Passion Wears Pearls

by Renee Bernard

  Eleanor acted without thinking, moving on an impulse of raw, emotional reaction.

  “Ouch!” Josiah reached down to hold his shin. “You kicked me!”

  “Oh!” Eleanor was as shocked as he was, but she held her ground. “Josiah Hastings, you are being ridiculous! No man can see ahead of him or promise a future! You’ve lost none of that impossible pride if you think for one second that you alone controlled the universe when you could see! I … I …”

  “Yes?” he asked, stifling a laugh as he accepted just how foolish it all was. He loved her. She loved him. Where was the problem? The path ahead looked crystal clear.

  “I have become a bully.” Her voice was filled with misery.

  He pulled her back into his arms, wrapping her up to press her against his chest, savoring the way she fit against his frame as if some unknown sculptor had crafted her to his measurements. “I love that you bully me, Eleanor. I love you when you take charge, and while I must ask you to refrain from kicking me on a regular basis—I deserved that last blow. I was being a whining prig.”

  She tipped her head back to look into his face and was rewarded with a kiss.

  The world fell away and he closed his eyes and forgot everything but the miracle of Eleanor Beckett loving him. He tasted her sweetness, and the hunger he’d spent so many days and hours trying to ignore nearly unmanned him. Gentleness fell to the wayside as both lovers sought to regain the ground they’d lost. Passion wiped away reason, and Josiah lifted her up. “They’d best hurry with that bath or I’m ruining those sheets, Eleanor.”

  “Josiah Hastings! You’ll do no such thing!” she admonished him, but nibbled along the strong line of his jaw to find the sensitive pulse just beneath his ear. “Not without locking the door. …”

  “I love you, Eleanor.”

  “So you’ll paint?” she whispered against the shell of his ear.

  He nodded, his expression solemn. “I’ll try.”

  “You’ll try until the door is completely closed and there’s no light at all. I refuse to let you give up.”

  “If you wish it. And when there’s no light?”

  “There are worse things, Josiah Hastings. We’ll go to concerts and lounge in the countryside and listen to our children laugh and play.”

  “Are we to have children?” It was a stunning thought and one that made him feel suddenly fiercely joyous and hopeful. “Are you marrying me, then, Miss Beckett?”

  “I am.” She brushed his hair back from his face. “It is only proper to do so, Mr. Hastings.”

  Epilogue

  From the London Times, June 14, 1860

  The Premiere Showing of the Royal Society of the Arts

  Mr. Josiah Hastings had an unusual debut at the Society with what can only be described as a striking and boldly brief offering. The reclusive Hastings agreed to reveal only two paintings this evening. Some critics, who had accused the artist before the premiere of hubris, withdrew their complaints and stated instead that if an artist can demonstrate prowess and skill with only two paintings, they are keen with anticipation to think what more lies ahead. Lady in Red had been rumored to be unparalleled in beauty, and at last, the public can judge. The second work in question, Lady in Pearls, is equally unforgettable, but has stirred controversy with its otherworldly and enchanting presentation of an English beauty as an exotic and foreign goddess. Rumor has it that the lady in both is, in fact, Mrs. Josiah Hastings. Hastings has refused comment and was unable to attend the unveiling ceremony at the museum. To date, neither painting is available for sale, and at the end of June, both portraits will be withdrawn to return to the artist’s private collection.

  Keep reading for an exciting excerpt from

  the next Jaded Gentleman novel

  Obsession Wears Opals

  Coming December 2012

  from Berkley Sensation!

  Somewhere a drum was beating.

  Isabel groaned in frustration at its insistence, at its intrusion on the numb, cold peace that had finally overtaken her. She’d lost track of time. She didn’t know how far she’d ridden, but the gallop of yesterday had long yielded to a slow crawl through the night, and Isabel couldn’t remember seeing the sun rise. She had ridden until exhaustion and the wintry lash of wind and icy rain had woven together into a tapestry of deadly quiet.

  Except for that infernal drumming.

  The rhythm was steady and slow. But loud enough to draw attention, she thought, because now there were voices. Someone was screaming and then there was an exchange, distant and anxious. Hands were touching her with muffled questions she couldn’t understand. And then someone was lifting her from the frozen, wet ground.

  I was on the ground? Did I fall from the saddle? How is that possible—Samson would never let me fall. …

  Isabel’s anxiety bloomed at the thought that something had happened to her faithful stallion, that she’d ridden him beyond the limits of his strength, but then her ankle was being freed from the stirrup where it had caught and she was being pressed against someone and cradled in a man’s arms, wrapped in a coat and blankets. She struggled to open her eyes, aware for the first time that she must have closed them.

  The voices were closer, the vibration of the deep timbre of his speech touching off a spike of agonized fear that jolted her back to reality.

  The drumming was my own heartbeat. God help me, I was praying for it to stop.

  Numbness fell away in a single breath and Isabel cried out at the cruel loss. She didn’t want to feel—anything. Not the fiery bite of the sleet against her cheeks or the warmth of his frame against hers; or the horrible return of memory and terror that had driven her to try to escape.

  “I’ve got you,” the stranger said softly, and something in her ached at the gentleness but despised the pain that it evoked.

  You have me.

  And what would you say if I just begged you to leave me as you found me?

  There was a flurry of activity, and Isabel became more and more aware of what was taking place as her weightless state gave way to sodden skirts and labored breathing. A woman was hovering behind them and making an awful keening fuss as they crossed the threshold and the warmth of the house enveloped them all. “Is she dead? Oh, God! A dead woman in my winter garden! I’ll be haunted all my days!”

  “She’s not dead.” He shifted her carefully and began to make his way toward the heart of the house. “Calm yourself, Mrs. McFadden. Fetch Hamish and ask him to ride for Dr. Abernethy at once.”

  “No,” Isabel croaked barely above a whisper, wincing at the agony of speech, but her terror overrode everything. “P-please, I beg you. N-no … a-authorities. …” She looked up at him and tried not to cry as desperation bled into her words. “P-please, sir. I c-cannot … go back.”

  “What’s that she’s saying?” the woman screeched from the kitchen doorway.

  Isabel held her breath, praying for mercy in an unmerciful world, and nearly broke when she saw the flood of compassion and comprehension in his green eyes.

  “Forget the doctor,” he amended, raising his voice slightly and turning back to his housekeeper with authority. “Tell Hamish to tend to that horse and make sure the upstairs blue bedroom has enough firewood. Our guest will recover there, but for now, I’m taking her to the library where it’s warmest. And hot broth, blankets, and dry clothes, Mrs. McFadden, as soon as you can manage it, please.”

  “Yes, Mr. Thorne.”

  Her terror retreated slightly as the threat of a doctor faded and she was carried through another doorway into a small library. He knelt and then with his free hand, yanked the cushions off of a nearby chair to make a nest for her in front of the fireplace. His hands were efficient as he rolled her gloved hands in his, warming the leather enough to peel the gloves from her fingers. He spoke pleasantly, as if they were experiencing an ordinary introduction.

  “My name is Darius Thorne and you must forgive my housekeeper, Mrs. McFadden, for her reaction. I’m apparently such a
dull man that she’s grown unused to any excitement at all.” He laid the gloves aside and then sat back on his heels to address the jet buttons on her riding coat. “Pardon my familiarity, but if we don’t get you out of some of these soaking wet layers, then I won’t be able to keep my word and will have to send for Dr. Abernethy after all.”

  She nodded, weakly trying to help him with her jacket but failing as her fingers refused to obey her commands. “Thank you. Sh-she has every right to complain. P-people r-rudely landing in her k-kitchen g-garden.” Isabel’s teeth chattered as she spoke. “I-I’m ruining these cushions, t-too.”

  He smiled, apparently ignoring that she’d not offered her own name in return. “No worries. I’ll make sure she knows I’m to blame since I’ve long disliked that chair with its embroidered scene of some idiots cavorting about and shooting deer.” He undid the last button and drew the sodden coat from her shoulders, replacing it with the blanket that had fallen off her frame; a temporary aid to ward off a chill. “Let’s get your boots off then.”

  Her extremities had begun to warm, and with the return of her circulation, her skin began to burn as if pricked by a thousand needles. She winced as he pulled off her boots and forgot modesty as he made quick work of her stockings to toss them on the stone hearth.

  “Damn,” he muttered beneath his breath, and without preamble, began to vigorously rub her feet and calves.

  “It hurts!” she protested, but she stopped when she saw the pain in his face.

  “I’d not hurt you for all the world, but we must get your blood flowing to ease your injuries. Please forgive me.” He returned grimly to his task, and she nodded slowly, acquiescing to his good sense. But there was more to it.

  Isabel paid no heed to the tears on her cheeks as she studied her rescuer for the first time. The sincerity in his face was a strange balm that removed her from discomfort. By the firelight, his wire-rimmed spectacles gleamed like copper and his handsome features were accented by the glow. He had the soulful look of a poet with arched eyebrows and sweet eyes, but his face was chiseled as if nature had hoped to fashion him for war. He was calm and careful as his strong hands gently worked over her flesh until the pale skin finally began to glow pink and become pliant to his touch, and when he looked back up at her, Isabel’s breath caught in her throat.

  “Better?” he asked.

  He’d said he’d not hurt her for all the world, but it made no sense in the world she’d experienced to believe him. Still, she was sitting in front of a fire with her bare feet tucked into his lap, half frozen and miserable—and inexplicably feeling safe for the first time in months. It was impossible, but she trusted this man.

  She nodded and opened her mouth to answer him, but a crisp knock at the door ended the spell.

  “All’s prepared upstairs, Mr. Thorne. I’ve a roaring fire going and a tray of hot broth and fresh pastries to follow, but I thought I’d see her up and settled first.”

  “Yes, brilliant, Mrs. McFadden.” He stood unfolding from the floor, and Isabel winced out of habit at the sudden movement. “Are you unwell?”

  She shook her head. “N-no. I don’t think so.”

  “Here, let me help you.” He lifted her up effortlessly as if she were a small child and moved toward the doorway and his impatient housekeeper. “Lead on, Mrs. McFadden.”

  Isabel closed her eyes and swallowed any protest she might have made. Pride urged a lady to insist that her legs worked and that she couldn’t allow him to exert himself on her behalf, but a small, practical voice inside of her won the day by noting that she couldn’t really feel her toes, that every part of her ached, and that the room was starting to spin.

  The haze of exhaustion reasserted itself as they moved up the staircase and Isabel fought to stay alert in his arms. The transition to his guest bedroom was smooth and well choreographed by the firm instructions of Mrs. McFadden as he set her down on an upholstered couch at the foot of the bed. The room was as warm as toast, and while Mr. Thorne waited dutifully outside the door, Mrs. McFadden efficiently saw her out of every stitch of her wet clothes and into soft woolen stockings and several layers of an old flannel nightgown. Then Mr. Thorne returned and lifted her up to carry her to bed as Mrs. McFadden removed the bed-warmer and turned back the covers.

  Ensconced under mounds of bedding, Isabel sank into the feather mattress and lost the battle to keep her eyes open.

  “There you are,” he said softly, before he retreated. “Safe and sound.”

  Safe and sound.

  Isabel slid into the darkness that opened up around her, welcoming oblivion before one last thought bubbled up.

  I’ll never be safe again.