Further Than Passion Read online

  "I'm sure they did,"

  Squealing with mortification, she buried her face in his jacket. He soothed her, with words and caresses, until they rumbled to a halt at her apartment.

  No servant rushed to the door, which boosted her certainty that they'd gleaned what antics were occurring. Were carriages a frequent spot for illicit activity? Was she the only one who hadn't known? She'd never look at a passing coach the same way again!

  She tried to sit up, but her torso wouldn't obey, so Christopher had to make her presentable, straightening her hair, her gown, draping her shawl over her shoulders.

  Circumstances had aged her more quickly than they might have another female, but she hadn't really matured until this instant, hadn't appreciated what being a woman entailed. She felt older, wiser, ready for another phase of her life to commence.

  "Is this something married couples do?" she queried.

  "On a regular basis."

  Suddenly, matrimony held an entirely new appeal. "So it can happen more than once?"

  "Yes." He laughed. "Over and over."

  "When can we do it again?"

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  "As soon as we find a moment to be alone."

  "Do you promise?"

  "Yes, my strumpet. I promise."

  The banter concluded, and they grinned, a world of understanding flitting between them. Their fondness for each other was genuine, precious, and couldn't be ignored or set aside. It seemed as if she'd always known him, as if Fate had specifically wended her to this place, and an exhilarating ripple of inevitability washed over her.

  She leaned forward and hugged him.

  "I love you," she whispered. Her pronouncement was brash and presumptuous, but she was so happy that she couldn't stop herself.

  "I love you, too," he answered, but he didn't add more. He didn't pledge himself, or mention the future. He kissed her sweetly; then he rapped on the door, and a footman opened it and arranged the step.

  "I'll come to see you tomorrow," Christopher declared.

  "Bring Kate with you."

  "I will."

  She waited another second, but he didn't offer anything further, and she kept her smile firmly affixed. Turning, she climbed out, the servant courteously assisting her and giving no indication that he was aware of her scandalous demonstration.

  At the last, Christopher murmured, "Selena ..."

  "Yes?" She whipped around, expectant, encouraged, on tenterhooks of suspense.

  For an eternity, he assessed her; then he said, "We'll talk on the morrow. When Kate is with us."

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  What did he mean? Kate was her guardian, and her sister. Was he planning to propose? She couldn't bear to hope.

  "All right." She nodded and fled into the building.

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  Marcus entered the foyer of his own house, blinking to adjust his vision after being in the bright sunshine. As an adult, he'd vowed never to reside in the mansion, and so far, he'd succeeded, making rare appearances when duty forced him. He stared up the grand staircase, pondering why he couldn't muster any connection to the drafty, ostentatious place. The property had belonged to his family for three hundred years, and Pamela spent a fortune ensuring that it was fashionably decorated.

  Heritage alone should have made it welcoming, but what he perceived was the dreary remnants of a forlorn childhood, the acrimonious memories of a confused adolescence. The walls echoed with bitter treachery and betrayal of a naive young fool who'd been enamored of the wrong woman.

  Occasionally, he thought about his father, curious as to whether he'd regretted the perfidy he'd perpetuated with Pamela. By all accounts, their union had been rocky and filled with strife. Had she been worth the

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  loss of his relationship with his only son? Had he ever been repentant for what he'd done?

  Marcus didn't know, and even if his father had undergone a deathbed conversion and had begged to apologize, Marcus wasn't sure he'd have cared to hear it. A pox on his sorry hide!

  The butler espied him and rushed over, greeting him in an effusive way that left Marcus uncomfortable. Ill at ease with his title, he felt like an imposter who didn't merit such fussy displays. He'd known the elderly gentleman his entire life, had endured many a scolding, and even a few swats on the bottom if he'd been naughty, and it always seemed as if he were betraying the fellow by not being a more involved earl, by not embracing his legacy with more enthusiasm.

  Whenever he dropped by, not just the butler but all the servants tried to be particularly obliging—in a manner they never were with Pamela—and Marcus received the impression that they were on the verge of imploring him to move in, to send her packing.

  Would they be any better off if he inflicted the likes of Melanie Lewis on them?

  He cheered the butler by giving him a task to perform, having him set out plenty of brandy before Marcus went to his monthly appointment with Pamela. They'd discuss expenditures and singular requests she was dying to have him grant.

  What a bitter tonic she had to swallow, being compelled to solicit him for every single farthing. He wasn't positive why his father hadn't provided for her in his will, but Marcus pictured the man laughing from his grave, enjoying the petty retribution.

  Marcus turned to proceed to the meeting, and much

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  to his surprise and delight, Kate was coming down the hall. She had on her drab chaperone's costume and gray cloak, the hood pulled up to conceal her glorious hair. Evidently, she was going somewhere, and he experienced a humorous stab of jealousy that her day was progressing without him, that she had plans and engagements of which he was unaware.

  He passed a significant portion of each night with her. He could describe how she tasted, how she tensed as she had an orgasm, how she sighed when it was over. But he had no idea where she was headed, and the realization bothered him very much.

  Was she off on a shopping excursion? By herself? The prospect unnerved him. She must have a footman with her! Or was she making social calls? Who did she know in London? An old friend? An aged auntie? He was upset to consider that there might be someone she cherished and adored, someone who was intimate with her as he was not.

  It occurred to him that he detested the limited nature of their affiliation, and he was deluged by a desperate need to learn more about her, to share her world. When he was trysting with her, there were so many questions he yearned to ask—about her parents, her personal history, her position at Doncaster—but he was usually so overwhelmed by passion that he'd shove aside any examination, thinking he'd delve later, but would that moment arrive? In a week, she was leaving. Was he prepared?

  The obvious answer was no, so what did that mean?

  His heart ached. Was this love? How could it be? Yet how else could he explain his painful feelings? He was obsessed to the point of absurdity, and when they were

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  apart, he was driven to lunacy by his pitiful impatience to be with her again.

  It had to be love. No other emotion could possibly apply, so what was his intent?

  He wasn't so despicable that he'd confess to being smitten. Kate would savor such a pronouncement, would erroneously assume it held some value, but it wouldn't. She should have a loyal husband, a home, and children upon whom she could dote. He would never saddle her with his wretched presence. He was so vile, his bad habits ingrained and offensive. If they ended up married—a curse he would never inflict on her—she would quickly grow to loathe him as she discovered what a cruel, merciless, undependable lout he actually was.

  No woman should suffer such a fate. Especially his dear Kate. But he couldn't help wondering what it would be like to squire her about. How would she react if he sauntered over, grabbed her arm, and led her to his carriage?

  He smiled. She'd probably hit him with her reticule, but oh, what a delicious notion it was, the two of them chatting merrily as they traipsed about town. He'd take her to Madame LaFarge's dress shop, would h
ave her measured for a new wardrobe, and they'd drink tea at that restaurant that was the current rage on Bond Street, and they'd—

  She glanced up and saw him, and he wished he had a machine that could capture her expression. A storm of sentiments swept over her: elation, terror, fear, gladness, misery. She was thrilled to have run into him, but petrified as to what he might say or do.

  She had so little faith in him!

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  "Hello, Miss Duncan," he greeted her. "How are you this fine afternoon?"

  "Lord Stamford." Keeping her eyes glued to the floor, she slumped into a curtsy.

  "Are you going out?" he couldn't resist inquiring.

  "Yes." He stared at her, his hot gaze inducing her to add, "To visit an acquaintance."

  "Not alone, I trust?"

  "Lord Doncaster has graciously agreed to accompany me."

  "Good. The streets of London are unsafe for a female. There's no telling what mischief could befall you."

  She appeared so disturbed, so meek, and he abhorred her subservient attitude. He approached, clasping her hand and making her rise. A swift peek around ensured that there were no servants lurking, and he neared until his boots slipped under the hem of her skirt.

  "Desist. Please," she begged, her voice barely audible.

  He was aggravated that she didn't want anyone to detect that they were on familiar terms. Would it be so terrible if he proclaimed that she belonged to him? Would the earth stop spinning? Would time stand still?

  He was hurt by her reticence, and his pique was hilarious. It was the sole occasion—other than his misguided amore for Pamela as a boy—when a woman had mattered to him, and she was horrified by his regard. Her disdain was warranted, and no more than he deserved. After all, what had he done but sneak around, seducing her to ruin? Why should she have a high opinion of him?

  "I don't believe I've ever seen you in the light of day." His voice was as quiet as hers, and it took every

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  ounce of fortitude he possessed to keep from reaching out to her. As he'd deduced from the start, it was impossible to be around her and not touch her.

  "I have to go."

  "Not yet." He placed his finger on her chin, and raised her pretty face, compelling her to look at him. "May I escort you?"

  She was taken aback by the suggestion, scared witless that he'd force himself into the middle of her jaunt. "Absolutely not. Don't you dare."

  He'd been certain she'd refuse, but he'd tendered the outrageous idea anyway, and he shouldn't have. If she'd consented, what was his plan? His every move held some loftier meaning, so he couldn't innocently ride in a coach with her. Was he ready to publicly admit their affair? She'd lose her employment, so she'd have to stay in London. Was he prepared to support her? For how long? Under what conditions?

  As he was a man who went out of his way to avoid personal entanglements, the questions were so alarming that he couldn't begin to answer them, so he shrugged them off, grinning and feigning levity.

  "I hate it when you attire yourself in gray."

  "So you've said. Frequently." She tried to slither around him, to flee. "Now if you'll excuse me ..."

  He blocked her path. "I don't excuse you."

  Was he mad? They were huddled together. Anyone could pop out into the lengthy corridor and observe them.

  Just then, footsteps sounded on the stairs, and they jumped apart. It was Christopher, whom Marcus liked very much, and he was relieved that they'd been interrupted.

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  "Hello, Marcus." With his usual energy, Christopher bounded toward them. "I'd forgotten that you'd met my cousin. She's been in hiding ever since we arrived."

  Marcus whirled around and frowned at her, but she was studying the floor again, and he was wounded anew by this latest, and seemingly vital, piece of information. He'd supposed her to be a servant, but gad, she was the poor relative, the superfluous eternal houseguest who had nowhere else to live.

  What a deplorable, sorry existence for someone he deemed to be so fine.

  "Your cousin?" He wasn't sure if he was asking her or Christopher. "I didn't realize the two of you were related."

  "Very distantly," Christopher acknowledged, "but cousins nonetheless. We're off to visit her sister."

  Kate blanched at Christopher's blithe statement. Perplexed and confused, she scowled. "How did you know?"

  Christopher chuckled and patted her on the shoulder. "We'll talk in the carriage."

  Marcus's fierce concentration was glued to her, demanding an accounting as to why she'd never told him she had a sibling in London, but why would she have? He hadn't evinced the slightest indication that he was interested in any component of her life outside his bedchamber.

  Still, he wanted to shake her, to insist she explain herself. Despite the stilted aspects of their association, he'd thought they were close, but apparently, she felt no need to share any genuine facts about herself. If pushed, what reason would she give for being intimate with him? Was it because he'd pressured her? Because

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  she couldn't decline to obey a command from the lord of the manor?

  He'd assumed she was fond of him, that perhaps she even loved him, and he was shocked to confront the possibility that his perception of their bond may have been wrong.

  "You have a sister? Here in town?" Nearly pleading for her reply, his tone was confidential, more hushed than ever, but Chris responded.

  "Yes, and I was wondering if we could impose on you when we return, so that we might seek your advice."

  "About what?"

  "Kate acts as her sister's guardian, but there's a problem with excessive and unauthorized withdrawals from the trust fund. We would appreciate your guidance on how we should investigate the matter."

  Kate was so distressed by Christopher's remarks that Marcus worried her knees might buckle, that she might fall. Christopher didn't notice, but Marcus was so attuned to her that he could read every nuance, and he yearned to reach out and steady her, but he didn't dare.

  "Chris," she finally spoke, "you're boring Lord Stamford with our family troubles. I wish you wouldn't."

  "It's all right," Marcus said. "I don't mind."

  "Well, I do," she mutinously contended. She was furious, reeling with a turmoil he didn't understand. He'd stupidly presumed that he'd learned everything crucial about her. How could she have so many secrets?

  Christopher laughed off her annoyance. "Don't pay any attention to her," he counseled. "She's so tough. She forgets that she has friends, and she thinks she has

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  to handle every crisis alone." He offered Kate his arm. "Let's be off, shall we? Selena will be growing impatient."

  Kate stumbled then, but she recovered her balance without making a scene, and Marcus evaluated her. She was extremely disconcerted by Christopher's repeated mentions of her sister, but her anxiety was beyond normal behavior. She was scared of something. But what? What tidings could there be that she wouldn't want revealed? Did she know more about the fiscal discrepancies than she'd admitted to Christopher?

  A vision niggled at Marcus, of her in his room, replacing the ring she'd stolen. He'd noted that it was missing again, even though he'd specifically told her she couldn't have it.

  Was she a thief? Early on, he'd joked about the prospect to Pamela, but without considering the accusation to have any substance. The concept was so bizarre and so outlandish that he shoved it off, refusing to lend it any credence.

  "We'll talk later," he apprised them both, but it was a warning for Kate that he would expect some answers.

  As they walked away, he assessed her, challenging and taunting her with his displeasure. They exited, and he tarried at the door, watching until their carriage pulled away; then he trudged down the hall to the tedious appointment he'd scheduled with Pamela.

  At the threshold to the library, the butler was leaving, having arranged the brandy tray. He bore a sympathetic expression but had no comment and scurried
away, much as if he was evading the line of fire.

  Marcus entered, and was greeted not just by Pamela,

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  as he'd anticipated, but by Regina Lewis, too. He loathed her, and his first instinct was to spin around and stomp out.

  Pamela leapt to her feet, filling the awkwardness with babbling. "Stamford! How kind of you to be so prompt." She gestured to Regina. "And look who's joined us. You remember Regina, of course."

  "Of course." He shot them a glare that could have melted lead, and he proceeded to the sideboard and poured himself a hefty beverage. Fortified, he sat down behind the large desk, using it as a barrier between himself and the two females.

  Pamela knew better than to spring the encounter on him, and the fact that she had, meant the duo had cooked up some scheme. They were accomplices in pursuit of his marriage to Melanie, so he was determined to quash any hopes they might have of bringing the union to fruition.

  He stared them down, not uttering a word, and they both squirmed. Regina was a bully who reveled in her ability to intimidate others, but she'd met her match. He waited, and waited some more, sipping his drink as if he hadn't a care in the world.

  Trapped between them, Pamela was out of her league, and she cracked, breaking the silence. "Regina asked to chat with you today. She's eager to discuss Lady Melanie."

  Still, Marcus didn't speak, so Pamela urged, "Why don't you begin, Regina?"

  Regina shifted in her chair. "We traveled to London at Pamela's invitation, and I was encouraged to believe you had an interest in Melanie."

  "Were you?" He sampled his liquor, drained the

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  glass, and rudely went to pour another, which he enjoyed while Regina regrouped.

  "Since our arrival, you haven't shown a hint of curiosity. What are your plans toward her?"

  At least she'd spared him extra aggravation by getting straight to the point, without any dillydallying, which sped the conclusion. But what should it be? It was on the tip of his tongue to blurt out that he wouldn't propose in a thousand years, that he despised Melanie, but once the pronouncement was voiced, Regina would pack them up and head out. Kate would go with them, and he'd never see her again.