Further Than Passion

by Cheryl Holt

  "You have the manners of a goat."

  He chuckled. "This is not the first occasion where I've been so informed."

  "I'm not surprised. You're a horse's ass, a certifiable maniac."

  "As I've also been frequently apprised."

  "You knew I wasn't Lady Melanie. What was the point of embarrassing her and her mother? And me?"

  "Because I felt like it?"

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  "How old are you? Eight? Nine? You're naught but a child, and I'm certain a sound spanking could cure much of what ails you."

  "I'm not a child, as you're well aware from your nocturnal adventure." He started backing her toward the balustrade. With each forward step, she retreated, until her legs were crushed against it. "I'm a man full grown."

  "You're jabbering like a fool, and others may be required to tolerate your boorish behavior, but I'm not. Good-bye."

  She tried to skirt around him, but he wasn't ready to let her go. He leaned into her, his body making contact, and he was jolted by sensation. Sparks ignited wherever they touched, and it was so thrilling to be near her. They shared a physical affinity, the type only the luckiest of lovers ever achieved. They were compatible, attuned, and should he be reckless enough to take her as a paramour, they would have fabulous, incredible sex.

  Could she perceive it, too? Or was she an innocent? With her being so vibrant, so alluring, it was difficult to guess. She had to be twenty-five or so. How could she have lived so many years without some man claiming her?

  "Why were you spying on me?"

  "What?"

  "I saw you last night. When you were in my room."

  She tripped, her knees giving out, but she quickly regrouped. "I have no idea about what you're talking. I arrived in London yesterday, and up until a few minutes ago, when you obnoxiously thrust yourself in front of me, we were not acquainted. I haven't the faintest clue where your bedchamber is located or why you would assume I was in it."

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  She was the worst liar! It was evident she remembered every moment of the escapade, and he was delighted to learn that she hadn't been walking in her sleep, that she'd been conscious and intentionally studying him. Was her interest due to the fact that she was a mature virgin who was yearning to shed her chastity? Or was she a fallen woman, who hadn't had a man in her bed for ages?

  Either way, he was tickled, and would be more than happy to oblige whatever whim was driving her.

  He pressed himself closer and traced a finger across her ruby lips. They were moist, inviting, arid he was tempted to kiss her. The experience would be novel and exciting, as amour had been at the outset, when he was still young and imprudent enough to let his heart become involved.

  His world was filled with clinging, amenable trollops, who would do anything he requested, but he never garnered any pleasure from their company.

  How refreshing it would be to spend time with her, to wallow in her glow, to soak in the elation he felt from being in her proximity. Perhaps he'd find a method of rekindling the elusive sense of wonder and contentment that had been absent for so long.

  "I want us to be lovers," he told her. "I want to know what it's like to be with you."

  The risqué suggestion had her gasping with offense. "My initial impression of you was that you were simply rude beyond measure, but I've changed my mind. I believe you're quite mad."

  She attempted to push past him, and he gripped her wrist, jerking her to a halt. "Join me in my suite. At midnight."

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  "What suite? You don't reside here. This is Lady Pamela's home."

  "I own this monstrosity. The master's chamber is mine—whenever I choose to use it." The prior evening, she'd appeared disoriented, so it was possible that she didn't recollect where it was, so he added, "It's in the south wing, at the end of the corridor on the fourth floor. Use the servants' stairs."

  "I most definitely will not. I'm a respectable gentlewoman and Lady Melanie's chaperone. How dare you ask it of me!"

  "I'm not asking."

  "You're forcing me to agree?"

  While his reputation was the most awful in London, he had some standards, and he never gadded about ruining chaste females. There were too many loose ones available, but with her, he couldn't seem to behave any better.

  "If you don't come," he warned, "I'll accuse you of stealing my ring."

  So ... she had purloined it. He hadn't been sure, but now he had no doubt. She gaped at him, struggling to deduce the most appropriate response. Finally, she settled on, "What ring?"

  "I can't say when or how you took it. Or why. You hardly have the look of a thief, so I can't begin to construe your purpose. I only want you to attend me at midnight, and if I must coerce you to command your presence, then I will."

  "You're a brute."

  "I don't deny it."

  "A bully."

  "Yes."

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  She stared up at him, her green eyes glimmering with tears of frustration and anger. "Don't do this to me. Please."

  "I have to."

  With a wail of rage, or maybe despair, she pulled away and ran inside.

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  Kate paced the floor of her room, the clock ticking its way to midnight and the moment Lord Stamford counted on her to arrive. She was so irate that she yearned to smash something.

  How had she stumbled into such a mess? And how was she to get herself out of it?

  Marcus Pelham! Of all the rotten luck!

  He'd seen her when she was in his bedchamber! He knew who she was, and he was precisely the sort of scapegrace who would flaunt her embarrassing blunder at every turn. He would never let her live it down, would never let her forget it.

  She plopped down on the bed, her head in her hands. How she'd hoped that it had all been a bad dream!

  She had ten minutes to obey or ignore his dictate. If she ignored it, he would accuse her of theft, and then where would she be? Not even Christopher, an earl in his own right, would have the power to help her. With a ring of such value, she would be jailed, might even be transported to the penal colonies or—God forbid—executed.

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  If she went to him, she was well aware that his motives were far from innocent. With scant regard to her chastity, or any subsequent consequences, the blackguard would seduce her, and pitifully, she wasn't sure she'd mind. There'd be no force necessary.

  Was it the love potion? How could it be? What had been in that blasted vial?

  She'd be more than happy to succumb to his charms, which had her speculating as to whether the concoction hadn't driven her a bit mad.

  Hadn't she learned any lessons from her mother's folly?

  Though she'd been married and a countess, Kate's mother had run off with her Italian paramour. She'd been dissatisfied and miserable, had loathed Kate's stuffy, stodgy father, and she'd rushed to ruin, heedlessly leaving devastation in her wake. Kate's father had killed himself, she had been rendered a penniless orphan, and as a result of her reckless fling, Kate's mother went on to birth an illegitimate daughter.

  The girl, Selena Bella, was sixteen, the same age as Melanie. She'd surfaced in England, unannounced, two years earlier, with a trust fund and Kate named as her guardian in their mother's will.

  Kate had never met her, but with Regina's assistance, she'd worked with Selena's trustee—a London solicitor—to arrange her affairs. Kate had coordinated rental of a house, hiring of servants, installation of a companion, and she authorized payment of all expenditures, but that was as far as she'd allowed their connection to extend.

  She couldn't bear the notion of having a scandalous

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  half sister, couldn't bear to recall their mother and her passionate nature. When Kate dared to examine her own life, she was horrified to note that, underneath her placid, amenable exterior, she was as despondent as her mother had ever been.

  Was discontentment an inherited trait?

  Kate was tired of her subservient existence, where she was
disparaged as an unwanted obligation, where she was beholden to Regina for every little thing. She was suffocating, choking on the mundane, and she would leap at the opportunity to be rash and irresponsible, which scared her.

  How closely did she resemble her beautiful, imprudent mother? If given the chance to revel, could Kate keep her riotous impulses tamped down?

  The clock chimed the hour, and she peered at the dresser. The empty vial was still there, taunting her with how it had unlocked her hedonistic inclinations. She walked over, grabbed it, and tossed it out the window into the yard below.

  Then she went to her bed and searched under the pillow. The ring was where she'd left it, folded inside a kerchief. She trudged to the fireplace, scrounged around in the hearth until she located a chink in the mortar, and hid the ring in the hole.

  Stamford could accuse her of having his ring, but he'd have to find it first!

  She retrieved her cloak and put it on, pulling the hood low so as to shield herself; then she crept to the door and peeked out. Seeing no one, she flitted to the stairwell, slipped inside, and climbed.

  To her surprise, his suite was directly above her

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  room, naught but a quick jaunt to the next floor. The proximity could lend itself to easy assignations, if she were disposed to debauchery—which she wasn't!

  She intended to set matters straight, to show him that she wouldn't tolerate misbehavior, and to convince him that she was a virtuous, honest individual. If nothing else, she'd use the appointment to study the design of the chamber so as to devise a method whereby she could return the ring without his being any the wiser as to how it had been restored.

  His door was ajar, which meant he was expecting her—the rat!—but she tiptoed in anyway. Like a feral cat, poised to strike, he lounged on the sofa. He'd removed his coat and cravat, so his shirt was open at the neck, revealing a matting of dark hair across his chest, the sleeves rolled up to expose a dusting of the same hair across his forearms.

  The prior evening, she'd observed him naked, but for some reason, his casual state of dishabille was more thrilling than viewing him in the nude.

  "Shut the door," he said, his voice a soothing, sonorous baritone that tickled her innards.

  Without argument, she complied, and she approached until they were toe-to-toe. He watched her with a fierce concentration that ignited a blaze in her belly, and the sensation alarmed her. She would not be affected!

  He continued to stare, and the silence grew oppressive.

  "I'm here, milord," she began. "What do you want?"

  "Your name is Kate?"

  "Yes. Kate Duncan."

  "When we're alone, Kate, you're to call me Marcus."

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  She couldn't imagine being on such familiar terms with him, and she refused to fan his flames of fantasy that had him presuming they would meet privately a second time. "I won't, Lord Stamford. And you may not call me Kate. It's Miss Duncan to you."

  With the grace of a leopard, he uncurled from the seat and stood, his body stretching out, and in the shadows, he seemed taller than she recollected. He was drinking a beverage, brandy or whiskey from the smell of it, and he downed the contents of the glass and set it on a nearby table.

  Though he towered over her, she felt no air of menace, and she suspected that much of his bluster was a pretense. He might snipe and bark, might order and shout, but he would never hurt her. At the realization, she relaxed, much less anxious about any hazard to her virtue, or any deviousness as to his motives.

  He pushed her cloak off her shoulders, and it fell to the floor and pooled around her feet.

  "Have you any clothing that isn't gray?"

  "I have a Sunday dress. It's black."

  "I hate how you look in gray. It washes out your skin."

  "Which is my biggest worry."

  "You should be attired in a green that matches the color of your eyes."

  "I'm sure I'd be lovely," she facetiously replied.

  "I'll buy you some outfits, and I'll keep them here, in my room. You can wear them just for me."

  "You most certainly will not."

  "I will."

  "I allowed you to coerce me this once, but if you assume I'll obey a subsequent command, you're an incredible optimist."

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  "I always get my way."

  "Not with me."

  He stepped in, his boots slipping under the hem of her gown, their legs tangling. She'd never been so close to an adult male, and her senses reeled. She could feel his heat, could smell the soap with which he'd bathed, and she was assailed by invigorating, masculine odors like tobacco and horses. There was another fragrance that was more subtle, more musky, and she thought it to be his very essence.

  Her anatomy was electrified, and sparks shot between them. Suddenly, she was frantic to touch him, to smooth her hand across his shirt, or perhaps stroke her fingers down his muscled arm. She yearned to snuggle herself to him, positive she'd fit exactly right. The urge was primal, urgent, and she fought it with every fiber of her being.

  He reached out and tugged at her heavy chignon, yanking at the multiple pins and combs that anchored it in place. They scattered across the floor, pinging and bouncing as they hit, and she winced, knowing she'd never find them, and wondering what the maids would think when they swept the next morning.

  But then, his having a female guest in his private quarters was likely a regular event. His employees wouldn't blink over such a discovery, and she needed to remember that fact. He was an experienced, sophisticated libertine, while she was on the second day of her first trip to London.

  "You have the most fabulous hair."

  "And you are an unmitigated flatterer."

  He riffled through the lengthy tresses, lifting and parting the strands, and her heart fluttered. She'd never

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  had a man compliment her before, had never strolled with a beau in the moonlight, or been walked home from church.

  With no dowry and no prospects, she was insignificant, invisible, a nonentity, who was not a servant and was barely a member of the family. No gentleman worth having would want her. His accolade pricked at her vanity, and she craved it to be true. It had been so long since another person had actually noticed her, and she was pitifully desperate for approval.

  "Whenever you visit me," he proclaimed, "you're to have it down and brushed out."

  The oaf was insufferable! Was he deaf? "I'm not coming again. Haven't you listened to a single word I've said?"

  "No."

  He clasped her wrist and reclined on the sofa, and he pulled her down so that she was sprawled on top of him. Squealing with affront, she tried to wiggle away, but he had her pinned to him. Escape was impossible.

  They were molded together. Feet, thighs, loins, tummies, they were forged fast. Her breasts were squashed to his chest, and her nipples leapt to attention. When she shifted the slightest inch, they ached and throbbed.

  She was embarrassed, and she increased her struggles, eager to create space between them, which he prevented by planting his hand on her rear.

  He ground her crotch into his, and her torso recognized that this was what she'd been needing. Instinctively, her hips flexed, and he laughed! The swine!

  "What a little hellcat you are."

  "Release me."

  "No."

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  He burrowed her even nearer, and he flexed into her, the action like nothing she'd ever felt before, like nothing she could have imagined.

  "Why are you pressing into me like that?"

  He ignored her question and asked his own. "How did you manage to sneak in here last night?"

  "I've no idea to what you allude." She would deny it into infinity.

  "Why have you taken my ring?"

  "I haven't!'?

  He studied her, then cautioned, "You shouldn't lie to me, Kate. I can tell when you are." He was caressing her bottom, so it was difficult to concentrate, to maintain any distance. "S
o what will you do with it? Will you keep it as a memento? Or will you return it when I'm not on the premises to catch you? That way, we can pretend it was never missing."

  She frowned at how he'd deduced her plan, and he smirked. "I see. You've decided to put it back when I'm not looking. Well then, why don't you advise me of when, so I can absent myself? It will make everything so much easier."

  "I don't have your ring," she contended.

  He rolled them, altering their positions so that she was underneath him. Instantly, she was trapped—and furious that she was. She'd intended to dominate the meeting, to briefly speak her piece, then be about her business, with her reputation and chastity intact.

  How was she to proceed now? She was supposed to be convincing him of her high morals, but her body was rapidly conveying her to a spot where she didn't wish to be.

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  "Let me up."

  "No."

  She sighed. "Talking to you is like talking to the wallpaper."

  "I'd heed you ... if you ever said anything worthwhile."

  He was fussing with her gown, trying to undo the buttons. "Are you about to ravish me?"

  "Yes, but you'll like it."

  "Stop it. At once."

  "Sorry, but I can't oblige you."

  "Lord Stamford!" The top button popped free. "Lord Stamford! Marcus!"

  He grinned, never having doubted that he could wheedle her into calling him by his given name. And so quickly, too. "Yes, Kate. What is it?"

  "I'm not about to simply relax, while you remove my clothes and ... and ..."

  She wanted to inform him of all the things she would not do, but she had no terminology for discussing carnal subjects, and she wasn't about to start spewing such words as naked and undressed. In dealing with him she was so far out of her league that she never should have risked the encounter, despite how forcibly he'd commanded her presence.

  She knew better. She really, really did.

  "... and?" he prompted.

  "Never mind, you bounder. Just release me."

  "Were you enjoying yourself, watching me trifle with Pamela?"

  As she vividly recollected every erotic detail of the ribald scene, she blushed such a deep shade of red that