A Passion for Him (Georgian 3)

“When?” Tormented by yearning and a body that was wracked with unappeased desire, she would promise anything in this moment to see him again.

“You have Ware, a friend of long acquaintance who can give you things that I cannot.”

“Perhaps you and I can be friends.”

“You do not know me well enough to say that.”

“I want to know you.” Her voice was a throaty purr. Never in her life had she sounded like that, and it affected him. She could tell by the way he wrapped himself around her in an even tighter embrace. “I would like you to know me.”

He pulled back, and she realized she found the mask attractive. Arousing. How odd, but true, nevertheless. She did not find it alarming, but rather comforting. She felt too open, and the sight of the mask shielded her as well as him.

“The only thing you need to know about me,” he said in a rasp, “is that there are those who want me dead.”

“Such a statement might frighten other women away,” she retorted, tugging his mouth back down to hers, “but I live with people who have similar problems. Some would say I live a similar circumstance simply by association.”

“You won’t change my mind,” he grumbled, licking at her parted lips, his body acting in opposition to his words.

“I was attempting to leave the room; you detained me.”

“You kissed me!” he accused.

Amelia shrugged. “Your mouth was in the way. I could not avoid it.”

“You are trouble.” Bending his head, he kissed her one last time. Softer. Lingering. Her toes curled in her slippers. “Now, we must part, before we are discovered.”

She nodded, knowing it was true, understanding that she had been absent far too long. “When will I see you again?”

“I cannot say. After your wedding, perhaps. Maybe never.”

“Why?” She’d asked that question endlessly tonight and still couldn’t collect the answer. Did he not understand how precious it was to feel this alive around another being? She had not realized that she was dormant until she’d met him.

“Because Ware can give you things that I cannot.”

She was about to retort, when the doorknob jiggled. Her breath caught and held. She froze. Montoya did not.

He moved quickly, pulling back from her and fading again into the shadowy corner. She stumbled away from the door when it pushed open behind her. Turning, Amelia faced the intruding party.

“My lord,” she breathed, curtsying.

Ware entered with a frown. “What are you doing in here? I have been searching the house for you.” He studied her carefully; then his jaw tautened. “You have something to tell me, don’t you?”

She nodded and held a shaking hand out to him. He took it and drew her out of the room, pausing a moment to sweep the contents with his gaze. Finding nothing amiss, he led her away from Montoya and into a future that was far less orderly than it had been mere days ago.

Chapter 6

“So that is the whole of it,” Amelia said, her fingers fidgeting with her teaspoon.

The Earl of Ware reached over and stilled his fiancée’s restless movement by covering her hand with his own. “No need to be nervous,” he murmured, his mind sifting through everything she had related.

“You are not angry?” Her green eyes were wide with a mixture of surprise and apprehension.

“I am not pleased, but I am not angry.” He smiled ruefully and settled back more firmly in his chair.

They were seated on the terrace of the St. John house, enjoying tea before their customary ride through the park. It was with some trepidation that he had passed the hours waiting to speak with her. He knew what a woman looked like after a heated assignation, so while Amelia’s revelation was in keeping with his own suspicions, he was sorry to have them confirmed.

“I do not know what to do,” she said, sounding forlorn. “I fear I am out of my depth.”

“And I fear I am not going to be much help,” he admitted. “We are friends, love, but I am a man first and foremost. It does not sit well with me to hear that you feel things for this stranger that you do not feel for me.”

As her hand twisted and gripped his tightly, a becoming blush spread across her cheeks. “I do not like myself very much at this moment. You are dear to me, Ware. You always have been, and I have not acted as you deserve. I pray you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

He stared pensively over the rear “garden.” The word barely applied to the outdoor space that surrounded the St. John manse. Only low-lying flowerbeds alleviated the stark severity of the spacious lawn.

“I forgive you,” he said. “And I admire your honesty. I doubt I would have the fortitude to reveal so much were I in your stead. However, I cannot have a fiancée who is engaging in such behavior, especially in public venues.”

She nodded, looking like a chastened schoolgirl. While the scolding was required, he took no pleasure in it.

“You will have to decide, once and for all, whether you wish to wed me or not, Amelia. If you choose to proceed with our arrangement, you must act in good faith and deport yourself properly.” Ware pushed to his feet and rolled his shoulders back to alleviate the tension there. “Damnation, I do not like feeling as if you are being coerced to marry me!”

Amelia stood as well, her floral muslin skirts falling to a graceful drape. “You are angry.” She held up a delicate hand to stem his reply. “No. I understand. You have the right to be. Had you acted similarly, I would have been equally furious with you.”

Blowing out her breath, she walked to the marble terrace railing and leaned her weight upon her hands. He joined her, the lawn to his back, she to his side.

She was lovely this afternoon, as she was every afternoon. Her dark hair was arranged in artless, powdered curls that swayed around her shoulders. Her skin was pale as cream, her eyes as green as jade, her lips red like dark wine. He had once jested that she was the only woman he thought of in poetic prose, and she’d laughed with him, delighted at what she called his “fancifulness.” He was only fanciful with her.

“If we wed,” she murmured, “do you intend to be faithful to me?”

“That depends on you.” He considered her carefully. “If you lie there and pray for a swift finale, I probably will not be. I enjoy sex, Amelia. I crave it. I would not give up the pleasure of sexual congress for anything, even a wife.”

“Oh.” She looked away with a sigh.

A stray breeze blew by, rolling a tight curl along the tender, bared skin where her neck met her shoulder. She shivered, not with cold, but from the sensation. Ware noted that reaction, as he noted everything about her. Cataloguing the finer details for future use. Amelia was a tactile, sensual creature. Something he appreciated and had been gentle not to exploit, biding his time for the day when she would be his and he could teach her how to embrace that side of herself. With him alone.

Now, he had much to consider.

“I believe we could enjoy each other,” he offered, teasing her fingers on the ledge with his own. “I think sex between us could be much more than a chore, but only if you open yourself to me completely in that way. No shyness, no reserve. If our marital bed is welcoming, I will not go elsewhere. I am not a man given to the pursuit of conquests. I simply want to fuck and have a splendid time doing it. If I can do that with one woman, more the better in my estimation. Less work.”

The coarse word shocked her, he could tell, but it was the right word for how he liked his bedsport, and it was best she know that now. There would be no brief groping and grunting in the darkness. There would be illumination, flushed and sweaty skin, and many hours.

“Is that what passion in the bedroom is?” she asked, with what appeared to be genuine curiosity. “Animal urges given free rein? Is there nothing more involved in the process?”

It took him a moment to comprehend the question. “Are you referring to the glances your sister shares with St. John? Or how the Westfields look at one anothe

r?”

“Yes. They are . . . indecent, yet romantic.”

“You are not the only one to see such affection and covet it.” The inquisitiveness in her gaze made him smile.

“Do you?”

Ware shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning his hip into the railing. “On occasion. But I do not pine for it or suffer from its lack. I think, however, that you do.”

As honest as ever, she nodded.

“I begin to see that my straightforward approach to wooing you was not the best,” he mused aloud. “I assumed that the miserable end to your first love affair would make you inclined to appreciate a more . . . grounded relationship. But you want the opposite, do you not?”

She pushed away and began to pace, which was her wont when agitated. At times like this, she reminded him of a caged cat prowling in its boredom. “I do not know what I want, that is the problem.” The look she gave him pinned him in his place.

“I am content. There is nothing more that I need.”

“Are you truly content?” she challenged. “Or do you simply accept that friendship is all that one can hope for in your position?”