Further Than Passion

by Cheryl Holt

  She groaned. How was she to be shed of the accursed bauble?

  She slipped it onto her finger, and clutched her fist around it; then she crawled into her bed and ducked under the quilt, hoping—once more!—that the ring would have vanished by morning.

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  Pamela stood at the rear of the ballroom, cooling her face with her fan. As it was a masquerade, the attendees' identities were supposed to be a secret, but Pamela knew all of them too well for them to have any anonymity.

  Melanie had attired herself as a medieval maiden, and was dancing up a storm with anyone who asked. Her chaperone was absent, so no one was advising her as to appropriate associates, and her mother was too stupid to realize that someone should be screening Melanie's choices.

  Regina sat in the opposite corner, dressed as Good Queen Bess, but she was too fat and dour to pull it off with any aplomb. As gluttony was her sole entertainment, she was eating—no surprise there!—and Pamela was counting the days till the grim harridan departed.

  Pamela looked out across the crowd, trying to keep an eye on Christopher, while wondering how she could persuade him to stay on after his mother left. Since

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  Pamela had an image to maintain, she pretended not to be focused on anyone in particular. It wouldn't do to have stories spreading as to her enamoration. Rumors might be disseminated that she was aging and growing desperate, that she was robbing the cradle, and she refused to have gossip circulating.

  Across the way, she espied him escorting his partner down the row. The girl giggled with delight, as others enviously observed them. He was now the male belle of every ball, his charm and attractiveness having won over the fickle members of High Society, which had Pamela jealously gnashing her teeth.

  His dancing instructor had been an idiot, so Christopher wasn't very adept at the trickier tunes, and the debutantes had taken him under their collective wings. They garnered significant amusement from showing him the various steps, which, of course, he picked up immediately. As she'd learned of him in her bedchamber, he had a natural athletic grace that lent itself to physical endeavor, so he had the little ninnies fawning and cooing as he whirled them in circles.

  Elliot approached, sipping his whiskey and not nearly as foxed as he generally was. Before she could divert her concentration, he recognized at whom she stared.

  "You've had quite a trio of houseguests visiting," he commented. "How are you holding up?"

  They'd been friends for years, and he was one of the few people with whom she could be frank. "Less than two weeks remaining. There will either be an engagement very shortly or they'll go home."

  With his glass, he gestured toward Christopher. "He seems to be a fine boy."

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  "Yes, he is, and I'm pleased to announce that he doesn't resemble his mother in the slightest."

  "Praise the Lord!" Elliot sarcastically chimed as she smiled.

  Regina was the talk of London, with everyone palavering over her. Bets were being waged as to whether she could dupe Stamford into wedding Melanie and, if she could, how long Marcus would last before banishing both females to some godforsaken locale.

  "You've developed a certain interest in the lad...."

  He let the sentence trail off, let the innuendo hang between them, and she was anxious to cut off any speculation. "I'm merely worried about him. In this sea of fortune hunters, any calamity could befall him."

  "Too true."

  "I wish Stamford would make up his bloody mind."

  "What have you heard on that front?" His gaze settled on Melanie. "I'm told he's barely conversed with her."

  "With Marcus, I can't begin to predict what his decision will be."

  "I've discussed the entire sordid business with Lady Melanie," he shocked her by admitting. "In great detail."

  "Really?"

  "Yes."

  She was amazed that he'd had the opportunity, but then, his cozying up to Melanie was a blatant example of Regina's apathetic parenting. Any sane mother would have chased him off with a stick.

  "What does she say?"

  "Her mother has convinced her that the match will occur."

  "How can she believe it? Stamford's given no hint as to his intentions."

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  "Melanie's so sure that she's purchased a love potion."

  Pamela sputtered with astonishment. "To use on Stamford? You have to be joking."

  "She's bound and determined that he be in love with her before their wedding night, and she has a servant prepared to slip it into his brandy the moment his back is turned."

  "Oh for pity's sake. What next!" She rolled her eyes. "Where did she find such a thing?"

  "Some apothecary. His shop is in the alley behind that milliner where you buy your hats."

  She chortled. Maybe Melanie would accidentally poison Stamford, and put them all out of their misery. It would serve him right for being such an impossible beast!

  "Lady Melanie is crazy."

  "Very likely," Elliot concurred. "So... what is your estimate as to Stamford's feelings where she's concerned?"

  "I haven't a clue, Elliot. This very instant, he could walk in and propose."

  "If he's not brought to heel, what would you calculate she'll do?"

  "She'll do whatever her mother orders. She doesn't have much spine."

  He evaluated Melanie, his scrutiny visible and transparent. "Has Regina selected a second choice?"

  "God, Elliot, don't tell me—" The notion was so ludicrous that she guffawed.

  "Who can foresee what Melanie might be influenced to want for herself?"

  "You'd presume it to be you?"

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  "You just never know, Pamela." He shrugged. "Anything could happen."

  Especially if she's not cautious, and her mother isn't watching too closely.

  The statement rang between them. The social whirl of London was beyond the ability of Melanie or her mother to manipulate with any finesse, and Regina wouldn't take advice, even when it was warranted and politely offered.

  Well, Elliot had always been a steadfast companion, and Pamela had no loyalty to the snotty, unrefined brat. If he could wrangle himself a marriage and get his hands on her dowry, more power to him. No one could benefit from the money more than he, and Pamela wasn't about to interfere.

  With being so involved in their conversation, she'd lost sight of Christopher, and she rose up on tiptoe to peek through the milling throng. Finally, she spotted him. He was still dancing with the same partner. Pamela didn't recognize her, but although her face was masked, it was obvious she was a girl of excellent breeding. She moved with a fluid, remarkable grace that equaled Christopher's own. They were poised, elegant, captivating, and as they promenaded down the line, others stopped to stare approvingly.

  Christopher was focused on her, gazing at her as if he knew who she was. He was transfixed, riveted by her hidden beauty and her lithe, willowy style, and Pamela shifted uneasily. It almost looked as if he was in... in love!

  How could such a terrible event have unfolded? Without Pamela being aware of the situation? She kept tabs on him at all hours.

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  This won't do! she thought, and she excused herself to Elliot and marched toward Regina. Though Pamela avoided Regina as much as she could, it was time the two of them had a blunt talk.

  Pamela desired Christopher, and Regina was eager to snag Stamford. If they could strike a satisfactory deal, they could both attain exactly what they wanted.

  ******************

  Much like Cinderella, Selena raced down the stairs of the grand mansion, and she curled her toes in her fancy slippers, to ensure they stayed on her feet.

  As she departed, she'd heard the whispers of the guests, endured their curious analysis, even sensed occasional hostility. Everyone was conjecturing as to her identity, but in this crowd, none would ever guess it. There wasn't a member of the ton who had an imagination vivid enough.

  Her carriage await
ed, the footmen Christopher had hired treating her as if she were a princess, and that's precisely how she felt. As she approached, they leapt into action, lowering the step, and opening the door.

  She paused to admire the imposing house where she'd attended her first ball. It was so splendid, the windows lit, the orchestra music drifting across the yard. There were couples strolling on the lawn, the women's diamonds glittering under the lanterns.

  Before coming to England, she'd assumed her life would be filled with such parties, that she'd fraternize with rich, dazzling people, that she would build the sort of existence upon which her parents had thrived in Italy. But society in London was more restricted, moral tenets more rigorously enforced, and acceptance as an outsider more difficult to finagle. Unfortunately, there

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  was also her financial disaster, which prevented her from procuring the clothes and accessories she needed for an entree.

  None of her dreams had become reality, and she'd been upset, but not anymore.

  Now that she'd met Kate and Christopher, Selena couldn't be sorry. Destiny had a peculiar way of having everything work out as it should. Her recent trials were mere bumps in the road, brief delays on the path to where she was supposed to be.

  She sighed with delight. It was all so fantastic, and she would love Christopher forever for giving her such a magical gift. He'd sent a dress; he'd sent jewelry; he'd sent combs for her hair, and gloves, and a fan, and a lace shawl, and a beaded reticule—items the most exquisite lady required for an evening on the town.

  Edith had wanted to be scandalized by his generosity, but neither of them could think of a reason for Selena to decline. Of late, her affairs had been so dreary, expectations dashed, hopes shattered. Christopher was the lone ray of sunshine she'd encountered, and if Edith had counseled against allowing his largesse, Selena would have ignored her. What was to be gained by refusal?

  He'd brought food, wine, and tea. Coal had been delivered and, without his informing Selena, he'd dispensed an envelope of cash to Edith. Their small cadre of servants had been paid, accounts with merchants balanced. It was a magnificent night to be alive!

  A footman lifted her in, and she settled herself, being extra careful with the skirt of her new gown. Momentarily, the horses started down the lane, but before

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  rounding the curve, the driver pulled up. There was a cordial salute, male laughter. The door was flung wide, and Christopher was there, as he'd promised he would be.

  "Ah, the most beautiful woman at the ball!" he teased. "And she's sitting in my carriage! How lucky I am!"

  "Get in here—before someone sees you!"

  As the coach lurched away, she tugged at his jacket, and he tumbled into her. In a tangle of arms and legs, he wound up on the seat, with her on his lap, and he drew off their masks.

  "Did you enjoy yourself?" he queried. Moonlight shone in, illuminating his bright smile. His golden hair shimmered like a halo, and he was so radiant that she felt as if she were traveling with an angel.

  "Yes, yes, yes!" She kissed him, chuckling at how enthusiastically he joined in. "It was fabulous."

  "Good, because I plan to bestow many more entertainments just like it."

  Her heart fluttered with excitement, but she didn't dare ask what he meant. Was he speaking in the short term, or of something more permanent? If Lord Stamford didn't come up to snuff with his sister, Christopher would soon have to escort his mother to Doncaster. What then? Selena couldn't bear to consider the answer.

  "How did you escape?" She changed the subject, too apprehensive to dawdle in worrisome territory.

  "I lied to my mother and claimed I was ill. So she'll ride home with Lady Pamela, which is a trip I'm happy to miss."

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  In the few assignations he'd managed, he'd regaled her with tales of domineering Regina, spoiled Melanie, and the insidious Pamela. He was surrounded by crazed females, with Kate being the only one who was sane, but she'd been banished from socializing—an edict with which she was apparently pleased, so Chris hadn't overruled his mother—and he rarely saw her.

  "I wish Kate could have been here. She would have had so much fun." Before meeting Kate, she'd pictured Kate's life at Doncaster to be merry and gay, but in many respects, her situation was more bleak than Selena's own.

  "I'll bring her to visit you tomorrow."

  "Oh, you are the sweetest man!"

  "Just with you."

  He was too modest. He was kind to everyone. Her servants were infatuated with him. "Have you told her about us?"

  "We'll surprise her."

  "Will she be glad?"

  "Very glad."

  Selena wasn't as confident of Kate's opinion as Christopher was. When he'd initially stumbled into her parlor, Kate had been embarrassed, hadn't wanted him to deduce that they were sisters. How would she view their secret liaison?

  As if drinking Selena in with his eyes, he was scrutinizing her. He seemed constantly on the verge of an important confession, and she was desperate to learn what it was.

  How she hated being a woman! She was awful at playing the shy, flirtatious coquette. She'd inherited

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  too much of her mother's bold nature, and she chafed at having to be silent and wait for him to proceed. If she could figure out how to broach the topic of their future, she would!

  His fingers in her hair, his tongue in her mouth, he kissed her soundly, and she reveled with elation. He was such a marvelous kisser, and he quickly swept away any need to talk. He knew exactly what to do, how and when to do it, and it occurred to her that he must have had a great deal of practice. Probably, he'd kissed many girls. After all, who could refuse him?

  Well, she certainly hoped that his days ofpracticing were over! When he was in the mood to kiss, she intended to be the one to whom he turned.

  The embrace became more heated, more passionate, as he laid her across his arm. She was tipped back, with him supporting her as if she weighed no more than a feather. He nuzzled across her cheek, down her neck and bosom. Her dress was cut very low in the front, and he nestled in her cleavage.

  "You're so pretty, Selena," he murmured. "You'll always be mine, won't you?"

  As a declaration, it was vague, and every time they were together, he tiptoed closer to the edge of a significant affirmation. Would he ever blurt out what he was trying to say?

  "Yes, I will."

  He slithered his hand under the bodice of her gown, and with no effort at all, her breast popped out from behind the fabric. He petted the soft mound, massaging it, investigating its shape and size; then he leaned over and stunned her by sucking at the nipple. The tiny

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  nub hardened into a painful bud, so that every manipulation had her squirming until she could barely stay on his lap.

  "Chris! What are you doing?" She hadn't really needed to inquire. Though she was aware of many amorous deeds, she didn't comprehend precisely how they were accomplished. Or that they could transpire in a carriage whilst careening down a dark lane!

  "This is desire, Selena. I want to show you how it will be between us." He pulled away and gazed at her. "You'll let me, won't you?"

  She couldn't tell him no, hot when he was staring at her as if she were the most extraordinary, most unique woman in the world. Still, she had no ring on her finger, and she was terrified that in his ultimate proposal he would suggest she be his mistress, which was a position she would flatly decline, so she wasn't about to travel too far down the road until she was clear as to his purpose.

  "Swear to me that you'll stop if I ask."

  "Of course I will." His warm regard billowed over her. "I would never dishonor you."

  "I know you wouldn't."

  He moved to her bosom again, laving and sucking one breast, while he toyed with the other. The sensation was powerful, and set her on fire, sinking in till her veins and pores seemed to vibrate. At her core, her womb jerked and twisted with each tug of his lips. She w
as wet, her body weeping for him, and she felt as if she might explode.

  Down below, he was inching up her skirt, but she didn't care. She was in a frantic state, so agitated that she couldn't tolerate much more, and she was convinced

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  he would alleviate her distress. There had to be an end point. A person couldn't possibly endure so much turmoil. It couldn't be safe, and she worried that if the spiral went on much longer, her heart might quit beating.

  "What's happening to me?" she wailed.

  "Relax, darling. It's nearly over." His hand slid higher, toward the vee between her thighs, where her agony was centered. "I'm going to touch you. I'll make you feel better."

  He arrived at his destination, cupping her, her legs widening as if she instinctively recognized what he planned. With her dress rucked up and her knees spread, she had to appear a wanton, but she was unconcerned. Just so the torment ceased!

  He slipped a finger inside her and began stroking back and forth. Her hips immediately caught his rhythm, so that she drew him deeper, achieving a modicum of relief, but it wasn't enough.

  "I can't bear much more," she moaned.

  "Almost finished."

  He grasped where they were headed, and she was so glad. She was beyond thought, beyond control. His thumb jabbed at a sensitive area she'd never noticed before, and it was like a bolt of lightning shooting through her.

  "Oh ... oh ..." She couldn't speak, couldn't advise him of what was ensuing, but he seemed to know.

  "Now, Selena," he commanded. "Let go."

  Blinded by ecstasy, she shattered into pieces and flew across the universe. Without meaning to, she cried out—loudly!—and she was positive anyone outside the carriage would have noted her raucous exclamations.

  Gradually, the feelings abated, and she grew limp as

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  a rag doll, flopped as she was across his arm, and he chuckled, having relished her lusty display.

  "My little wanton," he cooed, "what fun we'll have together."

  "What was that?"

  "Passion, Selena."

  "Do you think the footmen heard me?"