Passionately Yours

by Cara Elliott

  “Take your time,” said Isobel over her shoulder. “We shall not perish of thirst if you choose to linger over a glass of champagne with Lord Tilden and his friends before bringing us our punch.”

  “You seem to be enjoying Andy’s company,” observed Caro as she seated herself. In contrast, the coolness of the smooth stone seeping through her skirts was an uncomfortable reminder of how hard and impenetrable Alec seemed at this moment.

  Isobel’s flush immediately deepened to a vivid scarlet. “I—I am. He is very… nice.”

  “He is thoroughly nice,” she agreed. “In every way that matters.”

  A small silence intervened as Isobel twisted the fringe of her shawl between her fingers. Without looking up, she hesitantly said, “You seem to be enjoying Mr. Thayer’s company.”

  “I wouldn’t call it that. I confess, there are things that disturb me about him.”

  “Alec has warned me that he is a dirty dish,” answered Isobel in a small voice.

  “Yes, he has said much the same thing to me as well, but would not explain why.”

  Isobel lifted her shoulders in a baffled shrug. “Other than that pronouncement, he is very close-mouthed about his former friend. I am not sure why.”

  Caro drew in an unsteady breath. “Well, Mr. Thayer is more forthcoming about your brother. He told me that Lord Strathcona has been married. And that his wife was killed in an unfortunate accident.”

  The color drained from Isobel’s face, leaving her as pale as the cream-white sash beneath her breasts.

  “Is that true?”

  “Yes, it’s true,” Isobel whispered. The opening notes of a lively gavotte drifted out from the dance floor, painfully at odds with the moments of strained silence that followed. “But please, I beg of you not to ask me to say more. I—I cannot bear to talk about it.”

  Caro felt a numbness grip her chest and slowly spread outward, like fingers of ice.

  “Besides,” added Isobel, “it is not me but rather Alec who should rightfully tell you about the circumstances.”

  “Lord Strathcona owes me no explanation,” replied Caro flatly. “I merely wanted to know whether it was true in order to judge whether Mr. Thayer is a reliable source of information.”

  “But…” Isobel bit her lip.

  But what? There really wasn’t much else to say.

  However, despite her obvious agitation, Isobel felt compelled to go on, “But… but things are not always as they seem from the simple facts. As we both know from our fondness for novels, a story may be told in many different ways, in many different slants, depending on what the narrator wants the reader to see and feel.”

  “I am not sure I understand what you are trying to say,” replied Caro, in no frame of mind to puzzle out whatever oblique message was being conveyed. “Fact and fiction are not the same.”

  “I wish I could say more,” Isobel’s response was barely audible over the rustling of the ivy vines twined around the balusters.

  Caro didn’t feel she could press her friend any further. And really, for what purpose? Details seemed pointless, for the worst seemed confirmed. Looking down, she carefully smoothed her skirts into precise pleats in order to hide her dismay.

  She was bitterly disappointed, and not just in Alec.

  Apparently I am not a very good judge of character.

  And yet, much as Caro told herself that Alec had been revealed as a cad, doubt still nibbled at the corners of her consciousness. What Thayer had hinted at was dastardly behavior, and she didn’t think she could be that wrong about someone.

  “Have I given you ladies enough time for a comfortable coze?”

  Andover’s cheerful greeting pulled her out of her brooding.

  “I’ve brought you champagne instead of ratafia punch, since it adds such a festive sparkle to an evening of dancing.” The torchlight suddenly flared brighter in a swirl of the breeze, causing him to stop and clear his throat with a tentative cough.

  “Er, has something serious occurred?” He asked it lightly, but a glimmer of concern flickered in his eyes as they met Caro’s gaze. “A torn flounce? A lost hairpin?”

  She managed a wry smile. “Nothing so devastating as that. We were simply discussing the plot of a novel we didn’t care for.”

  “Yes,” agreed Isobel. “A most unsatisfactory story so far, but I have hopes that everything will turn out for the best.”

  “Oh, those books always have happy endings,” he exclaimed jovially as he handed them their glasses of wine. “Let us drink a toast to love conquering all adversity.”

  Caro lifted the glass to her lips. She adored champagne, but never had it tasted so flat.

  “If you will excuse me, I had better go back inside.” She set the barely touched drink on the railing. Firelight sparked through the bubbling effervescence, accentuating the myriad tiny explosions. “I just recalled that I am promised to Lord Stiles for the upcoming set.”

  To her dismay, she was claimed for the following dance, and then the one after that. It was an hour before she could slip away, intent on finding her mother in the card room and suggesting an end to the evening.

  Making her way around to the side saloons, Caro was just passing through a narrow corridor when she spotted Thayer in the entrance hall, taking his overcoat from the porter and draping it over his shoulders. As he moved beneath the crystal chandelier, the bright reflections flickered over the folds of dark fabric, and a flash of decorative black braid along the hem caught for an instant in a wink of candlelight.

  She froze, suddenly seeing in her mind’s eye the same fleeting flutter.

  Thayer took another step, and it was gone.

  Caro tried to shake off the sensation of having seen the coat before, telling herself it was mere illusion.

  Mere delusion.

  Truth and Lies. Good and Evil. She wasn’t sure anymore about what was real and what was a figment of her imagination.

  Alec swore in frustration as he flung off his mud-spattered oilskin cape and went to pour himself a brandy. It had been a long ride through spitting rain, and all for naught.

  His contact in Bristol, a Scottish sympathizer with the independence movement, had not been able to ferret any further information concerning the attack on Isobel and Caro. Nor had he received any news from north of the border on why Edward Thayer was spending time in Bath.

  “Blast,” he muttered, jabbing a poker at the glowing coals in the hearth and stirring a fire to life. “Perhaps he has gout and is seeking a cure.” Another jab. “Or the Plague.” More likely, given the man’s predatory habits with women, that if he was ill with any malady, it would be the clap.

  “That log is long since deceased, Alec. There is no need to render a coup de grace.”

  He turned to find Isobel standing in the doorway, observing him with a look of grave concern.

  “Sorry. It was a rotten night for a ride. I’m wet, cold, and in a foul temper.” He gave the coals another raking. “So it’s probably best that you leave me to my own company.”

  Heedless of the warning, she entered and perched a hip on the arm of the chair facing the hearth. “Well, I fear you are going to be in an even fouler temper when I tell you about my evening.”

  “Good God, you weren’t attacked—”

  “No, no, not me.”

  He jerked around, the poker banging against the brass fender.

  “Not Caro, either,” she added hastily. “Rather it was your character being hit upon. With innuendo and suggestion, not outright blows. But nonetheless, it did damage.” Her lips compressed in concern. “Mr. Thayer is a very nasty gentleman.”

  Alec let out a grunt. “Let him say whatever he wants. Why the devil should I care?”

  “Because I have the feeling he is poisoning Caro’s mind with twisted tales of the truth.”

  He had worked hard at making himself impervious to pain, but in that instant, a small stab somehow slipped under his guard. Thrusting aside the blade, he repeated, “Why should
I care?”

  His sister flinched at the roughness of his tone. “Oh, Alec,” she whispered. “Elizabeth hurt you more than enough in her lifetime. Must you keep letting her wield such power from the grave?”

  “Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t speak of my late wife. There are private places where not even you are allowed to trespass.”

  Her chin took on a defiant tilt. “Because you wish to cower in the shadows all alone?”

  Good God, Isobel was all sweetness and light—what did she know of shadows?

  A dull throbbing began to pound at his temples. If he couldn’t do a better job of protecting her from darkness that lurked inside the hearts of some men, she would learn all too quickly. There were crevasses and corners where the sun never stirred a flicker of illumination.

  “Yes, all alone,” he snapped. “Indeed, I can’t think of a place I would rather be than a solitary sanctuary, be it a damp, dark hole in the ground, where I won’t be bedeviled by plaguey women.”

  Hooking the poker back in place, Alec took up his glass and the brandy bottle. “So I shall leave the bright blaze of the fire to you and retire to my black-as-Hades bedchamber.”

  He stalked out, too angry to care about her stricken expression. It wasn’t until he had slammed the door to his room shut that the flare of emotion died down to remorse.

  “Bloody, bloody Hell.” Expelling a harried sigh, he tilted the bottle and eyed the brandy, knowing there wasn’t near enough to submerge him in blissful oblivion. Instead of pouring another measure, he sunk down on his bed and took his head in his hands.

  Coward.

  Isobel’s accusation cut right to the quick. He had never thought of himself as lacking in backbone. But perhaps that was simply another mistake.

  Another delusion.

  Her challenge compelled him to admit that he had been afraid to confront the failure of his marriage. Like demons, the reasons teased and tormented him with their whispers of his faults.

  Perhaps it was time to fight back. If he was to have any hope of…

  Alec suddenly found himself repeating the lines of Caro’s poem on the Scottish moors. She seemed capable of seeing strength and beauty in the harsh ruggedness of the mist-gray stone and storm-colored heather. So hers was the sort of serious sensibility that might overlook his lack of practiced charm and social polish.

  She might see their shared interests, their intellectual engagement of more substance than fine manners and flowery compliments.

  “Ha,” he breathed, after contemplating the thought for a brief moment. “And pigs might fly.”

  Caro was, he reminded himself, a lovely, lively spirited heiress, with legions of London aristocrats seeking to win her hand. Given such circumstances and such choices what lady in her right mind would prefer a rough-cut Scottish savage?

  The answer was too depressing to contemplate.

  And yet, she had kissed him.

  Practicing her flirtations? A spur-of-the-moment whim?

  Alec fell back against the pillows, uncertain of anything—save for his simmering attraction to Miss Carolina Sloane.

  If he wasn’t to go stark raving mad from desperate desire, he was going to have to decide what to do about it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Staring absently into the looking glass, Caro was only half aware of her maid sliding in a pair of hairpins and giving the ribbon threaded through her topknot a last little tweak.

  “There, Miss, you look the picture of loveliness if I say so myself,” said Alice with a measure of satisfaction as she stepped back and admired her handiwork.

  “You are truly an artist with brush and comb,” said Caro, though in truth her hair could be painted purple and lit afire for all the attention she was paying to her toilette. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

  “You’ll be the belle of the Venetian breakfast,” went on Alice. She pursed her lips. “Though why the ton calls a party that starts in the late afternoon a ‘breakfast’ is beyond me.”

  “Most likely because many of the fancy ladies of Society don’t rise until well after noon.”

  Her maid shook her head in disbelief. “Revelries night and day. I’m sure it must be exciting, what with all the beautiful clothes and sumptuous food, but I’m not sure I could ever get used to such a life.”

  Nor am I.

  “It’s not as exciting as it might seem,” said Caro, recalling Andover’s description of the Season. “Frivolities quickly become…”

  Alice cocked her head, waiting for Caro to go on.

  “Frivolous,” she finished. “And rather boring. No one talks about anything interesting or original for fear of being thought too different.”

  Her maid looked thoughtful as she assembled the matching accessories to go with Caro’s gown.

  “I think I’d rather take the blue reticule,” murmured Caro. “It’s big enough to fit my book of Byron’s poetry. So if things become truly dull, I can sneak away behind the bushes and read.”

  “What with all the reading you do, you always have so many interesting things to say,” mused Alice. “It must be hard to have to keep them bottled up inside.” She made a face. “Begging your pardon, Miss, but I have to say, I’m glad I’m not a fine lady and can just be myself.”

  “There are a few people with whom I can share my thoughts,” replied Caro. “Miss Urquehart is a kindred spirit.”

  And her brother?

  Determined to push the maddening Alec McClellan out of her head, she quickly rose from the dressing table and turned to find the volume of Byron’s poems among the books on her desk. Whatever bond had formed between them felt strained—or perhaps broken.

  Truth and lies. Caro stared at the leatherbound book in her hands. It wasn’t as if Alec had lied to her, she told herself. But the omission seemed perilously close to an untruth.

  Trust was an integral part of friendship, and Alec had not trusted her enough to tell her about an integral part of his life.

  That hurt. More than she cared to admit.

  “Still, it must be rather grand to attend a party given by a dowager duchess,” remarked Alice.

  “What?” Caro looked up from her brooding. “Oh, er, yes. Her country estate is said to be quite lovely, and no doubt there will be a crush of guests, so I am sure it will be a very lively gathering.”

  Her voice must have sounded a trifle brittle, for Alice glanced at her in concern. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss Caro?”

  “No, no. You’ve seen to everything. There’s no need for me to keep you any longer.”

  Alice bobbed her head as she set a pair of kidskin gloves on the dressing table and turned for the door. “Have a lovely time.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, unable to muster any enthusiasm. Despite the cloudless skies and shimmering sunshine, her own dark thoughts would likely shadow the festivities.

  The door clicked shut.

  Glancing down once again at the gilt-stamped “Byron” on the book cover, she bit back a sigh. Passionate emotions were all very well for romantic poetry, but they wreaked havoc with the mundane workings of real life.

  It would be easier to be a silly, simpering featherhead, Caro decided as she jammed the book into her reticule.

  An active imagination could be a curse as well as a blessing.

  Heaving an inward sigh, Caro looped the strings over her wrist and went downstairs to meet her mother for the carriage ride out to the party.

  A plateful of creamed lobster patties and a goblet of sparkling champagne punch did little to brighten Caro’s spirits, despite the festive mood of the party.

  It was a lovely late summer afternoon, with the first blush of evening hovering on the horizon. All around her, the other guests strolled within the high-hedged swath of garden, enjoying the rich assortment of delicacies and wines. A mild breeze swirled through the lush plantings, perfuming the air with the sweet scent of roses and lilac as it ruffled the stylish gowns of silk and satin worn by the ladies. The jeweltone fl
utters were nearly as colorful as the blooms, their sun-dappled hues accentuated by the darker hues of the gentlemen’s dress coats.

  Caro forced a smile as she listened to Andover and Isobel’s cheerful chatter about the previous evening’s dancing. But as they turned to fetch a selection of cream tarts from one of the refreshment tables, she drifted over to the far hedge and ducked through the opening to escape from the sounds of laughter and the serenading violins.

  Following the winding gravel path, she passed by several walled garden nooks before finding herself at the crest of a wide, sloping lawn, where a massive fountain of ornately carved marble marked the end of the formal walkway.

  Struck by the sheer scale of it, she stopped short to stare up at the cavorting dolphins and mermaids.

  Is every creature under the sun—including those sculptured from stone—in a merry mood save for me?

  After watching the gold-flecked sunlight play across the glistening white figures, Caro felt a little ashamed of her maudlin mood.

  “Oh, don’t be so cynical,” she muttered to herself.

  “Arrgh.” A sudden watery whisper of breeze-ruffled droplets seemed to gurgle in agreement.

  A reluctant smile tugged at her mouth. Whether she liked it or not, imagination was part of her—

  “Arrgh.” The gurgle came again, louder and more distinct. It sounded… human.

  Mystified, Caro looked upward, for it seemed to be coming from the very top of the fountain. Craning her neck, she edged a step sideways, trying to peer into the huge half-open clamshell balanced atop the noses of the highest leaping dolphins.

  “Help, help!” A bedraggled little girl peeked out from the slivered space, a tangle of wet ribbons and dripping curls framing her face.

  Caro quickly climbed atop the circular bench carved into the fountain’s base. “Don’t move, sweetheart,” she called, fearing the child might tumble from the precarious perch.

  “I can’t—I’m stuck!” came back the reply.

  “Oh, dear—are you hurt?” she asked. “I’ll run and fetch help—”