by Lisa Valdez
Passion lowered her gaze. Could she do it? Could she convince him? Mark cared for her, that much she knew. Could she persuade him to stay with Charlotte? Was her influence powerful enough?
Her chest hurt with the weight of the burden.
She blinked back her own tears before lifting her eyes to Charlotte. “Very well, darling. If you need me, if I can be of some help to you, then I must stay, mustn’t I?”
Charlotte threw herself against Passion. “Thank you! Thank you!”
Passion shuddered at the uncertainty of her new resolve. “I must write to Patience and Prim right away,” she murmured. “Right away.”
She would need her sisters. They would buffer her in the storm to come.
Anxiety and doubt strummed her nerves painfully.
She clung to Charlotte.
Was she strong enough to push the man she loved into the arms of her cousin? She closed her eyes. And would he hate her for it?
“Where the hell is it?” Mark growled.
He stood up from behind his desk as Mickey Wilkes entered the room.
The boy shook his head. “She’s hid it right well, she ‘as. But you knows me, milord. If’n it can be found, I’s’ll find it.”
“Then why haven’t you?”
“Truth is, milord, I ‘spected to by now. But she’s a clever ol’ bitch, she is.” He scratched his chin. “Ain’t in any o’ the usual places.”
Mark leaned forward and ground his knuckles into the desktop. “Then you must look in the unusual places.”
“Yeah.” Mickey nodded. “I know.” The boy squinted his eyes thoughtfully. ‘“Ere’s the thing, milord. There be a lot o’ whisperin’ and gossipin’ ‘mongst the ser’ants. A’-most seems like they got themsel’es some sort o’ secret. An I’s won’erin’ if’n it don’t ‘ave some’in’t’do wit yer letter.”
Mark’s heart pounded. “If so, then they must know where it is.”
Mickey nodded. “They might. I just won me way under the skirts o’ the upstairs maid. She be a sweet girl, but not real smart. So if’n she knows some’in, I should know it, too, in a few fucks.”
Mark opened his desk drawer and, picking up a leather purse, heaved it at Mickey. “What are you waiting for? Get back to work.”
The coins clinked, and Mickey grinned as he weighed the purse in his hand. “My thanks to ye, milord.”
“Don’t thank me yet. If you don’t find that letter, I’ll have to kill you.”
Mickey looked speculatively at Mark and then smiled. “You wouldn’a do that, milord.”
Mark shoved back his hair. “Perhaps not. But if I kill myself, you won’t get paid. So get that bloody letter.”
Mickey grinned. “Righto, milord.”
Flipping his cap onto his head, the boy turned to go.
“And Mickey,” Mark called. “The unusual places—look in all the unusual places.”
Mickey winked. “I’s the king o’ unusual, milord. The emperor o’ unusual, I am. The—”
“Go!” Mark ordered.
After the boy had sauntered from the room, Mark collapsed back into his chair.
He needed that letter.
It was time for this farce to end. He was sick of the lies. And if he had to endure another lecture from his brother, he was in danger of breaking something. He didn’t want that something to be Matthew’s jaw.
Mark rubbed his forehead. When he had the letter, he would be free. Free to pursue Passion—free to convince her to stay with him. She was all he wanted. He knew that now. Her presence magnified everything wonderful and diminished everything terrible. With her he felt happy, alive. He would never give her up. Never!
But what of heirs?
He pushed away the thought.
His head hurt. And he was so tired.
Although his bed had always been a place of peaceful slumber in the past, last night, it had been a rack of torture upon which he had tossed and turned restlessly until dawn.
It was the first night he hadn’t slept with Passion since coming to her room. He missed the warmth of her curled beside him. He missed the smell of her. He missed her touch and the feel of her in his arms.
He missed her.
His eyes stung, so he closed them.
Everything was amiss.
Everything.
*
Chapter Fifteen
Punishing Mark
“Were I directing this production, Mrs. Redington, I would cast you in the role of Bianca, so sweet is your disposition,” Alfred Swittly declared as the lights went up for intermission on The Taming of the Shrew.
He mopped his brow with his handkerchief, and Passion wondered if his theater seat wasn’t pinching him terribly.
“Yet the shrewish Kate turns out to be the better wife,” John Crossman interjected.
“Oh, Mr. Crossman, don’t tell the end!” Aunt Matty exclaimed.
“A thousand pardons, Mistress Dare.”
Aunt Matty looked at the crowd as people rose from their seats. “I simply must move about,” she said. “However, my poor toe is sure to be trod upon, and I simply couldn’t bear that again. Perhaps I might lean upon your arm, Mr. Swittly. A man of your stature will surely prevent my being bumped and jostled.”
Alfred glanced reluctantly at Passion. “Well, I—”
Aunt Matty took Alfred’s arm. “Mr. Crossman, do take Passion beneath your protective wing, won’t you?” She turned, pulling Alfred with her. “Oh!” She glanced back. “There’s one of those treacherous palm trees just at the exit, here. So, everyone, mind your eyes.” She turned to Alfred as they stepped into the aisle. “Did I mention, Mr. Swittly, that Passion was nearly blinded by a palm frond? They are really very dangerous. I think they ought to be banned from all public places. Don’t you?”
Passion shared a small smile with John Crossman as they, too, moved into the crowded aisle.
He looked at her for a moment. “How are you feeling?” he asked softly.
“I’m well, thank you.”
A small frown puckered his brow, but he nodded. “Mrs. Redington, if there is any way I may be of service to you, I hope you will allow me.”
Passion looked into his vivid green eyes. The night before, in his coach, he had held her while she wept upon his shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Crossman. But you have already been of the greatest help to me. Had you not been there last night, I don’t know what I would have done. I’m so grateful to you for your graciousness.” She lowered her eyes. “I’m afraid you’ve seen me at my worst.”
“I would rather be with you at your worst, than with some people at their best.”
Passion smiled. “You are a kind man.”
He looked down at her. “Kind, gracious, grateful. Those aren’t exactly the words I was hoping for.”
She frowned. Did he think her insincere? “You have become a good friend to me.” She put her hand atop his arm. “I hope you know I honor our friendship by speaking only from my heart.”
He looked at her hand upon his arm. “I know.” His smile did not reach his eyes as it usually did. He nodded. “I know.”
Aunt Matty and Alfred had turned and awaited them.
Alfred put his huge hand over his heart. “Forgive me, Mrs. Redington, but you look like a rare flower in that rose-colored gown.”
“I wasn’t aware that a rose could claim rarity as one of its attributes, Mr. Swittly.” She smiled to soften the sting of her words.
“Your lovely face rarifies the color, Mrs. Redington.”
The man was quick with a response, that was certain.
“Tell us, what do you think of the play?” Alfred inquired. “I have a particular fondness for Petruchio. Such a jolly and wily fellow. I do believe I could play his role splendidly.”
Passion looked at Alfred. He probably would be perfect for the role. She frowned as a thought came to her. “Have you never considered taking the stage, Mr. Swittly? You seem so well suited to it.”
&nb
sp; The man’s eyes lit up. “Do you think so, Mrs. Redington? The truth is, I have considered it.”
“I happen to know that his aunts are not in agreement with such a pursuit,” Aunt Matty said, shaking her head.
A little of the light faded from Alfred’s expression. “Unfortunately, it is not a profession that affords a stable living. A man must make his fortune in the world.”
“Some men are destined for fame, not fortune,” John offered.
Alfred puffed up and stood a little taller.
“Besides,” John continued, “fortune often follows fame.”
Passion nodded. Let him pursue the stage rather than her.
Aunt Matty frowned and wagged her finger. “Your aunts would not approve of this, Mr. Swittly.”
Alfred’s face was all excitement. “I am merely giving the idea some thought, Mistress Dare. A man must, after all, follow his destiny.”
“Destiny is a powerful force.” The low voice came from behind Passion.
Her stomach flipped, and her legs trembled as she turned.
Mark held her in his blue gaze. “Some things are meant to be—and ought not be resisted.” His eyes moved over her. “Do you agree, Mrs. Redington?”
Passion could hear her blood rushing in her ears and, God help her, her nipples tingled and tightened. “I—I do not pretend to understand the complexities of destiny, my lord. I can only say that people must follow their hearts, their minds, and their morals and hope that what they do is right.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Mark said. He turned and moved between Passion and John. “Good evening, Mr. Crossman.”
John bowed his head. “Good evening, my lord.”
Passion made the introductions for the rest of the group. Mark stood so close she could smell him. She longed to touch him.
He bowed to Aunt Matty, who was aflutter with excitement, and nodded to Alfred, who had turned red from collar to hairline.
“I—I—that is to say, forgive me, my lord,” Alfred stammered. “Had I—had I known who you were at the Crystal Palace, I would not have addressed you so harshly.” Alfred dabbed his brow with his handkerchief. “I should tell you that I came to regret my actions that day and wished that I might have the opportunity to meet you again, so that I might convey those regrets.” Alfred smiled. “But I despaired of the opportunity ever occurring.” He held his handkerchief to his chest and bowed his head. “I’m just grateful that it has.”
“I do not require your apology, sir,” Mark said stiffly. “Mrs. Redington is the one who merits your regrets.” Mark arched a brow. “As I’m certain you have already voiced them to her, I have no further quarrel with you.”
Alfred glanced worriedly at Passion while Aunt Matty looked confused.
John stepped forward and frowned at his cousin. “To what is the earl referring?”
“If I may?” Passion interjected. “It was an unfortunate misunderstanding that does not bear repeating.”
Alfred nodded vigorously. “Mrs. Redington is correct. And in the words of the bard, all’s well that ends well.”
While John engaged Mark about a measure coming before the House of Lords and Aunt Matty and Alfred listened attentively, Passion tried to calm her nerves and quiet her heart.
She stared at the relaxed curve of his gloved hand. Yesterday, she might have briefly slipped her hand into the warmth of his. He would have stroked her palm with his long fingers.
And if they had been alone, she would have stepped into his embrace and lay her head against his chest—closing her eyes as she listened to the steady beat of his heart. He would have held her close while he pressed his lips to her brow and then to her mouth. And she might have breathed, I love you, because her heart was so full and the words would no longer be contained.
She swallowed the lump in her throat.
But that was yesterday.
Now it was going to be like this. Near, but never touching. Wanting, but never having. Feeling, but never acknowledging.
“Passion, Aunt Matty!”
Turning with a smile, to hide the shine of unshed tears, Passion faced Charlotte and Mark’s brother. She quickly hugged her cousin. “Hello, darling.”
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Charlotte whispered before withdrawing.
Passion forced her smile to remain as everyone was introduced. She could feel both Mark’s and Matthew’s gaze upon her.
“We’re here with the countess and Mother,” Charlotte said. “We’re going to the Pavillion after the play. A new orchestra from Austria will be playing this evening.” She looked quickly and nervously at Mark and then said, “Why don’t all of you join us there?”
Passion sucked in her breath. Dear God, no!
Mark looked at her.
Matthew looked at Mark.
Aunt Matty and Alfred spoke over each other in their eagerness to accept.
John looked at her with a hopeful smile. “Would you like to, Mrs. Redington?”
“Please, Passion,” Charlotte begged.
Passion’s head pounded. She wanted to run.
“Have you forgotten that your cousin was ill last night?” Mark said icily. “Do not press her.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the group, but it gave Passion a brief moment to gather her wits. “Thank you, my lord, for your concern.” She smiled. “Charlotte knows, however, that I am quite recovered. We would be delighted to join you.”
Only after the bells had summoned the guests back into the theater—and she had taken her seat between Alfred and John, the lights had dimmed, and the play had begun—did Passion let herself fall apart.
She fell silently and internally, with barely the flutter of an eyelash or the twitch of a finger.
Just as during her marriage, no one would see, no one would know.
But inside, she fell as she had never fallen before. She wailed and groveled beneath the weight of her emotions—emotions that were a hundred times more devastating than those she had suffered while she was married.
That experience had numbed her.
What would this do?
How long could she stand the pain?
How long before the scream inside became too loud to contain?
Mark watched Passion whirl across the dance floor with John Crossman. He hated the sight of the other man’s hand on her waist. He hated the easy familiarity they seemed to share.
Most of all, he hated having to pretend that Passion didn’t mean anything to him. He was dying to take her in his arms, dying to shout to the world that she was his. To stand there passively, acting as though they were no more than mere acquaintances, was almost more than he could endure.
Somehow, it was the worst lie of all.
“You mustn’t stare at her so much,” Matt said quietly. “Mother is watching you.”
Mark frowned but kept his eyes on Passion.
His mother and Lawrence had been appalled that Charlotte had invited such lowly guests into their company—guests of whom they would never have approved. However, Charlotte had remained surprisingly resolute in her insistence and, for once, he had supported her. Since arriving, his mother and Lawrence had remained unsurprisingly rude and dismissive, though it was clear they both took particular notice of Passion. Lawrence’s snide comments indicated jealousy, his mother’s, suspicion.
He just wanted her—desperately.
“In about two weeks, she is going to be related to you by marriage,” Matt continued. “You’re going to have to learn to see her as nothing more than a distant cousin.”
A chill moved down Mark’s spine. He turned to his brother and spoke in a low, tight voice. “And how shall I do that, Matt? How shall I teach my body not to yearn for her, when the very scent of her makes me hard? How shall I force her from my mind when every memory of her is a joy? How shall I treat her as some inconsequential relation, when every fiber of my being cries out for her?” Mark tried to slow his heart. “How, Matt? How shall I do tha
t?”
Matt just stared at him. “I don’t know,” he murmured.
“I don’t either.”
The music ended, and Mark crossed the dance floor before John Crossman could lead Passion off.
She lowered her eyes as she saw him approaching. He hated that. He wanted her to look at him as she had before.
“May I have the next dance, Mrs. Redington?”
She paused for a moment, and his shoulders tensed as he thought she might actually refuse him.
But then she nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
John Crossman bowed and put Passion’s gloved hand into Mark’s.
He drew a deep breath as he closed his fingers around hers. It was right. He remembered the first time he had held her hand at the Crystal Palace. It had been right then and it still was.
As the music began, he swept her into the curve of his arm and pulled her close. She kept her eyes lowered, but he was ecstatic just to hold her.
He breathed vanilla and orange blossoms and, beneath that sweet fragrance, he breathed the sweeter smell of her—Passion’s skin, Passion’s hair—the scent that still clung, in traces, to the pillow he had clutched during the previous night.
He danced with her to the far side of the dance floor. He wanted to look at her and touch her in a way that was the truth—no pretense, no lies.
He splayed his hand across the gentle curve of her lower back. “You can look at me now,” he said softly. “They can’t see us.”
“Other people can. We are on public display. Besides, it no longer matters if they are near or far,” she replied. “There is no screen that can shield us anymore.”
He frowned as he turned her. “What do you mean?”
She finally raised her eyes to his. Such beautiful eyes. “I mean that we cannot hide from ourselves.”
“I have no desire to do so.”
“Yes, you do.” She implored him with her eyes as they moved blindly to the waltz. “Oh, Mark, don’t you see?” Her voice shook. “We can never be together again. Never.”
Stunned and brittle with tension, he felt his chest constrict. “I explained everything to you last night. I came to you and I explained everything.”