Passion Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  “So you don’t know how badly dipped the colonel might be?” Asher asked wearily.

  John shook his head. “He wasn’t losing when I retired for the night, I can tell you that.” John looked troubled. “I can’t explain it,” he said slowly, “but last night was…odd. While he was very polite, I had the distinct impression that Ormsby was at the house because he had to be and that he resented every minute of it. Another thing—Ormsby is reputed to be an excellent card player and I am no expert but as I watched them play…” He sighed. “It’ll sound damn silly, but it was almost as if Ormsby was losing deliberately—letting father win.”

  Asher didn’t like the sound of any of it. Ormsby never went where he didn’t want to go, yet John, and Asher trusted his judgment, felt the marquis had been to dine at Apple Hill last night under some sort of duress. Remembering back to his own conversation with his stepfather the other day, his certainty grew that there was something more going on than met the eye. The colonel had been too confident that he couldn’t lose and now it appeared, if John was right, that for some reason Ormsby was ensuring that the colonel won. Knowing Ormsby, his pride, his wealth, his position, Asher could only think of one reason that the marquis would allow the colonel to freely pilfer his pocket: blackmail.

  Yet that was an incredible thought—what the devil, Asher wondered, could his stepfather have discovered that would hold Ormsby hostage? Except for murder, he couldn’t think of anything that would have brought the marquis to his knees. Not that he didn’t believe Ormsby capable of murder—he did—but rather thought that if Ormsby did murder someone he’d take great pains to ensure that the deed was never connected to him. And how would his stepfather have learned of it—and, as important, gotten his hands on that proof? John must be mistaken.

  The idea of blackmail occurred to John also and, his gaze fixed on Asher’s face, he asked uneasily, “You don’t think the old fellow is blackmailing the marquis, do you?”

  Asher grimaced. “With what? It’s certainly a possibility, but I can’t, at the moment, think of anything your father could have discovered that would make Ormsby dance to the tune of the colonel’s piping. And nothing short of murder would be serious enough to give the marquis pause. Perhaps you misread the situation?”

  John shrugged. “I might have, but there was something….” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” He paused, then said forcefully, “I know that I am not clever like you or that I haven’t traveled all over the world….” He shot Asher a hard look. “I’m aware that I’ve lived most of my life at Apple Hill and that I’m little more than a country bumpkin, but I ain’t a fool and dash it all—I know that there is something peculiar going on between father and Ormsby!”

  Asher regarded him for a long moment. “Then that is good enough for me.” He smiled faintly. “And anyone who makes the mistake of dismissing you as a fool or dares to call you a country bumpkin will have me to answer to.”

  “I’m old enough to fight my own battles,” John muttered. “I don’t need you to stand up for me.”

  “My dear fellow,” exclaimed Asher, his brows raised, “you misunderstand the situation.” At variance with the dancing gleam in his eyes and in his haughtiest voice, he drawled, “If someone speaks ill of you, it reflects badly on me and I would have no choice but to take action.”

  John laughed. “Oh, put that way…”

  Asher was thoughtful as he rode away from the meeting with his brother. He trusted John’s instincts and if John sensed that there was something amiss, then it was entirely likely that something was indeed amiss between Ormsby and the colonel.

  It has to be a murder, Asher finally decided. A by-blow, even by a lady of high station, would cause scandal, but nothing the marquis couldn’t rise above. Seduction of an innocent? Again scandalous, and parents would warn their daughters against him, but in the end only the highest sticklers would look at Ormsby askance. The ton was very forgiving of man with Ormsby’s title and wealth. Cheating at the gaming table? He paused in his thoughts. Now that could cause some very serious problems for the marquis. If it could be proven and became public, Ormsby would be shunned and no man of honor would ever gamble with him—or allow him to cross his threshold.

  Asher considered the gambling angle for several minutes. Of all the crimes to be laid at Ormsby’s door and one that the colonel could have discovered, cheating seemed the most likely, yet…What sort of proof could his stepfather have discovered? Usually a cheater was unmasked in the act of cheating and to bring proof days or weeks later would be impossible. And the act would have had to occur where several people could attest to it. With no witnesses, his stepfather could claim that Ormsby had cheated him during one of their private, late night gambling sessions until a blue dog blushed and no one would pay him any heed. Regretfully, he put that idea aside.

  No. It had to be murder. But whose? And when? For a moment, his thoughts drifted back to the gossip his grandmother had passed on to him just the other night. According to her, several prominent people in the area suspected that Ormsby had had a hand in his brother’s death…that he had murdered him, just as Cain had Abel. Knowing Ormsby, Asher would put nothing past him, but assuming Ormsby had murdered his brother in order to inherit the title, what sort of proof could the colonel have laid his hands on? Asher didn’t think Ormsby was fool enough to sit down and write a confession that decades later found its way into the colonel’s possession.

  It had to be something more recent and, he decided, sensational. Ormsby’s hand in the death of a mere nobody could be explained away or ignored—unfortunately, when dealing with someone of Ormsby’s stripe, the ton was able to overlook the most appalling activities. To be named as a murderer would certainly cause Ormsby trouble, but money and the aid of powerful friends could make it all go away. Whispers would linger, but it would not cause Ormsby any lasting harm. If the person murdered was someone of consequence, however…Hmmm. Ormsby, no matter how wealthy and titled, wouldn’t be able to escape unscathed from something like that. He frowned. At the moment he couldn’t recall any particular death of a member of the ton that would provide fruitful ground for blackmail. Wondering if he was chasing shadows, Asher pushed aside thoughts of murder and blackmail and rode to his next destination.

  Having left his gloves with Hudson and been shown into Kirkwood’s library to await the arrival of Mr. Kirkwood, Asher stared at the couch where he’d made love to Juliana last night with decided fondness. Imagining her lush body reclining against the soft cushions caused a certain part of his anatomy to rouse. Tearing his gaze away from the innocent-looking sofa, he took a quick turn around the room, cursing the unruly member that in his formfitting pantaloons clearly revealed where his thoughts were wandering.

  By the time Mr. Kirkwood arrived a few minutes later, Asher had himself well in hand, as it were, and was able to greet Juliana’s father normally. The two men exchanged polite pleasantries and Asher wasn’t surprised to see that the man who met him this morning was vastly different than the anxious host he had seen the night of the dinner party. Mr. Kirkwood moved and looked like a man newly invigorated and Asher didn’t doubt that Juliana had given him the letters, or that they had been destroyed with her father’s knowledge. He hoped the latter—he didn’t want to have to steal the bloody things again.

  Mr. Kirkwood seated himself in a comfortable chair, thankfully from Asher’s point of view, at the far side of the large room, and out of direct sight of the scene of last night’s wild lovemaking. The glance Mr. Kirkwood gave him was politely curious as he said, “Your note this morning said that you wished to see me?”

  “I appreciate your being able to see me on such short notice,” Asher replied, standing before Juliana’s father. “I’m leaving for London in the morning and I wanted to speak to you before I left.” He hesitated a moment before saying, “I realize that since she is of age and a woman of independent means that I am not required to ask your permission, but I would very m
uch like to have your approval to court your eldest daughter, Mrs. Greeley. I mean to marry her by special license just as soon as it can be arranged.”

  Chapter 13

  To his credit Mr. Kirkwood did not look particularly astounded by Asher’s declaration. In fact, several things immediately became clear in his mind. Despite his preoccupation with the Ormsby matter, Mr. Kirkwood was not an unobservant man and it had not escaped his attention that when Mrs. Manley had come to call that, while she had been visiting Thalia, Juliana had been wandering through the gardens with Asher. Nor had it escaped his attention that when faced with Ormsby’s descent upon them for dinner, that one of the people his daughter had relied upon to distill a dangerous situation had been, again, Asher Cordell. Looking at the elegantly attired young man before him, Mr. Kirkwood noted the stubborn cast to his jaw, the air of tough ruthlessness and determination that radiated from him—not a man he’d want to cross. But it also occurred to him that in difficult, even dangerous situations, Asher Cordell was precisely the type of man he would want at his side…and he was suddenly certain that he was staring at the person who had placed Thalia’s letters in Juliana’s hands. And now, the same young man who had rescued Thalia, the whole family in fact, from the ugly quagmire that threatened to drown them, wanted to marry his daughter? By heaven! Even if Asher hadn’t already been a neighbor and the grandson of a dear friend and exactly the sort of man Kirkwood wished for his eldest daughter to marry, after what Asher had done for them, he’d joyfully surrender his daughter’s hand to him. Because of him, the meeting he would have this afternoon in his study with Ormsby was going to be extremely different than it would have been only hours ago. He owed this man an enormous debt and if Asher wanted to marry Juliana, who was he to gainsay him?

  Mr. Kirkwood’s gaze dropped from Asher’s lean face. Asher’s part in the return of Thalia’s letters was apparently to remain a secret…. He sighed, wondering when life had become so complicated, but if Asher and Juliana wanted to keep Asher’s part in their return secret, as it appeared they did, then he was willing to pretend ignorance.

  Aware that he needed to say something, Mr. Kirkwood asked, “Er, have you discussed this with Juliana?”

  “Yes, I have, but I’ll confess that after first accepting me, she took a pet and withdrew her acceptance.” Asher grinned. “I intend to hold her to the acceptance.”

  Mr. Kirkwood stared at him in awe. This was a formidable young man, indeed. “You do realize,” he warned, “that I have no control over her whatsoever? It will be up to you to change her mind.”

  A glint in his eye, Asher nodded. “So I have your permission?”

  Mr. Kirkwood leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Your grandmother and I have been friends for a long time; I knew and admired your mother. From what I know you appear to be a man of substance, a landowner whose people speak well of him, and your devotion to your siblings is much admired. My dear boy, I would be most happy and honored to welcome you into my family.”

  “Thank you,” Asher replied, absurdly flattered with Mr. Kirkwood’s answer. He hadn’t expected any objections to his suit and even if Juliana’s father withheld his approval, it wouldn’t have made any difference: it was Juliana he had to convince to marry him. Feeling more was required of him, he murmured, “I shall be a good and loving husband to her.” A hint of a smile around that hard mouth, he murmured, “Ah, I think it would be best for all concerned and the furtherance of my suit if we kept this conversation to ourselves, don’t you?”

  Mr. Kirkwood blinked. “Oh, my, yes!” he breathed.

  London in July was hot and unpleasant, and walking up the steps to the set of rooms he kept on Fitzroy Square, Asher was hopeful that he could be on his way back to Kent within twenty-four hours. Upon his arrival in the capital city very late Monday night, though tired from the punishing ride, he wasted little time in determining that Roxbury was still in residence and that the duke was attending a dinner with several friends from the Horse Guards on Wednesday evening. Tuesday morning he called upon the local bishop and less than a day after arriving in the city, a special license rested in his vest pocket.

  He whiled away the intervening time, visiting with his boot maker, his tailor, but mostly verifying his information about Roxbury’s plans and even a quick reconnoiter of the duke’s residence. Returning to his rooms late Wednesday afternoon, Asher sat down and wrote a note to the duke. Just before midnight, having first made certain that the duke kept his dinner engagement, he slipped into the impressive Roxbury town house and, following the same route he’d taken less than a year earlier, Asher entered the duke’s library. Finding his way in the pitch black of the room, pleased with his memory and glad the furniture had not been rearranged, he approached the desk at the far side of the room. Running his hands across the smooth surface of the desk, he determined that the surface was clear and not cluttered with other papers. Withdrawing the letters and his note, he placed them in the center of the desk. Grinning, he took out the black silk mask he’d worn last year and dropped it on top of the letters. Roxbury would know precisely who had left the letters for him—even without the note.

  As silently and unobserved as Asher had entered, he departed. He was careful, though, and didn’t come out of the shadows until he was well away from the duke’s neighborhood. Pleased with the night’s work, he whistled a little ditty as he made his way to his rooms.

  In the generous sitting-cum-dining room that adjoined his bedroom, Asher shrugged out of his jacket and poured himself some brandy from one of the various crystal decanters lined up on the oak sideboard. The light from the candles in a pair of silver-plated candelabram danced around the room, and seated in an overstuffed black leather chair, a snifter of brandy in his hand, he contemplated Roxbury’s reaction when he discovered the letters. A devilish grin lit his face.

  Asher had considered personally handing the letters to Roxbury but had decided it was unnecessary and that there was too much risk and planning involved. He’d confronted the old duke once and escaped unscathed, but he hadn’t been keen to do it again. Roxbury might have taken precautions against unexpected late night visitors since last year…although tonight’s excursion proved that he hadn’t, but Asher had been disinclined to push his luck—especially when he didn’t have to. And then there was the timing of the whole thing; if he wanted to hand them to Roxbury, he’d have had to choose a time Roxbury would be at home—and in the library—and he simply hadn’t wanted to waste the effort and time in planning it all out. Much easier to deliver the letters and disappear into the darkness.

  Even with the majority of the ton having deserted the city, the constant racket of London traffic permeated the walls of his rooms. Listening to the shouts of the drivers, the faint clop of the horses’ hooves, the clink of harnesses and the rattle of wheels rolling over the cobblestone streets, he found himself longing for the quiet of Fox Hollow.

  Sipping his brandy, he admitted that his eagerness to return home was due to the knowledge that Juliana was there and that before too long she would be his bride—whether she knew it or not. He was looking forward to making Juliana his wife and he didn’t doubt that she would be his wife and that he’d win that stubborn heart of hers and make her love him as he loved her.

  Asher sat up as if someone had just dumped a bucket of ice down his back. Damn it to hell! He was in love with her. Moodily, he stared at his boots. Marriage had always been something he’d planned to do, but he’d always assumed when the time was right, he’d simply look around, select a pleasing, acceptable young woman and settle down to domestic companionship. Not for him the high passion and delirious heights and desperate lows that love brought, thank you very much! With his mother’s example before him, he hadn’t planned on losing his heart and falling in love, but it appeared that was exactly what he had done. He snorted. Being in love was not part of his plan for the future.

  A frown on his face, he sipped his brandy. But would it be so bad? Yes, he answered hims
elf with a grimace—particularly if Juliana didn’t love him. He suspected that she did, but it wasn’t a sure thing. And how could he compel the woman he loved to marry him, if she didn’t love him? What sort of a cad would that make him? A cad little better than Ormsby, he decided, irritated.

  Until now his pursuit of Juliana, if one could call it that, had been halfhearted and not much more than an amusing game he had every intention of winning, but love…Love changed everything and he wasn’t happy about it. More than just respect and affection was involved…. Devil take it all! His heart, his deepest emotions were in jeopardy now and he was conscious of a feeling of vulnerability he had never before experienced. Juliana had the power to hurt him and he wasn’t best pleased to realize that his future happiness lay in the hands of another person.

  So what was he going to do about it? A slow smile curved his lips. With his heart hanging in the balance, her pursuit was no longer merely a game and he was, he decided, hunting the delectable Mrs. Greeley in earnest now. His smile became a grin. And he was a very, very good hunter.

  Juliana didn’t learn of Asher’s visit with her father on that Sunday morning until minutes before Ormsby was due to arrive at Kirkwood. She understood the necessity for her father to speak to the marquis alone and she applauded his determination to face their tormentor by himself. But while she was confident, with the letters destroyed, that Mr. Kirkwood was perfectly capable of dealing with Ormsby, curiosity and her protective instincts wouldn’t allow her to retire to some other part of the house and meekly await the outcome of their meeting.

  Consequently, as the time approached for Ormsby to arrive, she was in a small room across the hall from her father’s study, fiddling with several bouquets of intoxicatingly scented lilies that would be placed around the house. She’d deliberately left the door ajar knowing she’d be able to hear anyone walking down the hall in this direction and she could also discreetly keep an eye on the door to the study.