by Lisa Valdez
As Matt requested the second dance with Charlotte, Abigail Lawrence stepped close to Mark. She smiled broadly, but her tone was ice. “Don’t you ever keep my daughter and me waiting like that again. Do you hear me?”
“Fuck you,” he murmured.
Tense with suppressed fury, he looked to his mother. She just stared at him.
And what the hell did he expect? That she would come to his defense, that she would say something to buffer the odious Lawrence—that she would, in some infinitesimal way, demonstrate that she was his mother as well as Matthew’s?
That would never happen. It never had.
His head pounded. He hated himself for these moments of weakness. They only occurred when he was forced into the presence of his mother and Matt together—which he usually managed to avoid.
At least, after their argument the day before, she had the wit to remain silent.
He turned to Charlotte. She smiled sweetly. He hated it, her sugary grin. He wanted to slap it right off her face. Maybe that would knock some small sense into the girl. Her smile faded.
He held out his arm. “Shall we dance, Miss Lawrence?”
And so it went for the next interminable two hours. As he was forced to bear the constant control of his mother and Abigail Lawrence, who continually lashed him to the stone of Charlotte, he alternated between varying degrees of frustrated fury and rage.
He bore their machinations, and Abigail Lawrence’s nasty directives, by thinking about Passion. If he had to smile, he thought of her. If he had to speak amicably, he thought of her. If he had to dance with any of the three women he hated, he dreamed of her.
But now, he felt near to breaking. He had momentarily escaped and stood with the Benchleys, yet his mother was making her way over to him. Abigail Lawrence, with Charlotte in tow, was trying to stroll over in a casual manner.
He had to get out. Without a word to Matt or the Benchleys, he exited the screened area and made his way into the milling crowd. He breathed easier. Indeed, the farther he got from that end of the room, the better he felt.
Soon, he would leave and go to Passion. Then he could forget the night’s misery. Taking a deep calming breath, he paused at the side of the dance floor to watch the dancers.
She caught his attention immediately.
He stared at her from the back as she danced with the man. Her thick auburn hair, decorated with burnished gold roses, was twisted and braided into an intricate style that just hid her nape. As she moved, he noted the set of her bare shoulders and the curve of her trim waist encircled by a verdigris sash. He knew the feel of that waist.
But how could it be? He frowned at the lustrous glow of her copper-colored gown. Gold lace glittered across the low back and shoulders. Her partner was a tall, handsome young man, not the big oaf. It couldn’t be her—not here, not in that gown, and not with that man.
His stomach dropped as she twirled gracefully.
It was Passion, looking like he’d never seen her.
She didn’t see him. She smiled graciously at her partner as they talked. She was enjoying herself.
A hot flare of jealousy burned through him. He was envious, not only of her happiness, but of being excluded from that happiness. While he had been suffering fury and misery, she had been having fun.
His heart pounded in his chest. God, she was beautiful. He wanted her. She was his, damn it!
Matt strolled up beside him and looked over the dance floor. Mark knew, by his brother’s low whistle, the moment he’d spotted Passion.
“Christ, she looks beautiful,” Matt commented.
“You haven’t seen her at her most beautiful,” Mark replied.
Matt glanced at him, but Mark kept his eyes on Passion. There seemed to be a certain easiness between her and her partner. He hated that. But most of all, he hated the man for being able to dance with her at all. How readily he supported her through the steps.
Drawing a deep breath, he glanced toward the other end of the pavilion. The tops of the tall screens were so distant. Could he get away with it?
“I wouldn’t, were I you,” Matt said under his breath. “The way you look at her—the way she looks at you—anyone who sees will know.”
Mark frowned. “Just one dance.”
Matt gripped his arm. “Do you want to ruin her? You have a reputation, my brother. And as much as you’d like to think everyone at the other end of the room is holed up behind those screens, I assure you, I’ve seen many walking about.” His grip tightened. “Anyone who knows you will assume you’re fucking her—which you are. There’ll be questions about who she is. Do you really want that?”
Mark’s frown deepened as he watched Passion. “No.”
Matt released his arm. “Besides, you’re an engaged man now. You can’t just dance with whomever you please. At least not when your fiancée is at the other end of the room.”
Mark’s shoulders tensed. He hated being told what he couldn’t do.
The music ended. Passion’s partner led her off the floor and then departed after a brief exchange of words.
Ah, there was the great oaf. He cornered Passion and began expounding upon something. Though she smiled, Passion looked tired. She pressed the back of her hand to her brow, as the elderly woman beside her peered at her through a monocle.
Damn it, he wanted to take her in his arms and carry her to his carriage. He would take her home with him, remove her copper gown, and lay her in his bed. There, she could sleep for as long as she needed—and he would keep her for himself.
She said something to the woman and the oaf, then turned to face the dance floor. Her eyes swept slowly across the dancing couples, moving ever closer to him.
His gut clenched. Find me, Passion. See me.
She was close, so close. Her perusal paused somewhere to the left of him.
If he couldn’t go to her, at least let her see him—let her know he was there—wishing he could be with her.
Her gaze continued on its path. His hands fisted at his sides.
There—so near. Now!
Oh, God… Her chin lifted and her lips parted, as if she took a deep breath. The quiet disinterest faded from her eyes, and they filled with the tenderest joy and longing. She held him in the embrace of her gaze and touched him with a beseeching caress.
His blood surged, and his heart soared.
“Jesus Christ,” Matt breathed.
Passion’s hands lifted, one to her side, the other to her stomach. Her breast heaved and, with a quick word to the woman with her, she turned and fled.
Yes! Go.
Mark stepped forward. I’ll find you.
Matt grabbed his arm.
He looked back at his brother. “Let me go.”
*
Chapter Eleven
Waltzes and Wounds
Passion barely heard Aunt Matty’s protestations as she fled. After she was out of the pavilion, she turned in the opposite direction of the crowd, which was converging to watch the fireworks. Picking up her skirts, she hurried down one of the statuary-lined paths. She didn’t look back, but kept hurrying farther and farther away.
Did he follow? She hoped he did.
But then why did she run?
She was the only one on the path. The music from the pavilion was distant. She threw herself behind a huge statue of a lion.
Why did she hide?
She pressed her palms and her forehead against the smooth marble base of the statue. It was cool and soothing against her warm skin.
After a moment, a shadow moved around the corner of the statue. She closed her eyes as the faintest hint of lemon verbena touched her senses.
“I’ve been longing for you all evening,” she said softly.
“And I for you,” he replied.
Her body hummed. She pushed away from the statue.
He closed the distance between them. He was so amazingly handsome.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming out of mourn�
�ing,” he said.
“No.”
He paused before her. “You should have told me.”
“Why?”
He traced her collarbone with his finger. “Because I want to know such things.”
A shiver shimmied beneath her skin.
“Because I want to know you,” he said quietly.
Passion gazed up at him. What were they embarking upon? Another level of intimacy would only make it more difficult to part.
I don’t believe in lasting relationships, he’d said.
She shouldn’t allow it.
But how could she resist what she wanted so desperately herself?
She shut out cold logic and followed her heart. “I want to know you, too.”
She leaned into him, and he took her in his arms. Why was his embrace such heaven?
“I was so tired before,” she said. “I haven’t danced in a long time. 1 enjoyed myself. But after a while, 1 got tired of wishing my dance partner were you. I wanted to leave.” She slipped her hand around his nape and looked up at him. “I was thinking of you and then there you were.”
He held her in his intense gaze. The heavy lock of his hair had fallen forward. He shook his head. “You’re unlike any woman I’ve ever known.”
“I think that must be good.”
His head lowered. “It is.”
He kissed her tenderly and deeply.
And when he began to yield, she took the lead, luxuriating in his responses—the press of his body, the tightening of his arms, the deep moan he breathed into her mouth.
The strains of another waltz lilted through the air.
“Dance with me,” he murmured against her lips. “Dance with me.”
They started slowly, but as the distant music swelled, he whirled and turned her over the dampened grass.
Her heart raced exuberantly.
His white collar glowed in the moonlight. His body pressed against her. His smile flashed.
She laughed, and her skirt flew out behind her.
A great explosion burst above them. Sparkling fire rained from the night sky.
Still, they waltzed, on and on, as boom after boom of colored light illuminated the heavens.
Passion’s heart took flight.
Surely, this happiness was a gift from God, for only He could devise a night this perfect.
Mark breathed the cold morning air and smiled as he let himself into his house. The night before had been torture until he’d found Passion. After that, it had been bliss.
He crossed to his study. He’d get a drink and then go to bed. Where was Cranford?
He paused in the doorway and groaned. Matt stood by the window.
“Shit. I guess you’re still an early riser.” Shoving back his hair, Mark crossed to the couch and threw himself onto it. “I know I said you could come here whenever you want, but you’re starting to wear out your welcome.”
Matt stayed by the window. “Did you have a nice evening?”
Mark stiffened at the tone of his brother’s voice. He couldn’t see him clearly as he was silhouetted by the light behind him. “You know I did.”
“Good morning, my lord.” Cranford came in with a steaming tray of breakfast.
“Morning, Cranford. Bring that tray over here, will you?”
His butler didn’t miss a step. “Certainly, my lord.”
Mark waited for Cranford to place the tray. As his butler poured the coffee, the silence in the room grew profound beneath the light clink of china and silver. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
Mark kept his eyes leveled on his brother. “No, thank you, Cranford.”
His butler closed the study door with a quiet click.
“Now”—he frowned at Matt—“if I know you, which I do, you’re famished for breakfast. You want it, you’ll have to come over here for it. And I’m in no humor for your peevishness. So if you can’t say whatever the hell you have to say directly, don’t bother.”
Matt paused only a moment before coming to sit on the opposing couch. Piling a plate with eggs, sausage, buttered toast, and berries, he rested his elbows on his spread knees and ale. “Damned uncomfortable way to have breakfast,” he muttered.
Mark picked up his coffee and, resting his heels on the table, lounged back on the couch. He let his brother eat. Since boyhood, Matt had had a voracious morning appetite. Mark was convinced the reason his brother woke so early was because his growling stomach prodded him into consciousness.
“Remember at school how you used to hide part of your dinner in your jacket so you could eat it the next morning?”
Matt grinned around his sausage and nodded. He put down his plate and sipped his coffee. “Remember how you used to sneak out and get me hot rolls when that wasn’t enough?”
“Yes.”
Mark had a vision of his mother wagging her finger at him. You make sure Matthew wants for nothing, do you hear me? I expect you to take care of him.
He had done as she asked.
She never thanked him for it—never praised him for it.
His brows lifted and fell. It didn’t matter. He would have done it anyway. Those had been good times. Just the two of them—away from her.
Matt’s voice pulled him from his memories. “Why don’t you tell me what the hell you’re doing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this whole Charlotte Lawrence business.” Matt braced his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. “Why are you engaged to her?”
Tension crept across Mark’s shoulders. He took his feet from the table. “Because I want heirs.”
“Is that the only reason?”
Bloody hell! “As a commoner, she’s pleased enough about becoming a countess that I can forgo the lengthy courtship necessitated by our class. Nor must I abide loathsome marital negotiations with some status-and money-hungry aristocrat, like your future father-in-law.”
He winced. That had been a shot. But damn it, at least it was true.
“And this Miss Lawrence isn’t status-and money-hungry? You said yourself she was just happy to become a countess. And what of the mother? Christ, you could see her avarice at sixty paces.” He scowled. “I don’t like her. Despite all her smiles and flattery, she rubs me wrong.” Matt pointed at him. “And I know you feel it, too.”
Thank God, a moment of truth. “No. I don’t like her. Not at all.”
“Then forget this engagement. Find a way to call it off. This whole damn thing feels wrong.”
“I’m marrying the daughter, not the mother.”
“Oh, right. I’m sorry—I forget that you know her so well,” Matt said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “And I could see how much you adore her, how excited you are to make these heirs you speak of. Christ, you were dying to get out of there. Which brings me to my real point,” he continued.
Mark sat up and rubbed the aching spot between his brows. “I thought you’d already given me the ‘real point.’ There’s another? I asked you to be bloody direct.”
“Shut up and look at me,” Matt growled.
What the hell? Tight with anger, Mark dropped his hand and lifted his eyes to his brother.
Why did Matt look as tense as he?
“Did you see how Passion looked at you last night?” His brother’s voice was hard. “I mean, did you really see?”
“Of course I did,” Mark snapped.
He didn’t like Matthew talking about her. She belonged to him, and he didn’t want his brother tainting her with whatever he was going to say.
“That’s all you have to say? Of course I did?” Matt shoved back his hair, shook his head, then looked back at Mark. “I’m going to give you some advice. And I want you to take it.” He leaned farther forward. “Marry Passion. Make your heirs with her. She meets your requirements for a common wife. And from what little I know of her, I can’t help but think her family will be a sight less repugnant than Mrs. Lawrence, who, 1 am fairly certain, is a damned bitch!
”
Mark stared at his brother. Marry Passion? How could he marry Passion? He had no intention of marrying anyone.
Did he?
Marry Passion.
“I can’t,” he finally said.
“Why the hell not?”
“Passion cannot bear children.”
It wasn’t the real reason for not marrying her, but it was true, and it would do.
Matt’s face fell, only to fill with tentative hope. “Does that really matter? Rosalind and I will surely have a son—a son we’ll christen Mark. As long as the boy has Hawkmore blood in his veins, what matter if he’s yours or mine?”
Jesus fucking Christ! Mark shoved the heels of his palms against his eyes. His throat felt tight. This was too goddamned much.
“She’s right for you, Mark. She’s the one. Don’t let her go. Don’t do it.”
Mark stood and crossed to the window. He stared out but saw nothing. Everything was wrong! Everything was completely, entirely wrong!
The brother he loved, who was only his half-brother, was desperately trying to give him happiness. The problem was, Matt didn’t know everything. The problem was, Matt was being lied to. The problem was, Matt didn’t have any fucking idea about anything and yet, somehow, was right about everything.
The problem was, it hurt like hell to admit he didn’t want to pass his title to the grandson of a gardener.
His eyes blurred with shame. He was no better than those he castigated.
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” he said between clenched teeth. “But I’ve made my decision for now.”
Silence hung heavy in the room.
“Then let Passion go.”
Mark’s heart sunk into his stomach. “I will not.”
“You have to.”
Mark whirled and crossed to his brother. “I—said—no.”
Matt stood, his brow furrowed in a deep frown. “You’re going to hurt her. I know you are.”
Mark shook and his fists clenched at his sides. “You have overstayed your welcome.”
Matt stared at him a moment longer, then stepped around him.
Mark heard the door open and then Matt’s voice. “I’ll forgive you for this. Passion may even forgive you. But I don’t know how you’ll ever forgive yourself.”