A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

She felt his warmth flood her, felt the heat of his rasping breath on her throat. His hands held her locked to him, his body a hard cage about her. His head moved; he placed a kiss, heated yet delicate, on her shoulder.

Lips lightly curving, she sank against him, into the haven of his arms.

She wasn’t at all sure how they made it to the daybed, but when she opened her eyes, he and she were horizontal. Her cheek rested on the heavy muscle of his chest. His skin was warm, as was the rest of him; she could still feel a great deal of his skin against hers.

He was lying on his back, with her lying atop him, loosely cradled in his arms. Her hips lay between his spread thighs, his long legs outside hers.

Lifting her head required more effort than she could summon; shifting, she squinted up at his face.

One arm lay across his eyes, but he felt her gaze and raised it. From beneath heavy lids, his eyes met hers. He studied them for a moment, then he lowered his arm. “I got us this far—don’t think about moving anytime soon.”

She smiled, and returned her head to its previous, comfortable resting place. Savored this, too, the quiet moments afterward when, wrapped in glowing warmth, peaceful and still, they both seemed so free, so much just themselves without having to be what the world had designated them—lord, lady. In these moments, they were just them. Him, her, no social structures…in some ways, no shields.

The concept intrigued her, focused her mind on how close, how open, she felt with him. How unrestrained. It wasn’t simply the physical intimacy that made her feel so; indeed, that was a symptom, an outcome, not the cause. The cause, the reason she felt so differently about him and treated him—treated with him—in ways so far removed from her norm was more complex.

Or perhaps more simple.

He understood her, or seemed to, and she, in large measure, understood him.

Because of that, he was the only man of her class she’d ever considered, ever even thought of, asking for advice. The only one whose advice she considered might have value.

Her skin was cooling; a light breeze drifted through the open window and trailed chill fingers along her body. She quelled a shiver; she didn’t want his arms to close around her again, not just yet.

She shifted and sat up. Ignoring the look he cast her from under his arm, she reached up behind him and tugged her shawl free. Shaking it out, she swung it about her shoulders, then, uncurling her legs, she clambered from the daybed.

Without looking back, she walked to the windows; as the heat beneath her skin faded, the night air seemed less chill. Halting before the casements, she looked out. The night was a medley of shadows and faint moonlight, of distant, muted rustlings, and the soughing of the breeze.

If she invited his advice, would he expect her to heed it?

Did she value his views enough to cross swords with him?

Did she want to know what he thought?

Turning, she looked at him, through the gloom met his eyes. “I’m worried about James.”

Chapter 9

Jack looked across the room at her; she stood still and straight, the shawl in no way hiding the mesmerizing lines of her body. Those long lines decorously clad and lit by the sun distracted him; clad only in the pearly sheen of moonlight they exuded a magical power that ensnared his mind. It took effort to lift his gaze to her face, to fix it there. “Worried in what way?”

She frowned. “He doesn’t seem to be reacting to the threat of these allegations as he ought.”

He thought about that, thought of what he’d sensed of James’s reaction, and how that differed from his, and hers.

“He doesn’t seem to understand”—she made a sweeping gesture—“that it’s not enough just to bear the family name. That that alone won’t shield him.”

It puzzled him that she saw it so clearly, then again, his nickname for her had proved surprisingly apt. “James doesn’t understand about power.” He eased up, then relaxed against the daybed’s raised back. “He never really has. He was born to a powerful family—he assumes that that power will be his, or at least will serve him, purely by virtue of him carrying the name.”

She made a sound suspiciously like a snort. Folding her arms, folding the shawl about her body, she leaned back against the window frame and studied him. “You and I know he’s wrong. Power isn’t a passive thing—something that sits waiting to do its job, like a door or a fence. Power doesn’t even exist unless you wield it.”

She spoke as one who knew. He inclined his head. “James won’t change. He doesn’t see the need, and in truth, I doubt he has it in him—the ability to wield the power the Altwood name would give him if he chose to exercise it….”

Even before she nodded decisively, he saw where she’d led him. “Precisely.” She walked back to the daybed. “That’s why I need to go to London, to wield the family’s power in his stead.”

She paused beside the daybed, by his side, and looked down at him, into his eyes. “You understand.”

Statement, not a hint of a question.

Jack felt his face harden. He reached for her hand. “I understand why you feel as you do.”