All About Passion

  He dragged his lips from hers and ducked his head. Her fingers sank into his hair as his lips found her breast. The scalding touch of his tongue made her shudder, then he suckled, clamping a hand over her lips just in time to mute her scream.

  She was panting, heated, flushed beyond belief when he finally lifted his head, shifted back, and rucked up her skirts. Hard fingers found her knee, then trailed higher, over the flickering skin along her inner thigh. He touched the soft curls at the apex of her thighs, then his fingers trailed down again.

  They returned, to stroke, tease, then tangle in her curls, then one long finger slid between her thighs. She sucked in a breath. Her body tightened as he stroked, then gently probed, then his knee nudged hers, opening her farther. Warm darkness held them; her senses reached no further than him—the world beyond their cocoon of straw had vanished, fallen away. His touch was deliberate, knowing. Dragging in another breath, Francesca parted her thighs.

  He cupped her, and her nerves shook. Then his hand shifted; one long finger pressed in, a little way at first, then deeper, deeper, penetrating her softness, opening her body.

  Francesca arched, but he held her down, his other hand splayed across her stomach.

  Gyles shuddered and closed his eyes. His fingers touched, traced, explored, his imagination supplying what he couldn’t see. He was one step away from madness. He had no idea how he had got to this point, but there was only one way forward, one path to sanity.

  Ruthlessly, he drove her on. Her body was fluid, liquid heat under his hands. She was passionate woman incarnate, wild and uninhibited; he had to kiss her again, had to stop her cries, had to stop the whimpers of pleasure that tore at his resolve. He could have pushed her to climax swiftly, brutally; some gentleness buried deep made him linger, made him show her the ways, made him steep her in pleasure, until, at the very last, she fractured in glory.

  Her body eased beneath him; he felt the last tremors of completion fade and die. He eased his fingers from her, shutting his senses to the musky sweetness that called so elementally to his instincts. He started to ease back, was about to lift away when she turned, found his face with her hand, cradled his jaw, and kissed him.

  Held him, trapped him in a web of raw need.

  For him, she was the ultimate siren—her kisses lured him to destruction. He only just managed to cling—not to control, but to sufficient lucidity to know what he was doing, and what he must not do. She was still aroused, still aware, still playing havoc with his senses. He’d assumed, after her first climax, an extended one at that, she’d be limp and exhausted, unable further to oppose his plans.

  He’d assumed wrong.

  He filled his hands with her breasts, then ducked his head and filled his mouth with her soft flesh. He’d tried not to mark her where it would show, but God alone knew how successful he’d been. She’d recalled the need for silence; the knuckles of one hand were pressed to her lips, stifling her cries. She was also doing her best to mute those more intimate sounds he drew from her, but not succeeding.

  He explored her lower body, naked now he’d pushed her habit to her waist. Her thighs, firm from riding, were a special delight; the smooth globes of her derriere, cradled possessively in his hands, made him shudder.

  He ached to take her, to possess her as she wanted to be possessed, to take her with all the passion in his soul—but that way lay madness. Yet sate her he must. Sliding lower, avoiding the hands that tried to urge him over her, he gripped her hips and set his mouth to her softness.

  She nearly choked on a scream. After that, she was too busy trying to catch her breath, trying to suppress her gasps, her screams. Too busy flowering for him.

  When he finally let her free, let her fly to the stars and shatter, she was, this time, too exhausted to even grip his sleeve when he eventually drew away. He knelt over her and straightened her clothing by feel, enough to pass muster if they were caught. Then he stood and lifted her into his arms and walked from the stall and the stable.

  As he crossed the lawns, he tried hard not to think, not of her, not of any of it—not of how he felt.

  Tomorrow morning he would marry her friend, and that would be that.

  His body was one giant throbbing ache. He doubted he’d get any sleep.

  He could, of course, congratulate himself on avoiding the pit that others had fallen headlong into. He could pride himself on not having succumbed to his baser instincts, on having adhered to the honorable course. He’d have been consumed by guilt if he hadn’t, on any number of counts, yet, deep within him he knew it wasn’t guilt that had kept him from taking her. Only one power had been strong enough to save her—and him.

  One simple, fundamental fear.

  He knew in which wing his mother had put his bride-to-be; Henni had told him just in case he wanted to know. Thank heaven she had. He assumed his bride-to-be’s companion had been housed nearby. Reaching the right corridor, he started along, then paused, lowered his lips to her ear and whispered, “Which room is yours?”

  She waved weakly to the door at the end. He juggled her and opened it. The windows were uncurtained; the moonlight streamed in, confirming the bed had been made up but was unoccupied.

  He laid her gently on it.

  Her fingers trailed down his sleeve, but her grip was too weak to hold him. He leaned over her, brushed her hair from her face, bent his head, and kissed her. One last time.

  Then he drew back. He knew she was watching him.

  “After the wedding, you’ll return to Rawlings Hall.”

  He turned and left her.

  Francesca watched him cross the room. She’d let him carry her to her bed assuming he was going to join her in it. As the door closed behind him, she lay back, shut her eyes, and felt bitterness well.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Chapter 6

  “Ready to take the final momentous step?”

  Gyles looked up as Devil sauntered into his private sitting room. Breakfast dishes crowded the table before him, but he’d paid them scant attention. Food was the last thing on his mind.

  Wallace had come in early to wake him—he hadn’t been asleep but had been grateful for the interruption. He’d spent enough hours with his thoughts. Bathing, dressing, dealing with the inevitable last-minute queries, had kept him busy until Wallace had served him breakfast, then retreated to tidy his bedchamber.

  Just as well Devil had arrived.

  “Come to witness the condemned man’s last meal?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.” Pulling up a chair, Devil sat facing him across the table and surveyed the dishes he’d disarranged rather than demolished. “Saving our appetite for later, are we?”

  “Indeed.” He felt his lips twitch.

  “Can’t say I blame you if all that’s being said of your countess-to-be is true.”

  He hid a frown. “What’s being said?”

  “Just that your selection was precisely as one might expect. Your uncle was quite taken. None of the rest of us met her—they arrived after dark.”

  Gyles hadn’t thought Horace’s standards differed that much from his. Then again, his uncle was over sixty—perhaps he now favored the quiet and meek. “You’ll meet her soon enough, then you can form your own opinion.”

  Devil reached for a pikelet. “You’re not going to reiterate you’re marrying for duty, not love?”

  “And slay your fond hopes? I’m too polite a host.”

  Devil snorted.

  Gyles sipped his coffee. Misleading Devil wasn’t his aim, but he wasn’t up to explaining. Denying the gypsy—denying his own raging needs—had sapped his energy. He should have been feeling smug, triumphant, anticipating the successful outcome of his careful plans. Instead, he felt inwardly dead, his emotions leaden, dragging him down.

  He’d done the right thing—the only thing he could have done—and yet . . . he felt as if he’d done something wrong. Committed some sin worse than any she’d tempted him to.

  He
couldn’t shake aside that feeling; he’d been trying to for half the night. Now here he was, about to marry one woman while another dominated his thoughts. The combination of wildness and innocence, wrapped in a package ripe for plunder, beribboned with a promise of uninhibited passion, of unrestrained wantonness . . . the gypsy was enough to drive any man insane.

  She’d shaken him as no woman ever had.

  This morning, soon, he’d free himself of her. No matter how attached Francesca was to her, he’d put his foot down. The gypsy would be off his estate, and away from him, by sunset tomorrow at the latest.

  He made a mental note to make sure she didn’t forget her horse.

  “I hestitate to mention it, but it’s a little late for second thoughts.”

  Gyles refocused.

  Devil nodded at the clock on the mantelpiece. “We’d better go.”

  Gyles turned, and saw it was indeed time. Concealing his ridiculous reluctance, he rose, then checked the set of his sleeves and settled his coat.

  “The ring?”

  He hunted in his waistcoat pocket, drew it out, and handed it to Devil.

  Devil studied the ornate band. “Emeralds?”

  “It’s been in the family for generations. Mama happened to mention that emeralds would suit, so . . .”

  His mother hadn’t actually mentioned it; he’d walked into his countess’s bedchamber, the one beyond his, and been hit over the head with the fact. His mother had redecorated the suite in his bride’s favorite color—a vivid, intense emerald. In the adjoining sitting room, the emerald was tastefully muted by inmixing of turquoise and other colors, but in the bedchamber itself, in heavy silks and satins, the solid hue held sway. Touches of gilt and polished wood rendered the result even more decadent.

  The room had sent his brows rising. He couldn’t imagine his meek, mild, and very fair bride in it—she’d be overwhelmed by the color. Yet if it was her declared favorite, as his mother insisted, who was he to argue?

  He nodded at the ring as Devil tucked it into his pocket. “I hope it fits.” He headed for the door.

  Devil fell in on his heels. “Can’t you at least give me a few hints? What does this paragon look like? Dark or fair, tall or tiny—what?”

  Opening the door, Gyles glanced over his shoulder. “You’ll see in five minutes.” He hesitated, then added, “Just remember, I did warn you I’m marrying for duty, not love.”

  Devil studied his eyes. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Marriages have a tendency to last a long time.”

  “That,” Gyles acknowledged, stepping into the corridor, “was one of the aspects that swayed me.”

  The chapel was in the oldest part of the castle. They reached it to find the guests already seated. Gyles continued around to the anteroom off the side. There, his father’s cousin, Hector, Bishop of Lewes, was settling his robes.

  “Ah—there you are, m’boy!” Hector smiled.

  Gyles introduced Devil.

  “We met last night.” Hector returned Devil’s nod, then held up a hand as he listened to the music coming from the chapel. “Ah-ha! That’s our cue. The bride has been sighted and we must get to our places. Right, then?”

  Gyles waved him on and followed, Devil at his back. Hector slowed as he entered the chapel. Gyles had to concentrate not to walk on his heels. He heard rustling, polite whisperings, but he didn’t look at the guests. Hector led them to the altar. Gyles stopped where he knew he was supposed to, before the single step. Lifting his head, he squared his shoulders. Devil stopped beside him; shoulder to shoulder they faced the altar.

  Gyles felt precisely nothing.

  Hector climbed the step, then turned majestically to view the congregation. The music, provided by Hector’s wife playing a spinet tucked away to one side, paused, then the opening chords of a bridal march sounded.

  Gyles watched Hector. The prelate lifted his head, his cherubic face wearing its usual amiable expression, and looked down the aisle.

  Hector’s expression changed. His eyes widened, then sparkled. His cheeks pinkened. “Well!” he murmured. “My word!”

  Gyles froze. What the devil had his meek and mild bride done?

  Skirts shushed as ladies shuffled about to see. The expectant hush was shattered by whispers—excited ones. A wave of gasps and smothered exclamations rolled forward. Gyles felt Devil stiffen, fighting the impulse, then Devil turned his head and looked. And stilled.

  Temper rising—surely Charles knew better than to let the girl appear in anything outre?—Gyles decided he may as well learn what everyone else already knew. Lips compressed, he turned—

  His gaze swept the front pew on the other side of the aisle, the one reserved for the bride’s family. An angular middle-aged woman sat smiling mistily, watching the bride approach. Beside her, pale blue eyes even wider than he remembered them, her mouth agape, staring straight at him as if she’d seen a ghost, sat . . .

  His meek, mild-mannered bride.

  Gyles couldn’t wrench his gaze from her.

  He couldn’t breathe—his head was spinning.

  If she was there, then who . . .

  A frisson of awareness raced up his spine.

  Slowly, stiffly, he completed his turn—confirmed with his eyes what his beleagured brain was screaming.

  Even when he saw, he still couldn’t believe.

  Still couldn’t breathe.

  She was a vision to make strong men weak. A veil of fine lace edged with seed pearls was anchored across her crown, covering but not concealing the rampant lushness of her hair, black as a crow’s wing against the ivory. Behind the veil, her emerald eyes glowed, vibrantly intense. From where he stood, the veil’s edge hid her lips; his memory supplied their fullness.

  Her gown was an old-fashioned fantasy in stiff ivory silk heavily sewn with pearls. She filled it to perfection, the low, square-cut neckline the perfect showcase for her magnificent breasts. The golden hue of her complexion, the darkness of her hair, and her vivid eyes allowed her to carry the ivory with dramatic flair; it wasn’t the gown that dominated the vision.

  From the fullness of her breasts, the gown narrowed to tightly encircle her waist before spreading in heavy folds over her hips. That tiny waist invited male hands to seize, while her rich skirts evoked images of plunder.

  She was a goddess designed to fill male minds with salacious imaginings, to claim their senses, snare their hearts, and trap them forever in a world of sensual longing.

  And she was his.

  And furious.

  With him.

  Gyles dragged in a breath as, with a susurration of silks, she stepped to her place beside him. He was dimly aware that to all eyes but his, she appeared a radiant bride, her lips curving in a smile of joyful happiness beneath her veil.

  Only for him did her eyes flash. With a warning, and a promise.

  Then she looked at Hector and smiled.

  Hector nearly dropped his Bible. While he shuffled and reshuffled, trying to find his place, Gyles looked down and struggled to breathe. She was handling this better than he was, but then, she’d known who he was all along—

  He hauled his mind off that track. He couldn’t afford to let his temper rule him. He had to think. He tried, but felt trapped, as if he was fleeing through a maze meeting blank walls at every turn.

  Devil nudged him. He lifted his head as Hector, finally ready, cleared his throat.

  “We are gathered here today . . .”

  He barely registered the words. In a daze, he repeated the phrases he had to say. Then she spoke, and instantly captured every last shred of his awareness.

  In her sultry, smoky voice, she—Francesca Hermione Rawlings—vowed to be his wife, in sickness and in health, for better, for worse, until death should them part.

  He had to stand there and let it happen.

  Devil gave Hector the ring. Hector blessed it, then held out the open Bible, the ring balanced on the page.

  Gyles picked it up and turned to her.


  She extended her left hand. He closed his fingers about hers, so small and delicately boned. He slid the ring on her finger. It slipped down, but he had to ease it over her second knuckle. It fitted perfectly.

  The ring glowed against her skin; the emeralds winked, their fire an echo of her eyes.

  He looked up and caught her gaze. The fire burned brightly there.

  She returned his regard, then her lips firmed. Surreptitiously she tugged, trying to free her hand.

  Gyles tightened his hold.

  For good or ill, she was his.

  The realization swept him. A turbulent power, basic, elemental—wholly primitive—flowed through him.

  “And now, by the grace vested in me, I pronounce you man and wife.” Hector closed his Bible and beamed upon them. “You may now kiss the bride.”

  Gyles released her hand. With apparent calm, she raised her veil and set it back.

  Sliding his hand around her waist, he drew her to him. She quickly looked up, eyes widening, lips parting—

  He bent his head and covered her lips with his.

  It should have been a gentle kiss, a mere formality.

  It wasn’t.

  His arm tightened, locking her against him. His tongue plundered—a warning of his own. It was a kiss of claiming, one that spoke of primal rights, of promises made, vows taken, bargains made that would be kept.

  After an instant’s surprise, she caught her breath and kissed him back—with fire, with defiance—with unadulterated passion.

  It was he who broke the kiss, aware that this was not the time or place. Their eyes met—they both remembered where they were and what they had to face. Silent agreement flashed between them. Because she was so much shorter, and he’d caught her so close, no one had witnessed the quality of their exchange.

  About them, music swelled; Hector’s wife had started the processional.

  Francesca blinked, then glanced at Hector. She tried to draw back—Gyles tightened his hold on her.

  Only to feel Hector’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Well! Might I be the first to congratulate the bride?”