A Passion for Him

by Sylvia Day

  The first seemed unlikely, and the second seemed highly difficult, but Colin would take what opportunities were given to him and gladly.

  I want to know you, Amelia had said. If only he had the chance to make that happen.

  “You seem unduly pleased by this,” Quinn said around a bite. “It is not much.”

  “I saw Amelia,” Colin confessed. Held her, touched her, tasted her.

  Quinn stilled with a forkful of food lifted halfway to his mouth. “And?”

  “It is complicated, but hopeful.”

  Setting his utensils down, Quinn gestured for more ale. “How did she take your emergence from the grave?”

  Colin smiled ruefully and explained.

  “A mask?” Quinn asked when he finished. “Out of all the guises you are capable of donning, you chose a mask?”

  “Originally, it suited the masquerade. Later, she saw it on Jacques and it drew her to him. It seemed appropriate to wear it a third time under those circumstances.”

  “She is more like her sister than I thought.” Quinn’s lips curved into the slight smile he always wore when referring to Maria. “However, I fail to see how the situation is hopeful. Amelia has no idea who you are.”

  “That is a bit of a problem,” Colin agreed.

  “A bit? My friend, you are the master of understatement. Trust me, she will not take the news well. She will take it as lack of affection. When she discovers that you were not chaste and pining for her the entire time, she will have her proof that you do not love her.”

  Colin heaved out a sigh and sank back into his chair. “This was your plan! You said that I should become a man of means in order to make her happy.”

  “Also to make you happy. You would always doubt your worth if you came to her as an underling.” Quinn smiled at the serving girl who brought over the fresh pint, then sat back and studied Colin for a long moment. “I hear she is betrothed to the Earl of Ware.”

  “Not yet.”

  “She could be a marchioness, despite her father’s scandal and her sibling’s reputation. Quite an accomplishment.”

  Glancing around the room, Colin’s gaze paused a moment on every patron, taking stock of each one. “Yes, but she does not love him. She still loves me. Or rather, the boy I used to be.”

  A lovely blonde entered the room from the staircase that led to the bedchambers above. Dressed in deep purple and wearing a black ribbon and cameo at her throat, she reminded Colin of a doll. Her delicate features and slender build roused protective instincts, her heavy-lidded eyes and full, red lips inspired carnal musings.

  His brows lifted as she turned her head and locked eyes with him. Her smile made him frown in confusion, and he watched her approach with much curiosity, pushing to his feet when she came to a halt behind Quinn.

  She set her hands on the Irishman’s broad shoulders. “You should have told me you were back, mon amour,” she said, her voice inflected with an unmistakable French accent.

  The look Quinn shot Colin was intriguing, bearing more than a trace of irritation. He did not stand, merely caught the blonde’s hand and tugged her around, directing her to a chair he pulled closer with his foot. Considering Quinn’s love of females, his apparent disinterest in such a beautiful woman was beyond surprising. In close proximity, she was a delight. Pale blue eyes were framed by long, thick chocolate lashes and accented by finely arched brows.

  “Is this him?” she asked, studying Colin with an appreciative eye.

  Quinn growled.

  She smiled wide, revealing straight white teeth. She offered her hand and said, “I am Lysette Rousseau. You are Monsieur Mitchell, oui?”

  Colin glanced at Quinn, who cursed under his breath and resumed his meal. “Perhaps,” he replied with caution.

  “Excellent. Should it become necessary to kill you, it will be much easier now that I have catalogued your appearance.”

  Blinking, he asked, “What the devil did you just say?”

  “Provoking wench,” Quinn muttered. “He is innocent.”

  “They all say that,” she replied sweetly.

  “It is true in this case,” Quinn argued.

  “They all say that, too.”

  “Pardon me.” Colin glanced between them. “What are you talking about?”

  Quinn gestured toward Lysette with an off-hand jerking of his fork. “She is an additional part of my guarantee. She is to return to France with either Cartland, you or me.”

  “Or a confession,” she purred. “A confession from any of you would suffice. See? I am not so difficult to please.”

  “Christ.” Resuming his seat, Colin examined the Frenchwoman. It was then that he noted a hardness to her eyes and mouth that he had missed before. “How do you find these femmes fatales, Quinn?”

  “They find me,” Quinn grumbled, biting into a potato with gusto born of frustration.

  “You see only the negatives,” Lysette said, gesturing for service. “There are three of us at this table, all searching for the same thing. I am here to assist you.”

  Quinn glared. “If you think holding a sword over my head is endearing, you are sadly mistaken.”

  Colin was not so quick to dismiss her. “How can you help?”

  “In many ways.” The blonde took a brief moment to order wine from the attending serving girl. “Think of the places I can go where you cannot. All the people who might speak to me but not to you. All the wiles I employ as a woman that you cannot employ as a man. Why, the possibilities are endless!” She lifted a delicate hand to the cameo at her throat, and he found it nearly impossible to imagine her killing anyone.

  “How does your participation relate to Depardue?” Colin asked.

  Something dark passed over her features. “If he resolves this, it will save me the trouble.”

  “The agent-general is determined to leave nothing to chance,” Quinn explained. “Depardue watches Cartland. Lysette watches me. They perform the same service. She is an added . . . warranty.”

  Colin winced. “I cannot imagine Depardue appreciates the intimation that he might not be successful.” He looked at Lysette, wondering what the lure of such a position would be. “Why are you doing this?”

  “My reasons are my own. A word of advice”—she stared at him intently—“you can trust nothing about me except this: I want Leroux’s killer brought to justice.”

  Exhaling harshly, Colin drummed his fingertips atop the table. “I do not like this. While Cartland hunts me, we have a serpent in our midst.”

  Quinn nodded his agreement.

  Lysette pouted as she accepted the goblet she had ordered previously. “I would rather be Eve than the snake.”

  “Eve was alluring,” Quinn retorted.

  Colin choked, never having heard the Irishman say an unkind word to a female before.

  “What have you accomplished up to this point?” she asked, dismissing Quinn’s rudeness and directing her attention to Colin.

  “My days are spent evading Cartland and anyone who sounds French, and my nights are spent searching for him.”

  “That is the most ridiculous plan I have ever heard,” she scoffed.

  “What do you suggest I do, then?” he challenged. “I know nothing.”

  “So you must learn.” Lysette took a dainty sip of the blood red wine and licked her lips. She sat with a ramrod straight spine and uplifted chin, the hallmarks of good breeding and proper schooling. “You cannot do that while hiding, which is exactly what Cartland will expect you to be doing. Why do you not contact the man you both work for? Surely, he has the resources to help you bring this to a swift end.”

  “That is not his purpose,” Quinn argued. “We are responsible for the managing of our assignments. If we are caught, the cost is ours to pay. I expect your arrangement is similar.”

  For a moment, it seemed frustration marred the Frenchwoman’s lovely features, and then it was gone, replaced by a honeyed, careless smile.

  Colin could not help but wonder at h
er, and contemplate how much of a risk she presented. She was so slender and feminine, yet he knew from tales of Amelia’s sister that appearances could be very deceiving. “Do you have other suggestions, mademoiselle? Perhaps you think I should search in the bright light of day?”

  “Will you wear a mask?” Quinn asked, finally pushing his plate aside.

  “Why would he?” She raked Colin with an assessing glance from the top of his head, down the length of his outstretched legs, to his booted feet. “It would be a shame to conceal such comeliness.” Her mouth curved seductively. “I should like to view all of it.”

  Quinn snorted. “Now, you see, love. That is why you are not Eve. You lack the sense required to see the man is taken.”

  “You may wear a blindfold,” she offered Colin with a wink, “and call me by whatever name you prefer.”

  Colin laughed for the first time in days.

  “Watch out for her,” Quinn warned.

  “I will leave that task to you. I leave for Bristol in the morning. Cartland’s past may be affecting his present. I hope that something can be discovered that might give me some advantage.”

  “Good thinking.” Quinn’s lips pursed with thought. “Lysette and I will stay behind and make inquiries here.”

  “I am not comfortable allowing him to go off alone,” she said, with an underlying note of steel to her voice.

  “You will grow accustomed.” Quinn lounged in his chair with his usual insolent grace—his body canted to the side, his arm slung across the spindle back, his legs spread wide.

  “As handsome as you are,” she sniffed, “I sometimes find it difficult to like you.”

  Quinn grinned. “So we are in accord. Mitchell will search elsewhere. You and I will work together in Town.”

  “Perhaps I wish to go with him instead.” Lysette’s smile did not reach her lovely eyes.

  “Oh, would you?!” Quinn’s exaggerated pleasure made Colin laugh again. “How delightful. At least for me, if not for Mitchell. Sorry, chap.” He shrugged one shoulder and set his hand on the table.

  Before either of them could anticipate the action, Lysette was on her feet and Quinn’s discarded knife was piercing the table with precision . . . directly between his casually splayed fingers.

  He froze and stared at how close he had come to losing a finger or two. “Damnation.”

  She leaned over him. “Do not mock or underestimate me, mon amour. It is not wise to prick my temper.”

  Colin stood. “Thank you for the kind offer of your companion’s company,” he said hastily, “but I must respectfully decline.”

  Lysette looked at him with a narrowed glance.

  “You trust me not at all,” he said, “but I promise you this: I have every reason to clear my name and no reason to flee.”

  For a moment, she did not move. Then her mouth lifted slightly at the corner. “Your woman is here.”

  He said nothing, but an acknowledgment wasn’t necessary.

  She waved him off with a graceful toss of her wrist. “You will not stray far. Good luck to you.”

  After a quick bow, Colin reached into his pocket and tossed coins on the table. “I will pray for you,” he said to Quinn, squeezing his friend’s shoulder as he passed.

  Quinn’s reply was a blistering curse.

  Chapter 7

  It was a small but fine house in a respectable neighborhood. The Earl of Ware had owned it for three years now, and during that time, it had rarely been unoccupied.

  Tonight the lower windows were dark, but candlelight flickered from one upper sash. He pushed his key into the front door lock and allowed himself entry. The home was maintained by two servants, a husband and wife pair who were trustworthy and discreet. They were abed now, and since he did not require their services, Ware did not disturb them.

  He set his hat on the hook, followed by his cloak. Beneath that he wore the evening garments he had donned for another night in an endless string of nights spent at balls and routs. Except this evening had been slightly different. Amelia was different. He was different. The awareness between them had changed. She saw him in a new light, as he saw her in altered fashion as well.

  Climbing the steps to the upper floor, he paused a moment outside the one door where light peeked out from the gap at the bottom. Ware exhaled, taking a moment to relish the thrumming of blood in his veins and the quickening of his arousal. Then he turned the knob and entered, finding his dark-haired, sloe-eyed mistress reading quietly in bed.

  Her gaze lifted to meet his. He watched her breathing quicken and her lips part. The book was shut with a decisive snap, and he kicked the portal closed behind him.

  “My lord,” Jane breathed, tossing back the covers, revealing a shapely figure. “I was hoping you would come tonight.”

  Ware’s mouth curved. She was hot for it, which meant the first fuck could be hard and swift. Later, they would take their time, but now such dalliance would not be necessary. A circumstance that suited his mood.

  From the moment he had first seen the stunning widow, he’d wanted her. When her last arrangement with Lord Riley ended, Ware approached her with haste before anyone else could lure her away. She was flattered and, later, enthusiastic. They suited each other well, and the sex was pleasurable for both.

  He shrugged out of his coat; she untied the belt of her robe. Within moments he was deep inside her—her hips on the edge of the mattress, his feet on the floor as he drove powerfully into her writhing body. His frustration and unease were forgotten in the maelstrom of carnal sensation, much to his relief.

  But the surcease did not last long.

  An hour later he rested on his back with his hand tucked behind his head, his sweat-drenched skin cooling in the evening air.

  “That was delicious,” Jane murmured, her voice throaty from passionate cries. “You are always so primitive when aggravated.”

  “Aggravated?” He laughed and tucked her closer to his side.

  “Yes. I can tell when something is troubling you.” Her hand stroked down the center of his chest.

  Ware stared up at the ornate ceiling moldings and thought again of how well the room suited her, with its rose and cream colors and gilded furnishings. He had encouraged her to spare no expense and to think only of her own comfort, having found over the course of several mistresses that a woman’s taste in décor spoke a great deal about her. “Must we talk of things unpleasant?”

  “We could work your frustrations into exhaustion,” she teased, lifting her head to reveal laughing dark eyes. “You know I will not complain.”

  He brushed back the damp strands of hair that clung to her temple. “I prefer that solution.”

  “But it would be only a temporary measure. As a woman, I might be able to assist you with your problem, which I suspect is feminine in nature.”

  “You are helping me,” he purred.

  Her raised brows spoke of her skepticism, but she did not press him.

  Exhaling harshly, he shared his thoughts aloud, trusting Jane as a friend and confidante. She was a sweet woman, one of the sweetest he knew. She was not the kind of soul who sought to hurt others or advance herself at another’s detriment.

  “Do you realize that a man of my station is rarely seen as a man?” he asked. “I am lands, money, and prestige, but rarely more than that.”

  She listened quietly but alert.

  “I spent my youth in Lincolnshire, raised to think of myself only as Ware and never as an individual. I had no interests outside of my duties, no goals beyond that of my title. I was trained so well that it never occurred to me to want something of my own, something that had nothing to do with the marquessate and everything to do with me.”

  “That sounds like a very lonely way to live.”

  He shrugged and shoved another pillow under his head. “I had no notion of any other way.”

  When he held his silence, she prompted, “Until?”

  “Until one day I traversed the perimeter of our proper
ty and chanced upon an urchin preparing to fish in my stream.”

  Jane smiled and slid from his arms and the bed, donning her discarded robe before moving to the console and pouring a libation. “Who was this urchin?”

  “A servant from the neighboring property. He was waiting for the young lady whose father he worked for. They had struck up a friendship of sorts, which intrigued me.”

  “As did the young lady.” She warmed the brandy expertly by rolling the glass over the flame of a taper.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “She was young, wild, and free. Miss Benbridge showed me how different the world looked through the eyes of one who suffered under no one’s expectations. She also completely disregarded my title and treated me just as she treated the urchin, with playful affection.”

  Jane sat on the edge of the bed and drank lightly, then passed the goblet over to him. “I think I would like her.”

  “Yes.” He smiled. “I believe she would like you, as well.”

  They would never meet, of course, but that was not the point.

  “I admire you for marrying her,” she said, “despite the sins of her father.”

  “How could I not marry her? She is the person who taught me that I had value in and of myself. My aristocratic arrogance is now tempered with personal arrogance.”

  Laughing, Jane curled over his legs. “How fortunate for the rest of us.”

  Ware ran a hand through his unbound hair. “I will never forget the afternoon when she said, quite innocently, that I was devilishly handsome, which was why she sometimes halted her speech midsentence. No one had ever said such a thing to me. I doubt anyone had ever felt it. When they stuttered it was because of intimidation, not admiration.”

  “I tell you that you are comely, my lord,” she said, the sparkle in her eyes giving proof to her words. “There are few men as handsome as you are.”

  “That may be true. I do not compare myself to other men, so I would not know.” He drank in large swallows. “But I suspect my attractiveness has more weight when I believe in it myself.”

  “Confidence is a potent lure,” she agreed.

  “Because she had no expectations of me, I was able to be myself with her. It was the first time in my life that I spoke without considering the confines of my station. I practiced wooing with her and said things aloud that I had never allowed myself to even consider.” He looked down the foot of the bed and into the fire in the grate. “I suppose I grew into my own by knowing her.”