he pressed in.

  Then he shifted his hold to her hips, and drew her down. Sank slowly down to sit on his ankles as he did, pulling her down over him, impaling her fully upon him, feeling her squirm, adjust, then gasp as he thrust the last inch and filled her completely.

  Eyes closed, she drew back from the kiss, panting, breasts rising and falling dramatically before his face. He grinned, focused and intent; with one hand, he trapped the fine fabric of her chemise and drew it up, over her head. She had to let go of his shoulders to untangle her arms, to draw them free and let the chemise fall. While she did, he bent his head to her breast, with his mouth traced a path to one tightly furled nipple, then drew it deep.

  Her gasp filled the room.

  She straddled him, naked but for her silk stockings and garters, while he remained fully clothed; catching her breath in something close to desperation, she started to ride him. To rise up, then sink down, easing her scalding sheath about his rigid length, tightening, then releasing, then rolling her hips down and across his, experimenting, searching, it seemed, for the fastest way to drive him beyond all control.

  At first, he indulged her, indulged his curiosity over what she might do, indulged his taste for her luscious breasts. Part of his mind kept track of their escalating hunger, their burgeoning need; when the time was right, he rose to his knees and tipped her back, caught and straightened her long legs, stripped off her stockings and garters, then wound her bare legs about his waist.

  Instinctively, she locked her ankles in the small of his back, then realized. He caught a glimpse of dark fire beneath her lashes as the vulnerability—the helplessness—of her position struck home. Before she could react and shift, he caught her hips fully to his again, lifting her and working her over him, about him.

  She tried to move with him, against him, to direct, to press, only to discover that without the leverage of her legs, she could do nothing but accept every stroke he pressed on her, every sliding penetration of his body deep into hers. Lids falling on a strangled gasp, she surrendered, letting her shoulders fall back on the bed, breasts heaving as she struggled to catch her breath, struggled to retain some degree of control, but he’d already stripped the reins away.

  He moved her on him, and she writhed; he watched and drove her on. Ultimately, he lowered her hips to the bed, bracing over her to thrust deep into the scalding heat of her body, totally open to him, his to take.

  To fill, to complete.

  Clarice felt the wave of completion start from her toes, swelling as it rose through her, sweeping all she was, her mind, her wits, her senses up, ever upward into a shattering climax. He joined her bare seconds later; together they clung, burned as the glory raged and took them, then at the last, faded, leaving them slumped, exhausted, wrung out and boneless, tossed like rag dolls on the wide expanse of her bed.

  Sometime later, she recovered enough to smile, to feel her lips curve at the now-familiar glow of aftermath washing through her. Delicious. So desirable.

  Fingers riffling through his hair, she lay beneath him, mentally chuckling for no real reason as her naked body cooled be
neath the hard warmth of his. He was still clothed, which seemed rather ridiculous.

  Apparently he agreed. With a grunt, he lifted from her, then sat up, and stripped off his clothes, apparently no more able to walk than she. Eventually naked, he rose, staggered the few steps to her dressing table, and doused the lamp. Returning to kneel beside her, he lifted her to the pillows, wrestled the covers from beneath them both, then drew them up, settling her against him in the billows of her bed.

  He relaxed; she felt all tension leave his muscles, then his breathing deepened, and he slept.

  Still boneless in the grip of sated languor, she smiled, feeling her lips curve against the skin of his upper chest.

  She loved this, loved him, loved the way they shared, the way he allowed her to lead, then took the reins himself, passing them back and forth…

  She heard her words in her head. She blinked, stopped.

  Tried to tell herself she hadn’t actually meant that word in quite that way…knew in her heart, to her soul, that she was lying.

  Carefully, without disturbing him, she eased back in the arm that even now held her close, and rolled onto her back. Staring up at the shadowed ceiling, she frowned. Tried to focus her mind, to work it out, to see where the path she’d so blithely followed until now truly led.

  It seemed to have taken an unexpected turn…or was it simply that she’d gone a trifle further in her journey into this until-him-forbidden landscape than she’d anticipated? She’d certainly ventured into unforeseen terrain.

  Unbidden, Claire’s words floated through her mind, Claire’s conviction that, contrary to her expectations, she hadn’t finalized the details of her life.

  She’d thought she had, that accepting banishment to the country had defined her entire future, that there would be no more new possibilities, no different roads opening up before her feet.

  But…

  She glanced at the man lying sleeping beside her, felt his body hard against the length of hers.