Further Than Passion (2 page)

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and fro, her hips undulating as she rocked herself across

the man's loins. As if she were on a horse, she was riding him, her movements practiced,
f
luid, graceful.

Kate strove to identify her, deciding that she vaguely resembled Lady Pamela, but she might have been anyone. In fact, when Kate narrowed her focus, she could observe her own face where the woman's should have been.

Was
she
the person on the bed? She was so befuddled!

Mute and agog, she spied on them, unconcerned as to whether she might be noticed. She was invisible, floating on air, an intangible phantom, and she shifted farther into the shadows and concentrated on the man.

With his dark hair and eyes, he was the most handsome she'd ever seen, his features perfectly formed. Slender, robust, muscled, he likely engaged in fencing or pugilism as a method of keeping in shape.

Though she didn't recognize him, and had no idea who he was, he seemed familiar, beloved, as if he were a dear friend with whom she'd been reunited.

I've finally found you,
she almost said, stopping herself before she spoke, but she suffered an exuberant surge of joy at the knowledge.

He clasped the woman's nipples, massaging and fondling them, and the woman shivered with ecstasy.

Kate's torso jerked in response. It was as if he were caressing her
own
nipples, as if he were petting her
own
breasts. Her womb spasmed and twinged. In the secret area between her legs, she grew warm and moist. Her body comprehended and welcomed the libidinous conduct. She was blossoming, radiating a vigor and energy that caused her to pine and covet, and she vibrated

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with a need and desire for things she couldn't begin to name.

The pair was involved in an incredible dance, a ballet of exquisite sensuality and finesse, with each having a role to perform. They stretched and strained, reached and rolled, their limbs in flawless coordination, and in some primal part of her, Kate grasped that they were making love. She was viewing the secret behavior of the marital bed. The act was so beautiful, so thrilling, and she could have hovered there into infinity, studying them and wondering about their relationship, their purpose.

You could be with him,
a voice whispered.
You could love him. He could love you in return. Is
n
't that what you want? What you 've wanted forever?

The voice was so adamant, so firm, and so real. It rattled her, excited her, and she suspected that if she rushed over, she could become the female with him.

She was bewildered, not able to understand what had transpired, and she tried to leave, but she couldn't tear herself away.

The man glanced to the side and smiled at her, and she could see that his eyes were not brown, but a brilliant, sweltering shade of blue. They blazed with intensity, and she could discern his regard as tangibly as if he'd touched her.

Come to me,
she heard him cajole.
Let me be the one.

He kneaded his partner's breast again, then traced down her stomach, until he was stroking her crotch. Kate could feel the motion herself, could perceive the heat of his palm, could smell the exhilarating musk of his skin. He'd stimulated a sensitive spot she'd never noted before, and it throbbed and ached in a rhythm

that matched the tempo of her puls
e
—
a
nd his. They were connected, joined to the very roots of their souls.

Inside of her, there was a strange pressure building. It was so potent, and so compelling, that she struggled toward it, positive she was about to explode with pleasure, about to burst into a thousand pieces.

She blinked, and he was directly in front of her, though she didn't know how or when he'd moved. He was ta
l
l, six feet at least, and he leaned in, his solid physique pushing into hers, forcing her back against the wall.

Every inch of him was crushed into her. He was flat where she was rounded, slim where she was curved, and she had the
f
leeting thought that they'd been specifically created to fit together.

/
love you,
she murmured silently.

You always have,
he replied.

He raised his hand, and on it was a jeweled ring, studded with diamonds. They surrounded a sapphire stone in the center, which was the exact color of his eyes.

This is for you,
he said.
Keep it so that you '
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remember.

I can't.

She was sufficiently cognizant to fathom that the ring was much too precious for him to relinquish and, more important, she was too insignificant to receive it. How could she explain her possession of it?

She shoved it away, but he slipped it onto her finger and curled her fist into a tight ball, sealing her grip so that she wouldn't drop it.

Do it
for me.

His expression was so steady and true that she couldn't reject the gift.

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2

All right.

He bent down, and she braced, certain he meant to kiss her, but at the last instant, he tugged at the bodice of her nightgown, baring her breast, the nipple puckering. He licked his tongue across it, rasping it, laving it, then sucking it into his mouth.

The action wrenched at something deep inside, prodding at the hidden place where her loneliness and desolation resided, and she clutched at him and urged him closer, wishing she could be subsumed until she was a part of him and no longer separate.

He nibbled at the taut nub, the agitation too painful to bear, and she lurched away, stunned to find that she was in her own room, in her own bed. There was ample evidence that she'd been tossing and turning. The blankets were mussed, the pillow on the floor.

She must have been dreaming. She must have been!

Staggering up, she winced as her head pounded with a violent headache, and her heart hammered so ferociously that her veins hurt. Between her legs, she was wet and sticky, her body weeping with an unfulfilled craving. She was drenched with sweat, and she shivered, needing to ward off her sudden chill.

She peeked down and was shocked to detect that her bodice was askew, that her breast was exposed. Trembling with unease, she rubbed her palm across the hardened nipple, moaning in agony at the flurry of sensation she unleashed, and she yanked at the fabric, concealing herself.

What had happened? What had she done?

Moonlight cast eerie shadows on the dresser, and she stared and stared, trying to deduce what she was

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seeing, when she realized it was the empty vial of the love potion she'd drunk on the stairs.

She jolted away, refusing to look at it, and as she retrieved her pillow, she noted an unusual weight on her hand. She lifted it and was alarmed to observe the ornate ring.

"Oh my Lord," she breathed. It was heavy, elaborate, the gold smooth and glossy, the jewels sharp and shapely.

Why did she have it? What did it indicate? If she was discovered with it, what would she say? She couldn't begin to guess.

She flopped down and squeezed her eyes shut, anxious to sleep for many hours. She hoped when she awoke the ring and the vial would both be gone.

₂

"
Who is the charming redhead visiting with the Lewis family?"

"The redhead?"

"Yes," Marcus said. "She's short, slender. Very pretty."

"I have no idea," Pamela replied. "As far as I'm aware, they're all blond."

Partially shielded by the drapes, Marcus peeked over the balustrade and stared down into the ballroom. A hundred people were mingling, Pamela's notion of an
intimate
supper party, and precisely the sort of society event he loathed.

The orchestra she'd hired struck the
f
irst chords of a gavotte, and couples rushed to take their places on the dance floor.

"Are you sure there's no one of that description with them?"

"Absolutely," Pamela insisted. "Lady Regina was tediously thorough at introducing her party. She's brought along her daughter, Melanie, and her son, Christopher."

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"He's the earl?"

"And quite the sweet darling, I must say."

Marcus scrutinized her. At thirty, she was his own age, and a renowned beauty. Her ravishing blond hair was piled high, her expensive gow
n
—
f
or which he'd pai
d
—
a
ccented her glorious figure, but her physical splendor couldn't hide the shark lurking within.

She was a shrew, a fortune hunter, and from her remark about the Earl of Doncaster it was clear she had designs on him.

Poor fellow.

"What is he? All of eighteen?"

"I suppose."

"Isn't that a tad young? Even by your low standards?"

At the insult, she bristled. "I didn't claim any heightened interest."

"You didn't have to."

They'd been acquainted since they were children. As an adolescent, he'd foolishly imagined that he loved her, that is, until she'd wed his widowed father. She'd been desperate to be a countess and had greedily grabbed for the distinction, which had certainly given Marcus a swift and decisive lesson in how the world worked.

He'd never trusted anyone again. Had never cared for anyone, either.

"I merely find him to be handsome," she contended. "And pleasant. He's a pleasant bo
y
—
u
nlike some peers of my acquaintance."

"He's rich, too."

"Well, of course he is."

Marcus rolled his eyes and watched the crowd, irked to realize that he'd have to befriend naive, innocent Christopher Lewis, so as to whisper a few words of

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6

caution. By all accounts, the lad was an unschooled country dolt. Pamela would eat him alive.

"You're positive there's no redhead with them?" Marcus hated to raise the subject again, hated to provide Pamela with an indication that the matter was of any importance, but he couldn't avoid it.

He was dying to learn more about the female who'd stumbled into his bedchamber the previous night. She'd looked drugged, or perhaps she'd been walking in her sleep, and he was intrigued. Pamela had begged him to tryst, and against his better judgment, he'd come by the mansio
n
—
w
hich he rarely did. During their foray, he was convinced he'd locked the door to his seldom-used suite, so he still couldn't deduce how his enticing voyeur had gained entrance.

It had been such a strange encounter. When she'd been in the room, and he'd gazed into Pamela's face, he'd seen the other woman's face, instead, as if she was meant to have been in the bed with him, or as if he could have willed her there had he but concentrated hard enough.

Then, there was the dream he'd had later, of the two of them having sex. It had been so stirring, so realistic, that his trousers grew uncomfortable whenever he recalled it. He knew she had a small beauty mark on her left buttock, could describe the exact shade of her nipples. How could that be?

Their fantasy assignation had been rousing, thrilling, and when it had ended, he'd felt such joy and serenity. He was determined to meet her, to ascertain if the special qualities he'd detected would be evident, or if his sense of connection had simply been part of a bizarre reverie. But he could scarcely explain as much to Pamela.

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7

She hadn't observed their visitor. She'd been too busy, trying to show him what a great lover she was, a pathetic ploy she'd hoped would render an increase in her allowance. She was a whore, and it was humorous to toy with her, to have her presuming she could rekindle his affection, but he was a smart man. He'd been bitten once, and wouldn't let the snake slither too near a second time.

"Why this sudden curiosity with redheads?" she asked.

Suspicious, she studied him, but he was a master at indifference, at remaining aloof and detached, so no hint of his intent was visible. She could stare to infinity and garner no clue as to his thoughts.

He changed the subject. "Have you seen my signet ring?"

"Why?"

"It wasn't there when I dressed this morning."

"Are you assuming this anonymous redhead stole it?"

"Actually, I suspected you."

Her mouth tightened into an unflattering pout "You are such a brute! I don't know why I let you in the door!"

"Because it's my house?" He rented an apartment over the Stevens brothers' gambling hall, while permitting her to reside in the home he'd always despised.