by Lisa Valdez
The soft click of the closing door exploded in his ears like thunder.
“Honestly, Aunt Matty!” Passion half smiled, half frowned. “You make it very difficult for me to draw you when you keep fidgeting.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you know how desperately difficult it is for me to sit still. How long does it take to do a portrait anyway?”
“Hours. Days even.”
“Hours! Days!”
Charlotte entered the sunroom.
“Oh, Charlotte. Thank heavens you’re here.” Aunt Matty leapt to her feet. “Sit here a while for me, won’t you? There’s a good girl. I’ve simply got to move about for a bit or else suffer some sort of attack!”
Passion smiled at Charlotte as Aunt Matty fairly ran from the sunroom. “This was to be my first attempt at a portrait in oil, and I’ve already lost my model.”
Charlotte tipped her head to the side. “You always used to say you were going to be a portrait painter.” She came around to see what Passion had accomplished. “But that was so long ago. I thought you had given up the idea.”
“I had.”
Charlotte gazed at the preliminary drawing. “What changed your mind?”
Mark had changed her mind.
She blushed and shrugged. “It wasn’t any one thing, really. I remembered that I had wanted to. Then someone told me I was very talented—someone who always tells the truth. Suddenly, I remembered my faith in myself.”
Charlotte examined the drawing. “You are talented.”
Passion looked at her cousin. Her voice lacked its usual lightness, and her lovely features were drawn and serious. Come to think of it, she hadn’t smiled with Passion when Aunt Matty had fled the room.
“What’s the matter, darling?”
Charlotte dropped into the chair. “Oh, Passion, last night was so awful.”
Passion put aside her canvas and drew her own chair close. “Why? What happened?”
“I don’t know. It was everything. The earl arrived late, and Mother was furious about it. You know how she is. She picks on everything when she’s angry, most of all me.”
“Darling, you mustn’t take that to heart. You’re a good and kind person. And you looked beautiful last night. 1 didn’t really have an opportunity to tell you, but you looked like an angel.” She smiled. “My word, John Crossman could hardly take his eyes off you.”
Charlotte’s mouth trembled. “Then perhaps I should be engaged to John Crossman, because I think my fiancé hates me.”
“What?” Passion swept her arms around Charlotte. “You must be mistaken. Why would you think such a thing?”
“I saw it in his face, Passion, just after he arrived. He looked at me as if I were some vile thing.”
“Did you suffer this all evening?”
“No. Most of the time he didn’t even seem to see me.”
Passion pulled back and held Charlotte’s hands in hers. “Well, did he talk with you? Dance with you?”
“He only spoke a little. We did dance.” Charlotte looked down at their clasped hands. “I suppose that was the best part of the evening. There were a few moments when I felt, perhaps, he might like me.” Charlotte lifted her gray eyes, and they held some hope. “Moments when he held me closer and his eyes softened. But they were only moments.”
Passion thought of Mark and their dance under the fireworks. She wished Charlotte could have even a portion of that happiness.
“A moment is something,” she offered. “I know I wasn’t there, but it was only your first public outing together. You hardly know him, Charlotte. Perhaps your fiancé dislikes social situations. Perhaps he is merely a quiet, stoic man of serious nature.”
Charlotte shook her head. “His smiles never seemed to reach his eyes, Passion.”
“Ah, but he did smile. You know, before they were married, my mother thought my father didn’t like her. She used to tell us how he barely spoke and rarely smiled. The truth was that my father was so in love with her and, as a result, so nervous around her, that he couldn’t demonstrate how he felt. It took almost losing her to another man to bring him out of himself.”
Charlotte’s brow twisted. “Do you think that could be it?”
“It’s a distinct possibility. Remember, Charlotte, he asked for you. Why would he have done that if he didn’t want you?”
“That’s what I keep asking myself.”
Passion thought for a moment as she remembered her exchange with Abigail Lawrence. “There’s another thing, Charlotte. You said before you thought he disliked your mother, and that he even seemed angry with his own mother. Weren’t both of those women there last night?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps his demeanor had more to do with them than you. Or perhaps…” Passion considered how to tell her cousin that she needed to be less cowardly. “Perhaps he believes you are too much under your mother’s thumb. Perhaps he believes your mother will be too much in your lives, or, as you suggested, that you may be like her or become like her.”
Charlotte was staring at her with wide eyes. “If she weren’t my mother, that would frighten me, too. She is my mother, and it frightens me.”
Passion held back her smile. “As a daughter, you must be dutiful and respectful, as God commands. But if you were to allow a little more of Charlotte to show herself, perhaps he would have faith that, when the time comes, you will cleave unto him. And that’s the only way he’s going to know you aren’t like her.”
Charlotte nodded. “I know I must be stronger.” She tightened her hands around Passion’s. “I shall be stronger.”
“We have a visitor, my dears.” Aunt Matty ushered in John Crossman. “Please sit down, Mr. Crossman, and I shall arrange for tea.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Crossman.” Passion smiled as she moved her chair back from Charlotte’s. “You know my cousin, Miss Lawrence.”
John bowed over Charlotte’s hand. “Have I interrupted something? I can come another time.”
“No, please, join us. We were just discussing the events of last evening. Isn’t the park a wonder?”
“It is.” John took a seat beside Charlotte and turned to her. “I didn’t have the opportunity to extend my best wishes to you upon your engagement, Miss Lawrence. Your mother made reference to an earl. Just who is your future husband?”
“Thank you, Mr. Crossman. I’m engaged to Randolph Hawkmore, Earl of Langley.”
“Really?” John’s brows lifted. “I’m familiar with his lordship.”
Charlotte leaned forward. “You know him?”
John shook his head. “Only by reputation. But he’s a large investor in Crossman Shipping. My father knew him.”
Passion glanced at Charlotte. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Crossman, just what is his reputation, and did your father ever tell you what he thought of him?”
“Unlike many of his class, he’s a man of good business sense. Therefore, my father liked him very much. As for his reputation—” He paused and looked at Charlotte. “He’s known for his honesty and integrity. And unlike most of his class, he won’t often be found at the gaming tables or the racetrack.” He hesitated. “Some do see him as dour and somewhat of a misanthrope. But his friends are few and close, so who really knows?”
Charlotte’s whole demeanor lifted.
Passion smiled with relief. “There, Charlotte, you see?”
“Tea? Did someone say tea?” Aunt Matty said as she entered. “God bless the Queen, and God bless tea! It’s on the way!”
Passion and John exchanged smiles.
Charlotte laughed.
Mark stood behind his desk and looked down on the drawings spread across the top. Work usually made him feel good, but not today. Since his breakfast with Matt, he had been trying to reconcile his emotions.
Though he had always had a small measure of regret over the idea of not having children of his own, he had become comfortable with the notion of passing his earldom to a son of Matthew’s. Now, that meant
killing a bloodline—and he kept seeing his father’s face.
With a grunt of frustration, he tossed his pencil on the desk and crossed to the window. His garden was in full bloom. He had designed the well-manicured space. But it, too, failed to please.
Passion occupied his thoughts as well. He wondered how much she was influencing his feelings. Not because he wished she could give him an heir, which she couldn’t, but because she made him want more for himself.
Before her, he had believed his life was, for the most part, set. He would go on as he was, take what pleasure he could from being an uncle, and his work would be the most important thing in his life.
But Passion had inspired a whole new range of emotions and desires in him. His previous life felt empty and cold to him now.
He frowned. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, but he knew it wasn’t what he had before.
A knock sounded on the door, and Cranford poked his head in. “Pardon me, my lord, but Mr. Wilkes is here to see you.”
Good Christ, let him have found it! “Send him in.”
Mickey sauntered past Cranford in a superior fashion, and Cranford closed the door behind him a bit louder than usual.
“Have you got it?”
Mickey pulled off his hat. “No, milord. Not as yet, I ‘aven’t. But I thought I’d keep ye informed o’ me progress, as it were.”
Mark crossed his arms over his chest. “She was at the pavilion all evening. I assume you searched her room first?”
“That I did, milord. That 1 did. Found lots o’ letters, too. But not a one from the coun’ess, I’s afraid. Howe’er”—he held up a slim finger—“I ‘ave ingratiated meself wit’ th’ upstairs maid. And, on me first day on the job, I’s a position o’ sorts in the Lawrence ‘ouse as a go-fetch-it boy.”
“Really?”
He nodded his head proudly. “‘At’s right, milord. ‘Cause there be more’in one way to skin a cat, as they say. The ‘elp a’ways knows what’s what. And I’ll tell ye some’in.” He leaned indolently against the back of the couch.
Mark let him.
“Turns out, ‘at Mrs. Lawrence is a real narsty type bitch. E’eryone ‘ates ‘er.” Mickey squinted his eyes. “Which works real swell for us, milord. ‘Cause when the ‘elp ‘ates ya, theys’ll do jus’ ‘bout anythin”t’put the screws’t’ya. So”—he winked—“I’s thinkin’ we got ourselfes a whole ‘ouse full o’ ‘elpers.”
Mark recalled noticing the butler’s sneer when he visited the Lawrences. He nodded. “Very impressive. Use them however you can. But in case you’re wrong, they can’t know your true purpose.”
“O” course not. “At’s the trick, ain’t it? ‘Owe’er, I’s a professional, I am. I’s a fly on the wall, I am. I’s as innocent as a babe, I is. No need’t’think Mickey’s up to nothin’. ‘E’s a good boy, ‘at Mickey is.” He grinned. “‘At’s what they says ‘bout me, milord.”
Mark nodded. “Excellent, Mickey. Excellent.” He crossed to the boy and hauled him off the back of the couch by his lapels. Setting him down, he patted the rumpled fabric with his hand. “Now, listen to me. I want that letter. And I want it soon.” He turned his mouth in a small smile. “So you use all the means at those deft fingertips of yours to get it. Understand?”
“Perfec’ly, milord. Perfec’ly.”
“Good. Get back to work then.”
Mickey tossed his hat on his head with a grin. “Good’ay, milord.”
Mark went back to his desk as the boy left. He felt better than he had all day. Despite his youth and bravado, Mickey Wilkes was as smart as a whip. And the truth was, he’d managed to accomplish a lot in one day’s work.
Mark picked up his pencil.
Mickey would find the letter.
He bent and darkened the shading on a column.
He had to.
*
Chapter Twelve
Love
Passion leaned back in the cab and adjusted the dark mourning veil she had donned. Excitement coursed through her veins. It was more than a week since she had come out of mourning. Though her nights had been spent with Mark, her days and evenings had been occupied with almost constant visits and outings. Charlotte came almost every day, even if only for a short while, mostly for reassurance about her fiancé and wedding. In the evenings, Aunt Matty accompanied her to social events, and they were usually joined by Alfred Swittly and John Crossman, who, thankfully, buffered Alfred’s overzealous behavior.
But today, she had told her aunt she was going out to do some shopping. When Aunt Matty protested, Passion reminded her that it was perfectly acceptable for a widow to go about a bit on her own during the day.
Of course, she wasn’t going shopping. She was going to Mark’s home. A shiver of anxiety shot through her at the risk she took. And a rivulet of remorse trickled through her for lying to her aunt. Though she knew it did not excuse her behavior, she decided she would stop at some shops on the way home, so as not to be completely false.
A light rain began to fall on the roof of the cab as it slowed to a halt. Passion peeked out the window. There were only a few people farther down on the street. It looked safe. After paying the driver, she stepped out and pushed open her umbrella. As the cab clip-clopped away, she gazed up at the front of the house. Situated on the corner, it rose two stories above the ground level. The pediments bore crisp white paint, and the front door was dark green with a large lion’s head door knocker. She stared at it for a moment. Of course, she wasn’t going in the front door.
Hurrying around the side of the house, she ducked her head and held her umbrella more tightly as a cold breeze buffeted her. She had known that the lion of her dreams was Mark, but how odd that it should appear at his home.
Quickly and without looking around, she pushed open a gate and entered a small side yard. There was the servant’s entrance. Just as she reached it, the door opened and she was pulled inside, umbrella and all. The door slammed, and Mark’s arms came around her.
He flipped back her veil and smiled. “What took you so long?”
She held her umbrella over them and water dripped onto the floor. “Am I late?”
He took her mouth in a brief intense kiss. “No, what took you so long to walk from the front to the side?”
“Oh, well I—”
He kissed her again, taking her breath away with his urgency.
She gasped and then smiled as he pulled back.
His blue eyes sparkled. “God, you’re beautiful.” He took her umbrella and, snapping it closed, put it in the umbrella stand.
“Don’t worry. I gave everyone the day off.” He held out his hand. “Your cloak and bonnet, madam. Or should I address you as Miss Passion Elvira Dartpoof?”
Passion laughed. “Oh, yes, that’s the one!” As she removed the articles, she said, “I have to leave by three. I have an important dinner engagement this evening.”
She discreetly admired Mark. He wore a dark blue dressing gown over a pair of buff trousers.
A brief frown puckered his brow. “I do, too. However, it isn’t at all important. In fact, I’d rather miss it.”
Though she’d seen him naked plenty of times, she’d never seen him dressed as if he were readying to bathe. She blushed as she handed him her bonnet and cloak.
Holding her things, he stared at her. “That gown is the color of buttercups,” he said, his voice a little rough.
Passion smiled. The gown was one of her favorites, and she’d worn it hoping he would notice.
He took her hand. “Come with me.”
She followed him through the back hallway to the front of the house, where they came out in a lofty vestibule with an elegant curving staircase to one side.
“You have a beautiful home,” she commented as he pulled her up the stairs.
“Thank you. It’s a Robert Adam house.” He looked over his shoulder as they started up a second flight. “I like how he varies the shapes of rooms.”
“He
is an architect, I presume.”
Mark smiled. “Yes—of the last century.”
At the landing, he turned toward the back of the house. Pushing open a door, he ushered her into his bedroom. It was large and expansive, taking up most of the width of the rear of the house. A huge bed, draped in dark green silk and gold trim, anchored one end of” the room. At the other end, a cheerful blaze burned in the fireplace and a comfortable seating area beckoned her.
A large desk was well placed by the light of the windows. As she passed it, she saw that it was covered with drawings. She paused and drew closer. Precise and intricate architectural renderings covered every page.
She looked at him as he crossed to her. “You’re an architect.”
He came to stand beside her. “Yes.”
She shook her head at the amazing detail drawn into a classical dome. “This is beautiful.”
“Thank you. These are my plans for the new National Library. That is, if I get the appointment.”
Passion gazed at four drawings depicting different sections of the library. The design was clean and elegant. It was Mark. “I think you’re right to have chosen a classical style. Everything is neo-Gothic now, but this—this is perfect.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He paused. “I chose it because I believe a building should be representative more of its purpose than its time. A library ought to be free of extraneous ornament and full of light to promote the pursuit of knowledge. I wanted a building that would reflect enlightenment and learning…”
Passion listened to Mark as he shared his vision. She looked at his drawings as he pointed out important details. Her heart warmed. This was what moved him. This was what mattered to him. She felt privileged that he was sharing something so important to him.
She smiled. “You’ll get the commission.”
“I hope you’re right.” He turned her toward the windows. “Look down there.”
Through the raindrop-splashed glass, Passion looked down at a garden. A fountain was situated in the center, and incredible islands of color broke the green, softening the formality of the space. “What a beautiful garden,” she commented softly.