Passionately Yours

by Cara Elliott

  Yes, to me, she thought.

  He hesitated, then added, “It was kind of you to have Lord Andover ask my sister to dance.” Another pause. “However, I hope you are not regretting being separated from your suitor for such an interminable duration. The cotillion is a very long dance.”

  “Oh, Good Heavens, Andy is not my suitor,” exclaimed Caro. “He was one of Anna’s.” She repressed a sigh as she recalled the pressure Anna had felt to marry well in order to keep the family from sinking into genteel poverty. “In fact, Mama had high hopes that he would offer for her.”

  “Why didn’t he?”

  “Oh, actually he did, though Mama has no knowledge of that private event. Anna turned him down, gently, but firmly.”

  “For what reason?” asked Alec, watching the other man lead his laughing sister through a skipping turn. “He seems a solid enough fellow.”

  “Oh, he is. More than solid, in fact,” she replied. “As to the reason, Anna did not say it herself, but Davenport…” Beneath his devil-may-care manner, the gentleman her sister did marry was an astute observer of human nature. “Davenport is of the opinion that he is too nice to stand up to a lady of Anna’s strong-willed temperament. He would have put her on a pedestal, and she would not have liked it one whit.”

  Alec looked thoughtful.

  Caro allowed a tiny smile. “In truth, Anna thinks Andy was secretly relieved, and I agree. I am of the opinion that he will be happier with someone else.”

  “The two of you seem very comfortable with each other,” remarked Alec. “To my eye, he seems very attentive.”

  “No, no! Andy isn’t interested in that sort of way.” She made a wry face. “As you have noticed, I am even worse than Anna when it comes to being a headstrong hellion. I would drive him to distraction, and he’s far too nice to suffer such a fate. So I assure you, we are simply friends.”

  A low “Hmm” was his only response.

  The music quickened, and the dancing couples reformed into the last circling steps that would bring the cotillion to an end.

  “I’ve been ordered by Isobel to ask you for the next dance,” said Alec, abruptly changing the subject.

  “It sounds like you would rather walk to your execution,” said Caro. “So consider yourself relieved of obeying such an onerous command. Dancing is supposed to be enjoyable.”

  He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I shall endeavor not to crush your toes.”

  “Lord Strathcona, you need not suffer through—”

  “It would please Isobel,” he said gruffly.

  “It ought to please you,” she pointed out. “Which does not seem the case. So please don’t feel obligated.”

  “If I seem reluctant, it is not because I find it onerous, but rather because I fear it is you who would find the experience a sore trial.”

  “I have very sturdy toes,” she said softly.

  “Sturdy enough to withstand the clomping of a Highland ox?”

  “Having seen you in action, sir, I have reason to know you are far more nimble than that. I am willing to take the risk if you are.”

  A few tentative trills sounded as the musicians retuned their violins for the next dance.

  “In that case…” He smoothed the wrinkles from his sleeve, as if considering the challenge. His wrist twitched, then he offered his arm. “Let us give it a try.”

  The parquet floor was a simple, sensible pattern of dark wood, made from the sort of solid English oak that could withstand centuries of stomping.

  So why was it that the room seemed suddenly to tremor beneath his feet as he turned to face her?

  It was a waltz. Alec had recognized the first notes and dutifully taken her hand and drawn her closer. Only to feel a jolt of electricity thrum through his entire body.

  Leaving his brain feeling a little singed.

  Somehow he managed to go through the proper motions—his other hand set on the small of her back, his feet slid into the first figures of the dance, no matter that the floor seemed to be tilting at a very odd angle.

  Breathe, he told himself. And slowly, as his lungs began to function again, his mind began to clear.

  She, too, seemed aware of the current coursing through the layers of wool and silk. Her cheeks were a trifle flushed, and the rise and fall of her bosom had suddenly quickened.

  Her bosom. Alec realized his eyes were glued on the creamy expanse of flesh revealed by the low-cut bodice of her gown.

  “Sorry,” he intoned, as his shoe grazed her slipper.

  “N-no harm done,” responded Caro. That her voice was a little unsteady made him feel less like an idiot.

  They danced on for several minutes in silence.

  “You surprise me, Lord Strathcona,” she said after a series of spins. “Not only are you familiar with the waltz, but you dance it very well.”

  “As do you, Miss Caro.” She moved with a liquid grace, and with her raven-colored hair and sea-green gown, she reminded him of a Scottish loch on the cusp of a storm.

  Dark and slightly dangerous. Quixotic and infinitely intriguing.

  A challenge.

  Test the waters and experience exhilaration—but risk being dashed to flinders on the jagged rocks.

  “Oh, I suppose that’s because I’ve had a lot of practice lately,” she replied airily, after they had spun through a breathless turn.

  Was she deliberately trying to provoke him?

  Narrowing his gaze, Alec searched her expression for any hint of mockery in her expression. But Caro kept her face at precisely the right angle to hide her eyes. A clever, sophisticated ploy, no doubt, learned in the fancy Mayfair ballrooms.

  As for her lovely mouth, and the delectable little curl playing at its left corner…

  He masked the sudden urge to touch his tongue to the spot with a brusque cough. “With all your elegant footwork, I imagine you’ve twirled out a number of marriage offers, if not from Andover, then from a host of other besotted swains.” His own steps seemed to turn more leaden, though why was not something he could explain. “Is that why you are rusticating in Bath? To mull over which tulip of the ton to accept?”

  Her mouth thinned, and he could almost feel the prickles sprouting from her smooth skin. “I am here in Bath because my mother has been feeling poorly and she wished to take the waters.” Her spin through the next turn was not quite so smooth as before. “As for my gaggle of offers—or lack of them—I cannot imagine that is of any interest to you, Lord Strathcona.”

  Alec gave himself a mental kick for spoiling the moment of harmony between them. “I am sorry,” he said stiffly. “I do hope your mother will fully recover her health.”

  “You are acquainted with my mother,” she replied, a hint of humor returning to her voice. “She would be quite unhappy if she had nothing to grouse about.”

  Alec noted that Caro tactfully omitted the fact that Lady Trumbull was not overly fond of him. She preferred gentlemen with polished manners and prestigious titles. A lowly Scottish baron was not the sort of suitor she wanted sniffing around her daughters.

  Not that he had been sniffing—it had been more snorts. And growls. Lady Trumbull had misjudged the dangers swirling around Dunbar Castle. The threats to her daughters had not come from him.

  “But that said,” went on Caro, “we are hoping the thermal hot springs will help ease the creaking in her knees.”

  Another sliver of silence, this one sharp with regret for having ruined the interlude. But it was best, he reminded himself, to keep a distance, keep a detachment.

  Danger lurked all around him and in far more sinister shapes than a spitfire beauty. Shadows and secrets were swirling like a poisonous mist, and the thought of the nameless, faceless threat sent fear slithering down his spine. Isobel was so very vulnerable, as was…

  It took him a moment to realize the music had ended and the sensation was half-caused by Caro surreptitiously squeezing his shoulder.

  “We can stop now,” she whispered. “You ne
ed not keeping counting the seconds until the ordeal is over.”

  He blinked, trying to clear the last fugue of brooding from his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” she countered.

  “For asking you to dance,” he replied without thinking—then realized he had just put his foot in his mouth.

  “Oh, I haven’t had such fun in ages,” said Caro. “Though clearly the same can’t be said for you.” In contrast to the coolness of her voice, the intensity of her gaze nearly scorched his skin. “In the future, you need not feel compelled to heed your sister’s commands.”

  He drew in a deep breath, but to his relief, Isobel and Andover chose that moment to reappear.

  “Oh, the waltz looks like such fun,” gushed his sister. “But Lord Andover warned me that a young lady may not dance it in Bath without having been approved by the Assembly’s Master of Ceremonies. Otherwise she runs the risk of being considered ‘fast’ by Polite Society.” A sigh punctuated the explanation. “So we had to sit out and watch.”

  “Silly strictures, I know,” murmured Andover, shooting him an apologetic look. “But it seemed prudent to err on the side of caution and not stir needless gossip.” Caro’s friend then looked back at Isobel and smiled. “By next week’s Assembly, Miss Urquehart, you will certainly have permission through the proper procedures.”

  “My thanks to you, Andover,” said Alec, saved from the ticklish task of having to respond to Caro. “I’m grateful for your good sense. Gossip is always dangerous.” He glanced at Isobel, noting a sparkle in her eyes that had been missing for weeks. Perhaps the evening’s festivities had not been such a bad idea after all, despite his own errant stumbles. “And for keeping my sister company. I trust she didn’t chatter your ear off.”

  “Alec!” she squeaked, looking mortified.

  “Not at all, sir,” replied Andover quickly. “We had a very interesting discussion.”

  “On Mozart’s sonatas,” interjected Isobel.

  Alec repressed a grin. His sister was passionate about music and played the pianoforte and harpsichord with great skill. “You are being exceedingly kind to call such a talk interesting. Having been subjected to her lengthy lectures on the subject, I daresay you could use a glass of brandy.” He paused. “Or maybe several.”

  “Alec!”

  “Actually, Andy plays the pianoforte,” volunteered Caro. “Quite well in fact.”

  Andover looked a little embarrassed. “Oh, no, not really. I dabble, that is all.”

  “Men,” huffed Caro, fixing her friend with a quizzical look. “Why are all of you so reluctant to admit to an interest in anything that doesn’t involve firearms, horses, or hounds?”

  “In many circles, it isn’t considered very manly to be enthusiastic about the arts,” admitted Andover.

  “Then perhaps you are spending time with the wrong people,” replied Caro.

  He smiled. “Miss Caro is passionate about literature, especially poetry, Lord Strathcona, so—”

  “I am aware of that fact,” said Alec dryly.

  “Lord Strathcona is also passionate about prose and verse.” Her flash of teeth was quite likely not meant as a smile. “Though he takes great pains to keep it a secret.”

  “It’s true,” said his sister. “Beneath his stony scowls, he has a very sensitive soul.”

  “I suppose I deserved that for the chatty comment,” he growled.

  “Yes,” shot back Isobel. “You did.”

  Andover’s mouth twitched, but he was sensible enough to remain silent. As for Caro’s reaction, it was impossible to gauge, for she had turned away to watch the dancing.

  “Perhaps it’s time for us to return home,” he drawled. “Before you make any more embarrassing revelations.”

  His sister’s eyes flared in alarm. “Oh, I was just teasing.”

  “As was I.”

  Isobel let out a sigh of relief.

  “However, I think it wise that you don’t overexert yourself,” he added softly.

  Andover cleared his throat. “As to that sir, I have asked your sister if she would like to see the organ at Bath Abbey on the morrow. That is, if she’s not feeling too fatigued. It was built in 1708 and has twenty stops spread over three manuals. One and a half octaves of pedals were added during the renovation in 1802, and…”

  A rueful grimace squeezed his words to a stop. “Sorry—I tend to get carried away. But it is considered a very magnificent instrument. And the Abbey itself is a historic cathedral.”

  “I have a feeling wild horses could not keep my sister from the outing,” replied Alec.

  “Excellent! Then with your permission, I will call at your townhouse at two.”

  He nodded.

  “Oh, you must join us, Caro,” exclaimed Isobel.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “It sounds like a lovely afternoon.”

  The invitation, noted Alec, was not extended to include him.

  Just as well. From now on, he meant to stay far away from Caro Sloane. He couldn’t afford the distraction.

  Or the temptation.

  Chapter Five

  Sunlight filtered in through the stained glass windows, dappling the high arches in flickering patterns of pastel colors. Caro watched for a moment longer, her own thoughts mirroring the erratic play of the hues dipping and dancing over the carved limestone. Then, lowering her gaze, she retreated into the shadows of the nave.

  The notes of the organ reverberated through the soaring transept of the Abbey, the magnificent sound mellowed by space and stone. It was beautiful, and yet the thrum, thrum was making her head ache.

  Leaving Isobel and Andover to enjoy the practice session, she slipped out one of the side doors and wandered into the adjoining churchyard.

  Her spirits, often criticized as too exuberantly high, were feeling depressingly low, and as she took a seat on a small stone bench shaded by the outstretched wings of a massive sculpted angel, Caro made herself start a list of all the reasons she should be happy.

  First and foremost…

  Her mind remained stubbornly blank.

  “Oh, come,” she muttered to herself. “To begin with, I danced every night of the Season with a bevy of handsome men.”

  None of whom set my heart to fluttering.

  “Fluttering hearts are vastly overrated,” she snapped back at the voice of the Devil’s Advocate, who had apparently taken up residence in the back of her skull. Shifting on the stone slab, she moved on to the next reason.

  “Now that we’re no longer poor as churchmice, I need not rush into making a match for pragmatic reasons, but may look for a kindred soul.” She smiled and offered up silent thanks to Olivia and her husband. Wrexham, who was known as the Perfect Hero, had proved to be just that. Indeed, both of her sisters had found just the right match.

  She sighed and added, “Yes, I may look for someone who will be a friend as well as a husband.”

  A man who likes verse and novels, can laugh at himself, and is not adverse to long walks through the scenic countryside to admire the beauty of nature is rarer than hen’s teeth, responded the Devil’s Advocate.

  The imp of Satan was really becoming very annoying.

  Caro gave an inward grimace. Surely in Africa or Cathay there were species of barnyard fowls with fangs.

  Determined to quiet the voice, she thought very hard. “I’ve more freedom than ever to write poetry.”

  For a moment there was no answer. But the silence was short-lived.

  Exceptional poetry, pointed out the Devil’s Advocate, requires exceptional experience in life.

  Damnation, the dratted voice was right. A few months of swirling through the ballrooms of Mayfair had done little to inspire dramatic verse.

  Caro fingered her shawl, slowly unraveling one of the knotted fringes. What she needed was a challenging adventure, like the ones her sisters Olivia and Anna had gone through.

  Danger, dashing heroes, the triumph of Good over Evil.

  “Yes, an
d why don’t I slay a few dragons while I am at it,” she added under her breath.

  The whisper echoed off the surrounding stone, growing oddly louder rather than fading away. Perhaps it was the breeze, amplified by her own unsettled mood. Closing her eyes, she slumped back into the shelter of the stone wings and drew a deep breath, trying to still her agitated thoughts.

  “I tell you, things are becoming too dangerous.”

  Caro nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of a man’s voice, kept deliberately low.

  “I’ll deal with it.” A second voice, and it was fast approaching. “But it will cost you.”

  The crunch of steps halted close by.

  “Are you sure we are alone?” demanded the first speaker. “I thought I heard something just now.”

  “Keep a grip on your nerves,” ordered his companion. “The place is deserted at this hour. No one will spot us.”

  Something about the second man’s voice kept her from standing up and announcing her presence. She held herself still as the statue, praying to go unnoticed.

  More muttering, then an oath. “Bloody hell, you would squeeze blood from a stone if you could.”

  “I am a pragmatic fellow…” Though the answering voice was barely above a raspy whisper, she thought she detected a hint of a Scottish burr to it. “And know my worth.”

  Caro heard the muted chink of a purse changing hands.

  “How do you mean to manage it?” asked the man who had passed over the money.

  “Since when have you cared about my methods?” countered his companion. “Suffice it to say, you have no need to worry. As you know, it’s in my interest to have the threat eliminated, leaving no trail that can be traced back to us.”

  There it was again—a hint of the Highlands.

  Caro darted a quick look through the carved stone, trying to catch a glimpse of the men. But all she could see was part of one polished boot and the tail of a dark coat.

  She shrank back, not daring a second try.

  “You want the problem to disappear and so it shall,” added the man with the Scottish accent.

  There was another short exchange, too low for her to make out the words, and then the steps retreated.