Passion Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

Maneuvering a private moment with Asher, Denning said, “You know, the squire was right, it is odd, damned odd that Ormsby isn’t here tonight.”

  Asher shrugged. “But not the end of the world—despite Ormsby’s opinion of his worth.”

  Denning chuckled. “You’ve never liked the man, have you?”

  “Since he’s an arrogant bastard, who believes the world is his for the taking, he makes it hard,” Asher said, sending his stepfather a smile that was all teeth and no amusement. Under his breath, he muttered, “You, however, seem to get along with him well enough. John says that you and Ormsby have been thick as thieves since you moved to Rosevale—gambling.”

  It was Denning’s turn to shrug. “Just a friendly game or two of cards to break the boredom of the country.”

  “See that it stays that way,” Asher said bluntly, “and that your gaming doesn’t cause John any trouble.”

  “Don’t you mean you?” Denning asked dryly.

  Asher nodded. “All right, then, me. I’m not pulling you from the River Tick again. Ever.”

  Denning took a drink of his punch. “You worry too much, my boy,” he said, putting down his empty cup on a nearby table. “Where Ormsby is concerned Lady Luck sits on my shoulder.”

  “For how long?”

  Denning smiled. “Oh, for as long as I want.”

  Asher smothered a curse. His stepfather had to be blackmailing Ormsby. It was the only thing that could account for Denning’s certainty that he would always win against Ormsby. And with the memory of the two London bullies vivid in his mind, Asher knew first-hand that twisting Ormsby’s tail could be dangerous.

  Attempting to turn the conversation back to Ormsby’s absence, Denning murmured, “Can’t get over the fact that Ormsby isn’t here tonight. I thought that he and Kirkwood were friends. Close friends at that.” When Asher remained silent, he went on, “Seems to me that Ormsby wouldn’t have missed an opportunity to wish his friend’s daughter good wishes on snaring one of the most eligible males in the country.”

  Asher looked bored. “Who knows what Ormsby is thinking? Or cares, for that matter.”

  Realizing he wasn’t going to get anything out of his stepson, Denning gave up. Clapping Asher on the shoulder, he said, “It’s been a most pleasant evening, but I think I shall bid my host and the engaged couple good night and toddle on home.”

  “For another hand of cards with Ormsby?” Asher asked grimly.

  Denning smiled and wagged a finger at Asher. “I’m a big boy, Asher, and while you might act nursemaid to your brothers and sisters, you do not have to look out for me. Besides, Ormsby and I understand each other.”

  Giving his stepfather a hard look, Asher said, “I do not know what game you are playing, sir, but I would warn you to be careful. Ormsby is not always a gentleman.”

  “You worry too much. I can take care of myself.” He winked at Asher. “I might even be able to do you a good turn while I am about it.”

  Asher’s brows snapped together. “What the devil do you mean by that?”

  Denning chuckled. “Ah, that would be telling.” And leaving Asher to scowl after him, he strolled away, his peg leg tapping on the polished oak floor.

  Juliana and Asher dutifully attended all the various festivities associated with the house party up to this point, but now that the engagement was official and the house party well underway and running smoothly, after tonight, they intended to retreat from the social scene for a few months. Except for meeting Marcus Sherbrook when he came to Burnham to escort his mother to Sherbrook Hall, they were both determined to be “not at home” to just about everyone.

  Feeling he had spent more than enough time involved in Thalia’s affairs, Asher cast a look around for his wife. Spying Juliana standing and talking to his grandmother and Mrs. Sherbrook where the two older ladies were seated on a tapestry settee on the far side of the room, with long strides he crossed the distance that separated them.

  Juliana smiled at him when he came up and they exchanged a look. “I believe,” she said, “that my husband is ready to leave.”

  Mrs. Manley nodded, knowing amusement in her gaze. “Yes, he has been very good about all of the fuss surrounding Thalia’s engagement, hasn’t he?”

  Asher grinned. “More than you know. More than you know.” Taking Juliana’s hand and placing it on his arm, he looked at his grandmother and said, “I assume that your coachman will see you home safely?”

  Mrs. Manley snorted. “You know, my dear, before you returned to the area, I somehow managed to arrange things to suit myself, but to answer your question, yes, Wiggins will be here with the carriage when I need him. And young Pelton will accompany him, so we two old ladies are well provided for. Now run along,” she smiled impishly, “as you are longing to do.”

  Laughing, Asher bent forward and kissed her cheek. “Thank you. I shall do just that.”

  Their good-byes said to his grandmother and Mrs. Sherbrook, they went in search of Mr. Kirkwood and bid him good night. Seeing that Thalia and Piers were still the center of attention, they decided to forego saying good-bye to the couple. Five minutes later, like children escaping the schoolroom, they scampered out the doors, down the steps and to the place where Asher’s curricle and horses stood tied.

  Asher tossed Juliana up into the vehicle, untied the horses, climbed in on the other side and set the horses off at a brisk clip.

  Kirkwood disappearing in the distance behind them, Asher breathed a sigh of contentment. Slanting a glance down at Juliana where she sat beside him, he murmured, “Now aren’t you glad that I rushed you to the altar? If not, we’d have been languishing on the sidelines watching enviously and longing for the moment our own engagement could be announced.” He grinned. “Not to mention sleeping in our own cold and lonely beds. Instead, we are on our way home where I intend to thoroughly ravish you the moment we reach the bedroom.” His gaze slid over her, lingering on the soft swell of her breasts above the lace-trimmed bodice of her spotted muslin gown. “Or perhaps, I shall just pull over to a shadowy spot in the trees and satisfy my manly lusts at the first opportunity.”

  Juliana rested her head against his shoulder and giggled. “Stop sounding like a character out of a gothic novel.” She peeped up at him. “But yes, I am most happy that our marriage is behind us. I would have been dreadfully unhappy to have had to remain at Kirkwood and watch you drive away.”

  “I wouldn’t have driven far,” he said. “Just far enough away to hide the horses and then I’d be climbing into your bedroom window.” He pressed a kiss on her mouth. “You, my sweet, are addictive.”

  His words warmed her, but she wondered again about the depth of feelings for her. Did he love her? Or simply enjoy her? Her head against his shoulder, she sighed. Was she being too greedy? Wanting too much?

  Asher heard her sigh and, looking down at the top of her head, frowned. “What is it?” he asked.

  Juliana half straightened and said, “Nothing.” Then added reluctantly, “I suppose it is just that Thalia and Piers look so in love….”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “No. No. It is just that…” She sighed again, wishing she was brave enough to just come out and ask him how he felt about her. Instead, she said, “Thalia looked lovely tonight, didn’t she?”

  Asher shrugged. “Yes, but I’ve always thought you were the real beauty of the family.”

  Juliana’s head whipped in his direction. “Really?” she asked in a breathless voice, delight coursing through her.

  “Of course,” he said in a tone that indicated only a simpleton would have thought any different.

  He thought she was prettier than Thalia! But that didn’t mean, she reminded herself, that he loved her. Trying again, she said, “Don’t you think it’s wonderful that Thalia is able to marry the man she loves? And Piers’s devotion to her is so apparent that everyone commented on it.” She sighed. “It was so very romantic.”

  Asher was puzzled by Juliana’s preoccupati
on with the state of emotion between Thalia and Piers, but he was not a stupid man and it only took him a second to realize what was behind her sighs and uncharacteristic interest. He smiled. Of course. While he knew he loved Juliana, he had never told her so and that, he decided, needed to be changed. Abruptly pulling his horses to a stop in the middle of the road, he looked down at her, the moonlight playing over his face. Gently, he said, “I do love you, you know.”

  Juliana gasped and stared wide-eyed up at him, her heart thumping madly in her breast. “D-d-do you? You n-n-never said so,” she stammered shyly.

  He smiled tenderly at her. “You have been in my heart for so long that I cannot tell you when I first fell, madly, wildly in love with you, but I am now and forever yours. Never doubt it.”

  Feeling as if she had just been given the stars and heaven, too, Juliana simply looked at him, her lips half parted, her face glowing.

  “I knew for certain in London,” Asher murmured, his eyes caressing her bemused features. “That time away from you made me realize that I could not imagine a life without you.” He kissed her, his warm lips lingering a long moment, the horses snorting and rocking the curricle at the delay.

  “Oh, Asher,” she breathed. “I love you, too!”

  “I know,” he said calmly. He shook his head, a tender smile on his mouth. “And you are a little goose if you didn’t know long ago how helplessly in love I was with you. Aren’t you women supposed to have instinct about that sort of thing?” His attention on his horses once more, he urged them to the trot and asked dryly, “Did you really think I risked life and limb to regain Thalia’s letters for you out of the goodness of my heart? And that I dragooned my grandmother to visit your sister in the sick room because I was a model of nobility?” He snorted. “If I hadn’t been over the moon about you even then, I’d simply have made a polite demur and ridden away without a thought.” His eyes on her face again, he said huskily, “I love you, Juliana. Now and forever.”

  Heedless of their surroundings, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. “And I love you—more than you deserve—you wretchedly arrogant man.”

  Laughing, with no little maneuvering between the horses and the confines of the curricle and his wife’s wiggling body, Asher pulled her into his lap. Keeping his horses under control with one hand, with the other, he settled Juliana comfortably across his thighs.

  Cradled next to his chest, one of his strong arms holding her close, Juliana rained soft, little kisses across his jaw and chin, her fingers tangling in his hair. “I thought I was happy before, but now…” She beamed up at him. “Oh, Asher, isn’t it marvelous we love each other?”

  His head dipped and he kissed her long and deep. When he raised his head, his breathing was ragged and uneven. “Marvelous,” he said in a strangled tone, painfully aware of his rigid member pushing insistently into her bottom. “And now, if I don’t get us home right away, I very much fear that anyone traveling along this road a few minutes from now will be shocked. Extremely shocked.”

  About the same time that Asher and Juliana were revealing what was in their hearts, Denning and Ormsby were sitting in a pleasant room at the side of the house that Ormsby had designated as his study. It was a good space; oak wainscoting gave it character and the French doors that opened onto a secluded courtyard allowed for the discreet arrival and departure of certain, ah, ladies.

  Denning brought several items from Apple Hill with him and they were currently scattered about the room—a baize-covered table for gaming, a half dozen well-worn, but exceedingly comfortable chairs, an older oak sideboard and Asher’s mother’s desk. Juliana had left behind a large mahogany bookcase and Denning had it already filled with his favorite books from Apple Hill. On the sideboard there was a pewter tray containing four crystal decanters and some glasses and snifters; mismatched silver candelabras were at either end of the sideboard. A platter holding some fruit and bread and cheese along with a small paring knife sat near one of the candelabras. Two blue-striped satin sofas flanked the French doors.

  The two men were seated at the table, cards spread out in front of them, and snifters of brandy nearby. They’d already played one hand of piquet with Denning winning easily.

  Ormsby was sprawled in the chair across from Denning, a sullen, moody expression on his handsomely jaded features. He’d arrived half foxed and in the time since he had been at Rosevale he had continued to drink heavily.

  Picking up the cards fanned out in front of him, Denning riffled through them, his gaze on Ormsby. “Incidentally, I meant to thank you for recommending that Will Dockery. My groom tells me that the young man is settling in nicely and knows his way around horses.”

  Ormsby grunted, his sullen expression not changing.

  Denning sighed and murmured, “You seem out of sorts this evening. Not feeling quite the thing, old fellow?” he probed delicately.

  Ormsby shot him an ugly look. “And what do you care? Your only concern is that I continue to lose and fill your pockets when you feel the need to jingle some coins.”

  Denning shrugged and pushed the cards away. Ruefully, he admitted, “You know I thought I would enjoy always winning, but I find I miss the thrill of never quite knowing the outcome of the hand I’d been dealt. Our little arrangement takes some of the excitement out of the game, don’t you agree?”

  “Are you complaining?” Ormsby growled.

  “Oh, no. It is just that always winning is not quite the pleasure that I thought it would be.”

  “Does this mean that we can stop this little facade? Have you ‘won’ enough to satisfy you?” The marquis looked around the room with its almost shabby furnishings and his lip lifted contemptuously. “Although I can’t see that you’ve spent much in here.”

  Denning smiled. “I like the familiar about me.” His gaze rested on Jane’s desk. “I treasure several of these items. You might say that they represent my good fortune.”

  Having noted the direction of Denning’s gaze, a speculative glint leaped in Ormsby’s eyes, and he asked, “That little desk has brought you good fortune?”

  “Oh, no, not that little desk,” Denning said lightly, “but many of the other things—such as this fine table before us. I’ve won many a hand sitting right here.”

  “But have you won enough?” Ormsby demanded in a grating voice, his eyes hard on Denning.

  Denning sighed and looked down at the cards on the table. “Yes, I’ve won enough.” He hesitated, then admitted slowly, “I thought the money would be enough, but I find, unfortunately, that I have a conscience where my stepson is concerned.”

  Ormsby stiffened and something dangerous leaped to his eyes. “I hope,” he said carefully, “that you are not about to do something very, very stupid.”

  Tugging on his ear, Denning said, “I don’t know. I have to think about it. He’s married now. Means it’s likely that this time next year there might be an offspring. Seems to me you might want to think about that and what you’re going to do about it…or what I might be forced to do.”

  Ormsby moved with the speed of a striking snake and lunged across the table, his hands encircling Denning’s throat. The table crashing to the floor, the two men struggled together, Denning’s chair toppling backward from the force of Ormsby’s attack.

  They fell to the floor, Denning desperately trying to break Ormsby’s lethal grip around his throat. His hands clamped around Ormsby’s wrists, he fought to free himself…and for breath. Struggling against the crushing strength of Ormsby’s hands, Denning rolled across the floor, slamming loudly into the bottom of the oak sideboard, the crystal decanters rattling together from the impact.

  As the seconds passed, unable to draw in air, spots danced in front of his eyes and Denning knew a thrill of fear. Good God! Ormsby was killing him! A knock on the door and his manservant’s voice, saying, “Master, is all well? I heard a noise,” brought the fight to an instant finish.

  Ormsby’s hands fell from Denning’s throat and, flinging him
self away, Ormsby pushed up off the floor and staggered over to his chair. It took Denning a few moments longer to recover, but he managed to lever himself upright and, gasping for air, he stumbled to the door.

  He took a second to straighten his cravat and, opening the door, he said somewhat breathlessly, “Nothing to worry about. The marquis, er, fell. Everything is fine.”

  The manservant, Denning’s former batman, Beckham, who had been with him for decades, was well used to the ways of gentlemen and nodded sagely. Most likely cup-shot, the pair of them. “Very well. I shall just be down the hall should you need me.”

  Shutting the door behind him, Denning walked back across the room and, righting the table, he surveyed his attacker. Aware that strong emotions fueled by drink could cause even the meekest man to react violently and having been involved in his share of savage drunken brawls, Denning took a more lenient view of Ormsby’s attempt to throttle him than someone else might have. It would be a long while, though, before he forgot the sensation of the marquis’s fingers around his neck and it occurred to him that Ormsby might be far more dangerous than he had realized.

  Deciding to make light of the situation, he straightened his chair and said, “That wasn’t very wise of you.” At Ormsby’s curled lip, he added, “My servants all know that you are here and if they were to find me strangled to death, suspicion would fall upon one person and one person only. You.”

  “Do you want an apology?” Ormsby snarled. “Fine! I apologize. I lost my head.” Jerking to his feet, he half walked, half tottered toward the door. His hand on the knob, he swung around to look at Denning. “We struck a bargain, you and I. I’ve kept my side of it. Threaten to break your part again and I’ll kill you,” he spat. Turning away, he flung out of the door and disappeared.

  Alone in the room, the cards scattered across the floor, one of the snifters in shards from the fall from the table, Denning sat down heavily and considered the situation. He rubbed his chin. Ormsby’s words didn’t frighten him, but the memory of the other man’s rage sent a warning chill down his spine. Only a fool, he reminded himself, ignores a death threat….