The Passion of Darius (Somerset Historicals 1)

She’d surprised him with her refusal. This time. He wasn’t really all that concerned though. There were means at his disposal to be more persuasive. This was something he could do. If it meant winning her, he could do just about anything. Yes, Marianne George may have just turned him down, be he’d felt, no, seen, a crack in that armor she covered herself in. Darius would be more successful next time, getting under her skin, forcing her to acknowledge him, to accept him. He would have her acquiescence. No other alternative was tolerable.

MARIANNE looked around the room. The destruction of her life was clearly visible and she wanted to weep. But that was just self-pitying indulgence, wasn’t it? And she could truly say that the wreck of her family was all her fault anyway.

Papa was sprawled out on the chaise, foxed to the gills. The eviction notice he’d read, crumpled on the floor. A bailiff had served it into her hands this very day.

Three days was all the time they had. In three days he’d return with officers of the court to see they were taken to the Marshalsea in London. She picked it up and read it again. Unpaid debts were a crime under the law. Papa was a…criminal. There was only one creditor listed and that seemed odd, and the name was not one she even recognized.

Grasping at any solution, she thought about a way out. Maybe Lord Rothvale might be inclined to help. He was influential and very kind. She’d known him all her life, and his daughter, Byrony, was one of her best friends. She threw up her hands in frustration. What was she thinking? She could never impose upon friends in such a way.

Marianne left the house. She had to get outside and go look at the ocean. Her legs felt weak as she made her way, but the closer she came to the majestic expanse of brine, the stronger her resolve grew. Once the glassy blue of the water was in her sights, she breathed out a sigh. The sea soothed her and always had. It comforted in a way for which there was no substitute. It had always been so for her. She made her way to the rocky shore, seeking that which would ease her, until she was leaning against a large rock at the mouth of the jetty. She allowed herself to remember.

Shame was the worst of it. She wasn’t worried about what they’d have to endure in the Marshalsea. It was the shame that killed her. That and the cruel fact of knowing even if they went to prison, it still wouldn’t change anything. Jonathan wasn’t coming back to her. Papa wouldn’t be restored to his former respectable self. Mamma was gone forever. The ravagement of her life was complete, and nothing was going to put it back to rights. She mourned the loss and realized suddenly the ache and despair of knowing she’d never be free of her guilt.

She wouldn’t even have this—the comfort of the sea. That would be the hardest part to give up. She let the tears come and tried to memorize every sense in moment. The smell of salt and seaweed, the whip of the breeze chilling the tears on her cheeks, the sounds of the churning water and flapping of her dress, the variant colors of blue.

Can you hear me, Jonathan? We’re going to be leaving…soon, and I won’t be able to come here anymore. I’m so sorr—

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Marianne.”

Marianne snapped her head around and then quickly down, brushing at her tears with a knuckle. “Mr. Rourke! You startled me, sir.” She turned away so he couldn’t see her face. Why had he come out here? Had he seen her and followed?

“I apologize for startling you, but not for my words.”

Marianne didn’t answer or acknowledge his apology. She just kept staring out at the sea. The wind and the waves buffeted the rocks below, as they had done for eons. Jonathan?

“I saw that the bailiff paid you a visit and I know why he was there.”

Of course he knew why. The whole village probably knew already. Any words of acknowledgement still refused to come from her mouth. What could she possibly say anyway? Frozen in place, she continued to do what she’d been doing before he’d come out here to confront her. She faced into the wind and churning surf and stayed silent.

“My God, Marianne. Prison! You’ll have to live in a filthy prison! A dirty, defiled, infested prison, miles away from your home and that which you’ve known your whole life!”

I know.

She nodded imperceptibly, still unable to look at him. “Did you follow me out here just to throw that in my face?” She spoke toward the sea and thought it very cruel of him to voice it even though she’d been the one to reject him and he was probably still angry.

“No. I did not,” he said more gently.

“Then why are you here, Mr. Rourke?”

“To remind you that it is in your power to stop this madness, Marianne. You can stop it. You know what you could do. The question is—will you do it? Will you?” His voice burned through the ocean breeze.

Oh, dear God! Could she have heard him correctly? He still wanted her? Even after she’d refused him? A proud man like him, willing to offer again, even in her low situation? Unbelievable. Still she remained frozen, afraid to look.

“Look at me, sweet Marianne. Show your beautiful face to me.”

She started to breathe heavily. A warm flush penetrated and began to tingle through her. He had moved closer and was now standing right behind her. So close she could smell the spice of his cologne.

“Do it. Turn around and look up at me. You want to, Marianne. I know you do,” he whispered, near enough that his breath kissed her neck.

He was right. She did want to. Turning to face him, a warm heat flooded between her legs. She saw him inhale as if to scent her. A curl of a smile lifted on his mouth and his eyes burned.

“You’ve been crying.” He fished out his handkerchief and pressed it gently to each cheek. “I don’t like you crying. And I think I know why you were.” He leaned down closer. “Let me take care of you. Your father, too. You’ll want for nothing.” He tilted his head, honing in on her. “Marry me.”

Telling her what to do didn’t seem to be a problem for him. He smiled and slowly nodded, willing her to accept him. He was boldly telling her to agree, but did it in such a way that she wanted to agree. Lord, he was handsome! A lock of glossy black hair slipped down over his forehead, and she had the urge to reach out and smooth it back. What would his hair feel like?

Mr. Rourke had her ensnared without a doubt, and he was very skilled at seduction. Marianne accepted that resisting him was a futile enterprise on her part. Her desire was far too formidable of a beast to conquer. It felt enormously relieving to yield to him. His lilting voice, like cool s

ilk brushing over warm skin, told her exactly what she wanted to do.