Passion

by Lisa Valdez

  Charlotte nodded but seemed unsure if she should stay or go. Her gray eyes were hesitant as she raised them to Mark. “If I were you, I would think my mother horrid, too. But I am nothing like her. I will be a kind and loyal wife to you, my lord.”

  Mark stared at her. How he loathed her if-ing and but-ing. How he despised the pathetic attempts she’d made all week to rebuff her mother. They amounted to nothing. She ought not bother.

  “I shall join you in the parlor,” he said.

  Charlotte bowed her head and left with Rosalind.

  Matt glanced at Lucinda and then turned to him and raised a finger. “I told you. I told you, you would hurt her.” He turned away only to turn right back. “That, I must admit, was a whole lot worse than anything I could have imagined. But leave it to you to do it in the worst way possible.”

  Mark shook with his effort to keep his fists at his sides. “Fuck you. I had no idea they even knew each other.”

  “And you’re going to throw her away—so you can at­tach yourself to that vile bitch in there. You know what, brother mine, you must need misery in your life.”

  Rage ricocheted through Mark’s tense muscles. He walked away from Matt and his mother and the open par­lor doors.

  But Matt followed. “Yes, that’s it. You can’t abide hap­piness. No. No, you don’t even recognize happiness.”

  Mark whirled and slammed his fist right into his brother’s jaw. Matt reeled back, holding his chin. Lucinda gasped and hurried to them.

  Mark closed on him and shoved his finger in his face. “By God, if you say one more fucking word, I’ll hurl you down those stairs so fast and so hard, your loving Ros­alind”—he sneered the words—“will have to come pick up your pieces and sew you back together.”

  Lucinda yanked at Mark’s arm. “Don’t you ever touch my son!” she hissed. “Do you hear me? You leave him alone.”

  Mark jerked his arm from Lucinda’s grasp and stepped back from Matt.

  His mother turned to her favorite. Matt wrenched away from her and then, faster than Mark could react, his brother slapped their mother across the face.

  Lucinda gasped with shock and held her hand to her cheek.

  “This is all your fault,” Matt growled. “He is your son, too. If you could have found it in yourself to show him even the smallest bit of motherly regard, maybe he wouldn’t be marrying himself to misery. But thanks to you, he knows nothing else.” Matt turned and, testing his jaw, strode back to the parlor.

  Lucinda whirled on Mark. “This is all your fault. Why do you have to make everything so difficult? Why can’t you be as agreeable as—”

  “As Matthew?” Mark finished for her. How many times had he heard that as a boy?

  He looked at her reddened cheek. “If I’d only known what ‘agreeable’ truly meant to you, I’d have obliged you long ago.”

  He pushed past her and looked at his watch. It was too damned early. He wouldn’t be able to go to Passion for hours.

  God, what was she thinking? What was she doing?

  Drained and exhausted, Passion clutched her sheets be­neath her chin and curled in a tight ball. The hours had ticked away since Aunt Matty and John Crossman had left her to her to sob into her pillow. Her throat still stung with bile and her eyes with tears. The pain tearing at her heart suffocated her with the weight of betrayal, sin, and loss.

  She drew only the shallowest of breaths. She was both betrayed and betrayer, sin and sinner. Worst, her love, her hope for love, was nothing but a desperate illusion laid on a foundation of deceit and wrongdoing.

  Her heart tightened painfully. She gasped and pressed the heel of her palm against the shrinking organ. No. Not an illusion. Her love was deep and true—and unrequited.

  And undeserved. How could he have given her so much of himself, brought her into his home, when all along he was taking steps toward his future with Char­lotte?

  A dry sob rose in her throat. With Charlotte! God, with her cousin! Her cousin, who was a commoner like herself.

  Why Charlotte?

  Why not her?

  She squeezed her eyes shut in shame at the thought. But she couldn’t keep the questions at bay.

  The answers were all too simple. Charlotte was rich; Charlotte was young. Tears welled in her sore eyes. And an earl needed heirs, which he knew Passion could not provide.

  He had proposed to Charlotte after he knew she was barren. Might he have asked her, if she weren’t? Such a futile question. But at his home, he had said things—things that made her believe he cared for her.

  She bit her lip and turned her face into her pillow. Her thoughts were pathetic, and she hated herself for having them. But how would she survive the marriage of her cousin to the man she loved? God save her, she could not help loving him.

  Fresh tears fell. Would her love fade? Would the pain ease over time? What malevolent twist of fate had con­spired to bring this about?

  “I was sure I would find the window barred.”

  Passion gasped at the sound of Mark’s low voice and turned her face from her pillow.

  When he saw her, his concerned frown deepened. “Oh, Passion.”

  He stepped toward her, but she threw up her hand as she sat up. “No. Don’t come any closer.”

  She had been expecting him. But now that he was here, holding her in his blue gaze, she questioned her decision to speak with him. “I locked and unlocked the window a dozen times,” she said, her voice uneven. “But finally, I realized that we … That I needed to say good-bye.”

  “There’s no need to say good-bye, Passion.”

  Her head spun. How could he say such a thing? Her hands clenched around her sheet. “Very soon, you will be my cousin’s husband.” The words made her stomach turn and her heart rip. “How can you tell me there is no need for good-bye?” Her voice quavered. “We ought to have said good-bye long ago. We ought never to have been.”

  He frowned. “Don’t ever say that. That’s a lie.” He stared at her. “You’re the most perfect part of my life—the only perfect part. That’s not a mistake. That’s not wrong.”

  Passion pressed her hand upon her pounding heart as tears welled painfully. “It’s all wrong. How can you not see that? You belong to my cousin.”

  “She’s your second cousin, and I don’t belong to her,” he snapped. “I don’t even like her.” He shoved his hand through his hair. “You want to know what’s wrong. Pas­sion? Everything.”

  He dragged the chair to the side of her bed and sat down, his body rigid. He looked at his clenched fists for a moment before lifting his eyes to hers. They were cold as ice. “I was recently informed by my mother, whom I de­spise, that my brother is a bastard. Now, that was rather disturbing news in and of itself. However, there was more. It turns out she wrote a letter to a friend in which she bragged about her adulterous pregnancy.”

  Mark’s jaw was a hard line. “This so-called friend, a very rich woman with no title but with aspirations to the aristocracy, retained the letter for years, waiting until her own daughter was of marriageable age.”

  Passion’s head hurt. Could it be?

  Mark’s face was granite. “Then, just a month ago, she sent my mother a copy of the original letter along with a demand.”

  “No,” Passion whispered.

  “Yes,” Mark hissed. “Either I marry her daughter and make her Countess of Langley, or she publishes my mother’s nasty little news in the paper. And as my brother has no idea that he is illegitimate, and is currently engaged to a lady of some stature, you can imagine what such news might do to him.”

  Passion didn’t want to believe it, but it was just the sort of vile thing Abigail would do. She dropped her pounding head into her hands. No wonder Charlotte had complained of her fiancé seeming so cold and withdrawn. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

  “You’re sorry?” He sounded so bitter. “I offered her a fortune for that bloody letter, but she wants my title and my heirs.”

  Passion looked up
and sucked in her breath at the fury etched in his features. “That’s right, Passion. I’m not only required to marry your cousin, I’m required to bear chil­dren with her. Only after she is delivered of a minimum of three healthy children, with at least two being boys, will that bitch, Abigail Lawrence, give the letter into my hands.”

  His teeth ground together. “Of course, that’s what she says, but I don’t believe she will ever give it to me.”

  Passion struggled with her emotions. They all piled upon her in unrelenting succession. He didn’t want Char­lotte. She was being forced upon him. She felt relief, then shame for that relief. And how must it be for Mark? He was not a man who could tolerate submission. Horror, grief, heartache, and love all bore down upon her with an unbearable weight.

  “You must love your brother very much,” she whis­pered.

  “Matt’s the only reason I haven’t told Lawrence to do whatever she wants with that damned letter.”

  Passion nodded. Would that he loved her. She stared at her hands twisted in the sheets. No. No, that was wrong. Thank the Lord he didn’t. She tried to swallow her sorrow, but it caught around the lump in her throat. “This is the last time we shall see each other like this, Mark.” Tears filled her eyes. “For all Abigail’s evil, Charlotte is inno­cent. You must be a kind husband to her.”

  “No!” He shook his head. “No, I will not give you up. I have no intention of marrying Charlotte Lawrence.” His frown deepened. “And she’s far from innocent. She’s a weak, simpering, mealymouthed nitwit who bows to her mother’s every command. You think I would give you up for her?”

  Passion frowned. “But what do you mean, you have no intention of marrying her?”

  “I mean I have someone searching for that letter. And as soon as he finds it, which he will, I will tell Abigail Lawrence to go to hell and to take her daughter with her.”

  She stared at him through the blur of her tears. “But you can’t do that. If you abandon my cousin, she will be ruined.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t understand—I’m being black­mailed, Passion. I’m being fucking blackmailed,” Mark growled. “Do you expect me to just roll over and take it—as if it were nothing? Do you expect that I won’t do every­thing in my power to free myself from this loathsome tyranny? Do you expect that I will give you up for any­thing or anyone? Because, if so, you are sorely mistaken.”

  Passion’s tears fell. His words were a joy and a torture. Oh, terrible pride, terrible love! “I expect you to be the man I know you are—a man of nobility and honor.”

  “Do not speak to me of nobility and honor,” he spat. “Nobility and honor destroyed my father. I have no aspi­rations to either of those characteristics.”

  Could he know himself so little? God, how she longed to take him in her arms. “You cannot help who you are,” she murmured. “And I cannot stay with you. You belong to my cousin.”

  “I belong to no one but you,” he answered, his voice cracking.

  Passion sucked in her breath as her heart wrenched fiercely in her breast. “Would that were true.”

  Mark leaned closer. “It is true. That first day I went to the Crystal Palace, I was supposed to go to the china ex­hibit and view your cousin. But I had decided I wouldn’t. Matt and I roamed the place for an hour and were prepar­ing to leave when I changed my mind. At the time, I had no idea why.” He held her in his gaze. “Now I know I went there to find you. You are the woman I was supposed to meet that day. You, Passion Elizabeth Dare, not your cousin.”

  Passion’s eyes brimmed with tears of anguish. She shouldn’t hear this, not now. But she couldn’t bring her­self to stop him.

  “You know what I say is true.” Mark’s voice grew ur­gent. “When I pulled you out of the way of that falling tree. I smelled you and felt you and you filled my em­brace. Then, when I looked into your beautiful eyes, I saw something that made my heart beat faster and my blood race. I had to force myself to release you. But when I walked away, it felt wrong. And the farther I walked away from you, the more wrong it felt.” He leaned forward in the chair. “I told myself I would take one last look, and as I turned, I was afraid you would be gone. But you weren’t. You were there, looking right at me. I knew then I wanted you more than I’d ever wanted anything.”

  “Stop!” Passion cried on a whisper. “Stop! You are more than an architect, you are an earl. Earls require heirs.” She pressed her hands against her stomach. “Today, as we spoke, I let myself dream of what it might be like to have a life with you. But that is impossible. We both know it is.”

  He stared at her, his eyes full of unreadable emotions. “I won’t give you up,” he repeated. “I won’t.”

  “It isn’t only up to you. This has moved beyond our se­cret.” Secrets breed trouble. She had told herself that. “In the eyes of society, you belong to Charlotte.”

  “I do not.”

  “You do!”

  His eyes glittered. “I don’t love her!”

  “But I love her!”

  Mark’s face became a mask.

  Passion’s tears spilled down her cheeks. I love you! “And I will not betray her!”

  Mark didn’t move.

  “Don’t you see? Everything I feared, and more, has come to pass. I knew it was wrong to be with you. I knew I risked my heart and more. But I put my own needs be­fore propriety, before duty. I ignored my morals and gave myself, willingly, to the temptation you offered. Your touch, your kiss, your mere presence called to me so strongly. I reveled in my fall. And now I’m paying a greater price than I dreamed imaginable.” She swallowed and choked on her tears. “This is no longer just between the two of us. My father is right. The world does suffer when God’s laws are broken.”

  Mark’s expression was a portrait of rage. “What of the laws Abigail Lawrence is breaking? Where are her morals? Where is her propriety and duty? Or is it now proper and moral to pander one’s daughter?” His eyes flashed with fury. “And what of my suffering? Suffering, in the face of which, you expect me to be noble and hon­orable. Suffering I’m supposed to bear over a lifetime with equanimity and grace.” His voice grew harder with every word. “I’m not the bloody Savior, Passion. I’m a man. And I will not crucify myself on the altar of your morality!”

  “Charlotte is innocent!”

  Mark leapt to his feet and bent toward her. “Abigail Lawrence holds a knife at my throat, and that knife is Charlotte. She is the tool of my torture, the prison I am confined to. I am enslaved by her pathetic existence.”

  Passion’s misery streamed down her face.

  “Don’t you tell me she is innocent. She is as much a participant in this disgusting scheme as her mother and mine. I do not excuse her ignorance!”

  Passion gasped as he grabbed her chin.

  His eyes flashed. “And I will not give you up for her. Do you hear me? You are mine.”

  She stared up at him through her tears. “I am yours only when I give myself. You cannot take me.”

  “Can’t 1? I could do it now.”

  Oh, God! “You won’t.”

  He spun away from her, and she closed her eyes with a sob.

  His voice reached out to her. “Don’t ever refer to what we’ve had together as a ‘fall.’ To do so is a greater sin than any other you believe we’ve committed.”

  Her insides twisted with regret. But when she looked for him, he was gone.

  Her heart broke into a thousand pieces.

  How would she ever find them? How would she gather them back together?

  How would she ever be whole again?

  *

  Chapter Fourteen

  Insistent Relatives

  Mark rolled his completed plans for the new National Li­brary and tied them with two dark green ribbons. Between them, he carefully dripped green sealing wax and then af­fixed the Hawkmore seal. With a brush and bit of gold paint, he put the finishing touches on his escutcheon. He stared down at the gold lion rampant upon a field of hunter green.

&n
bsp; He was like the lion—forever rearing and raging. He’d been doing it his whole life. When would it end? When would his life finally cease to be a battle?

  When Passion gave up her ludicrous ideals and ac­cepted that they still belonged together. When she realized that she couldn’t keep him away. When she understood that they were more important than the life of treachery and lies she would have him live.

  She had to understand. She must!

  He picked up the plans. Three weeks ago, they had meant more to him than anything. Yesterday, as Passion had admired the design and details he pointed out, her in­terest had made him feel proud and accomplished. He had believed her when she’d said he would get the commis­sion.

  Today, he didn’t care.

  He put the plans on a shelf.

  “Are they finished?”

  Mark turned to face his brother. “Yes.” He pointed to the covered tray on the table by the window. “Your break­fast is over there.”

  Rubbing his hands together, Matt sat down and served himself a heaping plate of food.

  “Mother doesn’t rise till eleven,” Matt commented, “and I hate to eat alone.”

  Mark took a seat opposite his brother and leaned on his fist. Matt’s chin was varying shades of red, black, and blue. He’d told everyone at the dinner party he’d run into a door.

  “Does that mean I should expect you every day? Your presence is becoming a habit.”

  Matt shrugged. “Your cook is excellent.” He looked at Mark as he chewed and swallowed his bacon. “I’m sorry about last night. I spoke in anger. Your life is your own. You have responsibilities to your title, not the least of which are heirs. It is not my place to question you.”

  “Yes it is.”

  Matt smiled briefly, fingering his chin. “Well, perhaps not so vehemently.” His face grew serious. “You’re my brother, Mark, and I stand by you, whatever you do. If I step over the line, it’s only because I care about you.”

  Mark’s chest tightened. “I know.”

  Matt took a bite of his poached egg. “I apologized to Mother as well.”

  “She forgave you, of course.”