Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance)

by Carolyn Jewel

  “Be careful, Isobel, you might make me lose control,” he said, smiling when he felt her fingering the row of buttons at the right of his hip.

  “Could I do that, my Lord Hartforde?” She struggled with the last button and worked a small hand inside the flap of material.

  “You might.” He took a deep breath as she leaned closer, his eyes lowering to the alabaster skin above the neckline of her gown, then going back up to the blue depths of her eyes.

  “Isn’t that why you brought me here?” Her voice was husky. “To make you lose control?” She had succeeded in unfastening the buttons at the other side of his hip, and after that she did not need him to answer.

  He held her head, groaning when he felt her tongue on him. She seemed to know just when and how to touch him, to tighten her lips around him, to surround him until he was moaning for his release, and when it came it was like nothing he could remember. His arms snaked out to pull her onto his lap, and he took her mouth in a hungry kiss while his fingers loosened her hair, until it tumbled in pale golden curls down her back. Twining his fingers in the silky mass, he stroked her cheek and throat with his other hand. “You bewitch me,” he whispered into her ear. He felt her tremble when he began to kiss the swell of her breasts. He wanted nothing more than to make her cry out for him, to make her hunger for him as he hungered for her, to feel her quiver under his touch. His arm circled her waist, while with the other he reached to remove her slippers. He heard them hit the carpet with two muffled thuds. The flickering in his belly started to build and spread outward as his hand moved under her skirts to slide along her slender legs and pull away her stockings; the delicate silk fell to the floor with barely a whisper. She gasped when his fingers spread over her naked flesh. “I want you, damn you!” he hissed as he swept her up in his arms and covered her lips in a bruising kiss. “You and no other,” he whispered. He fumbled to fasten at least one of the buttons of his breeches before he gathered her into his arms and carried her into a small bedroom where he set her down on her feet, slowly sliding her down against him. He turned her around and began rapidly undoing the hooks of her gown. There was a swish when he pushed the silk off her shoulders and watched it fall to the floor. Her petticoats and corset followed, until he could hold her against him to stroke the curves of the body that had been so often in his thoughts. He stood still when she turned in his arms and began to unbutton his waistcoat. His clothes quickly joined hers on the floor.

  “I want you now, Alexander.” He heard her hoarse whisper as he pushed her back onto the mattress and began to explore the curves of her body. He crooned her name as he slowly slid into her. He lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes burning as she caressed the muscled ridges of his back, down to the narrow hips that pressed against her. She cried out when she felt him moving inside her. He touched her, stroked her, moved in her, watched her eyes, her face, and listened for the moans that told him his touch aroused her. He was aroused when she was aroused, and when he felt her increasing reaction, he felt it as though it were his own. He wanted to possess her completely, utterly, so she could love no other. Shudders of exhilaration swept through him when he felt her tightening around him and he began moving his hips with hers, letting her guide them until he had to give in to the demands of his own body, that was her body, that was the two of them. A fierce feeling of possessiveness took over him when he held her head in his hands and looked at her and saw how his passion was mirrored in her eyes. That she was so aroused by him was more important than that she aroused him more than any other woman with whom he had ever been.

  “Isobel, my own,” he heard himself saying over and over, until he was senseless to everything but her wet, slick body scorching him as she took him with her to a soaring ecstasy that caught them both up in a dizzying, whirling climax that at the end left them clinging to each other.

  “In a year”—he reached to stroke her hair—“we can marry in a year,” he said.

  “In a year?”

  “I’m sure your father would not mind a long engagement.” He sat up and swung his feet to the floor.

  “But, Alexander!” Isobel sat up, too, and watched the muscles of his smooth back flex and relax as he sat on the edge of the bed and groped for his breeches. “We can’t wait that long!”

  “Why in God’s name not?” He threw his breeches back on the floor and twisted to face her.

  “I thought my letter made that perfectly clear.”

  “Ah, yes. Your letter.”

  She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You did get my letter, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.” He paused guiltily. “But I’m afraid I never read it.”

  “And still you came after me?” she asked in a wondering voice. The ribbon holding back his hair was askew and she reached up to pull it out tenderly. She leaned forward to press her lips to his and bury her fingers in his sandy hair. “Alexander, we can’t wait to marry because I’m carrying your child.”

  Their eyes met, and for a long moment Isobel wasn’t sure what he thought. Then he gathered her into his arms and just held her, and for the first time in weeks everything was right in her world.

  Chapter 27

  I

  Alexander could have wished his meeting with Lord Chessingham had been even half so easy as procuring the special license. He had thought to marry in London; the earl had given his consent to the union—there had been no choice in the matter—but he was vehement in insisting that the marriage take place away from London. “You might,” the earl had said sternly, “at least oblige me by going about this discreetly. Surely you can keep her out of London until after the child is born.”

  Their respective solicitors met and in only two days a satisfactory contract was drawn up. In addition to some properties in Norfolk, the earl settled on Isobel the astounding sum of one hundred thousand pounds. It gave hope that there might be an eventual reconciliation. It was such a fantastic sum that Alexander could only believe Chessingham had not quite hardened his heart against his daughter. It was unusual for the groom’s solicitor to be advocating on behalf of the bride, but Lord Chessingham had evidently instructed his attorney to agree to whatever might be proposed regarding the disposition of the money. As it turned out, Alexander saw to it that the entire hundred thousand was set aside for Isobel, with five hundred a month pin money.

  When Alexander told Julia he was to marry Isobel, she made no comment except to congratulate him on finally showing some good sense, and to insist upon attending the wedding. However, she questioned Isobel at great length, and when she had finished scolding her for not confiding in her, she ended by exclaiming, “He should have married you immediately!”

  “Julia,” Isobel said, “if I have learned anything about your brother, it’s that he was very much in love with his first wife and she hurt him terribly.” They were sitting in the gardens behind Redruth, and Isobel, looking a little drawn, smiled at Julia. “Though he’d never admit it, ever since then he’s been afraid of loving someone that much a second time. I think maybe he does love me that much, and I think it frightened him. I only pray that I never do anything to hurt him.”

  “You won’t, I know it, Isobel, because you love him and Sarah never did.”

  “I just wish this was all over! Father won’t talk to me, and if you hadn’t come to see me, I’m sure I would have spent this entire day without speaking to a single person.”

  Julia hugged Isobel. “Don’t you worry. You’re going to be happy for the rest of your life.”

  Alexander and Isobel did not see each other until the arrangements were completed and the marriage contracts could be signed. He felt a pang when he saw how pale she was. She did not look well; there were dark circles under her eyes, and when he sat down next to her she clutched his hand tightly.

  “Father won’t even talk to me,” she said plaintively when they were finally alone. “He said that I’ve disgraced him.”

  “Give him time,” he told her. “He’ll feel
differently when you come back after having the baby.” He kissed the top of her head. “We’re to be married day after tomorrow at Ashdown Grey. We’ll stay there until after your lying in.” He continued even though she was sitting up straight, dark eyes wide. “It’s close enough that Julia can visit, so it’s not as though you won’t have company.”

  “Alexander, I can’t stay at Ashdown Grey, not yet!”

  He saw by the look on her face they were in for an argument, and, to forestall it, he sighed and said, “Why not, Isobel?”

  “Because in two weeks I am engaged to conduct a specially commissioned piece for the duke of Mallentrye.”

  “Mallentrye?” he asked with a scowl.

  “Alexander, listen to me, the King is going to be there. It’s the most important performance of my life and I refuse to miss it—I can’t miss it. I’ve been working so hard! Don’t you even think of preventing me, Alexander!” she cried when she saw him shake his head.

  “I was only going to say that I shall have to send my acceptance after all.”

  “Afterward, Alexander, 1 will stay anywhere you like.”

  “You are an impossible woman.”

  It took nearly the entire day to reach Ashdown Grey, though it included a lengthy stop to rest the horses and have a meal at the town of Wadhurst. The sky was just beginning to darken when they reached the outskirts of Ashdown Forest, and by the time they were at the front gates the chestnut trees were long shadows on the drive.

  Alexander firmly held Isobel’s elbow as he escorted her inside. They paused in the entrance hall just long enough for a footman to appear with a candle to light their way. The butler stood in the hall until long after Lord Hartforde had disappeared up the stairs, a smile on his thin lips. More than once during his lordship’s last stay at Ashdown Grey, he had been sorely tempted to give notice, and he would have, if he had not been sure he would eventually come to his senses and marry the girl.

  Isobel and Julia sat up most of the night talking. When Julia finally got up to go to her own room, she hugged Isobel. “I know you’re going to be happy,” she said.

  “I know we will, too.”

  II

  The witnesses to their marriage were the mayor of the nearby village of Horsham and a local squire, one Horace Falls, who, unlike the mayor, had the tact and presence of mind not to make any comments about hurried weddings. Neither the mayor’s snickering nor the Reverend Paxton’s stern and disapproving look could mar the happiness of the day. Isobel did not care what anyone thought. She was marrying the man she loved more than anything in the world.

  Isobel rested her head on Alexander’s chest when they were finally alone in his room at Ashdown Grey.

  “Well, Lady Hartforde,” he said, bending his head to kiss her cheek, “I’m sorry this has been such a strain on you.” He looked into her eyes and was lost in their dark depths. “I can’t believe I’ve been such a fool about you,” he whispered. The moment his lips touched hers, he felt a familiar spark of desire center itself in him and begin to spread slowly outward. He pulled her closer to him and began, cautiously, to explore the depths of the passion that seemed always to be there to bind him to her. It felt so right to have her in his arms again. It was a heady feeling he was at a loss to explain or understand. She was there, with him, and now he could touch her as he had been longing to since…since the last time they had lain together. He picked her up to carry her to the bed, and then when he was next to her, he kissed her again. He wanted to kiss her just to see if he would ever tire of it. He kept thinking to himself, We are married! The words shocked him, but it was a shock that made him drunk with her and with a passionate joy that made him softly croon her name when he reached to touch her. He pulled her upright as his mouth slid down her throat, his fingers feverishly working at the fastenings of her dress. He whispered her name, his longing for her, and of how he wanted to touch her.

  Just as feverishly, she was unbuttoning his clothes, pausing to pull his shirt off so she could slide her hands down the ridges of his belly. He pushed her dress off her shoulders and down to the floor, never taking his eyes from hers as he removed the rest of her clothes. When she was naked before him, he pulled her to him, running his hands down the smooth length of her. “You are beautiful,” he said in a hushed voice. He sucked in his breath when he felt her hand on his breeches.

  “I want you,” she whispered. “I want you forever.”

  “And I you.” He had never meant anything more in his life. There was no reason to hurry, no reason to check that he had locked the doors, no reason to hold back or muffle his cries for fear of being overheard. He had all the right in the world to make love to his wife.

  Much later, Alexander sat propped up on the pillows watching Isobel sleep. He moved uncomfortably and shifted so her head lay on his thighs. She sighed and settled her head in his lap, one small hand warming his leg through the sheets. He stroked her cheek as she slept. How must she have felt when there was no answer to her letter? he wondered. As he looked at her, he wondered what it was about marriage that had so frightened him. Isobel could never be held up as an example of a proper young lady; her single-mindedness about her music was impediment enough to that. It was a shame, he thought, she was not a man, because her music was as good, better even, than any he had ever heard. He could easily admit he preferred an intelligent woman to a stupid one, but Isobel’s intelligence was most masculine in its perspicacity, though—Lord!—he enjoyed their conversations. She had a sparkling wit, but an unfortunate willfulness. But, then, she had not had a conventional upbringing. She’d told him enough about America for him to know Jonathon Rowland had loved her dearly, and the Samuelses had made her life a hell. It was hardly surprising that someone with such an extraordinary upbringing should turn out to be such an extraordinary young woman. He only knew he did not want her to go back to London; he did not want her anywhere near the duke of Mallentrye.

  III

  They spent only two more days at Ashdown Grey before returning to London and Hartforde House, where, to avoid gossip, it was given out that Isobel was visiting with Julia. Very little time remained for Isobel to work on her composition for the duke, and though she threw herself into her work with a frenzy, she and Alexander seemed to grow even closer. He attended one of the rehearsals, much to the surprise of Faircourt, who, when he saw Alexander come in and quietly seat himself, whispered to Isobel, “Be on your best behavior, and you may have yet another patron!”

  “What do you mean?” she asked quickly, frowning at his interruption.

  “I mean, the marquess of Hartforde is sitting not twenty feet away at this very moment!”

  “Good afternoon, my lord,” Faircourt said after he had left Isobel to approach Alexander. “It is an honor indeed to have you here. Mr. Boxham has asked me to express his deep gratitude for your kindness in coming.”

  “I have been following Mr. Boxham’s career with great interest.”

  “You display an excellent ear for music, my lord.”

  “I should like very much to meet Mr. Boxham. Do you think it possible?”

  “Of course!”

  “I look forward to it. And now, I should like to hear the music.” It was unsettling to watch Isobel; this was a side of her he had never seen before. Several times he heard her exasperated voice rising above the music. At last she stopped the orchestra and strode over to the fortepiano.

  “Like this!” She played several bars. “Slow, then slower, but, for God’s sake, it’s not a funeral march!”

  When she finally put down the baton, Faircourt bustled up to her and, putting a hand on her shoulder, said, “Lord Hartforde wants very much to meet you. Be on your best behavior!” He waved a finger under her nose as he repeated the admonition.

  “Really,” she whispered to Alexander after Faircourt had made the introductions, “we ought to tell him.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Alexander said. “Here is my card. You may call on me whenever y
ou like. Perhaps”—he glanced at Faircourt—“I shall commission a piece from you myself, Mr. Boxham.”

  “Perhaps several?” Isobel said, pretending not to see Faircourt’s horror at her boldness.

  “Yes, I think several would be in order.”

  “Well,” Faircourt said to Alexander, “it seems Mr. Boxham is going to be very busy. The duke of Mallentrye has also expressed interest in commissioning more work from him. He was here just yesterday and he was pleased, quite pleased, with what he heard.”

  “No doubt he was,” Alexander said sourly.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Mallentrye was there yesterday?” Alexander demanded later that evening.

  “Because I didn’t think it was important,” Isobel said.

  “I don’t want you to have anything to do with that man.”

  “I can’t help it, Alexander. After all, he commissioned the piece. It’s no surprise that he came to a rehearsal.”

  “I don’t like it, Isobel,” he snapped. “Does he know who you are?”

  “Of course not.”

  “How many times has he come?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t really pay attention.”

  Alexander’s bad humor ended as quickly as it started. “I’m sorry,” he said. He pulled her to him. “I’ll be glad when this thing is over and we can leave London.”

  Chapter 28

  Isobel arrived at the duke’s shortly before the guests began arriving. It was not until she had spent about half an hour making sure the musicians were ready that she began to feel nervous. She paced the music hall until she heard a commotion that could only mean the King had arrived.

  Faircourt nudged her. “Surely there is no harm done if you go take a look.”