A Fine Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  An even more frigid chill washed through her. She held up a hand, palm out, to stop him.

  He reached out, caught that hand, held it. “No—hear me out. You’ve reclaimed your position within the ton. They were ready to welcome you back, to reinstate you in order to rid themselves of Moira perhaps, but time has dimmed the past, and the ton is now once more your world. With your reclaimed status, there’s much you can do to further help your brothers, to establish the foundation for the next generation of your family—a laudable goal, one I understand.” His voice took on a harder edge. “But to remain within the ton, you need to hold the position you’ve regained. You need not just to weather but quash the scandal that will inevitably flow from that moment in the garden.”

  He paused; she still couldn’t drag her eyes from his. “I know it isn’t what you want, but…if you wish it, you have my offer to marry you. If we agree to marry, there will be no scandal, and you’ll be able to accomplish all you desire within the ton.”

  She wondered what he saw as he searched her eyes, then his hand tightened, gently, around hers.

  “Your choice.” His lips twisted, self-deprecatingly wry. “But you do have to choose. Now. Tonight.”

  She blinked, and struggled to pull together wits that seemed to have spun away.

  I know it’s not what you want.

  He was wrong, so wrong. Marrying him was precisely what she wanted—if nothing else, that much was clear in her mind—but not like this. Never like this.

  This was a nightmare come to life, not just for her, but for him, too.

  “No.” It was her turn to squeeze his hand. She was grateful for the contact. Looking into his eyes, she realized how close they’d grown, that it wasn’t possible, with him, for her to simply decree.

  It took effort to lower her shields, to look steadily into his eyes and let him see what she felt, and why. She swallowed, and found her voice. “Seven years ago, I made a stand. I refused to allow the ton to dictate my life, not when it came to marriage. That was the right decision then…and it’s even more the right decision now. We’ve both been near victims of others exploiting these selfsame rules to try to control us, to marry us. You know, and I know, how we both felt, still feel about marriage in such circumstances, essentially under duress. To now bow to those same dictates, to do that to ourselves…no. I will not sacrifice you, or me, to their false gods, to their arrogance.”

  “But—”

  “No—hear me out.” She managed a weak smile. “I told my brothers I didn’t want to return to the family fold, not in terms of tonnish life, of being the matriarch of the clan on any permanent basis.” Tilting her head, she studied his face, tried to read his eyes. “I don’t think they believed me, or rather they imagine they can persuade me otherwise. I’m not sure I convinced you, either.”

  Lips twisting wryly, she leaned back in the chair; she still held his hand. “You know I rarely change my mind, and on that subject, I never will. Once my brothers’ grand engagement ball is over, I intend, most definitely, to return to the rectory at Avening. The ton won’t understand, but they’re not required to. It’s what I want, where I want to be, and that’s all that matters.”

  He didn’t say anything for several heartbeats, then his fingers shifted over hers. “You’re turning your back on what other ladies would kill to have.”

  “Perhaps. But unlike them, I know the true value of what I’m refusing, and what I’m embracing in its stead.”

  You. A different sort of life—a more fulfilling life.

  “There are times when I find you very difficult to understand.”

  She smiled, but it was a weak effort. “Never mind.” He didn’t understand that she loved him with all her heart, but then she’d only just realized that herself, and she didn’t know how he felt about her, either. She had no idea if anything would come of what was now between them; she could only hope. They were both complicated people with complex motives; being certain of what was driving the other would never be easy. Not unless they stated it.

  And as she looked into his now-familiar hazel eyes, for once in her life, she wasn’t brave enough to simply say, in so many words, what she felt.

  Sometime, perhaps, but not tonight.

  Tonight, the feelings were too raw, too roiling, the full realization too new.

  She hadn’t expected to fall so deeply in love.

  Gently disengaging, he stood. Taking both empty brandy balloons, he set them on the mantelpiece, then looked down at her. Studied her eyes, her face. “If you’re sure…”

  “I am.” She held out her hands. He grasped them and drew her to her feet.

  For a moment, they stood face-to-face, close, then she smiled; retaining possession of one of his hands, she turned, and led him to her bed.

  In the cool shadows of the night, in the soft billows of her bed, despite their ease, their familiarity, an element of something different prevailed. As if, with her refusal of his forced suit, they’d stepped beyond the bounds of regimented life and were now free, between them openly free, of all constraint.

  So that he could now drive her further, harder, and she could respond, not just with passion but with an abject surrender that went deeper and meant infinitely more. As usual, they passed the reins back and forth; when it came her turn, she lavished pleasure and more, a deeper worship, an appreciation that was physical, emotional, sensual, and still something more, upon him.

  The engagement started simply enough, a touch, a sigh, a kiss. But desire caught them, then spiraled until they burned, not fast and furious but strongly, steadily. Wanting more, needing more, consuming more.

  Surrendering more.

  Giving more.

  The night shadows embraced them; in the sweet dark in his arms she finally found what she had thought she never would, the full measure of what she was truly meant to be. All she could be.

  Her heart soared, and she no longer cared if it would later break. To be this way with him was reward enough.

  That, and knowing that she loved him.

  Jack woke in the small hours of the morning. Beyond the walls, the world was wrapped in deepest night, quiet and still; within them, peace, soft shadows and a comforting, comfortable warmth prevailed.

  Beside him, Clarice lay deeply asleep, one small hand spread on his chest, the gentle rhythm of her breathing a cadence some primitive part of his mind faithfully tracked. Lying back in the cocooning softness, luxuriating in a sea of sensual well-being, he took stock.

  She’d refused to marry him.

  Logically, he should feel dejected, cast down. Instead, he felt as if some tricky, unexpected, unprecedented hurdle fate had conspired to throw in their path had been successfully negotiated and overcome. As if they’d somehow triumphed.

  She’d refused him, but he couldn’t fault her reasons. He hadn’t wanted to offer for her hand like that, but had felt compelled to. Even now, in the same circumstances, he would do it again; that offer had had to be made.

  And she had had to refuse it.

  Somehow, that—him offering, her refusing—had freed them. Cut through the web of social dictates that had threatened to trap them. But more, the moment had lifted a weight from his heart and dispersed all lingering clouds from his mind.

  The way forward was clear, and his reasons for following the road he’d selected had never been more definite.

  It was time to act. To seize the moment. Every warrior instinct he possessed assured him that was so.

  He glanced at Clarice, let his gaze drift over her fine features, relaxed in sleep, then carefully, without disturbing her, he eased from her side, and the bed.

  Finding his trousers and shirt, he slipped into the sitting room and closed the door. He swiftly dressed, then tugged the bellpull. When the sleepy night footman tapped on the door, he sent him to fetch the box he’d left with the concierge.

  “Boadicea, Boadicea, open your eyes.”

  Clarice woke to the whispered words, and the sensati
on of fairy kisses pattering like rain on her skin. A shower of silken softness, of caresses almost intangible.

  Even before she opened her eyes, she caught the scent, in a flash of evocative memory was transported back to Avening, to the folly, to the nights of passion they’d enjoyed there, free of the world, free of all care.

  Opening her eyes, she saw Jack leaning over her, one hand moving above her as he rained apple blossom over her bare breasts. She turned toward him, onto her back, glanced around.

  Discovered they were lying in a sea of apple blossom.

  She looked up at him, caught his eyes as he shifted back, viewing her.

  His lips curved. “This is how I see you—how I want to see you. My warrior-queen naked on a bed of apple blossom.”

  The covers were down by their feet. The pink-and-white petals were everywhere, over her, under her; they clung to her skin, but not so much to his, the light dusting of hair keeping them at bay. But as he touched her, caressed her, sculpted her flesh, and heat rose beneath her skin, the evocative scent wafted from the petals, until, closing her eyes, she could almost believe they were back at Avening.

  She sighed as his hands drifted over her.

  Then she opened her eyes, parted her lips—he dipped his head and kissed her. Filled her mouth with a long, sure, confident invasion. Shifted farther over her, parted her thighs, and touched her, caressed her, until she simply sighed into the kiss and let go.

  Let him have his way.

  Let him lift her legs and wind them about his hips, then thrust deep into her welcoming softness. Let him fill her intimately, possess her completely.

  For once, she made no move to take the reins, but let him do as he would, show her what he would. Without hesitation, she placed herself in his hands and let him take her where he wished. How he wished, as he wished.

  Dawn broke, and poured its soft light down upon them.

  Head back, spine bowed as he rode her, as he drove her ever higher, ever harder toward the beckoning crest of their sensual wave, she clung, sobbed, gasped through their kiss, and gave him all he wished, and took all he offered in return.

  And felt, deep within, hope well and bloom, saw opening before her a landscape new and fresh, filled with possibilities, with promise.

  With love.

  It was a land they could have if they wished, if they would.

  The wave broke; they clung as ecstasy crashed through them, caught them up, spun them into the heavens, shattered them, then re-formed them.

  Welded them anew into something they hadn’t been before. She didn’t have words to acknowledge it, but she knew it in her heart.

  Knew neither she nor he would ever be the same.

  The wave of sensual joy receded, sighed away and left them, sated and boneless, wrapped in each other’s arms in the tumbled jumble of her bed.

  Amid the sea of apple blossom.

  Cocooned in love.

  She floated, but didn’t truly sleep again, too delighted, too energized, too aware.

  How could apple blossoms mean so much?

  How could the simple act of coming together be so meaningful? So earth-shatteringly powerful?

  She knew the answers. It wasn’t the physical, nor the sensual, not even the emotional connections made, but what those arose from, what the item or the act represented, what it acknowledged.

  Shared endeavors, shared aims, shared accomplishments, shared successes, shared joys. All those together, everything that made up shared lives.

  This, she knew, was what she’d been made for, what she’d waited all the long years for.

  His was the life she was on earth to share, and hers was his rightful sphere.

  Lying on her back, her fingers trailing lightly through his hair as he lay slumped across her, his head pillowed on her breasts, she blinked, then squinted down at him. “What did you call me?”

  He didn’t open his eyes, but his lips curved against her skin. “Boadicea.” After a moment, he added, “It’s my nickname for you.”

  She stared at him, speechless, totally unsure how to respond, how she should or wanted to respond.

  Apparently realizing he’d accomplished a feat few ever had, he opened his eyes and lifted his head the better to view her wordless state.

  What she saw in his eyes, the soft glow that lit the gold and green, only stunned her more, left her even more bereft of words.

  She knew what he was, always had known, had recognized the steel, the hardness, the shields. That he would be this vulnerable, and allow her to see it—that he would call her Boadicea, his warrior-queen—simply took her breath away.

  He caught her hand, touched his lips to her fingers.

  The touch anchored her, helped her feet find earth. She blinked, managed a weak frown. “Boadicea was painted blue.”

  Still smiling, he shook his head. “Not blue for you—pink and white. If you need anything to cover your nakedness”—he looked down and surveyed her breasts—“it can only be apple blossom.”

  There was a smug, supremely male expression on his face.

  She couldn’t help it—she laughed.

  Saw answering laughter spark in his eyes, and realized that was the right response, that nothing more was needed between them.

  Reaching for him, she drew his face to hers and kissed him. Then he kissed her.

  Eventually, he drew away. “It’s already dawn. I have to go.”

  She looked into his eyes, mere inches away. “Stay.”

  He searched her face, confirmed what she was saying, hesitated, then grimaced. “No, not yet. Not until this is over.”

  She sighed and let him go. His face had set; her warrior-lord was back. Her reputation was his to guard, or so he saw it.

  Lying amid the apple blossoms, feeling them shift silkily against her skin, she watched him dress and knew she’d never want him to change. “I’ll come to the club later in the morning. You’ll be meeting with your colleagues, I expect.”

  He looked at her, nodded. Then he returned to the bed, kissed her witless, and slipped out of the room while her head was still spinning.

  She arrived at the club at eleven o’clock and was met with grave faces all around.

  “Some bargemen I’d hired found Humphries’ body washed up on the morning tide.” Jack glanced at Christian and Deverell, then turned back to Clarice. “We—you and I—should take the news to the bishop.”

  Clarice nodded.

  “Meanwhile,” Christian said, his tone flat and steely, “we’ll check with our sources and get Tristan to do the same. Someone may have seen Humphries along the riverbanks or bridges. We might jog someone’s memory now we know where to concentrate.”

  Solemn and serious, they parted. Jack handed Clarice into Alton’s carriage, and they rattled around to Lambeth. But once admitted to the palace, they had to kick their heels for over an hour; the bishop, dean, and Deacon Olsen were all officiating in the cathedral.

  Finally, the dean returned. Hearing their news, his face fell, but he quickly organized a private audience with the bishop.

  His lordship was appalled. Jack realized that, however much he’d been told that Humphries had been drawn into a dangerous game, the bishop hadn’t, until that moment, comprehended the life-and-death nature of that game.

  “I…oh, my heavens!” Pasty-faced, the bishop stared at him. “How…? Do you know?”

  “It seems he was coshed, most likely knocked unconscious, then tossed into the water. He would have drowned quickly.”

  The bishop glanced at Clarice. Although pale, she was holding up better than he. The sight seemed to stiffen his spine. “Yes, well, we will, of course, do all that’s necessary. If you could have the body delivered here—”

  A knock fell on the door. The bishop scowled. “What is it?” His tone was querulous; he was deeply shaken.

  Olsen looked in. “I apologize for interrupting, my lord, but a message has arrived for Lord Warnefleet.”

  Jack crossed to meet Olsen. Ta
king the note, he glanced at the seal, then broke it. Unfolding the note, he glanced at the bishop. “It’s from Christian Allardyce—Dearne.”

  The bishop blinked. “He’s one of you, too?”

  Jack didn’t answer. Scanning the note’s contents, he returned to where the bishop, Clarice, and the dean waited, Olsen at his heels. “Two evenings ago, Humphries was seen walking along the river bank near Tower Bridge. He was with another man—a large man, soberly dressed, with a pale, very round face.” He looked up.

  Clarice met his eyes. “The same man—the courier-cum-informer we’ve been tripping over all along, from Avening to here.”

  Jack nodded.

  “But…why kill poor Humphries?” The bishop looked bewildered.

  “Presumably because Humphries knew this man too well and could identify him.” Jack sighed. “I suspect we’ve reached a dead end with our investigations. Unless Humphries has left any information in his room?”

  He looked at Olsen and the dean; both shook their heads.

  “When he didn’t return,” the dean said, “we searched everywhere hoping to find the name of some meeting place, some address or way of contacting this person, but there was nothing in Humphries’ papers.”

  Jack grimaced. “Standard practice. Nothing ever to be written down.”

  A moment passed as they absorbed the fact that not only was Humphries dead, but that his murderer would almost certainly escape justice.

  Clarice stirred. “What about the charges against James?”

  The bishop blinked, refocused, then waved his hand. “Consider them erased.” He met Clarice’s eyes. “I’m exceedingly glad I forbade James to leave Avening. Bad enough I’ve lost one good man to this…this charade of someone’s making. If I’d lost James, too, I would have been extremely unhappy. I will, of course, write to him, but I would be greatly obliged if, when you see him, you would assure him of my continued support and that we look to see him when next he ventures to the capital for his studies.”