by Lisa Valdez
Today’s experience… His resistance to their parting had surprised her. His admission that he had been thinking of ways to get her into his bed had been both tempting and shocking. It hadn’t even occurred to her that their relationship could exist outside the Crystal Palace. It was one thing to give herself over to this incredible, impossible experience. It was quite another to actively contrive its occurrence.
And why was he so unwilling to part? With everything he’d said, she had expected easy acceptance. A man such as he could surely find any number of willing women to please him. He didn’t need her for that. So what was it? Why the reluctance to let her go? Could it be that he wanted her for something more than physical satisfaction? Though a tempting thought, she discarded it quickly. Mark had been abundantly clear as to the nature of their relationship. It was best to take him at his word. It would be all too easy to fall into the trap of believing she was more important to him than she was.
She had, after all, been duped by her own hope before. Her husband had courted her with some urgency and charm. He had wooed her with pretty phrases and fine speech. And though he had exhibited moments of seeming disinterest, she had come to believe that he wanted her, that he cared for her. Though she hadn’t loved him, she had entered into her marriage with the expectation that love would grow. She had believed that her marriage could be fulfilling and that it would turn, in time, into something wonderful. Instead, it had been an empty husk of an existence.
With a frustrated sigh, she stood. No warm wash of semen moistened her thighs as it had the days before. She was empty. Empty as always. How familiar empty was. Her chest tightened painfully. She yearned for Mark. Would it not have been better to never experience such pleasure, than to suffer this new and terrible yearning? A yearning not just for his body, but for his hands that tied her bonnet just so, for his eyes that seemed to never leave her, for his embrace that somehow reassured her.
She swept her fingers along the edge of his image. And his words… Your husband was a damned fool… He didn’t deserve you. Whatever his problem was… it wasn’t you. When she thought of his kind words to her, words he needn’t have said, her heart seemed to swell, pushing against her lungs and quickening her breath.
By God, if she felt this way now, how would she feel if she were to spend more time with him? No, she was right to end their relationship. But she must never regret it. Never!
“Passion, there you are,” Aunt Matty called. “Look who has come to call.”
Snapping her sketchbook shut, Passion whirled around and inwardly groaned. Alfred Swittly and another, younger, man flanked her aunt and were making their way quickly across the garden.
“Mrs. Redington,” Alfred Swittly bellowed as he approached, “how grand to see you again. I see you have your pad in hand. I hope you do not mind our little intrusion upon your foray into the artistic realm.”
Passion nodded and managed a smile.
“I’m sure my niece welcomes the diversion of some company. She has been sitting here alone for far longer than is good for her.” Aunt Matty shook her head. “Too much quiet gives me a headache. Doesn’t it you, Mr. Swittly?”
“Indeed, Mistress Dare. Indeed,” Alfred said. “But please, Mrs. Redington, allow me to introduce my cousin, Mr. John Crossman, of whom I spoke yesterday.”
Passion exchanged greetings with the man. Though tall, blond, and green eyed, John Crossman somehow managed to look nothing like his cousin. Handsome, and with a quick and easy smile, he had a breadth of shoulder that seemed a bit wide for his lean, well-dressed frame. Passion guessed him to be only slightly older than she.
“Mr. Crossman is the heir to Crossman Shipping, my dear.” Aunt Matty raised her brows meaningfully.
“Crossman Shipping?”
“A modest family business, Mrs. Redington,” the young man acknowledged.
“Modest family business.” Alfred chuckled. “Bosh! My cousin is the modest one, Mrs. Redington.”
“You must forgive my niece, Mr. Crossman. Passion is from the country and has no knowledge of who the important people of our fair city are.”
“No forgiveness is necessary. It is a pleasure to be unknown.”
Alfred laughed and slapped his cousin on the shoulder.
“You must stay for tea, Mr. Crossman. You will, won’t you? Of course you will.” Aunt Matty turned, only to turn back again. “Do you know, that just the other day I was almost crippled for life? And my dearest Passion barely escaped blindness?” She raised her finger. “All due to the lack of tea. Tea, Mr. Crossman! Never underestimate its importance.”
John Crossman kept a serious demeanor. “As I wish to suffer neither crippling nor blindness, I shall stay, Mistress Dare, for tea.”
“Wisdom and fine features are rarely seen together, Mr. Crossman. You, however, appear to be blessed with both. Come, Mr. Swittly.” Aunt Matty took Alfred’s arm and pulled the reluctant man with her. “1 would have a word with you in private.”
When they were a little away, John Crossman turned to Passion. “She’s wonderful.”
Passion formed an instant liking for the man and smiled. “She is. Truly.” They glanced over at her aunt. She was batting an insect from Alfred Swittly’s arm with her handkerchief. “Most people think her an odd fish, but really she’s kind and loving. And loyal as well.”
Passion turned to find John Crossman regarding her intently. “Characteristics that run in the family, I see.”
She smiled at his flattery. “I see graciousness is one of your traits, Mr. Crossman.”
He grinned. “I merely acknowledge the obvious. This morning, I was in the company of a young lady who felt it necessary to make several excuses for her younger sister, who is not blessed with a large measure of beauty. Would that she could have shown the girl some kindness, love, and loyalty instead.” He looked pensive and then nodded. “Had she, we would have got on much better.” He glanced at her and raised one golden eyebrow. “After all, Mrs. Redington, when I grow fat and bald, I wouldn’t want her making excuses for me.”
Passion laughed. “And I can see you’re in so much danger of that, Mr. Crossman—fat and baldness, that is.”
He laughed with her and indicated the bench. “Shall we sit, Mrs. Redington?”
Passion glanced over at her aunt and Alfred Swittly as they sat. “I hear from Mr. Swittly that you and he are very close. Is he mentoring you in some way, Mr. Crossman?”
John Crossman’s golden brows lifted and then he chuckled. “I’ve only just become reacquainted with my cousin last week, Mrs. Redington. We happened to meet at the glove-makers’, where he introduced himself to me.”
Passion frowned. “Oh…”
John shrugged. “My father recently passed away, Mrs. Redington. I’m finding that all sorts of past friends and relations are interested in renewing a relationship now that I am at the helm of Crossman Shipping.”
“Oh, I see,” Passion said. “Well, I’m very sorry for your loss. I’m sure this is a terribly difficult time for you.”
John nodded. “My father prepared me well, Mrs. Redington. But I miss him.”
Passion leaned forward in the way that her father did when consoling one of his parishioners. “Of course you do, Mr. Crossman.”
She curled her fingers around the binding of her sketchbook. Though they had just met, something in the man’s demeanor made her believe he might welcome some words of comfort. “So many emotions attend death,” she offered. “When my mother died, I was sad and angry, and frightened, too. My father mourned terribly; yet, as vicar, he had duties he could not put aside. So as the eldest, many responsibilities fell upon me.”
He was staring at her, his green eyes serious and unwavering.
She continued. “It was difficult at first. But as time passed, I became comfortable in my new role, even taking pride in it. I find there can be great satisfaction in the fulfillment of duty.”
Passion paused. Though she had told
herself this a thousand times, today her words felt like an echo of the truth, not the whole truth. She frowned, suddenly unsure of what the whole truth was. Unsettled, she shook her head. “Forgive me, Mr. Crossman. I don’t know that I’m making any sense. Anyway, I’m sure you have no need of my counsel.”
John regarded her a moment. Then said, “No, forgive me for disturbing the peace of your thoughts with my problems.” He smiled. “And I do appreciate your counsel.”
Passion managed a smile but, at the same moment, desperately wished he would go. She needed to be alone with her thoughts.
“Tea!” Aunt Matty called as she approached with Alfred. The giant of a man held his hand out. “May I escort you inside, Mrs. Redington?” he bellowed.
Passion glanced at John Crossman, who she found looking at her intently, and then back at Alfred and Aunt Matty.
There was no escape, no excuse.
Tension shot down her back. She was obligated to remain.
She wanted to scream. She wanted Mark.
He wanted Passion.
He didn’t want the syrupy-sweet-looking Charlotte Lawrence who sat across from him. He didn’t even want to be in the same room with her. He glanced toward the door that the contemptuous butler had slammed on leaving the room. How Mark wished that he, too, could stalk out and slam the door on this parlor of viciousness, schemes, and lies.
Mark grit his teeth as he listened to Abigail Lawrence.
“I’ve only just informed my daughter this very morning of your proposal, my lord. I explained how you saw her at the Italian Opera—how you found her beauty beyond compare and her grace unparalleled.”
Mark slid his gaze to Charlotte. Light brown curls fell over her shoulders. Under his regard, she lowered nervous gray eyes. Pretty, perhaps. Beautiful, no.
“Charlotte is honored and will, of course, be proud to be your bride,” Abigail continued. “And what a happy coincidence, that you and I should know each other, countess. How long has it been since last we saw each other?”
Mark glanced at his mother and was glad to catch the glint of dislike in her eyes. Good. He hoped she hated every moment of this.
“Well, I’m sure it’s been years, Mrs. Lawrence,” Lucinda said in a cool tone. “I had quite forgotten about our acquaintance. It was Lady Rimstock who brought you to mind when she asked me whatever had happened to my old friend, Abigail Lawrence.” Lucinda’s eyes raked the other woman as she emphasized the word old. “I told her I had no idea what had become of you.”
Abigail’s lips thinned into a tight line. “Well, it seems we’ll be seeing quite a bit more of each other now, doesn’t it? And my Charlotte will be the new countess.” The woman’s voice was almost a snarl.
Mark’s shoulders tightened. Christ, but they were birds of a feather.
His mother lifted one eyebrow. “As you don’t circulate in our society, Mrs. Lawrence, you can’t know that my son has a reputation for eschewing the noble values of his own class. He has always felt comfortable moving in lesser circles.” The slightest of smiles turned his mother’s mouth. “And though I understand the unfortunate allure of friendships with those of the lower classes, such relationships never last, for their vulgarity always becomes so tiresome.” She paused, and Abigail Lawrence’s cheeks reddened with suppressed anger. “However, my headstrong son is his own master and will not be swayed by me.”
Mark lifted his brows. Finally, some words of truth.
Lucinda glanced at Charlotte. “I hope your daughter has the grace and intelligence it will take to overcome her breeding. Countess of Langley is no small title.”
“I daresay, countess, that my daughter will bring more grace and beauty to the title than it has heretofore seen,” Abigail Lawrence spat.
Lucinda cast her eyes briefly in Charlotte’s direction. “Not in that frock, she won’t.”
Abigail Lawrence’s hands actually balled into fists. “Perhaps you have forgotten the financial stature of my late husband, countess. My daughter is more richly dressed than many a noblewoman. That lace”—she thrust a finger in the direction of her daughter’s fichu—“is from Brussels!”
His mother shrugged dismissively.
Mark halted all talk when he stood and pulled out his watch. He’d had enough of the catfight. He wanted out. “I’m leaving.”
“Leaving?” Abigail Lawrence rose from her seat and glanced at her daughter. “Did you not wish to speak with Charlotte, my lord?”
Mark raised his brows. “Speak with her? I was not aware that she could speak, Madam. You have spoken for her the entire time I have been here.” His mother snickered as he turned to Charlotte. The girl was just hiding a smile, but her expression turned serious in the face of his frowning regard. What was her role in this scheme? Could she be opposed to marriage with him? Was his way out standing right in front of him? “Do you, in fact, accept this proposal, Miss Lawrence? Surely, a girl such as you with such lofty—how did you put it, Mrs. Lawrence?—‘financial stature,’ has many gentlemen prospects.”
The girl glanced nervously at her mother and then back at him. “I—well, I—I don’t know about prospects, my lord.” She wrung her hands. “But I—I do accept your proposal.”
Mark’s frown deepened. He had no respect for simpleminded little girls. They did things they lived to regret and then made the world sorry for it. He felt his anger flaring. “Are you really ready to become engaged to a man you don’t even know, Miss Lawrence? When my mother was your age, she married a man she didn’t know.” He heard his mother’s gasp but went on undeterred. “She grew to hate him for stealing her precious youth and for making her fat with child. Though he tried to love her, she made his life a misery. Nothing he ever did was good enough for her.”
“That’s enough!” his mother snapped.
“Shut up!” he shot at her. His voice had grown harsher and harsher. He glared at Charlotte. “Is that what you want, Miss Lawrence? To be a bitter old shrew who rues the day she let another decide her fate?”
The girl stared at him, her eyes wide with shock and confusion. “I—I…”
“My daughter is not your mother, my lord,” Abigail Lawrence said icily. “What right do you have to assume she will behave in such a way?”
“She’s your daughter, isn’t she? I have the right to assume whatever I like, madam.”
“Speaking of assumptions, my lord,” Abigail Lawrence sneered, “my daughter is under the assumption that you desire her hand. Is she mistaken in this regard?” She narrowed her eyes. “If so, tell us now, so that I may know what course to take.”
Bitch! He wanted to tell her to go to hell and rot there. He grit his teeth to keep the words back. Matt. He must remember Matt. His mother was staring at him and must have sensed that he tottered on the edge of indecision.
“Of course he desires her hand,” she said. “My son is angry with me and, like all men, confuses his feelings at this important crossroads in his life.”
Mark wanted to rage at them all. He wasn’t confused. He knew exactly how he felt. He clenched his jaw shut.
His mother turned to the bewildered-looking Charlotte. “My son has chosen you, Miss Lawrence. Now we must determine the best way to proceed so that society accepts you as willingly as he.” She looked up. “Sit down, Abigail. This will take some time.”
Good. Mark crossed the room. Let them take a very long time to work out all the social machinations. The more time they took, the better for him. He needed time to get that letter.
At the door, he paused and found them all looking at him. In his mother’s eyes he saw loathing. Abigail Lawrence looked at him with haughty insolence. Charlotte looked confused. He felt no pity for her. She was the knife in his side. Ignorance did not excuse weak character, and it was her weak character that made her so easily used. He hated weakness.
Passion left her dream reluctantly. She had been lying in the embrace of a huge lion. Yet she had not been afraid. She blinked sleep
ily. What had awakened her? She wanted to return to the dream, to the warm, enveloping presence of the lion. She turned and closed her eyes again.
Then she heard it, a sound at her window. Instantly wide awake, she sat up in bed. Moonlight illuminated the window, which she had left ajar so the fragrance of the jasmine could waft into her room. There was nothing there. She waited and listened. Then she gasped as a light tap, followed by another, sounded against the window. Something landed on the floor with a small ping.
Sliding cautiously out of bed, she went and, kneeling beside the tiny pebble, picked it up. It was one of the smooth little stones that decorated the ground around the garden birdbath.
A deep but nervous thrill ran through her body. There was only one person who had the reason and daring to be pitching pebbles at her window. But that was impossible. It couldn’t be. He didn’t even know where she lived.
But who else? A vision of Alfred Swittly’s rotund face filled her mind. Oh, heavens no! She glanced up as another tap sounded against the window.
Unsure, she slowly unfolded and moved to the side of the window. Hiding in the shadow of the lace curtains, she peeked around the edge. Her heart leapt. With arm drawn back to pitch another pebble, Mark stood just below her window! Mark, in Aunt Matty’s garden! Her whole body grew hot.
She must have made some movement, for he suddenly looked right at where she was and dropped his arm. Passion froze, her blood coursing in her veins and her legs trembling beneath her. She tried to still her breathing. Oh, God! It was exhilaration that filled her, not alarm. She ought to be alarmed, but as he stood, staring up, she felt only joy.
She found herself moving to the sash and lifting it. As she leaned out, her braid swinging over her shoulder, he didn’t move at all. They stared at each other for a long moment, neither speaking.