by Lisa Valdez
Anxiety coursed through him.
Where was it? He needed it!
Then his fingers brushed something. The pearl flower!
With a relieved moan he closed his hand over the small piece of bent metal and drew it from the water.
He looked at it anxiously. So lovely, so delicate.
Closing his hand protectively around it, he kissed the top of his clenched fist.
His shaking legs would not hold him. He dropped to the wide ledge of the fountain and sat.
His breath came in heaves.
No. Nothing would ever be as it was before—because he loved her.
*
Chapter Sixteen
Declarations
From beneath the shade of her wide-brimmed straw hat, Passion gazed across the smooth lake at a lovely rotunda. A place where one might enjoy tea or a little music, it was one of the focal points of the grounds at Hawkmore House. Trees in graduated heights framed the view.
A Romanesque bridge had brought her to the place she now stood. It was quiet and peaceful, the only sound being the occasional twitter of birds. The sky hung clear and blue above her, and the air was still.
The grounds were the most beautiful she had ever seen, grounds to inspire joy and serenity. In the next few days, the sound of voices and laughter would filter across the lake and sprawling lawns, as wedding guests explored the many views, monuments, and outbuildings that made up the circuit around the main house.
And the house itself, a huge Palladian manor with extended wings, would fill with excited guests—guests who knew nothing of the misery, dishonor, and hatefulness that infected the main players of the event they had come to witness—guests who knew nothing of the secrets and lies that drove everything toward some inevitable finale.
Passion turned and walked slowly along the edge of the lake. She had seen Mark almost every evening during their last week in London. But she had had no opportunity to plead Charlotte’s case. Exchanging only the briefest, most trivial dialogue, they had always been in the presence of others.
They acted as mere acquaintances, and Mark might as well have been just that, for Passion came to barely recognize him. As the week progressed, the dark shadows had deepened beneath his eyes. Morose, and with a constant frown etched deeply between his brows, he seemed to have thrown off even the slightest pretense of civility to those he despised.
His mother and Abigail Lawrence bore the brunt of his wrath, but Charlotte did not entirely escape him. He avoided and ignored them in front of others. Privately, he cut them at every turn.
Passion felt no pity for the countess and Abigail, but Charlotte was suffering. Withdrawing from the engagement was out of the question—she could not bear that scandal. Yet she cried every day on Passion’s shoulder as she disclosed her feelings. Charlotte secretly gloried in Mark’s furious retorts to Abigail, but she cringed and wept when he sent a dart at her. She was exhibiting an ever-increasing independence from her mother, and most painful, she was trying so hard to win Mark’s regard. But nothing she did affected any change in him.
Passion watched a pair of swans land on the lake.
It had been a harrowing and horrible week. If she hadn’t been comforting Charlotte, she’d been trying to comfort herself. She had slept little, for at night she missed Mark most. Painting had become her main solace.
She sat down on a low bench and observed the lovely birds glide across the surface of the glassy water.
She was exhausted.
She closed her eyes and summoned images from their last day together.
At first she had denied herself her memories, but now she basked in them. They were all she had—and they were hers.
She saw him laughing, his beautiful eyes crinkling at the corners. She saw him gazing at her with rapt attention as he cut away her undergarments. She saw his tender uncertainty as she had opened his gift, and his reluctance to let her go as he had slowly tied the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin.
Her chest tightened, and she tried to take a deep breath.
“Passion!”
“Passion!”
The remnants of her broken heart leapt. Her eyes flew open, and she jumped to her feet as she heard the familiar cries.
Patience! Prim!
She sobbed and began to run to the two young women who waved at her from the bridge. Patience’s bright red curls bounced, and Prim’s hat flew back on her shoulders as they both ran to meet her.
Tears streamed down Passion’s face.
They were here!
Sobs racked her. She gasped for breath, but still she ran.
Just a moment more. Just a moment more, and she would feel their comforting arms around her.
“Patience! Prim!” Her voice cracked and her call had no power. But she could see them through her tears—could see their pace quicken even as hers slowed.
She opened her arms. And they were there.
“Thank God!” she sobbed as she felt the familiar feel of them, the familiar smell of them. “Thank God!”
Her knees buckled, and they dropped with her to the grassy ground beneath a tree. Prim’s arms came around her and gently pulled off her straw hat. Passion cried against her breast as Patience held her hand and murmured calming words in her soft voice.
They were here. She wasn’t alone.
She wept until it seemed she had no more tears. Then she laid her head quietly in Prim’s lap, and as Patience smoothed her brow, she told her sisters everything.
They listened with unwavering attention. They whispered words of comfort. They shed tears of sympathy.
She didn’t stop talking until the whole tale was told.
“Oh, Passion,” Prim breathed in a cracked voice. “Oh, my darling sister…”
Patience held Passion in her piercing green gaze. Her eyes were moist, and a frown marred her brow. “How are you doing this?”
Her sister’s question could refer to anything or everything. But it didn’t matter, because the answer was the same. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t know either.” Patience leaned closer and smoothed Passion’s hair. “You should have the man you love. You deserve love.” She shook her head. “You deserve happiness, not this terrible sorrow.”
Passion almost smiled at her sister’s tender vehemence. “And what of Charlotte?”
“Yes,” Prim said thoughtfully. “What of Charlotte?”
“What of Charlotte?” Patience’s frown deepened. “What of you? What of the earl?” Her green eyes sparkled. “This is love! This is happiness! This is everything your marriage wasn’t. Are you going to walk away? Are you going to hand your love, your happiness, over to someone else?”
“Not someone. Charlotte.”
“What if Charlotte knew?” Prim sat straighter, and one of her strawberry blond curls fell forward. “Would she still want this marriage, knowing it was forced?”
“It’s not my secret to tell, Prim. Anyway, if this marriage doesn’t happen, Abigail will publish the letter.”
“That witch,” Patience said low.
Passion twirled her finger in Prim’s curl. “Besides, Charlotte really does want him. She idolizes him for every cutting salvo he launches at her mother.”
“I could idolize him for that, too,” Patience offered.
Passion managed a brief smile. “I’m so glad you’re both here. I’ve missed you more terribly than you could know.”
Prim’s sky-blue eyes looked down on her with concern. “We’re here now, and we love you.”
Patience pressed a kiss to Passion’s brow and then smoothed it with her hand.
Passion let her eyes fall closed.
“Just rest,” Patience whispered. “We’re here.”
Mark leaned against the trunk of an old oak and watched them. Passion lay with her head in one sister’s lap—it must be Primrose, for the one with the red curls who held Passion’s hand could only be Patience. They were comforting her, stroki
ng her.
His chest grew tight. Since the night of the engagement party, it was the first time he had seen Passion so completely vulnerable. He wanted to go to her, to Hold her and comfort her. To tell her…
But she wouldn’t allow that. Her sisters guarded her now. They were her protection. They were her support.
He took a ragged breath. Yet his arms ached for her. His body begged for her. And his heart belonged to her.
If he could just offer it to her, maybe she would not reject it. If he handed her everything… Maybe then… Maybe then they could both survive.
“You have a visitor in the library,” Matt said quietly as he walked up beside Mark. “It’s Mickey Wilkes.”
Mark shuddered. Did he have the letter? He gazed across the wide lawn at Passion. For him, it no longer mattered. It only mattered for Matthew now.
“Who are they?” Matt had followed his gaze.
“Passion’s sisters. Patience and Primrose.”
“Lovely names,” his brother said idly as he stared across the distance. He shook his head. “It’s good they’re here. She needs them.”
“Yes. She does.” Mark turned back toward the house. “Are you coming?”
“In a moment,” Matt replied, his eyes still trained on the sisters.
Mark paused. “There’s something about them, isn’t there?”
His brother nodded, and a frown creased his brow. “Yes. What is it?”
Mark looked at Passion in the care of her sisters. “It’s the lingering touch. It says, ‘You are my first and only concern.’ It whispers, ‘I am in no hurry to leave you, and I shall stay with you for as long as you need.’”
“Yes,” Matt murmured. “That’s it.”
“It makes you want to feel it, to experience it.”
Matt looked at him. “Yes.”
Mark nodded. “I have. It’s the finest thing in the world.”
He turned, leaving his brother behind, and headed for the house. He found Mickey in the library, trying to read the title on the spine of a book.
“Good’ay, milord.” The lad pushed his black hair back from his brow and frowned. “You al’right, milord?”
Mark knew he looked haggard. “Do you have it?”
“No, milord. But I knows who does.”
Mark frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, milord, tha’ the very let’er yer lookin’ for be in the unexpec’ed possession o’ yer fiancee, Miss Charlotte Lawrence.”
Mark’s frown deepened. “What?”
Mickey nodded. “Turns out, tha’ th’ upstairs maid I bin pumpin’”—he winked—“fer information, gave the let’er into ‘er very ‘and the day they lef fer ‘ere. So, tha’ bitch, Lawrence, don’t e’en know its missin’.”
Mark pressed his fingers between his brows. What the hell did this mean? It meant she knew. She must, yet she had said nothing, revealed nothing.
“Why? Why did the maid give the letter to Charlotte?”
“She says she gave i’to ‘er ‘cause they all likes ‘er so much. They wan’ed ‘er to know what was what, so’s she wouldn’t be caught unkowin’. She said, much as it might ‘urt ‘er, Miss Charlotte ought’t’ know ‘er mum’s true col’rs.”
Apparently, knowing made no difference to his fiancée.
“An’way, milord, I’s thinkin’ i’should be easy as pie’t’ge’it now. She jus’ go’ ‘ere. It’ll be in ‘er things.”
Mark nodded but remained silent. Did Passion know her cousin had the letter?
“I’s’ll ge’it when e’ery one’s ‘avin’ supper. Yeah.” Mickey nodded. “Yu’ll ‘ave yer let’er tonight, milord.”
What then? Mark looked at Mickey. “Where was the damned thing?”
Mickey pointed to the ceiling. “Tha’ bitch ‘id it behind a piece o’ ceilin’ moldin’. I’s addin’ tha”t’me list o’ ‘idin’ places.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Only reason th’ ser’ants found it was ‘cause the butler saw ‘er comin’ down from a lad’er lef be’ind by th’upstairs maid, who ‘ad jus’ finished dustin’. An’ they knew she wouldna be climbin’ no lad’er fer no reason.”
Mickey scratched behind his ear. “Which brings me to me next point, milord. As I mentioned’t’ye, tha’ ‘ole ‘ouse o’ ser’ants ‘ates tha’ bitch, Lawrence. An’ I can tell by the shushin’ an’ whisperin’ tha’ some’in more is afoot.”
A muscle in Mark’s neck cramped. “Like what?”
Mickey shrugged. “Don’t know. But it turns out she’s been playin’ ‘em wrong fer years. Besides treatin’ ‘em like shit, she docks their wages fer no good reason. Las’ wint’r, she dock’d the whole ‘ouse’old. She also fired a dish-maid af’er she fell down th’ kitch’n stairs an’ broke ‘er leg. It were th’ dead ‘o wint’r an’ th’ gel could’na get no work, so she were fore’d to start liftin’ ‘er skirts in alleys fer any passin’ coin… crutches an all. She were th’ niece o’ th’ downstairs maid”—Mickey shook his head—“but now she’s a gin-swillin’ whore. There’s more, o’ course, but tha’s prob’ly one o’ the wors’ thin’s she’s done.”
Mark pressed his hand against his forehead. It shouldn’t surprise him. Cruelty walked hand in hand with evil—and that’s what Abigail Lawrence was, evil. She took people’s lives away. He couldn’t hate her any more than he already did.
“I knows them ser’ants are up’t’ somethin’. Does ye want me’t’go back af er I get the let’er? See if n I can’t fig’re it out?”
“I suppose.” Mark’s head ached. “Yes. Get the letter, then go.”
“Al’right, milord.” Mickey backed toward the door but then paused. “You al’right, milord?”
Mark looked at the boy. “No.” Another muscle cramped. “Get the letter, Mickey.”
The boy nodded and disappeared out the door.
Mark shoved his hand through his hair as he paced the library. The letter was here, in his own house. Charlotte had it. He would have it soon. What the hell else could Lawrence’s disgruntled household be scheming? Perhaps it had nothing to do with him. Perhaps it did.
Slipping his hand into his jacket pocket, he fingered Passion’s hairpin. He would have the letter tonight, but for them, it would make no difference. There was only one thing he could give her now, only one thing that might matter to both of them.
Hope and despair walked with him hand in hand as he left the library. He needed to tell her now.
He passed his mother in the vestibule. They neither looked at each other nor spoke. But he paused as he saw Patience and Primrose coming down the stairs.
They wore wide-brimmed straw hats, and though they had very different coloring, he could see Passion’s beauty in their faces.
Their eyes never left him as they descended, and when they stepped from the stairs he bowed. “Miss Patience. Miss Primrose. Welcome to Hawkmore House. I am your host.”
They curtsied and thanked him for his hospitality.
They both smiled versions of Passion’s smile. And their eyes, though different from hers, reflected a similar depth of spirit and intelligence. Even the curve of their brows and the set of their chins were tracings of Passion. It disarmed him. For despite the similarities, they were completely different.
What made Passion “Passion” was missing—her refined elegance, her subtlety, her gentleness, and the quiet strength that masked her vulnerability. And then there was the way she looked at him…
“Please, forgive me for staring.” His voice was rough. “But I see so much of your sister in both of you.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but you look as heartsick as our sister.” Patience’s green eyes looked into his. “And I fear for the life of a broken heart.”
“So do I, for the thing won’t stop beating. Somehow it beats on. Pumping just enough blood to sustain life, but not enough to live it.” He shoved his hand through his hair. He was so tired. “I promise you both, I would mend Passion’s heart if she would let me. I would
pick up all the pieces and hold it together with my bare hands if she would let me. And as long as hers were whole, I could live.”
“Tell her that, my lord.” Prim indicated the stairs. “Go to her and tell her everything that is in your heart. You both deserve that, at least.”
They opened a space for him to proceed up the stairs.
Stepping between them, Mark ascended. At the top of the stairs he turned in the direction of his own room. Once there, he crossed to the fireplace and, lighting a lamp, pressed the panel that opened the hidden corridor to Passion’s chamber. A past earl had built it so he might have discreet access to his mistress. Now, he followed its brief path to Passion. His heart pounded, and his pace alternately quickened and slowed.
As he faced the panel that opened into her room, he paused and tried to quiet his breathing. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood and prayed for strength.
With a soft click, the panel opened and he stepped silently onto the Aubusson carpet.
His heart thumped and his gut tightened.
Passion lay in bed in her undergarments. In the filtered sunlight, her hair was a shinning auburn river across the pillows. He took a deep breath. Hints of vanilla and orange blossom hung in the air.
He wanted to say her name, to call to her, but he couldn’t seem to make himself speak. A long-ago pain that he could barely remember kept a tight hand over his mouth. Don’t call, it murmured to him. Don’t! She will reject you.
He closed his eyes. But this was a different woman, a different time. He must call or lose her forever. He must.
He formed her name on his lips, but no sound came. He drew a breath and pushed air through his constricted throat, but only a whisper escaped him.
Damnation! He swallowed and, closing his hand around her hairpin, he forced out her name on a hoarse croak. “Passion…”
She bolted up in bed. Her hair fell around her shoulders. “Mark!”
“I—” Where was his damned voice? He swallowed again. “I need to speak with you.”
She stared at him and myriad emotions seemed to touch her features. “This is not the place.” Her voice quavered.