The Passion of Darius

Somerset Coast, 1837

Darius chose his seat strategically every Sunday. Close enough to catch her scent just from sitting behind her in church. He waited for it, knowing what would come, for he was familiar with her choice of perfume. The soft essence of violets floated to him, its delicate sweetness stirring and calming both at once. Savoring the instant when he could draw even the tiniest part of her into himself, Darius indulged in the simple pleasure of breathing her.

Her neck was his favorite. He loved to look at the place where her coffee-colored hair swept up with just a few strands escaping. Indulging in wild dreams about her, he imagined how she’d look with all those glorious waves spilling down over her pale, naked flesh. Of how he would brush it aside and put his lips to that spot he so desired to know. He thought of the triumph of possessing her totally. Of her soft, pliant body beneath his hard, commanding one, accepting him inside when he took her.

Wanting her so badly was nothing new. He’d known the feeling for a long time. Marianne was perfection in Darius’s opinion.

Marianne might be perfect, but her father was an idiot. Mr. George was a weak man. He had turned to drink after the death of his wife, bringing them to the brink of ruin with his drinking and gambling. At the pace he was going, Darius figured her father’s descent would sit well with his own plans regardless. Being a patient man, Darius didn’t think he would have to wait much longer. Her father would see to that for him.

The hair on the back of her neck tingled and she knew. His eyes were on her. Again. Marianne looked around as soon as the service ended. Yes, indeed. He stood there staring—his dark eyes calling her to meet his gaze.

Her father nodded politely at him. “Mr. Rourke, good day.”

“Mr. George. Miss Marianne, you look well today.” Mr. Rourke greeted both of them warmly, but his eyes rested only on her.

“Yes, sir, my Marianne is very fine. She takes after her mother, God rest her soul.” He crossed himself. “I daresay there’s not any more beautiful to be found in all of Somerset,” he boasted.

Marianne wanted to crawl under a pew in mortification. Why did Papa say such things? His thinly disguised attempt to throw her into the path of a wealthy gentleman such as Darius Rourke was grossly inappropriate. She felt her neck flush with heat.

“Papa, please.” She pulled at her father’s arm to lead him away. Offering a sympathetic look to Mr. Rourke, she mouthed a silent, “I am sorry,” for her father’s boorishness before turning to leave.

“What? Can a father not want the best for his child? He admires you. It would serve you well to encourage him, lass.” He practically shouted his opinions at Marianne as she led him out to the churchyard. Mr. Rourke would have to be deaf not to have heard.

“Shhh, Papa.” She vowed silently to skip church next Sunday for she didn’t know how she could face Mr. Rourke after this horrifying display.

Something compelled her to turn around. And Marianne knew exactly what would be waiting when she did.

Still standing in the same spot, tracking her, Mr. Rourke smiled, his perception all-knowing, as if he’d been assured she’d turn back to him.

Oh, dear God. I must be in hell.

At least a decade older than her, Mr. Rourke was a quiet man, possessing an air of mystery that hinted at the level of intensity to his character, but remained properly veiled under the gentlemanly comportment of his station. He conveyed a subtle influence in most of his dealings with others, not entirely discernible in anything he said or did, but recognizable nonetheless. Marianne thought him handsome. With his noble features, he attracted the notice of many women. Tall and broad shouldered, he filled out his fine European suits brilliantly. His skin held a darker cast than was typical for an Englishman, a golden hue that complemented the dark hair and eyes perfectly. He was simply beautiful.

But male beauty aside, Darius Rourke wasn’t for her. No man was for her.

Marianne couldn’t fathom why he would even show an interest. Her upbringing had been respectable enough, a gentleman’s daughter, but their situation had declined perilously in recent years. Her dowry had long since gone by way of drink and cards. Papa had seen to that. Marianne shuddered, thinking about the debts Papa incurred on his forays into town.

Still, whenever their paths crossed, Mr. Rourke made a point to pay her specific courtesy and deference. He was never anything less than a gentleman in his behavior towards her, but Marianne detected an undercurrent. There was something about his attentions that unsettled her. Thoroughly. Like he could peer right inside her and know her every thought. When he cast those flashing dark eyes of his in her direction she felt exposed and vulnerable, on the verge of being devoured. By him.

He might even be more aware of her “need” than she thought, from the way his gaze could penetrate. After an encounter with him she always came away feeling a little shaken, breathless, and confounded.

It took the passing of another month before Marianne’s father ruined them completely. This pleased Darius for it worked into his plans rather seamlessly.

Darius summoned father and daughter to his home under the guise of a summer picnic. With lunch al fresco, and then strawberry picking, he figured an opportunity would likely result. There would be others attending as well, of course, friends and neighbors, Mr. Jeremy Greymont, the Rothvales, the Bleddingtons, and the Carstones.

Darius felt himself harden just from the thought of spending so many hours with her so close. It was becoming a challenge for him to control the urges. Yes, Miss Marianne George would be here at his home this day, and he knew the time for waiting was over. She was coming for a picnic, true, but he had other plans in mind for his Marianne.

Yes, mine.

Darius could not help the sway of his heart. He wanted Marianne and only her, for he found her to be perfect, meant for him in a way that prevented him from considering any other but her. He dreamed about her constantly. Dreamed of making her his, of claiming her, making love to her, envisioning his body all over her body, of being inside her. His dreams of Marianne were always erotic and very vivid. These and similar thoughts of Marianne George obsessed him.

He’d only come back to Somerset a mere six months ago, after being away for years. Darius had thought he might have put his infatuation for Marianne George aside during the long absence, but that’d proved false the second he’d laid eyes on her again.

Waiting for her had been a challenge while she grew up. And through the years he’d ever admired her, she was forever in his head, tempting him mercilessly. Now she had grown up a most beautiful woman, unattached to any man and ready to be plucked. He thought her silky, dark hair, blue eyes, and lush figure magnificent, but there were other reasons for the attraction.

She did not throw herself at him, as many other young ladies tried to do. Marianne George was a complex young woman, and Darius was sure he understood the reason. There was more to her than youthful beauty, much more.

She had fire in her waiting to be stoked. This he could tell. He also suspected that submitting to him, to his dominance, would appeal to her. He’d noticed that he could make her look at him when he stared at her, and that she definitely waited for his gaze. The looks she returned mesmerized him. Her eyes smoldered, like burning embers waiting for a rush of air to fan them into flame.

Darius was certain. The dominance would be lovingly bestowed of course. If Marianne craved it, then he needed to be the one to give it to her. He would offer to her that which she desired.

Marianne’s cheeks burned hot. She could only imagine the deep color of her blush. Sitting right next to her, she could sense Mr. Rourke’s eyes staring because her neck tingled. Nothing new there. This game they’d been playing had gone on for weeks and needed to cease. Today.

She braved a glance. His dark eyes glittered at her. He smiled as if he’d expected her to look. She grasped at anything to say and came up with very little except, “The day is lovely. You picked a good one for your party, Mr. Rourke.”

“Yes… so lovely,” he answered, his eyes roaming over her.

She got the impression he wasn’t referring to the weather and felt supremely stupid. She would do better just to keep her mouth closed before more half-witted nonsense left it.

“I’m so happy you’re here, Miss Marianne. I hope today is just the first of many visits.”

She shook her head. “Oh, I don’t—”

“I say it’s time for the berry picking. They’re sweetest when the sun is high,” Miss Byrony Everley announced her opinion to the group.

Marianne thought her dear friend’s interruption especially timely.

“Byrony! It’s Mr. Rourke’s party and for him to say,” her mother admonished.

“No worries, Lady Rothvale,” he said, rising from the grass. “I am not in the least offended, and I venture that Miss Byrony’s suggestion is a good one.” His voice turned rich and his words slower. “I’d hate for the full sweetness of the strawberries to be missed.” And then he looked right at Marianne’s mouth.

Oh, dear God. Marianne swallowed hard, thinking she was in very deep trouble.

“’Twould be a tragedy to pass up the sweet.” He held his hand down to her. “Shall we?”

She couldn’t refuse him. Not in front of everyone. Mr. Rourke was her host, and it would be rude not to defer to his desire to accompany her. Marianne put her hand out and felt it clasped in a warm grip. Maybe more than warm. His skin was hot—melting hot. He pulled her effortlessly up to standing, right at his chin.

Damn her if she didn’t look up at his rich, brown eyes again. What in the world was wrong with her? She didn’t want his attentions. Darius Rourke rattled her soundly. He had a way of making her forget why she couldn’t receive him. She supposed the time was nearing that she’d have to tell him so. But for right now she calmly accepted the basket he handed over to her and watched as he got one for himself, and before she knew it, was being led with the others, down the path to the glade with her arm wrapped through his.

Idiot!

Darius felt he could be in heaven, or possibly as close as he would ever get. For the moment, he had Marianne all to himself. Slowly, he’d steered her away from the others to where he thought the quietness might relax her a little. Darius didn’t fool himself. He knew she was wary of him and realized that if his plan were to work he’d have to earn her trust.

He found Marianne mesmerizing and could just watch her unendingly. He admired how graceful her hands were; watching as her fingers gently pushed aside green leaves to search for the heart-shaped fruit. She parted her lips just a bit whenever she found a cache of berries hidden beneath the greenery. The pleasure of observing as she ate a few of the berries had been the definite high point. Marianne had a beautiful mouth.

“Oh. A blackberry vine has pushed in over here,” she said.

Darius came right to where she peered into the tangle, standing just behind her shoulder. “They grow as wild as weeds, sprouting up in new spots each year, so I’m not surprised.” A few errant curls had come loose, and there was a bit of leaf right above her ear.

Delectable.

He wanted his lips right above her ear so he could flick out his tongue and get a taste of her. What would she taste like? He had to force himself to respond coherently. “But it’s a tad early for blackberries yet. By the end of July they’ll be bursting with sweet juice. You’ll come back then,” he told her.

Her spine stiffened, and she faced him. Little creases marred her brow. “Mr. Rourke, you mustn’t presume that I—”

“Only an invitation to pick berries, Miss Marianne, and only if you wish it,” he said smoothly. He disarmed her with his response. He could see it happen and knew the second she regretted her comment, as clearly as if he could see inside her head.

“Of course it is.” Her blue eyes swept down. “Please forget I said anything.”

Impossible to forget anything about you.

He reached out his hand, helpless to restrain himself. Darius was going to touch her. She saw what he meant to do, though, and reacted by backing right up and away from him. He followed her anyway, deftly plucking the small, dry leaf from her hair.

He held it up to show her. “You had this trapped in your hair.”

“Ahhh,” she breathed out, looking relieved. “Th—thank you, Mr. Rourke. We should probably go back now,” she said softly, her eyes fluttering down once again.

The urge to take her further into the berry thicket and kiss her senseless flashed as a possibility, but sanity overruled it.

“As you wish.” He offered his arm. They had not taken even a step before the rending of fabric sounded below them.

“Oh blast. The brambles have caught me.” She turned, reaching for the thorny vine imbedded in her skirt.

“Careful. You don’t want to get—”

“Ouch!” she cried.

“Pricked.”

The basket dropped to the ground in a rush as she gripped her injured hand, palm-up.

“Here, let me.” He took her hand for inspection. A large thorn was indeed buried in the pad of her index finger, the black strip a garish invader on such lovely skin. “I’ll get it for you. Hold still and squeeze your finger on the sides as I remove it.” She followed his directions perfectly and hardly winced when he pulled the thorn away. A bead of dark blood chased the thorn, welling up red on the pad of her finger.

Darius couldn’t help what he did next. His mind and body were operating independently of the other, and he just reacted without conscious thought of how he would be perceived. Before he knew it, he had her hand drawn to his lips and was sucking the blood away. Earthy spice met his tongue and the merest moan escaped him. Her horrified gasp followed his moan. She jerked her finger away.

“Mr. Rourke!” she scolded, frowning at him before dropping down to retrieve the strawberry basket.

He couldn’t hold in the grin and bent down to help her with the berries. “Sorry. I assure you I am no vampire.”

She looked up at him sharply. “You don’t look very sorry. About being a demon, I’m sure I couldn’t comment.”

She was flustered and irritated with him and so utterly adorable it required everything he had to refrain from pulling her against him and taking her mouth. In her present state he might just get a smack if he did though.

“Just trying to close the wound, and I am indeed sorry for your injury,” he told her. “Now, if you’ll stand still, I’ll get this vine detached from your skirt.”

Her soft breathing came faster as he worked on the blackberry thorns. She obeyed and stood still for him, but her lush body trembled mightily in response underneath all those layers. God, it would be good between them—all the sex. He told himself to focus on the goal. It was time to tell her.

“At the conclusion of the party today, I’ve asked your father to stay. I have some business to discuss with him, and I’d like for you to be present as well, Miss Marianne.”

She nodded once in agreement. “We must go back now, Mr. Rourke.” He could tell she had been pushed as far as she would go… for now.

“Of course we must.” He smiled down at her.

She didn’t speak again for the rest of the party. That was fine. Darius could enjoy her simply by having her near… for now.

“T hough your amount of debt is ruinous, Mr. George, I have a solution. It will be much preferable to debtors’ prison, I think.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Rourke?” Mr. George slurred, probably half-sprung from all the wine he’d taken during the day.

“Give your consent to Marianne’s marriage to me.” He saw the shock in her expression at his proposal. Her eyes rolled up, her lips parted, and her breath grew shallow. Perfect. “Your debts will be paid, an allowance provided you, and Marianne will be settled respectably, protected and cared for as my wife.”

“Of course, Mr. Rourke, you may have my consent. She’ll marry you,” Mr. George agreed eagerly.

“No! Papa, you cannot make me.” Marianne faced Darius, her lovely blue eyes sparking at him. “Sir, I have no wish to marry. A decision I have made long ago. I am not suited for marriage. Your offer is flattering, but I will not be able to accept you.”

The thrill is already beginning, and you are so wrong. You are perfectly suited.

Right now, her regal stance, glinting eyes, and flushed cheeks all combined into one glorious vision. Her throat rising and falling with anxious breathing, causing strands of silky hair to flutter about her head, transfixed him. He wanted to press his lips to her neck and draw her to him. She might say she didn’t want it, but he believed she did. She just needed some convincing, was all. He could do that. The art of persuasion was a skill he possessed in abundance. Darius instinctively knew the way to get to her was through her father.

He changed his voice, directing it only to her. “Miss Marianne, would it not be easing to put your troubles aside? Let your cares and worries be placed into the hands of another? Into my willing hands? I would never wish for you to feel you had been coerced or forced in any way to do something that you could not reconcile yourself to. My offer is an honorable one. It is time for me to marry, and I greatly admire you.”

He paused at seeing her swallow hard, her neck pulsing in the hollow below her jaw. “I believe you are aware of that, and I also believe you would be the perfect partner for me. I approve of the manner in which you conduct yourself and your… disposition. There is no avarice in you.”

He turned to look disparagingly at Mr. George. “Your father’s debt is grave though. In a matter of days you will be out of your home, forced into debtors’ prison. But such a horrifying fate doesn’t have to be yours. I hate to think of you being subjected to such harsh conditions. And yes, Marianne, you would have to go, to look after your father. Is that what you would choose? Prison? Over marriage to me?”

He asked his questions gently, knowing exactly how to appeal to her need for direction and guidance at this moment of self-possession. “I think you want to marry me, don’t you, Marianne?”

“Sir, why would you do this?” Marianne shook her head unbelievingly.

Because I must have you.

“You suit me, Marianne. You are beautiful and elegant, and know your duty. You always do the right thing, because you are good, and you never want to disappoint.”

She looked at him. So silent, solemn, and utterly magnificent.

He whispered the last very softly. “Don’t disappoint me, Marianne.”