Passion (4 page)

I am not in my right mind of late.

He has not attended the ball tonight, and did
not exactly look himself at the dinner he had last attended—which,
for some reason, intrigued me. Whereas the other, is a distant sort
of thing, to watch him, observe him, watch the light catch his
black mane, or the shadows on his high cheekbones, and the way
those green eyes mask everything behind glass. It is more
interesting than judging the so obvious motives of every other
eligible male, the fortune hunters, and the lustful old rues.

One could say Stoneleigh is cold, aloof,
distant, and too flawless. Nevertheless, one cannot help but wonder
if there is anything deeper, any imperfections, any weakness in
there. The contrast between that sensual beauty and the ice is
something that leaps into my mind when I think of him.

My father is ready to depart, and I look
around for Lady Harry, noticing her eventually by the garden doors,
standing there in her almost masculine gown of black, and dove
gray, her short hair and intelligent face making my eyes linger
longer. I realize she is handsome, quite so, with angular bones,
semi full lips, and very compelling eyes. Harry is tall for a
female, and it suits the way she carries herself, the fact that she
bows to few. Her hair lies against her nape, a long and graceful
neck, and is tucked behind her ears, the front is naturally waves.
That gown, the plainness, the straight lines and V bodice, suits
her.

I smile to myself as she finds my stare and
winks, raising her glass of champagne. Is Harry changing my
perspective of things, or am I simply growing up? I say my adieus
with father, and in the coach I leave off wondering about his
youthful affairs, which have occupied me of late, and ponder what I
will say or do, how I shall react when Jules LeClair applies to my
father—

I know father will accept, for even he is
aware of Stoneleigh’s standing. A year ago, I would not even have
thought upon it, I would have simply obeyed as I have in all
things, without a second thought.

Lady Caroline Bordwyc.

* * * *

My first thought when I received the letter
from the Duke of Eastland requesting to meet with me, was that he
was coming out of seclusion because his son, Lord Stoneleigh
intended to apply for my daughter’s hand. That thought did not
linger however, because of the date of the missive and the tone of
his letter.

Artis was a bit older than myself although
not enough to signify because we had been in the same society for
most of our lives, moving in the same circles. We had a deeper
connection than some of our cronies who we played cards and
attended social or sporting events with. That connection caused me
to linger in the study, in private thought for hours. I knew like
most who never spoke of it, that Artis had no more a happy union
than I myself did, but that he also seemed something of an island
unto himself. I thought I could discern why.

Many years ago when he met his mistress, I
myself had fallen hopelessly for a dancer, a woman who seemed as
exotic, as elusive to me as a bird who would not be tamed. Artis
was entangled with a woman of good breeding, one of Spanish
descent, with aristocratic blood. I did not know which of us was
sicker with love. I, who could not offer Natasha anything more than
any other married male of my station, or Artis, who never planned
and did not see love coming his way, until it was too late.

Sipping a whiskey I had poured, I arose from
my chair and walked to the garden doors. Rain, always rain. Some
days and nights, blacker and thicker than others, but such gloomy
weather added to my brooding thoughts.

Circumstance and happenstance put Artis and I
in that same tavern on the same evening. He was beside himself,
obviously. I had pulled from my own worries to join him at a table
and enquire if I may be of any help, a listening ear at the least?
He told me the woman was with child, a circumstance more tragic for
her than himself, for not all men worry at such things, but her
family, her standing, her brother’s position—was in jeopardy. He
described his wife, the Duchess, who all knew and few felt warmly
toward. Over a bottle of rum, we came up with the solution, which
worked much because of her brother’s love for both her and Artis. I
can guess the price paid for Artis wanting his son to have his
name, and to be close to him.

I certainly saw the woman’s family suffer in
the way one does who comes against a force like the Duchess. Though
the woman remained in Spain, her brother and his family later,
quietly left also.

But that son seemed to have vanished in his
late teens, at least he was not in society—though one could find
nothing a fault in Stoneleigh, who by all appearances is the
perfect lord, gentleman and peer, nor his brother, the Viscount, a
naval Captain who did nothing but bring his family pride in his
service to the crown—wounded many times, I had read. It was still
not the family I perceived that a younger more passionate Artis
imagined he would gain.

I knew he was not in mourning. No more than I
had for Clara, since she at least demanded no pretense, and lived
quite contented with her own lover in Bristol until she died. The
thing that kept me from Natasha was not Clara per se, for ours was
a union designed by our guardians, as much as aristocratic matches
still were. By the time Natasha was carrying my child, Clara had
given me a daughter, who was a year old and I could not seek a
divorce, any more than she wished one. She had done her duty and
given me a child, and it was understood I would have the child with
me and Clara would seek her own interests.

Never certain that Natasha loved me, I did
not doubt she loved carrying my child. She was young, very young,
though an old soul in some ways, a free spirit in others. I
showered her with gifts, giving what she would allow me, having
disdained my offer to set her up in a home of her own. She thrived
and lived at the theater. I could not bring myself to question if
there were others, I did not think outside the flattering and
praise she got for her “Gypsy dancing” that she took lovers whilst
we were intimate. But, what was I to do? I could not imagine, even
if it were possible, that a divorce would give me a fantasy life
with her. I was a Duke, and though my ancestors were of welsh
origins and great men, it was my wealth that attracted Clara’s
family—that distant royal tie of hers was more recent, but wealth
was scarce in her branch.

I was also, at the time, operating with an
esteemed group of men who were working for the crown during those
volatile years. It was whilst Caroline was ill—some stretch of
months that demanded my time and deprived me of sleep with worry,
that Natasha apparently vanished from the stage, her friends, and
had taken the child with her.

By the time I surfaced and Caroline
recovered, I could find no trace of her.

I look over my shoulder now at that letter
lying on the desk. Both Artis and myself were both widowed, free
men, at least freer than we had been in our younger years, having
paid for our heart’s betrayal and yet still losing those children
we would have loved.

I turned back with a shudder and finished my
drink, eyeing my reflection in the now rain covered glass, seeing
with some surprise that my thick blond hair was gray now, and
though my body fit, my face was that of a mature man in his
fifties. I had always told myself, I lived only to see Caroline
make a good match, and have a secure future, all the things she
deserved. She had been an angel, a daughter so obedient and good,
that she amazed me. Despite those who hinted she could wed royalty,
I did not think just any man good enough for her.

I secretly hoped that Jules LeClair, Earl of
Stoneleigh would offer for her. Even I could not dream up a man so
pleasing in his face and form, so intelligent, responsible, and
flawless. His bloodlines were as impressive as his fortunes, more
so after his mother’s line, the Lombardi’s, died out and he was
left the last male heir. I imagined Artis was as in awe of him as I
was of Caroline. I did not wish to wed her to some older man, and
had some consideration that most females found Stoneleigh a prince
in looks.

Later, when I sought my bed, I decided that I
would meet with Artis. I realized that he would seek me out because
I had earned his trust, kept his secret, and he had kept mine.

If our heirs were to be wed someday, it would
only be pleasant that we might have some part of our lives, the
twilight, though I shudder to see myself in such, with a true
friend rather than the society we gave our choice, our happiness,
and our dreams away for.

His Grace, David Bordwyc, Duke of
Coulborne.

* * * *

It is the pre-dawn hour as I walk through the
fog and dank shadows. Rain refills the puddles my boots half empty.
I stride like years, endless hours, before, with less sense of my
body and more the compulsion to see through her eyes. I can
scarcely recall their exact expressions. Only one is burned in my
mind, that opened stare of terror—her death mask.

Since the day I identified her mutilated
corpse, I can no longer see Suzette as she was before.

My gloved hands clinch in the deep pockets of
my caped coat, and my eyes shift under the lowered brim of my cap,
noting the movements, the huddled wretches, and slinking thieves,
pimps, whose business is done in these sinister hours. I hear the
muffled sounds of grunting sex amid the whimpers of brutality, and
the mewling cry of a child shivering under one of the rag piles
near the building. I feel heat amid the colder rain, heat that is
born from rot, fermentation and the number of wretched creatures
beyond my line of sight.

The smells are repellent, and yet cruelly
agreeable to my nose. Rain cannot obscure the waft from the Thames
that I smelled on her muddy blond hair in the morgue, where I
kissed her and promised her—I would avenge her death. My teeth are
cinched as tight as my gut and fist. My nostrils flair to take in
the essence of this underworld. I resist the verity that it may be
my last night to embrace this morbid ritual, that for the plan so
long practiced to unfold I must take Gabriella into his world, and
play my part as well.

The writhing inside me is no less potent, the
darkness and scent, sights of depravity, no less intoxicating, in
the way only a poison can be. As an addict, I must inject my very
soul with the substance, the ghosts, and ominous things that drive
me— that I have lived for these many dark years.

I snake my way in and out of the warren like
alley and again find my steps taking me toward my residence. I feel
her swollen and mangled hands pulling back on my shoulders, as if
to keep me there, back with her. I say in my mind that I must go in
order to give her rest, peace, justice—and I go onward, knowing I
will never have that peace myself.

I enter the house and track my wet footprints
across the dark marbled foyer in silvery shapes. The shadowy spaces
remain. Only the stairs can I discern by the thick globe-sheltered
candle left burning.

I take it up, and climb the stairs to the
landing, facing a bank of long windows before turning left, down
the hall, to the end and my chambers. I divest myself of hat,
gloves, and coat, having hired servants with explicit instructions
that none were to come near my rooms—I lay my own fire and light
it. Clad in a white shirt, dark trousers, I sit in a low chair and
remove my boots.

The brandy is at my arms reach and I complete
my ritual by drinking it, watching the flames catch and leap. -When
the dawn bells toll, I set the glass aside and lean my head back,
eyes closing, my semi-dream state is never a habitation for
pleasant things. My only fantasy is merciless and bloody, though
the plan is much more drawn out and elaborate than that too quickly
done deed.

No, I will save that for the last, as I have
memorized and visualized the state of her body, I will do likewise
to his.

The flush of the fire brings unwelcome warmth
to my comfortable state of darkness. I lift my lashes, angry at the
intrusion to my cold-blooded daydream. Suzette, Suzette, Suzette, I
chant, as if to summon her ghost…to lower myself into the grave
with her.

Raith LeClair, Lord Montovon.

Chapter One

Gabriella pinned the wide-brim, feathered,
hat onto her upswept black and burgundy hair. She smoothed the
cinched waist of the embroidered wine walking dress over her firm
hips, its skirt drawn back into a mock bustle that was actually a
fall of material that swayed when she walked.

Satisfied, she leaned down so that her
breasts rose from the deep bodice, and the merest glimpse of her
large nipples showed their salved glisten behind a hint of
sparkling sheer net. Her hands smoothed over the pillowed cream
tops. Afterwards, she turned left and right in front of the long
mirror, finding the vision she hoped to create in the curvy and
lush image there.

Turning from the mirror, she drew on net
gloves to the elbow that hooked on her middle finger, and then
picked up her parasol. She walked out of the rooms. Her movements
became those practiced ones, the shift of rich fabrics against her
silk stockings, the sound of her black velvet-heeled walking boots,
helped plunge her deeper into the role she played. Head high,
darkened lashes at just the right sultry position, she descended
the stairs and met an awaiting Raith.

He did not offer his arm, but placed his hand
on the small of her back whilst they proceeded out the doors and
into the rain damp streets. Noon brought a weak sun, enough so that
she admired the sheen of it on his hair when they entered the
buggy. The top down, they sat close, her flowery perfume blending
with that sultry scent of night he carried. Somewhere in the back
of her mind, she had named the combination, so well did they
mingle….