Passionately Yours

by Cara Elliott

  Damnation. Caro wished she could see his eyes. Even then, she suspected that she would see nothing he didn’t want her to see.

  He flicked to the second page. And then the third.

  When finally she could stand it no longer, she made a small sound in the back of her throat.

  Alec responded with a grunt. After a sliver of silence, he asked, “May I borrow your pencil for a moment?”

  A hundred—nay, a thousand—questions hovered on her lips, but she handed it over without comment.

  For a moment, the only sound between them was the scratch, scratch of the point on the paper.

  Snapping the covers shut, Alec placed the book on the ground beside him, carefully aligning the spine with the bent blades of grass.

  “I must be going,” he announced as he rose and dusted the seat of his trousers. “If I spot the Muse eating a strawberry tart at one of the teashops on Milsom Street, I shall tell her to return to keep you company.”

  Caro wasn’t quite sure she liked his newfound sense of humor.

  With that, he gave a small salute and sauntered off.

  Dignity demanded that she wait until he was well out of sight before snatching up the notebook. Paging furiously through the blank sheets, Caro quickly skimmed over her notes.

  Alec had added a few entries to the list entitled “Intriguingly Poetical Words.” She couldn’t argue with any of them—though the last did make her cheeks flame.

  As he had no doubt intended.

  Muttering under her breath, Caro was about to tuck the book back in her reticule when she noticed that a string of words had been penciled in at the very end of the section, so lightly as to be nearly illegible. Angling the paper to catch the light, she leaned in for a closer look.

  You are very good.

  And with experience you may even become great.

  She traced a finger over the faint lettering, unsure whether to laugh or gnash her teeth.

  “Impossible man,” she huffed. “It’s not so easy for a young lady to experience the sort of Meaningful Things that she needs to know in order to write powerful poetry.”

  A smile slowly smoothed away her grimace. “But then again, I’ve never been daunted by a difficult challenge.”

  Chapter Seven

  The weekly Assembly was even more crowded than the previous gathering. The dowager Duchess of Ainsley had arrived in town to take the waters, accompanied by an assortment of young relatives to keep her amused. Their party had added a welcome number of enthusiastic dancers to the festivities, and for the last hour, Caro had been spinning through every one of the lively reels.

  As the Master of Ceremonies signaled the musicians to strike up the next set of dances, she slipped into the shelter of the potted palms, wanting a quiet moment to compose her wayward thoughts.

  She shouldn’t be darting glances at the entrance every few moments, wondering if a certain figure with a dark-as-a-stormcloud scowl would make an appearance.

  Not that Alec McClellan wasn’t capable of a sly-as-a-devil smile when he so chose.

  Caro felt a flutter in her chest on recalling the surprising flashes of humor that had lit up his face yesterday afternoon. Like flashes of lightning, they had left her a bit shaken by their blinding brilliance. Blinking back images of those sinfully attractive lips, she rubbed her palms over her bare arms, hoping the soft kidskin would dispel the sudden prickling of gooseflesh.

  Stop mooning over a man who is too difficult, Caro chided to herself.

  And perhaps too dangerous.

  The meeting with him in Sydney Gardens and the mention of the events that had taken place at Dunbar Castle had compelled her to give serious thought to the disturbing exchange she had overheard in the Abbey churchyard. The Scottish accent had been unmistakable—that, and the reminder of Alec’s past involvement in dangerous political activities, sent a slight shiver down her spine.

  Could a man who appreciated the passions of poetry also be a man willing to do whatever it took to accomplish his objectives—even if it called for committing violence?

  Caro swallowed hard, her throat suddenly feeling dry as dust. She might be inexperienced in many ways, but she knew enough of the world from her family’s unconventional travels to understand that passion was a powerful force for both light and dark.

  “What dark thoughts are bringing such shadows to your lovely face?”

  She looked up to meet Thayer’s inquiring gaze.

  “This is supposed to be an evening of merriment.” He held out a glass of champagne. “Come, you look as though you need a dash of effervescence added to your spirits.”

  She accepted the wine and took a small sip. The coolness did feel good on her lips.

  “You ought not be hiding your charms under a bush, as it were,” he went on, brushing a frond from his evening coat.

  “I wished to take a respite from the heat and crowd of the dancing,” she replied.

  Thayer offered his arm. “Then I daresay a stroll out on the terrace would offer a more pleasant interlude than huddling in the greenery.”

  Though she would have preferred to remain alone with her thoughts, Caro reluctantly accepted his invitation. There was really nothing offensive about his manner, which was perfectly pleasant and polite, despite being a trifle overdone. So it seemed only fair to give him a second chance at changing her first impression.

  Whatever thorn was pricking at her consciousness was likely the fault of her own straying into a mental briar patch.

  “It is a very mild night, is it not?” remarked Thayer as he guided her through the French doors. “With such a clear sky, I daresay the chances are good that tomorrow will dawn bright and sunny.”

  “I daresay you are right,” she replied, hoping the conversation wouldn’t stay mired in boring platitudes. Debating the likelihood of rain was even more tedious than discussing which type of sleeve was the most au courant choice for a ballgown. “Though I warn you, English weather can be changeable. Though not as violently so as in Scotland.”

  “We can be a country of extremes,” commented Thayer. “In both our climate and our temperament.”

  Her ears perked up. An interesting assessment. Perhaps he was more astute than she had imagined.

  “Indeed?” she murmured, casting him a sidelong smile in further invitation to go on.

  “Alas, yes. Sudden storms can blow in with little warning, and their fierceness can cause great harm, especially for those who are not used to them.” He blew out a long sigh. “I fear the same can be said for our people. The harsh conditions have made the Scots very tough, unyielding and independent—sometimes to a fault.”

  “You paint a brutally honest portrait,” said Caro, deciding to test his candor. “Does the brush also capture your own likeness?”

  He grinned. “I am, of course, the exception. Perhaps the several years I spent at Oxford helped rub off the rough edges. In any case, I would describe myself as a man of moderation in all ways.”

  They were passing a pair of arched windows and something appeared to catch his eye within the glitter and gaiety of the Assembly room. “Unlike,” he added softly, “my esteemed countryman.”

  Caro spotted Alec hovering in the shadows of the side saloon. “You mean Lord Strathcona?”

  Thayer hesitated. “I do not wish to speak ill of a former friend, but he has a history of instability.” A cough. “Some might call it worse.”

  “Worse?” she repeated.

  “Suffice it to say, a young, gently bred lady would be prudent to be on guard in his presence.”

  “Are you saying that a lady would have fears for her virtue?” she demanded.

  The answer was more than eloquent. Lifting his shoulders, Thayer made a pained face.

  It took great restraint for Caro to hold back a snort. Whatever Alec’s faults, he would never—never—act dishonorably toward the opposite sex. The certainty of that resonated right to the very depth of her heart.

  “I think,” she said, once
her emotions were under control, “that you must be mistaken.”

  “I assure you, I wish I were,” replied Thayer mournfully. “You don’t believe me?”

  Not for an instant, she thought. But aloud, she gave a more tempered response. “No. Having some acquaintance with His Lordship, I find it hard to accept such an unrelentingly black portrait of the man.”

  “That you should find a dark-as-the-devil heart impossible to imagine is not surprising, Miss Caro. No young lady should have any concept of what evil may lurk inside a man.”

  Caro was tempted to tell him that he had been reading too many horrid novels. But something in his eyes made her bite her tongue. It was just a fleeting spark, and it might only have been a quirk of candlelight refracted through the windowglass. However, in that instant, the red-gold flare seemed tinged with malice.

  “I—I defer to your greater knowledge of such things,” she murmured softly.

  His expression immediately softened, and his winsome smile made her question again whether she was overreacting.

  As her sisters were wont to point out, a penchant for drama was one of her shortcomings.

  “I am glad to think I have been able to offer a helpful warning,” responded Thayer. He said no more.

  She nodded, glad to let the subject drop. Thayer might only be misguided, not malicious, but there was something about him that stirred the hairs at the nape of her neck to stand on end.

  What motive would he have to blacken Alec’s name?

  She walked on in silence, only half hearing Thayer’s description of his visit to the ancient Roman baths beneath the Pump House as she pondered the question, as well as an equally compelling one.

  How many Scotsmen were currently visiting Bath?

  As an aspiring poet, she considered herself attuned to the nuances of language, both written and spoken. And the more she heard his voice, the more it stirred misgivings. The man she had overheard had spoken too softly for her to be sure. But…

  Thayer slowed his steps. “I fear I am boring you,” he said contritely.

  “No, no, not at all.” Caro forced a laugh. “I was simply trying to recall the history lesson from my father about the Roman ruins here in town. I believe the baths were dedicated to the goddess Minerva.” That the ancient deity represented wisdom was, hoped Caro, a good omen.

  “Correct,” replied Thayer. “But forgive me, you have come here to enjoy an evening of dancing, not to listen to me prose on about history. Shall we go back inside?”

  “I suppose we ought to. I am promised to the dowager’s grandson for the cotillion,” she answered. As they passed through the open doors, she looked around and waved to the young man, who quickly left his friends to come claim her hand.

  “Enjoy your dancing,” said Thayer with a polite bow. “I must take my leave from tonight’s festivities, but I look forward to continuing our interesting conversations, Miss Caro.”

  “As do I, sir.” She batted her lashes. But not for the reasons he might think.

  An attempted abduction, a suspicious meeting, a handsome stranger whispering dire warnings—there was something havey-cavey afoot in Bath, and all at once the questions needling at the back of her head sharpened to a sudden realization.

  What better way to pursue both the adventure and the worldly experience she craved than to take on the challenge of discovering what was going on?

  Alec tore his gaze away from the sight of Caro clearly enjoying Thayer’s company. Her face was flushed, her eyes were sparkling. With pleasure, no doubt. The man was a manipulative spider and knew just how to how to ensnare impressionable young ladies in a web of seductive charm.

  He had thought that perhaps Caro was different. That she, of all people, would be perceptive enough to see through the superficial glitter to the heart of darkness…

  His mouth quirked in a quick grimace.

  And why was that?

  Because she could pen poetry that seemed to understand the nuances of human emotion?

  “Stop scowling, Alec.” Gliding into the recessed alcove, Isobel set a hand on his sleeve, and gave him a playful pinch. “You are supposed to be enjoying yourself.”

  He responded with a wordless grunt.

  “Is there a reason you are in a foul mood?”

  “You know I do not care for these frivolous gatherings.”

  “You are far too serious,” she chided. “You need to loosen your cravat and have…” Her gaze suddenly locked on a figure moving along the perimeter of the dance floor. “Is that Mr. Edward Thayer? How odd. I wonder what brings him to Bath?”

  So do I, thought Alec.

  Isobel hesitated, following Thayer’s progress until he exited the room. “You’ve never explained to me why the two of you ceased to be friends,” she finally said.

  “That’s none of your concern,” Alec answered, a little more sharply than he intended.

  She slanted a quizzical look at him, but didn’t press the matter. “You may dislike dancing, but I know you are not adverse to enjoying the romantic and picturesque splendors of Nature. Lord Andover has proposed having a picnic in Spring Gardens tomorrow, which is reached by taking a boat across the River Avon—”

  “I can’t,” interrupted Alec.

  “Oh, you are not allowed to say no,” announced Isobel airily. “It will be a lovely outing, and Andover is already asking Caro as we speak. We need you to make up the correct numbers.”

  “We aren’t sitting down to a formal supper,” he said softly. “Besides, my absence won’t be a disappointment to her,”

  “But it will be to me,” she said. “I’ve seen so little of you since you arrived here. Please say you will come.”

  He was about to refuse again when the recollection of rough hands reaching out to seize her suddenly leapt to mind.

  His heart skipped a beat, as if a steel fist had caught hold of it for an instant and given a warning squeeze.

  “Very well,” he muttered.

  “Thank you.” Fluffing her skirts, Isobel made to take her leave. “Don’t look so glum. Chances are you might actually enjoy the outing.”

  As she shifted the picnic hamper on the slatted seat, a sudden gust caught Caro’s bonnet strings and swirled them into a flapping tangle of azure-colored silk.

  “Mmmph!” A laugh cleared the tail end of ribbon from her mouth. “Andy, this outing was an absolutely splendid idea,” she announced, tilting her cheeks up to the sun. “Crossing the river feels like an adventure.”

  The ferryman’s boat bobbed through the rippling currents. Gold-flecked sparks skimmed over the water, their flashes warming the Pulteney Bridge to the color of melted butter.

  “What a lovely view,” exclaimed Isobel, clamping a hand on her hat to keep it from blowing off. “Why, it looks even more charming from this perspective.

  “It was modeled after the famous Ponte Vecchio in Florence,” explained Alec.

  “I should like to travel some day,” mused Caro. “To Florence, to Rome, to Venice, and beyond.” Her sigh was quickly swallowed by the breeze. “Such historic places are so rich in history and fascinating sights that they can’t help but be inspiring.”

  “Many a great sonnet has been penned about those fabled cities,” said Alec softly.

  Was he teasing her? A sidelong glance told her nothing. All she could see was the dark silhouette of his profile backlit by the bright blue sky.

  “I can well imagine that,” she responded, deciding to answer from the heart. “How could a poet not be moved by thinking of all the experiences the city’s stones have witnessed?”

  “Oh, I daresay there are poems written about Bath,” said Andover cheerfully. “Though I can’t seem to recall any.”

  Isobel giggled.

  “Obviously they weren’t very memorable,” murmured Caro.

  “No matter. This outing is something I shall not soon forget,” said Isobel. “A glorious day, good friends, and the company of my dear brother, whom I see so rarely when I am at home
.”

  “You forgot to mention the fresh strawberry tart and clotted cream,” pointed out Andover.

  “That’s because if our cook keeps feeding me such rich treats, I shall soon be plump as a Strasbourg goose.”

  “You’re still naught but skin and bones,” growled Alec.

  His sister shot him a reproving look. “There is no need to dwell on my illness, Alec. The danger has passed.”

  His expression might be unreadable, but now that she had decided to have a closer look at the recent havey-cavey events, Caro had every intention of quizzing him on what more he had learned about the attack as soon as she could get him alone.

  Isobel turned back to Andover and huffed a sigh. “Pay no heed to my brother. He fusses like a mother hen, but the truth is, I am usually hearty as a horse.”

  “You look nothing like a hen or a horse, Miss Urquehart.” He winked. “Or a Strasbourg goose.”

  “As you see, Andy is always the perfect gentleman,” said Caro.

  The casual comment, though clearly said in fun, seemed to make Alec flinch. Looking away with an inward sigh, she wondered whether she would ever understand his odd quirks and moods.

  Not that it mattered. There were any number of jests about the incomprehensible workings of the female mind. But as far as she was concerned, the male thought processes were just as inscrutable.

  The boat nudged up against the landing dock, putting an end for the moment to further speculation.

  The hampers and blankets were gathered up, the ferryman was paid, and the little party set off along the main footpath leading past a parterre of colorful flowers.

  “The heroine of Smollett’s novel The Expedition of Humphry Clinker called Bath an earthly paradise,” said Isobel as she paused to catch her breath and admire the lush profusion of plantings. “I can see why. Everything about it has such a tasteful elegance to it, even the natural beauty of its gardens. It is very unlike Scotland, don’t you think, Alec?”

  “Scotland is a harder, wilder place,” he answered. “But to my eye, there is great beauty in its rough-cut austerity.”

  “I agree,” offered Caro. “There is a softness, a gentleness that is pleasing about our present surroundings. But for me, the Scottish moors have a more transcendent power.”