A Secret Passion

by Sophia Nash

  “Mrs. Lovering and Mr. Thompson, may I present to you my brother, the Honorable Frederick St. James?” the earl inquired.

  The greetings and thanks were given and received in tones most politic. When the full extent of Harry’s injury was made known to the earl’s younger brother, a physician was sent for and the foursome adjourned to the saloon in the front of the establishment. The earl excused himself thereafter to the comparative privacy of his chambers.

  As he mounted the carpeted grand staircase, Lord Graystock pondered his brother’s state of affairs not for the first time. Frederick resided at this particular estate for the better part of each year. However, Rolfe had never trusted him enough to deed Seaton, which was unentailed, to him. Despite his slow physical ruin from drink, Frederick at least showed a spot of the same dark humored cynicism as his father and brother. Rolfe wondered that his brother’s wife and son were not in evidence.

  Harry could feel the pain in his ankle worsening. All he wanted to do was lie down and find out if laudanum could be produced from somewhere within this monstrous mansion. And all Frederick seemed capable of doing was prolonging the agony.

  “As you can see, Mrs. Lovering and Mr. Thompson—I may call you Jane and Harry, may I not?”

  Surprised by the familiarity, they replied, “Of course.”

  “As you see, then, my brother has a great disgust of me. I have been a disappointment to him, and to really my entire family. The proverbial black sheep, I believe I am called, don’t you know? I apologize for my presumption and bluntness, but as you will be our guests here for a while, it is as well you know the circumstances.”

  Speechless, Jane and Harry looked at Frederick. For probably the only time in his life, Harry’s lighthearted wit eluded him, and Jane’s manners were lacking.

  Frederick continued, “May I offer you both refreshments? I shall pull the cord and Wiggins will bring us all something. A little stronger than tea, I suggest. Harry’s ankle and all that.”

  Jane found her voice and manners. “You are very kind, sir, but I think I shall avail myself of one of the guest chambers you have so graciously provided and take a bit of a lie-down. It has been a long journey.”

  “Of course, my dear. Harry and I will settle in for the duration. That is, until the good doctor arrives.”

  Harry was sure he did not want to remain in the present company, but looking at his throbbing ankle, he sighed and decided a bit of brandy might be just the thing, as the requested laudanum had not materialized.

  “You’re looking rather hipped, Harry. What is it, old man? Worried about facing the gluepot in Gretna? Nothing to the old marriage business. You just need a little of my specialty, ‘Kill Devil,’ just in from the colonies. Superior flavored rum. What do you say?” A portly butler entered and waited patiently.

  Looking at the man, Harry nodded and Frederick continued, “Wiggins, old chap, bring in the firewater, say.”

  When the butler had departed, the earl’s brother continued, “Good chap, even though he might try to put on airs from time to time. But then he draws in his horns when he oversteps.”

  When the so-called firewater had been consumed, which proved indeed to live up to its name, Harry realized he needn’t have been concerned about keeping up his end of the conversation, as Frederick was so deep in his cups he would never notice or remember on the morrow.

  In good time the doctor came and examined his ankle. A private audience, with Jane and the earl included, proved what Harry had dreaded. He must keep the ankle elevated for at least the next two days to bring down the swelling, and then the doctor would visit again. The doctor thought that the ankle was probably broken and would need to be immobilized if there was to be any hope of avoiding a permanent limp. Jane looked disheartened and again thanked the earl for his generosity and hospitality.

  Dinner was a strained affair, with Frederick wavering between a modicum of lucidity and drunken collapse. The earl, reserved and pale, said not a word. Harry seemed to be the only soul willing to make an effort toward any type of conversation. Jane’s uninspired remarks were ill rewarded, as she felt all the awkwardness at being the only lady surrounded by three gentlemen. She excused herself soonest, and left the threesome to their port.

  It was still early when Jane returned to her chamber to get her scribbling box. Upon asking a footman for the location of a room where she could write undisturbed, she was directed to a small sitting room where an escritoire sat facing double doors. It was a cozy room, and Jane soon found herself lost in her work.

  A good hour had passed in a haze of writing when Jane chanced to glimpse outside the French doors. She was surprised to see the garden ablaze with light. She rose, nudged the doors open wide, and walked to the edge of the Wentworth railing, where a footman walked down a line of terrace lanterns, lighting each one with a small torch. A strong breeze teased the first of late summer’s leaves from their heavy branches. The footman turned toward her after lighting the last lantern.

  “Why are you lighting those? Is some sort of celebration planned?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am. The earl ordered them lit, as he is wont to do when he visits the estate, especially when guests are about.” The footman blew on the charred remnants of the torch. “I told him you were in her ladyship’s sitting room.”

  Jane nodded her head and thanked the footman. “ ‘Tis a pretty sight to behold.” The young man bowed and walked away.

  White blossoms, amid the cloak of darkness in the vast beyond, beckoned her. She leaned forward and breathed in the sweet scents of roses and jasmine. The sight of so many white flowers piercing the night amazed Jane. Intrigued, she ran down the steps onto the lawn and beyond to the pea-gravel path. As she walked along the phlox border of the flower bed, she heard a crunching sound mingling with the rustling of her silks.

  Turning, Jane found herself face-to-face with Lord Graystock.

  “My lord.”

  “Mrs. Lovering.”

  He offered his arm and an excuse as they continued to walk. “I see you have discovered the moon garden.” He bent over to snap off a fragrant bloom and handed it to her. “My mother was quite fond of all-white gardens and arranged for them to be planted at each of our properties.”

  “Most unusual. I have never seen a garden quite like this.” And after a pause. “Where are your brother and Harry?”

  “Mr. Thompson has taken himself off to his chambers, to elevate his leg. And my brother, I should think, would be in the library at this time, capable only of babble, I am sure.”

  Jane paused before answering. “I am sorry.”

  “About what? Being forced to be a guest here? Or my brother’s utter lack of control?”

  “All of it, I guess.”

  “There is no need to apologize. We know each other well enough by now to avoid formalities.”

  He looked fragile. No, “fragile” was not the word one would associate with the earl. Rather, he seemed to have peeled off some of the layers of reserve he generally wore. His tanned, rugged visage looked pale gray in the moonlight as his dark eyes searched her face. Jane stopped and reached toward him, cupping his high cheekbones.

  The gentle action softened his eyes further. It was the first time she had initiated an embrace, and she felt tentative and unsure—acting on instinct alone. She stroked his cheek and brushed the hair from his temple. He closed his eyes and moved his face to press his lips into the palm of her hand.

  “I want to show you something,” he whispered. He reached for her other hand and tugged her arm down as he began walking the length of the parterre. Jane’s gait matched his stride.

  They stepped through a large archway, heavy with white roses, into a walled garden replete with a gurgling fountain and lighted lanterns in the center. Everywhere, the scent of roses perfumed the air. White blooms surrounded Jane and Rolfe.

  “Out of all our estates, I think this was my mother’s favorite corner of the world.”

  “It is not difficult
to understand why.” Jane leaned forward to inhale the heady scent of one large bloom. “You have never spoken of your mother.”

  “She was beautiful, with light blond hair like Frederick’s,” he said, grimacing. “I take after my father.”

  “I don’t agree. You both look very similar, apart from the color of your hair.”

  “Ah, but I did not inherit my mother’s charm and ever present kindness and good humor.” Rolfe led Jane to the stone bench and sat down. “She died of the influenza when I was young—eight years old.”

  “I am sorry. I cannot imagine losing a mother at that tender age. It was difficult enough for me at eighteen to lose my mother. I hope your family was able to provide the love and attention you must have required at that horrible time.”

  “I think, rather, you and I have had similar lives, actually.”

  The whir of the summer insect population echoed around them. Rolfe raised Jane’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. Jane could not summon a sound to her mouth.

  “Do not fear. I shan’t compromise you again—if such a thing is possible. You have my word.” He lowered her hand. “I will leave on the morrow for London with the definite intention of not returning. I doubt we will see each other again.”

  The warm, familiar scent of him curled through her. She rested her cheek against the lapel of the blue superfine coat and closed her eyes. It would be so easy to give in to the secret passion that coursed through her veins. But she would not allow it to happen. Rolfe, while kindhearted in some ways, was the epitome of the domineering male. She would never again allow someone to control her life. But, ah, it was tempting. Too tempting.

  Jane felt the traces of his whiskers tease her forehead as a gust of wind poured through the archway. She shivered. Rolfe removed his coat and placed it about her shoulders.

  “Thank you for everything you’ve done, Rolfe.”

  “Ah, how I have longed to hear my name on your lips, without my forcing you to say it.”

  Jane looked into his mysterious dark eyes and felt the constricting ache of desire. Tentatively, like a doe stepping into a meadow for the first time, Jane slipped her hands up Rolfe’s ruffled shirt to entwine her arms around his neck. Leaning forward, she reached his face and kissed his cheek.

  A pent-up breath of air escaped from his lips. “Dearest Jane,” he whispered into her hair.

  Jane shivered again uncontrollably. “I must go.”

  He did not respond.

  “I believe it is for the best.” Jane shrugged off his coat, dismissing his protests that she keep it. She edged up from her cold seat and began walking toward the mansion, surprised that he did not follow her.

  The night proved to be her undoing. Not only had her sensibilities attempted an about-face, but the calendar was forcing her to face the stark reality of her future. One year ago, Jane remembered as she paced the floor of her bedchamber, Cutty had lain dying in her arms. An abundant late-summer’s-night feast with neighbors had brought on the last attack, which had killed him. It seemed so very long ago and yet on the contrary, it also seemed just a few months ago.

  As she heard the clock strike four in the morning, Jane cursed herself for being the most perverse female that ever lived. She was devoted to Harry in a much more fulfilling way than she had been to Cutty. And yet Rolfe provoked different feelings altogether. Two such different gentlemen, two such very different feelings—each justified. And yet when she allowed her heart to overtake her mind, she knew what she must do. She had been writing about love, and yet she had refused to look it in the eye and take it. And then it dawned on her. He was just like her. In almost every respect. Was that good or bad? She didn’t know. She only knew what he made her feel.

  She flung herself onto the bed and groaned. Tomorrow—or rather, today—would be a difficult day indeed. She feared she had not the courage to accomplish what must be done.

  Rolfe awoke refreshed for the first time in a long while. He tugged on the bell pull, signaling his desire for a private breakfast. He moved to the porcelain basin and splashed water onto his face as he whistled a military tune. A quarter hour passed before a valet entered the room carrying a tray and polished boots with the scent of wax emanating from them.

  “Good morning, my lord.”

  “Yes, it is a good morning, is it not, Jennings?”

  The manservant looked up with a surprised expression on his face. “Yes, sir.”

  “Are the others up and about?”

  “Yes and no, my lord. Your brother is, I believe, still abed. The doctor has returned early to see Mr. Thompson. Mrs. Lovering has already breakfasted.”

  “Ah, yes, splendid. Jennings? Please inform my coachman I will be delaying, perhaps even postponing our departure today. I will see him before lunch to give further instructions.”

  The valet bowed and smoothed out the clothes he had placed on the bed. An aubergine-colored superfine coat, buff riding breeches, a pressed lawn shirt, and a stock lay above the gleaming Hessians on the floor. “Shall I assist you, my lord?”

  “No, Jennings. You know my preferences.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The valet departed.

  He was hopeful. More hopeful than ever before. She was in a delicate balance. One false move would tip the scales out of his favor. He knew, with a certain clarity, what he would have to do to win her over. He must proceed with caution and care. But for the first time he felt he had a chance. A small chance, to be sure. But it was a chance nonetheless.

  Rolfe moved toward the basin to begin his morning ritual. He gulped hot, black coffee between swipes of his face with the razor. He finished the job and combed back his unruly hair, peering at the few gray strands in the small mirror before him. Perhaps he should step aside for that young puppy, Harry. Nah.

  A scant twenty minutes later found him searching the house for her. His perusal of the morning dining room and the small sitting room she had occupied the evening prior proved fruitless. The early stages of a crisp, sparkling day peeked through the double doors. A breeze, still stronger than the previous evening’s, flowed through the nearby weeping willow tree, forcing the long tendrils to swirl in a mesmerizing brushstroke pattern. Perhaps she had gone to the rose arbor.

  As he approached the archway, he noticed several sheets of paper twirling in the grass, engaged in a tug-of-war with gravity and the wind. He retrieved them and entered through the large arch to find still more pages caught in the wells beneath some of the rosebushes. He collected them all and sat on the stone bench. They must be Jane’s, as he could see his ring was the ineffective paperweight in a box he found next to him. But where was she? And what were all these papers? Rolfe shuffled through the parchment, righting them and noticing a lack of page numbers. He was about to place the sack in the box when a word on the top page caught his glance—”Rolfe.” What the devil? He read on.

  The shadows flanking the hallway hid the figure

  slumped in a chair. Rolfe raised his head only once

  during the endless wails permeating the walls.

  “God, save me! Please, someone help me…”

  screamed a hidden female, consumed in agony.

  A servant crept down the hall, waving a candlestick.

  The earl raised a staying hand, and the servant shook his

  head and turned on his heel. Pangs of regret filled him.

  “What are you doing?” a female voice asked, breaking his concentration.

  Rolfe looked up and encountered Jane’s furious visage. He suddenly felt ill at ease, embarrassed and defensive, like a small boy caught with his finger in the pudding.

  “How dare you presume the privilege to read my work. You must know it is private, my lord.”

  “Jane, I was merely sorting your pages, as the wind had thrown them about the garden. Surely you do not doubt my motive?”

  She hesitated. “I do. You were not sorting, you were reading,” she said, reaching for the pages in his hands.

  “Have no fear
. I do not indulge in novels. They hold no interest for me.” He could tell by the look on her face that his last utterance had perversely weakened his hand.

  “And now you insult my manuscript.”

  “No. Actually it was quite good,” he lied, “if you go for such flights of fancy.”

  A deep flush rose from the modest black lace of her collar. “Flights of fancy, you call it?”

  “Yes. Murder, suffering, and the like are all standard novel fare,” he replied.

  “Ah, yes. And you know all about that, don’t you? Murder, I mean.” She at least had the decency to look embarrassed.

  Rolfe paused, and hardened his heart. “Why, yes, I do. But you know, you have it all wrong. A murderer does not experience ‘pangs of regret,’ as you described it. It is more of a never forgetting…You remember when you awake in the morning, when you dine, bathe, dress. Even sleep does not provide a surcease, for that is when the nightmares take over.”

  “So you admit you are a murderer.”

  “Yes. But an honest one,” he said. Now he knew his position was hopeless. At the very least he could use a straightforward offensive instead of the finesse he had hoped to try. Besides, a sort of furious calm had invaded his body. “At least I am not the fraud you are, Jane. You are forcing a man to marry you who does not love you. Something, I can assure you, that will lead to regret. Nor do you love him.”

  “You seem so sure of my sensibilities. But then again, you have voiced your opinion of my emotions many times.”

  “Why do you deny your feelings for me? Was last night, here in this very place, just a moment to act out for a future scene in your novel? If so, you are a very good actor.”

  “And you, sir, have spoken volumes about the violence of your affection, have you not? Let us not forget your romantic proposal, your dealmaking with my father, your passionate letter, oh, yes, and your sense of duty,” Jane stood very close to him now. “You do not love me, nor I, you.”