Every time Asher looked down at that small body, a wave of love so fierce and powerful swept through him that he almost trembled from the force of it. His eyes slid to Juliana’s face and he felt that same elemental emotion flood through him. His wife. His son.
They were in their grand suite of rooms at Ormsby Place and though they had lived in the magnificent mansion since the previous fall, Asher still wasn’t certain that he didn’t prefer Fox Hollow. Wasn’t so certain that becoming the Marquis of Ormsby was quite the wonderful thing everyone thought it was.
When Juliana only cocked a brow at his complaints about escorting his grandmother to Sherbrook Hall, he muttered, “I don’t know why grandmother has to go visit Mrs. Sherbrook this summer. She just saw her last year. It’s bloody inconvenient, I can tell you, to be away from you and the baby right now.”
Juliana laughed at him. “Darling, your son and heir will not miss you for the few days you will be gone.”
“And you? Will you miss me?” he asked thickly, thinking she was even more desirable since the arrival of their child, her curves more lush and pronounced. And just to his liking, he thought as his gaze skimmed over her tall, voluptuous form, the low cut bodice of her pale yellow gown giving him an enticing glimpse of those soft, heavy globes he had kissed and fondled last night.
Heat and need simmered through him and for the briefest second he was almost jealous of Vincent’s position against her breast. Then his son blinked open sleepy eyes, burped, stuck a pudgy fist into his mouth and promptly fell back asleep. Asher and Juliana exchanged proud looks—just as if Vincent had done something remarkable.
There was a tap on the door and at Juliana’s, “Yes?” Mrs. Rivers opened the door and peeked around the frame. At Juliana’s welcoming smile she walked the remainder of the way into the room.
“I see our little man is asleep,” she said, her eyes resting on Vincent’s small body. “Shall I take him to the nursery now?”
No one doted on Vincent more than Juliana’s old nursemaid—except perhaps his grandmother, Mrs. Manley, and though Mrs. Rivers was not officially his nursemaid, Juliana had hired a younger, well-qualified woman for the job—Mrs. Rivers spent a great deal of time in the nursery. She never passed up the chance to get her hands on Vincent and this morning was no exception.
Juliana pressed a kiss to her son’s pink cheek and handed the sleeping infant to Mrs. Rivers.
When they were alone again, a glint in his eye, Asher said, “I believe we were discussing whether or not you would miss me while I am gone this week….”
Juliana stood up and wound her arms around his neck. Brushing his lips with her own, she murmured, “I will, indeed, my love, and long every day for your return.”
His arms tightened around her and he said thickly, “You do know that I love you more than anything on this earth, don’t you?”
She smiled softly. “And I, you.” But when he would have taken their embrace a step further, she wiggled from his grasp. Laughing at him, she escaped his advance, and said, “But no matter how much I shall miss you, you are going to escort your grandmother to Sherbrook Hall tomorrow and you will just have to meet Mrs. Sherbrook’s son and daughter-in-law, after all.”
Asher scowled.
Her eyes dancing, she said, “Oh, Asher, it is only for a few days and you know how much your grandmother enjoys introducing you as her grandson, the Marquis of Ormsby.”
A rueful smile curved his lips. It was true. Of all of them, his grandmother took the most delight in his changed circumstances and never tired of calling him by his title, Lord Ormsby.
Once the news of Jane and Vincent’s marriage and all the rest of it became public, the “devilish firestorm” that Asher predicted had indeed exploded over them. In drawing rooms, taverns and coffeehouses all across England, only the continuing war with Napoleon took precedence over the astonishing developments that had taken place at Ormsby Place and the revelation of Asher’s true identity.
The first few months had been the worst, but Asher wondered morosely if the time would ever come when he or Juliana could walk into a room full of people and wouldn’t immediately become the cynosure of all eyes—and the subject of every whispered conversation. Probably not.
It was a peculiar position for him. He had never hungered after a title of any sort, had never yearned for great wealth—only enough to keep his family secure and comfortable—and now he had both. Not just any title, but that of a marquis. And not just any fortune, but the vast wealth of the Ormsby estates. And all the responsibilities that went with it…. Sometimes he woke up at night terrified by the thought of all the people that were dependent upon him, all those people whose livelihoods depended upon his whims and decisions…. But then he’d remind himself that he’d kept his family safe and he’d damn well do the same for the Ormsby people. At least this time, he’d think as he fell back to sleep, a smile curving his lips, I won’t have to steal the money to bring everyone safely to shore.
His position secure, his wife at his side and his healthy son sleeping soundly in the nursery, Asher was a happy man—except for the fact that his grandmother had badgered him into escorting her to Sherbrook Hall.
Did he really think that Marcus or Isabel would identify him as the man who had kidnapped her and stolen a vital memo from the safe at Sherbrook Hall two years ago? No, but simply on principle, he wasn’t easy about it either and he’d be bloody well glad when the trip was behind him.
Despite all his reservations, the trip and his overnight stay at Sherbrook Hall went well. The elder Mrs. Sherbrook was every bit as charming as he remembered; Sherbrook Hall itself a comfortable and elegant home, and Marcus and Isabel Sherbrook were exceedingly gracious hosts. Isabel was expecting another child in October and looked very much like a plump little pouter pigeon in her high-waisted muslin gown when they were introduced.
In those first tense moments when he met Marcus and Isabel he was half prepared for Isabel to shrink back and exclaim, “You!” But that didn’t happen and he settled down to enjoy his grandmother’s friends. He spent a few enjoyable hours with Marcus inspecting some of the foals that had been born that spring and expressed an interest in purchasing one or two when they were weaned. He even enjoyed the antics of Marcus and Isabel’s year-old daughter, Emma, as the adults sat in a shady part of the garden and chatted that afternoon. Emma had learned to walk only the previous month and, watching her toddling here and there, Asher wondered if Vincent would be walking at the same age.
For reasons that escaped him, Emma took a liking to him and gazed up at him with adoring, big golden brown eyes she’d inherited from her mother. Instead of the fire-bright hair of her mother, a mop of inky black curls covered her head and kept tumbling over her forehead. Asher couldn’t help tweaking one particularly impudent curl when she leaned confidingly against his leg and ogled him. Her nursemaid came to carry her away and she cried and clung to Asher’s lower leg, refusing to let go. Smiling, he gently removed her little fingers and murmured, “Yes, yes, I know it’s a tragedy, poppet, and I apologize, but I’m afraid you’ll have to let go. It is my leg and I am afraid I am rather fond of it.”
At his words, Isabel started and looked at him. His tone and his words stirred some memory, but she could not call it to mind. She shrugged and dismissed the incident, but still it nagged at her and several times during dinner she found herself listening intently to his voice, trying to pin down that elusive memory.
Asher was aware of her sudden interest in him, but he could not think of what he had done to disturb the polite tenor of the visit. One of the reasons he made it a point never to return to a scene of any of his previous, uh, escapades, was to avoid the remote possibility of being unmasked. Isabel had not seen his face, but he had spoken to her, he thought warily. Had his voice triggered a memory? Christ! He hoped not. Catching her eye on him once again, he reminded himself that it was impossible that she would connect the Marquis of Ormsby with the man who had abducted her two years
ago. Tomorrow, and his departure, he decided uneasily, could not come soon enough.
Naturally, the topic of his dramatic inheritance of the title came up during the visit. It was after dinner when they were scattered around the charming rose and cream front parlor, the gentlemen enjoying brandy, the ladies teas. Putting down her delicate china cup, the elder Mrs. Sherbrook said, “It is so odd to think that when I met you last year, you were just plain Mr. Cordell and now you are the Marquis of Ormsby! It is a very good thing that your uncle killed himself and you and your family didn’t have to have the whole sordid tale dragged before the magistrates.”
Asher shrugged. He still had mixed feelings about Bertram’s cowardly escape from public humiliation, but in the main, and with the passage of time, he tended to side with Mrs. Sherbrook’s opinion. Sometimes, guilt struck him that he had not avenged his father, but it was difficult, he admitted, to harbor vengeful thoughts about a dead man—especially when his death, in some respects, righted a terrible wrong. Would he have preferred to see Bertram shamed? Probably, but these days, content in his life with a wife he adored and son who was the center of his universe, he found it difficult to dwell on what he could not change. He was a happy man, and a happy man had no business brooding over vermin like Bertram.
“I agree with my mother-in-law and think it a very good thing that horrid man killed himself,” Isabel said firmly. Her eyes kind as they rested on Asher, she added, “It is a wonder that he didn’t murder you, too.”
“I have little doubt that he would have put a dagger in my liver if he’d had the chance,” Asher replied, “but fortunately I managed not to oblige him.”
Isabel’s eyes narrowed. Now where had she heard the phrase or something similar? The idea that she had met Lord Ormsby previously crossed her mind. But when? Where? It was a puzzlement.
She said as much to Marcus that night in her bedroom. Seated at her dressing table, her glorious red gold hair spilling down her back, she spun around on the green satin stool and looked at him where he lounged against one of the bedposts watching her.
“I have the most uncanny feeling that I have met him before. Is that possible?” Thinking that being pregnant agreed with his wife, even if she complained of looking like a sow ready for market, Marcus wasn’t interested in Lord Ormsby, but he followed her lead, and said, “Well, certainly not as Lord Ormsby. He only came into the title recently. I don’t recall ever meeting him when he was Mr. Cordell.”
“I know, but it is very strange….” Her eyes narrowed and she gasped as a memory popped into her mind. She’d never forgotten a moment of that terrifying time when she had been abducted and held captive two years ago and she finally realized why there was something familiar about Lord Ormsby.
“What is it?” Marcus asked, his gray eyes alert.
Isabel laughed. “I am so silly! My ‘gentleman’ called me ‘poppet’ once during my captivity and said something about liking his liver and not wanting me to put a dagger in it. When Lord Ormsby called Emma ‘poppet’ this afternoon and tonight said something similar about his liver, that’s why I thought he sounded familiar.” She half flushed. “How embarrassing! To even consider for a moment any connection between my abductor and Lord Ormsby is the height of folly. I feel a perfect fool.”
Marcus smiled and, walking over to her, pulled her up from her seat. “Do you know, I am tired of talking about Lord Ormsby. I would much rather go to bed with my wife.”
She beamed at him and, brushing her lips against his, said, “And I would much rather have you make love to me….”
With the prospect of his departure looming large, Asher was relaxed the next morning as he prepared to leave for Ormsby. His grandmother was comfortably ensconced in her suite of rooms; he’d been a dutiful grandson and been affable to her friends and now he was eager to return to his wife and son.
He had taken his leave of his hosts, kissed his grandmother good-bye and was on the point of escaping when Marcus exclaimed, “By Jupiter! I’ve forgotten to give you those copies of the pedigrees I had my secretary write up last night on those two fillies you’re interested in. Come along to my study and I can give them to you now before you leave.”
While Marcus looked for the papers on his desk, Asher glanced around the room and, seeing a vibrant portrait of Isabel hanging on the wall, he said absently, “I see that you have removed the Stubbs.”
Finding the papers he sought, Marcus looked up and said, “Yes, since the Stubbs was of her horse, Tempest, Isabel wanted it in her office.” He grinned. “But in exchange for giving it up, I insisted she sit for Lawrence.” Handing Asher the pedigrees, he said, “I find I much prefer looking at my wife’s lovely face than that of her horse.”
Asher laughed and, taking the papers from him, he placed them inside his jacket. Together the two men walked to the front of the house and a few moments later, Asher drove away. Sherbrook Hall and the events that had taken place there receded from his mind. His thoughts were on his wife and the Ormsby diamonds he had once thought to steal. The Ormsby diamonds that one could claim had brought him and Juliana together. He grinned. Upon his return home, he had a mind to see Juliana wear the Ormsby diamonds…and nothing else….
Back in his study, Marcus went to the portrait of Isabel and moved it aside to place the original of pedigrees inside the safe behind the portrait. He was in the process of replacing Isabel’s portrait when he suddenly stiffened. Forcing himself to complete the task, he stepped away from the portrait.
Frowning, Marcus stared at the gilt-edged portrait of his wife, not really seeing it. Isabel’s portrait had been hanging here for the last year and a half. And before that the portrait of Tempest. So how did a man he had never met before, a man Marcus was certain had never stepped foot inside of Sherbrook Hall before, know that Tempest’s picture had once hung here?
Isabel’s laughing confession of last night flashed through his mind. There was, Marcus realized wryly, one explanation for Isabel’s sensation of familiarity and Ormsby knowing of the change of portraits. He winced. He’d be the first to admit that it was an outlandish explanation, at that! But it held together. Isabel’s gentleman, the same who had called her “poppet,” had been inside this very room two years ago—the audacious fellow had had to move Tempest’s portrait to get to the safe hidden behind it and what lay inside…. Marcus took a deep breath and shook his head. Now he was the one being silly. The Marquis of Ormsby, Isabel’s gentleman, the brazen thief who had stolen the memo and given it to Roxbury, one and the same? Preposterous!
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Copyright © 2010 by Shirlee Busbee
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ISBN: 978-1-4201-1919-0
Passion Becomes Her Page 33
