Passion

by Gayle Eden

  Harry, with her intelligent gray eyes and cropped nut- brown hair, was the first woman I had ever encountered who was independently wealthy at twenty and two, and impressively educated, and brave—dear lord—she dares things that astound me. Brought up by her widowed father and a succession of his lovers, depending on where they lived—a diamond hunter she called him, who took her around the world, and exposed her to other cultures and lifestyles most only read about. She has, according to her own admittance, taken on the task of broadening my mind as well as my world.

  She has certainly loaded me down with numerous books and papers, which I have kept hidden. Exposing me to physical sciences, philosophies, mathematics, and literary works outside of those my “tutors” deemed fit for a young woman of my status.

  One can only deduce that she is so opposite of me that I am fascinated by her. That, and the fact that she is not in awe of me at all. She often laughs outright at me. She has seen and done so much that she makes me feel ignorant. In fact, I think that is why so many of the older women have a distaste of her—for she makes us all look superficial and ignorant.

  In any case, she helped dig up that old bit of information about my father, and is doing the search for the child this woman was supposed to have had. I have no notion what I will do when she is found, but curiosity is eating me alive.

  Time—yes, I am aware my hourglass is draining. I sense that father is still pleased, full of pride at the success I’ve had in society, at the invites I get to court (the royals have taken to calling me cousin) and how so many of those who matter say nothing but kind things of me.

  I am, after all, a young woman, well trained. We are all aware that two seasons are fine, but afterwards one starts to count a woman’s single years and wonder. I would rather not be wed to a man over forty, who I know will apply to my father eventually. They lust for me as one does a virginal and pure woman, something to plant their noble seed in. They would take my fortune true, but their motives are clear in their eyes when they kiss my hand, or dance with me. I do not know why that frightens me. To be worshipped for one’s purity. However, it has something dark and base under it, that though spoiled and treated well, I sense that I would dread the begetting with them.

  I think I must be daft to respond, at least mentally the way I do to the Jules, also. It makes little sense to me that I should care, since I have no say, and since I know well what a ton marriage is. Yet I ask myself, is he as cold and perfect as he looks? Is there anything behind the perfect beauty of him, that flawless character? I don’t understand why I feel a kind of loathing there too—for what woman in her right mind would not simply be enthralled by his wealth, princely face, spotless rep, his ancestors, bloodlines, or the sheer thought of catching his notice?

  I am not in my right mind of late.

  He has not attended the ball tonight, and did not exactly look himself at the dinner he had last attended—which, for some reason, intrigued me. Whereas the other, is a distant sort of thing, to watch him, observe him, watch the light catch his black mane, or the shadows on his high cheekbones, and the way those green eyes mask everything behind glass. It is more interesting than judging the so obvious motives of every other eligible male, the fortune hunters, and the lustful old rues.

  One could say Stoneleigh is cold, aloof, distant, and too flawless. Nevertheless, one cannot help but wonder if there is anything deeper, any imperfections, any weakness in there. The contrast between that sensual beauty and the ice is something that leaps into my mind when I think of him.

  My father is ready to depart, and I look around for Lady Harry, noticing her eventually by the garden doors, standing there in her almost masculine gown of black, and dove gray, her short hair and intelligent face making my eyes linger longer. I realize she is handsome, quite so, with angular bones, semi full lips, and very compelling eyes. Harry is tall for a female, and it suits the way she carries herself, the fact that she bows to few. Her hair lies against her nape, a long and graceful neck, and is tucked behind her ears, the front is naturally waves. That gown, the plainness, the straight lines and V bodice, suits her.

  I smile to myself as she finds my stare and winks, raising her glass of champagne. Is Harry changing my perspective of things, or am I simply growing up? I say my adieus with father, and in the coach I leave off wondering about his youthful affairs, which have occupied me of late, and ponder what I will say or do, how I shall react when Jules LeClair applies to my father—

  I know father will accept, for even he is aware of Stoneleigh’s standing. A year ago, I would not even have thought upon it, I would have simply obeyed as I have in all things, without a second thought.

  Lady Caroline Bordwyc.

  * * * *

  My first thought when I received the letter from the Duke of Eastland requesting to meet with me, was that he was coming out of seclusion because his son, Lord Stoneleigh intended to apply for my daughter’s hand. That thought did not linger however, because of the date of the missive and the tone of his letter.

  Artis was a bit older than myself although not enough to signify because we had been in the same society for most of our lives, moving in the same circles. We had a deeper connection than some of our cronies who we played cards and attended social or sporting events with. That connection caused me to linger in the study, in private thought for hours. I knew like most who never spoke of it, that Artis had no more a happy union than I myself did, but that he also seemed something of an island unto himself. I thought I could discern why.

  Many years ago when he met his mistress, I myself had fallen hopelessly for a dancer, a woman who seemed as exotic, as elusive to me as a bird who would not be tamed. Artis was entangled with a woman of good breeding, one of Spanish descent, with aristocratic blood. I did not know which of us was sicker with love. I, who could not offer Natasha anything more than any other married male of my station, or Artis, who never planned and did not see love coming his way, until it was too late.

  Sipping a whiskey I had poured, I arose from my chair and walked to the garden doors. Rain, always rain. Some days and nights, blacker and thicker than others, but such gloomy weather added to my brooding thoughts.

  Circumstance and happenstance put Artis and I in that same tavern on the same evening. He was beside himself, obviously. I had pulled from my own worries to join him at a table and enquire if I may be of any help, a listening ear at the least? He told me the woman was with child, a circumstance more tragic for her than himself, for not all men worry at such things, but her family, her standing, her brother’s position—was in jeopardy. He described his wife, the Duchess, who all knew and few felt warmly toward. Over a bottle of rum, we came up with the solution, which worked much because of her brother’s love for both her and Artis. I can guess the price paid for Artis wanting his son to have his name, and to be close to him.

  I certainly saw the woman’s family suffer in the way one does who comes against a force like the Duchess. Though the woman remained in Spain, her brother and his family later, quietly left also.

  But that son seemed to have vanished in his late teens, at least he was not in society—though one could find nothing a fault in Stoneleigh, who by all appearances is the perfect lord, gentleman and peer, nor his brother, the Viscount, a naval Captain who did nothing but bring his family pride in his service to the crown—wounded many times, I had read. It was still not the family I perceived that a younger more passionate Artis imagined he would gain.

  I knew he was not in mourning. No more than I had for Clara, since she at least demanded no pretense, and lived quite contented with her own lover in Bristol until she died. The thing that kept me from Natasha was not Clara per se, for ours was a union designed by our guardians, as much as aristocratic matches still were. By the time Natasha was carrying my child, Clara had given me a daughter, who was a year old and I could not seek a divorce, any more than she wished one. She had done her duty and given me a child, and it was understood I would have the child
with me and Clara would seek her own interests.

  Never certain that Natasha loved me, I did not doubt she loved carrying my child. She was young, very young, though an old soul in some ways, a free spirit in others. I showered her with gifts, giving what she would allow me, having disdained my offer to set her up in a home of her own. She thrived and lived at the theater. I could not bring myself to question if there were others, I did not think outside the flattering and praise she got for her “Gypsy dancing” that she took lovers whilst we were intimate. But, what was I to do? I could not imagine, even if it were possible, that a divorce would give me a fantasy life with her. I was a Duke, and though my ancestors were of welsh origins and great men, it was my wealth that attracted Clara’s family—that distant royal tie of hers was more recent, but wealth was scarce in her branch.

  I was also, at the time, operating with an esteemed group of men who were working for the crown during those volatile years. It was whilst Caroline was ill—some stretch of months that demanded my time and deprived me of sleep with worry, that Natasha apparently vanished from the stage, her friends, and had taken the child with her.

  By the time I surfaced and Caroline recovered, I could find no trace of her.

  I look over my shoulder now at that letter lying on the desk. Both Artis and myself were both widowed, free men, at least freer than we had been in our younger years, having paid for our heart’s betrayal and yet still losing those children we would have loved.

  I turned back with a shudder and finished my drink, eyeing my reflection in the now rain covered glass, seeing with some surprise that my thick blond hair was gray now, and though my body fit, my face was that of a mature man in his fifties. I had always told myself, I lived only to see Caroline make a good match, and have a secure future, all the things she deserved. She had been an angel, a daughter so obedient and good, that she amazed me. Despite those who hinted she could wed royalty, I did not think just any man good enough for her.

  I secretly hoped that Jules LeClair, Earl of Stoneleigh would offer for her. Even I could not dream up a man so pleasing in his face and form, so intelligent, responsible, and flawless. His bloodlines were as impressive as his fortunes, more so after his mother’s line, the Lombardi’s, died out and he was left the last male heir. I imagined Artis was as in awe of him as I was of Caroline. I did not wish to wed her to some older man, and had some consideration that most females found Stoneleigh a prince in looks.

  Later, when I sought my bed, I decided that I would meet with Artis. I realized that he would seek me out because I had earned his trust, kept his secret, and he had kept mine.

  If our heirs were to be wed someday, it would only be pleasant that we might have some part of our lives, the twilight, though I shudder to see myself in such, with a true friend rather than the society we gave our choice, our happiness, and our dreams away for.

  His Grace, David Bordwyc, Duke of Coulborne.

  * * * *

  It is the pre-dawn hour as I walk through the fog and dank shadows. Rain refills the puddles my boots half empty. I stride like years, endless hours, before, with less sense of my body and more the compulsion to see through her eyes. I can scarcely recall their exact expressions. Only one is burned in my mind, that opened stare of terror—her death mask.

  Since the day I identified her mutilated corpse, I can no longer see Suzette as she was before.

  My gloved hands clinch in the deep pockets of my caped coat, and my eyes shift under the lowered brim of my cap, noting the movements, the huddled wretches, and slinking thieves, pimps, whose business is done in these sinister hours. I hear the muffled sounds of grunting sex amid the whimpers of brutality, and the mewling cry of a child shivering under one of the rag piles near the building. I feel heat amid the colder rain, heat that is born from rot, fermentation and the number of wretched creatures beyond my line of sight.

  The smells are repellent, and yet cruelly agreeable to my nose. Rain cannot obscure the waft from the Thames that I smelled on her muddy blond hair in the morgue, where I kissed her and promised her—I would avenge her death. My teeth are cinched as tight as my gut and fist. My nostrils flair to take in the essence of this underworld. I resist the verity that it may be my last night to embrace this morbid ritual, that for the plan so long practiced to unfold I must take Gabriella into his world, and play my part as well.

  The writhing inside me is no less potent, the darkness and scent, sights of depravity, no less intoxicating, in the way only a poison can be. As an addict, I must inject my very soul with the substance, the ghosts, and ominous things that drive me— that I have lived for these many dark years.

  I snake my way in and out of the warren like alley and again find my steps taking me toward my residence. I feel her swollen and mangled hands pulling back on my shoulders, as if to keep me there, back with her. I say in my mind that I must go in order to give her rest, peace, justice—and I go onward, knowing I will never have that peace myself.

  I enter the house and track my wet footprints across the dark marbled foyer in silvery shapes. The shadowy spaces remain. Only the stairs can I discern by the thick globe-sheltered candle left burning.

  I take it up, and climb the stairs to the landing, facing a bank of long windows before turning left, down the hall, to the end and my chambers. I divest myself of hat, gloves, and coat, having hired servants with explicit instructions that none were to come near my rooms—I lay my own fire and light it. Clad in a white shirt, dark trousers, I sit in a low chair and remove my boots.

  The brandy is at my arms reach and I complete my ritual by drinking it, watching the flames catch and leap. -When the dawn bells toll, I set the glass aside and lean my head back, eyes closing, my semi-dream state is never a habitation for pleasant things. My only fantasy is merciless and bloody, though the plan is much more drawn out and elaborate than that too quickly done deed.

  No, I will save that for the last, as I have memorized and visualized the state of her body, I will do likewise to his.

  The flush of the fire brings unwelcome warmth to my comfortable state of darkness. I lift my lashes, angry at the intrusion to my cold-blooded daydream. Suzette, Suzette, Suzette, I chant, as if to summon her ghost…to lower myself into the grave with her.

  Raith LeClair, Lord Montovon.

  Chapter One

  Gabriella pinned the wide-brim, feathered, hat onto her upswept black and burgundy hair. She smoothed the cinched waist of the embroidered wine walking dress over her firm hips, its skirt drawn back into a mock bustle that was actually a fall of material that swayed when she walked.

  Satisfied, she leaned down so that her breasts rose from the deep bodice, and the merest glimpse of her large nipples showed their salved glisten behind a hint of sparkling sheer net. Her hands smoothed over the pillowed cream tops. Afterwards, she turned left and right in front of the long mirror, finding the vision she hoped to create in the curvy and lush image there.

  Turning from the mirror, she drew on net gloves to the elbow that hooked on her middle finger, and then picked up her parasol. She walked out of the rooms. Her movements became those practiced ones, the shift of rich fabrics against her silk stockings, the sound of her black velvet-heeled walking boots, helped plunge her deeper into the role she played. Head high, darkened lashes at just the right sultry position, she descended the stairs and met an awaiting Raith.

  He did not offer his arm, but placed his hand on the small of her back whilst they proceeded out the doors and into the rain damp streets. Noon brought a weak sun, enough so that she admired the sheen of it on his hair when they entered the buggy. The top down, they sat close, her flowery perfume blending with that sultry scent of night he carried. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had named the combination, so well did they mingle….

  Raith’s black sleeved arm lay along her shoulders, the other hand on his thigh as they began their tool through the park—timing it on purpose to be seen. The pretense of having eyes only for each other,
for him to lean and whisper in her ear, and she to tug his lapel, to smooth her hand down his chest, began also.

  In the well-rehearsed actions, she stole a few seconds for herself, her private self, to look at him in earnest, to note in the light of an ordinary day, the fierceness of his face and pitch black of his eyes—that unyielding and sharp carved bone. The sinew of his visage was compelling. Thick sooty lashes lined those dark eyes, and his nose had a natural flare, his mouth, most times, set in almost cruel lines, she discerned, if softened could be sensual.

  She was helplessly drawn to the darkness in him. However, Gabriella thought herself a skilled enough actress to cover her physical reaction to him behind their roles. She slipped today when she let her fingers graze his jaw. He captured her hand and brought it down, his hold crushing, his eyes like black glass.

  Instead of wincing, she turned her head, gazing around as if just noting a world beyond the two of them for the first time. She pulled her hand free whilst noting a few looks of outrage from society matrons, as well as whispering done, and those on horseback, riding or those walking, were gawking too.

  Gaining the effect he wanted, she dipped her lashes and gathered herself, before turning to regard him again. This time she leaned down to say something and smiled—fully masked in the role of Tara, his mistress.

  The buggy pulled aside. Raith exited, holding the door for her to do likewise. He was seven inches taller than herself, a leanly muscled man, who was wearing all black with a thigh length jacket. When the door of the buggy closed, his body forced hers against it. What looked like the intimate act of cupping her jaw was in actuality a hold that forced her to look at him, to see the lash of coldness in his gaze.

  He lowered his head and rasped, “If you forget your role again, it is finished. I will do the deed myself.”

  She did not get to answer. Her stomach dropped though, from her slip. He placed his mouth scarcely on her salved lips for the seconds it would take to appear more, and then released her. Laving her lips, her heart beating too wild, she strolled then with him, that arm across her spine.