Sylvia Day - Passion for Him

The boy frowned. “Is Miss Benbridge with her? How can I find them? Do you have their direction?”

“Tell me your name.”

“Colin Mitchell.”

“Well, Mr. Mitchell, would you care for a drink?” Simon stood and moved to the row of decanters that lined the table in front of the window.

“No.”

Hiding a smile, Simon poured two fingers of brandy into a glass and then turned around, leaning his hip against the console with one heel crossed over the other. Mitchell stood in the same spot, his gaze searching the room, pausing occasionally on various objects with narrowed eyes. Hunting for clues to the answers he sought. He was a finely built young man, and attractive in an exotic way that Simon imagined the ladies found most appealing.

“What will you do if you find the fair Amelia?” Simon asked. “Work in the stables? Care for her horses?”

Mitchell’s eyes widened.

“Yes, I know who you are, though I was told you were dead.” Simon lifted his glass and tossed back the contents. His belly warmed, making him smile. “So do you intend to work as her underling, pining for her from afar? Or perhaps you hope to tumble her in the hay as often as possible until she either marries or grows fat with your child.”

Simon straightened and set down his glass, bracing himself for the expected-yet, surprisingly impressive-tackle that knocked him to the floor. He and the boy rolled, locked in combat, knocking over a small table and shattering the porcelain figurines that had graced its top.

It took only a few moments for Simon to claim the upper hand. The time would have been shorter had he not been so concerned about hurting the lad.

“Cease,” he ordered, “and listen to me.” He no longer drawled; his tone was now deadly earnest.

Mitchell stilled, but his features remained stamped with fury. “Don’t ever speak of Amelia in that way!”

Pushing to his feet, Simon extended his hand to assist the young man up. “I am only pointing out the obvious. You have nothing. Nothing to offer, nothing with which to support her, no title to give her prestige.”

The clenching of the young man’s jaw and fists betrayed his hatred for the truth. “I know all of that.”

“Good. Now”-Simon righted his clothing and resumed his seat behind the desk-“what if I offered to help you acquire what you need to make you worthy-coin, a fitting home, perhaps even a title from some distant land that would suit the physical features provided by your heritage?”

Mitchell stilled, his gaze narrowing with avid interest. “How?”

“I am engaged in certain… activities that could be facilitated by a youth with your potential. I heard of your dashing near rescue of Miss Benbridge. With the right molding, you could be quite an asset to me.” Simon smiled. “I would not make this offer to anyone else. So consider yourself fortunate.”

“Why me?” Mitchell asked suspiciously, and not without a little scorn. He was slightly cynical, which Simon thought was excellent. A purely green boy would be of no use at all. “You don’t know me, or what I’m capable of.”

Simon held his gaze steadily. “I understand well the lengths a man will go to for a woman he cares for.”

“I love her.”

“Yes. To the point where you would seek her out at great cost to yourself. I need dedication such as that. In return, I will ensure that you become a man of some means.”

“That would take years.” Mitchell ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know that I can bear it.”

“Give yourselves time to mature. Allow her to see what she has missed all of these years. Then, if she will have you anyway, you will know that she is making the decision with a woman’s heart, and not a child’s.”

For a long moment, the young man remained motionless, the weight of his indecision a tangible thing.

“Try it,” Simon urged. “What harm can come from the effort?”

Finally, Mitchell heaved out his breath and sank into the seat opposite the desk. “I’m listening.”

“Excellent!” Simon leaned back in his chair. “Now here are my thoughts…”

“Why did you say nothing to me?” Maria asked when the tale was finished, staring at Simon as if he were a stranger. She felt as if he were.

“If I had told you, mhuirnín,” Simon said softly, “would you have withheld the information from your sibling? Of course not, and the secret was not mine to share.”

“What of Amelia’s pain and suffering?”

“Unfortunate, but not something I could alleviate.”

“You could have told me he was alive!” she argued.

“Mitchell had every right to make himself worthy of Amelia’s esteem. Do not fault him for pursuing the woman he loves in the only manner available to him. Of all men, I understand his motivations very well.” He paused a moment, then spoke in a calmer voice. “Besides, what he did with his life was no concern of yours.”

“It is a concern of mine,” drawled a voice from behind them, “now that it affects Miss Benbridge.”

Maria turned in her chair and faced the man who approached. “Lord Ware,” she greeted, her heart sinking.

The earl was dressed as casually as she had ever seen him, but there was a tension to his tall frame and a tautness to his jaw that told her leisure was far from his mind. His dark hair was unadorned but for a ribbon at his nape, and he wore boots instead of heels.

“This is the fiancé?” Mademoiselle Rousseau asked.

“My lord,” Christopher greeted. “I am impressed by your dedication.”

“Until she tells me otherwise,” the earl said grimly, “I consider Miss Benbridge’s welfare one of my responsibilities.”

“I have not had this much fun in ages,” the Frenchwoman said, smiling wide.

Maria closed her eyes and rubbed the space between her brows. Christopher, who stood at her back, set his hand on her shoulder and gave a commiserating squeeze.

“Would someone care to fill me in?” Ware asked.

She looked at Simon. He raised both brows. “How delicately should I phrase this?”

“No delicacy required,” Ware said. “I am neither ignorant nor cursed with a weak constitution.”

“He does intend to marry into our family,” Christopher pointed out.

“True,” Simon said, though his gaze narrowed. He relayed the events leading up to the present moment, carefully leaving out names like Eddington’s, which could not be shared.

“So this man in the mask is Colin Mitchell?” Ware asked, scowling. “The boy Miss Benbridge fancied in her youth? And she does not know it is him?”

“She knows it now,” Tim muttered.

“Mitchell is telling her as we speak,” Christopher explained.

There was a thud behind them, and they all turned to find Pietro, who stood gaping with a dropped valise at his feet. “That isn’t possible!” the coachman said heatedly. “Colin is gone.”

Maria glanced at Simon, who winced.

“This grows more fascinating by the moment,” Mademoiselle Rousseau said.

“You are a vile creature,” Simon snapped.

Looking up at Christopher, Maria signaled her intent to stand, and he stepped back. “I should go see how things are progressing.”

“No need,” he murmured, his gaze trained beyond her.

All heads turned toward the hallway that led to the private dining room. Amelia appeared with reddened eyes and nose and disheveled hair, the picture of tormented heartbroken loveliness.

Mitchell came into view directly behind her, and the sight of him took Maria aback, as it did everyone who saw him. Elegantly attired and proud of bearing, he left no traces of servitude clinging to his tall frame. He was an arrestingly beautiful man, with dark, sensual eyes framed by long, thick lashes and a voluptuary’s mouth framed by a firm, determined jaw. He, too, looked devastated and gravely wounded, and Maria’s heart went out to both of them.

“Amelia…” Ware’s cultured drawl was rough with concern.

Her verdant gaze met his and filled with tears.

A low growl rumbled from the earl’s chest.

“Colin.” Pietro’s agonized tone deepened the trauma of the day’s revelations.

Distracted by the many unfolding events, Maria did not foresee Ware’s intent until he stalked up to Mitchell and asked, “Do you consider yourself a gentleman?”

Mitchell’s jaw tightened. “I do.”

Ware threw a glove down at Mitchell’s feet. “Then I demand satisfaction.”

“I will give it to you.”

“Dear God,” Maria breathed, her hand at her throat.

Christopher left her side. He drew to a halt beside the earl and said, “I would be honored to serve as your second, my lord.”

“Thank you,” Ware replied.

“I will serve as Mitchell’s,” Simon said, joining them.

“No!” Amelia cried, her horrified gaze darting between the grim masculine faces. “This is absurd.”

Maria pulled her away. “You cannot intercede.”

“Why?” Amelia asked. “This is not necessary.”

“It is.”

“I have a home in Bristol,” Ware said. “I suggest we retire there. Our audience will then be made up of those we trust.”

Mitchell nodded. “That was my destination, so the location is convenient for me as well.”

“I caused this.” Amelia looked pleadingly at Maria. “My selfishness has led to this end. How do I stop this?”

“What is done, is done,” Maria said, rubbing her hand soothingly down Amelia’s spine.

“I want to go with them.”

“That would not be wise.”

Christopher turned to her, and she saw in his face that he disagreed. She did not understand why he would wish them to go, but she could learn his motives later. As it was, she trusted him implicitly and knew that his first concern was always for her health and happiness.

“I want to go,” Amelia said again, with more strength.

“Shh,” Maria soothed. “We can discuss this over a hot bath and a change of clothes.”

Her sibling nodded, and they moved away to order heated water and a tub. With everyone distracted with their own thoughts, no one noted the man who occupied a shadowed seat in the far corner. He attracted even less attention when he left.

Stepping outside, Jacques tugged the brim of his hat down and sauntered across the drive toward the carriage that waited a short ways down the lane.

He opened the door and looked inside. “Mitchell was just challenged to a duel.”

Cartland smiled. “Come in and tell me everything.”

It never ceased to amaze Amelia how a man as vibrant and impossible to ignore as Christopher St. John could fade into oblivion when he chose to. As it was, she hardly noticed that he shared the same squab with Maria as they traveled to Bristol. He held his tongue as she poured out her heart, and she was grateful to him for his silence. Few would believe that the notorious criminal could tolerate hours upon hours of a weeping woman’s lamentations over love, but he did and he did it well.

“You told him you would not see him again?” Maria asked gently.

“Until Ware challenged him, that had been my intent,” Amelia said from behind the handkerchief she held to her nose. She had refused to talk about anything yesterday on the ride to Swindon. Only today did she feel capable of discussing Colin without crying too copiously to speak. “We will be happier apart.”

“You do not look happier.”

“I will be, over the duration of my life, as will Colin.” She sighed. “No one can be happy pretending day after day to be someone they are not.”

“Perhaps he is not pretending,” Maria suggested softly.

“Regardless, the new Colin harbors the same doubts as the old. Despite all that he has accomplished, he still believed Ware was the better choice until just days ago. He continues to make decisions regarding my welfare without consulting me. I had enough of such treatment in my childhood.”

“You are allowing your past to cloud your present.”

“You champion his actions?” Amelia asked with wide eyes. “How can you? I can find nothing good in what he has done. He is wealthy, yes-that is obvious in the quality of everything he owns-but accepting that end as being worthy of my grief and heartache puts a price on my love, and I cannot abide that.”

“I do not champion his actions,” Maria murmured, “but I do believe he loves you and that he thought he was acting in your best interests. I also believe that you love him. Surely, there is something good in that?”

Amelia ran a hand over her skirts and gazed out the window. Behind them, Colin rode in his carriage with Jacques, Mr. Quinn, and Mademoiselle Rousseau. Ware led their procession in his coach. She was trapped between the two, both figuratively and literally.