A Secret Passion

by Sophia Nash

  He pulled back and looked at her. “Well?”

  “Yes, well,” Jane replied with a slight hitch, “I cannot promise you anything, my lord.”

  Jane pushed him away from her. She felt the cool morning air and shivered. She had been drugged in the warmth of his embrace. And her acquiescence to him had been at complete odds with her intentions.

  “Please, stop,” she whispered, looking off to the side. “Your attentions are unwelcome, and I have told you this must go no further. Really, there is no reason to worry about my virtue any longer. I am to be married shortly. Actually, very shortly.”

  He let out his breath. “I see. And who is to be the lucky gentleman? No, let me guess… could it be young Mr. Thompson?”

  “Well, yes, it is he.”

  “And you are in love with him?” he asked, his eyes hooded.

  “You have no right to question me like this. But if you must know, the answer is yes,” she said, lifting her chin.

  “And your father and his family approve of the match?”

  “No. For that reason, I ask your forbearance in not revealing our engagement at present. This is much to ask, but at least it must relieve you of all your moral obligations to me.”

  “Jane, stop calling me ‘sir’ and ‘my lord’ when we are alone. It is preposterous after we have lain together,” he said as he reached for her hand. “Now, I must ask you to think carefully of what you are about. Are you certain Thompson will give you the kind of life that will make you happy? And your father—he is most enchanted with the idea of our marriage.”

  “I can very easily picture his countenance when you offered for my hand,” she said. “How much would it have cost you from the Graystock coffers? Ten or more thousand?”

  He regarded her and did not answer.

  “It is as I thought. The price for my hand has seen new heights. My father will be vastly disappointed, I am sure.”

  Graystock stepped close to her once again. He cupped her face in both of his hands and stared into her eyes. “Are you sure this infatuation with Mr. Thompson is not a passing fancy? Will you not be miserable with a man who is unable to match…”

  Jane removed his hands from her face. “Excuse me, but do not presume that since we have, have lain together, as you so aptly described it, you know everything about me and what will make me happy. Harry will make me happy. You will not.” She stomped her foot once. It was infuriating to have to explain her feelings to the earl. He had no right to question her.

  He moved to stroke her hair and once again leaned to kiss her, with all restraint lost. His proximity tormented her body and her mind. When he pulled away, she could not stop her tears.

  “Damn you!” she said as she turned to remount her horse. Her last shred of dignity was removed when she was forced to request his aid.

  “It would be my pleasure,” he responded with a huge smile. “I live to be at your beck and call,” he continued glibly.

  Rolfe still felt the imprint of her delicate form on his chest and remembered the sweet, warm scent of her flaxen hair. He smiled. He could at least be glad that she had allowed him to kiss her. A promising sign in itself. And he felt confident that she would not secretly hasten away. Everything else was not to be counted on, for he was quite sure they would never, ever be of one mind on any subject! It was a great tax on his forbearance.

  Chapter Nine

  A LIGHT summer rain tapped against the windows of the Fairchilds’ main salon that afternoon. Girlish laughter filled the room as two spirited games of cards began in earnest after tea. Jane had excused herself from play to face the dreaded task of composing a letter to her father.

  This was it. She would go through with it. Following a painful interview with Harry’s father yesterday, in which the latter had refused to grant the couple’s wishes without her father’s consent, Jane and Harry had made covert plans to travel to Gretna Green despite her conversation with the earl. Seeing the reverend’s fright, springing from his idea that Jane’s father would turn him out of the living, she knew that they would have to remove quickly. They resolved on departing in two days’ time via Harry’s dilapidated version of a carriage. Jane had two days to pack and write letters to her father and Clarissa. Her efforts to assure Lord Graystock that he had no further responsibility in her corner had failed, as he had made no plans for his departure from Pembroke. She sighed, knowing she must speak with him again to prevent any possibility of his trying to follow them. An examination of her conscience also made her realize she must also pluck any remaining guilty feelings she felt toward her family out of her heart. There was only the smallest voice inside her head echoing doubts about the intelligence of her plan. A louder demon reminded her constantly about the future plight of her aunt and the rest of her family.

  Sitting at a small writing desk at the front corner of the room, she gazed out the large windows to take in the beauty of the vista. It pained her to know she was likely to never again be in the house once she married Harry. But what was that, compared to life with the man she loved?

  She turned and looked at Harry’s profile. He grinned as Miss Dodderidge’s hand covered his own. She begged him to help her with the intricacies of the game of Hearts. Between Harry and Miss Dodderidge sat Clarissa, with the earl opposite, dressed in a severe black superfine coat that emphasized his broad, hawkish physique. Jane glanced to the second table of card players when she felt Graystock’s cool gaze turn toward her.

  The other table featured William and his three sisters, Sarah, Lillian, and Fanny. Much arguing erupted from that table, as family members were guaranteed to fight amongst themselves when the formality of manners and small titles such as Miss and Mr. were unnecessary and forgotten.

  Jane twined the fingers of one hand as she wracked her brain for verbiage. She was on the point of quitting the room to seek the solitude necessary to compose her difficult letters when she spied from the front window Sir Thomas Gooding, riding up the pea-gravel lane in front of the house. His hat was misshapen from the wet, and he handed the ribbons over to a groom, who hurried in the direction of the stables. Jane tried to capture Clarissa’s attention as she rose from her desk to stand before the double doors. Clarissa looked at her with a doe’s innocence.

  The doors opened, and a footman introduced Sir Thomas, who stood brushing the last of the raindrops from his coat, which had been mostly protected by his greatcoat. His short dark brown hair was matted where his hat had failed its duty.

  Jane moved forward to clasp his hands. “Sir Thomas, how delightful to see you again, sir.”

  “Thank you for your welcome, Mrs. Lovering. I am sorry to drip all over you.”

  “Nonsense, sir. We are so happy you have come for a visit.”

  She knew without glancing at her aunt that it was Clarissa’s turn to feel as ill at ease as she herself had felt the night before, when the earl had arrived unannounced. The necessary effusions of greeting and introductions were well under way when Graystock, with laughter in his expression, slapped his friend on the back.

  “What brings you to Cornwall, my good man?”

  “I should ask you the same, Graystock. I thought you were in London on pressing business.”

  “Yes. Well…” The earl was at a loss for words for once.

  William Thompson blurted out, “Why, Lord Graystock is here for a look at the famous Fairchild horses, of course.”

  Sir Thomas grinned. “I see. The stallion has not learned his lessons well? I, then, am come to seek a horse as well.”

  Jane interjected, “Where are you staying, Sir Thomas?”

  “At the Tabard Inn.”

  “You are very welcome to stay with us, of course,” Jane said as she looked at Clarissa’s ashen, downcast face.

  Gooding paused and looked toward Clarissa as well. “You are very kind, but I would not impose.”

  “Oh, come, come, Gooding, let us have none of that,” replied the earl. “Mrs. Lovering has invited you, and you must accept i
f for no other reason than to even out the numbers at mealtimes.”

  “If Miss Fairchild is not inconvenienced, I would be delighted to accept the invitation,” he said quietly.

  Clarissa looked up when she heard her name mentioned. “You are very welcome, Sir Thomas,” she said.

  “It is settled, then,” Lord Graystock said with satisfaction as Jane handed Sir Thomas a cup of lukewarm tea.

  Never one to miss the opportunity of meeting someone new, Miss Dodderidge giggled and asked Sir Thomas if he would like to join their table. Still glancing at Clarissa, Sir Thomas declined and walked to stand by the fireplace to dry his damp boots. Jane dispensed with the idea of composing a letter and moved to converse with Sir Thomas.

  “May I inquire about the health of your family, sir? I presume they are all well?”

  “Yes, very much so. Or so I believe. I received a letter from my uncle, Lord Rushmore, the day I left Littlefield,” responded Sir Thomas, his smile reaching his brown eyes.

  “I believe I had the pleasure of meeting your uncle a few years ago. He was a great friend of my husband’s.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember. Uncle Willie used to invite Mr. Lovering to come for the superior foxhunting found on his estate. They would mount up every autumn whether conditions were favorable or not,” he said. “When I was there during holidays as a boy, I used to beg and beg to go with them. But they never would consent until I reached the advanced age of fifteen. They decided along with my father that that would be a suitable age for me to break my neck!” Sir Thomas added with a laugh. Jane took Sir Thomas’ empty teacup and placed it on the mantel.

  “I was sorry not to be at Cutty’s funeral, Mrs. Lovering. He was a great man.”

  “You must have been following Wellington at the time, dear sir. I am sure my husband’s family never expected you. But your words are very kind,” Jane responded. “Your uncle traveled a good distance to come, as did your wife.”

  Sir Thomas pinched his eyebrows together. “Ah, that must have been just before our divorce, when Lucinda was still trying to keep up appearances. Pardon me, Madam.” Sir Thomas added the last under his breath.

  Jane had had to bend her ear closer to catch it all. Shocked, she turned to look at her aunt. Clarissa’s face was white as she stared at Sir Thomas and then back at her cards. Jane did not doubt that it took all of Clarissa’s strength of character to remain seated and continue playing the game. She noticed her aunt’s hands were unsteady.

  “Sir, please let me offer you my condolences,” Jane said. It was amazing that in the small circle of society in London, she had not known about the divorce. The scandal of divorce was an event requiring many hours, days, months, and even years of speculation by the ton. But then again, Jane’s small circle, more Cutty’s older male acquaintances than her own, gossiped less than their female counterparts, especially in her hearing. Jane could list all the illnesses and deaths that plagued her husband’s friends’ families, but she was ignorant of the worst offenses of their sons and daughters. In addition, she had closeted herself in the country away from ton events and the cutting tongues of London, where she had suffered a miserable first season followed by a much-gossiped-about marriage.

  “It is quite all right, Mrs. Lovering. I am reconciled to the fact,” responded Sir Thomas, eyeing the intricate mantelpiece.

  Jane, a little embarrassed, changed the subject. “Shall we send a message to the inn, sir, to retrieve your belongings? It is too wet to go back, really. May I send a footman and groom to collect everything?”

  “That would be most kind of you. Yes.”

  Graystock turned to him. “Do tell us about the success of your hunting and fishing schemes on my property, Gooding.”

  “You will be content to know your larders are stocked to the gills,” Sir Thomas responded. “And by the by, your grandmother, when I left, was busy adding more names to the invitation list for your house party this fall.”

  Clearly irked, Lord Graystock did not reply.

  With much amusement, Jane observed that Miss Doddridge’s attempts to draw the earl’s attention to herself had failed miserably. She smiled as Sir Thomas spoke to her once again.

  “Will you visit your aunt for the festival, Mrs. Lovering? I will be there, as well as the Kellerys and the Smiths. And if her grandson does not return soon, I’m sure the dowager countess will invite many other people you would know from town.”

  Jane glanced at Lord Graystock. He seemed to be quite still, listening for her answer. “I think not, sir. I have accepted other engagements this fall that preclude a visit.” Clarissa drew the attention of everyone in the room at the conclusion of the hand in play. “Will you all excuse me? I must have a word with Cook, and with our housekeeper, if you please.”

  The male cardplayers all nodded as they pushed the cards to the center of the felt-covered table. Miss Dodderidge protested and then snuggled up to Harry by clutching his sleeve as she looked at the earl. “Do let us play charades again, Mr. Thompson and Lord Graystock. It was such a lark last evening.”

  Jane noticed Lord Graystock made no effort whatsoever to conceal a pained expression. When Miss Dodderidge continued to pester the group, the earl stared at the chit with such a black expression that Miss Dodderidge was dampened into submission.

  Clarissa’s heart pounded so desperately that she was sure everyone in the room had noticed. As she rushed into her room, she held her throbbing temples in her hands and lay on the bed. She closed her eyes and replayed scenes with Thomas in her head until her mind swirled and she thought she would go mad.

  She remembered his youthful face, before the war, when he had proposed to her on bended knee with laughter in his eyes. He had been in such good humor when she had nodded her assent, his face glowing with a look she had seen but once or twice many, many years ago. She remembered the shock of seeing him again in Littlefield—his anger, his bad manners, and his reproofs. And she also remembered the scene at Littlefield in her cottage, late at night.

  It had been a repeat of the conversation at the seashore but with even less civility. But never once had he mentioned his divorce, an almost impossible event. And now, for the sake of propriety and pride, she would be required to maintain a calm demeanor, suppress any hopes, in the face of this news. She wished more than anything to throw herself at his feet, beg his forgiveness, and pray for a renewal of his attentions, but she knew in her heart it was too late. There was just the smallest of voices in her ear whispering, “Why did he come?”

  She fingered her old lace cap in agitation and forced herself off the bed and into the kitchen to inform the housekeeper of Pembroke’s newest addition.

  The morning dawned cool and sunny, a fortuitous event for the foursome at Pembroke and the party at the manse. A visit to Porthcurno had been proposed the evening before, and most of the young members of the set had embraced the plan with enthusiasm. Jane awoke from a restless sleep with the realization that this would be her last day at Pembroke. Tomorrow, early, she and Harry would leave as fast as his ruination of a carriage would take them. At least they would have adequate horseflesh until the first posting exchange, as they would borrow horses from her family’s stable.

  She had finished at midnight all the letters that would be posted upon her departure, and she had packed a small trunk and pushed it behind all the gowns in her armoire. All that was left to do was to get through this day without anyone learning of her plan. And without losing her mind.

  As she finished fastening her practical dark blue riding habit, she felt guilty for not selecting her black mourning. But that would mean forgoing the pleasure of riding—and she had such few pleasures. Jane looked at her small escritoire and saw the earl’s ring, which she still possessed from that dreadful game of charades. She had to find a private moment to return it to him. She had been safekeeping it in her pocket but had put it on the escritoire while she wrote her letters. She took the few steps back and slipped the heavy gold ring into her pocket.


  The last of the picnic was being handed to the pretty occupants of an open carriage as Jane approached from the stables riding a young bay mare. The gentlemen, all astride, nodded to her as she took her place behind the earl, Sir Thomas, and the two brothers. Her mount was full of spirits and threatening to bolt at the smallest provocation.

  “You are going to have a lively time of it, Mrs. Lovering. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to switch horses?” Mr. Harry Thompson asked, while looking longingly at the beautiful horse.

  Jane smiled at him as she leaned over the mare’s shoulder to pat her. “Ride old Boots? I think not!”

  “He might be gray around the whiskers, but he can still give some young ones a run for their money. Come on, let’s switch,” teased Harry.

  “I believe Mrs. Lovering would as soon take your suggestion as she would ride in the carriage,” drawled Lord Graystock.

  “Whyever would you say such a thing?” Jane asked.

  “When have you ever taken a gentleman’s suggestion?” replied the earl, with one eyebrow arched.

  Harry hooted with delight. “Hear! Hear!”

  Jane tried not to sound defensive when she answered, “It isn’t that. It is just that I’m bringing this mare along slowly and she requires a delicate hand.”

  Harry laughed and broke in, “This gets worse and worse. Are you insinuating that I will maul your dear creature?”

  He was smiling and of such a good nature that Jane knew even an insult from her would do little to bother him. Wishing to prove the earl wrong, Jane dismounted and offered the reins to Harry. “Of course not. If you really want to switch…” She raised the stirrup and unbuckled the girth as she added, “Old Boots and I will have a dandy time of it, I’m sure.”