Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance)

by Carolyn Jewel

  “Are you awake?” he questioned softly. The servants would be up soon, and if he didn’t get her into her own bed, there was going to be hell to pay. He hoped to God she wasn’t going to make a scene. He shook her again and prepared himself for the worst.

  “I’m awake,” she said, turning to face him.

  He was touched by the uncertainty he saw in her eyes and he reached between them to take her hand and bring it to his lips. He breathed a sigh of relief to see she obviously intended to follow his lead. “How’s your arm?” He suppressed the sudden tender urge he had to embrace her and tell her she was beautiful, no matter how true it was.

  “’Tis a little sore,” she said softly.

  The makeshift bandage had long ago slipped off and he was glad to see no signs of redness about the wound. Really, it was not so very deep. “You’d better get dressed,” he finally whispered, still holding her hand. “I’ve no doubt the servants expect to find you in your own bed.” He was sorry when she took her hand away and sat up to swing her feet off the bed. He spoke quietly as she gathered her clothes. “You know, of course, your father’s fondest wish is for there to be a match between us.” He looked away from the disturbing sight of her, taking refuge in his sharp words. “It so happens, I don’t care for blondes, no matter how rich they are. I only hope to God I do not have to marry you after all.”

  “Be quiet, sir, and help me! My arm’s too sore to button these damned things.”

  He sat up and looked at her. “It would be all right if you called me Alexander,” he said as he watched her struggle with her clothes. He was about to help her when she uttered an oath and stepped out of the breeches.

  “Oh, never mind!” she said in disgust. “Even if I got them buttoned, I’d probably never get them off. You’ll have to go get me a wrap. Bridget should have left one lying on my bed.”

  He sighed and got out of the bed to pull on a dressing gown of his own before walking barefoot out into the hall. He came back with the garment a few tense moments before Isobel had decided he must have been seen going into her room. After giving it to her, he sat back down on the bed.

  “Thank goodness you’re not totally useless!” she said as she put on the wrap. When he laughed she walked over to where he sat on the edge of the bed. “So, Alexander, what makes you think you might have the ill fortune to have to marry me?” She looked at him searchingly before she shook her head. “Oh. I see. You’re quite mistaken if you think I intend to force marriage on you. And anyway”—she gave a smile that looked bitter for a moment—“I should never marry a man who does not like me.”

  “I was thinking more that nature might force us.” And, although he could see she hadn’t understood him, all he could think about was how perfect her body had felt against his. Without thinking, he reached up and pulled her to him, pushing his hands inside the thin silk wrapper and holding her hips. “We were together, love, so many times last night….” His fingers were pulling gently on the triangle of hair between her legs. He was amazed he could still want her with such an aching need.

  “I only thank God I am not a brunette or a redhead—or I should be dead of it!”

  Alexander’s laugh was low. “Are you never at a loss for a retort?” He untied her wrap and pushed it open, sighing when, with a shrug of her shoulders, it dropped to the floor. He brushed his fingers over her before pulling her head to his so he could kiss her. She returned his kiss with an abandon that brought a familiar sensation to his belly. He deepened their kiss when he felt her hands on his chest sliding lower, caressing him until he could stand it no longer. He pulled her back onto the bed and let his hands explore the curve of her waist down to her buttocks before raising her up so he could enter her slickness. He held her against his chest, letting her move on him. “Perhaps I was mistaken about my preferences in women,” he hissed into her ear.

  II

  When she shut the door softly behind her, he lay back and stared up at the canopy. The bed was still warm where she had been. He was acutely aware that nothing had been done to prevent disaster, and though he knew they ought never to he together again, he still found himself thinking of a next time. His thoughts drifted to the silken perfection of her body, the deep blue of her eyes, and how he had felt to hear her calling out his name. He closed his eyes and gave in to a feeling of pleasant exhaustion. He knew he ought to marry her, but he did not want to be married again, not just yet. In a year’s time, perhaps. And if, in a year’s time, he still felt the same way about her, was there really any reason why he should not consider remarrying?

  How weak was Alexander’s resolve not to repeat their folly was demonstrated by his giving her the key to the private entrance to his rooms. He told her it would be safer for her to use his private staircase rather than the servants’ entrance, and every evening she rehearsed with Faircourt and the orchestra, he found some excuse to wait for her. One night, though, she went to a ball given by the duke of Portland that he had declined to attend. He arrived just in time to take her home. Another time, during the day, by pure chance he spotted her leaving a building near the Haymarket. He recognized her because she was wearing his old frock coat. He made his coachman stop while he leaned out the window and hailed her. “Mr. Boxham, is it not?” he called out.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Hartforde!” She made him a nice little bow.

  “My carriage is at your disposal, Mr. Boxham, if you would care to have me drop you somewhere.”

  “You are too kind, my lord.” She stepped up into the coach when Alexander signaled the footman to open the door for his friend Mr. Boxham. He immediately pulled her onto his lap and they made cramped but abandoned love while they drove back to Albermarle Street. The driver had pulled open the door not seconds after Alexander had finished buttoning Isobel’s breeches. They walked over to the Duke of Albemarle Publick House and drank enough ale to float a ship before making their exhilarated way back to number Ten. That night, Alexander came to her room.

  On the day before she was to return to her father’s house, he unexpectedly found her in one of the parlors playing a game of solitaire. Her head was bent over the cards in a study of concentration, and he had been unable to resist walking quietly up behind her and surprising her with a kiss on the slope of her shoulders. “I will go mad if you do not come to my room at once,” he growled into her ear. And so she had.

  Chapter 20

  I

  When Isobel returned to her father’s house, Alexander told himself it meant the end of an affair he hadn’t really been having anyway. He did not believe he would continue to want her if she wasn’t around so constantly. It surprised him not a little to find he was mistaken. Other women no longer satisfied him. The event always fell short of what he sought, and he was left worse off than before. When he began dreaming of Isobel and that bedazzling body of hers about a week after she had returned to Redruth, he decided it was high time he did something about it. His mistake had been in not making it perfectly clear they were not having an affair and she must not expect an offer of marriage from him unless there were any unfortunate consequences from their madness. He convinced himself it would be just as simple as all the other liaisons he had ended.

  He found her in the gardens. She smiled at him uncertainly, and he realized with a pang of remorse that she had been hurt by his silence. He sat down when she moved over to make room for him on the bench. “Good morning, Miss St. James.” He kissed her hand. Just seeing her made him want to be with her again. Surely he would forget her after a while, just as he had forgotten other women.

  “Miss St. James?” She raised her eyebrows at his serious expression and took her hand away from him.

  “Isobel, to continue our…alliance would only be irresponsible on my part.” He did not expect the scornful look she gave him. “Surely you can see we would be an ill-matched pair. You know, of course, about my late wife? Let it suffice to say the experience of marriage is one I wish never to repeat, and I cannot, in good conscience,
offer you less.” He meant to tell her that if he had got her with child, she could expect him to do right by her, but she sighed as though bored and interrupted him.

  “My lord, you are always saying unpleasant things—when I am not in your bed, that is,” she added.

  “Isobel, you deserve—”

  “I deserve better than you. I deserve not to be treated so commonly!” She stood up. “Would you be so kind as to leave me now?”

  “Isobel—”

  “My lord, I do not like you any more than you like me. Let us part on that understanding. I’ve had ample time to think in these last few days, and now I understand that night was merely an aberration, the result of my disgraceful drunkenness, of which I think you must agree you took equally disgraceful advantage. As for the rest of it, it would be best if we do not examine it too closely, lest we come to some unpleasant truths. I think we might both be thankful that it is over. Now, you will surely understand when I ask you, again, to go at once.” When she saw he intended to say something, she repeated her words. “At once, my lord.”

  “As you wish.” He stood and bowed. She was only telling him what he had meant to say himself, and he wondered why he was angry instead of relieved.

  II

  When he was gone, Isobel burst into tears. He had forgotten her existence just as soon as she left his house. Alexander cared no more for her than some common street girl. And to her undying shame, she had let him treat her like one. She told herself she would not waste another thought on a man who cared so little for her. She had given herself shamelessly to a man who had dazzled her senses. She thanked God she was no longer naive enough to hope he did care for her. Whenever her thoughts turned to him, she would force her mind elsewhere. But she could not stop her dreams. Isobel began to see Viscount Strathemoore more often, this time actively encouraging him.

  Some two weeks later, she had to send Strathemoore a regretful note declining their early morning ride in Hyde Park, as she was ill. She assumed her indisposition was in consequence of her unhappiness and expected it to pass.

  Chapter 21

  “No, my lord, you may not come inside.” Isobel put a hand to his chest to keep him at arm’s length.

  “You are breaking my heart,” Strathemoore said, one arm reaching out to circle her waist and pull her to him.

  “I’m quite convinced you haven’t a heart to be broken, Lord Strathemoore.” She laughed.

  “Are you sending me away without even a kiss to sustain me until tomorrow?” He affected a look of despair that made Isobel sigh and shake her head at him.

  “Yes.” She pushed him away, but he tightened his arm around her waist. “My lord,” she scolded, “you forget yourself!”

  There was a short silence while James pressed his lips fervently to the inside of her palm. He had kissed her once before at a masquerade ball, only to be rewarded with a stinging slap for his forwardness. It was days before she had consented to see him again. He chose not to press his luck quite so far this time. “Until tomorrow, Miss St. James,” he whispered.

  Isobel stood at the door after he had gone. He was nice and she was sure he cared for her. Only once had he crossed the bounds of propriety and tried to force himself on her. As soon as his lips met hers, she had thought of Alexander and it was enough to bring her to her senses. Why was it that Alexander’s kisses made her giddy, while James’s only made her frantic to get away? she wondered. He was nearly as handsome as Alexander, and, unlike him, James was always attentive and unfailingly polite. She was certain he meant to propose; he was beginning to drop hints to her. So far she had pretended to misunderstand him. She wasn’t sure yet she wanted, or even ought, to encourage him in that direction. She was fond of him, but she did not love him. And she felt nothing of the passion that was there with Alexander. Why couldn’t she forget the man, as he had so obviously forgotten her? She sighed and drew off her gloves and nearly ran into Alexander as she stepped into the hallway.

  He grasped her elbows. “Good afternoon, Miss St. James.” His eyes were hard as they met her startled look.

  Her knees suddenly felt weak and she was disconcerted to find she could still be so affected by him. “How nice to see you, Lord Hartforde.” She pulled away from him, hoping she sounded anything but pleased to see him. “What are you doing here?”

  He grasped her arm again. “Why are you wasting your time with Strathemoore?” He didn’t really care, he said to himself, but she was showing remarkably poor judgment.

  “The prince was busy today.” Did her skin have to tingle from his touch?

  “Strathemoore is in the process of running through a considerable fortune.” This is not jealousy, he thought, she just needs to know what kind of man Strathemoore is.

  “He is very obliging.” Why did his eyes make her want to throw herself into his arms?

  “I can assure you that that obliging profligate,” he sneered, “sees only the size of the marriage settlement he expects!”

  “Unlike yourself, Lord Hartforde, my Lord Strathemoore is always a gentleman when he is with me.” She stared pointedly at the arm he gripped so tightly. “And he has promised me he will give up gambling.” She took a step back when he released her and rubbed her arm where his fingers had left faint red marks. “And I do believe he almost means it,” she added wryly.

  Alexander only snorted in response, a little embarrassed then at his heated reaction to seeing her with Strathemoore.

  “Why are you here?” she repeated.

  “I had business with your father.” In fact, he had had a time convincing the earl they should meet at Redruth instead of at Brook’s.

  “I trust you had a pleasant conversation.” She attempted to brush by him, but he grasped her arm again. “What is it?” She gave him an exasperated look.

  “Are you always so impossible?”

  “If I didn’t know better”—she managed to sound bored—“I’d say you were jealous. Now, I suggest you let go of me before I summon the servants and have you thrown out.”

  “Jealous? Of Strathemoore? That’s ridiculous!”

  “You’ve seen my father, so why don’t you go?” Isobel jerked her arm free and walked away, leaving him, she thought, standing in the hallway. She walked haughtily away, holding back her tears until she was in the privacy of a nearby sitting room. She had just thrown herself into a chair when Alexander came in after her. “Do me the courtesy of leaving me,” she said. “I have no wish to talk to you.”

  “I don’t intend to leave just yet.” He crossed the room and stood firmly in front of her chair.

  “If you don’t go, I shall call a servant!” She jumped up and would have reached for the bell had not Alexander prevented her.

  “Isobel, we must talk.”

  “I have nothing to say to you! And after all this time, I find it hard to believe you have anything to say to me.” She looked away from him, mortified at how close she was to throwing herself into his arms.

  “Isobel.” He said her name very quietly, bending over her. She wanted to resist, but she was powerless to deny the longing his nearness was creating in her. She was never sure afterward who it was who closed the space between them. All she remembered was her arms around him and his lips covering hers in a kiss that made her cling to him all the tighter for its tenderness. For one wonderful moment, he was kissing her back. Then, suddenly, he pulled away.

  “Isobel,” he whispered, taking her hands between his. “This is not why I came.” As much as he wanted her, it was unthinkable.

  “Then, why? Why are you here?” Her eyes were shut tight against her tears, but she felt the tension in his hands, around hers.

  “I want my life to be free of entanglements. I am far too set in my ways to change now.”

  “And I am only an entanglement?” She pulled away from him.

  “You would be if I let you.” He reached out to touch her cheek. “I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you,” he whispered.

  Alexander was back at Hartf
orde House before he realized that he had not asked the one question he had set out to ask her. He sat down at his desk, waving off his secretary, who was approaching with a handful of letters. He was most certainly not jealous! The sole reason for his disquietude was that he was tired of London. “Bloody hell!” he said to no one in particular.

  Chapter 22

  I

  Julia came into the drawing room, where Isobel was sitting on an overstuffed sofa with a book lying abandoned in her lap. She walked over to her and, with a rustle of her skirts, sat down. “Dearest Isobel.” She took her friend’s hand and held it in her lap, her palm resting on top in a protective manner. “You’ve got to stop moping around like this!”

  “Good morning, Julia.” She smiled thinly. “How are you?”

  “As fine as can be!” She grinned. “And you?”

  “I’ve a terrible headache today,” she said in excuse for her gloom.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were lovesick,” Julia teased, thinking it would be a relief when she and Alexander were married, and shaking her head when Isobel faded to give even the faintest of smiles. “But you’re much too levelheaded for anything so frivolous as love!”

  “I am not in love with your brother!”

  “What a shame. You two would be such a splendid match.” Julia had always done as much as she could to encourage Isobel and her brother, though it was ever a tricky matter because he had so often accused her of trying to foist her friends off on him (she had never done any such thing) that now he was doubly shy where her efforts for Isobel were concerned.

  “Julia, what are you plotting?” Isobel didn’t like the speculative way her friend was chewing on her hp.