Further Than Passion

by Cheryl Holt

  "I'll create a public stink. I'll embarrass you into it. I'll sue to force your compliance."

  "If you want to make a fool of yourself, have at it. There isn't a person in England who'd heed you. Now, good evening. Don't bother me again." She went to the door, then halted, peering over her shoulder and glittering with triumph. "By the by, Stamford offered for Melanie. We'll be announcing their betrothal tomorrow morning. The wedding is in a week, but were I you, I wouldn't count on receiving an invitation."

  She strutted out, and Pamela tarried in the quiet, a flood of fury washing over her. How many duplicitous events should she be expected to endure in a single day?

  "Betray me, will you, you fat sow?" She was seething, her mind whirling with revenge. So... Regina presumed

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  that Stamford was about to wed her precious daughter.

  "We'll see about that!" Pamela chuckled, and she stomped out to find Melanie.

  ******************

  Elliot gazed around his teeming parlor, packed as it was with reveling guests. He was thrilled that he could draw such a crowd, yet frantic as to how he'd pay for the gala. Night after night, he threw lavish parties, but the bills were stacking up.

  He had to have Melanie's dowry, whether she wanted to provide it to him or not, and no one—especially her mother—could be allowed to hinder his acquisition of it. His fiscal problems had to be fixed, and if committing a slight ravishment would save him, he would meander down that dirty road.

  From across the ballroom Pamela approached, and he gnashed his teeth. To his dismay, she'd shown up on his stoop, weeping, cursing Stamford, and pleading for sanctuary.

  Elliot had furnished accommodations, but oh, how he prayed she wouldn't stay long. In light of his penury, she'd send him straight to paupers' jail!

  She was in a frenetic state, her color high, her emotions at a fevered pitch, and there was a wild gleam in her eye that had him uneasy.

  Over the course of several hours, she'd penned and dispatched a dozen insistent letters to young Christopher Lewis, advising him of where she was and begging him to fetch her. She kept asking if the boy had been invited to the soiree, checking to learn if he'd arrived, and not seeming to remember that she'd inquired minutes earlier.

  Her obsession had been noted by all. People were

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  whispering, pondering—as was he—whether she hadn't swung off her rocker, which was just his luck! To be sheltering a poverty-stricken crazy woman!

  As she neared, he sipped his brandy, feigning calm, and pretending to be glad for her presence.

  She slipped her arm into his and grinned. "Would you still like to marry Melanie Lewis?"

  He almost spit out his drink. "Yes."

  "When the orchestra strikes up the next song, she's sneaking upstairs. I gave her directions to your bedchamber. How much time will you require to push her beyond redemption?"

  "Will you appear to discover us?"

  "With Regina by my side. I want her to witness Melanie's downfall for herself."

  Considering his station and Melanie's, it would be thoroughly damaging for them merely to be caught together and alone, but Regina Lewis would wrangle Melanie out of such an innocuous incident. If he wanted Melanie's ruination to rest firmly on his shoulders, he'd have to do something rash, something reckless, from which there could be no escape other than an immediate wedding.

  "I'll need thirty minutes. I want to have her naked before you walk in." He hoped she'd no longer be a virgin, either.

  "A wise man." Pamela snatched a glass of wine from a passing waiter and raised it in a toast. "To your pending nuptials, Elliot. May you and your little bride be very, very happy."

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  Kate crouched in the corner of the dark cell, unsure of how long she'd been there. Vaguely, she wondered if it was still the same day of her arrest or if more time had passed.

  It was so difficult to tell.

  There was a dreamlike sensation to what had befallen her, and she couldn't focus on the particulars. Nothing seemed real. Not her life at Doncaster. Not her weeks in London, or her affair with Lord Stamford.

  Marcus... How could you have done this to me?

  The beloved name whispered through her tortured mind, and she shoved it away, declining to have it take root and grow. She couldn't dwell on the past, or on what had transpired previous. There was only now, and the bleak future.

  What would become of her? Would she be hanged? Transported? The possibilities were too bizarre to grasp. She felt out of her body, as if she were watching another woman suffer.

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  Hazily, she recalled the Stamford town house, her quiet room at the end of the hall. Would anyone realize she'd disappeared? Would anyone care that she was gone?

  Regina would concoct a story about her leaving. Christopher might be suspicious, Selena might worry— they might even search—but ultimately, they'd move on.

  There was no one else who'd be concerned. No one else, at all. How sad that in twenty-five years she'd made such a pitiful mark.

  Bitter tears welled into her eyes, and she forced them down. She had to concentrate on her predicament, and she couldn't waste energy lamenting her fate. What had happened was over, finished, and she had to figure out how to carry on from this moment forward.

  The foul, cold, damp place was her world, and she had pressing needs, but no idea how to meet them. Since the cell door had clanged shut, no food had been delivered, no blanket offered. Although there were occasional screams and groans, they drifted by from far off.

  Did the guards even remember that she'd been jailed? Would she tarry, hunched over on the wet floor, until she starved to death?

  To her surprise, she wasn't distressed by the notion. What would it matter if she died? Who would mourn? Wasn't it better to perish here, out of sight, so that those who'd once known her couldn't witness how low she'd plummeted?

  She considered standing, walking about, and investigating her surroundings, but as she attempted to climb up onto her knees, the pain in her back and ribs was so intense that she gave up. Every muscle cried out in agony, every bone ached and throbbed, and when she

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  steadied herself by balancing her palm on the wall, she recoiled from the slime she encountered.

  What good would it do to explore? What was she expecting to find? A key? A hidden passage? A map that delineated the escape routes?

  Miserably, she chuckled, her voice sounding rusty and broken, and it occurred to her that perhaps she was already dead, that this was hell, and she would remain into infinity.

  Is so, what had been her sins? Loving too deeply? Wishing too fervently? Trying too hard? Or was it because she'd coveted more than she had? Maybe, as Regina had claimed, she'd reached too high, and was being punished for her reckless yearning.

  There was no reason to examine the small space, no reason to pray, no reason to hope. She sank down and huddled into a tight ball.

  ******************

  Melanie gazed out across the teeming, swirling crowd of dancers, Lady Pamela's comments ringing in her ears. She had a vision of Lord Stamford, with his imperious, aloof smile and his arrogant, haughty attitude. He was cruel, he was heartless, and if she married him, she would spend her life forlorn, detested, and ignored. She couldn't bear the thought of his being able to treat her so abominably.

  Why, the despicable knave wouldn't even propose! What a merciless fiend he was, to deprive her of such a victorious moment! He was an insensitive, unfeeling brute, and she wouldn't have him for her husband. She wouldn't! Regardless of the consequences, she would defy him and her mother.

  She crept out of the ballroom, rushed to the stairs, and

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  ascended. At the end of the deserted hall, she opened the last door, and tiptoed into the room.

  As Pamela had promised, it was empty. A lamp burned on the dresser, casting stark shadows, a
nd terribly uneasy, Melanie went to the bed and stared at it.

  She was nervous as to how men and women acted when they were alone. She'd heard vile, hideous rumors, but she had no method for determining if the tales were true. It wasn't as if she could ask Regina!

  She shuddered. In revulsion. In fear.

  What would her mother say, what would she do, when she learned of Melanie's decision?

  She'd observed how Regina had disciplined Kate. It was lunacy to cross or betray Regina, and Melanie had never before dared. This would be the first time.

  How would Regina respond?

  I'll have a husband to protect me, though, Melanie mused woefully, pondering whether Elliot would be up to the task. He was harmless and polite, the sole individual in London who'd been kind to her. Would he be a match for Regina?

  Footsteps echoed in the corridor, and her heart pounded with dread. Was it Elliot? So soon?

  Oh ... she wasn't prepared!

  She'd brought a glass of wine with her, and she set it on the table by the bed. From her reticule, she retrieved the vial of love potion Kate had procured. Assessing its color, she held it toward the lamp. It wasn't as dark a red as the prior batches. She removed the cork and sniffed. It didn't smell the same, either, but it was too late to wonder if the concoction had a similar potency.

  Just as Elliot entered, she dumped the contents into the glass and stirred it with her finger. While she would

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  save most of it for him, she took several swigs, frantic to receive some of the potion's effects.

  She hadn't told him about Stamford's proposal, hadn't mentioned that the contracts were signed, the date selected, and she wasn't about to. If Elliot suspected that Stamford had folded to Regina's incessant demands, she was convinced he'd decline to assist her.

  Without a word, he approached. He appeared so large, so much taller than she recollected. He was glaring at her as if he was angry, and she felt threatened by him, when she never had before.

  A frisson of alarm slithered up her spine, but she shook it off. She was being silly. He was here at her request. This was what she wanted, how she planned for it to end. He was her friend, and he wouldn't hurt her.

  Still, she could barely keep from stepping away. He reeked of alcohol, his fetid breath washing over her like a poisonous cloud, and she speculated as to how much he'd imbibed, though he didn't seem foxed. He was alert, vigilant, but studying her in a manner that was frightening.

  "Lady Pamela," he began, "said that you were eager to speak with me."

  "Yes, I need to ask you ... that is ... I have to ..."

  She blushed. She had no idea how to confide in him, no concept of what needed to transpire. She was ready to ruin herself, so that Stamford couldn't have her, so that he wouldn't want her, but she had no notion of what such conduct entailed. Elliot would perpetrate some coarse, distasteful deed upon her person, but she wasn't certain what it was.

  "Usually," he goaded, "when a woman comes to a man's room, she has something in mind besides talking."

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  "You're correct," she was able to reply, shielding her trepidation. "Elliot, I can't marry Stamford, and I'm so afraid my mother will make me."

  "I'm positive she will. That's been her scheme all along."

  "But if I landed myself into a predicament," she ventured, "where I had to wed someone else, I wouldn't have to acquiesce. She couldn't force me."

  "Too true." He shimmered with a triumph she didn't comprehend.

  "Would you like a drink?" she inquired.

  She bumbled about, offering him the wine, hoping he'd swallow it without her having to coax him. She had no qualms about slipping him the drug. She was resolved to proceed, despite how unpleasant or revolting it might be. If she was willing to hazard so much, it was only fair that he love her.

  Without argument, he grabbed the goblet, gulped the mixture, then tossed the goblet onto the rug. He seized her wrist, squeezing so that she couldn't get away, and he led her toward the bed.

  Instantly, her body rebelled, and she dug in her heels, trying to halt their progress, but to no avail. He was bent on his destination, and she couldn't stop him.

  "You foolish girl," he chided, "quit fighting me."

  "I'm confused ... I'm worried ..." She'd thought she was clear on her goal, but deep down, she recognized it was wrong, and it was happening too fast.

  "Turn around," he ordered.

  "Why?"

  "Just do it."

  She should have refused, but suddenly, she felt very

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  young, out of her element, and she spun, showing him her back. He started unbuttoning her dress, slackening it so that the bodice flopped free, and she clutched the garment to her bosom.

  He yanked her hands away and tugged the gown off her torso.

  "What are you doing?" she queried, which was stupid, since his intent was unmistakable.

  "I'm disrobing you."

  "Must I remove my clothes?"

  "Yes."

  He made swift work of her attire, stripping her until she was clad solely in her thin chemise. She was cold, from her near nudity and from fear, and she trembled.

  Her nipples reacted to the cool temperature, hardening into taut buds that jutted against the sheer fabric, and he stared at them like a hungry wolf. She draped an arm across her breasts, across her crotch, but her attempts at concealment were useless. He could see all.

  "Climb onto the bed and lie down," he instructed as he shed his coat and cravat.

  "Why?"

  "Why would you suppose?"

  "I haven't the foggiest."

  She hesitated, and he grew irritated. "Do you want to be Stamford's bride or don't you?"

  "No!"

  "Then shut up and do as I say."

  "Will you marry me after we're through?"

  "We'll have no other option."

  He shoved her, and she relented, clambering up, and reclining on the pillows. As he rummaged about,

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  eliminating the remainder of his clothes, too, she studied the ceiling, and she shivered, feeling sick to her stomach, and curious as to when the love potion would kick in.

  Would it take effect immediately? How strong would it be? Would there be a dramatic difference in his behavior? Or would it be subtle, difficult to detect?

  Inside her own body, there was no indication that the tonic was activated, and she panicked. If her emotions didn't engage, and quickly, she couldn't bear to continue!

  He slinked onto the mattress, and she braved a hasty glance at him. His upper anatomy was bare, but from the middle down, he was wearing a pair of drawers, the string cinched at the waist. As if he never ate, he was emaciated, his ribs sticking out, his skin a pasty, gray color.

  He stretched out on top of her, his weight squishing her, until she was suffocating, but he didn't notice her distress. She wrestled, anxious to push him off, but her efforts irked him.

  "Hold still."

  "I can't breathe."

  "You don't need to breathe."

  "Please!" she begged, not sure for what she was pleading. She didn't want him to cease, yet she didn't want to forge on.

  He chuckled and reached for her chemise, jerking at the straps so that her breasts were visible. When she struggled to cover herself, to reclaim some modesty, he clasped her wrists and pinned them over her head.

  "Stop fighting."

  "I don't like it when you look at me."

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  "I plan to do much more than look. Let's see how these little duckies taste, shall we?"

  He dipped down, and she braced, certain he would kiss her, but instead, he fell to her nipple. Horrified and repulsed, she watched as he suckled her as a babe would its mother.

  He bit and nipped, pinched and squeezed, until she was aching from the rough treatment; then he shifted to the side and dragged her chemise the rest of the way off.

 
She was naked, and after a protracted evaluation of her figure, he smirked. "You're a tad chubby, but I guess you'll do."

  She'd never been more humiliated, and she wished she could die! His foul gaze coursed over her, and she closed her eyes, praying that whatever he intended would end swiftly and soon.

  Down below, he was touching her between her legs. She tried to keep them pressed together, but she couldn't impede his groping. His fingers were at the vee of her thighs, and he rammed them into her, stroking them until she almost retched.

  "A tight puss!" he crooned. "That's what I like."

  He fussed with his drawers, and she tensed, realizing that his actions boded ill. Her scuffling increased, but she couldn't escape. He was positioned so that she was open, exposed, her privates displayed for his perverted enjoyment, and she wailed with embarrassment.

  "I don't believe I've ever fucked a virgin," he mused.

  His words sounded cruel, vulgar. "What do you mean?“

  He didn't answer, but persisted with his filthy torment. His fingers had been removed, but he'd replaced

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  them with something bigger, something thicker. He flexed his hips, poking it into her.

  "Desist! At once!" she commanded. "You're about to rip me in half."

  "Not bloody likely," he muttered. "You're dry as an old hag. Relax, would you?"

  Relax? Was he serious?

  He renewed his motions until she tore inside, and whatever he'd been ramming was fully impaled. She arched up and howled in agony, but he clamped his hand over her mouth to stifle her shout. Then he began thrusting in earnest, and she was in hell! She was trapped beneath him, unable to breathe, his putrid respirations making her gag, as he kept on and on.

  As if she were invisible, he was unconcerned as to her comfort or welfare. Perspiration beaded on his brow, and suddenly, he halted, his body paralyzed. He emitted a growl, of primal pleasure and male glee, and she felt something hot spurting far inside.

  Just as abruptly, he collapsed onto her, and she suffered a frantic moment when she worried that he'd had an attack of the heart, that he'd perished. But he pulled away and rolled onto his back, exhaling as if he'd run a long race.