His Perfect Passion (3 page)

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

And if she was honest with herself, she could admit to the pure comfort to be had in embracing his dominance. Soothing. Relieving. Oh, yes. Feelings she had never allowed herself to indulge in. He would be
good
for her in that way. And more importantly, a marriage with Darius Rourke would enable her to save Papa. This marriage would provide a way, albeit insufficient, to partially atone for what she’d done.

Resolving to accept his offer before she might change her mind, she straightened her posture. A shiver and a breathy sigh escaped at the thought of belonging to him. The way he looked at her. Imagining what he’d do with her! She was certainly a mouse caught in the paws of an indomitable, pouncing cat. And when the time came for the cat to devour the mouse, Marianne prayed she’d not regret her choice.

“Mr. Rourke, I—I do agree. I’ll marry you.”

“Yes?” His eyes lit up with glittering sparks at her answer, spurring her to speak resolutely.

“I will.”

* * * *

That’s my good girl. You want it. I was right about you.

He took her hand and brought it forward. His lips kissed the cool skin of her hand as his thumb caressed over her elegant fingers. The essence of her flesh so close threatened to overpower his senses. Darius let the desire seize him—the tightening down low as the blood hardened him to iron. God, it felt good. He could stand here staring, breathing in her delicate scent, nibbling her skin, forever and never get tired of it. Just having her close felt like a reward. He kissed her hand a second time, lingering a little longer with his lips, drawing in her natural essence through the softness of her silky skin.

“You have made me
very
happy, Marianne. Let’s go tell your father the good news.”

Her luminous blue eyes looking up moved him deeply. She was beautiful to him. And now she’d be his. He would be the one—the one to discover her secrets.

Anticipating how he would take her the first time made him lightheaded. Her innocence required a gentle hand of course. And he would gladly give it. Darius would be so very careful with her initiation into the pleasures of the flesh. But still, his need to know her was nearly uncontainable. In his imaginings, he experienced lurid visions of possessing her beautiful body in so many ways, of satisfying his desires finally, after years of wanting her.

Chapter Three

Marianne realized Darius felt entitled to demand a little more since she was now his betrothed. Their engagement had been announced, but it would be three weeks yet until they married. As her fiancé, he could call upon her and sit next to her in church. And he took full advantage of those opportunities. He held her hand and kissed it, walked with her, and often sent her letters and gifts.

“I have something for you, Marianne.” He presented a slim, leather volume into her hands.

Opening to the title page, she smiled. “John Keats. His poetry is beautiful. I will enjoy this. Thank you, Mr. Rourke.”

“I think you want to call me Darius.” He nodded slowly at her. “And now, you want to kiss me, Marianne.” Still nodding, he smiled knowingly.

He told you what to do, and now you must do it.

Her breath grew heavy, her heart sped up, but she tilted her mouth toward his. Pushing up on her toes, her soft lips pressed against his firmer ones, and she felt the heat, a shuddering slice of arousal that shot right up between her thighs. A yielding breath escaped before she broke contact of their lips. She kept her lips close to his though. Marianne lifted her eyes to his burning ones.

“Darius,” she whispered. Just that short union of lips was shattering, and not nearly enough. He smelled divine, his cologne carrying a hint of exotic spice mixed with fresh linen and…heavenly male. To be so close to him stirred her blood. She let herself be drawn in easily and wondered what else he might ask of her. A shiver brushed over her shoulders and down her spine.

“Say it again.”

“Darius…”

His eyes flared as he descended for another kiss. This time his mouth moved on hers, warm and soft, but commanding. He nipped at her bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth partway, like he wanted to devour her. She was going to allow him. Unable to resist, she leaned into his kisses, letting him tug her into his mouth, wondering where this would lead.

Darius didn’t demand anything more though. At least, not today. He stopped and just smiled, looking pleased when he brought the back of his hand to her face and stroked gently.

“You are something so perfect, Marianne.”

No, I am something so definitely not!

* * * *

When his elegant carriage came to collect her, there was an envelope lying on the leather seat.

Dearest Marianne,

When you go today to be fitted for your wedding clothes, I have arranged for you to select new gowns and assorted garments from the modiste in town. She is French, and will guide you in selecting those items I wish for you to have. Dressing a woman is like framing a beautiful work of art. You, my dear, are the art, and so you must be framed, magnificently. Madame Trulier will have some things ready to take home with you today. Wear them for me, Marianne. I cannot wait to see you dressed as I believe is your due.

Yours,

D. R.

Reading his letter, she became flushed. The thought of Darius picturing her body in want of clothing was very intimate and made her heated. He always did that to her. His words, the looks, the smiles, the barest touch, all served to enflame her until she was unable to think or do anything other than what he asked of her. Darius understood her. Now, when she looked at him, she didn’t see a man that was not for her. Rather, she saw a man she wanted to please. She needed to. Compelled to do those things that satisfied him, she was bound to do what he asked of her.

Darius made her feel special in a way she had never experienced before. He cherished her in words and in deeds. Giving in to him felt comforting, and more importantly, safe. He would make sure she did the right things. If she followed his directions she wouldn’t be able to make terrible mistakes. Marianne couldn’t afford to make another one. Another mistake, like the one with Jonathan, would be the end of her.

Measuring tape in hand, Madame Trulier looked Marianne over carefully. Stripped down to her chemise, her body seemed to be met with approval.

“You are blessed in your figure, my dear. I can see why Mr. Rourke is so enchanted by your charms. We must arrange to show you off to your greatest advantage. Your fiancé was quite specific in what he wants, especially in regards to
dishabille
dress and undergarments. Mr. Rourke said only French silk for your chemises, stockings, and corsets. We shall please him, hmmm? You will be lucky to have such a husband—one who takes an interest.”

Marianne chose from those garments suggested by Madame Trulier. There were morning gowns, lounging wrappers, and gorgeous undergarments. Day dresses, evening gowns, riding outfits, and cloaks. Madame insisted on several nightdresses sewn of the sheerest fabrics—beautiful, but capable of concealing little. Marianne felt the blushing heat fill her again when she pictured herself wearing them for Darius.

“He chose this shawl for you. You will take it with you when you go,” Madame Trulier announced.

The heavy shawl was a work of art in sea-blue Indian silk, woven in an intricate design, shot through with violet, lavender, and dark purple, iridescent threads. Marianne loved it. The dancing fringe swayed delicately when she caressed her hand over his striking gift. Suddenly swamped with the desire to wear this shawl for Darius, she wanted him to see her wearing it and know she had done it for him, to please him.

I am unable to resist his allure and he well knows it.

Chapter Four