Passion's Song

by Carolyn Jewel

  II

  Isobel was startled when she heard the report of a gun and, immediately afterward, a shout. She jumped up from her seat. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed. “Who’s there?” She heard groaning from the trees. “Are you hurt?” she called out, making her way toward the agonized moans. She pushed past the branches. “Oh, dear God!” she cried when she saw a young man lying prostrate on the ground. She ran to his side and bent down on her knees. “Are you shot?” She took one of his hands in hers. “Don’t move. I’ll get one of the servants!” She was about to get up, but his hand tightening on hers prevented it.

  “No, I’m not shot,” he said through a grimace of pain. “But I’ve given my ankle a nasty turn.” He struggled to sit up and held a hand to one booted foot, gingerly attempting to move it. “Give me but a minute. I’m sure ‘twill come round.” He looked up at her through thick eyelashes.

  “What were you doing here?” She eyed the dead birds with distaste. “I’m quite certain there are no grouse so close to the house.”

  “Pheasants. Miss…?” He looked at her hopefully.

  “Perhaps you ought to take off your boot. There’s bound to be some swelling.” She reached out to his foot but snatched back her hand when he shouted in pain.

  “I would not be so indelicate as to expose my unshod foot to your beauteous eye…Miss St. James, is it not?” He saw her frown and quickly continued: “Would you be so kind as to help me up? If I could just get to the house, I could have my man take care of me.” He leaned heavily on her, swaying when he was upright.

  “What about your things?” She glanced down at his gun and the two dead birds.

  “I’ll send my man for them later,” he said as they began to make their way out of the copse.

  “So, you have not yet told me why you were lurking in the trees.”

  “I am ashamed to admit it, miss, but I was lost! I was heading back to the house and thought to take a shorter route and somehow I got myself rather turned round.”

  “I should say you did. Are you all right?” she cried out when he shouted in agony after he tried stepping down on his foot. “Oh, dear, I do hope it isn’t broken. You seem in such pain!” Her voice was all concern now. “You’d best use me as a crutch.” She placed his arm around her shoulders.

  “That would be most unseemly, Miss St. James!” He sounded embarrassed.

  “Well, I can’t carry you,” she said in frustration. “Can you wait till I get one of the servants to help you?”

  His arm curled around her shoulder. “No,” he said with a groan, taking a hopping step forward. They were almost to the house before one of the servants came running out to them.

  “Oh, my lord! Have you broken your leg?” The chambermaid held her hands to her face when she saw the leg he held bent back at the knee.

  “Please send my valet down,” he ordered, before Isobel could tell the maid to take her place.

  “Yes, milord.” She curtsied, then ran back inside. Isobel helped him to a seat in the entrance hall while they waited for his valet to appear.

  “How can I thank you, Miss St. James?”

  “Thanks are not necessary, sir.”

  He grasped her hand. “James Stanton Fredericks, Viscount Strathemoore, your most humble servant.” He pressed his lips to her hand. He looked forlornly at her when he saw his man hurrying down the stairs. He kissed her hand again. “I am your slave, Miss St. James.” He let go of her hand when the servant arrived.

  “Good day.” She curtsied and walked hurriedly up the stairs.

  Lord Strathemoore and his valet hobbled up the stairs to his room. Once inside he shook off the man’s helping hands. “I’m quite all right, Lowther.” A puzzled Lowther watched Lord Strathemoore stride to the door and look out into the hall. “I left my gun and two birds in the trees in the back,” he said when he shut the door. “Wait a few minutes and then go get them. Should anyone ask, tell them I am not as badly hurt as you feared.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  III

  “Rum luck, Strathemoore, your turning your ankle like that,” Lord Campston said over cards later that evening. “The cover was excellent!”

  “It’s luck, I’ll own, Campston.”

  “’Pon honor, you sound glad of it!” Lord Fistersham said, laying down his cards and scooping up the pot.

  Once sure Chessingham was out of hearing, Viscount Strathemoore made his announcement. “My friends, I have met Miss St. James!”

  “The devil, you did!”

  “You don’t say!”

  “She is an angel!” Strathemoore said.

  Chapter 10

  I

  Isobel was glad to return to London. The countryside was beautiful, but she had had enough of fake ruins, deliberately planted dead trees, and wild undergrowth left to choke out prettier bushes. She considered it utter nonsense. The city was a welcome relief after the solitude her father had imposed on her by adamantly refusing to introduce her to his guests. Avoiding Lord Strathemoore had been a trying enough endeavor, but she was looking forward to the time when she would be properly introduced to the man. She thought him rather good-looking.

  As soon as she arrived in London, she and Julia were caught up in plans for Isobel’s ball. Lord Chessingham approved whatever Julia recommended, and Isobel was more than happy to let her plan the affair. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to go about such a thing. Her time was taken up with dancing lessons, fittings, and the fortepiano. In the week before the ball, Julia spent hours telling Isobel what to expect of every one of her guests. She even attended one of Isobel’s dancing lessons and pronounced her as graceful as any woman could hope to be.

  When at last the day of the ball arrived, she was calm while Bridget painstakingly pulled her hair into an upsweep and adorned it with a ribbon of the same sky-blue satin as her gown. It was a color she had always disliked, but Julia had insisted she looked divine in it, and Isobel reluctantly deferred to her judgment on the matter. The underskirt was a darker blue silk revealed all around at the points where small dark blue bows held up the overskirt. She had been adamant that the rows of bows at the elbow-length sleeves be removed in favor of just one at each cuff. She was calm while the buttons of her dress were being fastened. By the time the maid had fastened the gold buckles of her dark blue satin slippers, she felt like someone’s pattern doll and she was thoroughly disgusted with the entire process. Up until she took her father’s arm and stood with him at the door to greet the guests, she was calm. But as people began to arrive and she saw the looks of curiosity on their faces, she began to wish she could just go upstairs and wait until the ordeal was over.

  As her father escorted her into the ballroom to dance the first minuet with her, she felt her mouth go dry. When it was over she whispered to him to take her to the punch bowl so she might wet her parched throat. It would also give her something to do. She was not at all convinced anyone would ask her to dance, and she was surprised when she was instantly surrounded by men begging for the honor. She supposed they were obliged to out of courtesy. Soon, however, all the glib phrases Miss Steadly had taught her became indispensable as she was spun around the floor and handed through the intricate dance patterns. Did these elegantly dressed men really think her stupid enough to believe the nonsensical drivel they were spouting at her? Could she do anything but look away as though suddenly shy when some ridiculous fop told her she was a divine creature, that her eyes reminded him of a stormy sea, or that she was more graceful than any swan? It would have been funny if they had not so sincerely expected her to believe them. She was grateful it was considered polite to look away at such times; at least then she could hide her scorn for some of the more outrageous comments.

  Isobel took a deep breath as Lord Hartforde expertly handed her through another minuet. She was looking fixedly past him and so missed the raised eyebrows and appreciative look downward as he took in the sudden swell of her breasts against her neckline. Until she saw the décolletage of the gown
s other women wore, she had thought her own to be terribly daring. She had been watching him surreptitiously all evening, hoping he would dance with her. Just when she had given up, he had bowed gracefully and asked her. She had been half inclined to tell him she was engaged, but when she looked into those green eyes she was mesmerized. She was so intrigued by the man that she had actually gone to the trouble of obtaining copies of all his speeches. She had learned that, in spite of his comment that she sounded like a “dashed colonist,” Lord Hartforde had been a vehement supporter of the colonists in the American war, having upon the opening of Parliament in October of ‘81 made his first impassioned speech against continuing a war that, in addition to being immoral, he argued was incapable of being won. The news of the fall of Yorktown on 19 October, received just a few weeks after his speech, had been an incalculable embarrassment to George III and his prediction of disaster had not endeared him to his Sovereign. Isobel sighed again. Her studied indifference to him was becoming difficult to continue. His hand, whenever it rested lightly on her back, seemed to burn through the fabric of her gown. He was a wonderfully graceful dancer; the other men she had danced with were oafs by comparison. And he was so unconcernedly handsome!

  “Is something amiss, Miss St. James?” he asked, dismayed that she seemed distracted.

  “I’m afraid I’ll make a fool of myself and step on your toes.” She looked directly at him for the first time and blushed when she realized what a ninny she sounded like.

  “But you dance divinely.” He laughed at this example of what he took to be coquettishness, and when next he held her hand, he grasped it a little closer. He decided he liked the sound of her American accent after all. She was quite striking when she smiled, he thought, and, truly, she filled the modest neckline of her gown in a most fascinating manner. It was no wonder every man in the place was panting for a chance to dance with her. Rich and beautiful—what man could resist that combination?

  “To tell you the truth, my lord, I feel like somebody’s prize horse at an auction,” she said, surprised that, after an evening of guarding her tongue, she could say what she really thought. But, then, how could she let him think she hadn’t a thought in her head but the fear of stepping on his toes? “My father can’t wait to marry me off so I may produce him an heir. I’ll wager he spends his evenings working up bloodlines.” She was hurt when he threw back his head and laughed. “You wouldn’t think it so amusing if you were in my place!”

  “But I am in your place, or, rather, one like it. Being widowed, I find people constantly throwing their daughters my way in the hopes she shall be the next marchioness of Hartforde.”

  “I see,” she said stiffly. “What a trial it must be for you.” She was not so dense that she could not appreciate the relevance of his comment to herself. She gave him her most dazzling smile when the dance ended, and as he led her off the floor, she turned to him and said softly so no one but he would hear, “Rest assured, sir, I shall resist being thrown.”

  Someone quickly claimed the next dance and Isobel soon lost sight of Lord Hartforde. She was absolutely mortified that such a great man thought she was the sort of woman concerned only with snatching a marquess. She sighed to herself as she recalled she had not exactly been a brilliant conversationalist. He was justified if he thought her dull.

  “I have been waiting an eternity for this dance,” her new partner said earnestly, bowing as he offered her his hand. “James Stanton Fredericks, Lord Strathemoore, at your service,” he reintroduced himself to her. “Your beauty has dazzled me so, I have done nothing but pine until now.” His blue eyes twinkled as he swept her onto the floor.

  “My lord, you’ll turn my head with talk like that!”

  “Then I shall continue. You may depend on it!”

  “Rascal!” She caught a glimpse of Lord Hartforde talking to Mrs. Vincent, who was wearing a dangerously low-cut gown. If he thought for even a minute she was the least bit interested in being the next marchioness of Hartforde, he was seriously mistaken, she decided, when she saw Mrs. Vincent place her hand on his arm. “I see your ankle has fully recovered, my lord,” she said, flashing a smile at Strathemoore.

  “You were cruel to leave me at Marblestone as you did, Miss St. James. I was so desperate for an introduction, I own, I was willing to risk my life to get it!”

  “Come, now, my lord, would you have me believe you would be so reckless?”

  “Any man who would do such a thing would have to be desperately in love, do you not agree, Miss St. James?”

  “He would be a fool at best, sir. But an endearing one,” she added, when he looked crestfallen.

  Lord Strathemoore brightened, then continued a stream of easy conversation until the dance ended and she was snatched up by her next partner. He watched her thoughtfully as she danced, admiring the bright upswept curls, and he wondered what she would look like with her hair loosened. He thought to himself that she was a damned fine woman. And it certainly didn’t hurt that she was an heiress.

  II

  At last Isobel could stand it no longer. Her feet were tired and sore from being stepped on, and she could feel her carefully coiffed hair coming loose. She wanted nothing more than to rest a moment where she would be undisturbed by a gaggle of men who cared more for her prospects than they did for her. As soon as the next dance started, she excused herself and sought refuge in the hallway.

  She went about halfway up the stairs before sitting down and resting her chin in her hands to listen to the strains of music floating up from the ballroom. It felt good to sit down. Her thoughts drifted again to Lord Hartforde and she sighed when she thought of his obvious disdain for her. “You absolutely must not make a fool of yourself over him!” she admonished herself. Besides, what reason had she to think such a man would have even the slightest interest in her? His comment to her about the number of women who wished to be the next marchioness of Hartforde was a point well taken. He had every right to warn her he was not interested. Men like Lord Hartforde did not concern themselves with anybody’s bastard daughter, and she would do well to remember it. She was startled out of her reverie by the sound of voices from down the hall and she leaned into the shadows of the rails to avoid being seen. A dark-haired woman was walking slowly along the hallway doing nothing to fend off the hands of a tall gentleman whose face Isobel could not see on account of his being absorbed in a contemplation of the front of the woman’s dress. She recognized the brunette as Mrs. Vincent, and as soon as the light glinted off the man’s golden hair she recognized Lord Hartforde.

  “Why not, my lord?” Mrs. Vincent was saying in a cajoling tone.

  “Perhaps you have convinced me, after all.” Lord Hartforde raised his head from his study of Mrs. Vincent’s bosom and looked at the library door, a short way down the hall.

  Why, he’s nothing but a common womanizer! she thought as she watched him pull Mrs. Vincent to him.

  “Alexander…my lord.” She stopped walking and sank down on a small bench. He sat next to her and began kissing her. Isobel was unable to look away, amazed to see Mrs. Vincent actually seemed to be enjoying it. “Alexander…” she moaned as her arms went around his shoulders.

  He lifted his head. “Yes, Angelica?”

  “Not here, my lord,” she said breathlessly, pushing away his hand and adjusting the front of her gown before standing up. “Come with me.” Her face was flushed with some emotion Isobel could not identify.

  He followed her down the hall and, reaching in front of her, put a hand to the door. He grasped her shoulder and kissed her full on the lips. He broke their embrace with a look of reluctance, while one hand fumbled behind him to open the door. He whispered her name as he pushed her through. The door dosed firmly after them.

  Isobel blinked at the spot where they had stood.

  “Miss St. James!” Lord Strathemoore took a few steps up the stairs toward where Isobel still sat. His blue eyes were concerned. “Are you ill?”

  “I’m quite all righ
t. I only needed a respite from the crowd.” She wondered what it would feel like if Lord Hartforde were to kiss her like that.

  “I had hoped to persuade you to dance with me again,” he said, encouraged by the peculiar look she was giving him.

  “Oh, come, now, surely you don’t expect me to believe you have been frantically searching for me all in the hopes of another dance?” She laughed and took the hand he offered her.

  “Well, perhaps not frantically.” He smiled. “But will you dance with me again?”

  “Perhaps we might just have a glass of punch. I find I’m somewhat in need of refreshment. It’s rather warm, don’t you think?” She took his arm and smiled up at him again.

  The viscount thoroughly enjoyed the envious looks sent his way as he escorted Isobel to the table where punch was being served by liveried footmen. Lord Chessingham’s daughter had caused quite a stir, and any man with pretensions to fashion was anxious to make her acquaintance. He had been watching her carefully during the evening and his vigilance had been rewarded by the discovery that she was most receptive to the men who were more circumspect in their attentions. When he went to claim his first dance, he had carefully tailored his behavior to that discovery. His jesting imitation of his rivals he now judged to have been a success. He handed Isobel a glass of punch before taking a glass for himself.

  Isobel was sitting down when she saw Lord Hartforde coming toward her. “No, Lord Strathemoore,” she was saying, “it would be positively wicked to dance with you yet again. Besides, I promised this one to someone else.” James was laughing as she put a finger to her lips and wrinkled her brow. “If only I could remember who it was!” He frowned when he saw the light that came into her eyes when she caught sight of Hartforde.