Passion Page 6

  Passion felt her aunt’s hand pressing her forward. “Mr. Swittly, this is my niece, Mrs. Passion Redington.”

  Passion nodded as the huge man bowed before her.

  “I’m charmed, Mrs. Redington,” he said, in a low tone as his green eyes passed quickly up and down her person.

  Aunt Matty smiled approvingly. “‘And this is Miss Charlotte Lawrence, Passion’s cousin.”

  “Charmed again, I’m sure,” Alfred Swittly intoned.

  Aunt Matty ushered Passion and Charlotte toward the settee as the giant of a man returned to his seat. If furni­ture could groan, Passion was certain the dainty chair would do so. It creaked dangerously as Alfred Swittly ad­justed himself between its curving arms.

  “You must forgive me, Miss Lawrence, for interrupting your painting lesson.” Alfred looked at Passion. “I have heard, Mrs. Redington, from your aunt, how you are teaching your cousin the finer points of painting botani­cals upon china. I must say that I believe such a pursuit to be one of the most proper a lady may occupy herself with. The hands are kept busy, while the mind is not overtaxed. And the end result is a lovely bit of bric-a-brac with which to decorate the house.” He smiled. “Such gentile and do­mestic accomplishments are a true asset in a lady.”

  What a boor. Passion lifted her brows and smiled. “I hardly know how to address such praise, sir. I fear it may tax my poor mind to form a fitting reply, so I will sit, in­stead, in demure acceptance of your superior wisdom.”

  Aunt Matty sent Passion a suspicious frown from be­hind her fan, but Alfred Swittly positively puffed up with condescension. “Charming. Charming.” He glanced be­tween Passion and Charlotte before turning to Aunt Matty. “You must be very proud, Mistress Dare, to have such lovely nieces.”

  Aunt Matty smiled. “That I am, Mr. Swittly. My brother’s daughters are the apples of my eye. However, Charlotte, dear child that she is, is not my niece. Char­lotte’s mother”—and here Aunt Matty’s voice betrayed her disdain—“a certain Mrs. Abigail Lawrence, was cousin to Passion’s mother.” Aunt Matty fanned herself vigorously and looked to Passion for help. “What does that make Charlotte? First cousin once removed or second cousin twice removed?”

  Passion laid her hand over Charlotte’s and managed a small smile for Alfred Swittly. “Charlotte is my second cousin.”

  Aunt Matty frowned and paused in her fanning. “And what does that make her to me?”

  “A distant but dear relation by marriage,” Passion of­fered, squeezing Charlotte’s hand.

  Aunt Matty shrugged and resumed her fanning. “I can never keep these things straight. Can you, Mr. Swittly? Cousins all, I say.”

  “Indeed, Mistress. Indeed.” Alfred Swittly tapped his hand upon his huge knee. “Though, like you, Mrs. Redington, I, too, have a second cousin whom I have—how shall I say?—taken under my tutorial wing. Though I do not teach painting.” He guffawed. “No, far from it. A young man must be brought along to pursue other inter­ests.”

  Passion could almost swear the hint of a leer flashed briefly in Albert Swittly’s green eyes.

  “Still,” he continued, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, “you and I, both, in our own ways, are influencing the maturation of our young cousins. How grand.”

  Passion regarded him carefully as he blotted the sweat from his brow. “Indeed, sir.”

  He leaned forward, drawing another straining crack from the desperate chair. “You know, Mrs. Redington, you and I have more in common than you might guess. You, alas, are a widow and I, alas, am a widower.”

  He spoke with such seeming delight at this happy coin­cidence that Passion felt compelled to behave badly. She crumpled her face into a grimace of despair. “Alas,” she gasped, lowering her head and fishing in her pocket for her handkerchief. Drawing it out, she dabbed at her eyes as she spoke. “Forgive me, Mr. Swittly. I’m afraid that at this mo­ment, the very thought of my sorrowful situation has scored my wounded heart afresh.”

  “Well, I—I…” Alfred stammered. “Your aunt as­sured me…”

  Passion sniffed loudly and dabbed again. “And my sad­ness is only compounded by your own”—she looked at him, pained—“which, I’m sure, is deep and abiding.”

  Sweat popped from his brow. “Well, I… I mean, yes!” Jolted by her words, his expression changed from open chagrin to affected sorrow. “I still mourn, a little every day, for my dear, departed wife.”

  His florid face contorted into a frown meant to convey sorrow yet strength. It was really very well done.

  He shook his head. “My heart is no less affected than your own, Mrs. Redington.”

  Passion released a long sigh. “As a compatriot in grief, I know you will excuse me to vent my pain privately, into my pillow.” Passion hid her face in her handkerchief.

  “Of course, Mrs. Redington.”

  When Passion stood, Charlotte rose, too, and slipped her arm around Passion’s shoulder.

  Alfred hoisted himself from the chair, which squeaked in relief. “I hope that when next we meet, we may engage in happier conversation, Mrs. Redington.” He bowed. “And that this bond of sorrow we share might grow into a bond of friendship.”

  Passion smiled weakly. “’Tis more than I would wish for, sir. Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon.” Alfred Swittly smiled. Then, seem­ing to remember that sadness was the emotion of the mo­ment, he quickly reorganized his full face into a somber mien. He bowed to Charlotte. “Good afternoon, Miss Lawrence.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Swittly.”

  As Passion and Charlotte turned to Aunt Matty, they found her frowning suspiciously. But in the presence of Alfred Swittly, she quickly evinced concern and waved them off. “Go on then, my dears.”

  Passion and Charlotte walked slowly from the parlor, Passion sniffing loudly a few more times as they went. Once in the hall, they both clamped their hands over their mouths and headed for the stairs.

  Halfway up, Aunt Matty’s voice floated up from below. “… born for marriage.”

  Passion froze.

  “Gracious,” Charlotte gasped, bumping into her.

  Passion raised her finger to her lips.

  “… are not made to remain widows,” said Alfred Swittly. “No indeed. Her beauty, her grace, her feminine demeanor, have all convinced me she would be the perfect addition to my home. Forgive my bluntness, Mistress Dare, but a man is completely unsuited to domestic du­ties.”

  “Oh, I know, Mr. Swittly. I know. Were it not for Pas­sion, my brother’s house would be a shambles. When she returned home after her husband’s death—God rest his soul—she went to no end of trouble to set it back to rights. And since the age of twelve, upon her mother’s passing—God rest her soul—Passion has been like a mother to her two sisters. And as you can see, even Miss Lawrence adores her.”

  Passion and Charlotte shrank back as the downstairs maid crossed into the parlor with a tea tray. “Thank you, Margie, I’ll pour. Please have a tray prepared for my niece and her cousin.”

  When the maid left, Passion and Charlotte pressed for­ward again.

  A belligerent crack sounded from the chair. “Wonder­ful. Wonderful. For a woman must be more than a wife, Mistress Dare, mustn’t she? Forgive me, but what woman’s life is truly complete without the role of moth­erhood to firmly root it in domesticity?”

  “I agree, Mr. Swittly, I agree. Even ladies such as my­self, never blessed with a husband and children of their own, must find a way to apply their maternal instincts. I have always tried to be a mother figure to my nieces, and I do believe they have benefited from my efforts in that re­gard.”

  Passion could almost see Aunt Matty speaking over her teacup.

  “And it is well you did so. I just read in the paper that women who remain childless are more likely to experi­ence various degrees of insanity than women who do their maternal duty.”

  “Really? Well, there you are. I’ve always believed that missing tea could send one to bedlam.”
/>   “Missing tea? Well, I … I’ve never thought of it.”

  “Well, you must, Mr. Swittly. Just yesterday, I missed tea, and do you know what happened? A man trod upon my toe.” A brief pause elapsed. Passion imagined her aunt raising her silver brows in her and-what-do-you-think-of-that? expression. “I can barely walk today, Mr. Swittly. And do you know what else? Passion was nearly blinded.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true. By a palm frond! I tell you, sir, the lack of tea at the proper hour causes no end of mischief. Imagine if the whole world were to forgo tea. Mayhem, Mr. Swittly. Chaos!”

  Passion shook her head and exchanged a look with Charlotte, who was hiding her grin behind her hand.

  “I… Then I shall make a point of always observing teatime.”

  “See that you do.” Something clanked onto the tea tray. “Now, about my niece, Mr. Swittly. Though she is not of­ficially here for the season, Passion does come out of mourning next week. And though she only agreed to come to London to spend a holiday with me and to tutor her cousin in painting, Charlotte and I intend to get her out and about.”

  “Indeed, mistress. Indeed.”

  “The opening of the Crystal Palace could not have been better timed, for there are so many exciting events planned around it, that I doubt any young woman could resist them—even Passion.” Passion could hear the glee in her aunt’s voice. “It will be the perfect opportunity for you to begin your courtship. But you must be subtle, Mr. Swittly, subtle.”

  “I am a model of subtlety. Mistress Dare, a model.”

  Passion leaned on the banister and covered her face with her hands. God help her. She had told her aunt she didn’t want marriage, had told her she was content in her life just as it was. She had agreed to a holiday in London only so she could spend time with her aunt and cousin and perhaps enjoy a little society after she came out of mourn­ing, nothing more.

  As Charlotte patted her back, Passion envisioned Al­fred Swittly sweating over her as he tried to impregnate her with his progeny. She shuddered. Never! Besides, it wasn’t even possible. During three years of marriage, she hadn’t conceived—a fact her aunt had neatly avoided.

  Passion straightened and gripped the banister. As inti­mate as the information was, she’d have to tell him. She’d make sure Alfred Swittly knew her body was not fertile ground for a child. Passion grasped Charlotte’s hand and hurried up the stairs.

  By God, she would not marry again—not now, not ever.

  “Madam, I have no intention of marrying. Not now. Not ever,” Mark grit out between clenched teeth.

  Sitting in her chair like the queen, Abigail Lawrence lifted her formidable chin and glanced briefly toward her closed parlor door before speaking. “I don’t see how you can avoid it, my lord.”

  Mark clenched the arms of his chair. “I might avoid it quite easily if you were to withdraw from this illegal and immoral blackmail.”

  “Withdraw? Whatever for? When have laws or moral­ity ever kept a dedicated mother from bettering the life of her child?” Abigail sipped from her teacup. “If a mother’s child is starving, she shall steal and lie to feed that child.”

  Mark leveled his gaze on the stout woman. “Neither you, nor your daughter, are starving, madam.”

  “Well, that’s relative isn’t it, my lord?” Abigail Lawrence returned her cup to the table. “Besides, I’m merely taking advantage of an opportunity.” She shrugged. “When opportunity knocks…”

  “The devil often disguises himself as opportunity, madam. Don’t you feel the heat of his breath upon your neck, even now?”

  Not a glimmer of uncertainty showed in the matron’s cold gray eyes. “Why don’t you ask your mother that question? She bedded down with the devil years ago.”

  It was a well-aimed dart, but Mark was immune. He drew his wallet from his breast pocket. “If she is his old whore, then you are his new one.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  He tossed the bank draft on the table in front of her.

  Her eyes widened and her hand reached forward before she snapped it back. She glared at him. “What is this?”

  “Payment. Now give me the letter.”

  Abigail Lawrence leaned back in her chair, almost as if to get as far as possible from the 25,000-pound note that stared up at her. She raised her brows haughtily. “I’m afraid the devil’s new whore is more expensive than that, my lord.”

  Mark’s fury coursed through him. “How much?” he managed.

  She smiled. “Your earldom, of course. Money can be frittered away, my lord. A title is forever. And my Char­lotte deserves a title.”

  Mark could barely keep his calm. “And what of my brother? Doesn’t he deserve his life—deserve marriage to the lady he loves? Expose his paternity, and he will lose all.”

  Abigail shrugged. “You have the power to save your brother, my lord. The title I want is yours to give.”

  “With enough money, you can buy a title.”

  Abigail shook her head. “That takes far too much time and energy. Besides, everyone knows when you are doing it. It has no honor.”

  Mark laughed harshly. “Madam, blackmailers are not permitted to use the word honor.” He stood and moved behind his chair to get away from her. “You have re­scinded all rights to honor.” His hands gripped the chair back till his knuckles turned white. “Don’t use the word in my presence. Hearing you speak it offends me.”

  Abigail leaned forward. The tight ringlets on either side of her face barely moved. “You will keep a civil tongue in your head, my lord, or I’ll publish your mother’s sordid little letter,” she snapped.

  “No, you won’t,” Mark snarled. “You want my title too badly.” He leaned forward. “Understand me well, madam. I never offer civility to uncivil people.” He leaned even closer. “So don’t threaten me,” he sneered, enunciating each word.

  Abigail Lawrence pulled back in her chair, and Mark saw a flicker of uncertainty flash in her eyes. He turned and strode across the room without another word. Before he reached the parlor door, she spoke.

  “I have forwarded a marriage contract to your solicitor, my lord, with a wedding date of June tenth.”

  Mark turned and felt his blood boiling. “One month? What are you about, madam?” He needed time. Time to figure a way out of this. “It will be assumed I’ve fucked your daughter and put a babe in her belly.”

  “What I am about, my lord, is ensuring that my daugh­ter’s future is secured as soon as possible. I’m taking no chances. 1 want to see an announcement in the paper this week.”

  Mark felt hot with impotent fury. “Go to hell!”

  Without pausing, he yanked open the door and slammed it behind him. He almost ran over a servant who scurried out of his way and hurried off toward the rear of the house. Frowning and furious, he looked after her. Had she been listening?

  Later that evening, Passion closed her bedroom door and turned the key. Alone at last—alone with her thoughts of Mark. She hadn’t been able to put him from her mind all day. Every other thought or consideration, every other duty or obligation, was an irritating interrup­tion to her reflections upon him.

  Per her aunt’s plans, Passion only had two more days at the Crystal Palace. Only two more days and then every­thing would return to the way it was before—as it must. She had a life.

  Oh, she could insist upon returning there over and over, but to what end? What Mark and she had together wasn’t a part of real life. What they had could only exist in the small, dreamlike world behind their screen. Their brief relationship had been born there and, in two days, must die there. But until then, she wanted to bask in her experience, to remember every little bit of it, every little bit of him.

  Wrapping her arms around herself, she crossed to the window and threw up the sash. The night air touched her with its cool, comfortable breath. She leaned on the sill and gazed up at the stars. Tonight they seemed to shine brighter than they had in a long time. Aunt Matty’s walled gard
en was dark, but the scent from the flowering jasmine below floated up to fill Passion’s senses.

  She closed her eyes and pictured Mark as he had looked buttoning her gown, his intense blue eyes suddenly soft and languid, his full mouth unsmiling yet relaxed. A warm chill ran down her spine. He was so amazingly handsome.

  Passion pulled back from the window and moved to her dressing table. Tugging pins from her hair, she put them in a neat pile as she remembered the texture of his hair and the feel of his nape against her fingers. She re­membered the solid strength of his broad shoulders and the flexing muscles in his arms.

  Her bun uncoiled, and she sighed as the heavy weight of her hair fell down her back. Shaking her head a little, she ran her fingers through the thick strands and massaged her scalp. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she suddenly wondered how he saw her. Moving into the full reflection, she cocked her head to the side. Her wavy auburn hair fell forward around her face. Her large hazel eyes blinked back at her. She knew she was pretty. But beautiful? Had he said so that first day they met? She had been so nervous, she couldn’t remember. She flipped her hair back and began unbuttoning her bodice. It didn’t mat­ter. He made her feel beautiful.

  After removing her gown, Passion untied her petticoats and shimmied out of five layers of flounced cotton, plus one stiffened with horsehair. She laid them across the arms of a chair.

  As she unbuttoned her corset cover, she remembered Mark’s large hands carefully working the tiny buttons. She remembered how greedily he had latched upon her nipples. Parting her corset cover, she looked down at them, sticking straight out at the mere thought of him. She pulled down her chemise and brushed the tips of her fin­gers over the bare nubs. She sighed as they hardened and lengthened even more. She remembered how he had pinched and nibbled them, remembered the sight of his cheek pressed to her breast. She formed the vision over and over in her mind. She must burn every detail of him into her memory, so that when time drew her ever further away from these days, she would remember—always.

  Pulling up her chemise, Passion dropped her corset cover with her petticoats and, in naught but pantalets and corset, hurried to her desk. She stared down at her sketch­book. Could she capture him on paper? She had drawn her sisters before, and even her father, but she knew them so well. How could she draw a man she knew intimately and yet not at all? Sitting, she opened the sketchbook and flipped through pages of floral renderings before finding a blank sheet. Perhaps just his eyes. Those beautiful, in­telligent eyes that seemed to look into her very soul. Eyes in which she caught glimpses of need and hope through the dark shadow of cynicism that veiled them. She picked up her pencil and began to draw.