Passion Page 7

  Two more days at the Crystal Palace. Two more days in which to experience enough bliss to last her for a lifetime. Two more days in which to store away enough memories to console her when the inevitable emptiness returned.

  “You’ve returned.”

  Mark pulled his eyes away from his architectural draw­ing to look at his brother.

  “About time,” Matthew remarked, crossing the study. “Where were you all afternoon? I came to hear about your mystery woman. Waited around for almost two hours, but you never showed.”

  Mark threw down his pencil and leaned back in chair. “Yes, Cranford informed me you were prowling around here for an eon.”

  “Well, where were you?”

  How he wished he could tell Matt about the thieving Abigail Lawrence. He shrugged. “I had some business to see to.”

  Matt half sat on the corner of the desk. “Fine, don’t tell me.”

  Mark smiled.

  “But I insist on knowing if you found your fair damsel of the Crystal Palace.”

  Mark’s smile widened. “I did.”

  “Damn, I knew she would be there.” Matt leaned for­ward. “Now don’t be a boor and make me pull it out of you. What happened? Who is she?”

  “I had her again, and her name is Passion.”

  Matt grinned. “It is not.”

  “It is. She was born on Passion Sunday.”

  Matt shook his head. “Oh, this is too good. Go on. Go on.”

  “Guess what her favorite gospel is?”

  “She has a favorite gospel? Christ, you’re doing a woman who’s named after a religious holiday and has a favorite gospel?”

  “Mark. Her favorite gospel is Mark.”

  “This is getting a little too theological for me. Get to the fucking part.”

  Mark leaned forward and examined his drawing as he picked up his pencil again. “We fucked,” he said dismissively.

  “Well, was it as good as yesterday?”

  “Better.”

  Matt snatched the pencil out of Mark’s hand and tossed it on the desk. “How the hell does it get better than yes­terday?”

  Mark remembered the relief that washed through him when he saw Passion. “It was better because I wanted her to be there and she was. It was better because we had more time together.”

  “Really?” Matt said in a slow, is-that-so tone.

  Mark frowned, irritated. “What?”

  Matt shrugged. “I just don’t recall you ever wanting to spend ‘more time’ with a woman—even one you’re sleeping with. Fuck and flee, remember? You used to say that.”

  Mark’s frown deepened. He didn’t like the lack of con­trol he had demonstrated upon parting with Passion. He should have been sated and ready to leave her. Instead, his body had betrayed his true desire: to stay and have her again. “Well, this woman makes staying worthwhile.”

  “Why? What about her makes staying worthwhile?”

  “When did you become such a damned pain in the ass?” Mark sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “You know why it was better? It was better because she let me get deeper inside her. It was better because she has the hottest, tightest, sweetest cunt I’ve ever had. It was better because I know I could have pushed my whole cock in her, but I didn’t because I’m going to have her again to­morrow, at which time, I plan to get my whole prick, once and for all, into a woman.”

  “Ah”—Matt nodded—“a worthy goal.”

  Mark expected to see sarcasm in his brother’s expres­sion but found none.

  “Did she cry again?” Matt asked.

  Mark felt his shoulders relax and almost smiled. His brother had a penchant for tears. “Yes. She wept lovely, quiet tears.”

  “Mmm.” Matt looked rapt. “Does she have a nice wide mouth?”

  Now Mark laughed. “You letch! Does Rosalind know about your passion for tears and fellatio?”

  Matt grinned slyly. “No, but she will.”

  Mark leaned forward and picked up his pencil again. “Good thing you like giving it as much as getting it.”

  “So, does she? Does Passion have a mouth for—”

  Mark gave his brother a warning look, but beneath the desk his cock pulsed as he remembered her licking her lips. “I’m not discussing this with you.” He glanced down at the thick bulge in his brother’s pants and felt a spark of anger. “And save your damned erections for Rosalind.”

  Matt chuckled as he stood and adjusted himself. “This is for Rosalind. But a tempting story is a tempting story.” He pulled his gloves from his pocket. “Say, why don’t you come to the Benchleys with me? I’m going to play this evening.”

  Mark thought about it. Matt played the cello magnifi­cently. “Is Rosalind going to ruin your performance with that bashing about she does on the piano?”

  Matt smiled. “Probably.”

  “I’ll pass.” Mark bent over his drawings. “I have work to do, anyway.”

  Matt came around the desk and looked over Mark’s shoulder. “Are these the plans for the library?”

  “Yes.” He showed his brother his drawing of the cof­fered dome that would arc over the library’s main rotunda. An oculus of leaded glass would illuminate the space with natural light.

  Matt nodded. “It’s superb, brother.” He smiled down at Mark and squeezed his shoulder. “Lord Fitzgerald would be crazy to give the commission to anyone else. Despite his Crystal Palace, Joseph Paxton doesn’t have a chance.”

  Mark looked into his brother’s brown eyes—eyes in­herited from a gardener. It hurt that Matt wasn’t his full brother. Ultimately, it didn’t change anything, but it hurt. Matt was the only person he cared about in the world. It meant something that they were brothers, that they were close not only in name but in blood. Now they were less so. Goddamn his mother!

  Matt’s brow furrowed quizzically. “What? Don’t you think you deserve the commission?”

  Mark forced a grin. “Hell, yes, I think I deserve the commission. And he better damn well give it to me, too, or I’ll stab him through the heart with my compass.”

  Matt laughed and slapped Mark’s shoulder. “And you’d do it, too.” He walked back around the desk but then turned as if just remembering something. “You know, Mother told me she thought you went to call upon the Lawrences today. Did you?”

  Mother should keep her mouth shut. “Yes,” Mark said casually. “I stopped there.”

  “So did you meet this Charlotte Lawrence?”

  Mark erased a smudge from the architectural drawing. “No. She was not at home.”

  “Hmm. This lady is becoming rather mysterious. Are you sure she really exists?”

  “Alas, yes.”

  “Aha!”

  Mark looked up to find his brother pointing a long fin­ger at him. “Aha, what?”

  “I knew you weren’t interested in this girl,” Matt con­tinued. “What’s going on? You’ve always sworn you wouldn’t marry. While I’ve never fully believed you, the idea that you would consider a girl without title, whom you’ve never met, and upon our mother’s suggestion, makes no sense at all.”

  Mark thought fast. “I’m thinking that while I have no desire whatsoever to be a husband, I might like to be a fa­ther.” There was truth to that. It was the one aspect of his decision not to marry that caused him some regret.

  Matt looked at him nonplussed. “You don’t even like children.”

  “Not in general. But I’m sure I’d feel differently about my own. So,” Mark continued quickly, “because I can’t have the child without the wife, and because I have no re­gard for the putrid ideals of our class, I am merely giving this Miss Lawrence some consideration.” Mark squeezed his eraser between his fingers and cursed his mother for making him a liar. “As for our mother, her association with the Lawrences bears no weight upon my decision, which, at this moment, is still entirely undecided.”

  Matt shook his head. “You’re horrid. Absolutely hor­rid. I pity this poor Miss Lawrence if you actually deign to cou
rt her. What will you do—send your proposal by messenger?”

  “That’s an excellent plan.” Mark smiled as his brother rolled his eyes heavenward. “But it’s not likely things will go that far. I’m already losing interest in the idea.” Mark tossed down his eraser. He’d find a way to get that damn letter. He wasn’t marrying anybody, least of all Charlotte Lawrence.

  Matt pulled on his gloves. “I’ve got to go. Sure you won’t come? Rosalind would love to see you.”

  “But I would not love to hear her. How can you, a su­perior musician, be affianced to a woman who butchers Beethoven whenever she sits at the piano?”

  Matt grinned. “Well, she does have that nice wide mouth…”

  Mark raised his brow. “I guess that’s as good a reason to marry as any.”

  Matt shook his head with a small smile. “Love is a wonderful thing, my hard-hearted brother. You should try it sometime.”

  An old memory flashed clearly in Mark’s mind. “I don’t love you!” his mother had shouted at his father. “I never did!” Mark frowned. How old had he been as he had watched from the open doorway? Seven? Eight? And then his mother had looked at him. Actually, she had gri­maced at him. “Nor you either, you little brat. “

  He had cried—more than once. He vaguely remem­bered the feel of his pillow, wet beneath his check. Today, he felt only disgust. Love! Love, indeed.

  “Just because it didn’t work for Father doesn’t mean it can’t work for you,” Matt offered.

  “Enough!” Mark resisted the urge to slam his fist into his desk. He was being blackmailed into marriage by a thieving bitch, his brother wasn’t his full brother, and his slut of a mother was, as usual, at the heart of all his prob­lems. This was not the time for a damned lecture on the merits of love. “Our mother has slept with half of London and the adjoining counties, which only proves that love isn’t really ‘working’ for anyone,” he said tightly.

  Matt held up his hands in resignation and backed to­ward the door. “I’ll say no more.” He turned to go but then paused. “Passion. Tomorrow I want to hear all about your adventure with her. She intrigues me.”

  “Aren’t you late for some bad Beethoven?”

  Matt left with a smile.

  Mark released a deep breath and rested his head in his hands. He rubbed his scalp. His brother was a fool. Love led to lies. One day his beloved Rosalind would betray him and he would be ruined, just as their father had been. No, not their father—Mark’s father. Damn women. Damn them all.

  Lifting his head, he stared into the flames that leapt in the fireplace across the room. His meeting with Abigail Lawrence played over in his mind. He had been so sure she would take the money. It galled him that she hadn’t. If she thought he was going to just roll over and let her dic­tate his life, she was wrong.

  He twirled his pencil between his fingers as he allowed himself brief fantasies of murder and arson. Unfortu­nately, he did have some morals.

  He stopped twirling. A little thievery, however, would not be out of the question. And he knew just the young pickpocket to pull it off. He tapped his pencil idly. The question was, did Abigail Lawrence have the letter in her home? Mark remembered her haughty arrogance and the fact that she had kept this letter for years, waiting for the time to use it.

  Yes. A woman such as she would never let that letter out of her keeping. It must be there. It would take time to search the house without being discovered, but it could be done. He had until June 9th. Of course, he’d have to go along with Abigail Lawrence’s demands in the interim. He threw down his pencil. He wouldn’t do it amicably, but he’d do it. Tomorrow he’d send for his thief.

  He gazed again at the fire. Tomorrow he’d see Passion. Anticipation coursed through him. Why did he want her so much? He didn’t really know anything about her. Was she as false as most women? No, she didn’t seem anything like most women.

  His shoulders relaxed. Everything about her seemed genuine and real. Even courtesans were as much actresses as prostitutes. But with Passion, there was no artifice, no pretension … no exchange of anything except honest, mutual pleasure.

  Mark remembered her amazing breasts and the long tendril of her auburn hair falling forward across her cheek. His cock stirred. He thought of his brother’s words and imagined Passion with her lovely mouth open around his prick. He moaned as his blood rushed and his erection grew. Yes. He had stumbled upon the ideal situation—a beautiful woman with whom to share sexual satisfaction, without the loathsome pretense of love or affection.

  He smiled as he adjusted himself. Tomorrow they would enjoy each other in a wholly different manner. To­morrow… anxiety suddenly plagued him as he remem­bered the way they had parted. If she showed up tomorrow.

  *

  Chapter Five

  Done

  Therefore I say unto you, What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them—Mark 11:24.

  Passion sighed. She knew her prayers were not the sort Jesus referred to. Yet, she couldn’t help herself. She prayed God grant her another hour in Mark’s arms. She prayed for his firm touch. She prayed for his breath upon her ear. A warm tingle tumbled down her spine. Why had God given her a body if she was not to experience the joy it was capable of? Why had God given her emotions if she was not to plumb their depths?

  “Excuse me,” a low voice sounded beside her.

  Passion’s heart thumped as she turned. Disappointment washed through her. A handsome man in a plaid waistcoat smiled at her. “I apologize for intruding. You were so still and so intent in the midst of this throng. Are you all right?”

  Something in his smile reminded her of Mark’s. Pas­sion glanced around the crowded room. It was a throng today, a throng without Mark.

  Passion turned back to the gentleman. Even the angle of his jaw looked a bit like Mark’s.

  His brows furrowed a little over his dark eyes. Not Mark’s eyes. “Are you well?” His voice was gentle. He was being kind.

  Passion smiled. “Yes. Thank you. I’m completely well.” She gestured to the Bible. “I was just reading.”

  He glanced at the book and then returned her smile. “St. Mark, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  He studied her intently for a moment. Then he glanced at the Bible and seemed to consider before speaking. “Mark is difficult, but he’s worth the effort.”

  Passion lifted her brows. “Do you think so?”

  “I do.” The man smiled at her. “He can be downright boorish, but beneath the hard exterior is gold.”

  Passion returned his smile. “It’s rare to find one who speaks of the gospel so personally. Are you a theologian, sir?”

  “No, madam.” He regarded her steadily. “I just know Mark very well.”

  “Ah.”

  The man glanced over her shoulder, and the look in his eyes told her someone approached.

  Passion shivered as she felt a hand slide around her waist. A hint of lemon verbena flirted with her senses. She looked up. Excitement sparked through her. Mark!

  He was frowning hard at the gentleman. “Is this man bothering you, darling?”

  Passion blanched. They were supposed to be strangers. No one should know they knew each other. Yet, her heart responded to his endearment with a pleased flutter. Just as quickly as the blood had drained from her face, she now felt it rushing back in a hot flush. “I—no. This gentleman and I were just discussing the gospel.”

  “Really,” Mark drawled, his tone dripping sarcasm.

  Glancing quickly at the other man. Passion was surprised to find him smiling. Her thoughts scattered, though, as Mark pulled her closer.

  “Yes, really,” the man replied. He turned to her, and his smile softened. “Now that your escort has arrived, madam, I shall bid you good day.”

  Passion smiled. “Good day, sir.”

  The man nodded at Mark before melting into the crowd.

  Mark’s gaze followed the retreating gentleman. His arm was
still around her, and she could feel the warmth of his hand on her waist. Why did his mere touch make her giddy? A shiver of delight tingled over her skin.

  He looked down at her, and the frown eased from his brow. His mouth softened, and the hard look in his pierc­ing eyes fell away as he regarded her. “Hello, Passion.”

  The use of her name was like an intimate touch. Her nipples tightened. “Hello, Mark.”

  Something dark flared in his eyes. “Your voice makes me hard.”

  Passion took a deep breath. A large group of spectators passed near. Mark’s hand tightened on her waist before re­leasing her. They faced the prie-dieu.

  He seemed to study the page. “I’m sorry I’m late. I was detained twice by parties of people I know.”

  Passion nodded. She suddenly wondered what it would be like to be among the people he knew. Was he a good friend? Her instincts told her yes, despite his outward de­meanor, for she remembered his tender dressing of her and how he had put her bow just so. Yet, she would never really know. For they only knew each other in the secret world behind the screen. In the real world, they were strangers.

  “What’s wrong?” He was looking down at her.

  Passion realized a frown had crept between her brows. She smiled to ease it. “I was just wondering what sort of man you are. I realize I’ll never know, of course. But that’s odd, isn’t it?” Passion felt heat rise to her cheeks. “I mean, under the circumstances.”

  Mark regarded her intently. Another large group of people moved behind them, waiting to view the huge screen. His eyes passed over each of her features. The crowd pressed nearer. He was not going to answer. Pas­sion’s cheeks flamed hotter. The chatter of the crowd in­tensified.