Passion for Him

man.

Who was gone.

She blinked rapidly. Gone. Lifting to her tiptoes, Amelia frantically searched the sea of people. He was tall and blessed with an impressive breadth of shoulder. His lack of a wig provided an additional means of identification, but she could not find him.

Where did he go?

“Amelia.”

The low, cultured drawl at her shoulder was dearly familiar, and she shot a quick, distracted glance at the handsome man who drew abreast of her. “Yes, my lord?”

“What are you looking for?” The Earl of Ware mimicked her pose, craning his neck in much the same fashion. Any other man would have looked ridiculous, but not Ware. It was impossible for him to appear anything less than perfect from the top of his wigged head down to his diamond-studded heels six feet below. “Would it be too much to hope that you were looking for me?”

Smiling sheepishly, Amelia abandoned her visual hunt and linked her arm with his. “I was seeking a phantom.”

“A phantom?” Through the eyeholes of his painted mask, his blue eyes laughed at her. Ware had two expressions-one of dangerous boredom and one of warm amusement. She was the only person in his life capable of inspiring the latter. “Was this a frightening specter? Or something more interesting?”

“I am not certain. He was following me.”

“All men follow you, love,” he said with a faint curve to his lips. “At the very least with their gazes, if not with their legs.”

Amelia squeezed his arm in gentle admonishment. “You tease me.”

“Not at all.” He arched one arrogant brow. “You often appear lost in a world of your own making. It is supremely appealing to men to see a woman content with herself. We long to slip inside her and join her.”

The intimate timbre of Ware’s voice was not lost on Amelia. She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. “Naughty man.”

He laughed, and the guests around them stared. So did she. Merriment transformed the earl from the epitome of an ennui afflicted aristocrat to a vibrantly attractive man.

Ware began to stroll, expertly carrying her along with him. She had known him for six years now, having met him when he was ten and eight. She’d watched him grow into the man he was today, watched him take his first steps into liaisons and the way relations with women had changed him, although none of his inamoratas held his attention long. They saw only his exterior and the marquessate he would rule upon his father’s passing. Perhaps he could have lived with that depth of interest, if he had not met her first. But they had met, and become the closest of friends. Now lesser connections displeased him. He kept mistresses to relieve his physical needs, but he kept her close to see to his emotional ones.

They would marry, she knew. It was unspoken between them, yet understood. Ware simply waited for the day when she would finally be ready to step beyond the boundaries of friendship and into his bed. She loved him for that patience, even though she was not in love with him. Amelia wished she could be; she wished it every day. But she loved another, and while death had stolen him from her, her heart stayed true.

“Where are your thoughts now?” Ware asked, his head tilting in acknowledgment of another guest’s greeting.

“With you.”

“Ah, lovely,” he purred, his eyes lit with pleasure. “Tell me everything.”

“I am thinking that I shall enjoy being married to you.”

“Is that a proposal?”

“I’m not certain.”

“Hmmm…well, we are getting closer. I take some comfort in that.”

She studied him carefully. “Are you growing impatient?”

“I can wait.”

The answer was vague, and Amelia frowned.

“No fretting,” Ware admonished gently, leading her out a pair of open French doors to a crowded terrace. “I am content for now, so long as you are.”

The cool evening breeze blew across her skin, and she inhaled deeply. “You are not being entirely truthful.”

Amelia came to a halt at the wide marble railing and faced him. Several couples stood nearby, engaging in various conversations, but all were casting curious glances in their direction. Despite the shadows created by the cloud-covered moon, Ware’s cream-colored jacket and breeches gleamed like ivory and enticed admiring perusals.

“This is not the place to discuss something as auspicious as our future,” he said, reaching up to untie his mask. He removed it, revealing a profile so noble it should have graced a coin.

“You know that will not dissuade me.”

“And you know that is why I like you so well.” His slow smile teased her. “My life is regimented and compartmentalized. Everything is orderly and firmly in its place. I know my role and I fulfill the expectations of Society exactly.”

“Except for courting me.”

“Except for courting you,” he agreed. His gloved hand found hers and held it. He adjusted his stance to hide the scandalous contact from the curious. “You are my fair princess, rescued from her turret tower by an infamous pirate. The daughter of a viscount hanged for treason and sister to a true femme fatale, a woman widely considered to have murdered two husbands before marrying one too dangerous to kill. You are my folly, my aberration, my peccadillo.”

He brushed his thumb across her palm, making her shiver. “But I serve the opposite purpose in your life. I am your anchor. You cling to me because I am safe and comfortable.” His gaze lifted to look over her head at the others who shared the terrace with them. He bent closer and murmured, “But on occasion, I remember the young girl who so boldly demanded a first kiss from me, and I wish I had responded differently.”

“You do?”

Ware nodded.

“Have I changed so much since then?”

With his mask dangling from one hand and her hand captured in the other, he turned abruptly and led her down the nearby flight of stairs to the garden. A gravel pathway bordered low yew hedges, which in turn bordered a lush center lawn and impressive fountain.

“The passing of time changes all of us,” he said. “But I think it was the passing of your dear Colin that changed you the most.”

The sound of Colin’s name affected Amelia deeply, provoking feelings of overwhelming sadness and regret. He had been her dearest friend, who later became the love of her heart. He was the nephew of her coachman and a Gypsy, but in her sheltered world they were equals. They had been playmates as children, then found their interest in each other changing. Deepening. Becoming less innocent.

Colin had matured into a young man whose exotic beauty and quiet strength of character had stirred her in ways she had not been prepared for. Thoughts of him had ruled her days, and dreams of stolen kisses had tormented her nights. He had been wiser than she, understanding that it was impossible for a peer’s daughter and a stableboy to ever be together. He had pushed her away, pretended to feel nothing for her, and broken her adolescent heart.

But in the end he had died for her.

Her silent exhale was shaky. Sometimes, just before she drifted into sleep, she permitted herself to think of him. She opened her heart and let the memories out-stolen kisses in the woods, passionate longing and budding desire. She had never felt that depth of emotion again and knew she never would. Some childish infatuations faded away. Her love for Colin had been built with firmer stuff, and it stayed with her. No longer a raging fire, but a softer warmth. Adoration enhanced by gratefulness for his sacrifice. Trapped between her father’s men and agents of the Crown, she could have been killed had Colin not spirited her away. A reckless, love-fueled rescue that had delivered her to safety at the cost of his precious life.