Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance)

by Carolyn Jewel

  One afternoon he came into the drawing room, where she and Julia were busy choosing a pattern for Julia’s gown. He apologized for interrupting them but said the engraver had sent over several samples of invitations and he was taking the opportunity to show them to his sister. Julia looked through the samples and declared she had seen a design in a magazine somewhere that she wished to compare to them.

  “’Tis in my room.” When Isobel got up to follow her, she said, “Stay with Hartforde, Isobel, I shall only be a minute.”

  She sat back down, confused because she did not know where to look or what mood to expect of him.

  “Is there something the matter, Miss St. James? You seem all afluster.”

  “There is nothing the matter, sir.” She raised her eyes to his and was immediately incensed at his smug look. She picked up one of the pattern dolls and devoted herself to its examination.

  “Are you always so ill at ease with a gentleman?” he asked.

  “I am never ill at ease with a gentleman, sir!” She put down the doll and stood up. “What could be taking Julia so long?”

  “She hasn’t been gone so very long.”

  “Indeed, she has!” There were a few moments of silence, while Isobel paced around the room.

  “Have you named your dog?” he asked finally.

  Isobel immediately flushed scarlet. He looked as though he had no recollection of what she could not forget. Every moment of that afternoon was burned into her memory. “Oh, yes,” she replied when she was sure her blush had faded and she could face him again. “I named him almost immediately.”

  “Pray tell, what was your choice?”

  “Why, my lord, I had you for my inspiration, so the choice was easy. I named him Beast.” At that moment Julia came back into the room and Isobel was spared his response.

  A week or two afterward, Isobel was surprised to receive from Alexander a letter and a small packet. Being too well bred to send any missive to her via the post, he had sent a servant to Redruth to give them to her directly. The servant thrust the letter and packet into her hands and, saying only that his lordship did not require him to wait for an answer, left before she could refuse to accept such an impertinent delivery. She knew she ought to send back the package and letter, but she found she could not. There was only one possible reason he would risk such a breach of propriety. He was hopelessly in love with her and the letter was a declaration of the condition of his heart. The packet had to be some token of his love—a lock of hair, perhaps. She opened the letter with trembling hands. The letter read:

  My dear Miss St. James,

  Enclosed you will please find the articles I promised to return to your possession. I would also enclose a bank draft in satisfaction of our wager, but a notice from a certain jeweler’s was received here t’other day which appears to make that unnecessary.

  The items returned were in residence in one of my riding jackets, and I do confess to you I had forgotten them until they were recently discovered by my valet, who is now convinced, no doubt along with yourself, I am an adventurer of the first degree. I have left him to this belief in consequence of my unwillingness to apprise him of the innocent manner in which I came by them, as I am certain the telling of it would not sound so innocent by half as it was in whole.

  I beg your gracious indulgence to allow me to inform you that I personally supervised the laundering of the silken items herein. I assure you, you may wear them again without further ado on your part. I remain ever your humble, obedient, and, of course, beastly servant.

  Hartforde

  The day after she received his packet she had the misfortune of seeing the letter’s author, and when he greeted her his eyes were sparkling with mischief. She summoned all her dignity and, taking her hand from his, said, “You have never been humble a day in your life, my lord, and I should never allow you to be my servant, even were I in need of another one. As for being beastly, the appellation must surely have applied long before ever I gave it to you. And furthermore, I would have you know, I threw them directly into the fire!”

  Julia looked at the two of them and wondered why her brother looked as though he could barely restrain himself from bursting into laughter and why Isobel was turning a particular shade of scarlet. “Shall we go, Isobel?” she said, half afraid the young woman might do her brother some harm.

  “Yes.”

  II

  It was so obvious Julia was in love with Lord Burke and Lord Burke loved her back that Isobel could not help but feel a little envious. Whenever Julia talked about Charles, a dreamy expression came over her, and Isobel wondered what would it be like to be in love with someone who loved her back.

  They were both determined Julia’s engagement ball would be the event of the season. The two spent hours planning every detail. Julia rebuked her brother every time he complained of yet another expense.

  “I shall only be engaged once!” she would say. “To think you would begrudge your only sister such a little thing!” Alexander would grumble good-naturedly and accuse her of plotting to ruin him, but he would always relent.

  Isobel spent the day of the ball with Julia fretting over last-minute arrangements. The musicians arrived late in the afternoon after Julia had spent the previous hour agonizing over whether they would arrive at all.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Would you stop all this worrying?” Isobel laughed after her friend consulted with her butler for the third time about the correct quantity of wine. “Everything is going to be just fine. I’m sure your brother has seen to it there will be food and drink enough; he’d not dare do otherwise! He knows you’d never forgive him if everything isn’t just so.

  “I only want this to be perfect!”

  “I dread your wedding if this is the way you act at something as simple as your engagement.”

  At Julia’s request, Isobel stayed with her while she dressed, but at last she warned Julia that unless she were to go, she would still be wearing her muslin day dress when the guests arrived.

  “Send someone to get your gown so you may change here,” she suggested. “Won’t you please stay?”

  “Oh, all right!” Isobel shook her head. A maid was sent to fetch her gown, and Julia penned a quick note begging the earl’s forgiveness for keeping Isobel with her. Bridget arrived with the gown and a short reply from the earl, stating that he expected to dance with Julia in return for allowing his daughter to stay.

  III

  Isobel did not finish dressing until nearly eleven o’clock. As she walked down the hall she could hear music from the ballroom rising above the hum of conversation. She paused at the door, debating whether it was proper to go in unaccompanied. Several men immediately approached her and she frowned to see Lord Strathemoore was not among them. She had especially commissioned Julia to see that he was standing by so she might not walk in alone.

  “Miss St. James, at last!” Lord Hartforde made his way to her side. “I was beginning to despair of your ever coming down. Gentlemen, my lords, I have the honor of escorting Miss St. James tonight.” He took the hand she had not extended to him. “Don’t be childish, Miss St. James,” he whispered.

  “I am not being childish!” she snapped, wondering how it was that just the sight of him had sent her heart pounding. Was she such a fool that she could forget for even a moment that she meant nothing to him? His light touch on her was warm, and she could not help remembering how those hands had touched her once before.

  Alexander covered her hand with his and led her away from the crowd of disappointed men. Though he might try to make her think he was unaffected, he could not pretend to himself. Her wine-colored gown made her skin look as smooth as alabaster, only he could not help thinking that he knew very well her skin would be warm under his fingers. The burgundy silk swooping down from her shoulders to tuck into the V of her bodice barely covered what would have otherwise been an immodest amount of bosom. He had a sudden and forceful recollection of the way she had melted against him that da
y at Ashdown Grey. There was at least one difference between her and Sarah; his wife had never responded to him as passionately as Isobel had done. He smiled to himself; she had positively glowed when she caught sight of him coming toward her. She ought not to be so transparent. “I trust you remembered to put on your shoes,” he said quietly as he led her across the room.

  Isobel laughed, her smile lighting her face. She wished he were always so pleasant toward her. “Why? Do you think I should have worn them?” she teased, feeling a happiness out of all proportion to the occasion.

  He drew in a sharp breath when he saw her smile. As they crossed the room, he bent and whispered into her ear, “You are breathtaking tonight, Miss St. James.”

  Isobel looked at him and realized just how badly she wanted his words to be true.

  IV

  “Who in heaven’s name is that?” a tall, slender man dressed in gray and blue satin asked Julia. He had watched his former son-in-law offer his arm to a woman he had never seen before. She was quite pretty, he thought to himself, until she laughed at something Hartforde said. No, she was ravishing! The two looked besotted with each other.

  Julia followed his glance. “She is Miss Isobel St. James, the earl of Chessingham’s daughter.”

  “Ah! Unfortunately, I was out of the country when she arrived in London. I understand she has been quite a success.” He stared at the two as they approached and tried to remember what else he had heard about her.

  “Miss St. James,” Alexander said when they reached Julia and the duke, “may I present you to His Grace, the duke of Mallentrye.”

  The duke bowed over her hand after Hartforde introduced her. His lips brushed the back of her hand and lingered there just a moment too long when she straightened up from her curtsy. He remembered hearing she was the by-blow of some affair of Chessingham’s; the man had been quite notorious in his younger days. “’Tis a pleasure, indeed, to meet you, Miss St. James.” He continued to hold her hand and was rewarded with a rosy blush. “It would be an honor to spend a day with you, miss,” he said. “And may I be so bold as to tell you I have never seen a woman of such rare beauty as yourself?”

  “It appears you may be, Your Grace,” she answered.

  “Are you an American, Miss St. James?” He reluctantly released her hand.

  “I grew up in Boston and New York, Your Grace.” She fingered her bracelet with long fingers, not meeting his pointed stare.

  “America’s loss is England’s gain,” he said with a gallant bow. The duke smiled coldly as Isobel was quickly surrounded by men who wanted to dance with her. His eyes never left her face unless it was to dip downward to the flesh pushing so enticingly against the neckline of her gown. She danced once with Hartforde, and in watching them the duke suddenly recalled someone’s remark that this enchanting young woman had bought an expensive necklace and then sent the bill on to Hartforde. An interesting piece of information, if it was true. How amusing that Hartforde was so smitten with her! Would it have been so hard to have been even half as attentive to his wife? When Hartforde and the young woman finished their dance, the duke made his way to where they were standing with Julia and Lord Burke.

  “Do you know, Miss St. James,” he said, taking her hand when there was a pause in the conversation, “something about you reminds me of my daughter.”

  “Why, thank you, Your Grace.”

  “Sarah’s eyes were pale, but her hair was as golden as your own. I’m surprised if Hartforde hasn’t mentioned it himself.”

  “He means, Miss St. James, the late Lady Hartforde. I must beg to differ with His Grace. There is no resemblance that I can see,” Alexander said stiffly.

  “Well”—Lord Burke filled the uncomfortable silence—“there can be no disagreement that Miss St. James is a beauty.”

  “There is no disagreement about that,” the duke said, “and I, for one, would be honored if she would dance with me.”

  Isobel took the duke’s hand without looking at Alexander. “The honor is mine, Your Grace.”

  “Perhaps you would care to rest outside?” the duke suggested after only a few moments. “It is rather warm, and no doubt some cool air would be refreshing.”

  “Yes, Your Grace, it would be.” She was grateful he had noticed her agitation and she fanned herself as they stepped out into the garden. He led her to a stone bench and sat down beside her.

  “Will you think me rash if I say I have been completely overcome by your beauty?” His voice was hushed.

  Isobel looked at him in surprise and stopped fanning herself. “I would think you rather silly for saying such a thing, Your Grace.”

  “But, ‘tis true, I have, Miss St. James. You are the loveliest creature I have ever seen.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “You are sublime beyond belief.”

  Isobel tried to pull her hand away, but he held it fast. “Your Grace, you will embarrass me if you continue this,” she said, becoming alarmed when he turned her hand over and pressed his lips first to her palm and then to the inside of her wrist. “Stop this immediately!” Apparently it had been a dreadful mistake to come outside with him, but it had never entered her mind he would suddenly act half his age.

  “Don’t be cruel, my love. I insist I am carried away by your beauty.” He moved closer to her and wrapped an arm around her waist.

  “You had better unhand me. I shall call out if you don’t!” In answer, he laughed and bent his head to kiss her temptingly bare shoulder. “Let go of me this instant!” She tried to push him away.

  He raised his head to look at her, his dark eyes devouring the pale expanse of skin above the décolletage of her gown. “Surely you realize how much more I have to offer you than he.” His hand caressed her throat. “I am a much wealthier man.” The words, calculated to offend, did exactly that.

  “So much more to offer me than whom? What are you talking about?”

  “You needn’t play the innocent with me, my dear. All of London is talking about you and your lover. Had I but known what a beauty you were, I should have arranged to meet you much sooner.” His arm around her waist tightened as she struggled to get away. “You are exciting me beyond my imagination—”

  “Let me go!” Isobel was horrified. Surely he couldn’t mean what he was saying?

  “Hartforde may be better-looking, my dear, but I assure you I would be more generous. If it’s jewels you like, I would shower you with them. If you were my mistress, my fortune would be at your feet.”

  Isobel was so scandalized when the duke’s words sank in that she stopped struggling. “Hartforde?” That swine! she raged to herself. While he had been pretending to not care, he had been telling all of London about her loose behavior. She sagged against the bench, devastated to discover that Hartforde had such a low opinion of her.

  “That’s much better,” the duke crooned, bending his head to kiss her, while one hand pulled at the bodice of her gown.

  When she felt his fingers on her, she struggled to stand up. “Let me go!” she cried, twisting her head away from his lips, and pushing at his chest. To her relief, suddenly he did let her go. She jumped up from the bench so distraught she did not notice he was staring past her. “I assure you, you have made a grave mistake, Your Grace. I am not, nor have I ever been, Lord Hartforde’s mistress, and for you to suggest such a thing is…is…why, it’s simply appalling!”

  The duke stood up and bowed to someone standing behind her. Isobel whirled around and saw Alexander. There was an amused expression on his handsome face.

  “Perhaps you’d best leave, Your Grace. I don’t believe Miss St. James desires your company after all.” He spoke softly, moving aside to let him pass. When the duke was gone, he gave Isobel an offended look. “My mistress?” he repeated in an incredulous tone. “Would you care to explain what that little scene was all about?”

  She sat down on the bench again, feeling nothing but relief now that the duke had left. “I should think you ought to know,” she said at last.
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  “I’m afraid I am at a loss.” He shrugged.

  “You’re the one who’s been telling everyone that I, that you—that we—” She was too ashamed to continue. She blinked rapidly to hold back her tears.

  “What are you babbling on about?” When she glared at him, he raised his eyebrows. “Oh, that!”

  “A gentleman would have kept quiet. But, then, I should have known you are no gentleman.”

  “Miss St. James, I assure you, I have not told a soul about that little…peccadillo, shall we say?”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t! Perhaps you’d care to tell me why His Grace seems to think I am your mistress?” She bit her lip, embarrassed at the implications of what she had just said.

  “What a ludicrous idea. Perhaps he meant only to flatter you, and you misunderstood.”

  “If the duke was flattering anybody, it was you!” she snapped. “And I don’t believe I mistook his meaning. Of course, what’s important is that he insulted you. Why, he told me you’re stingy with your lovers.” How dare he suggest she was making up the man’s vile proposition! Her cheeks were still burning, only now it was due to anger.