Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance) (18 page)

“
Look what I’ve got!” She held up
the black-and-white puppy for him to see. “Isn’t he darling?” She
spoke more to the puppy than to Alexander, who looked down at the
five others playing around her knees. She put down the dog and
watched him run to his siblings, looking sadly after them for a
moment. “I’m sorry if I was in your way.” She held up a hand for
him to take as she stood up. She brushed off her skirts and
straightened up.

“
You seem to have a talent for
getting in my way.” He was annoyed for thinking about how smooth
her leg had felt, for the shock that had gone through him when she
had put a hand on his arm, and, immediately after that, for the
erotic picture she had just made, when playing with puppies, was
not in the least erotic.

“
Oh! Forgive me, my lord!” Isobel
feigned horror, clutching her face between her hands. “Shall I cut
off my right arm? Will it make up for scuffing your boots? Do send
them to me when you’ve changed and I shall have them polished for
you.”

To her utter amazement, he burst into laughter.
“Miss St. James, you are going to make me admire you in spite of
myself.” He held out his arm. “Shall we go back to the house? I
have a Rubens I should like to show you.”

VII

The day before Isobel and Julia were to return to
London, Alexander found her in the library. He cleared his throat.
“Ah, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

Isobel looked up from her seat on the sofa. “Why?
Did I do something to annoy you and now you want to berate me?” She
smiled at him, glad that his resolution to be pleasant to her had
already survived three days.

“
No.” He made her a small bow.
“I’ve brought you a gift.”

“
Well, it isn’t big enough to be
your Rubens, so just take it away.” She made a shooing motion with
one of her hands.

“
How ungrateful you are!” he
protested, as he walked over to where she was sitting and held out
the basket he had been hiding behind his back. “Here.”

She took the basket and, holding it on her lap,
opened the lid. Her face lit up as she reached in and took out the
black-and-white puppy. “Lord Hartforde, I’m speechless!” Her eyes
were shining as she held the puppy to her cheek.

“
For once,” he said, turning a
grateful eye upward.

She put the puppy down on the floor and pulled out
the ribbon holding back her hair to trail on the floor for it to
chase.

She glanced up when he sat down next to her. When he
found himself looking into glowing blue eyes, he felt a distressing
pull of desire as he took in the soft curve of her smile, and the
golden hair falling loose about her shoulders, framing her face.
Her lips parted and he found his gaze focused on them.

“
This is the nicest thing anyone
has ever done for me,” she said, lifting her arms to hug
him.

“
Don’t do that!” He pushed her
away. He had not expected the sudden light pressure of her torso
against him to affect him quite as it did.

“
Don’t do what?” To his great
relief, she sat back to look at him with an exasperated expression.
“You mean hug you? Why ever not? If you insist on doing nice
things, you must expect to get hugged.” She put a hand on his arm
and smiled at him.

“
Such behavior is most
unladylike,” he said sternly, hoping his harsh words would
discourage another attempt. She looked so hurt he was instantly
sorry. “You are in sore need of some refinement,” he
said.

“
I knew you’d say something
unpleasant.” She sighed. “Well, I simply won’t let you spoil this.
You may go to the devil, you old man!” She turned her attention
back to the puppy, which had let out an impatient yelp at being
ignored. She bent over to shake the ribbon, and the puppy took it
in his sharp little teeth and ran between Alexander’s legs. She
twisted toward him and put a hand next to his leg to prop herself
up. Hardly aware that he did so, he reached out to stroke her
shoulder. Her skin was warm under his fingers.

She quickly lifted her head. “Now, what?” She
frowned when his hand lingered on her shoulder. “What are you
doing?”

He felt a shock when their eyes met. She sat
perfectly still as he ran his hands through her golden hair,
pulling it away from her face. One long finger gently traced the
outline of her lips, caressing her cheek. “Kissing you,” he
murmured, leaning forward until his lips were just inches above her
own. “Surely you’ve been kissed before?” One hand held her chin,
while the other gently reached around her waist.

“
Once, and it was horrible,” she
said in a low voice.

He looked into questioning eyes and wondered if it
could be true that she had been kissed only once before. She leaned
toward him as he lowered his head to hers. He found it hard to
believe. “You must tell me afterward if it was horrible this time
as well.” He closed the space between them. He was unprepared for
the strength of his reaction when he felt his mouth on hers. He
held her and thought her lips seemed unconscionably soft and warm.
When he caressed her shoulders, her skin felt as smooth as the
satin of her gown, and as he closed his eyes, the image of her
slender legs as they had looked that day she had been out riding
came to him. He remembered how soft her skin had felt just from
that brief contact, and he wondered if it was possible for her to
be as soft everywhere else. He deepened his kiss, his demanding
tongue parting her lips, and he felt the heat of his desire
beginning to overcome them both. He twined his fingers in her silky
hair and his other hand pressed against her back to pull her as
close as possible. Tentative arms wound around his neck, her
slender body fit just so into the tightening circle of his arm, and
the press of her against his chest as she began to relax against
him was beginning to stir him beyond control. There was a familiar
tightening in his belly and he bent her head back under the
increasing pressure of his desire. He pulled away from her lips and
looked into dark blue eyes to see the passion he had felt when he
kissed her. His fingers were still tangled in her hair, so she was
unable to move. “My God, Sarah,” he said softly.

When Isobel felt Alexander’s hands tighten their
hold on her head, she leaned closer and wondered if it was possible
to die from bliss. She didn’t know what she should do with her
hands, so she shyly put them around his neck; her fingers brushed
his hair as they met at the nape of his neck. His tongue was
slipping over her lips and, under the demand of his mouth, they
parted. She didn’t care if she had done the right thing, for his
tongue darted gently into her, and she was lost in the slippery
sensation. Timidly, she increased the pressure of her lips against
his. In answer, his hand slid around to hold her face, while his
other arm tightened around her waist. She was giddy with her
response to his touch, she was drunk with the feel of him, the
taste of him, the warm, musky, masculine smell of him. She couldn’t
believe what was happening—this was Lord Hartforde, one of the most
powerful men in all of England, and the handsomest man she had ever
seen in her life! Then she stopped thinking and gave herself over
to the whirling, dizzying pleasure of his arms. He was pulling her
close, his hands were touching her so gently, so intimately…. She
was disappointed when he stopped, but, then, the look he gave her
made her afraid that, for a moment, she had forgotten how to
breathe. He was still holding her, his face so close to hers she
could feel his breath on her skin. It was impossible that he should
be looking at her this way with those extraordinary green eyes
burning into hers, yet he was. She waited for him to speak.

Isobel shook her head free and had to take a shaking
breath before she could say, “I don’t know who Sarah is, my lord,
but clearly you would prefer her company to mine.”

The vehemence of his reply shocked her. “Sarah is a
woman I liked just as little as I like you.”

She bent to pick up the puppy before standing. “I
should hate to think what would have happened if you actually liked
me!” She whirled around and left him sitting alone.

Alexander winced as the door slammed shut. He leaned
back against the sofa and closed his eyes. It had never occurred to
him before that she did bear a slight resemblance to his dead wife.
If he wasn’t careful, Isobel St. James would wind herself around
his heart the same way Sarah had, and he had sworn that would never
happen to him again.

“
What a swine that man is!” Isobel
raged as she lay on her bed, staring up at the ceding and wishing
it would just crash down and put her out of her misery. The puppy
snuggled against her side and pressed its wet nose to her fist. She
could hardly wait to get back to London and be away from that
hateful beast. She had gotten her wish; Lord Hartforde had kissed
her at last. And she had never experienced anything like it; every
inch of her body had felt on fire at his touch— still felt on fire!
She was ashamed to think she might never have stopped him if he
hadn’t called her by another woman’s name. But, why, if he wanted
another, why had he kissed her? Because he was beastly, positively
beastly! She groaned in misery. Just the recollection of his lips
against hers sent a thrill through her. How could she ever face him
again?

Preston Hawes looked around his little room with
disdain. These dreary surroundings, so distressingly far from the
West End, were nothing compared with what he intended to have. He
lit his last cheroot and sat down in one of the faded velvet
chairs, his feet up on the table in front of him. An ember from the
cigar fell to the carpet, where it burned yet another small hole in
the wool.

Hawes maintained his rooms by exploiting the only
two talents he had—his original profession of the law, much to his
father’s despair, not being either one of them. His first and most
useful talent was artistic in nature. He could render practically
flawless copies of any document he had in front of him. His
facility was impressive, and that, coupled with his second talent
for putting off his creditors, had gained him a reputation among a
certain class as a man with prospects. In truth, the only thing
standing between Preston Hawes and his prospects was his love for
cards.

Hawes was able to make enough money copying
documents—he never asked what was to be done with them when he
finished—to keep his two rooms and make occasional payments to his
tailor. His father sent him money if he pleaded with just the right
words, but still he sometimes wondered if real success would always
elude him. Patience he had in abundance, but luck was something
that seemed to have deserted him lately. He finished his cigar and,
carefully brushing off his one and only frock coat, went out to see
if he could coax luck into smiling on him.

William Fordham leaned back in his chair, a glow of
satisfaction on his face.

“
One hundred pounds.” Hawes
frowned. He’d lost more money before, but he had never had such a
consistent run of bad luck. This would put him in exceedingly
strained circumstances. He shook his head ruefully and looked at
the man sitting across from him. “Well, here you are.” He handed
over his note for the hundred pounds, smiling as he did so. His
tailor would have to wait.

“
You don’t mean you haven’t the
money?” Fordham queried, his tone tinged with outrage.

“
Not just this moment, I’m afraid.
But I’m good for it. Ask anyone here and they’ll tell you Preston
Hawes always pays his debts.”

“
Eventually, I’m told.”

“
Quite. I do eventually pay my
debts.” He smiled nervously. He did not like Fordham’s tone in the
least.

“
Tell me, Mr. Hawes, have you ever
done any writing? Or copying, perhaps?”

“
Oh, now and again,” he said,
relaxing into his chair.

“
Could you copy this?” Fordham
took a sheet of paper from his coat pocket and tossed it on the
table.

Hawes unfolded the sheet of paper. “Of course.”

“
It will be in your interest to do
your best work. If it is good enough, I might just have a position
for you.”

“
Really?”

“
Yes. You seem like a gentleman to
me.” The word “gentleman” sounded to Hawes like the name of a
long-lost friend.

With Bridget close behind her, Isobel walked
purposefully into the jewelry store. The maid stood near the door
waiting, while her mistress looked at the finery. Another woman
came in and was waited on by a second clerk.

“
How much is that?” Isobel pointed
to a brooch.

“
Fifty pounds,” the clerk sniffed.
Imagine having to ask!

“
I need to spend exactly one
hundred pounds, not a shilling more nor less!” Isobel said, giving
the scrawny man a stony glance.

“
Well, this bracelet is just about
that.” He picked up a delicate gold band set with several small
amethysts and sapphires. He held it up for her to admire. “The
finest workmanship, as you can well see, madam. The stones are of
the finest quality and cut—”

Isobel interrupted him just as he was taking a
breath to continue. “I’ll take it,” she said.

“
An excellent choice,
madam.”

“
You may send the bill to Lord
Hartforde, at Hartforde House.”

“
Ah! A gift for the Lady
Julia?”