Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance) (28 page)

“
I didn’t know you had ever heard
of Ian!”

“
Do you know him?” He frowned to
hear her use the name so familiarly.

“
Yes. Rather well.” She laughed at
his expression of chagrin and took his hand. “Why, my lord! Dare I
think you are jealous? Ian cares for nothing but his music—of that
you may rest assured! Besides, he is nowhere near as handsome as
you.”

Strathemoore raised her hand to his lips. “You
flatter me no end, Miss St. James, and I hope you will continue to
do so for a long time to come.” He held her hand between his.
“Isobel—I hope I may call you Isobel—perhaps this is not the right
time, but it no longer matters to me. I can’t go on like this.
Please!” To Isobel’s horror, he suddenly went down on his knee.

“
My lord, get up, everyone will
see you!”

“
I don’t care. Isobel, will you do
me the honor of becoming my wife?”

I

Alexander sat alone at a table at Brook’s nursing
his third drink and scowling furiously as he did so. All of London
was talking about how Lord Strathemoore had proposed to Miss St.
James at the opera, of all places! It was the first thing he’d
heard upon his arrival at Hartforde House. Servants were a
notoriously talkative bunch. With a sudden and dire need for a
drink, he had headed straight for St. James’s Street.

He refilled his glass, angered because he couldn’t
make up his mind what to do; he wasn’t even sure why he had come
back to London. All he knew was that he was thoroughly annoyed with
Julia; he considered this whole miserable affair to be her fault.
He lifted his glass and swallowed half the contents. He hoped to
God Isobel had accepted Strathemoore so he could stop thinking
about her. He wanted to congratulate her on her marriage to such a
capital dunce and then forget her once and for all.

“
Well, good evening, Lord
Hartforde!”

He was surprised to see Strathemoore standing
stiffly at his table. “Do sit down. Have a drink with me.” He
motioned for a footman to bring another glass to the table.

“
How long have you been back?”
Strathemoore sat down across from him and gave him a friendly
smile.

“
I’ve only just arrived.” He
filled the glass set down between them, then topped off his
own.

“
Not playing cards?” he
asked.

“
Not in the mood, I
suppose.”

“
Then what brings you back to
London?” He raised his glass to Alexander and took a
swallow.

“
Nothing in
particular.”

“
Oh.” He leaned his forearms on
the table. “I’ve been losing all my money to Fistersham. It’ll be
nice to lose it to someone else for a change.”

“
Why so melancholy, Strathemoore?”
The image of him making love to Isobel filled his mind and he
drained his glass again.

“
You know, I expect, I had reason
to be glad when you left.” Alexander said nothing at this. “I
thought it would give me a chance with Miss St. James. I expect you
also know she was quite taken with you.”

“
Ah, yes,” he snorted. “But my
sister gave me to understand some weeks ago that an announcement
was expected any moment.” Alexander felt his stomach churning and
told himself it was from all the drink.

“
I’m afraid not. Lord Chessingham
was delighted, but she refused me.” He shook his head
ruefully.

“
Well, perhaps she merely expected
you to ask her again,” Alexander suggested, attributing his sudden
elation to all the drink on an empty stomach.

“
She refused me in no uncertain
terms. Had me thrown out the second time. Really quite hysterical.
Would never have asked if I’d known she’d be so upset at it.” He
pushed his glass in a little circle on the tabletop. “I should have
expected it; she never looked at me the way she did you. Anyway,
I’ve gone and gotten myself engaged to Miss Parkston now; she’s got
a few thousands.” He emptied his glass and held it out to be
refilled. “She’s a damned fine woman, Hartforde.” They both knew he
meant Isobel. “And you’re a fool if you can’t see that.”

II

“
Why so quiet, Miss St. James?”
Lady Donbarton demanded. “’Tis unusual you are so silent.” Lady
Donbarton was a staid woman of forty who refused to admit she had
long ago lost her looks. She was wearing a far too youthful gown of
yellow velvet that only served to make her complexion sallow. She
had on such a thick layer of powder her wrinkles looked etched in
stone. It was an interesting fact that Lord Donbarton was notorious
for the extreme youth he sought in his mistresses.

“
I was attending to the
conversation, Lady Donbarton.” Isobel smiled at her while thinking
to herself she was a bilious old busybody who ought to be more
careful of what she ate if she didn’t want to come dangerously
close to resembling a certain sea fish.

“
Do you know”—she lowered her
voice because Julia was sitting just a few seats away—“I have heard
that Lord Hartforde is the author of those notorious pamphlets and
that the King will exile him if only it can be proved
true.”

“
Since it will never be proved, I
see no reason to speculate on the matter, Lady
Donbarton.”

Lady Donbarton snorted at this obviously prejudiced
retort. “And I’ve heard there is proof,” she said, with a vicious
look. “Everyone, even Donbarton, agrees Lord Hartforde’s absence
from London is highly suspicious.”

Isobel was sorry indeed that she had let Julia
persuade her to attend this afternoon tea. Just hearing that silly
woman mention Alexander’s name brought back her nagging fear that
he was not going to come for her. It was getting harder and harder
not to give in to her panic at his long silence. She closed her
eyes; he was going to come. She could hear the sound of voices,
punctuated by frequent laughter. He had to come. Someone was
playing the fortepiano, and very badly at that. She concentrated on
the music. It was Bach, but played with little feeling for tempo or
delicacy. When she opened her eyes again, Lady Donbarton had turned
her attention to someone else. She tried to find Julia, but she had
changed her seat. At last she saw her, sitting on a couch on the
far side of the room talking earnestly with another woman. From
where she was sitting, Isobel could see Julia’s face suddenly
brighten. Though she could not hear her, she saw her say the single
word “Hartforde.”

She could see his eyes sweeping the room, but still
she did not move. She was paralyzed by the fear that he wasn’t
really looking for her. Someone was still playing the fortepiano;
she could still hear people talking and laughing. It seemed so
incongruous when her whole life was hanging in the balance. When he
finally saw her she could not move or breathe or look away; she
could only wait for him to reach her side.

“
Isobel,” he whispered.

“
To Arlington Street,” Alexander
instructed his driver. He handed her up into the carriage himself,
then quickly climbed in after her.

She looked up at him, and he reached out and ran a
finger along the line of her jaw. Even that brief contact made her
shiver. He bent forward and gathered her into his arms. She leaned
toward him. “I was beginning to think you were never coming,” she
whispered.

“
I’m not that big a fool,” he
said.

The carriage came to a stop and Alexander held her
hand while they got out. They were met at the door by a servant who
quickly hurried to take their things. “Bring a bottle of champagne
to the drawing room. Then you may go,” he added softly as the man
took his coat and held out a hand for Isobel’s wrap.

“
Very good, my lord.”

Isobel stood examining a large globe of the world
until the champagne arrived. “That will be all,” Alexander said
when a servant opened the bottle and set it down in a bucket of
ice.

Alexander filled two glasses and handed one to
Isobel, who was slowly turning the globe. He raised his glass and
his green eyes held hers as they sipped.

She sat down on a sofa and Alexander joined her
there. She drained her glass and held out the delicate crystal for
him to refill. She stared into the glass, seemingly fascinated with
the rising bubbles. “I love you,” she said quickly, turning to
watch his painfully beautiful face as her finger traced a line from
his knee up to the top of his thigh, then down the inside of his
lean, muscled leg.

“
I know you do,” he said. She
heard his sharp intake of breath when she lightly ran a finger down
the front of his breeches. He caught her hand in one of his and
brought it to his lips.

“
I was afraid you were going to
marry Strathemoore”—he looked up at the ceiling for a moment—“and I
had to stop you.”

“
No,” she said, “I would never
have done that.” She looked up into his eyes, which darkened when
she freed her hand, and again traced a line up his
thigh.

“
Be careful, Isobel, you might
make me lose control,” he said, smiling when he felt her fingering
the row of buttons at the right of his hip.

“
Could I do that, my Lord
Hartforde?” She struggled with the last button and worked a small
hand inside the flap of material.

“
You might.” He took a deep breath
as she leaned closer, his eyes lowering to the alabaster skin above
the neckline of her gown, then going back up to the blue depths of
her eyes.

“
Isn’t that why you brought me
here?” Her voice was husky. “To make you lose control?” She had
succeeded in unfastening the buttons at the other side of his hip,
and after that she did not need him to answer.

He held her head, groaning when he felt her tongue
on him. She seemed to know just when and how to touch him, to
tighten her lips around him, to surround him until he was moaning
for his release, and when it came it was like nothing he could
remember. His arms snaked out to pull her onto his lap, and he took
her mouth in a hungry kiss while his fingers loosened her hair,
until it tumbled in pale golden curls down her back. Twining his
fingers in the silky mass, he stroked her cheek and throat with his
other hand. “You bewitch me,” he whispered into her ear. He felt
her tremble when he began to kiss the swell of her breasts. He
wanted nothing more than to make her cry out for him, to make her
hunger for him as he hungered for her, to feel her quiver under his
touch. His arm circled her waist, while with the other he reached
to remove her slippers. He heard them hit the carpet with two
muffled thuds. The flickering in his belly started to build and
spread outward as his hand moved under her skirts to slide along
her slender legs and pull away her stockings; the delicate silk
fell to the floor with barely a whisper. She gasped when his
fingers spread over her naked flesh. “I want you, damn you!” he
hissed as he swept her up in his arms and covered her lips in a
bruising kiss. “You and no other,” he whispered. He fumbled to
fasten at least one of the buttons of his breeches before he
gathered her into his arms and carried her into a small bedroom
where he set her down on her feet, slowly sliding her down against
him. He turned her around and began rapidly undoing the hooks of
her gown. There was a swish when he pushed the silk off her
shoulders and watched it fall to the floor. Her petticoats and
corset followed, until he could hold her against him to stroke the
curves of the body that had been so often in his thoughts. He stood
still when she turned in his arms and began to unbutton his
waistcoat. His clothes quickly joined hers on the floor.

“
I want you now, Alexander.” He
heard her hoarse whisper as he pushed her back onto the mattress
and began to explore the curves of her body. He crooned her name as
he slowly slid into her. He lifted his head and looked at her, his
eyes burning as she caressed the muscled ridges of his back, down
to the narrow hips that pressed against her. She cried out when she
felt him moving inside her. He touched her, stroked her, moved in
her, watched her eyes, her face, and listened for the moans that
told him his touch aroused her. He was aroused when she was
aroused, and when he felt her increasing reaction, he felt it as
though it were his own. He wanted to possess her completely,
utterly, so she could love no other. Shudders of exhilaration swept
through him when he felt her tightening around him and he began
moving his hips with hers, letting her guide them until he had to
give in to the demands of his own body, that was her body, that was
the two of them. A fierce feeling of possessiveness took over him
when he held her head in his hands and looked at her and saw how
his passion was mirrored in her eyes. That she was so aroused by
him was more important than that she aroused him more than any
other woman with whom he had ever been.

“
Isobel, my own,” he heard himself
saying over and over, until he was senseless to everything but her
wet, slick body scorching him as she took him with her to a soaring
ecstasy that caught them both up in a dizzying, whirling climax
that at the end left them clinging to each other.

“
In a year”—he reached to stroke
her hair—“we can marry in a year,” he said.

“
In a year?”

“
I’m sure your father would not
mind a long engagement.” He sat up and swung his feet to the
floor.

“
But, Alexander!” Isobel sat up,
too, and watched the muscles of his smooth back flex and relax as
he sat on the edge of the bed and groped for his breeches. “We
can’t wait that long!”