Passion (20 page)

Gabriella swallowed, not knowing what to say.
She eventually offered, “Its better you didn’t. But—I don’t want
him, or you, to think I can’t take care of myself.”

“We—“

“I never wanted anything from him.”

“That’s too bad,” Lady Caroline told her
softly, “He very much wanted to be your father, to look after you,
and I very much wanted a sister. My mother was not around often,
not after I was five. There has only been father and myself…”

Gabriella came to her feet, meeting that
gaze. “You were fortunate to have one devoted parent, a superior
life, obviously.”

Quietly Caroline said, “Perhaps it is too
soon. We all need time to sort everything out and get used to each
other. Father wants to take you to his estate in Sheffield.” Her
blue eyes were full of meaning. “It’s for the best, while the
investigations proceed.”

“Do you know—“

“Raith Le Clair, Lord Montovon?”

Gabriella nodded, surprised that under that
polish and seeming perfection, there was some feminine keenness in
Lady Caroline.

“He was very seriously injured, but at latest
report alive. His father, the Duke of Eastland, is also getting him
out of the city and to Eastland Hall.”

She had gone to the door before she turned
and then asked Gabriella, “The man who….the man who owned that
house. Did he do that to you?”

“Yes. But this wasn’t his worst.” Gabriella
answered gruffly, “His worst was done to my mother—and to Lord
Montovon’s wife.”

The woman chewed her lip a moment, and then
nodded. “Will they find his body in the house?”

“Yes. If the fire did not destroy it.”

Their eyes held a long time, and Gabriella
wondered if she should have been so honest.

However, for all the woman looked what every
perfectly rich heiress should, she told Gabriella kindly, “I hope
you will allow yourself to have peace then. I hope you will allow
us to show you a different kind of family and life.”

After the door closed, Gabriella, still
mulling that encounter, went back to the bed. She sat on the edge
of it, and was still there when a man entered. No one had to tell
her who he was. He looked every inch the Duke, and though she had
spied him from afar before, up close, it was easy to see both his
proud blood and the traces of handsomeness clinging to him.

He was taller than she had thought, fit, and
though his hair was graying, it was thick. His eyes were
beautiful—and there was a kindness to him, despite his unconscious
dignity. His gaze had been going over her too and when it met hers,
she saw tears.

“I beg your pardon…” voice gruff, he turned
away a moment.

She offered, “It doesn’t hurt half so bad as
it looks.”

“It hurts me. Hurts—to my very soul.”

She came to her feet slowly.

He turned around, his eyes heartrending as he
took two steps toward her. “Must I introduce myself?”

“No. I know who you are.”

“You’re—“

“Gabriella, although, my mother called me
Tara.”

He smiled and carefully raised his hand to
touch her cheek. “You look so much like her, it makes my heart
ache. I loved her more than words can…”

Gabriella knew that. Her mother knew it
too.

He said gruffly. “You have some of me in you
though.” His smile was not steady. “The shape of the eyes, and that
nose…it’s my mothers.”

Gabriella stood quietly while he looked at
her, and tried to step out of the surreally but could not.

He had her sit, and he then, told his story—
and afterwards he began to ask her questions. Gabriella told her
own story, more detached, and still sad for her mother. However,
the Duke wept and wept. His tears and pain were real, and even when
he got up and paced, they ran down his face.

By the time she explained her contract with
Raith he was shaken and sat again. She told no details of her
“training” and only explained they set out to destroy Marcus
Stratton, all traces of him. She told of no intimacy between her
and Raith either, but was frank about her role. She did not tell
him what happened before the fire. His expression and gaze on her
was both disturbed and awed.

“My dear, child. I could have spared you
that.”

“Perhaps.”

“However much it disturbs me, I can
understand it, the why.” He stood and came to her, getting on his
haunches before he took her hands. “If you will allow me, I’d like
to take you away from London. Give you time to heal. Perhaps, offer
you a chance to finally live a normal life.”

“I will never fit.” She shook her head. “I’ll
never be other than I am.” She realized that during her time with
Stratton with the reality of it all.

“We shall see.” He touched her cheek, his
eyes welling again. “I will not lie, besides, you know the world
far more than most your age…I cannot claim you publicly. I will get
around that, however. I will give you all that is in my power. My
love, for as long as I am alive. You will not want for anything.
Please, give me that chance?”

She searched his face and felt his pain
acutely, wishing in some distant part of her that her mother had
chosen him—yet knowing that kind of thinking was as futile as
wishing her own past had been different. It had not been. Gabriella
nodded.

He brought her hands to his lips. “This
ring,” He touched it. “I bought it for her, when you were born.”
Bordwyc bowed his head, pressing them against his forehead. “Rest.
That is what you need. Time and rest. We shall depart in two
days.”

“All right—”

“Father. In private at least.” He pulled out
his handkerchief and wiped his eyes, then tucked it back. “Take
your time getting used to it.”

He took his leave shortly after.

She lay in the bed, trying to feel what she
should feel. Gabriella could not yet. She was thankful though that
Raith survived. She prayed with all of her being that he would
recover—and have his peace.

Pressing her fingertips to her lips, she
closed her eyes... she missed him…already, she missed him terribly,
achingly. She felt only half present, the other half of
herself—wherever he may be.

Chapter 8

Caroline was in a panic.

Her father had announced in more than his
usual distracted air that he had requested Stoneleigh escort her to
the assembly tonight, and that they would all meet in his study to
discuss “things” before leaving for the country.

She had tried to reach Harriet, but her
friend had sent back word she was unwell and would see her next
week.

Next week was too bloody late!

Now Caroline stood by the coffeehouse, hoping
to catch the Captain on his comings and goings, since he obviously
lived in the neighborhood. Desperate, she could only think of one
thing, and that was to see him one more time.

Oh, God. She pressed her hands to her
stomach, creasing her blue cape, feeling herself trembling, and
hating the confusion that would not let her think straight. This
was not like her usual self-possessed ease. This clandestine
business was so bloody nerve wracking!

She was staring toward the opposite street,
when someone exited the coffeehouse and walked toward her.

“I take it you are waiting on my cousin?”

She spun and stared up at the man. He was
swarthy, like the Captain, and a bit rugged, made more so by an eye
patch and scars that reached below his cheekbone, a tall and
muscular man, wearing mostly black, save for a long wine leather
coat.

“I’m Ry.” He smiled and arched his brow.

She wet her lips and asked, “Where is he, the
Captain?”

“At his fencing lesson,” he said that dryly
and then took her elbow. “He’ll return shortly. You may as well
wait for him at home, as to be standing so conspicuously on the
streets.”

Caroline knew she should protest, yet she was
nothing but relieved as he escorted her across the street. They
walked up, passing several houses before entering one.

“You were…in the war, also?”

“Army,” he answered and showed her inside.
“The study is this way.”

She followed him, seeing a butler head toward
them.

To the man Ry said, “I’ll make the lady
comfortable. Some wine, mayhap?”

“Yes, please.”

Inside the study, a neat and orderly one,
Caroline pushed back her hood, sitting tensely while wine was
brought, aware that the man looked at her while she drank half of
it down—too fast.

He was over by the door, herself in a chair
by an unlit fireplace, slightly facing. She understood the order in
the room, and gathered that as blind, the Captain would need to
place things just so.

Glancing at the male again, she tried to
smile and failed. His gaze said he knew very well some sort of game
was afoot. However, as he straightened, all he murmured was, “Make
yourself at home. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

The door closed behind him. She took off the
cloak and then sank back in the chair. She must be mad. She must
be…desperate. Yes, that is what she felt, and she did not have
Harry to calm her down.

Sometime later, Caroline heard the sounds in
the hall. Sitting up, her fingers tightened on the glass. Her eyes
were pinned to the door when it opened.

The Captain entered and halted, his face
turning in her direction. “Is something amiss?”

She got to her feet. “No I just wanted…I had
to…see you.”

The expression on his face softened from the
initial alarm. Blaise shut the door behind him, walking toward her
with confidence of one who indeed knew the room well. When he was a
step away, she smelled the scent she loved on him, and noticed he
wore no cravat. His dun trousers were snug, casual, as were his
boots, and he was without a coat.

Caroline had already felt that he was tall,
but he seemed taller inside this house, and his shoulders wider,
his face more handsome. In the brighter light from the window, she
saw a hint of his eye color, a very light brown.

“I’m sorry. I…have intruded…”

“No.” He reached and took her hands, the one
with the glass he cupped at the wrist. “I’m surprised, but
pleased…very pleased.”

She let her held breath release.

“I should change…refresh,” he murmured even
as he leaned his head down, and kissed her a most welcoming and
lushly erotic kiss. Their lips clung, reluctantly parting as he
lifted his head.

Caroline stared at his mouth. Such beautiful
lips.

As if sensing that stare and thought he took
the wine from her hand, finishing it himself, he then led her over
to a sofa. Pulling her down beside him, he half turned, his fingers
touching her cheek. “I’ve missed you,” he admitted.

“Your scent doesn’t offend me.” She whispered
and covered his hand. “I’ve…thought of you…” she could not finish,
apparently did not need to because he kissed her again and again.
It was not long before she lay flat on the sofa with him half over
her.

“Close your eyes…”

She did so. His fingertips began tracing her
face. Slowly, softly, he skimmed around the shape of it and back to
her brow, very delicately touching down her nose and to her
lips.

Scarcely breathing, she told him, “I like
that. Is that what 'tis like, to be blind?”

“Um.” He traced around her lips and then
lowered his to them. “I’d rather see you. I would rather be able to
look into your eyes, see your expression, after I’ve kissed
you.”

Her hands reached for him and held his upper
arms through long sensual kisses.

Dizzy, tingling, Caroline said when he lifted
once more and began tracing her throat, her shoulder, “You are not
upset that I’m here?”

“Upset? No. God, no.” He leaned his head
down, hair brushing her skin whilst he pressed soft kisses at her
throat. She groaned and arched it, soon turning her head so he
could treat the side and the delicate shape of her ear to the
same.

A bit bolder, his hands moved, skimming, from
her hip to outer breasts and then across the left one, while he
kissed her lightly, smoothly, and teased her tongue with his, she
felt his fingers on the latches.

A breath from her lips he asked, “Shall
I?”

“Yes.” She let her lashes open when he rose
slightly and began undoing latches. He had them undone down to her
ribs and skimmed his hand inside. Her skin was blanked with chills,
breast tingling, the nipple tightening. The pad of his finger went
round the areola, before he ever so leisurely traced both
globes.

Panting, aware he tilted his head to hear her
breathing, Caroline’s fingers tightened in the fabric she held
to.

“Lovely.” He kissed her before pushing the
material aside and softly kissing what his fingers touched.

Her hands transferred to his head. “Oh, oh
my…” she whispered at the first swipe of tongue. By the time he
started suckling, she had arched her back, her hands splayed and
holding him to her. Although in her own world of new sensations,
Caroline could feel his heat and tension, and his hotter breathing.
She felt such indescribable pleasure when he began kissing down her
ribs, downwards still—until he reached the end of the latches and
made his way back up.

She shuddered a breath against his damp mouth
before it covered hers. Her kiss to him was hungry, excited, so
aroused, she did not think of how she kissed him, but needed his
taste—and was famished to feel the textures and intimate, silken
heat inside his mouth.

He lifted a whisper away, and then his teeth
worried her lower lip teasingly before he husked low, “You’re
trembling.”

“I…feel…Oh...” She smoothed her hands down
his head, to his shoulders. “I feel dizzy. My heart is pounding. My
skin feels…strange, but wonderful. Like I’m flying and burning at
the same time.”

He kissed her short, supple. His hand skimmed
down, gathering the flimsy skirt of her gown and dragging it
upwards. His palm smoothed over her stockings. At the tops, where
he met skin, he paused a moment, his masculine palm sending more
tingles through her blood...