by Lisa Valdez
Beneath the sheets, his cock nodded. “Oh, most definitely. How old were you when you did this?”
“Oh, we did it for years. But I was about fifteen at the time I’m referring to.”
“Excellent. Go on.”
“Well, on one particularly warm day, we were lying on the grass after our swim, when Prim leapt up with a shriek, pulled up her chemise, and started batting at her thighs. Patience and I went to her, but it turned out to be nothing more than a ladybug. Anyway, as I took it from her thigh, Patience said, ‘You have a beauty mark on your cunny, Prim.’” Passion’s blush deepened. “So before we really knew what we were about, we were sitting there, examining each other’s quims by the side of the lake.”
Mark’s breathing shortened. “Did you touch each other?”
Her regard was so warm. “A little.”
His cock came to a full stand. The image of Passion with her legs open and her chemise around her waist, touching herself and being touched by her sisters was more erotic than he’d expected. Not because he wanted her sisters, but because he wanted her, and it was innocent yet sensual proof of the woman she would become.
Though they had looked at each other with interest and curiosity and their exploration had been between them, not for the excitement of an observer, he couldn’t help wishing he could have been there. He would have dragged Passion away from her sisters and had his way with her in the grass. “Christ, I wish I’d known you then. I would have followed you to that damned lake every day.” He pulled her hand to his rampant erection. “And early on, my sweet, you would have known the pleasure of a good fuck.”
Passion smiled but then grew serious. “Would that I had known you.” She looked at him. “If you had been in my life, I never would have married my husband.”
The thought of her enduring life with some cold son-of-a-bitch angered him. He frowned. “No. I wouldn’t have let you.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“No.”
“But how would you have prevented it?”
The answer came immediately. “I would have married you myself.”
The words hung in the air between them.
Mark knew they were true. And strangely, he felt no surprise or discomfort at their utterance.
“But you said you don’t believe in lasting relationships,” Passion whispered. “You said, when you’re done, you’re done.”
He had said that. He’d said it because that’s what always happened. He’d said it because that’s what life had shown him.
But when he was with her, everything felt different. With her, his life seemed full of happiness and possibility. With her, he had faith in forever.
“Yes,” he answered. “But if I’d met you as a boy, I think I would have wholly different ideas about that.”
“But you met me now.”
“Yes.” He traced his finger between her breasts. “Thank God.”
He let his finger slide down to her pretty navel and then he remembered. He frowned. “You know, just because you didn’t bear a child with your husband, doesn’t mean you can’t.”
Passion stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the problem could very well have lain with your husband.”
“It didn’t.”
“How do you know?”
Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. “My husband was fucking one of the dairymaids. I saw him do it more than once, with more enthusiasm and vigor than he ever fucked me.” Her tears spilled and she swiped them away.
“Shortly, she got with child. She came to my husband, and he gave her money. She went away.”
“Christ, I’m sorry.” Mark pulled her into his arms. He never should have raised the subject. “I’m sorry, Passion.”
Bloody bastard! If her husband weren’t already dead, he’d kill him.
He smoothed her hair from her wet cheek and kissed her trembling lips. They were salty with tears. “You’re the most beautiful, desirable woman I’ve ever known,” he murmured. He took her mouth in another deep kiss to punctuate his point. Her clinging response and sweet embrace evoked a selfish exaltation that her husband had never known what she had to give.
He pulled back and took away a tear with the pad of his thumb. Her eyes looked like wet leaves of brown, green, and gold. He wanted them to sparkle with happiness, not sadness. He wanted to tell her that just because her husband had been fucking the dairymaid didn’t mean the baby was his. The damned dairymaid could have been fucking any number of men.
But he couldn’t tell her that. He could be wrong, and false hope would be a misery.
So he tried to speak to her other pain. “Some men lose their desire for their wives the moment they step out of church,” he said softly. “It has nothing to do with the wife; it’s merely that a wife is too available, too permitted. Their zeal is for all the women they can’t have.”
Passion seemed to consider his words. She looked at him after a moment. “Is that why you want me so much? Because I’m not too available, not too permitted?”
He frowned. His feelings were so far from that, he hadn’t even thought of the comparison. “You know that’s not why I want you.”
“I know.” Her eyes delved into his. “I just wanted to hear you say it wasn’t so.”
He held her chin and kissed her gently. “I want you because you give me your whole self. I want you because you ask me for nothing, yet take everything I offer you.”
He frowned. “Which only makes me wish you would ask me for something—makes me wish you would ask me for something no one else can give you.”
Her eyes glowed with that indefinable emotion. Did she know it was there? He stared and recognized it was the same intangible something he’d seen in her drawing of him. What was it? Realization seemed so close, but somehow, still, it hovered just beyond his sight—just beyond his grasp.
His voice shook. “I want you because you’re everything I never ever dreamed could be.”
Passion smoothed the soft fringe of her shawl. It was beautiful against the dark red silk of her gown. She drew it more closely around her as John Crossman escorted her up the walk to the Lawrence home.
The windows were full of light. All the Lawrence clan would be in attendance for Charlotte’s engagement dinner, along with Abigail’s Netherton relatives.
She mounted the steps on John’s arm. She would be the only representative of the unfortunate country cousins—those Dare relations that were never spoken of. Charlotte had made sure that Passion and her family would be invited to the wedding. The formal invitation had arrived that day. She must be responsible for this evening’s invitation as well. Aunt Matty had been pointedly excluded, while Abigail had had the gall to suggest that Mr. Crossman would be a suitable escort for Passion.
Passion had wanted to send her regrets based on that slight, but Aunt Matty had insisted she go for Charlotte’s sake.
John paused before ringing. “Do you suppose Mrs. Lawrence will be riding her broom this evening?”
Passion laughed. He was good company, and nothing, not even Abigail Lawrence, could dim her happiness this evening. “In my experience, which is obviously limited, she is never without it.”
John smiled and shrugged. “Then let’s stay well out of her way.”
Passion grinned. “Agreed.”
He rang the bell, and they were admitted by the butler. The buzz of voices came from the upstairs salons. Abigail swept down the stairs to meet them. As she descended, her eyes moved over Passion with an assessing look.
She greeted John Crossman first. “How kind of you to join us this evening, Mr. Crossman. I didn’t know if your social schedule would permit you to come.”
Passion realized that if John hadn’t been able to attend, she wouldn’t have either. She could have come unescorted, but knowing so few of the guests, she likely wouldn’t have. Abigail had probably hoped for that.
“It is no kindness, madam. I am always privileged t
o be in Mrs. Redington’s company. I would cancel the queen to be with her.”
Passion glanced at him with a grateful smile, but he was regarding Abigail with a completely serious expression.
“Yes, well.” Abigail turned to her. “Charlotte will be pleased to see you, Passion. But do not monopolize her. When you’re present, she clings to you like a limpet. After you’re introduced to her fiancé, see that you keep your distance.”
Passion nodded and, taking John’s arm, followed Abigail up the stairs.
“Would the front steps be distance enough, do you think?” John murmured.
Passion grinned and nudged him in the ribs. “Thank you, by the way, for defending the worthiness of my company.”
He looked at her. “I meant what I said.”
Passion challenged him with a smile. “As if you’d really toss off the queen.”
He chuckled. “For you, I just might.”
The volume of the party grew as they crossed the landing, Abigail must have invited everyone she knew.
They followed her into the noisy parlor. Passion smiled and nodded to the few faces she recognized. Then, as she crossed the room, her eyes fixed on a familiar tall, broad-shouldered back.
*
Chapter Thirteen
When God’s Laws Are Broken …
A small frown puckered Passion’s brow. She stared at the broad shoulders and tapering torso. She knew that physique, even completely covered by immaculate evening attire. She knew the feel of his nape and the texture of his dark brown hair.
Her body hummed and her heart thumped wildly in her breast. But how could he be there? And how would she get through a whole evening without throwing herself into his arms? Lord, they seemed to be moving directly toward him. She reined her love in close and hid her smile.
“My lord,” Abigail said.
My lord? People stood all around them.
“Allow me to introduce Charlotte’s second cousin, Mrs. Redington, and her escort, Mr. John Crossman of Crossman Shipping.”
For a moment, no one moved. Then, finally, the tall back she had been admiring turned.
Mark’s blue eyes landed upon her directly. His mouth parted, and a dark shadow fell over his gaze.
Passion tried to smile. Wasn’t he happy to see her?
“Passion!” Charlotte rushed forward to hug her.
She returned Charlotte’s embrace. She hadn’t even seen her cousin until that moment. She saw, now, that Mark’s brother was there as well, and another woman who must be their mother.
Mark was shaking John Crossman’s hand. His brother was staring at her with the oddest expression. He stepped forward and took her hand in his. His dark eyes were full of compassion.
Passion’s heart trembled. Hadn’t Charlotte said her fiancé had blue eyes? She blinked. What was happening?
“I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Redington,” he said softly. His hand seemed to support her.
Charlotte was greeting John Crossman.
Passion’s stomach tightened painfully. She grasped at hope. “Do I have the pleasure of meeting the Earl of Langley, my lord?” Her voice quavered. “You are Randolph Hawkmore, are you not?”
He frowned and bent his head.
Mark took her hand from his brother’s. His fingers stroked her palm. She looked into his beautiful blue eyes.
“I am the Earl of Langley, Mrs. Redington. Mark Randolph Hawkmore, at your service.”
No! God, no!
“All the earls of Langley are christened Mark, Mrs. Redington, so we acquired the habit of going by our middle names to distinguish ourselves.” His gaze was so soft. “Only those who are closest to me use my given name.”
Passion’s head spun, and her stomach twisted into a tortured knot. She tried to draw a breath and couldn’t.
Mark frowned and put his other hand atop hers.
She began to shake uncontrollably.
“Passion.” Charlotte hurried to her side. “You’re white as a sheet.”
Perspiration broke across her brow. “I—I feel unwell,” she gasped. She couldn’t look at Mark, though he still held her hand. She turned to John. “Mr. Crossman, please.” Black dots flashed before her eyes. “I am ill.”
He gripped her elbow. “Do you need a physician?”
“I—no, I…” She had to get out of there before she fainted. She looked up at him and barely kept back her tears. “Please, I need to go home.”
“I can take her to a room above,” Mark said.
“No!” Her stomach wrenched. As she tried to take a step, her knee buckled.
Mark reached out to her, but John Crossman caught her around her waist.
Mark stepped forward, his face tight with tension, but his brother grabbed his arm as John led her away.
Charlotte hovered at Passion’s side as they hurried through the parlor. “My cousin is unwell,” Charlotte offered as explanation to the gawking faces they passed.
Passion pressed her hand against her stomach and fought the urge to retch. She couldn’t bear Charlotte’s presence, couldn’t abide her touch. “Please, Charlotte,” she begged as they reached the landing. She tried to smile. “Go back to your party, darling.”
Mark came out of the parlor, his brother on his heels.
Passion swallowed bile and, turning quickly, hurried to the stairs. Fearing Mark’s pursuit, she raced down the long flight. The steps blurred before her tear-filled eyes. She couldn’t see, but she couldn’t stop. Sobs hiccupped in her throat.
Mark, her love—her love—was Charlotte’s fiancé! With a cry, she stumbled, but John was there to catch her. She went where he led her, for she could see little through her tears and pain.
Where was Mark?
She couldn’t think.
John said something to someone about his carriage as he pulled her outside.
Mark’s words reared up from her memory. I’m not the sort of man you would like to know… I live my life for myself. I do what I want, and I couldn’t care less what people think about it.
She swayed on her feet.
All the time he’d been touching her, kissing her, laying with her, he’d been lying to her!
She shivered violently, and the rush down the front steps proved more than she could stand. At the curb, she bent and vomited her misery into the gutter.
“Let her go,” Matt growled in his ear. “He can comfort her. You cannot.”
But he could comfort her. He would comfort her. He needed to tell her everything.
Abigail and Lucinda strolled from the parlor.
“My guests are awaiting your return, my lord,” Abigail said stiffly.
“We were just seeing to Passion, Mother,” Charlotte said in a diminutive voice.
“Passion.” Abigail snorted. “I hope you see now why I didn’t want her here, Charlotte. She has ruined my party with her ill-timed sickness and her ill-bred flight. Now everyone will be talking about how your cousin took sick, rather than talking about you.”
Mark wanted to hit her. He kept seeing Passion’s face as he told her who he was. “Shut up, or I’ll leave, too, and then they’ll really have something to talk about.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened in dismay, and Matt grabbed his arm discreetly.
Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “If you leave, I swear I’ll make you sorry for it.”
Mark grit his teeth with suppressed fury. Right now Passion was thinking every terrible thought possible. She was suffering, while he stood there in a bloody catfight. Goddamn it!
Just as he took a step back, Matt stepped forward, glaring venomously at Abigail. “Just what the hell do you mean, threatening my brother? Frankly, madam, you ought to be on your fat knees in gratitude that the Earl of Langley has stooped to encumber himself with your daughter.”
Lucinda snickered and stroked Matt’s arm. She always seemed to take particular pleasure in her son’s rare but fierce loss of temper.
“I don’t know what you think you’re
about, but you will remember whom you are addressing,” Matt growled. “Or I will make you sorry for it.”
“Oh, really?” Abigail replied, her voice dripping with superiority and rage.
Mark’s heart pounded. The huddle was close, and shots were flying. The whole thing was going to blow.
And he would be free—free to convince Passion to stay with him for as long as he wanted.
Matt whirled to him. “Let’s go. This woman is unbearable.”
Mark took a step. Passion needed him. Matt could survive the scandal. He could.
“Matt, darling, there you are.” Rosalind stepped from the parlor. “Is everything all right? I heard someone took ill while I was in the music room.”
Mark’s shoulders tensed, and his hands fisted at his sides in helpless frustration as he saw Mart’s expression soften.
“Everything is fine, darling,” Matt said. “But why don’t you get your parents. I believe we’re leaving.”
Lord Benchley’s words to Matt rang in Mark’s ears: You will marry my daughter, dear boy, because you are a Hawkmore.
Matt could survive the scandal, but his engagement—his love—never would.
Mark’s brief elation died. And with its death, a cold, impotent fury settled over him. A fury that held everyone in its frozen scope—even Matt.
“No.”
Matt turned back to him. “What?”
“You don’t have to stay, but I do.”
Lucinda took a deep breath. Abigail smiled disdainfully and, turning on her heel, returned to the parlor.
“What the hell for?” Matt asked irritably.
Mark looked over Matt’s shoulder at Charlotte. How he hated her. She imprisoned him with her mere existence. She held him while Passion needed him.
“For her.” He nodded toward Charlotte.
Matt turned, and a layer of irritation lifted from his face. He frowned. “I hope you know my anger was not directed at you, Miss Lawrence. I have come to know you a little in this past week, and I have seen that you are as soft as your mother is hard. But I cannot stand by while she makes empty threats against my brother.” He bowed his head. “Forgive me. I bear you no ill will.”