Passion (12 page)

“I beg your pardon,” a deep voice snapped, in
a manner less apologetic than his words.

Turning, Caroline was saying, “No. No 'tis my
fault. I was trying to avoid—“But words quickly died on her
lips.

Caroline gazed upwards, being just chest
height to the male, and finding herself looking at a swarthy,
masculine face, strong nose, beautiful lips—skin the hue of warm
almond, eyes shielded by dark glasses.

Dark glasses—Caroline made a small gasping
sound, realizing he was blind. His hand, ungloved, held her upper
arm as she had gripped his forearm.

The noise and traffic did not cease.

She watched his mouth move, as he muttered,
“Not at all. If you will just hand me my walking stick.”

“You were in the war?”

“Captain. The Navy.” he snapped.

“And you are blind?”

“Obviously,” the sarcasm was lost on her.

She was a few seconds dragging her gaze from
his face, having noted the pinker skin just visible under the rims.
Her senses picked up a pleasant, masculine scent, from his
jacket.

Caroline glanced at the ground, and then
around, at the street. With so many people walking, dozens of skirt
hems sweeping the cobbles, it was a blur for a moment.

Releasing his jacket, she muttered, “I do not
see it—oh, wait—there ‘tis.” She pulled away from him and
endeavored to work her way through passersby, and dodge a team of
horses clipping past.

The cane, a black and ivory was in her sight.
She hurried and bent to snatch it up, doing a less polite pushing
back through to join the man in the entry alcove.

“Here you go.” She took his hand in hers,
wrapping it around the head of the cane, and rushing, “Pardon my
initial reaction, sir. I assure you I was not being boorish. I was
merely trying to establish how much you could actually see. Lenses
of various tints have become so fashionable these days.”

He nodded. “My thanks, for the retrieval of
the cane, madam.”

“You are most welcome. I vow, these streets
are madness, are they not?”

“Not safe for a blind man.”

At his unexpected jest, she peeked up to see
his strong white teeth showing on an attractively crooked
smile.

So interested in that, Caroline did not see
the door opening behind him, and this time it nudged him forward.
She was rudely elbowed by an enormous matron on the street and
yelped, being forced forward.

“Beg Pardon.” The old man grumped, having
come out the doors without thought or looking, busily packing his
pipe. However, Caroline was squished against the male, and though
holding his cane, he had caught her with his other arm, to keep
them both from falling.

His laugh rolled smoothly above her head,
even as he issued a “Bloody hell.” Moreover, Caroline could not
help but laugh, too.

“Goodness. This has to be the worst idea I’ve
ever had.” She chuckled breathless.

“Have you a coach or maid nearby? I shall
endeavor to escort you to it. Despite this clumsy business, once on
the street, I navigate quite well.”

“No. I am afraid not. I was to meet…ah…my
friend, and she would provide transport once our visit was over.”
Caroline grimaced. In truth, Harry had not said that specifically.
She had said she gathered new information for Caroline about her
supposed half-sister, and Caroline sent Harry a note saying she
would come to her—quite a stupid idea, Caroline now knew.

“Well,” he was saying, “If you will give me
your address…I will secure a hack for you—”

Biting her lip, Caroline thought fast and
then blurt, “No. No thank you. That will not be necessary. My
friend lives on this street…er….somewhere, and I was but looking
for the number…” Her voice trailed off again, having been gazing up
at him, noticing that he tilted his head slightly to hear her voice
clear amid the din.

As if sensing her stare, he dipped his head a
bit and murmured, “Pardon my familiarity…but you have a most
pleasing voice and scent, madam.”

“T…thank you.” Caroline could have returned
the compliment. She got tingles at his voice. He smelled very nice
indeed. Her cheeks flushed.

Still scandalously, publicly, glued to his
front, she stepped back a bit, feeling an odd sensation when his
hand slid against her back where he had caught her.

Clearing her throat, and unable to stop
looking at him, in particular feeling a little flutter at the
closeness of his rugged face, the way he had came near to say that,
Caroline suddenly realized, how it pleased her that a stranger,
someone who neither knew of her fortune or bloodlines, paid her a
genuine, simple, compliment.

He was blind. He could not see her looks, nor
could he know who she was. How famous!

Caroline began, “I suppose we should…”

“Yes…” he returned.

Yet neither of them moved.

It was as if between the heavy crowds,
thousands of distracted people, and the solidness of the tobacco
shop, there was some square of ground, which existed unto
itself.

Caroline, in her years of attending the best
parties and exclusive balls, of being escorted, danced with, had
never felt so intrigued by a stranger. Never, had she felt this
anonymity and freedom either. Because, everyone there knew who she
was, and what she was worth. Never had she had an un-escorted or
un-scrutinized moment to converse normally. Everything in her world
was practiced and written in the very strict code of etiquette.

His hand on her back now moved to her
shoulder. Caroline felt it through the thin cloak and lace blouse.
The walking skirt was the plainest thing in her wardrobe, a
sapphire blue. It just happened to match the summer cloak, so she
would felt safe wearing it.

She felt his fingers lift, the tips were
barely, discreetly, grazing her jaw. “I wish I could see you.”

It sounded intimate, soft and deep.

Wetting her lips, she joked, “Its better you
cannot.”

“What color is your hair?”

“Red—" she blurt. Then, “Well red and blond.
Too curly by half.” She smiled and his fingertip touched the corner
of her lip.

Tingly now, oddly breathless, Caroline was
fascinated by that focus on his face, the merest curve to his
lips.

“Your eyes are…”

“Blue.”

“Blue… Just blue?”

She laughed a little breathless. “On the
lighter side.”

Three fingertips now touched her cheek.
“You’re very young.” He was straightening, drawing back.

“Not at all. I am half a hag already. Tis the
wonders of face creams. The fountain of youth, or so they
claim.”

His tension relaxed for a moment, but a frown
lingered there.

For some reason Caroline did not wish him to
guess her station, or think her younger than the twenty and two she
was.

She was suddenly grateful to have met Lady
Harry too, because a year ago she would have likely giggled coyly
or fainted if a strong and handsome man had been so familiar.

Yes, his military background fit him, and
there was a different kind of maturity there than the polished
peers she had been around. Oh very well, she admitted his
“earthiness” was attractive. Those sinewy and strong fingers had
not been on a pampered hand.

Despite what it must feel like to be wounded,
blind, he had some humor. Yes. She was glad Harry laughed and
mocked her old practiced affections and silliness. Harry likely
saved her from being the simpering idiot she often saw in her
peers.

Actually, Harry was annoyingly right about
most of the mockery aimed her way.

Caroline drew in a long breath and let it
out. She peeked around and then back at the Captain, who had
dropped his hand and was obviously putting distance between
them.

“I’m twenty and two. You, Captain?”

“Twenty eight, going on one hundred.”

She laughed, “You’ve certainly aged
well.”

Those lashes blinked behind the lenses and
she saw him start to raise a hand toward them before he stopped and
let it fall.

His self-consciousness was so at odds with
the strong and handsome figure he cut, that Caroline husked, “It
looks to be healing nicely. You must not be self-conscious.”

For a moment, his cheek flexed. He seemed to
be half speaking to himself and murmured, “You’re very beautiful,
are you not?”

“No. I am not.”

He breathed in again. “Expensive scent, a
cultured voice…what games are you playing, miss…?”

“No games. No name, please. I am of average
good looks. I tend to freckle. I have some assets and some flaws, I
promise.”

She knew her time with him was ending. She
was a proper lady, behaving very improperly on a public street,
yet, Caroline dared slip off her glove and ease her hand under his
cuff, just at the wrist of the one grasping his cane. It was warm
with a strong, manly pulse, beating steady.

“I must go, to make my appointment on time.”
She had witnessed that slight jerk in him, a surprise at her touch.
“I hope we shall meet again, Captain.”

His head moved again focusing on her words,
his were deep-voiced when he replied, “I very much doubt it if my
ear and instincts are true, lady mystery.”

“Oh, you never know. I could take up smoking
tobacco and we’d run into each other again, compare blends....”

He laughed, and both that flash of white
teeth and the sound, pleased her. He really was a handsome man. She
really hated her fortune and background sometimes.

Caroline really did not want to leave his
presence. “I’d like to know you better, Captain.” Sighing when he
did not answer, she dropped her hand and put her glove back on,
preparing to leave.

Caroline had turned toward the street, her
back to him and was preparing to step out, when his fingers nudged
the side of her cloak hood, his warm breath caressed her ear as he
leaned down and murmured “Greenfield’s coffee House, ten
tonight.

Shocking, scandalous! She rasped, “Yes. I
shall find it.”

Caroline could scarcely focus a half hour
later, when she did find Harry’s address—looking more like a
bookshop, so towering were the shelves and overflowing books on the
tables. Maps, graphs, an assortment of art, and sculptures, were
scattered amid Harriet’s “normal” furnishings.

“It was a bookshop,” the woman told her,
serving tea after moving carelessly tossed fringed shawls out of
the chair. “I have three houses in the city. One I let out, and
father’s mansion, but I prefer this one.”

Still hearing the noise outside the door,
shades drawn, Caroline asked, “Why? How can you think with all this
racket?”

Taking her own seat, dressed in brown skirt
and white blouse, riding boots, Harriet propped those boots on a
stool and sat back with her tea.

“I like it. I am used to the bustle. I can
step outside and see more than the fashionable crowd. Here are
artists, musicians, orange sellers, standing alongside some
financier or an out of pocket rake. You never know who you will
see, certainly some of the greatest minds, the up and coming
scientists, poets and doctors.

The trouble with your world, Caroline, is
that they do not want to be enlightened, they want to lock
themselves behind ivy walls and ivory towers—and cling to their
archaic ways, and not a one of them are happier for it.”

“I cannot argue with that.”

“Which—" Harriet went on, “is why, men like
your father end up living tangled lives.”

Caroline nodded. “You say the woman—Natasha
Druitt, was famous?”

“In London, yes.” Harriet eased her feet to
the floor and got up, setting the tea aside, before she went
digging through a pile of papers.

She brought Caroline a handbill.

“
The sketch doesn’t do her
justice, according to some of the older actresses and dancers I
spoke to. She was an exotic beauty. Her gypsy dance was one of the
more popular acts.”

Examining the sketch and the advert, Caroline
mused, “I cannot imagine my father—the Duke of Coulborne…well, you
know.”

Lady Harry chuckled and took the flyer. While
she walked over to the table, she said, “He was apparently in love
with her. Those who knew her claimed she had several admirers who
sent her gifts, showered her with flowers. She was a free spirit,
but not loose morally, which is why it shocked many when she broke
off the association with Bordwyc. “

Caroline eyed her friend, who leaned her hips
against the table, regarding her. “She found someone else?”

“Well, that’s the mysterious part. Everyone
knew the Duke fathered a child on her. The actors and dancers said
the girl was beautiful, quite charming, and lived backstage.
Natasha, in the true Gypsy spirit, made the theater her home.
However, there was a man, whom none can seem to put a name to who
seemed obsessed with her. And one day they simply vanished.”

“But you do not believe that—" Caroline
studied Harry’s expression.

“No. In fact, I do not think she left London
at all. I don’t know what happened, but when I began to enquire a
bit deeper, people seemed…..frightened.”

Setting the cup aside, Caroline stood and
strolled toward her. “Whatever could it mean, Harry?”

“It would shock you what goes on in this
city.” Harry considered her in return. “I have lived in the Far
East and in places where brothels are run out of huts and sewers,
and children are…” Harry shook her head. “Are you sure you want to
go any further with this, Caroline? Perhaps you should just speak
with your father—“

“I don’t know how to broach the subject with
him.” Caroline grimaced. “You know how he thinks of me, sees me.
And he’d be mortified, perhaps embarrassed.”

“But what do you expect to do once you find
her?”

“I don’t know. Meet her. Talk to her.”

Harry sighed. “She may not be alive.”

“
Is that what this…fear
implies? However, it makes no sense. Surely, she was an independent
woman. Someone discerning, and of the world.” Caroline
frowned