A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

He wasn’t even thinking when he lifted his hand and ran it lightly over her arm, over the swell of her breast. Down over the swell of her hip to the long sweep of her thigh.

It required no thought to appreciate, to worship. To gently arouse her, to bring her body awake, responsive and instinctively ardent. She unfurled like a flower to his touch, her mind still drifting in the realms of sleep, soft sighs falling from her lips as he stirred her to an awakening of a different sort.

To power of a different sort.

Sensual, covetous, yet reverent, it seemed to flow from his fingers, from his hands as he caressed her.

When he lifted over her and settled between her thighs, her lids fluttered, then rose a little way.

Rose fully as he filled her; she looked up into his eyes, hers widening, then he thrust home. Her lips formed a soft O, then relaxed, curving. Her lids fell again, veiling dark eyes now glowing with passion.

Passion he’d evoked.

He bent his head, covered her lips with his, and gently rode her as dawn painted the sky and sent soft golden light reaching across the chamber to where they rocked in the bed, surrounded by clouds of dimity apple blossom.

No rush. A slow traverse across a landscape they now knew well, pausing, breaths tight, strangled, as they savored here, then there. As they let their senses expand and together absorbed the passionate beauty of each stage, each step in the progression to fulfillment.

A fulfillment neither doubted would come, that was implicit in the shift of their bodies, in the repetitive movement that held them both engaged, absorbed, aware of little beyond the heated dampness of thei

r skins, their ragged breathing, their desires and needs.

A true communion of bodies, of minds. Ultimately, as they crested the peak and together surrendered and fell, a communion of souls.

Later, they lay twined in each other’s arms. Neither spoke. Each recognized the power growing between them, knew the other would sense it, too, but it was too new for either to name, to describe.

Shifting his head, he dropped a soft kiss on her shoulder. Felt, an instant later, her hand stroke his head, gently riffling his hair.

And was content. For now.

Yet his ultimate goal, the goal he wanted, needed, and would fight for, was now not just clear but defined. He wanted to wake up in this way, just like this, every morning for the rest of his life.

They rocked into London in the early afternoon. As Clarice would keep the carriage with her, Jack gave the coachman directions to Montrose Place.

Focused on their campaign to exonerate James, Clarice had paid scant attention to the sights they’d passed. But when the carriage pulled up outside Number 12, Montrose Place, she ceased her recitation of the facts they already knew to peer out at the house. “This is your club?”

“The Bastion Club.” Jack opened the door and stepped down to the pavement. He’d explained that the club was a private one set up by him and his six ex-comrades as a personal stronghold against the matchmaking mamas and their legions. “Wait here. I’ll just leave my bag with Gasthorpe—he’s our majordomo—and be back.”

A footman had already materialized from the club and was retrieving his traveling bag from the boot. Clarice nodded, her gaze fixed on the club’s facade as if searching out its weaknesses. Jack quashed the thought and followed the footman up the path.

Gasthorpe met him at the door. Consigning his bag into Gasthorpe’s keeping, Jack informed him he would be staying for an as-yet-undetermined time.

“We’re delighted to have you back, my lord. All will, of course, be in readiness here. If you require any further assistance, please inform me.”

Jack smiled his charming smile; he was about to turn away when he thought to ask, “Who else is here at present? Crowhurst?”

“I regret the earl returned to Cornwall yesterday, my lord. But Viscount Paignton returned to us last week. I believe he intends to remain for some weeks. And the marquess is in town. He frequently drops by of an evening.”

Jack saluted and turned away. So Deverell was about, and Christian Allardyce, Marquess of Dearne, was also on hand. Excellent support, should he require it, and he’d certainly pick their brains and use their contacts, too.

He was still smiling when he reached the carriage. Clarice sat back, studying his face as he climbed in and sat opposite her.

“You look…expectant.”

His smile deepened. “Just the scent of prey on the wind.”

She snorted and looked out of the window as the carriage lurched once again into motion. Jack noted she was watching the facades now, no longer absorbed in James’s predicament. A slight frown creased her brow.

“So where are we headed?” he asked.