FURTHER THAN PASSION

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CHAPTER ONE London, England 1813

"A love potion?" Kate Duncan scoffed. "Tell me that you're joking. Please."

"I'm not."

"For what could you possibly hope to use it?"

Her distant cousin, sixteen-year-old Lady Melanie Lewis, was mutinous. "What would you suppose? I intend to make Lord Stamford fall in love with me."

Kate could barely keep from laughing aloud. "Lord Stamford? Fall in love?"

"Yes."

Struggling for calm, she took a deep breath. "Where did you obtain it?"

"From an apothecary." Melanie leaned in and whispered, "The man swears it's extremely potent, so I have to be careful that I administer it appropriately, lest I set off unforeseen consequences."

"What sort of consequences might that be?"

"Well, if I was careless, two unsuitable people could be brought together. It would be a disaster."

Kate rolled her eyes. "Melanie, you can't believe this tonic is real."

"Why would you say it isn't?"

"There's no such thing as a magic potion."

"Hah! That shows how little you know. I paid a fortune for it. It must be genuine." Kate raised the vial and tipped it toward the lamp. It was filled with a dark liquid, and she'd bet her last penny that it was red wine. "What — precisely — am I to do with it?"

"You're to administer it, right before I'm scheduled to meet him. You'll slip it in his brandy or his soup. When he's not looking, of course." "Oh, of course." "Tomorrow evening might be best, when we're first introduced. I want him smitten from the start."

"Smitten?"

"Yes."

Kate sighed. Over the years, she'd served as Melanie's companion, tutor, governess, and chaperone. The girl had instituted a gaggle of nonsense, had developed numerous silly and bizarre ideas, but this was the most outrageous by far.

By all accounts, Marcus Pelham, the thirty-year-old Earl of Stamford, was a cold, dissolute, aloof scoundrel, and Melanie's yearning for him to be besotted was folly. Nay, beyond folly. It was lunacy. Was she off her rocker?

Marcus Pelham would never love Melanie. Despite what type of concoction she added to his supper entree, he wouldn't grow infatuated. Surely, Melanie understood the boundaries and ramifications of an aristocratic marriage! Her mother, Regina, had been tedious in expounding on the details. If Lord Stamford chose Melanie for his bride, it would be for the accepted reasons: money, property, familial alliances.

Affection would play no part.

"The timing is critical," Melanie continued. "You must talk with the staff, to learn when and where he'll be most likely to — "

"Melanie, listen to me." Kate grabbed her by the upper arms and shook her. "We're not going to do this. I am not going to do this."

"You are!"

"Stamford is an intelligent, shrewd, and clever gentleman. What if he caught me? How would I explain myself?"

"Honestly, Kate. You have no imagination." Melanie shoved her away. "You have to invent a story before you begin. That way, if you're discovered, you'll know in advance what your excuse should be. Now, when should we try it?"

Kate counted to ten, praying for patience. Melanie had always been intractable, and Kate was so weary of her moods. "Let me be more clear: I forbid you to attempt this. If you persist, I will speak to your mother and have her stop you."

Upon the mention of Melanie's mother, Regina Lewis, the Dowager Countess of Doncaster, Melanie's temper flared, her blond ringlets bouncing with fury. "If you dare," she threatened loudly, "I'll spend the rest of my life making you sorry."

"Be silent, before you waken the entire house," Kate answered, just as furiously. She'd lived with Melanie much too long, and had endured too many tantrums, to brook one with any grace. Especially in the middle of the night. She set the vial on the dresser, prepared to leave in a huff. "It's very late, and on the morrow, we have a busy day."

"Take the potion with you!" Melanie commanded, and she snatched up the vial, wielding it like a weapon.

"You can't order me about."

"If you won't take it, I'll do something drastic. I'll... I'll... "

Apparently, on the spur of the moment, she couldn't devise a reprehensible behavior, but from her mottled countenance, she was on the verge of throwing a major fit.

"For pity's sake," Kate grumbled. "Give it to me."

She marched over and retrieved it, as Melanie glowered in triumph, having been confident that she could coerce Kate into whatever conduct she demanded.

Gnashing her teeth, Kate stomped out and closed the door. Their hostess, Lady Pamela -- Lord Stamford's glamorous stepmother -- was free with her coin, so a lamp burned next to the landing, illuminating her route. She trudged toward the stairs, ready to climb to her bedchamber, but she was fatigued, exhausted from traveling to London, from dealing with Regina and Melanie. By the third step, she plopped down, her head in her hands.

There was no need to rush. Her room was tidy, clean, comfortably furnished, but it was sparse and quiet, at the end of a deserted corridor. The isolated location only underscored how alone she'd recently been feeling.

At least she hadn't been lodged in the attic with the servants! Since she'd been orphaned at age eight, she'd suffered many slights, but her pride couldn't have borne that one.

It had been so many years since her father had reigned as Earl of Doncaster, since he'd passed away and Regina's son, Christopher, had been elevated from modest means and obscurity to assume the title. Kate could hardly remember that period of wealth and privilege.

Had she really been born the daughter of an earl? Had her mother really been the most beautiful female in England? Had she lived like a princess? Or was it all some odd, recurring dream?

Her mother had been wed too young. She'd been restless, unhappy in her marriage, and ultimately, she'd fled to Italy with a lover. The shame had been too much for Kate's father, and he committed suicide, leaving Kate unprotected, with no funds, no dowry, and no guardian designated to watch over her.

Before the shock of events had fully registered, the indomitable Regina had moved to Doncaster and seized the reins of power. For a few brief weeks, her ailing husband had inherited the earldom, but he'd conveniently died, so she was a widow, her baby son the new lord. Ever since, she'd ruled the property like a despotic queen, managing with an iron fist, and bullying everyone until they ceded to her mandates.

She never let Kate forget that she was an aging, irksome burden, that her selfish parents had declined to see to her welfare and had abandoned her to the vagaries of Fate. Regina constantly harangued as to how weak and crazed Kate's parents had been, how their tainted blood flowed through Kate's veins. She berated so vociferously and so often that Kate had taken the criticisms to heart and, in case others learn of her appalling lineage and judge her harshly, she rarely told anyone her last name.

There was a mirror on the wall, and she studied her reflection. In the dim light, she didn't look anywhere near twenty-five, even though she was.

Her auburn hair was luxurious and rich, and not an indicator of a hedonistic temperament as Regina regularly proclaimed. Regina maintained it was witch's hair, that the color was an enticement to wild ways, and had been the ruination of Kate's mother. For fear that she be deemed loose of character, as her mother had been, Kate kept it concealed under caps and hoods.

In the shadows, her green eyes were sparkling and alive, her face pretty and appealing. Her thin figure was feminine, her curves defined and alluring, and she could detect no hint of the pathetic creature Regina had dubbed her. It was as if she was staring at the woman she yearned to be, rather than the woman she was.

Glancing down, she scrutinized the vial she still held.

"A love potion," she muttered. "What next?"

Early on, she'd ascertained the idiocy of succumbing to ardor. As her parents had proven, an excess of zeal led to misfortune and tragedy, and Kate wasn't about to assist Melanie in any recklessness.

She pulled the cork from the vial, intending to dump the liquid into the dirt of a potted plant, when a strange impulse — puckishness? madness? boredom? — forestalled her. Instead, she raised it and drank down the contents.