by Lisa Valdez
She closed her eyes. This was proof that bliss could blossom from misery—proof that God worked in deep and mysterious ways. Yet for all her joy, a harsh sorrow dampened her heart; for despite her sisters’ love and support, she would be alone in this. Her father would be horribly disappointed in her. There would be lies and the loss of home and country for an indeterminate period of time. Her child would not know a father’s love. And Mark would not know the love of their child.
It felt unbearable and wrong.
Yet it was also wrong to knowingly and actively destroy the happiness of one person for the happiness of another. That had been her stance with Mark all along. And if that stance were right—which she believed it was—then it still was, child or no.
Praying for guidance, she found her first answer.
She looked to her sisters. “Tonight, I shall attend the ball. Tomorrow, I’m going home.”
Passion and her sisters entered the huge, glittering ballroom after the dancing had already begun. The beautiful room, painted in pale green, white, and gold, was lit by six magnificent chandeliers that hung from the twenty-five-foot ceiling. A long upper gallery along three sides of the room supported a full complement of musicians and offered an ideal place for guests to walk and observe the dancing below. Six pairs of tall glass doors on the far wall led to the balcony without, and two large doors at the end of the room led to the grand salon, where drinks and refreshments were being served.
Passion took a deep breath as she and her sisters moved into the crowded room. It was important that she pay her respects to Charlotte at this event, as she was not going to attend the wedding. But she planned to stay only a short time.
They knew practically no one, so they kept together, nodding and smiling at strangers as they milled toward the glass doors.
“Passion, is that Mark’s brother?” Patience asked. “There, dancing with the woman in blue.”
Passion recognized Matthew dancing with Rosalind. “Yes, that’s Matthew. The woman in blue is his fiancée.”
Patience paused. “Is she?” She frowned and then shook her head. “No. She isn’t right for him.”
Prim lifted her brows. “And how can you tell that?”
“See how he looks at her? But she isn’t looking at him. She cares more about being seen than she does about seeing him.” Patience nodded. “He needs someone who sees him.”
“Mrs. Redington?”
Passion turned and found John Crossman stepping away from a group of gentlemen. She smiled, genuinely pleased to see him. “Why, Mr. Crossman, how delightful to find you here.”
Passion introduced her sisters.
“Mr. Crossman is the gentleman I told you of, who so graciously saved me the night I fell ill at Charlotte’s party.”
“Ah.” Patience nodded. “Allow me to thank you, Mr. Crossman, for assisting our sister in her moment of need.”
A small smile turned his mouth, and he bowed his head. “I am only glad that I was there to be of service to her.”
John introduced them to the party of gentlemen with whom he had been conversing and then asked Passion to dance. Patience and Prim also moved onto the floor with two other gentlemen from the group.
“How are you, Mr. Crossman? I’ve missed our outings with my aunt and your cousin.”
John grinned. “Have you really?”
“Yes, I really have.”
“Well, I think you might be relieved to know that I have paid my cousin’s debts. And now that he has no more financial trouble, he has abandoned the idea of marriage in favor of making a try for the stage.”
Passion smiled. “I think the theater might be just the thing for him.”
John nodded. “I hope so.” He regarded her as they danced across the floor. “How are you, Mrs. Redington? Have you been well?”
Passion glanced up at him with a small smile. “I don’t look well, do I?”
“You’re beautiful. But I was concerned for you before you left London.”
Passion smiled at his graciousness. She knew she didn’t look well. Her eyes were shadowed, and she had lost weight. All at once, she decided to be honest with him. “Actually, I am not altogether well. I’m going to go home tomorrow.”
He looked down at her and nodded. “I wouldn’t be able to watch the person I loved marry another either.”
Passion’s step faltered so badly that John had to save her from tripping. As the couples dancing nearby looked at her, she blushed with embarrassment and lowered her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” John murmured, whirling her onto a different part of the floor.
“How did you know?”
“Those last days in London, I could tell.”
Passion’s heart fluttered, and she felt her cheeks flaming. “Do you suppose anyone else noticed?”
“No. I was the only one watching you carefully enough to figure it out.”
Passion raised her eyes to him tentatively. “Why were you watching me carefully?”
“I think you know why.” He smiled a little sadly. “But let’s not speak of that now. Will your sisters leave with you?”
Passion wanted to say something about her deep appreciation of him as a friend. But perhaps that was a conversation for a different time. She shook her head. “No. Aunt Matty is to arrive tomorrow. She will chaperone them.”
“Why don’t you let me escort you home, then? It’s Lincolnshire, isn’t it?”
Passion looked into his kind green eyes. He was such a good man—a kind, decent man. But she would never love him in the way he hoped. “Mr. Crossman—John—our brief friendship has come to mean so much to me. I feel as if we share the easy rapport of old friends. I wouldn’t want anything to jeopardize that.”
He held her in his gaze. “You’ll have a maid with you?” he asked after a moment.
“Yes. My sisters came with our maid. She will accompany me.”
He nodded and twirled with her into the center of the floor.
After a while he spoke. “Did I tell you I’m going to sea?”
Passion’s eyes widened with surprise. “You are? When did you make that decision?”
He smiled gently at her. “Just now.”
Mark stood with Matt and Lord Fitzgerald by the doors to the grand salon.
“I like the plans, Langley. You did a fine job with them. Frankly. I’m not particularly fond of a lot of gewgaws and fuss un a building. I appreciate the classical design you propose.”
Lord Fitzgerald was saying all the things Mark should have been pleased to hear, but he found that he couldn’t muster any enthusiasm.
“So I’m going to present your plan to the committee as my primary choice. Assuming they agree with me. which they always do, you’ll get the commission.”
Mark nodded. “My thanks. Lord Fitzgerald.”
The older man waited a moment, no doubt assuming Mark would say more. When he didn’t, Fitzgerald nodded. “Right, then. I’ll inform you of their decision.”
Mark nodded again. “I shall await word.”
After the man had moved off, Matt spoke. “Christ, you really went on a bit too much. A little embarrassing how verbose you were. After all. it’s only the commission for the National Library.”
Mark looked at his brother, but suddenly Matt’s attention was riveted upon something else. He followed the direction of Matt’s gaze and found Passion and her sisters talking with Charlotte.
His heart began pounding, and his breath quickened. Since the day he had left her room, he hadn’t seen her this closely. She wore a gown of dark green satin, and her pale skin glowed above the low neckline. She looked thinner. And though shadows darkened her eyes and her smile was slight, he found her beautiful.
She would be magnificent in the Hawkmore emeralds. They should be hers. She was the wife he would have chosen—even if that meant ending his line.
“The one with the red curls, which sister is she?” Matt asked.
Mark glanced
at his brother. It seemed that Matt’s interest in Passion’s sisters had not waned.
“Her name is Patience; Miss Patience Emmalina Dare.”
Mark looked at her. She was a striking young woman with the sort of obvious beauty that caught people’s attention. Tight red-gold curls fell down her back, and her green eyes looked at people in such a way that one felt she knew and understood everything in the beat of a heart. She had a confident, determined air about her. And the almost tangible sensuality that all three of them shared was perhaps most palpable in her.
He shifted his gaze to Passion, and his blood rushed. She was the one. She was the model upon which her sisters had been formed. She was perfection of form, beauty, and grace.
He hungered for her and feasted upon the vision of her, but he hated the intrigued glances and admiring stares that fell upon her from passing men. He wanted everyone to know that she belonged to him—and that he belonged to her.
“She thinks she has everything figured out,” Matt murmured.
Mark glanced briefly at Patience before returning his gaze to Passion. “Perhaps she does.”
“Look how Montrose is fawning over her,” Matt said.
“Yes. Rather reminds me of how you look fawning over Rosalind.”
Matt shrugged, but he didn’t smile. “Go to hell.”
“I’m already there. Matt.” Mark watched Passion hug Charlotte and then move off toward the glass doors. He ached to follow her. He ached to pull her into his arms. “I’m already there.”
Passion stood beside one of the tall pairs of glass doors and welcomed the breath of cool air that wafted over her. She had told Charlotte that one of the members of her father’s parish was ill and asking for her. She was not a good liar and hated having to voice the false excuse. But it would be far worse to remain.
Patience slipped her arm around her waist. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“Would you like a glass of punch?” Prim asked.
Passion looked toward the grand salon. “Yes, that would be…”
Mark was there. She stared across the distance into his hungry eyes and felt his gaze touch her like a caress. Her heart thumped painfully and her body answered him with a spill of moisture between her thighs.
Patience and Prim both looked at Mark and then back at her. “Oh, Passion,” Prim breathed.
“It’s all right,” Passion managed as she watched Charlotte approach Mark.
His eyes closed, and when he opened them, his face had become a mild mask. He nodded to Charlotte and, taking her hand, led her onto the dance floor.
Passion watched them. Though she wanted to run, she couldn’t look away. Guests smiled and nodded, and her cousin beamed happily as Mark took her in his arms with the start of the music.
As her beloved turned Charlotte across the floor, Passion’s gut wrenched with searing jealousy. She loved him. She fulfilled him. She carried his child. Yet here she stood, cold and alone, while Charlotte basked in the warm and public light as Mark’s chosen bride.
Dear God, she couldn’t bear it! She hated the sight of his hand on Charlotte’s waist, for she knew the feel of his hand—she knew the press of it and the strength of it. She hated their proximity, for although Mark held her cousin at a proper distance, she knew Charlotte could breathe the lemon verbena that always clung to him. It was Charlotte who could see the dark blue flecks that gave his beautiful eyes their dimension. Charlotte could study the sensual curve of his mouth and dream of what his kiss would feel like on their wedding day. A black pall clouded her mind as her breath came faster.
Passion tried to slow her breathing. Her insides boiled with covetousness. She felt tears rising and her throat tightening. She turned slowly and looked at her sisters. “I’m going outside for a moment alone,” she murmured.
Prim nodded and brushed her arm.
“We’ll wait for you,” Patience assured her.
Once she was through the doors, Passion walked calmly and carefully down the wide steps to the lower garden. Several couples strolled along the wide, well-manicured paths. The murmur of their conversations and occasional laughter floated in the air.
Passion moved past them, alone amongst lovers. She pressed her hand to her abdomen—her tears welled—alone in the world, while Charlotte lived out her life with Mark. An image of her cousin, naked and writhing in Mark’s embrace, filled her mind.
With a cry of wrenching despair, she ran across the lower lawn to the bridge. Her slippers patted the ground, and her gasping breath sounded loud in the stillness of the evening. The swans that glided across the dark water of the moonlit lake craned their long necks to watch her pass. She ran until she reached the rotunda. Grasping her aching side, she passed between the columns and dropped onto one of the wide marble benches that circled the interior. Her breath was ragged, and her heart pounded.
Through her tears, she looked back at Hawkmore House. It was a glittering jewel box above the lake, its musical key endlessly turning. And inside, her beloved danced with another.
Tearing off her gloves, she covered her face and wept into her hands until all that were left were dry sobs.
Suddenly she sensed him as he straddled the bench alongside her.
She turned her head and met Mark’s dark gaze. Pieces of her heart fell away. “I love you,” she choked.
He took her hand and pressed the back of it to his cheek. “I love you.” His eyes closed. “I love you.”
Turning to face him on the bench, she rested her palm against the slope of his jaw. Her body leapt as he pressed a kiss into her captive palm and then another against her pounding pulse.
“Oh, Passion, I love you,” he breathed, rubbing her hand against his cheek and his ear.
She trembled at the supplication in his touch. “I love you,” she whispered, as she slipped her fingers through his hair and lifted her other hand to trace the curve of his mouth.
His eyes glittered as he kissed the tips of her fingers, then he pulled her hand against his heart. “Tell me something,” he urged.
A shiver tumbled down Passion’s spine at the familiar words. He had asked her the same thing the first night he came to her room. That night they were beginning anew. Tonight they were ending.
She sought his other hand and pressed it against her heart. “I love you. And so long as there is breath in my body I shall love you and you alone.” She held his gaze. “Never think of me sharing a kiss or a caress with another, for I never shall. Never wonder if I lie in the arms of another, for I never shall. Never imagine me pledging my love or my troth to another, for I never, ever shall.” The broken pieces of her heart crumbled to dust. “When you think of me, only remember our time together. Remember me in your arms. Remember me with my lips pressed to yours. Remember me with my body moving against you, begging the fulfillment only you provided.” He sobbed and her tears spilled over. “Remember me telling you, ‘I love you,’ ‘I love you.’ ‘Forever, I love you.’”
Mark’s head fell forward. He wept silently. His shoulders heaved as he lifted his anguished face to her. “Tell me that you love me better for this. For I swear, if you do not, I shall throw all away. And I shall pursue you with a relentlessness the likes of which you have never seen, until I have driven you inextricably and eternally into my arms.”
Passion flung herself into his strong embrace. “I could never love you better,” she gasped, “only longer and more deeply.” She smelled him and felt him, engraining every little detail of him into her memory—the softness of his hair, the texture of his skin, and the press of his body.
She must never forget, for as time stretched forward, she would need the memory of every touch, every kiss, every breathy whisper.
Music reached out to them from the house. It was a waltz.
“Dance with me,” she begged. “Dance with me one last time.”
She slid from the bench and pulled him with her to the center of the rotunda. They bru
shed away each other’s tears. He took her in his arms. They danced slowly, their bodies pressed close together. Her gown swished softly as they turned, and his eyes never left her.
It was a far different night than the one in the garden of the Crystal Palace. Possibility and hope had bloomed that evening. Tonight, longing and loss hung in the still air around them.
But also love.
Passion curled her hand around his nape. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”
Mark dropped his forehead against hers. They stood still, swaying with the music.
“I have never been guilty of such dire envy before this night,” she whispered. “The thought of not having you is unbearable. But to watch you stand at the altar with my cousin would be impossible.”
“I know,” he said. He touched his lips to the wet corner of her eye.
God! She wanted him with a desperation born of grief and with an intensity born of the knowledge that she carried his child. Her body cried out for him.
She choked back a sob and laid her head against his chest. As he held her to him and pressed kisses across her brow, she felt his heart pounding. It beat as hard and fast as her own.
“Tell me something,” she said.
He tipped her chin up to look at him. His cheeks were wet. “I shall think of you every day, a thousand times a day. I shall dream of you at night and speak your name when I wake. I shall relive every moment we ever spent together, and I shall invent ones we didn’t.” He held her face between his hands. “I shall write to you and speak only of us. I shall tell you every adventure we share and recount all the ways we make love. And in such a way, I shall create a life with you.”
Passion closed her eyes on her tears.
“I hope you will write to me. So that I can know you are well—so that I can touch the paper you touch.”
His thumb brushed her lip and then his mouth was on hers.
They kissed with a brief and breathless longing.
“I love you,” he whispered against her mouth. “Never forget.”
And then he tore from her arms and disappeared into the evening.
She watched his shadow move across the moonlit grounds. She laid her hands over her womb. “I’ll never forget.”