A Secret Passion

by Sophia Nash

  The two gentlemen refrained from contributing to this portion of the conversation. Rolfe meditated on the delectable Mrs. Lovering. The severity of her black gown emphasized her delicate neck and the slenderness of her frame. His hands gripped the arms of the chair as he remembered the feel of her small waist. When she looked up at him, her creamy complexion showed the hint of a blush on her high cheekbones. Ah, and those divine aquamarine eyes of hers—so remote when she was ill at ease.

  It soon became apparent that his grandmother had quite taken to heart the fine weather and proposed taking advantage of the folly of a picnic on the bluffs overlooking the sea that same day. Rolfe arranged the plan with alacrity, and now the two younger ladies were the ones found lacking a topic of conversation. A plan was therefore fixed with several modifications. Lady Graystock was to be attended in her carriage by Miss Fairchild and the good Reverend and Mrs. Gurcher. The two gentlemen and Mrs. Lovering were to ride. The dowager countess suggested the servants at Hesperides would prepare a large picnic. Finally, with varying degrees of reluctance, all parties agreed to meet at the Hall. The much-anticipated cakes were consumed and the party, blessedly, was at an end.

  “Quite uncommonly good-looking chits, I say,” stated the grandmother during the return carriage ride to Hesperides.

  Rolfe sighed. “Grandmamma, Miss Fairchild cannot be called a chit by any means. She cannot be younger than one and thirty.”

  “Actually, she is four and thirty, to be exact. Her niece must be at least a decade younger,” said Gooding before pausing to look at Rolfe. “I’m surprised you did not recognize Jane Lovering. She was engaged to dear Mr. Billingsley less than a fortnight ago.” Gooding paused and then continued, “She was at some of the ton’s squeezes this spring.”

  Grandmamma laughed. “How could he see the girl or anyone else, for that matter, if he don’t go to the squeezes?”

  “She was married to Cuthguard Lovering for two years before he died,” offered Gooding as an afterthought.

  Grandmamma sat upright. “Cutty Lovering? For goodness’ sake, he was quite ancient. He had a son from his first marriage whose age must match Mrs. Lovering’s. He was sixty if he was a day when I last heard of him “

  Rolfe was too much of a gentleman to conclude aloud that the girl might have been after Cutty’s moneybags.

  “It was considered an odd match at the time, as her family is quite well-to-do,” Gooding said. “Lord Fairchild never should have allowed it. But she always sat silently beside her husband at several small dinner parties I went to, attending his every need.”

  Rolfe tapped the tips of his fingers on the carriage door as Gooding continued, “In fact, I was a bit surprised to hear she had accepted an offer before her year of mourning was properly up.”

  Silence descended within the carriage, except for the clopping of the horses. Grandmamma gave up the fight to keep awake and drooped into her grandson’s shoulder. He sighed and pushed a pillow under her head.

  “What is she doing here instead of gazing adoringly at Billingsley’s puppy face in town?” Rolfe asked a few minutes later.

  “Which of us has the nerve to ask her directly?”

  Rolfe looked at his friend. “I’ll ask her if you will tell me what precisely is the nature of your acquaintance with Miss Fairchild.” He paused when he received no answer. “You know, Gooding, you might try at a bit of conversation the next time you encounter her. Otherwise your feelings will be too obvious.” Gooding’s face grew darker by the second. Rolfe had never seen him except with an open expression. “Good God, man, you’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

  Gooding opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

  “Mrs. Lovering, may I be so bold as to inquire as to what brings you here to our small neighborhood this time of year?” asked Rolfe as he brought his chestnut gelding close to her mare. The two were riding ahead of the group on the lane leading to the bluffs.

  “Why do you ask, my lord?” Jane responded.

  “Well, you are newly engaged.”

  Her heart sank. So word of her engagement had already made its way south. Arrived, no doubt, with Sir Thomas.

  “And your fiancé is in London,” Rolfe continued. “So, one wonders what could possibly entice you to spend a few weeks during the season in our charming but smallish neighborhood.”

  “Why, my aunt, of course.”

  “Of course.” He lifted a brow.

  His words were polite enough, but Jane, feeling needled, continued, “And may I ask you, then, my lord, what enticements have driven you from town during the height of the season?”

  “Why, my grandmamma, of course.”

  “Of course.” She echoed his words right down to the arrogantly lifted brow.

  “Come now, Mrs. Lovering, surely we know each other well enough for you to confide in me.”

  Jane refused to meet his gaze.

  “I see I am not to have the pleasure of an answer from you. But then, that is a favored style of yours.”

  “If you insist on playing the inquisitor, I will admit that I am not engaged, nor was I ever engaged, to Mr. Billingsley. There was an error, you see, in the newspapers,” she added with what she hoped was a carefree smile.

  Graystock forced himself to listen to her words without interruption. The smallest dimple marred the smoothness of her cheek. It almost made him lose his train of thought.

  “And I can never resist an invitation from my aunt for a visit. She is the dearest person in the world to me.”

  “Ah, an error in the papers, you say? That is a fine mess. Your father, I would assume, has sent his solicitors to contend with this? A lady’s reputation would be beyond repair if the matter was not attended to immediately.”

  “I thank you kindly, sir, for your concern,” she said, chewing on her lower lip. “The situation has been taken in hand. But now I feel we are neglecting your friend. Let us drop back.”

  Her lips were quite kissable, and it was a shame the damage she was doing to them. He sought her gaze without success. “You have perfected the fine art of evading questions, I see.”

  She pulled up her horse. “And you, sir, have perfected the fine art of interrogation.”

  He stopped too and realized he would have to try a different tack, lest he win the proverbial battle but lose her company. “I do hope our stables have provided adequate care of your mare. She is a fine horse.”

  Mrs. Lovering leaned down, patted the horse on the shoulder, and urged her forward again. “Yes, and again, I must thank you for offering to provide shelter for her.” She paused before adding, “I suppose I must also apologize for trespassing last week, and for any embarrassing comments I might have made.” Her brow furrowed in agitation. “If you had but told me who you were—”

  He interrupted her. “Mrs. Lovering, most sincere apologies are not given with an excuse. However, I accept your apology and now that we have been introduced, I invite you to explore the grounds of Hesperides at your leisure. I simply ask you to refrain from passing through the unfortunate field where we met. I am in the process of training my new mount, and distractions do not bode well, as you saw for yourself.” He could see from the blush creeping up her neck that she was mortified by his rebuke in the middle of her apology.

  “My lord, I do apologize most profusely. Please allow me to show how sincere I am.”

  He was intrigued and wondered what trick she had up her sleeve now, the minx. “Yes, do continue.”

  “May I offer my assistance with your stallion? Before you decline, please know that I have had no small experience in the training of horses. My family owns and breeds horses in Cornwall.”

  He stared at her. No lady would offer such a thing, let alone discuss horse breeding. It was a blatant slap in the face to his ability as a horseman. He looked into her slanting eyes and perceived the smallest trace of a smile on her face. “You are too kind, but I’m afraid I must decline your offer.”

  “Just as I thought. Y
ou can’t bear the thought that a female could possibly be of help to you.” She turned to go back toward Sir Thomas Gooding and the carriage.

  He was outraged. No one dared speak to him in such a manner. He bent down and caught her reins as she finished the turn. “Mrs. Lovering, I must revise my answer if you will allow. Meet me in the aforementioned field at a bit past dawn tomorrow—if that is not too early for you?”

  Her smile was her answer. He dropped her reins and watched her trot toward the carriage in the distance. He wondered later if he had accepted her challenge in anger or from an extreme desire to see the stallion deposit her misplaced arrogance on the ground alongside her intriguing little derriere.

  The sky was a deep azure blue, the heat quite uncommon this time of year. As the scattered group proceeded toward their goal, the wooded area gave way to sandy soil and a few stunted pine trees. The only other vegetation daring to survive winter’s high winds was crabgrass and longer sea oats. The carriage stopped well before the final berm fronting the sea. Throughout the journey, Mrs. Gurcher had made the most of a captive audience. She tittered and gossiped and commented on each new piece of scenery as if no one in the carriage had ever remarked on any of the views of the neighborhood before.

  The rector, who had learned better than anyone how to ignore his wife, kept his nose buried in a tome of sermons. Lady Graystock alternately used her fan in the hot carriage and dozed. And Clarissa was reduced to near silence, attributable in equal parts to a growing headache and an acute attack of nerves—something she rarely experienced in her life. Each of the two times she dared to peek out of the small window, he was of course looking back over his shoulder, and caught her glance.

  His glances had been filled with… nothing. Well, no, not exactly nothing. It was more like a stranger’s glance, as if he didn’t recognize her—except that he kept staring at her, throughout tea and now during the ride. She felt like a spider had caught her in its sticky threads and was keeping a disinterested yet bloodthirsty eye on her to make sure she didn’t extricate herself.

  She shut her eyes and leaned back into the cushions as Mrs. Gurcher exclaimed for the fourth time how hot the weather had become. With a heavy heart, she realized she should emulate her niece’s example and face the music. She resolved to have a private word with the gentleman if she could arrange it with discretion.

  The picnic by the sea was a grand adventure, according to Mrs. Gurcher. The aging countess looked almost happy except that it was clear she did not possess enough energy to wrest the conversation away from the high-pitched nonsense of the rector’s wife. As the afternoon continued, Clarissa realized it would be well nigh impossible to speak privately with Thomas. That gentleman ate and just stared at each person in the group as they spoke. At length, Clarissa was roused from her reverie by Lady Graystock.

  The countess called out to Jane to ask if she would be willing to read a bit to her. “With my eyesight growing dimmer by the year, I delight in having people read to me,” the dowager countess said as she opened her book and handed it to Jane.

  “It would be my pleasure. I take great joy in all of Burney’s work, ma’am.”

  Rolfe watched as Mrs. Lovering settled beside his grandmother to accommodate her wishes. He would have liked to get her alone again, but knew the merits of another tête-à-tête would not outweigh the disadvantages. He was thoroughly annoyed with her. Furthermore, he was even more disgusted with himself for not ignoring her verbal sparring. He very much regretted allowing her to try his horse on the morrow. He even wondered how he had ever become a lieutenant colonel, overseeing the movements of a four-hundred-man battalion, when he was incapable of making a mere widow cower in his presence, or at least show the respect due his title.

  She continued reading aloud and seemed absorbed, but he doubted she was as oblivious to his gaze as she would have him believe, due to a slight flush on her part. Miss Fairchild and Gooding looked miserable. In fact, the only person present who seemed at all at ease was the rector, who sat with a book of sermons, unaware of the scene before him.

  The entire outing was becoming tedious and had not held the amusements he had expected. He had not obtained his object of further discomposing the winsome Mrs. Lovering. If any comedy could be found at this event, he must at least contrive for his friend to endure a clandestine meeting with the staid Miss Fairchild. Swinging to his feet, he announced his intention to take a walk. He offered an arm to his grandmother and suggested Mrs. Lovering might enjoy walking with Mr. and Mrs. Gurcher, as the rector could also trace his roots to Cornwall. That left Gooding with the spinster. A quarter of a mile later found the last couple trailing the other parties.

  The major’s thoughts battered his brain for a good ten minutes before he finally broke the silence. “You avoided me, Clarissa—for eight years. I deserve to know the reason.” Before she could reply, he continued, “I was convinced you had a change of heart and did not possess enough courage to face me. Or perhaps there was someone else. Whatever it was, you owed me the courtesy of a private interview.”

  “Sir, I beg you not to be angry. What happened was so very long ago and could not possibly be of much importance. I am very sorry if I ever caused you any pain.”

  Years of worry, which had evolved into years of anger, itched his brain. “Pain? Is that what you call a six-month search throughout every last borough of Cornwall? Or several ugly meetings with your brother? Or the concern I had for your wellbeing? Clarissa, this will not do.” He placed one palm against her cheek and turned her toward his gaze.

  She looked at her shoes. “Again, I am sorry for any discomfort you might have endured on my behalf. However, I cannot find that you were concerned overmuch, as you did marry after all. You can at least rest assured that I have led a productive, comfortable life since last we met. And there was not someone else, as you suggested.”

  “Well, then, why did you leave? Why do you not give me the courtesy of an explanation? Surely you can tell me now.”

  “Can I, sir? Can you possibly imagine the position of a plain younger sister on the shelf, so to speak? Who is under the care of a demanding brother?”

  Gooding stared into her large blue eyes and took a step back. “Is that it, then? You dared not defy your brother and place your future well-being in my hands? Or was it that the lower end of the social register did not appeal to you?” He tried and failed to keep his anger in check.

  Clarissa interrupted him with dismay. “No, no, you misunderstand.”

  He in turn interrupted her. “You are right, Madam. I do not understand you.” He strode off toward the picnic area to retrieve his mount, leaving Clarissa to explain to the others the reason for his departure.

  As Jane rode through the dawn’s mist, she shivered and wished she had a warmer cloak. She had dared not borrow her aunt’s, as Clarissa would need it herself if she went outside this morning. She let her horse, Pax, have her head, and pondered Clarissa’s reaction to Sir Thomas yesterday. The most she had been able to learn from her aunt was that Sir Thomas had been a former suitor years ago, which was news indeed. Jane’s father had often complained that Clarissa had never gained the notice of any gentlemen of the ton, and she was another of the many monetary concerns with which he must contend.

  Jane reflected on the fact that her father was again in debt. More than just a little. So far, no one outside the family knew. But soon the creditors’ demands for payment would lead to refusals to supply goods or services. Surly behavior by unpaid servants would follow. Jane knew this only too well, as they had endured three months of such before she had acceded to the plan for her to marry Cutty Lovering.

  Despite all her past help for her family, she felt a bit guilty now when she thought too long about her recent defection. But then she reminded herself it would not have been enough even if she had agreed to marry the foppish Mr. Billingsley with his extraordinary shirt points that seemed at times higher than the tilt of his roman nose. It had not been enough when she had
married Cutty, and he had given a great deal. It had not been enough when she sold the small townhouse bequeathed to her upon his death. It seemed nothing would ever be enough.

  She just could not understand it. The family’s estate and the breeding farm were prospering. Yet her father had insisted on investing in risky speculations that proved ruinous time and time again. She had pleaded with her brother to speak to their father. But Theodore refused to do so and spent most of his time away from home at house parties with his friends.

  She reasoned with herself that she must let her father make his own way without her again marrying to fill the family coffers. But she couldn’t help worrying about all of their futures as she wondered what they would live on. If only her father had agreed to her wish to return to Pembroke, after Cutty died, to oversee the family’s horse-breeding operations. But he had refused, saying that she was a grown woman and had to give up her infatuation with horses. What she really wanted was to find Harry and marry him before she waffled again and allowed herself to be persuaded to marry a rich man. She and Clarissa could become governesses if Harry would not have her, perish the thought. It all seemed so dreary. She remembered all the agonizing hours she had spent with her own governesses and wondered if fate was going to repay her for all the pranks she and her brother had played on the poor women.

  She resolved to write to Harry, and also to finish her latest scribbling effort. Clarissa had read some of her prose and encouraged her to send her work to a publisher. Her father had insisted that only bluestockings became published authoresses. He had forbidden her to write, as he thought it would scare off any potential husband.