Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance)

by Carolyn Jewel

  “I came by to tell you that I am going to Sussex for a few days. I am in need of a respite from London. I was going to ask if you would come with me, but I can see you are not up to the trip.”

  “I think not, Julia.” She sighed and picked at her skirt with nervous fingers. “How long will you be gone?”

  “Oh, a few days.” She stood up. “Shall I give any message to Hartforde?” Her concern was rewarded with a sour look.

  “He’s at Ashdown Grey?” She hated herself for the feeling of relief that flooded over her; it was business at Ashdown Grey that explained why she had not seen Alexander in so long. Or had he gone to Sussex to avoid her? For a moment, she considered going with Julia, but she steeled herself against such weakness. She refused to humiliate herself for any man who thought of her as an entanglement.

  Julia hid a smile at this evidence of Isobel’s lovelorn condition by concentrating on adjusting a bow on her sleeve. When she glanced at her friend again, her face was impassive. “Well, I really must be going. The carriage is waiting for me.” She hugged Isobel. “What you really need to do is sit out in the air. Promise me you will?”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” She sighed when Julia kissed her cheek.

  II

  “I know why you’re in such a foul mood, Hartforde. “ Julia shook her spoon at him during dinner on the second night after her impromptu arrival at Ashdown Grey.

  “And why is that?” The smile he gave his sister did not reach his eyes.

  “Because you’ve been cooped up here too long, that’s why.” She took a small bite of her veal. “You should be in London. Lord Dunsmire is giving a masque next week, and Lady Dunsmire tells me they have hired a circus all the way from India!”

  “I can do without your concern, thank you,” he glowered.

  “Well, there are certain people in London who miss you.” She fixed him with a meaningful stare.

  “If you mean Miss St. James, I do not appreciate your misguided attempts at matchmaking,” he said sharply, giving her another scowl. He was annoyed to see her look of surprise.

  “Isobel?” She raised her eyebrows. “Why should you think I meant Isobel? I was speaking of Mrs. Vincent. I saw her at Mrs. Hughton’s at-home, and she spoke about you at great length. I should add also that Lady Donbarton is busy telling anyone who will listen that your absence from London has to do with some dark conspiracy or other.” She paused and took a sip of wine. “Though, now that you mention Isobel, we are all expecting the announcement of her engagement to Lord Strathemoore. He is so obviously in love that we shall all be quite relieved when he has finally spoken to Lord Chessingham. I’m afraid he shall be simply unbearable until her father consents to the marriage. I never thought the man would fall in love quite so hard, but he has.” Julia was pleased to see her news had its intended effect, though Alexander quickly masked the start it had given him. She changed the subject. “You know, I thought I was tired of London, but I find I am already refreshed. Perhaps I shall return tomorrow.”

  Chapter 23

  Isobel sat very still, letting the reality of how irrevocably her life was changed sink in. When Bridget had first delicately mentioned the possibility that she was with child, she had told herself it was impossible. It couldn’t happen to her when there was so much going on, so many important things she had to do. Now she gently closed the medical book that had confirmed her disaster. She wanted to shout that it was unfair, she had plans for her life, it couldn’t be true.

  She could still see the way Faircourt had strutted around the room when he told her his news. It was not long after the subscription concert and he had been full of their success. “I think,” he had said proudly, “I may say in all candor that you have arrived.”

  “What is it?” She had been smiling at him.

  “Here.” He handed her a letter.

  “From the duke of Mallentrye?” Of course she had instantly recognized the seal pressed into the blood-red wax. It broke with a satisfying crack and she had eagerly read the letter; the heavy paper had felt so solid in her hands. The duke was giving a reception for the King and he wanted to commission a lengthy piece from Mr. Ian Boxham. “Congratulations, my girl!”

  “I’ve got to get to work! I’ve got only a month!” That day she had thought herself on top of the world.

  She moved the book aside and, picking up pen and paper, began to write:

  My Lord Hartforde,

  You must believe me when I say I would not write to you unless it was necessary. However, I have the misfortune of informing you that our misalliance has had a disastrous consequence. It is likely—nay, my lord, ‘tis certain—I carry your child.

  I am—

  Isobel

  She blotted the letter and, after directing it, went to find someone to deliver it to Ashdown Grey. Whether Alexander wanted entanglements or not, he had them now. But, for the first time in her life she had no control over what was going to happen to her, and she hated it with all her heart.

  Chapter 24

  I

  Alexander was in his study, feet up on the desk, feeling very nicely, thank you, when the butler knocked and timidly opened the door. “What is it, Brosham?” he snapped.

  “A letter has arrived, your lordship.”

  “From whom?” He motioned to him to hand over the letter.

  “From Miss St. James, I believe, milord.”

  Alexander waved the letter under his nose. She hadn’t even bothered to perfume her first love letter. “Miss St. James?” He humphed. “I’ll show you what I think of her!” With that, he turned and tossed the letter into the fireplace behind him, watching as it slowly blackened and finally caught fire. “She means nothing to me!” He splashed more liquor into his glass and swallowed it in a gulp. “You may go now,” he said, not taking his eyes off the portrait of his late wife.

  The day after Isobel’s letter arrived, Alexander told the butler to close up the house and gruffly informed his valet they were leaving the next day for Hartfordeshire.

  II

  “Heavens!” Peters said quietly when he came in the next morning to help Lord Hartforde dress. He stepped to the window and pulled open the curtains, letting the early morning light fall on the chair where his lordship was still sprawled. His clothes were rumpled, his hair untied and falling down to his shoulders. Peters shook his head when he bent to pick his coat up from the door, where it had been tossed. His lordship smelled more than a little of brandy. He folded the garment over his arm and rang the bell, giving quiet instructions to the servant who appeared a few moments later. “Good morning, my lord,” Peters said when he heard a groan from the chair.

  “Good God!” Alexander sat up and covered his face with his hands. “What time is it, Peters?”

  “Half past six, sir.”

  There was another groan from the chair. “I need a bath, Peters.”

  “I’ve taken the liberty, my lord.”

  At half past nine, just over two hours into the drive to Hartfordeshire, they stopped to rest the horses. Alexander paused as he was stepping up into the carriage. “To London,” he said.

  “My lord?” the driver repeated.

  “You heard me. To London.”

  Chapter 25

  Strathemoore’s eyes widened in appreciation as Isobel came down the stairs. She was wearing a dress of ivory-colored satin with a neckline that scooped daringly low. Two rows of delicate ivory-colored lace trimmed the cuffs at the elbows, narrowing to a point at the edges. Her only jewelry was a double strand of pearls at her throat. Her hair was pulled back in an austere style, serving only to enhance the simple elegance of her gown. She blushed as he bowed, brushing his hat just inches off the floor.

  “Good evening, my lord.” Isobel held out her hand, pleased with the impression she seemed to have made on him. His lips brushed her fingers, and, when he did not immediately release her, she pulled her hand from his grasp.

  “You are a vision tonight!” he exclaimed, his eyes l
ingering on her. His fingers lightly brushed the top of her shoulder as he helped her on with her wrap. “I shall be the envy of every man alive.”

  “Really!” She laughed, tapping his chest with her fan.

  “You look ravishing.” He bent his head and quickly brushed her shoulder with his lips as he moved to her side, watching anxiously for her reaction to the liberty he had taken.

  “You are a rascal,” she said.

  When they arrived at the opera house, Strathemoore saw with pride that Isobel had the attention of every man in the place. He was sure each wished he was escorting the lovely (and someday to be rich!) Miss St. James. He knew they made an attractive pair, and he was elated that she had encouraged his attentions. Feeling inordinately happy, he took her arm and led her toward his box, taking care to go the long way around.

  “May I get you anything?” He hovered over her as she sat down.

  “No, thank you,” she said, looking around distractedly until she realized Strathemoore had said something to her. She was beginning to regret that she had agreed to come; his familiarity was making her uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. What did you say?” Why couldn’t she keep herself from thinking about Alexander, blast him?

  “I was saying I heard Mr. Boxham play at Lord Sheffield’s the other day. He was quite spectacular. I’ve heard he is something of a musical genius,” Strathemoore repeated his comment. “One of England’s few.”

  “I didn’t know you had ever heard of Ian!”

  “Do you know him?” He frowned to hear her use the name so familiarly.

  “Yes. Rather well.” She laughed at his expression of chagrin and took his hand. “Why, my lord! Dare I think you are jealous? Ian cares for nothing but his music—of that you may rest assured! Besides, he is nowhere near as handsome as you.”

  Strathemoore raised her hand to his lips. “You flatter me no end, Miss St. James, and I hope you will continue to do so for a long time to come.” He held her hand between his. “Isobel—I hope I may call you Isobel—perhaps this is not the right time, but it no longer matters to me. I can’t go on like this. Please!” To Isobel’s horror, he suddenly went down on his knee.

  “My lord, get up, everyone will see you!”

  “I don’t care. Isobel, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Chapter 26

  I

  Alexander sat alone at a table at Brook’s nursing his third drink and scowling furiously as he did so. All of London was talking about how Lord Strathemoore had proposed to Miss St. James at the opera, of all places! It was the first thing he’d heard upon his arrival at Hartforde House. Servants were a notoriously talkative bunch. With a sudden and dire need for a drink, he had headed straight for St. James’s Street.

  He refilled his glass, angered because he couldn’t make up his mind what to do; he wasn’t even sure why he had come back to London. All he knew was that he was thoroughly annoyed with Julia; he considered this whole miserable affair to be her fault. He lifted his glass and swallowed half the contents. He hoped to God Isobel had accepted Strathemoore so he could stop thinking about her. He wanted to congratulate her on her marriage to such a capital dunce and then forget her once and for all.

  “Well, good evening, Lord Hartforde!”

  He was surprised to see Strathemoore standing stiffly at his table. “Do sit down. Have a drink with me.” He motioned for a footman to bring another glass to the table.

  “How long have you been back?” Strathemoore sat down across from him and gave him a friendly smile.

  “I’ve only just arrived.” He filled the glass set down between them, then topped off his own.

  “Not playing cards?” he asked.

  “Not in the mood, I suppose.”

  “Then what brings you back to London?” He raised his glass to Alexander and took a swallow.

  “Nothing in particular.”

  “Oh.” He leaned his forearms on the table. “I’ve been losing all my money to Fistersham. It’ll be nice to lose it to someone else for a change.”

  “Why so melancholy, Strathemoore?” The image of him making love to Isobel filled his mind and he drained his glass again.

  “You know, I expect, I had reason to be glad when you left.” Alexander said nothing at this. “I thought it would give me a chance with Miss St. James. I expect you also know she was quite taken with you.”

  “Ah, yes,” he snorted. “But my sister gave me to understand some weeks ago that an announcement was expected any moment.” Alexander felt his stomach churning and told himself it was from all the drink.

  “I’m afraid not. Lord Chessingham was delighted, but she refused me.” He shook his head ruefully.

  “Well, perhaps she merely expected you to ask her again,” Alexander suggested, attributing his sudden elation to all the drink on an empty stomach.

  “She refused me in no uncertain terms. Had me thrown out the second time. Really quite hysterical. Would never have asked if I’d known she’d be so upset at it.” He pushed his glass in a little circle on the tabletop. “I should have expected it; she never looked at me the way she did you. Anyway, I’ve gone and gotten myself engaged to Miss Parkston now; she’s got a few thousands.” He emptied his glass and held it out to be refilled. “She’s a damned fine woman, Hartforde.” They both knew he meant Isobel. “And you’re a fool if you can’t see that.”

  II

  “Why so quiet, Miss St. James?” Lady Donbarton demanded. “’Tis unusual you are so silent.” Lady Donbarton was a staid woman of forty who refused to admit she had long ago lost her looks. She was wearing a far too youthful gown of yellow velvet that only served to make her complexion sallow. She had on such a thick layer of powder her wrinkles looked etched in stone. It was an interesting fact that Lord Donbarton was notorious for the extreme youth he sought in his mistresses.

  “I was attending to the conversation, Lady Donbarton.” Isobel smiled at her while thinking to herself she was a bilious old busybody who ought to be more careful of what she ate if she didn’t want to come dangerously close to resembling a certain sea fish.

  “Do you know”—she lowered her voice because Julia was sitting just a few seats away—“I have heard that Lord Hartforde is the author of those notorious pamphlets and that the King will exile him if only it can be proved true.”

  “Since it will never be proved, I see no reason to speculate on the matter, Lady Donbarton.”

  Lady Donbarton snorted at this obviously prejudiced retort. “And I’ve heard there is proof,” she said, with a vicious look. “Everyone, even Donbarton, agrees Lord Hartforde’s absence from London is highly suspicious.”

  Isobel was sorry indeed that she had let Julia persuade her to attend this afternoon tea. Just hearing that silly woman mention Alexander’s name brought back her nagging fear that he was not going to come for her. It was getting harder and harder not to give in to her panic at his long silence. She closed her eyes; he was going to come. She could hear the sound of voices, punctuated by frequent laughter. He had to come. Someone was playing the fortepiano, and very badly at that. She concentrated on the music. It was Bach, but played with little feeling for tempo or delicacy. When she opened her eyes again, Lady Donbarton had turned her attention to someone else. She tried to find Julia, but she had changed her seat. At last she saw her, sitting on a couch on the far side of the room talking earnestly with another woman. From where she was sitting, Isobel could see Julia’s face suddenly brighten. Though she could not hear her, she saw her say the single word “Hartforde.”

  She could see his eyes sweeping the room, but still she did not move. She was paralyzed by the fear that he wasn’t really looking for her. Someone was still playing the fortepiano; she could still hear people talking and laughing. It seemed so incongruous when her whole life was hanging in the balance. When he finally saw her she could not move or breathe or look away; she could only wait for him to reach her side.

  “Isobel,” he whispered.

&
nbsp; “To Arlington Street,” Alexander instructed his driver. He handed her up into the carriage himself, then quickly climbed in after her.

  She looked up at him, and he reached out and ran a finger along the line of her jaw. Even that brief contact made her shiver. He bent forward and gathered her into his arms. She leaned toward him. “I was beginning to think you were never coming,” she whispered.

  “I’m not that big a fool,” he said.

  The carriage came to a stop and Alexander held her hand while they got out. They were met at the door by a servant who quickly hurried to take their things. “Bring a bottle of champagne to the drawing room. Then you may go,” he added softly as the man took his coat and held out a hand for Isobel’s wrap.

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Isobel stood examining a large globe of the world until the champagne arrived. “That will be all,” Alexander said when a servant opened the bottle and set it down in a bucket of ice.

  Alexander filled two glasses and handed one to Isobel, who was slowly turning the globe. He raised his glass and his green eyes held hers as they sipped.

  She sat down on a sofa and Alexander joined her there. She drained her glass and held out the delicate crystal for him to refill. She stared into the glass, seemingly fascinated with the rising bubbles. “I love you,” she said quickly, turning to watch his painfully beautiful face as her finger traced a line from his knee up to the top of his thigh, then down the inside of his lean, muscled leg.

  “I know you do,” he said. She heard his sharp intake of breath when she lightly ran a finger down the front of his breeches. He caught her hand in one of his and brought it to his lips.

  “I was afraid you were going to marry Strathemoore”—he looked up at the ceiling for a moment—“and I had to stop you.”

  “No,” she said, “I would never have done that.” She looked up into his eyes, which darkened when she freed her hand, and again traced a line up his thigh.