by Rose Gordon
Passions of a Gentleman
Rose Gordon
Parchment & Plume, LLC
Contents
Passions of a Gentleman
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Afterword
Gentleman of Honor Series
New Release Notification
Fort Gibson Officers Series
Scandalous Sisters Series
Groom Series
Banks Brothers’ Brides
Standalones:
About the Author
Passions of a Gentleman
Rose Gordon
PASSIONS OF A GENTLEMAN
Copyright © 2016 C. Rose Gordon
Cover image copyright Aileen Fish
All rights reserved.
Parchment & Plume, LLC
www.parchmentandplume.com
This book is a work of fiction. All names, events and locales are a product of this author’s imagination. If any name, event and/or locale did exist, it is purely by coincidence it appears in this book.
This book may not be reproduced by any means, including but not limited to, mechanical, Xerox, digital, auditorial and/or in print without consent.
If you obtained this copy illegally, please respect the author and her time enough to purchase a copy.
ISBN: 978-1-938352-78-2
Created with Vellum
Prologue
If seventeen-year-old Simon Appleton had known what would befall him by making a trek to Devon to deliver papers to Lord Drakely on his father’s behalf, he never would have gone.
Actually, no, that wasn’t true. He would have gone. He had to.
Unlike the other men invited to all the best balls and soirees, Simon wasn’t titled, nor did he even come from any connection peerage. He was a mere mister who had to work in order to keep his coffers plump.
So when his father informed him that he needed Simon to go somewhere, he went.
And now he regretted it.
And he imagined he wasn’t the only one...
Thirty Minutes Earlier
“Are you sure this is Lord Drakely’s estate?” Simon asked his coachman as he peered through the window of his travel coach. Sure, there was plenty of dust coating the small window above the door, but not enough to distort his view enough to make the large, sprawling mansion he assumed a viscount as wealthy as Lord Drakely lived in appear like a small, crumbling cottage in desperate need of being torn down post haste.
“Aye,” his coachman said. He jumped down and wrenched open the door for Simon.
Taking a deep breath, Simon climbed down then brushed the travel dust from his chocolate brown suit. He squinted at the house again and frowned. If Simon didn’t know any better he’d think his coachman had an opium habit. This could not be a lord’s house. He nearly snorted. This couldn’t be anyone’s house.
“I think you’d better take me—”
A loud, high-pitched squeal followed by an even louder splash took away his words.
Simon snapped his head in the direction of the commotion and set off into a run as fast as his feet could carry him across the low grass. He hurdled a large rock one moment then dodged a tree in his way a few feet later only to then jump over a fallen log.
Then came to an abrupt halt.
There, not ten feet in front of where he stood by the fallen log, was a decidedly female form swimming in a pond.
Naked.
Well, not exactly. She did have on a shift. The realization eased his conscience marginally.
Simon swallowed, which was terribly hard to do considering he hadn’t yet caught his breath.
He knew he needed to leave, but his confounded legs had turned to lead and wouldn’t cooperate, keeping him rooted in a prime peeping position.
In the water, the young woman swam forward, then reached the water’s edge and flipped over onto her back, giving Simon an unobstructed view of both of her pert, pink-tipped breasts covered only in the barest of transparent fabric.
Without realizing it, Simon took a step forward. Snap.
“Who’s there?” the beautiful young woman called, not a hint of worry or distress in her tone.
Simon’s blood thundered in his ears and he cursed his booted foot for not being more careful. Did she not care she had an audience as long as she knew whom her audience consisted of?
Before he could speak, he heard, “Charlie, is that you?”
Not sure if he felt more at ease that she didn’t mind a male audience or uncomfortable that Charlie must be lurking around somewhere, Simon stood rooted in place, unable to take his eyes from her perfect form. Somewhere buried deep, deep, deep, deep, deep down inside, a little voice whispered he needed to leave. He quieted that voice with another slow sweep of her form.
“Charlie?”
Something was different about her tone this time, something that suddenly made his mouth run independently of his brain. “No, it’s Simon.”
A not-so-delicate and decidedly startled scream filled the air as she flipped over and moved to be under the water enough that only her head was visible. Pity.
“Who the devil is Simon and why is he watching me bathe?”
A large air bubble lodged in his throat. He coughed it down. Or would that be up? “I’ve come to deliver some documents and…” He trailed off with a shrug.
“Thought you’d sneak a peek, did you?” Her tone was sharper than the tip of his rapier.
“Well, you were offering it,” he retorted in hopes of staving off any of his newfound embarrassment at being chastised.
“I wasn’t offering you or anyone a peek.”
“And what of Charlie?”
“It’s short for Charlotte! My maid.”
Shame flooded Simon in waves. “I—I’m sorry. I just assumed...”
“Assumed what? That since you’re of a higher station than me, you could take advantage of the situation?” The amount of venom in her tone could kill a rhinoceros in less than three seconds.
“No.”
Her blue eyes bored into his. “Well then, explain yourself.”
“I heard a scream,” he said, his mind racing. “I came to make sure everything was all right—”
“And when you saw something you liked, you took that as an invitation to stay.” Either tears or hysteria filled her voice; unfortunately for him, he couldn’t place which.
Simon frowned, but he couldn’t deny her charge. “My apologies.”
“Are unwelcome, but your absence is.”
And with such sweet parting words, Simon spun on his heel, marched up to the house, delivered the papers to the butler (after confirming this ramshackle old shack was indeed Lord Drakely’s residence), grunted as he climbed into the carriage, slammed the door himself then
vowed he’d never again speak to that wretched young lady.
1
Three Years Later
The last thing Henrietta Hughes wanted was to go to London for the Season to find a husband.
After two failed Seasons, London Society had lost its appeal.
Not that it’d ever had any in the first place.
Well, that wasn’t necessarily true. She had once spun daydreams about meeting a gentleman who fell madly in love with her and rescued her from the bedlam that was her family home. But then she’d grown up and realized that all men were cads. All of them.
Her sister, Juliet, Lady Drakely, prided herself on being a natural matchmaker, and if Henrietta wasn’t careful she would leave London this year having gained a husband. She shuddered and clamped a tight rein over her emotions as she entered the drawing room where she knew her sister would be sitting—waiting to pounce on her as if she were a lioness in wait for an antelope. Or whatever it was lions ate. Henrietta wasn't entirely sure since she'd never actually seen one despite her longing to go to Mr. Fairchilde's personal menagerie.
“Henrietta, we need to talk.”
Henrietta started at Juliet's tone. It wasn't cold exactly, but neither was it as warm as usual. Not to mention those five words always led to doom. “Yes?”
Juliet patted the space next to her on the yellow chaise she was occupying by the window. “It’s about the Season.”
“You’ve decided that after two failed Seasons I am to become a spinster?” Henrietta said with false bravado.
“Not quite.” Juliet shook her head ruefully, a gesture that would have made her thick, heavy spectacles slide right down her nose a few years ago. Now that her husband had taken her to London and bought her the finest spectacles money could afford, they just moved down her nose a little. A sickening testament to just how deeply her husband Drake loved her.
Henrietta tore her eyes away. She had no business thinking about how fortunate her sister was to have had a love match. It would only fuel an ugly jealousy that had no right to exist. She should be happy for Juliet—and she was. She lowered herself onto the chaise where Juliet had indicated. “Then if I’m not to become a spinster, what do you wish to tell me?”
“I won’t be able to go with you to London this Season.”
Henrietta’s heart constricted and she forced a smile that she was certain was overdone by anyone's standards. “So then I am to become a spinster?” she said with another dose of false bravado.
“Truly, Henrietta, I have no idea why that prospect is so appealing to you.”
“To merrily go live out the rest of my days in the north and make biscuits and bread for the hungry urchins in exchange for them reading me stories and bringing me firewood or whatever it was they were supposed to do to be charming. That doesn't sound so awful to me.” All right, it did, but seeing no other option, she needed to resign herself to the fact that it was very likely to become her fate, and the sooner she accepted it, the better.
Juliet shook her head. “Even before I married Drake and had come to accept that I’d be a spinster, I wasn’t nearly as thrilled with the idea as you seem to be.” She snorted. “Actually, I didn’t like it at all. Don’t you want to be the mistress of a house? Hold your own babies? Make said babies?”
“No,” Henrietta cut in, blushing violently. She'd always known Juliet had no shame, and while it usually didn't bother her, that was not a discussion she wanted to have with Juliet just now, lest she reveal too much.
“It’s not as bad as mother described it,” Juliet said her cheeks turning pink. “It can actually be...er...”
“You don’t need to explain it to me,” Henrietta interrupted again before Juliet had the opportunity to embarrass them both. Again. Henrietta had made the mistake only once of expressing her curiosity to Juliet and had been given more information than she'd ever needed in the bargain. Well, perhaps not more than was needed, but more than she'd wanted to think about concerning her sister.
“Nonetheless,” Juliet said then cleared her throat. “I have no wish for you to be a spinster. You’re much too young and beautiful for that. So you’ll be going to London next month—” she took a deep breath— “without me.”
“Without you?” Henrietta echoed as a myriad of emotions cycled through her at the same time: excitement and unease, panic and yet relief among the most prominent.
“Without me,” Juliet confirmed, placing a hand on her abdomen. “I’ve been informed I shouldn’t travel.”
Henrietta’s eyes widened. She’d suspected her sister was once again with child, but hadn’t considered something was wrong. “Should I stay?” she asked, casting her own selfish wants and desires aside. If her sister needed her, she'd stay.
“No.” Juliet shook her head. “You’re going.”
“But if something’s wrong shouldn’t I stay here?” Truth to tell, it was always Juliet who’d assisted in their mother’s numerous deliveries, but Henrietta would stay and help if she was needed. It was the least she owed her sister for all the kindness she’d shown her the past few years by letting her live at Crumbles, the appropriately named crumbling cottage she and her husband Drake, Lord Drakely, chose to live in for who knows what reason.
“Nothing is wrong. I just think it’s best I stay.”
Henrietta narrowed her eyes on her sister. “What are you not telling me?”
“Mother’s having another, too,” Juliet blurted out.
Henrietta closed her eyes and shook her head. Three years had passed since Jacob was born; she honestly didn’t expect they’d have any more. “Will she ever stop?”
“No, and I’d imagine if you marry you just might have a brood yourself,” Juliet said, winking.
“I doubt that,” Henrietta muttered with a snort. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”
Juliet cocked her head to the side, squinted her left eye, and playfully wagged a finger at her. “Henrietta, that isn’t going to work. Nothing is wrong other than what you’re dreaming up.”
“I’m not trying to wish harm on you,” Henrietta defended.
Juliet dropped her hands to her lap and nodded once. “I know. But I just don’t understand why you have no interest in marriage.”
“Who said I had no interest?” She cleared her throat to cover the unevenness she'd detected in her own voice and prayed Juliet wouldn't question her.
“You've been pursued by all the wealthiest and most sought-after gentlemen in London the past two Seasons and have refused to marry any of them. Or even dance with them,” she added, throwing her hands up into the air.
Henrietta dropped her eyes to her lap, mindlessly following the pleats of her purple skirts with her eyes. Likely, Juliet wouldn’t understand even if Henrietta told her. Which she would not be doing. Ever. “I know you’re happy being married, but perhaps it’s not for me.”
“You never know. You just might enjoy being married.”
“But if I don’t, I’ll still have to endure the misery for as long as I shall live,” Henrietta pointed out.
“That’s true,” Juliet conceded. “But, I still think you might enjoy it.”
“Well, if my marriage is even half as exciting as yours is rumored to be, I'm sure I'll enjoy it very much.”
Juliet eyed her askance and Henrietta refused to meet her gaze. “As I was saying,” her sister started again, still giving her a queer look, “I won't be able to go with you to London so I've had to arrange for a chaperone.”
Henrietta bit her lip to keep from smiling. Juliet had only two close friends of rank: Lady Watson and Lady Sinclair. Both were a bit lax on the rules and didn’t seem to give one whit about matchmaking. “I’m sure you took the most care in selecting my chaperone.”
“You're right, I did,” Juliet agreed with a large grin that made Henrietta's insides flip. Just what was Juliet about?
“Is it Lady Watson or Lady Sinclair?”
“Neither.” The sparkle in Juliet's grey eyes made dread buil
d up in Henrietta's chest. “It's Lady Townson.”
“The dowager?” Henrietta asked hopefully, ignoring the way her eyes must be on the verge of bulging right out of their sockets. Brooke, Lady Townson, the dowager's daughter-in-law, though well-meaning had a tendency to create scandal everywhere she trod. And not just small scandals, the ones that were so swoon-worthy they produced marriages. Hasty ones at that.
“Did you honestly expect me to leave you in the care of the dowager and give you even more reason to wish to become a spinster?”
“Is there no one else?”
“I’m afraid there’s not. As you know Marcus and Emma don’t go to London for the Season and Caroline has agreed to put her full effort into helping Edwina marry Sir Wallace this Season.”
“But—but, I cannot stay with Lady Townson.”
“I think you’ll enjoy it.”
Henrietta started. “Enjoy what?” she said, blinking to clear her wandering thoughts.
“Your Season with Brooke. She can be quite fun.”
“She can also be quite forward.”
“That’s not always such a bad thing, Henrietta.”
“Juliet, please be reasonable. One Season—no, one month—under the care of Lady Townson and I’ll either be ruined or betrothed.”
“Well then, just as I suspected, she’ll be the perfect chaperone for you.”
2
Henrietta wished more than anything she was at home and in her bed, that way she could pull her pillow tightly over her face and scream until her throat hurt and her voice was gone.
But alas, she was in yet another London ballroom, standing on the edge of the room and hoping nobody would notice her.
She hated London.
She hated ballrooms.
She hated dancing, debutantes, and gossip.
And most of all, she hated one Mr. Simon Appleton. Who, by the way, seemed to be invited to nearly every event Henrietta’s chaperone, who just so happened to be a countess, was invited to. It was perplexing. It was odd. It was annoying!
