His Perfect Passion (12 page)

Darius recovered quickly, restored his clothing, swept her up into his arms, and marched her all the way to their bedroom. Marianne’s clothes were stripped from her body the instant the bolt was thrown. He plucked out her hairpins, buried his hands in her hair, and was inside her before she could blink.

He became a ravening beast who took her wildly, looming over her, his driving hips splitting her thighs as wide as they could go. He suckled her hard, too, leaving fresh love bites on her back when he flipped her and took her from behind.

After that wild session, he settled down and slowed the pace. Languid and unhurried, he lapped at her cunny, tasting her, teasing her clit, making her climax again and again and again. He whispered more words to her in Italian. She still didn’t understand the meaning but found the sound of them to be very wonderful indeed.

“Your Italian words are beautiful, Darius. Why Italian?”

He looked surprised. “You do not know about my mother?”

She raised her eyes to his. “Your mother was Italian, then? I’ve wondered. You’ve a darker complexion than most Englishmen.” Touching his hair, she smoothed it back over his brow, appreciating what a handsome man he was. “Did she die when you were a boy?”

“She’s not dead. My mother lives, just not in England. Rome is where she resides, as she has done for many years. She named me. Darius is a Roman name.”

“I had no idea. Do you visit her?”

“Yes. I am a dutiful son.” Shifting against her, he settled her head firmly underneath his jaw, stroking over his favorite spot on her neck.

She caressed his chest as she lay against him. When he spoke, his voice was different. Marianne sensed sadness and regret in him. “My mother is a cold sort of woman. Sometime we will go to Rome, and you will meet her. It is no large matter though. I no longer seek her favor.” He turned his face so she couldn’t see his eyes. “My father met her on his tour of Europe and brought her here after they married. She was unhappy and resented me, I think, because with a child to raise, she could not leave him and return to her homeland. There were no more children between them, but she stayed until I left for school—probably to assuage her guilt. My father made certain I saw my mother for regular visits.”

Marianne’s heart ached for Darius. She pictured him as a lonely little boy seeking his mother’s love and finding the cold boundaries of duty instead. “She was not a proper mother to you.” Marianne frowned, thinking she would find it hard to be courteous to her mother-in-law upon such a time as she might meet her.

“She was proper, just not very demonstrative. I wanted her to love me, but I don’t believe she was able to show it outright. In her heart, she is too constrained.” He kissed her hair. “You are nothing like her, Marianne.”

“I do not want to be like her. I would show my children love because that is what a mother is supposed to do. Children are a precious gift, to be cherished and…protected.”

“Do you want to be a mother, Marianne?”

“Of course I do, Darius.”
But I don’t deserve to be one.

“Tell me. Tell me you will want my child, please. I need to hear that from you, Marianne.”

He sounded almost desperate. The overwhelming urge to soothe and reassure him was necessary. Something she had to do. “I want your child, Darius. I do, truly.” She kissed him on his chest, feeling him relax. It was a small kind of comfort.

“I am so glad, Marianne. You will be a wonderful mother to our children.”

How could I be?

“What of your father?” She moved from his embrace so she could see his face.

He smiled fondly. “Father tried to make up for her. He was excellent. I was but five and twenty when he died,” he said wistfully.

“I do remember him, vaguely, at church.” She touched his cheek. “You look like him, from what I remember and the portraits in the house. Very handsome, the both of you.”

Her compliment seemed to affect him. She sensed melancholy and regret in him. It saddened her.

“I wish he could have known you as mine.”

“I do as well, Darius.”

Very softly he said, “I think you perfect, Marianne.” He met her lips in a deep kiss. “
Ti amo
.” He whispered it so quietly she might not have heard. But she did hear.

Again, she stilled.

Oh, Darius, you should not love me!

Marianne felt sick to her stomach, and guilty, like she had bewitched him with dishonesty. And she knew if he was aware of the truth about her, he would regret his declaration. But the selfish part of her waited for Darius to tell her to say the words back to him. The silence hung heavy as she waited for it.

He didn’t. And the selfish part of her wanted him to command her to say she loved him.
She wondered why he didn’t, and frowned. He had asked her to tell him she wanted his children. Why not this?

Marianne got quiet then, and still, contemplating until she accepted the reason. Darius did not want her to say it. If there was one thing she knew about Darius, it was that he acted on his desires. He knew what he wanted and had no trouble voicing or demanding it. So then, that left only one possibility. He didn’t want love from her. He wanted her body and her companionship and her obedience to him. As it should be…

* * * *

The first time he’d said those words he was hardly aware, so often it swirled in his thoughts. This time, however, Darius was fully conscious his declaration was not returned, and the pain of that knowledge was excruciating. He’d observed her frown and felt her stiffen up, and that had hurt even more.

The thing that attracted him to her in the first place—her submissiveness—had trapped him. He could tell her to do things, say words, and think thoughts, and she would, but he could not tell her to say that she loved him. He physically could not. Because if he did that, then he might never know if she only said the words to please him. Maybe he would never know the truth, but he simply could not bear for her to tell him she loved him when in fact she didn’t. Just couldn’t bear the thought of it. He vowed he’d refrain from voicing the sentiment aloud to her again.

Chapter Thirteen

The two of them went along together in this way for many weeks, until Marianne’s father died. Mr. George aspirated his own vomit while passed out from too much drink. Darius was the one to tell her and to hold her while she cried her heart out. Grateful that Marianne was spared the burden of discovering her father dead, he took consolation in that at least. That dubious “honor” had gone to Mr. George’s housekeeper, who’d found him cold and already stiff in the bed.

Marianne grieved, of course, the last member of her family dead, and under sad circumstances. Darius agonized for Marianne, wishing he could ease her pain. For all that he had disapproved of Mr. George, he was still his wife’s father and loved by her. She had shared fond memories of him from childhood.

The sight of her mourning at the graves of her parents rent his heart. So sorrowfully beautiful, dressed completely in jet black, the only points of color being her blue eyes and the pearl crucifix he’d given her, would be an image of Marianne he’d never forget.

Darius could see that Marianne missed her father, and he began to worry. He worried that Marianne did not have cause to need him anymore. It was not necessary to be reminded of how he’d won her. She had sacrificed herself to save her father. Darius knew that. Well, her father no longer needed saving. He was dead. And because of that, Marianne did not really need Darius any longer.

She might not need him, but she was stuck with him, for he would never let her go. The very idea was an impossibility. She was his precious Marianne, whom he loved more than anything, the wife he loved, even though she clearly didn’t love him in return.

Loving was never part of the plan, but in matters of the heart, things rarely go to plan. It was simple, really. He loved Marianne and had told her so. Hearing the sentiment returned was his greatest wish. On more than one occasion he had told her, and the pain of the absence of those words given back was acute.

Darius didn’t know what he could do about it though. He’d made such a mess of everything and was now so entangled, he felt like a puppet bounced along on a string.

There was also the idea Marianne might be pregnant. They’d made love nearly every day, and she had never been indisposed to him. Not once. The fear that she could resent being tied to him was reminiscent of his own parents. He fervently prayed she would welcome a child. Marianne would be a loving mother, he thought, nothing like his own. ’Twas part of why he’d chosen her…

After the funeral, Marianne started having nightmares and awakened crying in the night. Darius always held her, speaking soothingly until she returned to sleep. Speaking in Italian to her seemed to help.

Marianne didn’t appear to recall what she cried out in the dark or the things she said, but Darius heard every word as he held her fitful body close to his, crying out for someone she had loved dearly and who was lost to her now. She spoke the name with regret and anguish. The name she cried out in the dark was…Jonathan.

* * * *

…
The squall had sprung up out of nowhere.
Jonathan!
She ran to the sea as fast as her legs could carry her. The terror pounding inside her chest overrode the bursting need of oxygen for her lungs. Their boat was overturned in the surf. She counted boys. Only two boys! Jonathan? Noooooo…it cannot be true! Where is my Jonathan? Dear God nooooo! I am sorry…sorry…so sorry, Jonath—

“Shhh. Marianne, you are having a bad dream.
Cara
, I am here.” Lips kissed her forehead. Strong hands stroked her back.

“Darius?” She awoke quickly, panicked and sweating, trembling in his embrace.

“Yes, darling. It’s all right now. You were dreaming…again.”

Relaxing into his arms, she became aware of reality. “I am so sorry, Darius, for disturbing you. I don’t know what is wrong with me.”

“I think you are sad and missing those whom you have loved and lost.”

“…You are probably right, Darius.”

“Jonathan? You miss him?” His voice was low and clipped.

“You know about Jonathan?”

“It is his name you cry out in your sleep, Marianne. You loved him.”

“Very much. I loved Jonathan the most. He was my light…”

“I understand, Marianne, you grieve for him,” he whispered.

“I do, Darius.”

* * * *

Marianne started taking solitary walks along the shore. She tried to do it when Darius was busy for she knew he would not be pleased. He had made her promise she would not walk alone, and she was fully aware of her disobedience as she broke the oath she’d made.

This day was very much like the day it had happened. The weather typical of late summer, seemingly mild but easily changeable. Marianne had walked out on the rocky headland, purposefully leaving the dogs at home. She needed to be alone today.

This was a favorite spot of hers. Standing on the rocks, she could almost imagine she was on a tiny island, the foamy peaks crashing below. From this vantage point she could scan the ocean horizon and call to him. He was out there somewhere. This was the place she came when she wanted to remember him. His smile. The rakish grin. The hair and eyes that matched hers.

Marianne was so lost in her musings she didn’t take notice of the size of the approaching swell. It exploded into the ledge, blasting a vertical swath of water straight up and onto her. The sheer size of the oversize wave, combined with the rough force, knocked her down, hard. Her feet were blown out from underneath, and she toppled perilously close to the edge.

Her dress, now soaked, weighed heavy and pulled her over. Her feet caught on a ridge of rock, slippery with moss, or she would have gone down. She was inches from going into the churning water below! If she went in, the weight of her garments would sink her. She would drown. Marianne knew the grave danger she was in but eerily resigned herself if it was to be her fate.
Taken by the sea…just like him…