Passion

by Lisa Valdez

  She felt alive.

  How could all these good things come from wrong? Were they her “Judas price” for the betrayal of herself?

  No! This was her true self. Lord, had she forgotten the girl she was before her marriage? Had she forgotten the lightheartedness and laughter that had filled her days? Had she forgotten her hopes and dreams?

  She had betrayed her true self long ago. She had turned her back on the pain of her barren marriage and allowed her natural tendency toward duty and obligation to be­come both her shield and her defining attributes. It had been easier to constantly do for others than to face the neglect of herself.

  Her fingers curled in the sheet. As long as she wasn’t hurting anyone else, how wrong could it be to indulge her need for a short time? How wrong could it be to find her old self—the self who had loved and laughed, the self who had entered her marriage with happiness and hope?

  Soon enough, their relationship would end. Until then, she would abide the suffering and embrace the joys of being with him. Though she didn’t know where the road would lead her, as long as the consequences of her jour­ney were her own to bear, what harm? What harm… ?

  Mark woke slowly.

  The room was lit with the dim overture to morning. Somewhere, just outside the window, a dove cooed to her mate.

  In his arms, Passion sighed and snuggled more closely against him. Her cheek lay against his chest, and her hair blanketed his arm.

  He didn’t want to move. He wanted to sleep beside her into the late hours of the morning. He wanted to rise with her and share breakfast with her. He wanted to talk with her. He wanted to watch her dress. Then he wanted to un­dress her.

  He trailed his finger down the bridge of her slim nose. He wanted to stay—just to stay—with her.

  He sighed. But he’d promised discretion. Shoving back his hair and ignoring his morning erection, he forced him­self to look at the clock. Almost five o’clock. Time to rise and depart.

  Slowly, so as not to wake her, he slid his arm out from beneath her head and slipped from beneath the sheets. He picked up his clothes from where they lay, putting them on as he found them.

  While he dressed, he studied her. Though a little taller than most women, she had a delicacy of feature and form that gave her a refined appearance. Yet there was no fragility to her. Softness and yearning, yes—even suppli­cation. But intelligence and strength as well.

  When dressed, her elegant appearance didn’t even hint at the intimate details of her body. He never would have guessed that her lovely breasts would have been graced with such thick, edible nipples. He never would have guessed that the tight little cunt he first felt with his fin­gers would have accommodated him so completely. He never would have guessed that her sweet mouth would suck him so deliciously.

  He swore under his breath at the curving bulge in his trousers and turned away from her.

  On the desk, he noticed a paint palette and an open sketchbook. As he tied his cravat, he stared down at a beautiful iris rendered in watercolor. It looked as delicate as the original, which stood in a vase beside the pallet. In­trigued, he flipped the pages. Three more botanicals fol­lowed, each one as lovely as the one before.

  On the forth page, he stopped and stared. Two young women sat together in a room that was only vaguely de­picted. But the women themselves were magnificent. One, with a head full of riotous curls, played the cello. Her arms curved around the instrument with the grace of a dancer, and her beautiful face wore an almost rhapsodic concentration. The other sat facing the first. With her cheek supported upon her hand, she read a book. Her lovely profile, the curve of her neck, the slant of her shoulders, all bespoke peace and calm contentment.

  Beneath the picture were inscribed the words “Patience and Prim.” No, not words. Names. They must be Passion’s sisters, for he could see reflections of her beauty in their faces.

  He shook his head. She was more talented than he had thought. It was one thing to capture the essence of a flower. It was quite another to capture the individual and complex spirit of a person.

  He stared at the drawing, reluctant to turn the page. This was a small peek into Passion’s life, a tiny hint of what he would never be a part.

  He suddenly wished he had a drawing of her. He flipped more pages, hoping to find a self-portrait. He found only blank pages.

  Then, at the very back of the book, he found something he never would have expected—himself.

  Awestruck, his throat constricted. Was this what he looked like? He recognized his features and the expres­sion on his face, but there was something else in the draw­ing he didn’t recognize. Something in his eyes he didn’t know he showed the world—something, perhaps, that could only be viewed from the angle she had drawn him. What was it?

  He stared hard at the picture, simultaneously studying it and marveling at it. Whatever it was, it was in more than his eyes. It was in the curve of his mouth and the set of his jaw as well.

  He shook his head. For the life of him, he couldn’t fig­ure it out. But every picture was a reflection of the artist’s vision. If she saw him as this handsome, then fine. It gave him a warm feeling deep in his gut.

  He glanced over at her. She still slept, breathing deeply and evenly. He penned her a quick note.

  Even sleeping, you’re beautiful. I’ll come again tonight.

  M.

  P.S. Passion Ermagine Diddlemot?

  He left it on her bedside table, where she’d be sure to see it.

  He wanted to crawl back into bed with her.

  But he couldn’t.

  He sat in the chair by the hearth to put on his socks and shoes. He looked at her again and noted her fine-fingered hand lying palm up. Such soft, pleasure-giving, talented hands. He shook his head as he stood. He never would have guessed.

  The chocolate pot still sat on the grate in the hearth. He stared at it and then glanced over his shoulder at her. That had been the biggest surprise of all—the offer of hot chocolate.

  Suddenly and unexpectedly, his mother’s words loomed before him. What? You think she’ll be your loyal little mistress forever? You’re nothing but a novelty to her.

  His neck stiffened painfully. The words infuriated him. The thought that Passion might tire of what they had—might tire of him—was more disturbing than he could ex­plain. He hated the thought.

  Yet who was he to harbor such feelings? No one had ever held his interest for more than four months. And even that had been stretching his regard.

  He would have to give up Passion in two.

  He picked up her gown from the end of the bed and breathed in the fragrance that clung to it. His eyes closed.

  But when would this craving for her fade?

  When would he stop yearning for every next moment he could be with her?

  He let the gown slip through his fingers.

  Why did he wish two months could be two years?

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Redington,” Alfred Swittly intoned, “but you look just like I have imagined Hermia might ap­pear as she runs into the forest after her beloved Lysander.”

  Alfred Swittly waltzed her around the crowded dance floor of the pavilion. Situated in the Crystal Palace Park, the pavilion was modeled after the Crystal Palace itself. The long dance floor, which had been divided that evening for a private party, could accommodate nearly a thousand couples. Couches lined the walls, and six sepa­rate refreshment halls branched off the main room.

  “Thank you, Mr. Swittly.” Passion forced a smile.

  Though he seemed to want to behave as if nothing whatsoever had occurred at the Crystal Palace, she felt un­comfortable in his embrace, and his rotund stomach kept bumping her. Also, though his attentions had cooled slightly when she informed him she couldn’t have chil­dren, his enthusiasm was immediately renewed when he learned Passion’s cousin was engaged to an earl.

  As they came back around to where her aunt and the Swittly sisters were sitting, Passion saw John Crossman with them.
Perfect! “Oh look, Mr. Swittly, your cousin. Perhaps we should go greet him.”

  “Quite right, Mrs. Redington. Quite right.”

  John Crossman looked at her twice as she approached, then a slow smile spread across his handsome features. He didn’t even seem to see his cousin, but held his hand out to her as she approached. “By God, Mrs. Redington, you are beautiful this evening.” He kissed her hand. “I take it you are officially out of mourning.”

  She smiled and began to answer, but Aunt Matty spoke first. “She certainly is, and about time, too. What young widow stays in mourning for two full years, I ask you?” She looked at the Swittly sisters, who sat on either side of her. “A year, certainly. Eighteen months, perhaps. But two years! Ridiculous! Am I not right, ladies?”

  The Swittly sisters nodded vigorously, as they most always did. Alfred joined in.

  “Aunt Matty, please,” Passion begged.

  John Crossman smiled sympathetically at her before turning to her aunt. “I cannot agree, Mistress Dare. For then I would have missed seeing her astounding transfor­mation.”

  “Well, that’s true, Mr. Crossman.” Aunt Matty fanned herself and smiled proudly at Passion. “Passion has the rarest coloring,” she offered. “There isn’t another lady I know who could wear that color. She, however, is perfec­tion in it.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Mistress Dare,” Alfred said. “Couldn’t agree more.”

  John Crossman shook hands with Alfred but quickly returned his attention to her.

  Passion smoothed the copper silk of her gown. She wished Aunt Matty wouldn’t speak as if she weren’t pres­ent. But she was pleased her aunt thought well of her ap­pearance. The gown was austerely, yet elegantly, cut. A fine gold lace banded the neckline, shoulders, and back, and a verdigris sash swept diagonally across the bodice. It wrapped once around her waist before falling, off center, down the back of her skirt. Would that Mark could see her.

  “Passion has a particular affection for fine clothing,” Aunt Matty continued. “The past two years, she has been relegated to mourning colors. I loathe them on her. But tonight, she looks like a princess.” She beamed.

  “A queen. An empress!” Alfred upped her.

  The Swittly sisters beamed and nodded.

  Passion felt herself blushing. Still, she felt an almost giddy delight at being swathed in copper silk and verdi­gris trim.

  It was good of her father not to have balked at her ex­penditure upon a new wardrobe. She wished he could have seen her tonight. She missed him.

  John bowed and offered his arm as the first notes of another waltz began. “Will you allow me this dance, Mrs. Redington?” He glanced at Alfred, who looked like he was going to protest. “Can’t have her all night, cousin.”

  Passion took his arm with pleasure, and they whirled onto the dance floor.

  The swaying chords of a waltz filled the huge pavilion. They stepped and twirled past couple after couple, until they became lost in the crowd of dancers. Passion fully enjoyed herself. She hadn’t danced in so long and, though she couldn’t help wishing he were Mark, John Crossman proved an able partner. He turned her in wide arcs that threaded through the other dancers without a bump. The music swelled; she spun.

  “Do you captain the ships you build, Mr. Crossman? You navigate the dance floor with the sure step of a sea­man.”

  John smiled. “Interesting you should say that. In fact, I have never captained a ship. My father wouldn’t allow it.” He shrugged. “I was his only heir. He worried.”

  Passion waited for the next series of turns to pass. “So when do you embark?”

  John laughed. “I haven’t decided yet. Care for a glass of punch?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He smiled and twirled her right to the entrance of the refreshment hall.

  As they entered, Passion heard a startled gasp beside her. “Passion!”

  Passion turned at the sound of Charlotte’s voice. Her cousin rushed into her arms and then stepped back imme­diately. “Oh, Passion, I snuck over here in hopes of seeing you. You’re stunning!”

  Passion laughed. “So are you!”

  Charlotte stepped around and looked at Passion’s hair and the back of her gown. “Oh, Passion, it thrills me to see you like this. Leave it to you to pick the very most perfect color.” She gently touched the coppery-gold roses and verdigris leaves in Passion’s hair. “Where did you find these?”

  “Charlotte! What do you mean leaving our party?” Abigail Lawrence’s stern voice came low. “Stop gawking at her as if she were the blue ribbon pig at a country fair.” She forced a smile at a passing couple and then fixed a fast glare upon Charlotte. “You’re making a spectacle.”

  The smile faded from Charlotte’s face.

  “But madam”—John Crossman stepped forward—“it was a charming spectacle.” He smiled at Charlotte. “It is rare to see such a spontaneous show of happy admiration from one woman to another.” He fixed his gaze on Abigail. “Would that more women could be so gracious and confident.”

  Abigail held her tongue. Passion knew it was only be­cause she didn’t know who was addressing her.

  “Well, Passion,” Abigail said authoritatively. “Aren’t you going to introduce your escort?”

  Since her arrival in London, it was the first time she had seen Abigail Lawrence. Not once had she been invited to the Lawrence home. Charlotte always came to Aunt Matty’s. “A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Lawrence. My family sends their regards and prayers for your well-being.”

  Abigail lifted her chin. “You may send them my re­gards as well. And I suppose I should thank you for trying to teach Charlotte to paint. It was a valiant effort, I’m sure. But she has more important things to do now. And I’m afraid I shall not have the opportunity to entertain you and your aunt at my home.”

  Passion nodded. All the better, as long as she still had a chance to see Charlotte now and then.

  She turned to John. “Mr. Crossman, allow me to intro­duce my mother’s cousin, Mrs. Abigail Lawrence, and her daughter, Miss Charlotte Lawrence.”

  As John took Charlotte’s hand, Abigail stepped closer. “Are you any relation to the Crossmans of Crossman Shipping, sir?”

  John nodded but kept his eyes on Charlotte. “Yes, madam.”

  Abigail raised her brows haughtily at Passion, as if to say, “My, aren’t we doing well for ourselves—and isn’t that surprising?”

  “Well”—Abigail smiled as warmly as she could man­age—“it’s very nice to have met you, Mr. Crossman. I hope you will excuse us, though. We are engaged this evening for a private party at the other end of the pavil­ion—it is my daughter’s first evening out with her fiancé.” Abigail took Charlotte’s arm. “Come, Charlotte, we don’t want to keep the earl waiting.”

  Charlotte dared to stay Abigail for a moment while she paused to give Passion a parting kiss on the cheek. “You look beautiful, and I’m sorry about Mother,” she whis­pered before Abigail managed to pull her away.

  Passion sighed.

  “Do you suppose her broom is in the cloakroom?” John asked.

  “Her what?”

  “Her broom.” John drew Passion’s arm through his. “Isn’t that how Mrs. Lawrence arrived this evening, upon a broom?”

  Passion laughed as he led her to the refreshment table.

  “We’re late,” Matt remarked. “Mother will be peeved.”

  Mark shrugged as they entered the pavilion. “The less amount of time I have to spend on display, the better.”

  Matt smiled. “You really hate this, don’t you?” They paused just inside the entrance. “This isn’t just for Mother’s sake. It’s for your fiancée as well. Wedding in­vitations are being delivered. If we don’t put the right face on this, the nobility will ostracize her.”

  Mark raised his brows. Invitations? As soon as he got that letter, he’d be delivering notes of cancellation. “So what. Who needs their acceptance?” He gestured to the tall screens and silken ropes
that segregated the nobility from the gentry and well-to-do middle class that filled the rest of the pavilion. “Look at them, all clustered here to­gether. They’re no better than the people on the other side of those screens, yet heaven forbid they should deign to mix.”

  Matt gripped his shoulder. “Climb off that high horse, will you? Lord Fitzgerald has had this event planned for weeks. And while a bit unconventional for you and your fiancée’s first public appearance, it’s actually perfect. Most everyone will be here. Even Prince Albert may show.” Matt cocked his brow. “And since I don’t see you becoming a doting husband, the least you can do is make a good show of it and insure that your future wife has some society.”

  Mark frowned. His future wife was being forced upon him and could go to the devil as far as he was concerned. But Matt didn’t know that. Matt was good and decent and wanted Mark to be, too.

  Damn, he hated lying to him.

  He nodded at his brother. “I suppose I can bear it for a minute or two.”

  Matt grinned. “Excellent.”

  But it turned out that his tolerance didn’t last even that long. The moment he saw his mother and Abigail Lawrence standing together, his anger mounted. Charlotte was there, too, standing at her mother’s side.

  It took iron will to keep his face relatively blank as he moved through the crowd. Everyone who wasn’t dancing, and many who were, seemed to be looking at him. He was forced to nod greetings, shake hands, and bow over and over again before reaching the three women who awaited him.

  They smiled as he bowed before them. “Mrs. Lawrence. Mother.” He bowed to Charlotte. “Miss Lawrence.”

  At an almost imperceptible nudge from her mother, Charlotte lifted her hand to him. Christ, she was nothing but a damned puppet, moving on the commands of the marionette master at her side.

  He took her hand and restrained himself from crushing her white-gloved fingers in his as he bowed low and touched his lips to the kid leather.

  Releasing her quickly, he introduced Matthew. His brother was as charming as ever, and Lucinda smiled proudly upon her favorite son.