All About Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  He wondered how long he’d last—how long his control would endure the sweet heat, the luscious, scalding silken firmness that sheathed him. Leaning back, he urged her to lie back in his arms. Thus positioned, he could prolong their joining for a considerable time. He intended to reap all he could from the interlude. Give her, show her, all he could. She lay relaxed, boneless, against him, only the faint trace of concentration between her brows attesting to her awareness. He continued to move beneath her, wallowing in the hot slickness and the pleasure her body lavished on him.

  “Do I still need to look at the branches?”

  “You can if you like.”

  Leaving his right hand splayed across her stomach, he retrieved his left, shaking it free of her skirts. He started once more to lightly trace her breasts.

  She made a murmurous sound of pleasure. He didn’t think she was watching the trees.

  Sometime later she asked, “Does it go on like this to the end, or is there more?”

  Her tone was merely curious—a pupil inquiring of her mentor. He understood what she was asking. “No—there’s more.”

  The next stage, the next level of sensation. They were both floating on a plane of elevated awareness, where their ability to feel was amplified but in a way that didn’t evoke the usual urgency, leaving them free to enjoy, to prolong the intimacy and appreciate it more deeply.

  He changed his teasing to more explicit caresses, until he was kneading her breasts, squeezing nipples tight and aching once more. Her breathing was ragged, her hips squirming. Then she angled her shoulders and tipped her head back; he bent his head and kissed her, let her kiss him.

  Tongues tangled. Out of nowhere, desire rose and swamped them. Raced through them.

  She ground her hips against him, taking him more deeply, luring him to thrust and set her free. He stubbornly kept to his rhythm, drawing out the moment ruthlessly.

  Until their kiss turned frantic, incendiary.

  Under her skirts, he shifted his right hand, sliding one finger down through her curls to the spot where she ached and throbbed. He circled the tight bud, and she gasped.

  He set his finger lightly on the swollen bud, let it ride there as he filled her once, twice, still to the same, maddeningly slow rhythm. Then he slowed still further, let her sense what was to come, then he pressed down, firmly, evenly, and thrust deeply inside her.

  She fractured like glass. He drank her scream, then drove more deeply into her. She gasped, clung, her ebbing strength leaving her open and vulnerable, unable to do anything other than feel as he held her down and thrust more deeply, then deeper still, pushing her on.

  With another scream, she shattered again as he felt his own release sweep through him. He held her locked to him as he spilled his seed deep in her womb, felt her body go lax about him, all tension released, open and willing and welcoming. Wanting and accepting.

  Chest heaving, he slumped back in the chair and gathered her to him.

  “Remind me”—he had to pause to catch his breath—“to teach you about flowers.”

  Her fingers trailed down his arm. “Do they differ significantly from trees?”

  “To appreciate flowers properly, you have to be standing.”

  They lay there, still joined, and let the minutes tick by, neither willing to move, to disturb the moment. To cut short the deep peace that intimacy brought them.

  Gyles stroked her head, fingers tangling with the long, trailing curls spilling from her topknot.

  He hadn’t bargained for this—not for any of it. Not for her passion, not for her intelligence—not for her love.

  That precious something she was determined to give him, that part of him desperately wanted to claim. But . . . he was unsure he could pay her price. He knew what it was, what she wanted in return, and did not, even now, after four days of considering, know if he could give it to her.

  She was a chance he wasn’t sure he could take, yet he knew he would never get a better one. Meet a woman more compelling, one more deserving of his trust.

  Honesty, sincerity—an inherent integrity. The passionate wanton who set him alight and his beautiful, assured countess were one and the same. Neither role was assumed; both were different facets of her true character. That was why people responded to her so readily—there was no falseness in her.

  Understanding her, learning more of her, knowing more of her, had become an obsession just as much as possessing her physically had been. Still was.

  He sensed the soft huff of her breathing, continued to stroke her hair. Continued to stare out of the window.

  The barbarian within him wanted to give her what she wanted, and claim in return all she was offering him. Or, at the very least, try. The careful, rational gentleman vowed even trying was too risky. What if he succeeded? How would he cope then?

  Yet denying her was beyond him—he, and she, had just proved it. A wise man holding to the arguments he’d espoused would have kept his distance other than in the bedroom.

  He hadn’t. He couldn’t. He would have to try a different tack. At the very least, he could search for a compromise, if such a thing was to be found. That much he owed her.

  Owed himself, perhaps.

  Chapter 12

  “Would you like to go riding this morning?”

  Francesca looked down the breakfast table. “Riding?”

  Gyles set down his coffee cup. “I offered to show you the Gatting property. I’m riding that way this morning. We could amble through the village on our way back.”

  “I’d like that.” Francesca glanced at her gown. “But I’ll need to change.”

  “No rush. I have to meet with Gallagher first—why don’t you join us in the study when you’re ready?”

  She struggled not to blink, not to let her amazement show. “Yes, of course.” She forced herself to sip her tea calmly, and wait until he left and had had time to reach his study before pelting up the stairs.

  “Millie?” Rushing into her room, she spied the little maid by one wardrobe. “My riding habit. Quickly.”

  Shedding her gown, she scrambled into the velvet skirt. “Would I like to ride—huh!” He’d avoided asking her until now. Join him in his study? She knew where it was but hadn’t set foot inside the room—she hadn’t wanted to intrude uninvited into his private space.

  Standing before her mirror, she fastened the short jacket and fluffed out her lace jabot. Then she glanced upward. “Thank you, Lord.”

  There was nothing worse than loving someone, and having no idea whether they would allow themselves to love you in return.

  Bootheels tapping, she went quickly down the stairs and strode to his study, her gloves in one hand, her crop swishing, her cap’s emerald plume jauntily dancing above one eye. A footman scurried past to open the door for her. She smiled sunnily and swept over the threshold.

  Gyles was sitting behind the desk, Gallagher in a chair before it. Gallagher rose and bowed. Gyles had looked up; he smiled easily. “We’re almost finished. Why don’t you sit down—I’ll be ready to leave in a moment.”

  Francesca followed the direction of his wave and saw a comfortable chair angled in a corner. She went over and sat down, then listened. They were discussing the tenant cottages. She made mental notes for later; she was too wise to evince any overt interest. Not yet. Time enough once he’d invited her opinion; just because he’d asked her to go riding about the estate didn’t mean he was ready to let her further into that area of his life.

  The estate itself was an arena he could legitimately keep to himself. Many of his standing did, but she hoped he’d allow her to become involved in more than a peripheral way. Large estates were complicated to run—the prospect fascinated her, not the questions of income, output and how many bags of grain each field yielded, but the people, the community spirit, the combined energies that drove any successful group effort. On an estate such as Lambourn, that spirit was reminiscent of that of a large, sprawling family, the prosperity of all interdependent o
n everyone performing their allotted tasks.

  Her view might be naive, but from all he’d revealed of his ideas on the voting franchise, she suspected their opinions would be largely compatible. At the moment, however, she was biding her time.

  And idly scanning the room.

  Like the library, the study’s walls were lined with bookcases, in this instance housing, not books, but ledgers. Surveying the serried ranks, she was prepared to wager that accounts predating the establishment of the earldom would be found among them. She swung her gaze over the regimented rows, then stopped, staring at the one shelf that contained books. Old books, including one in red leather with a spine at least six inches wide.

  She rose and crossed to the shelf. The book was, indeed, the old Bible she’d sought.

  Behind her, a chair scraped. She turned as Gallagher bowed to Gyles, then bowed to her. “My lady. I hope you enjoy your ride.”

  Francesca smiled. “Thank you. I’m sure I will.”

  Her gaze shifted to her husband on the words; he arched a brow at her, then came around the desk as Gallagher quit the room.

  “Shall we go?”

  Francesca swung back to the bookcase. “This Bible—may I borrow it? Your mother mentioned there’s a family tree in the front.”

  “There is. By all means.” He pulled the heavy book out for her; his gaze drifted down her velvet skirts to her boots. “Why don’t I give this to Irving, and he can take it up to your sitting room?”

  She smiled and slipped a hand through his arm, as eager as he to saddle up and be gone. “What a very good idea.”

  Ten minutes later, they were in the saddle and off. Gyles led the way up to the escarpment, then, side by side, they flew before the wind.

  Francesca flicked a glance along her shoulder. Gyles caught it—with her eyes, she flashed a challenge, then looked ahead and urged Regina on. The mare lengthened her stride, steady and sure. And fast.

  The grey thundered alongside, keeping pace. The wind whipped Francesca’s hair back in black streamers. Fresh and clear, the air rushed to meet them. With hands and knees, she urged the mare faster.

  Stride for stride, pace for pace, they streaked across the downs. The crisp coolness of the morning enveloped them. They raced, neither intending to lose yet not thinking of winning. The exhilaration of the moment was prize enough, the speed, the thrill, the thunder. They were locked in the moment, in the movement, horses and riders merging into one entity, the pounding of hooves echoed by the pounding of their hearts.

  “Slow here!”

  Francesca obeyed instantly, easing back in concert as Gyles slowed the grey from gallop to canter, and finally to a walk. The escarpment was less steep there. Gyles reined in where a track led down. Francesca halted beside him.

  His chest was rising and falling, as were her breasts. Their eyes met; they both grinned, ridiculously pleased. Francesca shook back her unruly curls and looked around, conscious that Gyles’s gaze lingered on her face, then traveled over her with a proprietorial air.

  She glanced back at him, eyes widening, questioning.

  His lips quirked. Reaching out, he tugged the plume on her cap. “Come on.” He clicked his reins, and the grey stepped onto the track. “Or we’ll never leave.”

  Francesca grinned and set the mare in his wake.

  They ambled down through gently rolling hills. Beyond lay fields reduced to stubble, hay stacked ready to be fetched away, the corn sheaves already gathered in.

  “Is this still your land?”

  “Down to the river and beyond.” He pointed to the east, then around in an arc to the south until he was pointing back toward the castle. “That’s the shape, with the escarpment the north boundary. Like an elongated oval.”

  “And the Gatting property?”

  “On the other side of the river. Come on.”

  They followed a lane between two lush meadows, then clattered across a stone bridge. Gyles shifted the grey to a canter. Francesca kept pace. The lane rounded a bend. An old house came into view, set back in the fields, a narrow drive leading to it.

  Gyles drew rein at the mouth of the drive. He nodded at the house. “Gatting. It was originally a manor house, but it’s been razed and added to over the centuries—there’s little of the original left.”

  Francesca studied it. “Were there tenants in it?”

  “Still are. They’re related to some of my tenants, and I knew their worth. There was no reason for them to leave.” Gyles turned the grey down the lane. “Come up to this rise. You’ll be able to see the whole property.”

  Francesca nudged the mare and followed. On the rise, she halted beside him. “Charles told me the tale of how Gatting came to be and how I came to inherit it.” She rested her hands on the saddle bow. “Show me the land.”

  He pointed out the boundaries. It didn’t seem that important a property, not compared to the rest of the estate. She said so, and he explained. They rode across the fields as he elaborated on the management strategies he currently employed. “Without Gatting, managing the acreage on this side of the river was a perennial headache.”

  She glanced at him. “One our marriage has relieved?”

  He met her eyes. “One it’s relieved.”

  They rode on in complete harmony, heading west through the fields. Eventually, they reached another lane, and Gyles turned back toward the river. “This’ll take us to the top of the village.”

  Another narrow bridge got them across the Lambourn. They rode past orchards enclosed by stone walls. A square-towered church loomed directly ahead, perched above the village and surrounded by a graveyard. They came upon a cottage, neat behind a white fence; the lane turned sharply beyond it, just before the church’s lych-gate. Gyles halted at the turn and waited until Francesca came alongside. He gestured ahead. “Lambourn village.”

  The street dipped, then gradually rose. Beyond the point where the village ended and the houses ceased, the street joined the main road the coach had taken on her wedding eve, carrying her to the Castle farther on.

  Buildings clustered on either side of the street. The houses ran the gamut from workers’ cottages, abutting one another in a row, to more prosperous free-standing cottages with strips of garden between stoop and gate. In the middle of the street, a number of shops proclaimed their existence via brightly painted boards hanging over the narrow pavements. The signs of two inns, one this side of the shops, the other just past them, were the biggest.

  “I hadn’t realized the village was so large.”

  Gyles jiggled his reins; the grey stepped out. “There’s a fair number of people on the estate and more in the village and on adjoining estates—enough to support a market day.”

  “And two inns.” Francesca considered the first as they passed it. The sign identified it as the Black Bull.

  “It’s nearly time for lunch.” Gyles glanced at her. “We can leave the horses at the Red Pigeon and I’ll show you around the village, then we can lunch at the inn.”

  She hid her surprise. “That would be pleasant.”

  The Red Pigeon was a large coaching inn. Handing their reins to a freckle-faced lad, Gyles escorted Francesca through the heavy front door into the large hall.

  “Harris?”

  A round, bald head popped out from a door; it was followed by a rotund body clothed in black and white, with a white apron tied about the hips. Harris hurried forward.

  “My lord! What a pleasure to see you.”

  The innkeeper’s gaze fastened on Francesca.

  “My dear, allow me to introduce Harris—his family have owned the Red Pigeon for as long as there have been Rawlingses at Lambourn. The story goes that the first Harris served under arms to one of our ancestors and on retirement took to innkeeping. Harris, this is Lady Francesca, my countess.”

  Harris beamed and bowed very low. “It’s a rare pleasure, my lady, to welcome you to this house.”

  Francesca smiled as he straightened.

  “We left ou
r horses with your Tommy.” Gyles noted the interested stares of all those in the open tap. “I’m going to show Lady Francesca about, then we thought to take luncheon here. A private parlor, I think.”

  “Of course, my lord. The garden parlor, perhaps. It has a nice view over the roses to the orchards and river.”

  Gyles raised a brow at Francesca.

  “That sounds splendid,” she said.

  Gyles retook her arm. “We’ll be back in an hour.”

  “I’ll have everything ready, my lord.”

  Outside, Gyles steered Francesca along the pavement to the shops. The first was a bakery.

  “What a glorious smell!” Francesca paused to peer through the steamy window. A second later, a round, ruddy-faced woman appeared on the steps, wiping floury hands on a voluminous apron.

  Gyles nodded. “Mrs. Duckett.” The woman bobbed a curtsy and mumbled a “m’lord,” her gaze fixed on Francesca. Gyles hid a wry smile. “Allow me to make you known to Lady Francesca, my countess.”

  Mrs. Duckett sank into her best curtsy. “My lady! Welcome to Lambourn village.”

  Francesca smiled and with her usual ease acknowledged the greeting and inquired after Mrs. Duckett’s enterprise. Mrs. Duckett was only too happy to show her ladyship all.

  Thus it went as they progressed up the street, then crossed and returned on the other side. The outing was, Gyles discovered, an unexpected education.

  He’d expected that the shopkeepers would be eager to greet his countess; he hadn’t realized she would be so interested—transparently sincerely—in them, in the village itself. But she was. Her interest rang clearly in her questions, in her bright eyes and focused attention.

  He found his mind following hers, seeing things through her eyes. And was surprised by what he saw. Yet that was only part of the revelation. He knew and was known to everyone here; despite that familiarity, whenever he appeared he was usually the center of attention. Not today. Which left him in the position of some ghostly observer watching Francesca’s entrance on this familar scene, viewing her effect on it, on all the familiar characters.