Passion (14 page)

Not—that he felt sorry for Jules. The man was
icy, aloof, too handsome by half, and rich besides. The Jules he
had seen at a few social gatherings, was difficult to like, but
easy to admire. Still, such a life would stifle Blaise, make him
daft.

He had to admit that something—he did not
know what yet, was putting a strain on the Earl. It almost made
Jules seem as human as the rest of them. However, he also knew
someone like Jules would not handle it the same way because of the
lofty height he perched himself on, and the air of perfection he
strove to maintain.

“Good evening.”

Blaise sat back, pulled from his thoughts by
the familiar sound of that melodious voice.

“Lady M?”

She chuckled. “Oh, I like that. Yes.”

He heard her speak, to request coffee and
biscuits.

When she sat, he breathed in her perfume and
the fresh scent of rain.

Her fingertips reached across, to lightly
touch his on the table. “You look very nice tonight, Captain. Quite
handsome.”

“Thank you.” He leaned and reached toward her
shoulder, feeling skin and the edge of her gown, a very rich silk
gown, on very soft skin. “What color is it?” He sat back.

“Black.” Her voice held a slight husk. “Silk,
with a velvet bodice.”

He murmured, “I am endeavoring to put your
description together. It helps… if I can touch.”

There was a small sound from her before she
returned, “Your touch doesn’t offend me.”

He decided to take it for what it was. “I’m
glad to hear that.”

Blaise waited while he heard the clink of the
cup and saucer. He could sense the waiter, and when the man left
them, he said, “Is the table discreet enough for you?”

“Do I need discretion?”

He heard a clink as she stirred milk into her
coffee. She murmured, before he could retort to that quip, “Yes.
Captain. This is a very nice table. The lighting is mellow and just
warm enough. I quite like the coffee house atmosphere. The patrons
seemed so…relaxed.”

“As opposed to?”

“Ah. I will not take the bait.” She laughed
again. “What shall we talk about besides?”

“Anything but war.”

“Certainly. Books?”

They did speak of books, reading and then
moved on, to music, horses—oddly enough, she brought up politics.
Her views were conservative which revealed much. He found that
interesting, but it was her company that mattered. He had nothing
against poetry, but his leisure time had been limited. He was glad
to not go in that direction for long.

It was an unusual evening, an
out-of-character situation for Blaise. He could tell much in what
she did and did not reveal, and yet he deliberately, selfishly
ignored it. Somewhere in the pit of his stomach, he felt warnings
and caution—that if not playing the sort of game he had accused her
of earlier, she was still out of her element and not free to pursue
anything. He kept pushing it down though.

After the first hour, some filled with her
pleasant laughter and his own chuckles, it was obvious too that
they had sexual chemistry. Blaise felt his senses filling in that
small intimate space with their hands within touching distance,
resting on the table and the rain-drenched window at his
shoulder—it was a hum just under the surface.

He was aware of his blindness too, in
frustrating ways, wishing he could see her smile, her eyes, and her
lips. Nevertheless, his lack of sight did not dull anything. It
instead heightened it. Blaise felt prickles, at the side of his
neck, sensations when she laughed or while she was simply
expounding on something.

It was the damndedst thing.

The rain thickened outside. The aroma from
pipes and cigars mingled with coffee. The other patrons thinned
out, and still they sat talking. He in quiet tones, not caring what
he said but listening to her speaking of some breed of rose and how
fragrant it was, that some painter had captured it just perfectly
in morning dew.

In a way, he wanted the mystery between them.
It gave him a sense, that his blindness was not an obstacle, a lie
perhaps that it did not matter to her. Not knowing who she was gave
him leave to “experience” her with no preconceived notions.

There came a silence when Blaise realized
they had been there longer than he was aware of. The patrons were
mostly gone.

“How long…"

“I’ve an hour more, possibly.”

He nodded and stood, sensing she had as he
heard the swish of her clothing whilst he counted coins for the
table.

She led the way out.

He discerned the empty tables, lingering
smoke wafting as they exited. Under the awning, he raised the
umbrella, bringing her to his side in the noisy rain.

It was she who turned up the street, and he
walked with her, keeping her close to his side, feeling the
thickness of the rain not only from the pelting on the umbrella but
the splash of his boots.

She stopped.

Blaise discerned they were under another
awning. Lowering the umbrella, still unfurled, to block them from
the street, he breathed in. “Macelvie’s print shop?”

“Yes. It is closed.”

His arm still half around her shoulders, body
turned to her, Blaise had felt the brush of her cloak hood when
they walked, and the wafting scent of her perfume.

Sensing she was looking at him, they huddled
under the awning back in a recess near the printer’s doors, Blaise
could also feel the heat of his own body flushed, and hers too.

She had not pulled away from him, but seemed
instead to stay closer than she had to. He let the umbrella block
them from passing coaches and moved his hand from behind her, to
touch her jaw, inside the cloak hood. He could feel her face tilt
up, feel and sense, the tension. He lowered his head slowly, his
mouth a breath away, feeling the stroke of her breathing fan his
lips.

He had wanted to do this from the moment she
had slammed into him at the tobacco shop.

When he kissed her, lips fitting to lips, his
skin seemed to tighten over his frame. After a press against the
softness, testing, he opened and let his tongue seek entry, warm
air rushing from his nose when she allowed him in.

The rest happened in a span of intimate
moments, his tongue inside her mouth, tasting coffee, sweetness,
and silken, tender skin, warm feminine flavors. Christ—her hand
slipped under his jacket, the touch sliding from his side to his
back, so that the sensations stirred his body, as if the thin lawn
shirt did not cover his skin.

Moving his head slowly, sensually, his tongue
tasting hers, heated flesh and pounding blood magnified everything
tenfold. Her eagerness, that split second she leaned more, tasted
more, and was on her toes to reach more of him, Blaise moved his
arm to her spine, lifting, holding her to him, the thin cape
nothing as his shirt was nothing, with their breaths and damp skin
mingling scents. He kissed her, as he had no other, as he neither
hungered nor wanted to kiss another. The rain and traffic, the
world, his blindness, nothing intruded nor penetrated beyond
that.

Reluctantly lifting his head, so that his
mouth was near her temple. He felt the tremble in her, and her
rapid breaths against his throat. Soft curls, scented and silken,
brushed his cheek.

He skimmed his open mouth against her temple,
dragging air in his lungs while he rasped, “Will I see you
again?”

“Yes.”

“When.”

Her other hand on the side of his neck,
fitting just in his collar, body so perfect against him, Blaise
accepted she could feel his physical reaction thanks to the snug
trousers. He knew, the way a man does, that she more than
participated in that kiss, and that her body responded too.

It was electric. Unexpected. Moreover, the
rush in him was half amazement, half relief that he was still a
man—as Ry would say, in all the important parts.

“Where?” she murmured instead. “Here, or
somewhere else?”

“I don’t know.” His blood was still rushing,
muscles tight, and warmed with arousal. “I don’t care,” was his
final, honest, reply. He did not care where. He simply knew he had
never felt like this, the whole night, the conversation, none of
it, in his life.

She laughed breathless, then groaned and
tilted her head back, making him lift his own.

He felt her looking at him again and wondered
how good the light was, or if it was pitch dark, as his eyes could
only see. He remembered there was a lamppost at the corner. In any
event, she may read the hunger on his face, but at least his eyes
were shrouded.

“Do you live nearby?”

“Yes. But—“

He could almost feel her grimace. “Oh,
right—I was only thinking we—"

“—
meet me here, tomorrow
night—“

“I’ve a s….somewhere to be until
midnight.”

“Can you get away after that?”

“Yes.”

“Meet me here.”

“I will.”

He lowered his head and captured her mouth
this time with no hesitancy in either of them.

The kiss was deep, hungry, full blown and
passionate. Blaise kissed her, let her kiss him, and the length of
time had no meaning, the kiss no real ending—because he scraped her
lower lip with his strong teeth, and suckled her tongue, and
unleashed some of his pent up hunger without awareness save that he
had never felt so much nor tasted such sweetness. And her sweetness
had a wicked, wicked, hunger that sprang from instinct. Blaise
struggled with his carnal side, sensing parts of her untried,
unskilled. The fact that there was nothing practiced in her though,
drove his own arousal deeper.

At one point, lifting his head, breathing
severe and hearing her do the same, he closed his lashes, the pound
of his heart louder in his ears than the drum of rain.

“Do you feel this…?”

“Yes. Yes. I’m dizzy, I…I am stunned, at my
own…” She sighed shakily, breathless. “I knew in some way….when we
bumped into each other…”

“So did I.”

She blew out a breath, obviously struggling
for control, as he was. “It’s time…”

“Must you go?”

“Yes. For now.”

He shuddered a breath and released her.
Blaise offered her the umbrella.

However, she said, “No. The coach is here,
just up a ways.” Her voice was husked and he knew the emotions that
cause it all too well.

“Aside from anything else we say….or…” Blaise
cursed softly and reached out, touching her face again, wanting to
trace it in earnest, but having no more time... “This is honest.
More than anything I can ever remember feeling.”

“I know. Trust me. I know what is honest, and
what is pretense, all too well.” She touched his hand, kissed his
palm, and then left him

Blaise listened, hearing the traffic, sensing
when she had gone. He closed the umbrella and drew out a cheroot.
Falling back, leaning against the door. His fingers trembled while
he lit it and smoked. The wet scent of rain helped to ease some of
the tension and heat in his blood, and to slow the deep hard beat
of his heart. Smoking, breathing out, he got himself under control
and calm enough to think straight.

The cheroot spent, Blaise headed not home,
but walked awhile, aware of the dangers, particularly for a blind
man, but his senses picked up if anyone walked near him.

He figured he would investigate that
institution that Langley talked about. Sighted he had every
confidence in his fighting skills, even in seduction, though he had
hardly done that. His intimate encounters were meant for one
thing.

Blind, he would have to learn all over again
to make blindness his advantage—an oxymoron to Baize’s mind, but he
was not a man comfortable with vulnerability. He was well trained,
and knew he could defend himself. Nevertheless, his senses needed
honed.

By the time he was heading home, his raging
hungers under control, Ry met him at the corner, having crossed the
street.

“Been following me?” Blaise jested as they
walked.

“Only since your lady friend departed and you
made the asinine decision to walk the dark streets by yourself,”
was Ry’s grunted reply.

“It’s always dark for me, cousin. I’m
blind.”

Ry snorted. “I hope you’re armed.”

“I am.” Blaise told him of his decision to
check out the place Dr. Langley recommended.

“Wise. And liberating. There’s nothing as
damned irritating as having to ask people to do what you used to do
yourself.”

“Yes. Any luck at the tables tonight?”

“Got distracted.”

Blaise laughed. “I thought you’d…altered your
scent to something more…ah feminine.”

“Funny,” Ry said dryly, then, “As it happens
though, she was not only skilled in the sheets, she was quite
talkative.”

“Oh?”

“We’ll discuss it at the house, but the long
and short of it was, she’d walked the streets back a few years ago.
Talked about this man who used to haunt them….said he was like a
dark wrath, night after night.”

“Raith.

“Yes. First, she said he was looking for
someone named Suzette. In addition, she mentioned the poor lady, as
she put it, slaughtered, and thrown in the Thames. Said everyone
was terrified and the whores started losing money because they did
not trust anyone. In any event, after that, he didn’t stop…”

“But there’s more?”

“Yeah. However, let’s get out of this
rain.”

They did, not having their long talk until
they were in casual clothing, before a warm fire, in Baize’s
study.

Blaise was up late in the night, brooding. He
would send round a note to his father in the morning. He had an
instinct, a feeling, that had always served him well, and it was
not a good one.

Chapter 5

Gabriella felt the chilly air waft over her
skin. Sight blurry eyed, and heavy headed, she lifted herself to a
sitting position on the cold floor. Every part of her was aching.
Looking around the shadowy chamber, she did not see Stratton.