All About Passion

  With her hands on his thighs, balanced before him, she felt like a prize, one he’d won.

  As she watched, his face hardened. His hands closed about her waist.

  She lifted her arms, reached back, up, to rest her hands on his shoulders. His lips curved as he bent his head and touched his lips to her temple.

  His hands closed about her breasts. She gasped and arched more definitely. He kneaded knowingly, avoiding the tight peaks, then his hands drifted, wandered, curving over her hips, over her stomach. His touch was not gentle but possessive, a conqueror mapping his domain.

  Watching from beneath her lashes, she deliberately shifted against him, rolling her hips against his thighs, wordlessly taunting.

  He reached out, grasped the back of a nearby chair, and swung it to stand with the seat beside her.

  “Take off your stockings.”

  For me. The words were unsaid; their meaning hung in the air. Without hesitation, she rebalanced, kicked off her slippers, then bent one knee and placed her foot on the seat. And gave all her attention to performing the simple act of sliding her garter down her leg, then removing her silk stocking. She let her hands linger, smoothing over the sleek curves of her leg as she eased the stocking down. Then she shook out the wisp of silk, draped it over the chair back, and repeated the exercise.

  Every iota of his concentration was locked on her, on her legs, on each deliberately sensuous movement of her arms and hands. She knew without looking; she could feel his desire like a warm weight on her skin.

  Finally, it was done; she pushed the chair away, then straightened, leaned back against him, against his chest, against his thighs—and met his gaze in the mirror.

  His face was set, the stamp of passion naked upon it. His chest swelled, then he lifted his hands to the ribbons anchoring her chemise. Two tugs and the ribbons slithered free; he stripped the chemise from her in a single stroke.

  And she stood naked before him, breasts high and peaked, full and lightly rosy, her stomach taut, the curves of her hips and thighs creating a frame for the dark curls that drew his eyes. Francesca savored the moment, drank in the blank lust that, for one instant, dominated his expression, then she turned and surprised him.

  He blinked, looking over her head at the reflection in the mirror. It distracted him long enough for her to unbutton his shirt and slip free the hooks at his waistband.

  He glanced down as she pressed her palms to his chest, then slid them outward, spreading the shirt wide. He reached for her; she quickly whipped the shirt back over his shoulders, trapping his arms.

  “It’s hardly any fun if I’m the only one naked.”

  His gaze fixed on the mirror. “I’m not sure about that.”

  She left his arms trapped and concentrated on easing his breeches down, avoiding touching his rampant erection. While she bent and dealt with the closures below his knees, he watched, unlacing his cuffs as he did. She felt his gaze; she would have only one chance to seize the initiative and push their interaction in the direction she wished.

  Crouching, she drew down both breeches and hose; he freed one foot, then the other, then flung his shirt aside—

  She went to her knees before him, sank her fingers into the backs of his thighs, then smiled, wickedly, up at him.

  Gyles read her intention in her eyes. He scrambled to protest, to say “No!” but the word lodged in his suddenly dry throat. Her smile deepened; her lashes lowered. Knees between his feet, she rose, leaned closer. The silken caress of her hair, swinging forward to brush his taut thighs, distracted him. He glanced at the mirror, caught his breath at the sight, then watched as her head bent.

  He felt the touch of her breath like a brand on that most sensitive part of his body. Then her lips touched, kissed, lingered teasingly, then they parted and she took him into the hot haven of her mouth.

  His eyes closed, his spine tensed, then tensed again as she caressed him. His fingers found her head, speared through the lush locks to close about her skull. He cracked open his lids, stared into the mirror, watched her shift and press closer, then he saw her take him deeper. The heat in his loins exploded; his eyes closed. He heard a moan.

  So did Francesca. The sound delighted her. She’d wanted to do this for weeks, but while he’d allowed her to caress him thus, he invariably cut short the moment. Not this time. She was determined to do it her way, to take her time and give him all he deserved. To take him, possess him, as she wished. The constrast of strength and exquisite softness had always fascinated her; his body was so strong, so invincible, yet this one part was so sensitive.

  With her hands locked about the backs of his thighs, fingers sunk deep, with her on her knees before him, her mouth locked about him, he couldn’t easily break free.

  She gave herself up to the moment, to her task, aware that every second of her devotions drained his resolve and made it less likely that he’d interfere. This time, it was he who would have to endure, to let his senses dance to her command, to let her brand him with her loving.

  The salty tang of him filled her senses. Releasing one thigh, she cradled the tight balls in their pouches, then stroked the base of his shaft.

  Felt his reaction. Felt the tension coil, felt him lock his spine, felt his hands close hard about her head, holding her still. . . .

  “Enough!”

  She heard the hoarse command; releasing him, she looked up.

  He brushed her hands aside, swooped, locked his hands about her waist, and lifted her. Lifted her high—she grabbed his arms for balance—then he swung her to him.

  She locked her legs about his hips. In the same instant, he entered her. Hands locked about her waist, he steadied her and thrust in, deeper, then deeper still. She tightened her legs and pressed closer, pressed down, until their bodies were locked, fused, joined.

  They were both gasping.

  Running her hands over his shoulders, she wound her arms about his neck, hauled his face to hers, and kissed him. He kissed her back—ravaging and voracious. She met every challenge and hurled it back, took as much as she gave. Using her legs for leverage, she eased up upon him, then slid down. Hands spread, curved around her bottom, he supported and guided her. Used her body as she used his, pressing pleasure on her, taking it in.

  Their joining became, not a battle of wills, but a battle of hearts—who could take more, give more. There was no answer. No winner, no loser. Just them, together, wrapped in sensual pleasure.

  Held by a sensual need only the other could fulfill.

  Time suspended as they let their bodies couple unrestrained. Their eyes met in heated glances, lips met in heated kisses while their bodies met in growing urgency.

  It wasn’t enough, not for either of them. Gyles carried her to the bed.

  “Don’t you dare lay me down.” It took all the breath she had to gasp the words.

  The look he cast her was inexpressibly masculine. “Damn difficult woman,” he ground out. But he sat, then swung his legs up on the bed, then juggled her and came up on his knees. Spreading them wide, he settled her so she was still wrapped about him, her thighs riding his hips.

  He met her eyes. “Satisfied?”

  She smiled, closed her hands in his hair, and kissed him.

  It was the same position in which they’d first made love, yet so much had changed since then. Not them, themselves, but what lay between them, the flame, the fire, the commitment, the devotion.

  The acceptance.

  As they continued to love and the lamps burned low, Francesca sensed the last barriers fade. Not only in him, but in her, too, until there was just them, together, facing the reality of what that truly meant. Coping with it.

  Her gaze was locked with his when she finally crested the bright peak; as her lids lowered and fell, he joined her. They held still for a long minute, struggling to breathe, waiting for their whirling senses to slow, then she tightened her arms about his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. And felt his arms tighten about her, holding her
to him.

  She smiled. He was hers just as much as she was his.

  Chapter 19

  “Have you received any news from the Castle?”

  Seated at his desk in the library, Gyles looked up and watched Francesca walk toward him. “Not since Monday.”

  It was raining outside, a steady downpour. Francesca went to the window and stood looking out.

  Gyles forced himself to look back at the letter on his blotter. After a moment, he glanced up—and found Francesca gazing at him. Her eyes lit with a soft glow, and she smiled. He focused on her lips—remembered all too vividly what they’d felt like closed about him, remembered all that had transpired throughout the past night.

  He wrenched his gaze back to her eyes. She read his, tentatively tilted her head. “I won’t be going out in this. Do you have anything—any legal cases or information—you’d like me to find?”

  The purr of her voice was like a caress, a gentle, understanding one. Gyles held her gaze, then looked back at his desk. He searched and drew out a list. “If you could find these references . . . ?”

  Taking the list, she perused it, then moved down the room. Under cover of replying to a letter, Gyles watched her, studied her—looked within and studied himself. After last night, she had every reason to hope, yet she wasn’t pushing, wasn’t presuming, even though he knew that in her heart, she knew. As did he.

  How to cope? After last night, when they’d both knowingly, deliberately, allowed passion to strip their souls bare, that seemed the only question left.

  She returned carrying a large tome. As she set it on the desk, he reached out and snagged her wrist. She looked up, brows rising. He laid down his pen—the ink had dried on the nib—and tugged; she let him draw her around the desk.

  “Are you happy here in London, going about within the ton?” Reluctantly releasing her, he sat back.

  She leaned against the desk and looked at him, eyes clear, gaze direct—wondering what tack he was taking. “It’s been entertaining—a novel experience.”

  “You’ve become very popular.”

  Her lips curved lightly. “Any lady who was your countess would attract a certain amount of attention.”

  “But the sort of attention you attract . . .”

  There it was—that much admitted, brought into the light. She held his gaze, then looked away. Moments ticked by, then she said, “I cannot choose whom I attract, nor can I dictate the nature of their attentions. However”—she again met his eyes—“that doesn’t mean that I return or value such attentions.”

  He inclined his head, accepting that. “What elements”—he paused, then continued—“would cause you to smile upon, to hold dear, a particular gentleman’s attention?”

  She hadn’t expected that question; her eyes darkened, turned distant as she searched for the answer.

  “Honesty. Loyalty. Devotion.” She refocused and met his gaze. “What does anyone—man or woman, lady or gentleman—desire in such a sphere?”

  He hadn’t expected such simple truths, hadn’t counted on her courage, her propensity to follow, reckless and regardless, wherever he led.

  Gazes locked, they both considered, wondered . . . hoped.

  Gyles knew very well where they stood. Teettering on the brink. “There’s a Madame Tulane, an Italian soprano, performing at the final gala at Vauxhall tonight.” He drew a playbill from beneath his blotter,

  Francesca’s face lit; he handed her the playbill and watched her devour the details. “She’s from Florence! Oh, it’s been so long since I heard—” She glanced up. “Vauxhall—is it a place I can go?”

  “Yes and no. You can only go if I take you.” Not precisely true, yet not a lie.

  “Will you take me?”

  Her excitement was palpable. He waved at the shelves. “If you help me with these references, we can leave immediately after dinner.”

  “Oh, thank you!” The playbill went fluttering; she flung her arms about his neck and kissed him.

  It was the first time they’d touched since last night, or, more precisely, that morning.

  She drew back. Their gazes locked. Green and grey without any masks, any veils. Then she smiled, sank onto his lap, and thanked him properly.

  The rain stopped at noon; by eight o’clock that evening, Vauxhall Gardens was packed with revelers, all eager to enjoy one last fling. A chill dampness hung in the air; the minor avenues were dark and gloomy yet still crowded, occasional feminine shrieks attesting to their attraction.

  Gyles inwardly cursed as he steered Francesca through the throng. Who would have believed half of London would turn out on such an evening? The jostling hordes included every class of Londoner, from ladies like Francesca wrapped in velvet cloaks, to shopkeepers’ wives, primly neat, looking around curiously, to whores, painted, feathered, bawdily trying to catch gentlemen’s eyes.

  “If we go through the Colonnades, we’ll come out close to our booth.”

  Francesca could see the square outline of what must be the Colonnades ahead. The crowd was so thick, they kept halting, pausing. In one such interval, she looked around, and saw, not ten feet away, Lord Carnegie.

  His lordship saw her. His gaze flicked to Gyles, then returned to her. He smiled, bowed.

  The crowd shifted, blocking him from view. Francesca looked ahead and quelled a shiver.

  They reached the Colonnades. Gyles turned under the first arch—just as a tide of revelers rolled out in the opposite direction. Francesca was caught, wrenched from Gyles’s side and pushed back along the path.

  She thought she’d lose her footing and fall. Regaining her balance, she struggled to break free of the melee. Her voluminous cloak was pulled this way, then that.

  Hands grabbed at her arms—even through her cloak, she knew it wasn’t Gyles. She jerked free, turned, but in the jostling crowd she couldn’t see who’d grabbed her.

  Dragging in a breath, she tried to forge her way back to the Colonnades. The crowd parted, and Gyles was there.

  “Thank heavens!” He hauled her to him, locked her close. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, closing her fist in his coat.

  “Come on.”

  Gyles tried to ignore the primitive uneasiness rippling through him. He held her close as they made their way through the Colonnades. They reached the Rotunda. From there, the way was easier, the crowd composed primarily of gentlefolk less inclined to jostle.

  As he’d arranged, their guests were waiting in the booth he’d hired. Francesca was disarmed and delighted.

  “Thank you,” she said when, radiant, she returned to his side. “I didn’t expect this. You’ve been busy.”

  “It seemed a good idea.”

  Devil and Honoria were there, as were his mother, Henni, and Horace. The Markhams and Sir Mark and Lady Griswold, old acquaintances who’d grown closer with Francesca’s entrance into his life, rounded out the party.

  The evening passed pleasantly. The booth was in a prime position; they had an easy stroll to the Rotunda, where seats had been reserved for the ladies for the performance. The gentlemen seated their wives, then retreated to a safe distance to discuss the bills they’d been working on and other important matters, such as the hunting and shooting they might have during the winter.

  At the end of the performance, Francesca rose, delighted. With Honoria, she headed to where their husbands stood.

  “Well!” A crabbed hand shot out and snagged her wrist.

  Francesca turned, then smiled. “Good evening.”

  “And a very good one it is for you, quite clearly.” Lady Osbaldestone turned to Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, seated beside her. “Told you it’d happen sooner rather than later.” Turning back to Francesca, she released her hand and struck it admonishingly. “Now you’ve got him in harness, just make sure you keep him right up to the bit, gel! Understand?”

  Struggling to hide a grin, Francesca didn’t attempt a reply.

  “If you don’t, just ask Honoria the
re. She hasn’t done too badly at all.”

  Lady Osbaldestone grinned wickedly. Honoria bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you.”

  Smiling, the Dowager touched Francesca’s hand. “It’s a great joy to see Gyles suitably settled at last, but it is true—you will have to make sure he doesn’t slide. At least until the role becomes second nature. Then . . .” She gave a Gallic shrug signifying that then, all would take care of itself.

  Parting from the older ladies, Francesca whispered to Honoria, “How do they know?”

  Honoria glanced at her, then whispered back, “It’s written all over your face, and his.”

  Her nod directed Francesca’s gaze ahead, to where their husbands stood waiting. Two tall, strikingly handsome, broad-shouldered men with eyes just for them.

  Honoria flicked her an understanding glance as they neared. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “Mmm” was Francesa’s reply. Smiling, she took Gyles’s arm, and they turned toward their booth.

  “Mmm, what?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Francesca dimpled up at him. “Are we dancing, my lord?”

  Gyles looked to where couples were waltzing in the area before the booths. “Why not?”

  So they whirled. Gyles was aware of the admiring male glances they drew; he could hardly complain. She was happy so she glowed, her eyes sparkling, her lips curved. That smile and the light in her eyes were all for him.

  The dance ended; as they headed back to the booth, they came upon another area of congestion. Gyles held Francesca’s hand firmly and led her through; she walked behind him, sheltered by his body.

  They turned the corner toward the booth door, and the crowd eased.

  A lady halted directly in front of Gyles, startling him into halting, too. She smiled like a cat and stepped closer.

  “My lord—what a surprise.”

  Gyles blinked. Her tone was a poor imitation of Francesca’s seductive purr. That instant’s hesitation encouraged the woman. Smile widening, she pressed close.