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Carolyn Jewel at Smashwords
Copyright (c) 1987, 2012 by Carolyn Jewel
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Table of Contents
About This Book
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Books by Carolyn
About Carolyn Jewel
About Passion’s Song
Passion’s Song was originally published in 1987 and is the first book I wrote. Other than correcting typographical errors in the original, this book stands as I wrote it in 1987. The back cover copy of the original book referred to a devilish duke, even though there was no duke in the story. I have refrained from the temptation to add one.
American orphan Isobel Rowland learns she is the illegitimate daughter of an English aristocrat only when her father at last locates her and brings her to England. Her father intends to find her a husband, and if she can catch the interest of Alexander, Marquess of Hartforde, all the better. She hopes to continue her musical studies but finds it impossible unless she masquerades as a young gentleman. Alexander’s interest in remarriage is close to nil, though he finds Miss Rowland intriguing. He is more than happy to act as patron to a promising American musician, Ian Rowland. When Alexander discovers that Ian and Isobel are the same person, their lives collide and before long, they have no choice but to marry and attempt to make a life together.
Prologue
I
30 April 1775
London, England
It was damnably hot in the room, and it was so full of dancing, drunken men and women that Alexander, standing rather stiffly by himself, fairly itched to loosen his cravat. Instead, he unfastened two of the buttons of his coat. He brushed a stray lock of sandy hair from his forehead and longed for the moment when he and his bride might discreetly retire. His present discomfort seemed to him a small price to pay for a lifetime with the woman he adored. His green eyes softened when they fell on the young woman he had married some few hours ago. Lady Sarah was finally his wife. She was dancing with Alexander’s father, and she looked radiantly happy as she floated around the crowded dance floor as if there was no one else there. Her white-blond hair was beginning to loosen about her faintly flushed cheeks in a way that made Alexander appreciate his wife’s delicate beauty all the more.
Their courtship had been brief, but he thought the six weeks preceding her acceptance of him had been an eternity. He was in love as he had never been before.
And Lady Sarah had let it be known that she was as desperately, passionately, and fashionably in love with him as he was with her. Marriage had been the furthest thing from Alexander’s mind when his father had first suggested the match just over a year ago, which was—not coincidentally—some months after Lady Sarah’s betrothed, the duke of Worling, was killed in a senseless accident during a sojourn in Paris. As Lord Hartforde had patiently pointed out to his son, Lady Sarah brought a sizeable dowry, she was, it was commonly agreed, the greatest beauty in many a London season and, of course, the match was socially brilliant. Lady Sarah was the only child of the duke of Mallentrye, and Alexander, one hardly need point out, stood heir to his father’s considerable estates. It was only because of a sense of filial responsibility that Alexander had started courting Lady Sarah. Much to his surprise, he had soon found himself hopelessly in love.
Alexander’s attention was diverted from the dancers, and from his wife in particular, when his father-in-law pushed his way through the press of guests to stand at his side. The duke of Mallentrye was by no means a short man, yet he found himself looking up after his son-in-law straightened from a graceful bow.
“So, there you are!” The duke addressed Alexander more loudly than was strictly necessary from the level of noise in the room. “I trust you and my daughter shall visit me often.” The duke thumped him heartily on the back.
“No doubt we shall, Your Grace,” Alexander said, taking a cautious step backwards to discourage another demonstration of enthusiasm. He managed a pleasant enough smile and supposed he ought to be grateful the staunch Tory had condescended to bestow his only daughter on an avowed Whig. He already had the utmost respect for the duke, and he was doing his best to like him to the same degree.
“I insist on it, young man! I expect you to continue to spoil her, just as I have.”
Alexander began to suspect the duke’s unusual exhilaration was due more to an excess of Nantes brandy than to his joy at the marriage of his daughter.
The duke would surely have continued his harangue if he had not been interrupted by Lord Hartforde bringing Lady Sarah over to them. “Thinking of abducting my Sarah, Hartforde?” the duke called out to Alexander’s father as the two approached.
“Lord Hartforde dances so divinely, Father, that I am just now recovering my breath.” Lady Sarah, still clinging to Lord Hartforde’s arm, glanced up at her late dance partner with shining eyes.
After Lord Hartforde greeted the duke, Alexander turned to his wife. “Perhaps, Lady Sarah, we might soon retire,” he murmured, reaching to take her hand.
“Oh, no!” she cried. “Laurence, that is, Lord Hartforde,”—she blushed at her indiscretion—“has promised he will gavotte with me!” She did not look at her husband.
“I shall never be the one to disappoint you.” Alexander spoke lightly, but his eyebrows drew together. “However, afterwards, I am afraid I shall insist.” He li
fted her hand to his lips and found himself looking into eyes that were a glacial blue.
Later that evening, Alexander was confronted with that same icy gaze as he listened to his wife tell him she could not return his slightest affection. “I love another, my lord,” she said plaintively. The expression of sadness on her delicate features lasted the entire length of time it took her to avert her head and seem fascinated by the curtains over the eastward windows.
“If you do not love me, why, then, did you consent to be my wife?” Alexander paced in front of her chair. He found it impossible to be still, and it was only by the greatest exertion of control that he kept his voice steady. Never once had it occurred to him that Sarah did not return his love. He was confounded that he had been such a blockhead as not to see it.
“Because it was what my father wanted!” She raised unhappy eyes to her husband, curling and uncurling her slim fingers as she watched him pace.
He felt a peculiar tension in the region of his chest when she averted her face from him. “Sarah—“ He stopped pacing and went down on one knee before her. Grasping one of her hands, he began to speak in an earnest tone. “The Hardwicke act was passed some 25 years ago to prevent just such marriages as this. You need not have been forced to marry against your will. I shall procure an annulment tomorrow if you are so discontent that there is not the slightest chance of your happiness.” He kissed her hand and prayed she would refuse his offer of annulment. His head was bent so he did not see her eyes open wide in horror.
“No, my lord!” At her exclamation, he again kissed the tiny hand he held. “But you must understand.” She continued in a softer voice. “I was to be the wife of a duke. ...” She pressed his hand ever so slightly.
“Perhaps, one day, you will come to love me, as I do you.” He lifted his head to look into her clear blue eyes. “After all, Sarah, it is I who am alive.”
“Oh.” The sound was a low whisper. She looked away and caught her lower lip with small white teeth. “You are cruel to remind me of my loss, my lord.”
“And you are cruel to have consented to marry me if you do not love me!” he cried. He laid his head in her lap, and she smoothed his brow with two slim fingers.
“But, I have married you,” she said. Lady Sarah was delighted that her pronouncement had achieved such wild success. He was absolutely prostrated with love for her! The possibility of having to marry a man twice her age had been enough to make her privately agree with her father that the some-day-to-be 11th marquess was a most suitable husband. Marchioness was perhaps not so good as duchess, but it would certainly do. The family was wealthy enough, and Alexander was at least a little handsome. Getting Alexander to fall in love with her had not been half as hard as she had believed it might be, and when she perceived the number of other young ladies who were disappointed at the news of their engagement, it had turned out to be twice the success. Her grief at the loss of her young duke was played to just the right pitch; he had fallen, just like all the others.
Lady Sarah touched his golden hair and fervently hoped her husband would age as gracefully as his father. Lord Hartforde was an exceptionally handsome man.
II
30 April 1775
Boston, Massachusetts
Isobel Frederica Rowland was a charming girl who had, one week ago, turned six years old. She was standing next to the fortepiano while she listened to her mother play a popular new song with a great deal of emotion but, alas, not quite the same degree of skill. When Mrs. Rowland finished playing, she rested her hands on the keys and turned to look at her daughter. Her blue eyes sparkled, as they often did when they rested on her only child.
There was no doubt the two were mother and daughter. Both had light blond hair and pale rose-tinted complexions, but where Mrs. Rowland’s blue eyes were cerulean, Isobel had her father’s expressive deep blue eyes. In temperament the two were as alike as night and day. Mrs. Rowland was by nature a light- hearted woman, and even though she’d had her share of misfortune during her five and twenty years, she never quite lost the sunny disposition that, in spite of everything, had made her husband fall in love with her. Isobel was like her father. She was prone to moodiness and had so serious an aspect one might never have suspected her of being capable of laughter. Although she was only six years old, she most emphatically had a mind of her own.
Mr. Rowland doted on Isobel, and when the girl was four he had begun to teach her to read, despite his wife’s most vehement entreaties not to. Mrs. Rowland did not care much for books, or for learning, either, and she was fond of telling her husband no good would come of trying to teach a girl so much. To Mrs. Rowland’s horror her daughter became a voracious reader. Had she not been convinced Isobel could never grasp it, she would have been aghast when her husband began to teach her Latin and Greek. He was constantly filling her head with, it seemed to her, anything and everything without regard to what it was proper for a girl to know.
Not content to sit in a distant chair when her mother was playing the fortepiano, Isobel always stood close by the instrument and stared at the keys so intently that Mrs. Rowland was tempted to believe she meant to memorize every note she heard. “So, my little Isobel,” Mrs. Rowland said in her clipped British tones. “Do you want to learn to play?” There was no mistaking Isobel’s joy at her mother’s long-awaited question. Mrs. Rowland reached down to swing her onto the bench. “Oof! You are getting too big to lift!” she gasped. “Shall I show you how to play?”
“I already know how to play, Mother,” Isobel said.
“Oh?” There was only the barest smile at the corners of her mouth. “Then you must play for me.” Just as she was about to chide Isobel gently for her boast, the girl put her hands to the keys and began to play, with uncanny accuracy, the tune she had just heard her mother play for the first time.
Chapter 1
London—1781
I
Lady Sarah grimaced when her maid pulled a little too sharply on her hair. “Mary! Have a care!” She rebuked the diminutive woman who was painstakingly attempting an elaborate coiffure.
“Forgive me, my lady.” She looked properly chastised and Sarah decided to leave it be this time, though she resolved the woman would have to be let go if she tugged on her hair like that again. “His Lordship will be pleased at you tonight, Lady Sarah.” Mary stepped back to check the tortured style milady had insisted on.
“Think you so, Mary?” she said absently as the woman patiently went back to work on the stubborn locks.
It did not occur to Sarah to care what her husband might think of her appearance. She never called him by his given name, nor did she encourage the little shows of affection he insisted on making to her, even in public. She found his attentions to her acutely embarrassing. It was not that she did not want her husband to be in love with her, on the contrary, she depended on the fact. She only wished that he were not so obvious about the depth of his feeling for her.
Sarah was so sure Alexander doted on her that when she made the astounding discovery that he had taken a mistress, her first reaction was to be angry that he could even think of going to another woman’s arms when he was so desperately in love with her. Her second reaction was to think that he must have noticed her attraction to his father after all, and the woman was just an attempt to return tit for tat. She discarded the theory on the grounds that her husband believed her incapable of infidelity and, in any event, she had had no real luck with the marquess. Sarah was puzzled, and a trifle put out, when, although Alexander continued to come to her with regularity, in all other aspects of their marriage, he began to affect a distant politeness. She complained bitterly to her father of her husband’s indifference, with the eventual effect that relations between son-in-law and father-in-law were severely tested as the duke became convinced Alexander was deliberately cruel to Lady Sarah.
Alexander’s demeanor warmed after Sarah began to make the effort to be more charming to him. It was a great relief to her, for one of her grea
test fears was that he might become so jealous that he would forbid her to go out or, even worse, send her to Hartfordeshire where she would surely die of boredom. As long as he continued to come to her bed, she was certain of his love and their marriage.
She waited while Mary put the final touches to her toilette and then went downstairs to supper with her husband.
II
“Will you go out tonight, Lady Sarah?” Alexander asked when she came into the salon where his sister, Julia, and Lord Hartforde were waiting.
She nodded to the dark-haired girl, but Julia’s greeting in return was cold. The animosity of a fourteen- year-old was of no concern to Sarah, and she merely shrugged her shoulders at the child’s rudeness. “Yes,” she answered, turning her head to glance at Alexander when she took Lord Hartforde’s arm to go into supper. She was smiling because Lord Hartforde appeared to notice she had taken especial care with her dress. It was a new Paris gown that set off her coloring to distinct advantage.
Alexander took his sister’s arm and followed his wife in to table.
As usual when they were all present, the atmosphere was strained, and Lady Sarah filled the frequent silences with chatter, though she directed it mainly at Lord Hartforde. A dessert of pudding and fruit was being cleared before there was another lull in the conversation.
“And where are you going tonight, Lady Sarah?” Julia’s question filled in the quiet.
“To the opera.” She watched the two men at the table.
“And with whom do you go?” Julia persisted.
“Well, since you are so interested, my dear, I am to go with Lady Braithewaite and one or two others.” If she had been looking at her husband she would have seen he understood quite well that she was to meet her lover. Because of her profound deafness, Lady Braithewaite was a popular companion for women bent on adventure. They were interrupted by a servant announcing her carriage was ready. “I take my leave of you then.” She stood up and was almost to the door when Alexander’s query stopped her.
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