Passion's Song

by Carolyn Jewel

  “Are you sure he asked you to become his…lover?” He looked doubtful. “I expect he meant to be gallant but found himself carried away.”

  “Well, let me see, sir, if I can recall his exact words. He said although you are the better-looking, and of course I must agree, he would be the more generous, and that as his mistress, I should want for nothing. Tell me, do you think I misunderstood? Or have I overreacted to a proposition commonly made in English society?” Isobel glared at him and then looked away, suddenly ashamed to meet his eyes and unwilling to let him see tears spilling down her cheeks.

  Alexander sat down next to her and took her hand. “The duke believes, however mistakenly, that I was responsible for his daughter’s unhappiness. After we were married, neither of us was very happy, and it’s true I eventually gave up trying. I suspect he even blames me for her death.”

  “What does that have to do with telling everyone we’re lovers?” She snatched her hand away.

  “I’ve done no such thing. Mallentrye simply wanted to make trouble for me. And he’s certainly succeeded. Isobel,” he said softly, pulling her face around to his with his other hand. He found himself looking into eyes liquid with tears. Before he could think about what he was doing, he bent his head to hers. He could feel her trembling as he held her face with one hand, while his other hand moved to her back to pull her to him. He kissed away the tears escaping down her cheeks.

  “No,” he heard her say, but he did not want to listen to protestations. He moved his lips over her throat. He felt her try to push him away, but he raised his head and covered her lips with a kiss that demanded she give in to the desire he wanted to create in her. He groaned when he felt her arms around his neck and he leaned forward until she was pressed against the back of the bench, her body yielding to him. He grasped her waist with both hands, pulling her up against him. He was a fool to think he had imagined his feelings the first time he held her in his arms. He wanted this woman as he wanted no other, and she was returning his kiss with a passion that told him she wanted him just as badly. He knew he was being foolish, but while she was answering his desire so exquisitely it was difficult to think of anything else. His need for her shook him. He felt as though he could not get enough of the lips that were meeting his own increasing demand. When at last he pulled away, because if he hadn’t he would have taken her right then, he could only stare at her for a moment before saying, “Isobel, this can lead nowhere. I’ve already told your father I won’t marry again. In the name of decency, I ought to tell you the same thing. For God’s sake, you’re not even twenty yet, are you? How could you possibly understand? I’d be taking advantage of you if I let this go any further.”

  “Let go of me,” she whispered.

  He told himself it was for the best when she left him without saying another word.

  V

  The next day Isobel stayed in her room and made a halfhearted attempt to read. Eventually she threw the book down and just stared out the window overlooking the gardens. It was no use denying she was in danger of losing her heart to a man who had as much as told her she meant nothing to him. She ought to have slapped him, or struggled, or something—anything except cling to him the way she had. She had been powerless to do anything but stare into those moss-green eyes. As soon as his hand touched her cheek, she felt as though there was a slow fire spreading from deep inside her, and she had wanted more. The humiliation of his disdain for her ought to cure her, but she only wished she could make him like her better. It was not only that he was beautiful; there were other men almost as handsome who were ten times more agreeable. There was an electricity about him that had drawn her to him from the very moment they met. And they were very much alike; he sought power with the same fervor with which she devoted herself to music. And it was that fervor that attracted her—that and the realization that in spite of it, he never lost sight of himself. She had already experienced the intensity of his intellect, seen how he measured others until he was satisfied he knew their worth, and she admired his ruthlessness in discarding the unworthy. Try as she might, she could not discover the difference between knowing the quality of a man and being in love with him.

  She was surprised when Bridget announced Lady Julia was waiting downstairs for her. “Send her up here.” She smiled thinly when Julia came in, unable to summon any enthusiasm at her visit. “It’s terribly early for you to be up, isn’t it? It’s barely two o’clock,” she said, making a feeble attempt at humor.

  “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?” She wandered over to another chair and plopped down dejectedly.

  “Hartforde and the duke of Mallentrye are said to have had words last night,” Julia said.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. I’m told a duel was barely prevented.”

  “Why did they argue?”

  “I was under the impression you might tell me.” Julia sat down on the edge of the bed and looked expectantly at Isobel.

  “I?”

  “Hartforde told me the duke had said something unpleasant to you.”

  “Oh, Julia, this is simply awful!” She stood up again and began pacing the floor at the foot of the bed.

  “What do you mean, awful? Why, this is practically a declaration for you. I had no idea my brother could be so romantic as to fight over a woman! What in heaven’s name happened?”

  “The duke asked me to be his mistress.”

  Julia stared at her.

  “Your brother overheard him.” She leaned against the windowsill. “I won’t regale you with the tale of my behavior, but I am quite certain your brother thinks I am as common as they come.”

  Well before the end of the day, everyone knew that a duel between Lord Hartforde and the duke of Mallentrye had been narrowly averted and, further, that Isobel St. James was reputed to be the cause of this latest rift.

  Lord Strathemoore was not the only man, married or unmarried, whose heart sank to think the young heiress was spoken for. But, to the amazement of all and the gratitude of a few, Hartforde seemed deliberately to shun her.

  VI

  If Isobel had hoped Julia was correct when she interpreted her brother’s actions as a declaration, she was destined for disappointment. In the days that passed, she rarely saw Alexander, unless Angelica Vincent, or occasionally some other handsome brunette, was on his arm. She told herself she did not care and almost convinced herself it was true. She decided if he was so unaffected, then she could at least appear to be the same. She turned her attentions to Lord Strathemoore; of all the men who were pressing suit, he was by far the best-looking.

  Strathemoore’s own fears were soon assuaged when it became evident Lord Hartforde was no rival as far as Miss St. James was concerned. Still, he felt glad to have persuaded her to ride with him in Hyde Park one morning, and although he was curious to know where she had been the day before, he wisely refrained from questioning her. He did not want to anger her when she finally seemed to be softening toward him. Her very aloofness made him long to be with her, and he considered it as a victory each time he succeeded in making her smile at him. She had been quite attentive to him of late, although it concerned him that she was so secretive about where she spent her time when she was not with him. She adamantly refused to satisfy his curiosity on the subject.

  Strathemoore expertly maneuvered the carriage through the gates of Hyde Park, and though he seemed to have his attention fixed on the horses, he glanced several times at Isobel. She was wearing a rose-colored silk gown with elbow-length sleeves tied in two small bows at each cuff. Her dainty straw hat hid most of her face and he found himself admiring the smooth skin rising above the demure neckline of her bodice. She was obviously a modest woman and he sometimes amused himself by imagining what it would be like to awaken passion in her for the first time. He was convinced that under her almost prim exterior was a woman of great sensuality, and he wanted to be the first to discover it. He pulled into the line of carriages without so much a
s jostling a hair on her head and relaxed now that the horses would do most of the work. She did nothing when he let his hand innocently brush her shoulder, and it emboldened him to let his thigh press against hers. She blushed and looked away, but she did not move. He said something witty and was rewarded with a smile. That breathtaking smile of hers had been turned on him twice already during the ride, and if they had not passed Lord Hartforde and Angelica Vincent in a four-in-hand just as he was about to raise Isobel’s hand to his lips, he would have considered the afternoon a complete success. Miss St. James’s smile had turned to a frown as soon as Lord Hartforde’s open carriage passed them. After that, James was sure Isobel had hardly heard a word he said to her. He found himself wondering if there was anything to the rumors circulating about the two.

  “Are you in love with him?”

  “In love with whom?” Isobel turned her head around to give him a puzzled look.

  “Lord Hartforde. Who else?” He shrugged.

  “In love with Lord Hartforde?” She tried to sound incredulous. “What a ridiculous idea! I loathe the man! He’s nothing but an arrogant, hateful rogue!” She shut her mouth firmly when she realized she was in danger of protesting too much.

  “It’s just that you’ve been so awfully quiet since we passed him.” Relieved at her response, he gave her a look he usually reserved for more experienced women.

  “Why, Lord Strathemoore, I do believe you’re jealous!” She put a small hand on his arm and turned her dark eyes to him.

  “Of course I am. I’m jealous of any man who gets more of your attention than I do.” Apparently he’d said the right thing, for she gave him another of her dazzling smiles and afterward seemed to hang on his every word.

  Isobel was shocked when Strathemoore suddenly asked if she was in love with Alexander. As soon as he had said it, she knew it was true, even though she vehemently denied it. She panicked to think he might have guessed the truth. She wasn’t foolish enough to think there was any hope for her where Hartforde was concerned. At least James cared for her.

  Chapter 16

  I

  Isobel hurried home, clasping her arms to her chest for warmth. It was getting darker and colder by the minute. She and Faircourt had been at the rehearsal hall, working on the revision of her first long piece for fortepiano and violins, and it was nearly seven o’clock before she had even thought to look at the watch Julia had bought for her. The work was coming along so well she had been loath to stop, and it was only her desire not to worry Julia that made her leave. To make things worse, she had been unable to find a hackney cab, so she was forced to walk the distance to Albemarle Street, only it was no longer a brisk evening in March, it was a fully dark and cold night! She considered herself lucky it wasn’t raining. She wanted only to get to Julia’s and change into a proper gown and then go home to her own fireplace. It was easier, and safer by far, for her to change her clothes in one of the unused sections of Hartforde House. To risk being seen at Redruth while dressed as Ian Boxham was unthinkable. At least at Hartforde House Julia could be counted on to provide a rescue if it became necessary. She drew a breath of relief as she let herself in the servants’ entrance, thanking the Lord she hadn’t been set upon by thieves, or worse. She went through the kitchen and came out into the hall that passed a drawing room where a fire burning in the hearth looked too inviting to ignore. It was so bitterly cold her hands were still numb, and she held them as close to the fire as she dared. Next time, she thought to herself, she would see to it that she had an overcoat and gloves. Just as she was about to turn around to warm her back, she was startled to hear a voice behind her.

  “You, boy! What’s your name?”

  Isobel whirled around, briefly confused, until she remembered she was still dressed as Ian. She suppressed a moment of panic before answering boldly, “Ian Boxham.” She nodded her head toward the enormous figure that stood in the doorway. “I was only warming myself, madam.”

  “Who are you?” With her hands on her hips, Mrs. Peaslea’s formidable bulk filled the doorway. “Why haven’t I seen you before?” She had seen Isobel come in the servants’ entrance and, suspicion aroused, followed her down the hall.

  “I’m Emma Carlton’s nephew, ma’am. The Lady Julia told me I might stop by of an evening to borrow some books.” Emma Carlton was a former servant of Julia’s, and Isobel hoped their agreed-upon story—in case someone should see her coming in the servants’ entrance—was going to work. It had seemed foolproof when they had settled on it, but now, in front of Mrs. Peaslea, it did not seem so plausible.

  “M’lady isn’t at home.” Mrs. Peaslea enunciated each word and crossed her arms over the broad expanse of her chest as she gave her a suspicious look. It was a marvel the woman’s hands could reach the distance that separated left from right.

  “Then I’ll just wait here until she can see me, madam, if you don’t mind.” Isobel tried to keep her growing panic from showing.

  “Aren’t we the high-and-mighty one, borrowin’ books from the lady? Getting a bit above y’self, ain’t you?” Mrs. Peaslea despised such eager and ambitious young men who did not know their proper place. A pleased expression came over her as she thought how she might take this young man down a peg or two, and teach him a lesson about honest work in the bargain.

  “Lady Julia has been extremely kind in furthering my education. I would be in your debt if you would be so kind as to tell my lady I am here. I am confident that if you tell her I am here, she will see me, as she was expecting me this evening.”

  “Not so fast. Y’aren’t above a bit of honest work, are you?” A smile pulled at the corners of her wide lips when she carefully emphasized the word “honest,” h included. “I need someone to help his lordship. Mr. Peters is come down serious ill. I think you’ll do as well as the next.” She took a few steps into the room.

  “But, madam—”

  “You’ll be paid for your trouble, if that’s what’s bothering you. Or do you think you’re too good for the work your aunt did? Service weren’t too low for your aunt, I vow! Here he comes now!” She glanced over her shoulder. “Look smart for his lordship, do y’hear me?” With a quickness surprising in one of her bounty of flesh, Mrs. Peaslea reached out and grabbed Isobel’s arm, pulling her out into the hall after her.

  “Where is Mr. Peters, Mrs. Peaslea?” Alexander stopped when he saw the two of them. “I need him now.” He was holding a thick packet of correspondence in one hand, and in the other he held a box Isobel supposed contained his seals. She surmised, therefore, that he was on his way to the room where he received callers, and that Mr. Peters was his secretary.

  “M’lord, he’s taken terrible ill. But Mr. Boxham, here”—she jerked a thumb at Isobel—“can do for you. He’s Emma Carlton’s nephew.”

  Isobel kept her head down, deathly afraid he would recognize her and frantically wondering where Julia had got to. If Julia didn’t show up soon, Isobel was going to have to go with Lord Hartforde—either that or try to explain why a complete stranger had entered the house through the servants’ entrance instead of the front door.

  “Very well, then.” He shrugged. “Come with me.” He raised his eyebrows as Mrs. Peaslea gave Isobel a shove.

  “He’s a shy one, milord. It’s due t’all them fancy books he reads,” Mrs. Peaslea snorted as she gave Isobel another push between the shoulders.

  “Come along, then.”

  Surely there could be no difficulty in acting as Lord Hartforde’s secretary for a while, Isobel thought, as she followed him up the stairs. She prided herself on writing a good hand. How bad could it be? She would write out a few correspondences, perhaps seal a letter or two, and be on her way. She was behind him as they continued down the hall, so she could not see the thoughtful expression on Alexander’s face.

  To her great surprise they entered rooms that looked very much as though they were Lord Hartforde’s private chambers. She watched him walk to a small desk where he deposited the letters and t
he box. He shrugged off his coat and held it out for her to take.

  “Hang it up over there.” He pointed vaguely at one corner. When she had complied, he stood in the center of the room, arms crossed over his chest. “I haven’t seen you before. Have you been in service here long?”

  “No, my lord. In fact, I’m not actually on the staff.”

  She did not like his curious gaze, and she prayed he intended to do something besides question her presence in his house.

  “How unusual that you find yourself here, then.” He raised his hands to his chin and, pressing the tips of his fingers together, gave her a speculative look. “Excuse me a moment.” He stepped over to the bell pull and tugged it twice. A moment later a chambermaid came in and he instructed her to draw his bath, then dismissed her.

  “Help me with these boots,” he said when the girl was gone. He sat down in an armchair and held out his foot.

  “Excuse me, my lord,” said Isobel in a voice thick with a growing suspicion of disaster.

  “Is there something the matter?” He glanced impatiently at his outstretched leg, then back up at her.

  “Would you be so kind as to tell me what position is held by Mr. Peters?”

  “Mr. Peters is my valet.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Come, come, young man, I’m not taking a bath with my boots on.” He clucked impatiently while Isobel bent down. “You look familiar to me,” he said as he extended his other leg to her.

  “People say that to me all the time, my lord.”

  “Fascinating, Mr.—Boxer, was it?” He stood up and began untying his cravat.

  “Boxham, my lord.”

  “Boxham.”

  “You’re not going to undress, are you?” she cried, eyes widening with horror.