Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance) (39 page)

James’s eyebrows arched. “The gentlemen have more
polish than you. You’re a bit rough about the edges, Sebastian.
But—” James sounded altogether too cheerful “—that can’t be
helped.”

Sebastian stared out the window. James’s sister hit
the ball smartly. Her opponent, patently a novice at the game, did
not. A good many of the exchanges involved her picking up the ball
and attempting to lob it over the net. She didn’t make two in five
shots, though with practice she no doubt would soon make a better
account of herself. She moved with a vigor out of proportion to her
ability. Her bonnet, a useless cap so far as he could see, flew off
her head. Red hair. Not auburn or Titian or strawberry blonde, but
hair of a deep and excessively blatant red.

Images from another of the wretched dreams that
plagued him flashed into his head. A woman swooning or perhaps
falling. Red hair, red as a copper kettle on fire. Sounds, too, he
recalled with unpleasant clarity. A deafening, roar. Fear. A shrill
cry. Pain. A woman’s inconsolable sobs. Though quickly banished,
the memories left an imprint, an echo of color and emotion that
once come to mind, like the contents of Pandora’s box once opened,
could never again be locked safely away.

Another volley cannoned over the net. The red-haired
woman ran backward, arm extended. A difficult shot under any
circumstance, and one she nearly made. The ball caromed off the
edge of her racquet like a grouse startled from a bush and winged
down the snow-covered slope.

To his astonishment, the redhead threw back her head
and laughed. Though he could hear nothing, her body moved with
laughter; without restraint, full of exuberance and joy. James’s
sister, Diana, laughed, too. Hands on her hips, she watched the
redhead start after the ball. Several of the watching gentlemen
closed in on Diana. No one followed the redhead even though she
was, to his mind, the more appealing of the two.

Sebastian shifted on the chair, but nothing eased
his discomfort. His ribs hurt like the devil. And yet he wanted
desperately to be up and about. Inactivity suited him in neither
body nor temperament. Outside, the light turned, and he could once
again see through the window. The redhead walked toward the hedges,
sliding now and then on the snow-covered slope. Though not yet near
enough to make out her features, for a small woman, which she was,
her figure struck him as lively.

“
Your sister’s grown quite tall.”
He’d met James’s sister— half-sister, since they had only their
mother in common —five years ago when he’d visited the Fitzalan
estate in Middlesex. He’d been a third Lieutenant then, newly
promoted. Andrew was there, too. The last time ever he saw his
brother.

James glanced at the window. “Yes.”

Sebastian remembered fetching her a glass of
lemonade. Strange how he remembered that detail but hardly any
about her appearance. Youth. Blushes. A plump figure. Blue eyes, he
thought and, even at her age, an air of sophistication. He’d left
the following morning for Falmouth and the Indian Ocean. If she was
willing, why not? Marrying Diana would be an excellent solution to
the problem of ending his single state.

By now, the redhead had come near enough that he
could see she was older than he first thought, into her twenties,
but with skin much suited to the winter skies of Cumbria. He’d been
so long sailing the ocean— twelve years in all and the last five
without port in England —the change in feminine fashions astonished
him. Yet, even he could see the redhead’s clothes were not in
style. No embroidered hems. No pelisse with puffy sleeves, no
Brussel’s lace. Just white muslin and an encircling ribbon several
inches above her natural waist. And the insistent red of her hair,
bright against the snow. She crouched, angling toward the window as
she searched for the ball in the dense foliage of a low hedge. Her
mouth moved in a triumphant shout. She rose, ball clutched in one
hand. A breeze riffled her hair, blowing copper curls across her
cheek.

To his surprise, his heart did an awkward turn in
his chest at about the same time his body registered significant
interest to the south. She was pretty. Very pretty. With a smile
that made him want another. He watched the sway of her bottom as
she dashed uphill to James’s sister. Significant interest.

“
Who is the redhead?”

“
One of your guests, of course.”
James coughed into his hand. “Though,” he said carefully, “not
quite a country lass.”

“
The sixth,” Sebastian said. “The
one I am not to choose.” The hound pushed its head forward beneath
his fingers. Its eyes closed when Sebastian rubbed behind one
ear.

“
My lord,” said
McNaught.

His valet’s glass hovered inches from his face,
floating like some ghostly apparition. He kicked the blanket off
his lap in the hope McNaught would be distracted from his deuced
potion. Pain licked up his side, a searing reminder that he was far
from healed. Oh, he could hobble about well enough but anything
truly energetic, blanket-kicking or pointless games of tennis, or,
for that matter, embracing one’s wife-to-be, remained out of the
question. But he’d begun to think it possible to one day walk in
his newly acquired garden instead of admiring the prospect from an
invalid’s chair.

James waved one lace-cuffed wrist. “Diana was
London’s reigning debutante this season past. Absolutely without
mercy. Broke at least a dozen hearts. Probably more.”

“
Why isn’t she married?” He meant
the redhead, but the moment the question left his mouth, he knew
James would misunderstand, and so he did.

“
Saving herself for
you.”

Sebastian glanced at his friend, taking in the
golden hair and angelically male features of James, viscount
Fitzalan. “Now, why should she do that?”

“
All the young
ladies want to be your wife. Including Diana.
God’s truth, Sebastian, old man. You’ve no notion how
celebrated you are in Society. Hero of the Indian Ocean. Pirates.
Battles. Prize money. And that’s without the title. With it, well.
. . .”

He rolled his eyes. “You exaggerate. As usual.”

“
No. I don’t. Diana, like every
other young lady of society, spends hours imagining herself married
to you. And probably dreams of you at night.”

The truth was his recollection of Diana was faded
and incomplete. Brown hair, light eyes and very little more. He
remembered she was pretty. She must be if she’d broken the hearts
of a dozen of London’s most elite bachelors. Except, he needed a
wife. Not a debutante. A sensible, capable woman. Not an orchid in
need of fretting care. No, his wife must be content to live simply.
If it came right down to it, he wanted a woman who wouldn’t mind
life on a ship and, at minimum, a woman who wouldn’t resent long
stretches alone while her husband sailed the seas. The familiar
excitement for the waves and salt air failed to materialize. “I’m
cold,” he complained, staring at the blanket forlorn on the marble
tiles.

“
You can marry anyone, Sebastian.
No one is out of your reach. But I’d be pleased,” James said, “if
you married Diana.”

“
Arrange it, then.” His
indifference ought to worry him, but it didn’t. How had such a
pretty woman as the redhead stayed unmarried at her age? Some
abiding fault perhaps. A distemper of manner, or a horsey laugh. Or
perhaps no sense of humor at all. Remembering her laughter, that
seemed unlikely. Perhaps she was vain or haughty. He sighed. In
fact, he would be quite satisfied if he were to wake up one morning
and find a wife at his side, a ready-made helpmeet braced for a
life in the country. He had no intention of living in London. Ever.
“Get her to agree, and I’ll marry her tomorrow.”

“
I’ve done what I can. She’s at
least amenable to the notion, for it seems that in addition to your
reputation, you made quite an impression when you met her before.
At the least, she already loves your naval record. Shouldn’t be
hard to convince her to marry you. Nothing could be easier, I
expect.”

“
What about the redhead?” The
sight of that flame-colored hair unsettled him, but he recalled
with interest the nature of his response to his first sight of her.
Significant interest, and that was encouraging for the improving
state of his health. He’d been coddling his injury too long and as
a result, let his resolve to action grow soft. For years he’d
solved his own damn problems, and here he was letting James take
over his life. Was she as passionate as that hair of hers? “Is she
a Scot?”

James turned his head to look at him, his smile
gone. “That’s her, Sebastian.” He lifted his palms in a defensive
gesture. “From everything I’ve heard, it’s a miracle she didn’t die
with your brother and his wife.”

Sebastian absorbed James’s revelation with typical
self-possession. “I’m surprised she came.”

His grin reappeared. “You are the leading citizen of
Far Caister, Sebastian, in need of a spare for your dinner table.
When Diana arrived without her companion, her most bosom friend
whose name escapes me just now, I took it upon myself to importune
the vicar for help. By merest chance, her name came up, and she was
soon convinced to remedy our predicament of numbers. She could not
refuse. Your patronage might do her a world of good. Besides, by
reputation at least, she is a lady of breeding, I assure you.
Impoverished. But a lady.”

“
Not what I expected.”

“
No family to speak of. Next thing
to an orphan. Mother’s an invalid, so I’m told.” James waved a
hand. “The proprieties are satisfied, the numbers once again even.
Our spare is tolerably attractive, more than tolerably intelligent
and quite enough on the shelf not to upset the other young ladies.
Her reputation is nearly unassailable.” His white-toothed grin
reappeared. “And you are free to question her to your heart’s
content. For all the good it may do you.”

Through the windowpane, Sebastian scowled. “The
spare.”

“
Like you, in a manner of
speaking.”

“
God-awful hair.” But he saw
himself with his hands buried in curls free from pins and cascading
over her shoulders.

“
There,” James said, “you are much
mistaken.” His half-lidded glance swept the window. “Wonderful
exuberance.” Sebastian shot him a glance because he heard something
in his friend’s tone. “Wonderful.” James’s voice dropped a notch
and turned into a whisper, a sound of endearments exchanged in a
darkened room. “I do fancy her.”

McNaught cleared his throat. “My lord.” The potion
inched downward.

He could now see McNaught’s fingertips, ending the
illusion the glass had been floating in the air. “Oh, all right.”
He grasped the tumbler and tossed down the contents. Took it like a
man, he did. Peppermint, he thought. Licorice. And a sharp
aftertaste of some sort of patent remedy not quite strong enough to
mask whatever ingredient gave off the faint smell of rotten eggs.
Sulfur? Shuddering, he held out the empty glass. It vanished from
sight. “The spare.”

“
Yes. The spare.”

“
Twenty-four years old.” In all
the times Sebastian had thought or read about his brother’s death,
the lone survivor of the tragedy had never been more than an
abstraction to him. A name in the official records, without face or
character, no existence outside her having been at Pennhyll. Now
that he saw her, the reality jolted him. “Never married. Daughter
of Sir Roger Willow, deceased.” Miss Olivia Willow, formerly a
governess for Admiral Bunker, found near death at Pennhyll Castle
with the bodies of Andrew, earl of Tiern-Cope, and his wife
Guenevere. The earl and countess each dead of a bullet wound. In
the coroner’s opinion, they had died quickly. A crack shot, their
murderer. Miss Willow, too, had been shot, but in her case, the
bullet went a hair to the right and spared her the fate of his
brother and his wife. Unfortunately, she remembered nothing of the
night in question. The conclusion of the inquiry was that Miss
Willow had surprised the culprit during the commission of his crime
and as a result sustained near fatal injury. Only the alarum raised
by household staff saved her from death. No one doubted she would
otherwise have been killed. The man responsible escaped into the
night.

James glanced at McNaught. “A spinster, Sebastian,
of advancing age with no male relatives looking out for her welfare
and no dragon-eyed mama guarding her virtue. In short, a woman who
will keep me entertained while we are here in the midst of all this
frozen…vegetation. What is it? You look like someone’s kicked your
favorite hound.” His face fell. “Don’t tell me you fancy her, too.
I saw her first, damn it all.”

Sebastian stared at the windowed wall through which
he could see the wild splash of red hair coming free of its pins.
He didn’t care how pretty she was or how lovely her smile. She was
his best hope, likely his only hope, of discovering who killed his
brother. He meant to have what was in her head, no matter the cost
to him or to her. “As long as I get what I want from her, she’s all
yours, James.”

Places to get The Spare

Thank you for reading Passion’s Song. I hope you
enjoyed it.

Alas, I am not perfect. From time to time I make
mistakes. The great thing about eBooks is I can upload fixes pretty
quickly. If you find a typo, by all means let me know!

Here's a list of updates so far:

• 2012.07.05: This is version 1.