A Passion for Him

by Sylvia Day

  “So this man in the mask is Colin Mitchell?” Ware asked, scowling. “The boy Miss Benbridge fancied in her youth? And she does not know it is him?”

  “She knows it now,” Tim muttered.

  “Mitchell is telling her as we speak,” Christopher explained.

  There was a thud behind them, and they all turned to find Pietro, who stood gaping with a dropped valise at his feet. “That isn’t possible!” the coachman said heatedly. “Colin is gone.”

  Maria glanced at Simon, who winced.

  “This grows more fascinating by the moment,” Mademoiselle Rousseau said.

  “You are a vile creature,” Simon snapped.

  Looking up at Christopher, Maria signaled her intent to stand, and he stepped back. “I should go see how things are progressing.”

  “No need,” he murmured, his gaze trained beyond her.

  All heads turned toward the hallway that led to the private dining room. Amelia appeared with reddened eyes and nose and disheveled hair, the picture of tormented heartbroken loveliness.

  Mitchell came into view directly behind her, and the sight of him took Maria aback, as it did everyone who saw him. Elegantly attired and proud of bearing, he left no traces of servitude clinging to his tall frame. He was an arrestingly beautiful man, with dark, sensual eyes framed by long, thick lashes and a voluptuary’s mouth framed by a firm, determined jaw. He, too, looked devastated and gravely wounded, and Maria’s heart went out to both of them.

  “Amelia . . .” Ware’s cultured drawl was rough with concern.

  Her verdant gaze met his and filled with tears.

  A low growl rumbled from the earl’s chest.

  “Colin.” Pietro’s agonized tone deepened the trauma of the day’s revelations.

  Distracted by the many unfolding events, Maria did not foresee Ware’s intent until he stalked up to Mitchell and asked, “Do you consider yourself a gentleman?”

  Mitchell’s jaw tightened. “I do.”

  Ware threw a glove down at Mitchell’s feet. “Then I demand satisfaction.”

  “I will give it to you.”

  “Dear God,” Maria breathed, her hand at her throat.

  Christopher left her side. He drew to a halt beside the earl and said, “I would be honored to serve as your second, my lord.”

  “Thank you,” Ware replied.

  “I will serve as Mitchell’s,” Simon said, joining them.

  “No!” Amelia cried, her horrified gaze darting between the grim masculine faces. “This is absurd.”

  Maria pulled her away. “You cannot intercede.”

  “Why?” Amelia asked. “This is not necessary.”

  “It is.”

  “I have a home in Bristol,” Ware said. “I suggest we retire there. Our audience will then be made up of those we trust.”

  Mitchell nodded. “That was my destination, so the location is convenient for me as well.”

  “I caused this.” Amelia looked pleadingly at Maria. “My selfishness has led to this end. How do I stop this?”

  “What is done, is done,” Maria said, rubbing her hand soothingly down Amelia’s spine.

  “I want to go with them.”

  “That would not be wise.”

  Christopher turned to her, and she saw in his face that he disagreed. She did not understand why he would wish them to go, but she could learn his motives later. As it was, she trusted him implicitly and knew that his first concern was always for her health and happiness.

  “I want to go,” Amelia said again, with more strength.

  “Shh,” Maria soothed. “We can discuss this over a hot bath and a change of clothes.”

  Her sibling nodded, and they moved away to order heated water and a tub. With everyone distracted with their own thoughts, no one noted the man who occupied a shadowed seat in the far corner. He attracted even less attention when he left.

  Stepping outside, Jacques tugged the brim of his hat down and sauntered across the drive toward the carriage that waited a short ways down the lane.

  He opened the door and looked inside. “Mitchell was just challenged to a duel.”

  Cartland smiled. “Come in and tell me everything.”

  Chapter 14

  It never ceased to amaze Amelia how a man as vibrant and impossible to ignore as Christopher St. John could fade into oblivion when he chose to. As it was, she hardly noticed that he shared the same squab with Maria as they traveled to Bristol. He held his tongue as she poured out her heart, and she was grateful to him for his silence. Few would believe that the notorious criminal could tolerate hours upon hours of a weeping woman’s lamentations over love, but he did and he did it well.

  “You told him you would not see him again?” Maria asked gently.

  “Until Ware challenged him, that had been my intent,” Amelia said from behind the handkerchief she held to her nose. She had refused to talk about anything yesterday on the ride to Swindon. Only today did she feel capable of discussing Colin without crying too copiously to speak. “We will be happier apart.”

  “You do not look happier.”

  “I will be, over the duration of my life, as will Colin.” She sighed. “No one can be happy pretending day after day to be someone they are not.”

  “Perhaps he is not pretending,” Maria suggested softly.

  “Regardless, the new Colin harbors the same doubts as the old. Despite all that he has accomplished, he still believed Ware was the better choice until just days ago. He continues to make decisions regarding my welfare without consulting me. I had enough of such treatment in my childhood.”

  “You are allowing your past to cloud your present.”

  “You champion his actions?” Amelia asked with wide eyes. “How can you? I can find nothing good in what he has done. He is wealthy, yes—that is obvious in the quality of everything he owns—but accepting that end as being worthy of my grief and heartache puts a price on my love, and I cannot abide that.”

  “I do not champion his actions,” Maria murmured, “but I do believe he loves you and that he thought he was acting in your best interests. I also believe that you love him. Surely, there is something good in that?”

  Amelia ran a hand over her skirts and gazed out the window. Behind them, Colin rode in his carriage with Jacques, Mr. Quinn, and Mademoiselle Rousseau. Ware led their procession in his coach. She was trapped between the two, both figuratively and literally.

  “I have come to the realization that passion is not as the poets would have us believe,” she said.

  There was a suspicious choking sound from the opposite squab, but when she shot a narrowed glance at St. John, his face was studiously impassive.

  “I am quite serious,” she argued. “Prior to these last weeks, my life was orderly and comfortable. My equanimity was intact. Ware was content, as were both of you. Colin, too, had an existence that was progressing in its own fashion. Now all of our lives are in disarray. You’ve no notion of how it pains me to realize that my resemblance to Lord Welton is more than skin deep.”

  “Amelia. That is absolute nonsense.” Maria’s voice was stern.

  “Is it? Have I not done exactly as he would do? Cared only for my own pleasure?” She shook her head. “I would rather be a woman who lives for duty than one who lives for her own indulgences. At least I would have honor then.”

  Concern filled Maria’s dark eyes. “You are overwrought. It has been a long journey and the inn in Swindon had little to recommend it, but we are almost to Bristol, and then you must rest for a day or two.”

  “Before or after the duel?” Amelia asked testily.

  “Poppet—”

  There was a distant shout heard outside, and then the carriage turned. Leaning forward, she looked out the window and watched a long, manicured lane empty into a circular drive graced by a sizeable center fountain. The lavish manse beyond that was breathtaking with its graceful columns and massive portico flanked by abundant, cheery flowerbeds.

  The line
of carriages rolled to a halt before the steps, and the front door opened, allowing a veritable swarm of gray-and black-liveried servants to flow out. St. John exited first. He then assisted Maria and Amelia down to the graveled drive.

  “Welcome,” Ware said, as he joined them. His mouth curved in a rakish half smile as he lifted Amelia’s gloved hand to his lips. He looked dashing in his garb of pale blue breeches and coat the exact color of his eyes, and the strained smile she returned had true appreciation for his charm behind it.

  “Your home is lovely, my lord,” Maria murmured.

  “Thank you. I hope you will find it even lovelier once you are inside.”

  In unison, they turned to look toward Colin’s coach. Amelia steeled herself inwardly for his appearance, expecting that he would look at her as he had done all of yesterday—with entreaty in his dark eyes.

  Sadly, no preparation on her part could mitigate the effect he had on her as he vaulted down from his carriage and approached with an elegant stride that was entirely sensual. Damn the man. He had always moved with an animal grace that made her tingle all over. Now that she knew how well that latent sexuality translated to bedplay, the response was worse.

  She looked away in an effort to hide the irresistible attraction she felt.

  “My lord,” Colin said, his smooth voice roughened by obvious dislike. “If someone could kindly provide direction to the nearest inn, I will be on my way. Mr. Quinn will return later to make the necessary arrangements.”

  “I would like you to stay here,” Ware said, startling everyone.

  Amelia looked at him with mouth agape.

  “That is impossible,” Colin protested.

  “Why?” Ware challenged with both brows raised.

  Colin’s jaw tightened. “I have my reasons.”

  “What is it?” St. John asked, a note in his voice alerting Amelia. Apparently he saw something in the exchange that she did not. “Allow me to help you.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Colin said stiffly. “Keep Miss Benbridge safe. That is all the assistance I require.”

  “If you are in danger,” Maria said, “I would prefer to keep you close. Perhaps we should stay at the inn as well.”

  “Please,” Ware said in his customary drawl, as composed as ever. “Everyone will be safer here than in a public venue with frequent traffic.”

  “St. John,” Colin said. “If I could have a moment of your time.”

  St. John nodded and excused himself. The two men moved a short distance away and spoke in tones too low to overhear. They became more animated, the conversation more heated.

  “What is going on?” Amelia asked Maria.

  “I wish I knew,” Maria replied.

  “Allow Mrs. Barney to show you to your rooms,” Ware said, gesturing to the housekeeper who waited on the lower step with a soft smile.

  “I want to know what is happening,” Amelia said.

  “I know you do,” Ware murmured, setting his hand at her lower back and leading her toward the manse. “And I promise to tell you everything as soon as I know it.”

  “Truly?” She looked up at him from beneath the brim of her hat.

  “Of course. When have I ever lied to you?”

  She understood the message. I am not Mitchell, it said. I have always been true to you. Grateful for him, Amelia offered a thankful, shaky smile. Maria joined her, and together they followed Mrs. Barney into the house.

  Colin watched Lord Ware lead Amelia toward the manse and fought the urge to wrench her away. It was unbearable to see her with another man. It ate at him as acid would, burning and stinging and leaving a gaping hole behind.

  “I think you should stay,” St. John said, drawing Colin’s attention away from Amelia’s departing back.

  “You do not understand,” Colin argued. “We have been followed ever since we left Reading. If I keep my distance from Miss Benbridge, I will draw the danger away from her.”

  St. John looked grim. “Unless she has a mind to follow you again,” he pointed out. “Then she will be far more vulnerable than if she were to remain here.”

  “Bloody hell. I did not think of that.” Lifting a hand to the back of his neck, Colin rubbed at the tense muscle that pained him. “In her present mood, I do not think she will go to the trouble.”

  “But you cannot be certain, and neither can I. Therefore, I think it best to err on the side of caution.”

  “Can you not deter her in some way?” Colin asked. “Cartland cannot be allowed anywhere near her. If he suspects how much she means to me, he will exploit her.”

  “Have you been able to deter her? Do not expect miracles from me.” St. John smiled. “My wife is considered the Deadliest Woman in England, and she taught her sibling everything she knows. Amelia can cross swords with the best of men, and she can throw a knife better than anyone, even me. If she decides to follow you, she will find a way.”

  Colin blinked, then gave a resigned exhalation. “Oddly enough, I am not as surprised by that revelation as I should be.”

  “I would have liked to have met their mother. She must have been extraordinary.”

  “I do not have the time to socialize,” Colin growled. “I must be either the hunter or the prey, and the latter role does not suit me.”

  St. John nodded. “I understand.”

  “I wish Mademoiselle Rousseau would believe Jacques’s witness of the events of that night, but she refuses. I cannot collect why. Why dismiss him so completely? How can she trust Cartland’s word over anyone else’s?”

  “I do not know what it is she seeks, but I will lend you whatever support you need. There is little that requires your attention tonight. Allow my men to begin the search in town. You can pick it up tomorrow. I think one night of domesticity will soothe Amelia enough to keep her from haring after you.”

  The thought of spending an intimate evening in the company of Amelia and Lord Ware was a torment unparalleled.

  “Will you stay?” the earl asked, joining them. “Rooms are being prepared for you and your acquaintances as we speak.”

  “Thank you.” It was all Colin could manage. “I will tell the others.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

  St. John watched him go, noting the stiffness of his posture and the anger evident in his stride. “He loves her.”

  “I see that.”

  Turning his head, St. John found the earl watching Mitchell with a narrowed glance. “I know why I think he should remain. I cannot collect why you do.”

  “Our differences will be more obvious in direct contrast.” Ware met his gaze. “I am the best choice for her. If I doubted that for a moment, I would step aside. I want her happiness above all else. I do not think he is capable of giving it to her.”

  “He is a formidable opponent in the challenge ahead. Mitchell has lived by his wits and his sword for several years.”

  “I am not without skill of my own,” the earl said easily, “regardless of the civilized manner in which I acquired it.”

  St. John nodded and followed Ware’s urging to move into the house. Tim was overseeing the removal of both trunks and servants from the trailing coach. Mitchell was scowling at Quinn, who was assisting a grinning Mademoiselle Rousseau down from their carriage.

  For his part, St. John wondered if other men went through such difficulties when attempting to marry off a younger sibling. Shaking his head, he climbed the stairs and moved directly to the suite assigned to him where he knew he would find his wife. Together, they would strategize the events of the coming few days.

  The thought made him smile.

  Bathed, dressed, yet inwardly shaky, Amelia slipped out of her bedchamber and hurried down the long gallery. Maria had told her to nap in preparation for afternoon tea, but Amelia could not sleep. What she felt was the urge to roam, to stretch her legs, to breathe fresh air and clear her head. As a child, she had learned that a brisk walk was capable of alleviating many ills, and she felt in strong need of that now.

>   “Amelia.”

  She paused at the sound of her name. Turning, she found Lord Ware exiting a room a few doors behind her. She curtsied. “My lord.”

  He shot a pointed glance at her walking boots. “May I join you?”

  She briefly considered voicing a kind objection, then thought better of it. As much as she wished to be alone with her thoughts, Ware deserved an explanation and the opportunity to chastise her, if he so wished. “I would be honored.”

  He smiled his charming, dashing smile and came toward her. He was dressed as a country gentleman, and the more leisurely appearance suited him well. It reminded her of their meeting in Lincolnshire, and the smile she returned to him was genuine.

  “How lovely you are,” he murmured, “when your smiles reach your eyes.”

  “It is because you look so handsome,” she returned.

  Ware lifted Amelia’s hand to his lips and his gaze beyond her shoulder, where he saw Mitchell at the end of the hall, watching them both with daggers in his eyes. Tucking Amelia’s hand around his arm, he led her away toward the stairs, which would take them to the lower floor and the rear garden.

  He felt his rival’s stare burning a hole in his back for the entire way.

  Colin watched Lord Ware’s proprietary handling of Amelia with something so akin to blood rage, it frightened him.

  He could not bear it.

  “You must find something to occupy yourself with, mon ami,” Jacques said, startling Colin with his sudden, silent appearance. “You will act regrettably if you think endlessly of her.”

  “I have always thought endlessly of her,” he bit out. “I know of no other way to live.”

  “She requires time. I admire your fortitude in giving it to her.”

  Colin’s fists clenched. “It is not fortitude. I simply do not wish to kill a man in front of her.”

  “Alors . . . you must leave. Distract yourself with a task.”

  Inhaling sharply, Colin nodded. He had been set upon that end when he chanced upon Amelia with Ware. He forced himself to look away from where the couple had stood mere moments ago. “That was my intent. I was seeking you out.”