Passion Read online

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  PASSION

  By

  Lisa Valdez

  *

  An Irresistible Seduction

  “I have what you need,” he said, his voice rough and ur­gent. His broad-shouldered frame blocked them from view as his hand slid to her breast. “And you have what I need.”

  “Yes.”

  The word had barely passed her lips when, with one quick glance over his shoulder, he pushed her behind the huge screen.

  His voice came low and quiet. “If you want to say no, say it now.” He shook his head. “Not two minutes from now, not five minutes from now.” With one hand, he slowly pulled free the ribbons of her bonnet. “Now, or not at all.”

  Passion stared up at him. Her breathing came fast, yet she was powerless to slow it. The noisy chatter of voices floated over the top of the screen. This was the fork in the road—her last chance to retreat. This man, this day, these circumstances would never happen again. He was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Could she walk away? Every­thing she was made of—blood, bone, heart, and soul—begged her to stay. She could do nothing else.

  “You have what I need,” Passion breathed. She lifted her other hand to her bonnet and, pushing it back, let it fall to the floor. “No reproaches. No regrets.” She pulled off her gloves and dropped them. “No repentance.”

  *

  PASSION

  Lisa Valdez

  BERKLEY SENSATION, NEW YORK

  *

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East. Suite 700. Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

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  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PASSION

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation edition / July

  Copyright © 2005 by Lisa Valdez.

  Excerpt from Patience copyright © 2005 By Lisa Valdez

  Cover art by Gregg Gulbronson.

  Interior text design by Stacy Irwin.

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 0-425-20397-2

  BERKLEY® SENSATION

  Berkley Sensation Books arc published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc..

  375 Hudson Street. New York. New York 10014.

  BERKLEY SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  *

  To my mother,

  without whom I would not be the woman I am. Thank you.

  To my husband,

  who is living proof that the alpha male is still alive and well.

  And to the inimitable Madonna,

  whose song “Beautiful Stranger” was the inspiration

  for this story.

  *

  A Letter of Some Consequence

  July 12, 1824

  My Dearest Abigail,

  What news I have! I hardly know how to tell you—you, my dearest and most trusted confidante, my girlhood friend and sister of my heart—you, who did warn me so directly and honestly what might happen were I to let my heart rule my head. And how correct you were. For here I am, facing the folly of my feverish desires. Have you guessed my situation? I would not doubt it. But I shall tell you immediately, as I am positive that your eyes are leap­ing down the page to discover my secret.

  I, Lucinda Margarita Hawkmore, am with child! A fact, I know, that in and of itself is not entirely remarkable. But wait, my dearest, for here comes the revelation that will lift your brows ceiling-ward. Do you remember the ravishingly handsome young gardener who I employed to re­pair my languishing roses? The one with the naughty brown eyes and delightfully thick appendage? Well, it seems that though he was unable to make my roses grow, he was very adept at planting seeds of a different sort, the fruit of which shall spring from my womb, in all glory, some seven months hence.

  Now, my dearest, you mustn’t chastise me. As you know, I am completely devoted to my new lover, Lord Fentworth. And because I have already born a Hawkmore heir, George, in his usual compliant, husbandly fashion, shall accept this child as his. So there is no harm done. Though George did request that I take measures against his having to play father to any more children not of his mak­ing.

  I told him I would do my best. And in truth, I have no desire to bear the loathsome burden of more children. As you are aware, I can barely stand the first one. Yet I know nothing of such matters, my dearest Abby, so you will have to educate me. Though, I suppose I am safe for the next several months, which is fortunate, as I cannot bear to be out of my darling Fentworth’s arms.

  So there it is, my dearest. You and George are the only ones to ever know. You must write to me immediately so that I may know what you think of my little situation. I can almost hear your gentle recriminations now. But as always, I know you shall forgive me.

  With all my love,

  Your Lucinda

  Post Script: I know I can rely upon you to burn this letter.

  *

  Chapter One

  Passion

  May 4, 1851

  London, The Crystal Palace

  His hand held her breast.

  Passion Elizabeth Dare looked down at the large, gray-gloved hand cupped over the lavender silk of her bodice. It rose and fell with her rapid breath. A black-clad arm curved around her waist, holding her tightly—so tightly she felt the firm press of a body against her back.

  Did no one see?

  No, the spectators and exhibitors were too busy trying to round up the three scamps who had toppled the tall pot­ted palm, too busy fanning the elderly matron who had fainted when it crashed in front of her, too busy insuring that none of the fine porcelains in the exhibit had been disturbed. Too busy to notice her, who had been swept out of harm’s way even before she herself had seen the peril of the falling palm.

  His body shielded her from most of the crowd. His hands didn’t move and, though the brim of her bonnet hid her view of him, she felt his head tip forward. Was he looking at his hands upon her?

  Passion blinked slowly. She felt she was in a dream. A stranger held her with unabashed intimacy in a public place. He smelled of lemon verbena. Why did she feel so safe?

  As she turned to face him, her gaze followed the path of her savior’s gray-gloved fingers. They smoothed around her waist and across her breast, lifting her nipple to a hard peak. Passion closed her eyes with a gasp. Then, as his hands moved up her arms in a long, unrelenting ca­ress, an infinitesimal spark flared b
etween his glove and her sleeve. The hot tingle penetrated her skin and ignited her nerves. Shivering down her spine, it flooded her womb then shimmied down her legs.

  Passion bit back a moan. His fingers gripped her shoul­ders. Her breasts ached, and she felt moisture on her thighs. How long had it been since she had felt desire?

  The low but constant hum of voices surrounded her. She was in the Crystal Palace, Prince Albert’s wondrous endeavor to exhibit the world’s advancements in manu­facturing, textiles, and art. She had come to meet her cousin, Charlotte, in the china, not to be fondled by a stranger! Passion’s eyes flew open.

  Blue. The eyes she stared into were vividly blue. Blue as the wings of a butterfly she had once seen fluttering by her window. She drew a deep breath. Could she paint eyes that color? Could she capture their intense gaze? Could she draw the particular slant of the dark brows that frowned at her from beneath the brim of his top hat? And what of his wide, sensually curved mouth? By God, but he was beautiful.

  His nostrils flared before his hands slid slowly down her arms to her wrists. Passion felt his fingers pressing firmly against her racing pulse. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. She just stood, trembling, while his hot blue gaze moved over her features.

  People shifted past them, around them. Behind, someone laughed loudly, startling her. He cast a quick, almost angry glance toward the source of the boisterous laughter before releasing her wrists. For a long moment, his eyes bored into hers. She stared back, frozen. Finally, he lifted his hand to the brim of his hat. With a nod, he turned and walked away.

  Passion’s breath rushed out all at once. He was tall, and she followed his broad-shouldered back with her eyes as he moved easily through the crowd. Just as she thought he would disappear entirely into the throng, he paused. She tensed. Her eyes widened as he turned slowly and looked directly at her across the broad expanse of the exhibit room. She couldn’t read his expression. What was he thinking?

  Her heart leapt beneath her breast as he started pur­posefully back toward her. She took two shaky steps backward, then turned and hurried into the adjacent ex­hibit. When she glanced over her shoulder, he was still there, closing the distance between them with a deter­mined, predatory intensity in his eyes.

  Passion pressed forward, passing from one exhibit to the next without thought to where she was. Finally, she stopped beside a small crowd that stood listening to a man with a heavy German accent. Clocks. He was talking about Swiss clocks. Passion glanced behind her. A dull thump of disappointment drummed once in her stomach. He wasn’t there. She scanned the crowd before turning back to stare at a large grandfather clock with a looming white face.

  Disappointment? The big hand clicked forward. Relief, surely. She sighed. Why lie to herself? She had wanted him to follow. Had wanted him to touch her. Just one more time.

  The little Swiss man droned on. The big hand clicked forward again, and the heavy pendulum swung—back and forth, back and forth. She stared at it until it blurred. Yes, just one more time. She closed her eyes and conjured piercing blue eyes and large, gray-gloved hands. Hands that made her want…

  A touch! Passion’s eyes flew open. Although the brim of her bonnet acted as a blinder, she could smell him. Bare fingers pressed on the small expanse of skin between her glove and the sleeve of her gown. He had found her.

  The pads of his fingers moved slowly over the thin skin of her inner wrist. She bit her lip as he slid one finger in­side her glove, pressing it into her bare palm as his other fingers wrapped around her wrist. Surely he could feel her blood pounding through her veins.

  The Swiss man was still talking. The big clock was still ticking. No one was watching. Haltingly, Passion turned her head to look at him. He stood close beside her, staring at the clockmaker as though he were listening to every heavily accented word. Yet hidden by the folds of her skirt, his finger moved slowly and sensually over the curves and lines of her palm. She closed her hand around his finger and watched a muscle clench in his jaw.

  Polite applause punctuated the end of the clockmaker’s speech. But Passion continued to stare. Her words came before she thought to hold them back. “Your profile ought to be pressed upon a coin.”

  He bent his blue gaze upon her. “Your body ought to be pressed upon mine.”

  Passion’s mouth went dry. Her insides went liquid. “Excuse me,” she whispered, backing away.

  “No,” he said casually. “I do not excuse you.”

  The low pitch of his voice made a muscle quiver in her thigh. She moistened her lips and swallowed convulsively before mustering the strength to turn from him and move into the milling multitude.

  Walking slowly into the main gallery of the Crystal Palace, she squinted a moment in reaction to the bright sunlight shining through the towering, vaulted ceiling. She ought to return to her aunt. She ought to leave. In­stead, she glanced behind her.

  He was there, leisurely following several paces behind.

  One corner of his handsome mouth turned up in a sort of half smile.

  Passion veered into another exhibit room, less crowded than the others. Silver pieces, resting upon velvet-covered platforms, lent the room a glow as light reflected off the polished surfaces. Crossing to a corner, she paused before a large tureen decorated with grapes, leaves, and frolick­ing Pans engaged in bacchanalian pursuits.

  She felt him behind her, pressing the protective layers of skirt and petticoats against her legs. She bit her lip. What was she doing? Why didn’t she stop him?

  His fingers ran up the middle of her back. Gooseflesh lifted on her arms, and her nipples tightened into hard buds. This was what she was doing. This was what she wanted.

  Moving to her side, he seemed to study the tureen. Pas­sion studied him. He was tall, big even, but not coarse. Immaculately dressed, the fine fabric of his coat accentu­ated his tapering torso. His white shirt showed in sharp contrast to his perfectly tied cravat and dark vest. The long legs of his trousers broke perfectly over his polished boots.

  “Do I meet with your approval?”

  Passion lifted her gaze. He was looking at her with a hot intensity. People moved about behind them. She didn’t care. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Suddenly he pulled her hand to the front of his pants. She gasped to feel his erection huge and hard against her palm. His eyes darkened. “You meet with my approval as well.”

  Passion’s fingers clenched convulsively. His jaw tight­ened. Lord, she hadn’t meant to do that. He felt so big, her fingers had moved of their own accord.

  She tried to pull away, but he held her firmly against him. Her eyes widened in silent appeal as a large group of people paused directly behind them. The corner of his mouth lifted a little in that small almost smile, then he slowly and deliberately rubbed her hand up and down the thick length of him.

  Staring into his eyes, Passion froze, sure that any movement or sound from her would draw some observant individual’s immediate attention. Her lip trembled, and his gaze dropped to her mouth.

  “Fear or excitement?” he asked quietly.

  “Both.” The word came out in a soft rush.

  “And you simply must see this wondrous tureen,” a woman said loudly behind them.

  He released her but let his fingers brush her nipple as he lifted his hand to once again touch the brim of his hat. They both stepped back, and a small cluster of ladies, ac­companied by a gentleman, moved to crowd around the gaudy silver piece.

  Passion watched them for a moment as they admired the awful thing. How different she felt from them—how apart. But then, except in the company of her sisters, she always felt different. And now, with her whole body tin­gling with sensation, she felt even more so. It was as if she were moving in the landscape of a dream.

  She looked at him. Yet he was real—he was with her. Though a stranger, he was somehow a part of her.

  His coat was pulled forward, his arms crossed over his chest. He stood beside a display, watching her watch the others.
His eyes didn’t leave her. What must he think? That she was a strumpet? How odd. She, Passion Eliza­beth Dare—dutiful daughter, dedicated sister, respectable widow, companionable niece, and helpful cousin—a slut?

  Her body inclined slightly toward him. Oh, to forget duty and obligation. Could she not indulge this craving, this desire? Just this once? It felt dangerous, yet com­pletely necessary.

  Passion strode forward, the tips of her gloved fingers brushing his pant leg as she passed. She knew he fol­lowed. She had felt the flex of his thigh as he turned. Her decision didn’t surprise her so much as her boldness. Sud­denly she felt like Bathsheba or Delilah. And though she knew the havoc those women had wrought, she couldn’t stop herself—despite a niggling fear.

  Passion walked from exhibit to exhibit. He was there, every moment, following. She didn’t know what to do or where to go. She just wanted to touch him and be touched by him. She finally stopped in a room of gothic furniture. As with all the exhibits, people roamed throughout.

  She strolled to the back of the room, pausing before a huge screen erected in one corner. It was carved to resem­ble the facade of a medieval castle. Beside it stood a tall prie-dieu, an Italian piece made for the purpose of indi­vidual prayer, complete with a cushion for the devotee to kneel upon. A Bible lay open upon the broad top. Passion stared at it for a moment before stepping close. She leaned forward tentatively. The words on the page leapt out at her.

  Flee fornication. Every sin that a man doeth is without the body; but he that committeth fornication sinneth against his own body.

  By God, how many times had her father quoted Corinthians in his homilies? Even miles away, there was no escaping his influence.

  She sensed him before he touched her. Not her father. Him. Passion shuddered as she felt his hand rest warm on her waist. Why did it feel so comforting, so secure?

  He was looking over her shoulder at the Bible. After just a moment, his voice sounded near her ear. “Don’t read that.” He reached around her. “It’s inappropriate for the occasion.”

  His chest pressed against her shoulder as he flipped the pages. His hands were large and tanned. The subtle scents of lemon verbena, linen, and his skin surrounded her.