Stephanie Laurens - All About Passion

He’d assumed wrong.

He filled his hands with her breasts, then ducked his head and filled his mouth with her soft flesh. He’d tried not to mark her where it would show, but God alone knew how successful he’d been. She’d recalled the need for silence; the knuckles of one hand were pressed to her lips, stifling her cries. She was also doing her best to mute those more intimate sounds he drew from her, but not succeeding.

He explored her lower body, naked now he’d pushed her habit to her waist. Her thighs, firm from riding, were a special delight; the smooth globes of her derriere, cradled possessively in his hands, made him shudder.

He ached to take her, to possess her as she wanted to be possessed, to take her with all the passion in his soul-but that way lay madness. Yet sate her he must. Sliding lower, avoiding the hands that tried to urge him over her, he gripped her hips and set his mouth to her softness.

She nearly choked on a scream. After that, she was too busy trying to catch her breath, trying to suppress her gasps, her screams. Too busy flowering for him.

When he finally let her free, let her fly to the stars and shatter, she was, this time, too exhausted to even grip his sleeve when he eventually drew away. He knelt over her and straightened her clothing by feel, enough to pass muster if they were caught. Then he stood and lifted her into his arms and walked from the stall and the stable.

As he crossed the lawns, he tried hard not to think, not of her, not of any of it-not of how he felt.

Tomorrow morning he would marry her friend, and that would be that.

His body was one giant throbbing ache. He doubted he’d get any sleep.

He could, of course, congratulate himself on avoiding the pit that others had fallen headlong into. He could pride himself on not having succumbed to his baser instincts, on having adhered to the honorable course. He’d have been consumed by guilt if he hadn’t, on any number of counts, yet, deep within him he knew it wasn’t guilt that had kept him from taking her. Only one power had been strong enough to save her-and him.

One simple, fundamental fear.

He knew in which wing his mother had put his bride-to-be; Henni had told him just in case he wanted to know. Thank heaven she had. He assumed his bride-to-be’s companion had been housed nearby. Reaching the right corridor, he started along, then paused, lowered his lips to her ear and whispered, “Which room is yours?”

She waved weakly to the door at the end. He juggled her and opened it. The windows were uncurtained; the moonlight streamed in, confirming the bed had been made up but was unoccupied.

He laid her gently on it.

Her fingers trailed down his sleeve, but her grip was too weak to hold him. He leaned over her, brushed her hair from her face, bent his head, and kissed her. One last time.

Then he drew back. He knew she was watching him.

“After the wedding, you’ll return to Rawlings Hall.”

He turned and left her.

Francesca watched him cross the room. She’d let him carry her to her bed assuming he was going to join her in it. As the door closed behind him, she lay back, shut her eyes, and felt bitterness well.

“I don’t think so.”

“Ready to take the final momentous step?”

Gyles looked up as Devil sauntered into his private sitting room. Breakfast dishes crowded the table before him, but he’d paid them scant attention. Food was the last thing on his mind.

Wallace had come in early to wake him-he hadn’t been asleep but had been grateful for the interruption. He’d spent enough hours with his thoughts. Bathing, dressing, dealing with the inevitable last-minute queries, had kept him busy until Wallace had served him breakfast, then retreated to tidy his bedchamber.

Just as well Devil had arrived.

“Come to witness the condemned man’s last meal?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.” Pulling up a chair, Devil sat facing him across the table and surveyed the dishes he’d disarranged rather than demolished. “Saving our appetite for later, are we?”

“Indeed.” He felt his lips twitch.

“Can’t say I blame you if all that’s being said of your countess-to-be is true.”

He hid a frown. “What’s being said?”

“Just that your selection was precisely as one might expect. Your uncle was quite taken. None of the rest of us met her-they arrived after dark.”

Gyles hadn’t thought Horace’s standards differed that much from his. Then again, his uncle was over sixty-perhaps he now favored the quiet and meek. “You’ll meet her soon enough, then you can form your own opinion.”

Devil reached for a pikelet. “You’re not going to reiterate you’re marrying for duty, not love?”

“And slay your fond hopes? I’m too polite a host.”

Devil snorted.

Gyles sipped his coffee. Misleading Devil wasn’t his aim, but he wasn’t up to explaining. Denying the gypsy-denying his own raging needs-had sapped his energy. He should have been feeling smug, triumphant, anticipating the successful outcome of his careful plans. Instead, he felt inwardly dead, his emotions leaden, dragging him down.

He’d done the right thing-the only thing he could have done-and yet… he felt as if he’d done something wrong. Committed some sin worse than any she’d tempted him to.

He couldn’t shake aside that feeling; he’d been trying to for half the night. Now here he was, about to marry one woman while another dominated his thoughts. The combination of wildness and innocence, wrapped in a package ripe for plunder, beribboned with a promise of uninhibited passion, of unrestrained wantonness… the gypsy was enough to drive any man insane.

She’d shaken him as no woman ever had.

This morning, soon, he’d free himself of her. No matter how attached Francesca was to her, he’d put his foot down. The gypsy would be off his estate, and away from him, by sunset tomorrow at the latest.

He made a mental note to make sure she didn’t forget her horse.

“I hestitate to mention it, but it’s a little late for second thoughts.”

Gyles refocused.

Devil nodded at the clock on the mantelpiece. “We’d better go.”

Gyles turned, and saw it was indeed time. Concealing his ridiculous reluctance, he rose, then checked the set of his sleeves and settled his coat.

“The ring?”

He hunted in his waistcoat pocket, drew it out, and handed it to Devil.

Devil studied the ornate band. “Emeralds?”

“It’s been in the family for generations. Mama happened to mention that emeralds would suit, so…”

His mother hadn’t actually mentioned it; he’d walked into his countess’s bedchamber, the one beyond his, and been hit over the head with the fact. His mother had redecorated the suite in his bride’s favorite color-a vivid, intense emerald. In the adjoining sitting room, the emerald was tastefully muted by inmixing of turquoise and other colors, but in the bedchamber itself, in heavy silks and satins, the solid hue held sway. Touches of gilt and polished wood rendered the result even more decadent.

The room had sent his brows rising. He couldn’t imagine his meek, mild, and very fair bride in it-she’d be overwhelmed by the color. Yet if it was her declared favorite, as his mother insisted, who was he to argue?

He nodded at the ring as Devil tucked it into his pocket. “I hope it fits.” He headed for the door.

Devil fell in on his heels. “Can’t you at least give me a few hints? What does this paragon look like? Dark or fair, tall or tiny-what?”

Opening the door, Gyles glanced over his shoulder. “You’ll see in five minutes.” He hesitated, then added, “Just remember, I did warn you I’m marrying for duty, not love.”

Devil studied his eyes. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Marriages have a tendency to last a long time.”

“That,” Gyles acknowledged, stepping into the corridor, “was one of the aspects that swayed me.”

The chapel was in the oldest part of the castle. They reached it to find the guests already seated. Gyles continued around to the anteroom off the side. There, his father’s cousin, Hector, Bishop of Lewes, was settling his robes.

“Ah-there you are, m’boy!” Hector smiled.

Gyles introduced Devil.

“We met last night.” Hector returned Devil’s nod, then held up a hand as he listened to the music coming from the chapel. “Ah-ha! That’s our cue. The bride has been sighted and we must get to our places. Right, then?”

Gyles waved him on and followed, Devil at his back. Hector slowed as he entered the chapel. Gyles had to concentrate not to walk on his heels. He heard rustling, polite whisperings, but he didn’t look at the guests. Hector led them to the altar. Gyles stopped where he knew he was supposed to, before the single step. Lifting his head, he squared his shoulders. Devil stopped beside him; shoulder to shoulder they faced the altar.

Gyles felt precisely nothing.

Hector climbed the step, then turned majestically to view the congregation. The music, provided by Hector’s wife playing a spinet tucked away to one side, paused, then the opening chords of a bridal march sounded.

Gyles watched Hector. The prelate lifted his head, his cherubic face wearing its usual amiable expression, and looked down the aisle.

Hector’s expression changed. His eyes widened, then sparkled. His cheeks pinkened. “Well!” he murmured. “My word!”

Gyles froze. What the devil had his meek and mild bride done?

Skirts shushed as ladies shuffled about to see. The expectant hush was shattered by whispers-excited ones. A wave of gasps and smothered exclamations rolled forward. Gyles felt Devil stiffen, fighting the impulse, then Devil turned his head and looked. And stilled.