Further Than Passion

by Cheryl Holt

  She'd been reduced to taking shelter at the Carlyle Hotel, but her meager allowance wasn't anywhere near sufficient to meet her obligations. The manager was posing embarrassing questions about her bills, about when they might be paid.

  Stamford had offered to purchase a small house for

  her, but as it had been located far outside the fashion

  able neighborhoods where she expected to reside, she'd

  refused to accept it.

  Just thinking about his domineering manner had her bristling. How dare he drive her to living like a common vagrant!

  The carriage door was opened, and she rushed from her hiding spot. "Chris ... Chris ... it's me, Pamela."

  She gazed up, her love shining through; only it wasn't Chris who emerged. It was the little brunette, who'd been with him at Elliot's, and on her left hand, she was wearing a diamond the size of Ireland. What

  could it mean?

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  He wouldn't have... Gad! Pamela couldn't finish the thought.

  The girl climbed out, and Pamela was struck anew by how beautiful she was, how poised and confident for someone so young.

  "Lady Pamela," she greeted, a definite Italian lilt to her speech, "how marvelous to see you. I was so hoping we'd have a chance to talk."

  "You were?"

  "Yes." As if they were bosom companions, she linked her fingers with Pamela's and squeezed tight. "Chris told me everything you did for us. I'm so very grateful."

  Suspicious, Pamela frowned. "What did I do?"

  The girl glanced to the side, at the footmen with their curious ears, and she leaned in and whispered, "Silly, you can't have forgotten. You taught him how to make love to a woman so that he could better ease my virginal fears."

  Pamela blanched. "That's what he said?"

  "Don't be so modest," Selena gushed. "Due to your selfless assistance, our wedding night was glorious. Absolutely glorious. Thank you."

  "But I... but I..."

  Imperious as any princess, the impudent hussy swept away, waltzed up the steps of what had once been Pamela's home, and was welcomed inside by Pamela's old butler. The door was closed behind her, sealing her in, and the sole indicator that she'd been there was a lingering hint of her expensive perfume.

  Like a beggar, a supplicant, Pamela loitered on the walk, staring up at the mansion, its polished windows gleaming in the sun. She was barred from it, from her

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  previous existence, and there was nothing—nothing!— she could do to reestablish herself.

  She'd lost it all: the position, the prestige, the fortune, Christopher. With a wail of despair, she stumbled away and ran down the street.

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  Kate meandered across the grass, dew soaking the hem of her skirt. Off in the distance, the sun was setting, an orange globe in a lavender sky. It was a balmy evening, with no hint that autumn had arrived, the harvest festival just around the corner. Her shawl was draped lazily off her shoulders, and her straw bonnet dangled from her fingers.

  Up ahead, she could see the Dower House that Chris had opened for her, where she lived in a self-imposed, spinsterish seclusion. Beyond, through the trees, were the chimneys of Doncaster Manor. To the delight of everyone in the area, Selena and Chris had taken up residence there as husband and wife.

  As if she'd been born to it, Selena had fallen into her role of countess. The tenants and villagers adored her, and the local gentry were tripping over themselves to befriend her. She'd rehired many of the employees who'd worked for their mother, as well as those whom Regina had fired, and was redecorating, gradually ridding the mansion of Regina's influence.

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  Kate was so proud of her.

  With Regina gone, a huge pall had been lifted from the estate. People were happier and more secure. Christopher had instituted impressive modifications in the running of the farms and stables, and the staff whispered about how, despite his upbringing, he'd grown to be a fine young man.

  No one asked about Regina or Melanie, where they were, or what had happened during their stint in London. Not a single soul could bear to foul the air by mentioning their names.

  Absurd as it sounded, Melanie had written many illegible letters, eager to express her personal misery, and her loathing of her husband. For some reason, she presumed that Kate would care to be apprised of her situation. When the first missive had been delivered, Kate had been so curious that she'd read it, but it had been filled with such rancor and malice that she'd thrown it in the fire and hadn't glanced at another.

  "Poor Melanie," she murmured, feeling no sympathy. What had the girl been thinking? How could she have believed that Elliot Featherstone was the answer to her prayers? What crazed impulse had driven her to such a reckless act?

  Kate shook her head and proceeded on. To guide her path, a maid had hung a lamp by the rear door. Her servants were accustomed to her pensive nocturnal wanderings. She was often restless and edgy, and the treks cleared her mind and eased her woes.

  Inside, a tasty supper would be waiting. She would sit in the quiet dining room, her spoon scraping across the elegant china, the clock ticking too loudly on the mantle.

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  Selena had begged Kate to stay in the manor, but her experiences there had been so bitter that she couldn't, and if she was honest, her refusal had been due to more than sour reminiscence.

  Selena and Christopher were so in love mat it hurt Kate to watch them together. Before traveling to London, she hadn't realized mat she would have liked the same sort of life her sister enjoyed with Christopher. But since her return, she couldn't ignore the empty spot inside her. She had constantly yearned for love but had never found it.

  The Dower House was fancier than she required, the rooms larger, the furnishings more grand, but it had been an uncomplicated and convenient choice as she'd struggled to decide what to do with herself. Chris claimed that her father had bequeathed her several excellent properties as a dowry.

  On those occasions when she was being particularly morose, she pondered moving to one of them. It was intriguing to imagine herself as the mistress of her own home, as having a place where she belonged, but she couldn't resolve to go.

  It tantalized her, though, that opportunity to start over.

  She opened the gate, pushing when it stuck in the grass, and she squeezed through. The extra effort had her ribs throbbing, and she rubbed her hand across them. The physician had informed her that they might permanently ache, like a rheumatism on a rainy day, and she sighed, detesting that she would perpetually carry a souvenir of that horrid incident.

  Memories tried to sneak in—of her terror in the jail cell, of the agonizing weeks it had taken to recover—but she shoved them away. She couldn't reflect on that

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  atrocious event, couldn't ruminate, or make sense of it. Not yet, anyway. Maybe in the future. Or maybe never.

  Down the lane, the woods were encased in brilliant hues of red and gold. As she admired the pretty sight, motion caught her eye. A man was coming toward her, walking from the manor on foot, and she narrowed her gaze, wondering who it could be. She never had callers, so perhaps he was merely a guest out for an evening stroll, as she was herself.

  For just an instant, he'd resembled Marcus Pelham, but she was sure it was a trick of the light. Yet from her fleeting consideration of the foolish possibility a ripple of excitement coursed through her, and she mused over his enduring ability to unsettle her.

  Why was it that he still had an effect? She rarely thought of him, never waxed nostalgic, or dreamed of what might have been, for her recollections were too disconcerting. Every splendid encounter they'd shared had been ruined by his betrayal.

  She went on, but the man kept approaching, ultimately striding out of the shadows. Her breath hitched, and she stopped, too flustered to continue. Her heart thudded, her sore ribs pounding with each beat, to painfully and vividly remind her of her grim history.

  He adv
anced until they were toe-to-toe, and she was stunned by the shimmer of gladness that rushed through her. She tamped it down, declining to pay it any heed.

  "Hello, Kate."

  "Lord Stamford."

  She nodded in recognition, but made no curtsy or other deferential gesture. As if he'd anticipated a warmer greeting, his smile faltered, but he quickly

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  shielded any reaction, and she wasn't surprised. He was a master at hiding his feelings.

  "How are you?" he asked.

  "Fine," she lied.

  He assessed her worn, functional gown. She had some money now—Chris had arranged it—and she could have ordered new clothes from the seamstress in the village, but such an expense seemed frivolous. Other than her frequent visits from Selena, she hardly saw anyone.

  "I always hated that dress," he said.

  "Yes, you did."

  "You look awful in gray."

  "As you mentioned, many times."

  "You've lost some weight."

  "So have you."

  He was much thinner, as if he'd been ill, or as if the past few months had been difficult, but she wouldn't speculate as to whether he'd suffered a catastrophe. Once, she'd been susceptible to his charms, and she doubted she'd changed overly much. She wasn't about to revert to the position where she'd been so vulnerable and desperate to curry his favor.

  That imprudent woman no longer existed. She'd been entombed in a dark, small hole at Newgate Prison, and she'd been abandoned when the altered, wiser, more cautious Kate had emerged.

  He was staring at her, as if he'd meant to utter a profound remark, as if there was a load he needed to get off his chest, when she couldn't fathom what it might be. Hadn't every item of importance been spoken between them? What could be left?

  A breeze rustled through the forest, tousling her

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  hair, and a strand blew across her cheek. As if he still had the right, he reached out to brush it away, but she flinched, avoiding him. If he touched her, she couldn't predict what might happen, and she wasn't willing to take the risk.

  Never again, she vowed, intent on protecting herself at all costs.

  "Did you want something?" she queried, keeping a tight lid on her emotions.

  She wouldn't permit him to detect how his presence had stirred a cauldron of brewing, detested yearning and regret. He could search to infinity for a hint of the fondness she'd harbored for him, but he'd never find it.

  The silence grew awkward, and finally, he shrugged. "I guess not."

  "I appreciate your checking on my welfare, but go away. You're not welcome here."

  She whirled away and departed, idiotic tears surging into her eyes, and she prayed he hadn't witnessed them. • Anymore, she was so accursedly sentimental!

  His hot regard cut into her from behind, and though every fiber of her being was urging her to halt, to chat or inquire as to how he was, she forced herself onward.

  "Kate ..." he murmured.

  Don't listen to him! she scolded. Keep going!

  He hesitated, unable to spit out his comment. The suspense was excruciating, and she couldn't stand it. She paused, but didn't peek around.

  "What?"

  "I've missed you."

  "So?"

  "Please... I..."

  There was agony in his voice, remorse and sorrow.

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  too, and she couldn't bear to be apprised of what he was bent on telling her.

  "Don't say it," she pleaded. "Whatever it is, just leave it be."

  "Turn around, Kate. Look at me."

  "No."

  "You have to hear me out."

  "I don't have to do anything. My days of hanging on your every word are over." She sounded so curt, so resentful, when she didn't mean to be surly. She simply didn't understand why he'd come, and she was terrified to learn the reason.

  Around him, she couldn't let her guard down. Not for a single second.

  "Your sister advises me that you're heartbroken, you're lonely and unhappy, and you've shut yourself off from everyone who cares about you."

  Her temper flared. How could Selena stoop to discussing her with Stamford? Kate had ceased to be any of his business, and he wasn't entitled to information.

  "My sister is mistaken."

  "Is she?"

  "I merely want to be left in peace, a request you don't seem to comprehend."

  "It appears to me that she's correct. You're grieving, so you've isolated yourself, but it's wrong for you to withdraw as you have."

  He had the gall to lecture her about behavior? He, who reveled in detachment? How dare he comment! His effrontery was infuriating.

  She whipped around, and the tears that had swarmed began to fall. She pressed her hands to her face, trying to stop them, but there were too many. "When I was in

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  that cell in Newgate, would you like to know what occurred to me?"

  "What?"

  "I was thinking that I was so insignificant, I could vanish. After all, who would hunt for we? So I would remain there forever." She swallowed down a torrent of anguish, needing to speak of that time aloud, needing him to be aware of how badly he'd hurt her. "No one had ever been concerned about me, no one had ever loved me, only I hadn't realized it till then." She laughed bitterly. "In a way, I ought to thank you, for now I grasp how alone I've always been, how alone I always will be."

  "That's not true."

  "It is." She gestured toward the Dower House. "How could it possibly matter if I choose to be by myself? I went to London, and I could have died there, but I managed to make it home. Selena's arrival has made things a tad less complicated, but as far as I can see, nothing has changed here, and nothing ever will."

  He stomped across the grass, nearing until he was directly before her, until his heat mingled with her own, and he rested his palms on her shoulders.

  "I love you, Kate."

  "No. No, you don't." She shook away the splendid, dangerous declaration. "You've never loved anyone."

  He studied her features, and he reached out and traced across her cheek, touching the small scar Regina had imprinted with her cane. As if he couldn't figure out how the mark had come to be there, he frowned. Had he no clue of what had transpired? Of how terrible it had been?

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  In light of what she'd endured, she was overwhelmed by the recognition that he wasn't familiar with the enormity of her struggle, and she cried in earnest. He snuggled her to him, her tears wetting his shirt. She could have fought him, or wrenched away, but she didn't. She felt as if the air had whooshed from her body, as if— should he release her—she would crumple to the ground.

  He attempted to kiss her on the mouth, but she yanked away, and he brushed her cheek instead.

  "You used to love me, too," he vehemently claimed. "I'm convinced you did. How can I make you love me again?"

  "There's naught you can do."

  Shocking her, he dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her waist, his forehead wedged to her stomach.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry."

  It was the last statement she'd expected from him. "You're sorry? What for?"

  He peered up at her, and she was still so attuned to him that she could read his mind. She could perceive melancholy, sorrow, heartache, and she shifted uneasily. Was that why he'd lost so much weight? Why he was so fatigued and drained? Had he been suffering? Mourning their separation?

  No, it couldn't be. She started to tremble, anxious to ward off the spark of hope that ignited in her breast.

  "I apologize for my conduct, for how I let her treat you."

  He didn't utter Regina's name, and for that, Kate was grateful. "Why did you side with her, and against me?"

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  "It wasn't like that. She told me that you had an old friend here at Doncaster who would marry you, who would be kind to you and watch over you."
>
  "And you believed her?"

  "I assumed that anyone would be better for you than me."

  "I'm sure you're right." She couldn't abide his being prostrate before her, begging for her understanding. her compassion, when she had none to share. She was too raw, too wounded. She stared off at the purple horizon. "Get up, Marcus. Go home."

  She pushed him away and stamped off, and he shouted after her. "Not until you say you've forgiven me. I can't bear that I've shattered your affection." She could hear him rising to his feet. Bleakly, he contended, "You're the only person, in my entire life, who ever cared about me."

  "Well, you never let anyone! Big, tough Marcus Pelham! He's so strong; he's so independent. He doesn’t want anybody. He doesn't need anybody."

  "I need you."

  She whirled around. "You accused me of being a thief!"

  "I admit it."

  "You just sat there, while she spewed her lies. You. never defended me. You let her blather on and on, and every word was a despicable lie."

  "I was mistaken. I knew it the moment you walked out the door."

  "Then why didn't you help me?"

  "She said you took things." He shrugged, pleading for a sympathy she wouldn't convey. "I remembered the occasions you had my signet ring, and I thought

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  maybe it was the truth. She promised she'd replace Selena's money, that—if I wed Melanie—she'd repay the missing funds."

  "So you agreed?"

  "She swore that she'd send you to Doncaster, that you'd be safe." He was adrift, confused, like a little boy who couldn't find his way. "I deemed it best for you to be away from me, for you to have someone who could make you happy. But I was wrong, Kate. You need me. / can make you happy."

  She clenched her fist, and she could feel his signet ring on her hand. Shortly after she'd moved into the Dower House, it had shown up on her dresser, and she wasn't certain how. She'd been forlorn, saddened, at her lowest ebb. Its presence had terrified her, and she'd decided to pitch it in the lake, had even marched out to the bank and tarried, but in the end, she couldn't throw it away.

  She wore it constantly now. It was her sole memento of the affair with him, the sole evidence she possessed that confirmed it had really happened. Like a warrior's prize, she held it up, challenging him, reproaching him.