Further Than Passion

by Cheryl Holt

  "The water is still warm. I thought you might enjoy a bath."

  A bath! It was such an extravagance, a normal occurrence during her childhood that had once been taken for granted but now was a delicious memory because it was hardly ever allowed.

  "I believe I might," she tentatively assented, much more thrilled than she wanted to reveal.

  "Just so you let me wash your back. Then, we'll make love all night."

  A thousand wicked images careened through her

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  head, of the two of them wet, slippery, together in the basin. Did men and women perform such naughty antics? Was it common? How could she be twenty-five and never have heard of such dissipation? Dare she join him in his depravity? Was she ready to be corrupted?

  With great deliberation, she pondered the questions, and the answer, when it arrived, was so easy, so exciting.

  "Why not?" she responded.

  Why not, indeed. After all, who was to tell her no?

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  Marcus unbuttoned her dress, taking his time, even though he yearned to rip off the drab garment. She was too exceptional, too spirited, to be relegated to a servant's dowdy attire, and it was a pity that she was consigned to such mediocrity.

  The notion of her dreary prospects had him considering radical steps to alter her situation, but what would they be?

  The only part she could play was that of mistress, and if he was reckless enough to ask her, he couldn't imagine her agreeing. What sane woman would have him? But if she said yes, was he prepared to follow through?

  He didn't want her as his mistress. The label was demeaning and didn't express how he felt about her, yet he couldn't describe the role she should fill. He merely knew that he had to be with her, that he'd spent the entire day pondering her and devising furtive plans as to how they could philander more frequently without being detected.

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  How could such a massive mansion seem so accursedly small? There were too many inhabitants and not enough privacy. He'd like to whisk her away to his country home, just the two of them, flitting off in his carriage. They'd trifle and cavort until he'd sated himself, until he couldn't bear another second of her fascinating company, until he could concentrate on some topic besides her.

  Was his obsession driving him mad? Or—perish the thought!—had that blasted potion impaired his mental capacities? If so, how should he neutralize the effects?

  He tugged off her dress; then he eased her onto a chair. Her feet were so dainty, and he made a great show of removing her shoes, untying her garters, and rolling down her stockings. As with the negligee she donned when she was by herself, they were of a fine-quality lace, but worn to nothing, with many holes lovingly repaired, and he wondered again about her mother.

  Blithely continuing, he stripped her, and she weathered it well, murmuring and blushing, and he suffered the strangest sense of unreality, as if he were outside himself, and observing as another man seduced her. While he had many faults, he never dabbled with innocents. They weren't worth the trouble, not when there were so many licentious strumpets available. It was out of character for him, but he couldn't desist.

  She'd afflicted him like a terrible malady, an illness in his blood that he couldn't shake and for which there was no cure. He was pathetic, stricken, doomed.

  Once he'd disrobed her to her chemise, he had her stand, and he slid the straps down her arms, watching as the tattered garment slithered down.

  At the sudden nudity, he'd presumed she'd balk, but

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  she'd reached a conclusion about their relationship. She was anxious to transgress without being cajoled. What did her change of attitude portend? Was she growing fond? More than fond?

  Oh, how he hoped she was! Throughout his life, he'd expended so much energy distancing himself from others that he could scarcely recall how to interact in a normal fashion. He wanted her to expect the best from him, to view him as a different man, a better man, from the one he actually was.

  The chemise floated away, and confident and calm, she shucked out of it, as if her traipsing around so scandalously was a regular event.

  "You're so beautiful, Kate." His appreciative gaze swept down her torso. She was perfectly formed, rounded where she should be, and flat where she should be, too. "Have I told you before?"

  "No."

  "Shame on me."

  His body lurched to arousal, his cock heavy with the need to be pressed against her. With the pertness of her nipples, the auburn tuft between her legs, she taunted him to wickedness. He couldn't wait to touch her there, to taste her there.

  Clutching her hand, he guided her into the tub, and she snuggled down, reveling in the heat.

  "Ooh," she cooed, "what a luxury!"

  "If I'd known I could get you to smile at me like that, over something as simple as a bath, I'd have offered it days ago."

  "It's the sweetest gift you could have given me."

  "Shall I scrub your hair?"

  "It would take forever to dry."

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  "We can brush it out before the fire."

  "You'd light a fire? In the middle of the afternoon? How very extravagant!" She laughed, the sultry sound of it billowing around the small room.

  "I'm rich. If I want a fire in June, I'll have one."

  "Have you any idea of how lucky you are?"

  "Yes."

  Pulling up a stool, he sat behind her, and she dipped under the water. He soaped her hair, then had her douse herself so he could rinse it. When he'd finished, he poured her a glass of brandy,

  "Drink this."

  "Hard spirits? I'll be useless the rest of the evening."

  "We'll have more fun if you're a bit intoxicated."

  "You're the worst influence."

  "Good."

  She relaxed against the edge, as he busied himself with combing her tresses, the lengthy strands dangling to the floor. She allowed him to pamper her, and he suspected she wasn't coddled very often. No doubt working for Regina Lewis made for a difficult existence.

  Did anyone care for Kate? Did anyone love her? Or was she all alone in the world, as he was himself?

  The water began to cool, and he quickly washed her, a few swipes with a cloth, but not indulging as he'd intended.

  With each movement, he was teased with naughty glimpses, which were rousing him to recklessness, and he couldn't predict what he might do. He was close to climbing in with her, to relieving her of her chastity. Was she ready for such a consequence? Was he?

  Earlier, when he'd realized it was she sneaking in his door, he'd had such nefarious designs on her, but

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  now that the prurient episode had arrived, he wasn't sure how to proceed. He needed to rationalize and reflect, so he had to maneuver her away from the tub. It occurred to him that he should escort her to his bed, though why he imagined snuggling with her on the plush, wide mattress would be any safer was a question he didn't dare ponder.

  He helped her out and wrapped her in his robe, cinching the belt around her tiny waist, and rolling the sleeves. She peered up at him, her green eyes unafraid and trusting him much more than she ought. She appeared impossibly young, out of her element, and his dormant conscience prickled to wakefulness.

  What was he thinking, dallying with her? Was he bent on ruination? Was that his plan? Why was he so witting to endanger her welfare? If they were discovered, she could lose all, and he was undeserving of her assuming such a risk. He genuinely treasured her, and couldn't bear it if anything bad happened, so what was he about?

  He led her to the outer chamber, but as they entered, she halted, staring at him, and seeming to see much more than he wanted her to discern. He shifted, uneasy with her perception.

  "Is this where you entertain all your paramours?" she asked.

  "No. Never."

  "Marcus," she scolded, "I know that's not true."

  Having temporarily forgotten that she'd observed him with Pamela, he flushed, su
rprised to find himself ashamed. What must her opinion be?

  "It's very rare, Kate," he answered truthfully. Pamela was the only one, and those encounters were

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  infrequent, instigated by her when she craved some boon to which he wouldn't agree. "I don't even live in this house."

  "You're here constantly."

  "Merely because your room is just down the stairs."

  "You are so full of it."

  "I am not! I'm crazy about you."

  He grinned, wanting them to progress beyond the awkward moment, but she flashed a skeptical scowl. She didn't believe his pronouncement, and he was irked that she had so little confidence in his attraction to her. If she could read his mind, she'd be shocked by the level of his fascination.

  "It will be all right, Kate," he said quietly, recognizing that the statement was inadequate but not certain how to reassure her.

  He had no guarantees. He couldn't so much as swear to protect her from scandal or dishonor, but long after the Lewises had left town, and he never saw Kate again, he would remember how she'd looked lying on his bed.

  Not a man prone to whimsy, he didn't comprehend why he was being overwhelmed by such romantic notions, but with each passing hour, his feelings were more outlandish. He was enamored, smitten, and he hadn't the faintest idea why. They were scarcely acquainted, yet he felt that he'd known her a thousand years.

  He clambered up and stretched out, and though she was reluctant, she followed. He draped her across him, her breasts flattened to his chest, her thigh splayed across his own.

  Out of the blue, she inquired, "Are you in love with Lady Pamela?"

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  "My lord, no. I loathe her."

  "But you occasionally welcome her here, don't you?" It was an offhand way of admitting that Kate really had wandered in that strange night.

  "She's visited," he blandly divulged, "but not at my invitation."

  "Yet, you permit her to stay."

  "I'm not so foolish that I'd decline what's freely offered."

  "And you can engage in physical intimacies, even though you detest her? I don't understand how. I thought people had to be married."

  While he gamboled through the seedy side of London, she was so inexperienced, and her naïveté underscored how low he'd fallen, how pure she was, and how defiled he was.

  How could he presume to trifle with her? She was so fine, while he was so tainted.

  "We're not married," he explained, "but we've been very intimate."

  She blushed to the tips of her toes. "Is it common among adults?"

  "What?"

  "All this ... this ... touching and kissing?"

  "Yes."

  "So if I enjoy it, I'm not wanton?"

  "You're very normal, Kate. Probably the most normal person I've ever met."

  He conjectured about her history. Why was she always fretting about being too lustful? Over the course of their relationship, he hoped he'd alleviate her apprehension.

  "Will you make me a promise?" she asked.

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  "Whatever is within my power to bestow."

  "Swear to me that your days of cavorting with Lady Pamela are over. It's so wrong."

  "Are you worried about my immortal soul?"

  "Absolutely, you bounder. But I also can't tolerate the prospect of your doing the things to her that you do to me."

  It was a possessive request, and typically, he'd have refused, just on general principles. He didn't like people telling him what to do, and he definitely never allowed others to order him about, but he was charmed that she was concerned, that she liked him enough to demand better behavior.

  "It is an easy pledge to render," he declared, a cheerful tempest blossoming inside, "and will be a simple vow to keep."

  'Thank you."

  She kissed him, sealing their pact, and he felt so cherished, so extraordinary. Perhaps, in her company, he would be redeemed, after all.

  He loosened the belt on her robe, then pushed at the lapels, baring her center so he could caress her breast. "I adore your body."

  "Will you show me how you entertain the women you bring here? I want to know what it's like."

  He considered reiterating that he never had guests, but she wouldn't believe him. Her estimation of his character was too miserable. Besides, they had limited opportunity for interaction, and he wouldn't spend it arguing about his flaws.

  "I've already exposed you to some of it, and we can try more, but we can't fully make love."

  "Why not? Don't you wish to?"

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  "More than anything, but it would involve my ridding you of your virginity."

  "So?"

  "Then, you could never marry."

  "But if I later wed, how would my husband determine that I wasn't a maid?" She blushed again. "I'm sorry. I'm so ignorant in the ways of the world."

  "Which isn't so bad." How marvelous it would be if he could return to that innocent era when there were still mysteries.

  "I wouldn't agree. I'm always in the dark, wondering about information that other adults take for granted."

  He let his hand slither down, to her tummy, to her crotch, and he cupped her. "This is a special spot on a female. It's for mating."

  "How does it occur? I've been so curious."

  "We're built differently. I have a sort of ... of..." He hadn't realized it would be so difficult to clarify the details to someone who didn't know them. "A sort of rod between my legs, and if we were to proceed, I'd thrust it inside you."

  "Inside me?"

  "Yes, and then I would flex my hips. The friction is pleasant, and causes a liquid to spew out of the tip. It contains the seed that plants a babe."

  "You're joking."

  "No."

  "But if we were to ... to mate, I still don't understand how my future husband would detect it."

  "You have a thin piece of skin, here, and at the initial joining, it's torn. There's a bit of pain, and you'd bleed."

  "It won't grow back?"

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  "No."

  "So if we would decide to progress, I would need to ponder the ramifications very carefully."

  "Yes, and I can assure you that I'm not worth such a sacrifice."

  "I wouldn't be too sure."

  She smiled, and he hugged her close. "You are so good for me. You make me happy."

  "Really?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm glad."

  More bold than she'd been on any occasion previous, she rested her palm on his abdomen, directly over the area where his randy phallus was pressing at his pants.

  "In these trousers, you resemble an Arabian sheik."

  "They were a gift from a friend who'd traveled the Sahara."

  "They suit you. Much more than your fashionable attire."

  "Maybe I should scandalize London by wearing them when I'm out and about."

  "Now that's a sight I'd pay to see." She laughed again, the sound trickling over him like a soothing waterfall.

  "May I look at you?" she queried.

  "I don't think you should."

  She arched a brow. "Have you gone shy on me all of a sudden?"

  "Never. A man can become too aroused, to where he can't curb his impulses. If we're both naked, I'm not positive I can control myself."

  "You'd never hurt me," she insisted.

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  "Not intentionally, but there's a brute inside, waiting to leap out."

  "I'm not afraid of what lurks inside you."

  It was a comment on more than his sexual drives. She was saying she trusted him, but he was only a mortal human being, and she was so gorgeous and goading him beyond constraint.

  For once, he'd meant to be firm, to let his buried chivalry save her from herself. She wasn't aware of how rapidly passion could spiral, how fiercely it could sizzle, or how much damage could be inflicted before cooler heads prevailed. But his body had disconnected from his mind, and he was pulling at the drawstring on
his trousers, loosening the front so that she could begin her journey of discovery.

  He guided her fingers under the fabric, folding them around his elongated staff, demonstrating how to squeeze and stroke. She was an eager pupil, and it was torture, trying to remain detached while she played and learned, while she murmured her maidenly oohs and aahs.

  He steered her to his breast, instructing her on how to suckle his nipple, and she enthusiastically set herself to the task. She was adept at judging his reaction, and she quickly deduced how to make him squirm and writhe, how to garner the maximum response.

  As he should have grasped, she wasn't satisfied with mere touching. She had to see him, and she abandoned his chest, and trailed down his stomach, till she was hovered over his loins.

  "May I?" she repeated, her hands at his waistband.

  "Yes," he ground out, unable to deny her any request. He was so provoked that he felt as if he were

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  made of glass, that with her slightest caress, he would shatter into tiny pieces.

  She moved the material and froze, studying him as if he were a curious scientific specimen, and he was delighted to note that she wasn't frightened or appalled.

  "Oh my," she breathed, "it's so much larger than I imagined." She smoothed across the length, measuring the girth, flirting with the crown. "Are they the same on every man?"

  "Nearly. Some are bigger; some are smaller."

  "And yours?"

  "Bigger than most."

  "I can't fathom how it would fit into me. Will you show me?"

  "Not today."

  She pouted. "Why?"

  "You're not ready."

  "Why don't you let me be the judge?"

  "No."

  "Tyrant!"

  "Always."

  She was so beautiful, so rumpled and adorable. He yanked the robe off her shoulders so that it fell to her waist, so that he could stare at her bosom. He fondled her nipple, the sensation jolting his cock.

  "Lick me with your tongue," he commanded.

  Considering that this was her first encounter with male nudity, he was behaving badly, but he couldn't have the tryst conclude without somehow being inside her. He wouldn't forge on to ruination, so he'd settle for the alternative, though he didn't suppose he'd endure for two seconds.