All About Passion by Stephanie Laurens Page A

about, Charles had explained that the household remained reclusive because, appearances to the contrary, Frances, his daughter, her cousin, known to all as Franni, was in poor health and needed to remain quiet, undisturbed by society's demands. She'd accepted the restriction without demur—not only did she owe Charles a debt of gratitude, but she'd come to love him dearly; she would never do anything to cause him distress. She was also fond of Ester, Charles's sister-in-law, Franni's dead mother's older sister. Ester had lived at the Hall for years, helping to raise Franni. Ester, too, deserved her consideration.
    And then there was Franni, who was simply Franni—sweet, a little simple, rather helpless. Despite being of an age, they were totally unalike, yet there was a mild if somewhat distant affection between them.
    She'd kept her increasing despondency to herself, yet the prospect of living her life alone, buried in the forest, had eaten at her. Rawlings Hall had started to feel like a prison. So Chillingworth's offer was a godsend, no matter the guise. An arranged marriage to a wealthy peer would release her from her isolation.
    Did she want to be the Countess of Chillingworth?
    What young lady would not want a position of such rank, complete with establishments and secure in funds, with an extraordinarily handsome husband to boot? Such a marriage with the prospect of a developing relationship would be an enviable offer.
    That wasn't, however, what the earl had offered her.
    He'd made it plain that he wished for no real relationship with his wife. There was no other way to interpret his stipulations. And despite the hours they'd spent together, despite the link she sensed between them, he'd given no indication of rescripting his offer.
    He was a man of passion, of hot blood, not cold, yet his offer had been the ultimate in studied coldbloodedness. It made no sense.
    Why had he, specifically he—the man who had held her too close in the shrubbery, kissed her in the orchard and ridden wild through the forest by her side—made such an uncharacteristic offer?
    Reliving their encounters, she came to that moment in the forest when she'd lain helpless in the gorse and he'd stood over her with raw fury in his eyes. She'd reacted to it, to the words his fury had sparked. But what had caused the real man to so completely surface, to drop his guard?
    Her fall had somehow breached the walls behind which he hid his emotions. She—her body, her person, even her eyes—could evoke his passion, but he was more comfortable with that, more confident of controlling it.
    In the forest, he hadn't liked what she'd done. He hadn't liked her making him feel whatever it was he'd felt. That was why his tone had lashed, why his eyes had snapped.
    His temper had been his reaction, so what was the emotion she'd evoked? Was it fear?
    She considered the possibility, considered the fact that heated words and violent reactions often arose out of caring. Out of a fear of loss, fear for someone who was dear. Her father had argued vehemently, often irrationally, when faced with one of her mother's potentially dangerous whims. Could Chillingworth have felt the lick of that particular whip?
    Given she and he had already felt the related lash of mutual passion, why not?
    If he had…
    The prospect of finding her destiny, all that she needed of life, within her marriage tantalized. It was what she'd always wanted, her ultimate goal, and it was possible—the ingredients were there. Her mother had always assured her that, when they were, she'd know.
    She knew now. She and Chillingworth could be as passionate a couple as her parents had been, devoted to the end. That was what she wanted—the only prize she'd ultimately settle for—a passionate and enduring love.
    Yet what if he would not?
    What if the reason he was so set on a cold-blooded marriage was so entrenched he would not bend? It was a risk—a real one. He was neither malleable nor manageable; she