Cheryl Holt

T
OTAL
S
URRENDER

B
EST
S
ENSUAL
N
OVEL OF THE
Y
EAR
R
OMANTIC
T
IMES
MAGAZINE

“Cheryl Holt is something else again. I was totally blown away by
Total Surrender
, a tale both erotic and poignant. Sensational characters, and a very compelling read that readers couldn’t put down unless you’re dead! It’s also the dynamite sequel to last year’s
Love Lessons
. . . don’t miss this author. She’s a sparkling diamond.”

—Readertoreader.com

“Cheryl Holt scores big with
Total Surrender
. Following in the erotic path set by Robin Schone, Lisa Kleypas, and Catherine Coulter, she taps into secret fantasies tied closely to a romantic love story.”

—
R
OMANTIC
T
IMES
B
OOK
C
LUB

“A lush tale of romance, sexuality, and the fragility of the human spirit. Carefully crafted characters, engaging dialogue, and sinfully erotic narrative create a story that is at once compelling and disturbing . . . For a story that is sizzling hot and a hero any woman would want to save.”

—
R
OMANCE
R
EVIEWS
T
ODAY

“A deliciously erotic romance . . . the story line grips the audience from the start until the final nude setting, as the lead characters are a dynamic couple battling for
Total Surrender
. The suspense element adds tension, but the tale belongs to Sarah and Michael. Cheryl Holt turns up the heat with this enticing historical romance.”

—
W
RITERSPACE

M
ORE
. . .

“A very good erotic novel . . . if you like a racy read, you’ll enjoy this one!”

—
O
LD
B
OOK
B
ARN
G
AZETTE

“Cheryl Holt is very good at what she does.”

—
S
TATESMAN
J
OURNAL
(Salem, OR)

L
OVE
L
ESSONS

“With her well-defined characters, even pacing, and heated love scenes, Holt makes an easy entry into the world of erotic romance . . . readers will enjoy
Love Lessons
.”

—
R
OMANTIC
T
IMES

“A very sensual novel in the manner of Susan Johnson . . . Holt does an excellent job of raising one’s temperature.”

—
O
LD
B
OOK
B
ARN
G
AZETTE

“A very sensual book . . . I would recommend it to those of you who like Thea Devine or the later books of Susan Johnson.”

—Romancereviewstoday.com

“Hot, hot, hot! The love scenes sizzle in this very sensual romance between two people from different worlds . . . readers enjoying an erotic romance will not be disappointed.”

—Writers Club Romance on AOL

A
LSO BY
C
HERYL
H
OLT

Love Lessons

Total Surrender

Absolute Pleasure

Complete Abandon

and

“The Wedding Night”
in
Burning Up

Cheryl Holt

DEEPER THAN DESIRE

Copyright © 2004 by Cheryl Holt.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

ISBN: 0-312-99282-3

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / March 2004

St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

10   9   8   7   6   5   4   3   2   1

Salisbury, England, 1813

Lady Olivia Hopkins reached to the library shelf above her head and yanked on the heavy book she was determined to read. It came loose with a whoosh of air, as though it hadn’t been moved from its spot in many a year. The weighty tome fell toward her, and she barely caught it before it crashed to the floor with a loud thud.

Cradling it to her chest, she lugged it to a nearby table and laid it down. The cover was deep red, the title—
A Feast for the Senses
—printed in ornate golden lettering that hinted at antiquity. Carefully, she opened it, the binding creaking with age, and her nose was assailed with the smells of dust and mold.

She seated herself in a comfortable chair and turned to the first page, but she was shocked by what she saw. She blanched, her brows rose.

“Dear me,” she murmured to the empty room. She peeked about, half expecting one of Lord Salisbury’s servants, or her stepmother, Margaret, to leap from behind the velvet draperies and scold her for her nocturnal curiosity.

For the prior hour, she had been studying the works of the Italian masters, and she’d anticipated more of the same, but this was no educational reference, no boring volume of scholarly merit she could carry to her bedchamber as a cure for insomnia.

Before her, dozens of mermaids were strewn across an oceanic scene and lounging on a rocky shoreline.
Disturbingly, they looked like herself—slender, with blue eyes and blond hair. They were serene, beaming with contentment, their flaxen locks flowing into an azure sea, their scaled, flippered legs dangling in the frothy water.

Previously, she’d observed paintings of mermaids, but the illustrations were discreet, the bodily arrangement hiding any sights the viewer ought not see.

In contrast, these were . . . were . . . She couldn’t describe what they were.

The mythical creatures were arrayed to startle. Their postures were provoking, their upper torsos exposed, their anatomical curves precisely delineated. The anonymous artist had a particular fascination with the female breast, for each pair was lovingly and meticulously drafted for maximum effect. He was intrigued, captivated by the risqué, and eager to convey his bewitchment to others. Which he did. Quite successfully.

There were large breasts, small breasts, rounded, high, flat, pointy, and voluptuous breasts. Every size, shape, and contour was exhibited. The centers were portrayed in varying hues of peach and rose, an erect nipple conspicuous in the middle of each.

In her twenty-three years of living, she’d never beheld a woman’s breasts, and though she endeavored to recall, she wasn’t certain she’d ever seen her own, when she definitely should have. She was an accomplished artist herself, but in all actuality, she knew very little about the human form. Aesthetic investigation should have spurred her to master the intimate aspects, but it wasn’t as if she—the prim, proper daughter of a deceased earl—could hire a model to pose in the buff, and she was hardly an individual who would stand in front of the mirror and gaze at herself in the altogether, so she hadn’t realized that the breast could be so magnetic, so alluring.

She couldn’t quit staring.

While she wanted to be disgusted or upset, she wasn’t, and she really and truly intended to stop surveying the naughty portraiture, but she was too mesmerized. Sternly, she ordered herself to close the cover, but she couldn’t obey the command.

She traced a finger across the fantastical lumps of flesh, and the maneuver had a peculiar and dramatic impact on her physique. Her breasts swelled and ached, and her nipples poked against the fabric of her nightgown, causing her to notice and assess them in an entirely new fashion.

Distractedly, she cupped one of the mounds, testing its plump mass and girth. By accident, her thumb flicked across the rigid tip, and the gesture set off a slew of exotic, almost hurtful sensations. Feeling as though she’d been burned, she dropped her hand and glanced away. Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment.

How could an object as innocuous as a book have such rousing force? Why would something as simple as a painting wield such power? Why did she allow a reaction to occur?

Yearning for a respite from the stimulation, she turned the page.

The next picture was worse—or better, depending on one’s perspective—and much more disquieting than the first. A lone mermaid was stretched out on a boulder, the sea churning around her, her finned legs suspended in the water. She too was fully displayed, her pouting, curvaceous breasts visible.

A man was with her. A very handsome, very mortal man, with dark hair and eyes. He appeared to be a sailor, with a loose, flowing shirt and pants. They were ripped at the knee, as though he’d been in a shipwreck and had
been tossed up by the waves. He was sprawled behind the mermaid, and she was in his arms, her bottom snuggled between his muscled thighs.

His hands clasped her breasts, his fingers squeezing her nipples. In obvious bliss, her face was tilted toward the stormy sky.

The spectacle stirred an unusual and primal excitement in Olivia. She hadn’t known that a man would do such a thing to a woman, that a woman might enjoy it. Instinctively, she comprehended that this was the sort of exploit a couple would engage in in the marital bed, where an episode transpired that was so obscure and so puzzling that a virgin—such as herself—dare not ask others about it, dare not ruminate or speak of it aloud.

The information was frightening, and had her so disconcerted that she couldn’t reflect upon it, so she browsed, rapidly scrutinizing the paintings.

Hundreds of legendary animals were drawn, and they were mostly female. Nymphs frolicked in a waterfall, elves danced before a fire, fairies scattered their magic powder. They were ravishing, beguiling, making her want to linger and examine, to dream and fantasize. Frequently, the mysterious man rollicked in the midst of the merriment, the fictitious ladies adoring him and the blatant maleness he brought to their feminine enterprises.

They were touching him, with their hands and their mouths, but the specific deeds were shielded, the nature of the conduct too astonishing to divulge.

If she wed the Earl of Salisbury, Edward Paxton, was this the type of activity he would require? Should she ultimately become his bride, what else was there to discern? Upon what other bizarre, private behaviors might he insist?

Did men and women perform such antics? Did the earl? If he decided to marry her, would he demand such
debauchery? She could never be sufficiently relaxed with him to where she could strip off her clothes and romp around. What if it was obligatory? What if he solicited such dissipation on a regular basis?

Could she go through with a marriage to him? How could she not?

Without warning, a shadow crept across the page, and she frowned, in her confused state, unable to grasp what it portended.

“What an interesting choice for nightly reading,” a male voice intoned from right next to her. “And one of my personal favorites.”

She froze.

A man had sneaked in without her noticing! Her hair was down and brushed out, and she was clad in a flimsy nightgown and robe. Her feet were bare, not so much as a slipper covering them.

Everyone was abed. If she’d assumed differently, she’d never have come downstairs.

Who had joined her? If it was the earl, she would perish from mortification! If it wasn’t the earl, it had to be someone with whom he was well acquainted. No one else would be roaming the halls so late.