Passion

by Gayle Eden

  She was curious, wondering, at the connection between her sister and Raith, guessing it was something dark.

  Finally snuggled under the covers, she thought of her Captain, his kisses and bolder touches—the burning passion between them. It would be difficult to see him and sneak away, but if she arranged her schedule right—with Harry’s help, if it came to that, she would be able to do so without causing suspicion.

  Most of London would be consumed by talk of the fires and all the speculation—Again, she would have to play shock and ignorance there.

  What her father said about Lord Stoneleigh did not surprise her—the pairing up part. They were, by most accounts, the most suitable match for each other in ton eyes. No, not surprising, but troublesome. Perhaps this business would delay any action on his part a bit longer. At least until the time was right for her to speak with her father. Though—what she would tell him, she did not know. She had scarcely seen the Captain but twice. Caroline sighed, her own playing at mystery suddenly seemed very tangled indeed.

  * * * *

  Jules sat in a chair near the bed. The room was low lit and under the scent of medicines wafted the smell of smoke, carried from the fires in lower London. He had looked out before he sat himself and seen that the presses on Fleet Street were still awake. People ran back and forth, standing in clusters in the street.

  Staring broodingly at the brother who was more a stranger to him than ever—one with a broken ankle, thigh, other fractures, and having abrasions, burns, gashes, possibly internally injured too—Jules thought he still looked forged from iron. Though they shared some of the same bone structure, Raith was all sinew, as if life—no—doubtless grief and being driven by his demons, siphoned years off him.

  He could see the bitterness. He had seen that rage and that drive to destroy, before the fire. He wondered at the difference between himself and Raith—wondered, if every man had that darkness inside of them?

  Jules started when a hand landed on his shoulder.

  “James gave him something that will make him sleep for several hours. You need rest yourself.”

  He stood slowly, eyeing Lady Harriet, or Harry as she admonished him to call her. He followed her into a bedchamber. It occurred to him he had seen her many times, and yet not seen her. The Lady Brunswick was young, and he had for some reason not noticed it. Her cropped hair was shocking, of course, the trousers more so, but in his current condition and mood, Jules could not summon any great outrage at it.

  He had reason to be thankful to Harriet Brunswick.

  The bedchamber was spacious, considering the larger part of the residence was below. Of course, Jules had noticed all the books, maps and clutter, and vaguely remembered Harriet being dubbed a bluestocking— something about her father being an adventurer, and though wealthy, seldom in England.

  There was a bit of the unusual in the chamber, in the sienna and deep blue hues, splashes of bold red. The furnishings had an island feel to them, and unlike heavy English fabrics or some of the ton’s fascination with Egyptian and French, it had an almost airy, open, feel to it.

  Jules sat in a chair to remove his boots, and then undid his collar. His shirt was ruined, his boots a mess, trousers not much better.

  “There’s a wash room there.”

  He had not noticed Harriet was on the other side of the room. Jules nodded and murmured his thanks, but looked at her as he passed on his way toward the small door. She was in those trousers and bare feet the white shirt now with the tails out. She was taller than he had thought, and on the slender side, but surprisingly in the ridiculous garb, she looked…elegantly made.

  Shaking his head at such fancy, Jules went to the washroom, making use of soap and water, stripping down, and grimacing at the prospect of putting his filthy clothing back on.

  A knock sounded at the door. For a moment, he stood with the towel around his hips, at a complete loss. He could not very well call for her to enter.

  He did not have to.

  Harriet opened the door and came in, folded clothing in her arms. “These were my fathers. They should fit nicely.”

  “Thank you.”

  She cast him a glance before she shut the door, an up and down look, before meeting his eyes. “You’re welcome.”

  Feeling, she was laughing at him. Jules pulled on the soft gray trousers and cotton shirt. He found a brush for his damp hair and carrying his dirty clothing out, left them in a pile, thinking his fastidious valet would likely burn the lot of them.

  Harriet passed him, and Jules did not think much of her making use of her own bathing closet. To be honest, the whole ordeal was catching up with him. He sat heavily on the end of the bed, feeling as if he had dreamed it all, and yet just across the hall a light shone from the room Raith was in. It was all too real, yet as if his own actions had been dreamed. He never guessed when he left to find Raith’s house, talked to him, anything this—disturbing, would unfold.

  There were subtle sounds coming from the bathing room, but in the bedchamber, only a pleasant tic of the clock and the soothing scent of spice, that reminded him again of India for some reason pervaded. He lay back on the deep indigo covers, his arm over his eyes. Perhaps he would just rest for a bit.

  Jules must have dozed, for the shift of the bed had him sitting swiftly up.

  “Did I wake you? Sorry.” Harriet grimaced, climbing onto the bed in a silk robe with peacocks on it.

  He blinked. “I beg your pardon.” He started to rise. “I didn’t see a chaise or chair…”

  “There is one, but it’s piled full of pamphlets and books. In any case, I wouldn’t expect the Earl of Stoneleigh to sleep in a chair all night.” Her lips curved in a smile. “Relax, Jules. I’ve no intention of taking advantage of you whilst you sleep.”

  He hesitated, feeling foolish and wondering why he was the shocked one, instead of the Lady Harry?

  She plumped her pillow and laid back, ankles crossed, hands resting relaxed on her lower stomach. “Besides, you’re in shock and much too fatigued to be much sport in bed.”

  He laughed. He did not expect to, but the chuckle escaped rather tiredly. He did lie back down, arm over his eyes again. He was not asleep but was back to thinking.

  Obviously, she was too. She murmured, “Shame, I won’t even get to boast I’ve had you in my bed.”

  He drawled, “You’re far too young, Lady Harry, to have men in your bed.”

  “I’m twenty and three, but what are years? Thanks to my father, I learned to be independent very young.”

  He had a million worries on his mind, several crises going on, and yet he heard himself say, “Are you telling me you’re an adventurous woman yourself?’

  She laughed softly. “You’re so very perfect and proper, Jules. I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?”

  “Not yet.”

  She snorted.

  He dragged his arm down and turned his head to regard her. Even while he spoke, he was thinking that Harriet had very fine gray eyes, beautiful really, and she was handsome in the face. The short hair was actually a lustrous nut brown and waved a bit.

  “I’m curious, as to why you aren’t curious, regarding all that’s happened tonight. I’ll wager you did not know Blaise was my brother, let alone Raith.”

  “You’d be wrong. I know many things about many people. Just because I don’t speculate or gossip about them aloud, doesn’t mean I do not.” Her gaze seemed to roam his face. “The half of society, who does not disregard me as a scandalous blue stocking, ignores me completely. People whisper and talk.”

  “Do they?”

  “Not much. Nevertheless, I pay attention. I know your ancestry and siblings, just as I do most of the titled. While I may not be one of those who bow at your feet, it’s always wise, in any country, any society, to know who is in power.”

  It was his turn to snort. “I assure you, I don’t rule England.”

  “No. Only society, in a manner of speaking. You are the ideal that men want to live up t
o and emulate—and the sort mothers want their daughters to wed. You are regarded as the epitome of wealthy peer and aristocrat. You’re the mirror, the ton holds up to the world.”

  “You now know, from tonight’s events at least, that is their (presumption) of who the Earl of Stoneleigh is.”

  “One you’ve perpetuated.”

  “Perhaps.”

  She shook her head. “You built that image yourself.”

  “I’m not complaining.”

  “Nor was I,” she retorted. “Just stating facts. I’m not enough a part of either society, nor do I want to be—for it to matter to me who they deem perfect, or who inspires awe, generally speaking. I would not change myself or trade my life for anyone, or any society. I’m on the outside looking in, by choice.”

  He arched his brow. “What was your point?”

  She smiled more fully at that arrogant lift of brow. “I didn’t have one, save that nothing that happened here tonight, or in the future, makes me think less of you, or any of your family. I respect what I know of his Grace and what I’ve seen of your brother, cousin, yourself….although, you’re a terrible snob.”

  “I am.” He agreed straight-faced.

  She kept smiling. “But. I do not live a life of apologies. I’m not sorry for my past, my present, and since I’m an intelligent woman, I’ll do very little of it in the future.”

  “Who asked you to?”

  “You were about to. You were trying to get me to admit I’m not as pure as young ladies should be, and then expect me to apologize for it.”

  Jules said nothing for long moments. He simply looked at her, surprised by her frankness. Even when his mind said dryly this is Harriet Brunswick, what do you expect? He still found himself oddly understanding her attitude—and that shocked him about himself.

  He must have stared too long, because when he looked at her mouth, he noticed her smile had vanished. Swiftly glancing at her eyes, he saw them slightly shielded.

  “I’m sorry.” He did not know what he was sorry for, but he was discomforted that he had perhaps insulted her or been rude.

  She turned her head. “Nothing to be sorry for, Stoneleigh.”

  Jules let a few ticks of the clock go by, feeling a kind of tension and thickness in the air suddenly. He tried jesting, “Since we’ll have shared a bed, you can call me Jules.”

  She made an amused sound, yet it was not like before. “In case you haven’t noticed, I did so, often tonight.”

  He looked away from her and up at the ceiling, hands on his stomach too, while he tried to discern the feelings, if it was the terrible day, what he still had to face, the blackmail and the aftermath of whatever happened with Raith—or perhaps it was the complete oddness of himself, the Earl of Stoneleigh, lying in bed with—Lady Harriet Brunswick, of all people.

  The bed shifted again. He turned his head watching her go to the corner and turn down the lamp. She opened the door wider, so that if Raith stirred they could hear him easily. That bit of light bathed the room in dark amber.

  Watching the play of that light on the silk robe, he caught a glimpse of shapely leg when she walked over to look down and out the window. She had a graceful neck. Yes a long and graceful body, on the boyish side, but there was something very fine in Harry—which made her frankness and boldness all the more titillating.

  Good God. What was he doing? Jules mentally shook himself. Yet when she padded to the dressing table and opened a box, withdrawing a cheroot and lighting it—he half sat up, leaning on his elbow to regard her. “I certainly hope that’s for me.”

  She turned blowing the smoke, and then bringing it to him. “I’ll share.” She laughed softly when he groaned.

  “I should be unconscious, I’m so tired,” he murmured drawing on the cheroot.

  “Um. Quite a day.” She sat on the bed by his hip, holding a tray for his ashes.

  Jules did not mean to keep looking at her, but he was as he smoked. His eyes noticed the very fine texture of her skin, smooth like silk. There was a certain way she held her mouth, and it was an attractive mouth.

  He was aware she watched him looking at her. Jules told himself that once he was home, everything he did tonight would be excusable, because it was simply a nightmare from start to finish.

  She took the last drag from the cheroot and then set the tray on the small table, afterwards sharing a finger of brandy with him.

  He was more relaxed, at least, Jules believed that, until she came to the side of the bed. Harry pushed down her side of the covers and dropped the robe, sliding in, and getting comfortable, partly laying on her side, and part on her stomach.

  Harriet—had a lovely body, graceful shoulders, long legs, high small breasts, slim waist, nice hips, creamy skin—and lovely, very lovely, pink nipples.

  “You’re not playing some game of seduction, are you, Harry?”

  “No,” her voice reached him.

  “I thought not.” He sighed.

  “Stoneleigh?”

  “Umm.” He looked up at the ceiling.

  “You are perfect. In looks, at least. You should wear a towel more often.”

  His lips curved.

  “Not—that you don’t look handsome in a ballroom, but too snobbish and cold, by half. Tonight was the first time I had noticed how beautiful your green eyes are. Well, until your amazing body distracted me.”

  Oh, she was a wicked young thing. He shook his head a little, smiling wider. “Harry?”

  “Um.”

  “You’ve a lovely body, too. And, very beautiful eyes.”

  He felt her chuckle. She murmured, “If only I didn’t have a brain to go with it.”

  “If only…” he murmured.

  Several moments passed and Jules turned his head, his gaze resting on her nape, looking at her hair waving there against it. Her shoulders were above the covers. The amber light did lovely things to enhance them.

  “Get some rest, Stoneleigh. If I ever do take it in my mind to seduce you, it won’t be whist you’re preoccupied with something else.”

  He rolled to his side to sleep, but was still aware of her, very much aware of the scents of her bedchamber, the pleasant smell of the sheets and covers. “I don’t have affairs Harriet.”

  “I know.”

  He grunted but did not open his eyes. Then he rolled over, up on his elbow, catching her chin and making her look at him.

  She rolled to her back.

  Looking into those gray eyes, he murmured, “It would be a mistake.” His thumb brushed her lower lip.

  She bit the pad of his thumb.

  Stoneleigh shuddered. “I don’t—“

  “—I know.” She let her tongue touch his thumb before he moved it. “You play everything safe, Jules. You dare not lose control.”

  “I have my life planned out for a reason, Harry.”

  “That has always been obvious too.” Her lashes dipped. “I don’t plan much of anything.”

  He allowed his gaze to move down and view those breasts, small but pert, the nipples tight and aroused, where the sheet slipped, then back up.

  She did not look from his as she said, “I’ll have to remember you like this once this night is done and we are in society—where I’m invisible, and you are surrounded by admirers. I will remember that your eyes are not always aloof and glass green, so distant….I’ll admire you in your formal clothing, but remember that underneath is the sculpted body of a very different sort.” Her hand raised to his hair, then touched his cheek while she smiled slightly. “You’re too beautiful for words, Stoneleigh. And it’s a pity you deprive women of enjoying it.”

  Warm, his blood heating, body stirred, Jules smiled too, playing more cool than he felt.

  “You don’t pleasure women, do you?”

  “I don’t…seek out the kind who expects it,” he answered dryly.

  “Oh well,” her smile curved fully. “It was worth a try.” Her brow arched. “One hopes that in your plans, which assuredly include the perfec
t biddable wife, and future Duchess, you will know what to do when the time comes. Or do you intend to—“

  “Enough,” he whispered and reached to move her hand from his face, though his actions were slow.

  Jules still held it aside her head on the pillow as he regarded her and murmured, “You might not be seducing me, Harry, but you’re tempting me.”

  “At least I do that.”

  He kissed her nose. “You’ll make a good friend.”

  He rolled away and heard her murmur, “If I must.”

  “You really must, Harry. You deserve someone who will enjoy you thoroughly. I don’t have that luxury.”

  “You could, if you’d let yourself. The world won’t end if you become human, Stoneleigh.”

  “Mine would, Harry. Not yours, but mine.”

  After a long sigh, she reached back and pat is flank, an oddly affectionate gesture.

  Jules smiled, and not long afterwards, slept.

  He was up and gone early the next morning.

  Chapter 7

  Gabriella remained in a fog the first day she awoke. She did ask the physician where she was, and discovered she was in the Duke of Coulborn’s townhouse.

  Sore, aching in her muscles, she endured the probes and examinations from the older physician, answering his questions as best she could, though still oddly detached. He asked frankly about the bruises and marks on her body. She told him the truth—without naming names. Frowning, obviously wanting to ask more questions, he pronounced her in shock, and after dosing her with some sedative, leaving behind a topical salve, he left her alone.

  She slept for several hours then opened her eyes sometime in the evening. A maid was moving quietly around the richly furnished room.

  “A bath…” Gabriella managed, licking her lips, feeling a slight headache too, from the drugs.

  “Yes. Miss.” The maid came to her. Having bright gold hair and blue eyes, a white cap on her head, the woman was in her mid-twenties. She peered at Gabriella closely and offered, “Would you like to eat first. I have a tray here. His Grace sent for some clothing for you, they should be arriving soon. You’re more….shapely, than Lady Caroline.”