All About Passion

by Stephanie Laurens

  She laughed coldly. “Like an infant incapable of any degree of self-preservation? A lackwit unable to walk through the park without falling and causing herself some hurt? Or was it that you imagined I’d be attacked and ravished under the trees”—she flung out an arm—“there, in your own park?”

  She wrapped her arms about her again, as if she was chilled by her own fury. Her eyes locked with his. “You have given orders that have made me a prisoner in this house—this house that is supposedly my home. Why?”

  The simple question slipped under his guard and rocked him. He’d expected her to rail against his restrictions, not cut straight to his heart and ask why. He let seconds tick by, let his breathing slow, steeled himself before stating, “Because I wish it.”

  She didn’t react—didn’t fling her hands to the sky and berate him. She studied him, her gaze steady and direct. Then, slowly, she shook her head. “That, my lord, is not answer enough.”

  “It is, however, all the answer you will get.”

  Again, she didn’t react as he expected. Her eyes widened; her gaze raced over his face, then she swung on her heel and walked back to her room.

  The door closed, softly, behind her.

  Gyles stared at the closed door. The coldness inside him deepened, intensified to pain. He’d thought he couldn’t get any colder; he’d been wrong about that, too.

  He’d been wrong about so much.

  So wrong in thinking that to love was a decision that was his to make. Yes, or no. It hadn’t been like that.

  A sound at the main door made him glance that way. With a curt gesture, he waved Wallace away. He needed a few moments to get his armor back in place, to gird himself to suffer the cold. He’d felt fear before, but it had never been like this. Never this deep, this black, this icy. Every time she caused it to rise, it grew more powerful, more profound. He thought he’d vanquished it, or at least come of an age where he could manage it and triumph. The moment in the forest, replayed with greater intensity on the downs, had left him feeling victorious.

  A hollow victory. If he was with her when danger threatened, all was well. He still felt the fear, but he wasn’t helpless against it, and he knew it. He’d proved it. He was who he was, in his prime; there were few dangers from which he couldn’t defend her. Protecting her encouraged the barbarian, fed his baser self.

  But his true self had no armor against invisible foes, no ability to protect her from them.

  Against all conscious direction, his true self had fallen deeply in love with his wife.

  Dropping the cravat, he started loosening his cuffs. He’d felt the first chill touch when he’d lifted her mangled hat from Wallace’s salver. He’d tried not to notice, to pay it no heed, as if by doing so he could deny its existence. Then had come the incident of the dressing.

  He been helpless to deny his fear. Ever since, it had ruled him.

  Knowing that the dressing had not been poisoned made no difference; it changed nothing.

  He was irrevocably in love with his wife. His world had come to revolve about her smile, and he could not face even the faintest possibility that she might be taken from him.

  Wallace had returned. Gyles heard the quiet sounds of his valet-cum-majordomo hanging his discarded coat in the wardrobe.

  The door to Francesca’s room opened. She came in, agitation flowing about her, whipping the skirts of her peignoir. Her hair looked wild, as if she’d run her hands through it.

  Gyles flicked a glance at Wallace to see his majordomo sliding once more from the room. Inwardly bracing, he faced Francesca. “What now?”

  Her face was pale. He didn’t want to meet her eyes, didn’t want to see the bruising in the green.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Her voice was low, not sultry but shaking with suppressed emotion.

  “Because I have to.”

  “Why?” Francesca waited, her heart a leaden fist in her chest.

  “Francesca . . .” Gyles sighed through his teeth, then he met her gaze, his eyes stormy, impossible to read. “You married me.” His voice was as low as hers but much harder, more forceful. “Even after that last meeting in the forest, you married me. You knew very well what you were marrying—you, of all women, knew that.”

  “Yes. But I still don’t understand.” When he turned, she shifted so she could still see his face. She wasn’t going to retreat, to let him shut her out. Drawing in a strangled breath, she spread her arms wide. “What have I done to deserve this? Why are you treating me like a felon in your house?” That struck a nerve. He flicked her a sharp glance. “Yes,” she went on, “like a would-be thief, someone to be watched over at all times.”

  “Everything here is yours—”

  “No!” Her eyes clashed with his. “Everything here is not mine!”

  Sudden silence enveloped them; they both stilled. Teetered on a precipice. Their gazes were locked. Neither breathed. She felt his will reach her, press her to draw back . . .

  Into that stillness, with great deliberation, she let her words fall, “The one thing I want—the one thing I ever wanted from this marriage—is not mine.”

  His face closed. He straightened. “I told you from the first what I would give you—have I reneged on anything I promised?”

  “No. But I offered you more, more than we had bargained—and you took. Gladly.”

  He couldn’t deny it. His jaw hardened but he said nothing.

  “I’ve given you more than we spoke of. I’ve tried hard to be all you wanted in a wife—I’ve managed this house, acted as your hostess, done all I promised. And I’ve done more, given more, been more.”

  She held his gaze, then more softly asked, “Now tell me, please—what have I done to deserve your distance?”

  It was pointless to pretend he didn’t understand, that he didn’t know what she wanted, what she’d hoped. What she’d dreamed. Gyles held her darkened gaze and wished he could, but they’d gone too far for that. From the first they’d dealt directly, at a level of communication he’d shared with no one else, albeit a communication without words. They were attuned—aware of the other’s moods, of the subtleties in their thinking. She’d been transparent from the first. And he’d let her believe that she could see into his heart, into his soul, when in reality his heart was forever shielded and his soul was locked away where no one could reach.

  For that—for all she had been and was—he owed her his honesty. “I never promised to love you.”

  The emerald of her eyes darkened. She looked at him for a long moment, then, swallowing, she lifted her chin. “Love is not something one can promise.”

  She turned and left him, the skirts of her peignoir trailing behind her.

  Chapter 17

  Love was something that came slowly, on silent feet. Something that crept up on a man unawares and took him prisoner. She’d said she felt like a prisoner now—she was a captive, did she but know it, to the love that had him in its grip. Neither he nor she could break free. Not now.

  It was too late for second thoughts. Too late to take evasive action. Once love struck, it was an incurable disease. Ineradicable.

  He’d accepted that, finally, not without a fight, but the long hours of the previous night when he’d held her tight against him had revealed a reality far more absolute than he’d believed could be.

  Love simply was. It asked no permissions, required no decisions. It lived. It lived in him.

  Gyles’s thoughts ran on as he stood beside his tallboy and unbuttoned his shirt. Wallace came back in; sitting in a chair, he allowed him to pull off his boots. Gyles remained in the chair, his gaze fixed, unseeing, across the room.

  What to do? The memory of her eyes just before she’d turned and left him was etched in his mind. He could eradicate that look with three little words, reinstate her glorious smile. He could tell her, and then try to work out some framework of existence, together. Was that wise? Could he trust her?

  One small corner of his mind whisper
ed yes, the rest of him ran screaming at the thought. Trust a woman with his heart, with the key to his defenses? Give her the ability to destroy him? The concept ran deeply against his grain; if the barbarian was absolute in protecting her, he was equally committed to protecting himself.

  There had to be some other way. He rose. Dragging his shirt from his waistband, he continued unbuttoning it.

  The terms of their marriage—the terms he’d specified—rang in his mind. She’d given him all he’d wanted. All except . . .

  The truth hit him, rocked him.

  His gaze shifted to, then focused on the connecting door. Muttering a curse, he strode across, opened it, stepped through. Remembering Wallace, he shut it behind him.

  It took a moment to locate her in the moon-streaked dimness. She was on the other side of the bed, in an armchair pulled to face the window. She flicked him a glance. As he rounded the bed, he saw her surreptiously dab at her eyes.

  He stopped behind the chair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She glanced back and up at him. “Tell you what?”

  Her voice was thick, her puzzlement genuine.

  He set his jaw. “You’re pregnant.”

  Her wide-eyed look told him she’d known, but had, at least momentarily, forgotten. She twisted to partially face him. “I . . . wasn’t sure. It’s only been a few weeks. . . .”

  They’d been married seven weeks.

  The clash of his emotions was so powerful he swayed, physically shaken, emotionally at sea. The future had just become so much more dangerous—so much more precious. To him.

  What did it mean to her?

  The huge eyes that stared up at him, green even in the poor light, were overbright. She was watching him, waiting . . .

  He couldn’t think. His mind was streaking in a dozen directions, panicked, reeling. He had to keep her safe, had to take her out of danger. He looked into her eyes. He couldn’t explain—couldn’t find the words, couldn’t force them past the vise locked about his heart. Couldn’t face his vulnerability. He’d let her think he was rejecting her. If he now asked for her company, would she reject him? Possibly. If he ordered her, would she go? No. Yet he had to get her away. Had to.

  He drew in a huge breath, mentally girded his loins. Curtly, he nodded. “I’ll be leaving for London in the morning.”

  Her lips parted in shock. Then her breasts swelled; her gaze kindled. “Indeed? Am I to take it you’re invoking our agreement?”

  “Yes.” The shadows hid his deception. “We go our separate ways.” He turned as if to recross to his room.

  “Wait!” The word resonated with fury, hot now, not cold. He turned back as she scrambled from the chair. “If you’re going to London, then so am I!”

  He held his breath, searched for the right tone. “I wasn’t aware you had any acquaintances in town.”

  “I’m looking forward to making some.” Her voice purred with anger. She tilted her chin. “I’m sure there’ll be many eager to befriend your countess.”

  He managed not to react. Managed to coldly incline his head. “As you say.”

  He thought he heard her teeth grind. “I do say!” She flung her hands in the air. “I’ve offered you more than you required, more than you looked for in our marriage. I’ve been understanding and patient—how patient I’ve been!”

  She started to pace, flinging words at him. “I have not made demands, I have not pressed you—I’ve waited, self-effacing, for you to come to your senses! And have you? No! You set your path—designed our marriage—before you even met me. Yet although the potential’s far greater than you imagined, will you rescript your views? No! You’re too pigheaded to change your mind, even when it’s in your best interests!”

  Her skirts whirled as she rounded on him, eyes afire, hands dramatically flying. “Very well! If you’re so insensible as to turn your back on what might be, so be it! Go back to London and your scintillating mistresses! But I won’t be left here, immured in your castle. I’m coming to London, too—and I fully intend to enjoy myself as I please.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer but swung away. Fury shimmered in the air about her. She halted, her back to him. Folding her arms, she stared at the window.

  Gyles let a moment pass—it would be unwise to agree too quickly—then said, coldly and evenly, “As you wish. I’ll give orders that you’ll accompany me tomorrow.”

  Throughout her tirade, he’d held to the shadows. He’d schemed and got what he wanted, what he needed—and rather more besides. The story of their marriage.

  He heard her sniff. Without turning, she inclined her head in haughty agreement. Face set, he crossed to the door to his room. Opening it, he saw Wallace, waiting patiently.

  “Her ladyship and I will leave for London as early as possible tomorrow. We anticipate taking up residence in the capital for the immediate future. See to it.”

  Wallace bowed. “Indeed, sir.” He considered for only a moment. “I believe we can be ready to depart by eleven o’clock.”

  Gyles nodded. “You may go—I won’t need you again tonight.”

  Wallace bowed again. Gyles watched him go, then turned—and discovered Francesca close beside him. He shut the door. “Satisfied?”

  They were close, face-to-face in the dimness. She rose on her toes, bringing their faces closer still. Her expression was belligerent; banked anger lit her eyes. “Rawlingses are so very stubborn.”

  Her eyes, narrowed, held his for an instant, then she flung away, crossing the room in a glide of swishing silk.

  His own eyes narrowing, Gyles watched her go, replaying her words, then he realized.

  She was a Rawlings, had been born a Rawlings, too.

  Releasing the doorknob, he followed her to her bed.

  She’d risked a lot on a stubborn man changing his mind.

  As she sat in the swaying carriage the next day, Francesca had ample time to dwell on that fact. To consider all she’d risked—her future happiness, indeed her life, for she was too deeply committed, now, to draw back. She’d placed her heart on the scales in allowing herself to fall in love with him; that was done and could not be undone.

  It wasn’t just her future, either, but his, too, if only he would acknowledge it. She was sure he saw the truth, but getting him to admit it, act on it? There lay the rub.

  How to get him to change his mind? The question fully absorbed her as the miles rolled past. It all seemed to hinge on who was the more stubborn—on whether she was willing to risk all to gain her dream.

  She tried to see forward, to think ahead, imagining the possibilities. Thoughts of the past night kept intruding. She didn’t want to think about that.

  About the way he’d closed a hand in the hair at her nape and swung her to him, tipped her head back, and kissed her as if he’d been starving. About the way his hands had raced over her, stripping the silk from her, greedy for her skin, her flesh, her body. The feel of him over her, around her, inside her, hard and commanding, demanding. He’d wanted and taken with the ruthlessness of a conqueror, and she’d been with him every step of the way. Taunting, defiant, taking her own pleasure in his possessiveness, recklessly urging him on.

  Holding him to her long after, when the tempest had passed and left them drained.

  She flicked a glance sideways, briefly studied his profile. One elbow propped on the window ledge, his chin supported in that hand, he was watching the streetscape of London roll by.

  She’d woken in the night to find him curled around her, his chest to her back, one hand splayed protectively over her stomach. When she’d woken in the morning—been woken by the maids scurrying furiously—he’d been gone. The chaos of the morning had left her no time to think, let alone reflect, not until they’d rolled out of the park and Jacobs had turned his team toward the capital.

  They’d stopped at the Dower House, but Lady Elizabeth and Henni had been out walking. Horace
had received them, jovial as ever, unsurprised that they might indulge in “a bolt to the capital.” They’d left messages of farewell with him.

  It had been Horace who’d been the focus of her thoughts as they’d bowled through Berkshire. Horace who’d been Gyles’s father figure through his formative years—the years in which a boy learned by observation the ways in which men behaved to women. It was obvious that Horace was sincerely devoted to Henni, but that perception owed more to Henni’s calm happiness than any overt behavior on Horace’s part.

  Horace had taught Gyles to be a gentleman, and Horace eschewed all outward shows of affection, of love, toward his wife, regardless of his true feelings.

  Eyeing Gyles, Francesca mentally ran through the catalogue she’d assembled of the actions, the small gestures all but buried beneath the activities of their lives, that had left her hope intact.

  He’d tried, deliberately, to dash that hope, to lead her to believe he was denying her absolutely, denying any chance of her dream transmuting to reality, yet all the while his actions spoke differently.

  Not just his actions in their bed, although their tenor certainly did not support the facade he’d tried to project—that of an expert lover who nevertheless remained emotionally indifferent to her. She suppressed a dismissive humph: he had never been emotionally indifferent to her—the idea!

  How he could expect her to believe it she didn’t know.

  Especially when there were a thousand other things that gave him away. Like his fussing when they’d stopped for lunch at an inn. Was she well wrapped and warm enough? The bricks at her feet hot enough? Was the food to her liking?

  Did he think she was blind?

  He knew she wasn’t. That puzzled her. It was as if he’d accepted that she’d know or at least suspect that he felt more for her, but that he was hoping, if not expecting, that she’d pretend she didn’t know.

  That didn’t, to her mind, make sense, yet it wasn’t, she was sure, an inaccurate summation of their present state.

  He said one thing but meant, and wanted, another. He’d said they would go their separate ways—she’d be greatly surprised if that came to pass.