A Secret Passion Page 3

  He remembered her fragile, proud profile as she had moved toward the lane. She had brushed fine wisps of pale gold hair from her porcelain cheeks as she urged her mare into a trot. In a hurry to get herself as far from him as possible, no doubt. And for that he could hardly blame her. What had come over him? He had never treated a lady in such a fashion before.

  But she knew how to fight back. A slow smile spread across his face as he remembered her calculating perusal of his person back in the field. Those slanting eyes of hers were devilish. He had never seen eyes so mesmerizing—rims of blue with yellow in the centers. The colors played tricks on the senses. It had been next to impossible to drag his eyes off of her. It had been almost as hard to take his hands off of her soft, tiny waist. And he would not soon forget her intoxicating feminine scent, which seemed to have been nothing more than lavender soap and sunshine. Lavender soap and sunshine, indeed! He shook his head. This was not like him.

  He sighed and knew he would go out of his way to never learn her name. Young women, especially ones of her stamp, always led to trouble… of the never-ending variety. Just the thought made him weary. He picked up his book to have another go at it.

  Just as he deemed the book hopelessly dull, Gooding arrived on the heels of the butler, who entered carrying a tray of brandy. “Ah, Gooding, you have arrived at last,” Rolfe exclaimed as he looked over the compact medium frame of the slightly older gentleman.

  “So you have been pining for me these many days since last we met, dear chap?” replied Gooding, in good humor as always.

  It was good to see his subordinate officer so soon again after quitting London. He had spent much time with Gooding during the war. But now that the war was over, it was difficult to change the nature of their acquaintance.

  For almost six years, Lieutenant Colonel Lord Hesperides, now the Earl of Graystock, had been Gooding’s superior. For six years, Gooding had obeyed his every command without question. And now, Rolfe was coming to realize it was up to him to change the nature of their relationship to make it on more equal terms. All in all, Rolfe had no true friends, as he was a self-sufficient character, preferring his own company to the tedium of entertaining others. He sometimes wondered if he was this way by choice or by circumstance. Gooding was one of the very few acquaintances he preferred to keep.

  “How go the roads?” he inquired, stepping away from his usual introspection.

  “An awful quagmire. The spring rains left me hock high in mud from London to Arundel. The last few miles from there reminded me of the deluge in northern Spain. Your area is in luck, as the coastal winds are blowing off the worst of it.” Gooding mentioned he had stopped at Littlefield’s inn to repair a snapped rein and wipe the worst of the offending mud from his attire before continuing on to Hesperides.

  “I’m afraid you might have to bear with my presence longer than overnight, as your town’s smithy is absent and I have a ruined bridle to repair.”

  Waving away the butler, Rolfe moved toward the sideboard to pour two glasses of brandy. The ancient servant in turn cleared his throat to gain the earl’s attention.

  “Yes, Hastings?” came the reply to that standard attention-getting device. “Your lordship, may I presume to suggest the services of Matthews to aid Sir Thomas?”

  “Of course. Have Matthews attend to the tack.”

  “Hmm, a Mr. Matthews? Indeed, I have a letter for him in my possession. It was put in my care at the inn when I indicated my final destination.” Gooding placed in Hastings’ tray a rather soggy envelope that bore the stable master’s name. Hastings closed the brass-handled doors as he exited the formal room. “Recapturing your earliest role of messenger, are you? Upon my word, were you able to refrain from a bit of spying?”

  Gooding laughed and held up both hands. “I admit to the first, but before we continue, may I help myself to a bit more of your brandy? Purely for medicinal purposes, you understand.”

  Rolfe nodded and in a matter of moments extracted a promise from Gooding to remain at least a fortnight at Hesperides.

  “An invitation to stay at Hesperides is an honor not to be refused. I would be delighted to forestall my journey southward. My housekeeper will also be delighted to learn of the additional fortnight before my arrival,” said Gooding with a grin.

  “A house party will also be forming in the autumn. You would be a much-welcomed addition then, as well.”

  “I would be honored,” Gooding said with a merry smile, his brown eyes twinkling. “It is a long time since Hesperides has seen a party, is it not, sir?”

  Rolfe paused. “You must call me Graystock now, you know.” Gooding’s face brightened as he nodded in agreement. Rolfe continued. “It was my grandmother’s idea. While she is not a formidable relation, she has a way of forming ideas and plans in an altogether vexing fashion.” Rolfe did not add that the tough old bird had had the audacity to remove from the Dowager House to the Hall without his leave. At the age of ninety, Grandmamma was not to be questioned, for fear of killing the old girl. He was certain her mental faculties were eroding, so he viewed her move to Hesperides not with trepidation but with relief, feeling he could keep a better eye on her. Rolfe had decided she had become quite unbalanced the day he had received letters from two families indicating their delight in accepting invitations to a house party in October. As it stood, the Kellerys, the Smiths, and now Gooding would be filling the Hall’s apartments when the leaves turned.

  When he had confronted his paternal grandmother about the letters, she had insisted she had already discussed the plan with him, much to his surprise and her annoyance. With a cynical mind and a knowing eye, he asked for an explanation.

  She harrumphed. “I’m fatigued with the boredom of life in the country. If I’m to be locked up here, and deprived of my friends in town, then at least let us have some amusements.”

  “But, Grandmamma, you’re not locked up, and well you know it. And your friends are all… well, dash it, well… dead!”

  “Dear boy, I’m not senile,” she laughed. “It’s time to make new friends. The others are six feet undergound and therefore, well, just not as much fun as they used to be. And don’t start telling me what good friends I have at the rectory and in the village.”

  Rolfe looked at her. “But you don’t even know the Kellerys or the Smiths.”

  “I knew their grandparents, and a merry lot they were.”

  Rolfe knew that when she reverted to this sort of common language there was no use continuing. And possessing the intuitive qualities of an officer, he knew when to retreat. “All right, Grandmamma, you shall have your house party. But I cannot promise I will be here.”

  Having gained the advantage, she folded her hands in her lap, smiled her most endearing smile, and continued to press her point. “But, my dear Rolfe, you cannot mean you won’t be here for the harvest festival and Michaelmas celebration?”

  He sighed and looked at the ceiling.

  Rolfe and Gooding were on the point of quitting the room when Matthews entered. The stable master wore the same uncomfortable expression that almost all of the servants of Hesperides attempted to conceal. “My lord, may I be so humble as to ask how you would like me to answer this letter?”

  It was the same letter Gooding had handed to Hastings not one half hour before. Rolfe opened it and perused the contents.

  April 27th

  Dear Sir,

  I must beg your pardon in advance for forwarding this application. A near relation has lately arrived and is in dire need of stabling her mare for an indeterminate length of time. The small size of Littlefield leaves us without a place for the horse. If I knew where else to look, we would of course not dare to apply to you for guidance. While we understand it to be out of the question to request shelter in the earl’s stables, we hope you might be able to provide us with suggestions for alternate venues by day’s end if at all possible.

  I remain, kind sir,

  Clarissa Fairchild

  Rolfe lowere
d the letter. “It seems the St. James stables are to become open to the public,” he commented. He stared at Matthews. “Really, is there no other possibility? Who is this Clarissa Fairchild?”

  Rolfe was surprised to see Gooding’s ruddy face turn white. That gentleman snatched the letter from his hands to examine it.

  Keeping his eyes trained on the floor, Matthews responded, “My lord, the inn’s stables have yet to be rebuilt since the fire.”

  He paused before adding with an uncontrollable stammer. “Miss Fairchild is a-a, sp-sp-spinster in the neighborhood.”

  “Well, go to it, man,” Rolfe commanded. “Inform the lady that accommodations shall be provided for the animal in question. And have my steward inform the innkeepers I would request a word with them.”

  Rolfe noticed Gooding had regained his composure after the stable master departed. “I take it you might have a comment or two regarding the letter? Or is it the letter writer?”

  Gooding had regrouped and was able to answer with a semblance of calm. “Actually, I was thinking perhaps the mare could teach your stallion a few manners.”

  Rolfe scrutinized Gooding’s face for a long moment. Then he smiled and guided his friend into the formal dining hall. Despite the urge to goad him further, Rolfe had the kindness not to pursue the topic.

  It had required all of Sir Thomas Gooding’s fortitude to entertain his host and his grandmother that evening. Now, in his bedchamber, away from his former commander’s knowing eyes, he could contemplate the lady in question.

  He remembered his good fortune in encountering Clarissa Fairchild almost a decade ago in London. No one else had seemed to admire her serene, intelligent expression. It had been said she was past the first bloom of youth at seven and twenty, but perhaps the ton had been brutal in its appraisal of the young lady. He had heard that for eight long seasons, Miss Fairchild attended soirees, balls, and entertainments of every kind, with little success. Of course, she had been greatly admired by all of the other young misses on the marriage mart. Although Thomas had sometimes wondered in his most cynical rare moments if these young ladies’ friendships were not due to the fact that she could make some of the less than beautiful young ladies look to advantage in comparison.

  Thomas had noticed that she suffered from the most acute sort of self-doubt. Miss Fairchild was indeed not pretty. She had a gangly frame, and pale eyes in an unremarkable face framed by ordinary brown hair with little curl.

  However, Thomas, then untitled, had gotten a peek beneath the controlled façade of Miss Fairchild. He had chanced to be seated next to the lady in question after the supper dance at a ball. After ten minutes of conversation with the beautiful but decidedly giggly chit with whom he had just danced, Thomas hoped that the plain lady seated on his other side would be capable of better conversation. And indeed she was. No nerve-jangling fits of giggles, only rational, intelligent conversation with an occasional warm laugh and beautiful smile. And while he might not have been a fair way in love with her by the end of the second course, he had been enough caught by the clarity of her eyes to ask for the honor of her hand for the next set.

  This grand gesture led to a small posy of flowers that was received by the lady with much gratitude the next morning. And so began his short courtship of Clarissa Fairchild. For within two months’ time, Thomas found himself upon one knee. He was won over and much flattered by Clarissa’s immediate acceptance. They planned their wedding, very sure of themselves and their love.

  When he approached Clarissa’s brother, Edward Fairchild, however, Fairchild had looked at him with disdain. His sister, Fairchild had said, would not be marrying him, nor did she ever want to see him again. Thomas’ feelings upon receiving the startling news of her rejection of his suit cannot be overstated. He had insisted on an audience with Clarissa. He had pleaded his case with the brother, all in vain. He pursued the matter in Cornwall for several weeks, again all in vain, as no one there knew where Miss Fairchild could be found. Desolate, he had joined the war effort against Napoleon. His father’s patron, in a great act of charity, had purchased a small commission for the good son. In due time, and with duly heroic diligence and acts, he was knighted, two months after Wellington’s victory at Salamanca. That same month saw the title of Lord Wellington conferred upon Arthur Wellesley and Thomas’ marriage to Miss Lucinda Vandermay, an ugly Dutch heiress.

  After a seven-year absence from Clarissa Fairchild, Thomas had not expected the light-headed, buzzing sensation he felt upon hearing her name. He paced the floor of his bedchamber in an agony of angry indecision. He could make known to her he was at Hesperides, thereby showing her that his interest in her had dissipated, or he could steal away into the night to find her and drag the truth from her. Contemplation of the second course of action brought a sort of warm glow to his being, but ultimately his pride got the best of him and forbade a mad dash into the night.

  Chapter Three

  JANE lowered her eyes. Her only consolation was that as she was in the back of the church and he was in the front, she might have a chance of avoiding his notice. She whispered to her aunt the necessity of departing as soon as the last notes of the recessional were sung.

  Jane’s plan to escape unnoticed was thwarted when the rector, in sycophantic tones, invited the earl to perform a reading. All hope was lost when she could not make herself small enough to escape detection. Each time his cool, dark gaze swept the small congregation as he read the familiar words, she longed to cringe and avert her face. But she forced herself not to. On the final two sentences, his attention rested on her alone, and she gave up her pretense and stared back at him. She noticed he had replaced his poor man’s costume with an immaculate, form-fitting bottle-green coat with gilt buttons, and cream-colored breeches met black boots polished to perfection—a gentleman’s attire in every respect. His unfashionably long hair and arrogant, hooded expression were the only evidence remaining of the man she had met a few days before.

  The reading done, he returned to his seat beside the rector’s wife and whispered in her ear all of one minute. The tightly coiled curls on that lady’s head bounced as she gave a backward glance toward Jane and her aunt. Jane felt the weight of the entire congregation’s eyes upon her as they filed out. Clarissa’s arm linked with her own as they nudged through the church doors into the bright sunlight. Without a word, they walked swiftly toward the cottage. But the high-pitched voice of the rector’s wife calling their names pierced the crisp air and shattered their purpose.

  “Oh, Miss Fairchild, oh, dear me, Miss Clarissa and Mrs. Lovering…” trilled Mrs. Gurcher, out of breath. Her voluptuous frame trundled up to them. “My dears, would you be so kind as to attend our little gathering at the parsonage? The earl and his grandmother and friend have condescended to take tea with us.”

  This was worse than Jane had anticipated. Much worse.

  With as much hauteur as the two quaking plumes in her purple bonnet would allow, Mrs. Gurcher continued, “My dears, you have the singular honor of having had the earl ask particularly for your company. Upon my word, he has never asked such a thing before.”

  “We would be delighted. However, we planned a picnic by the sea this very day, so I am inclined to refuse your very kind offer,” Clarissa responded.

  “But I am not to let you get away! The gentleman with the earl insisted. See how they await your joining our small party?” Mrs. Gurcher motioned toward the group behind them. It was impossible to continue to refuse. With clutched hands and leaden footsteps, Jane and her aunt turned and walked to their fate of weak tea and uncomfortable conversation. Jane glanced at her aunt when Clarissa stumbled, only to read confused hesitation on her face, which was now devoid of color. She did not know what had caused the change in her aunt’s demeanor, but she did know it was up to her to do the proper. She looked toward the earl and the other gentleman and refused to be bullied. Jane straightened her spine, changed tactics, and faced the enemy with fortitude.

  Upon the rector�
�s presentation of Lord Graystock to Jane, the earl bowed over her hand. “Mrs. Lovering, it is a distinct honor to meet you.” He raised his heavy-lidded eyes to her face.

  “My lord, I must thank you for your kind offer to stable my horse while the inn’s stables are being repaired,” Jane said and lowered her gaze to the hem of her new mourning dress.

  Tilting his head to examine her face, he replied, “Come, Mrs. Lovering, is it not a gentle-born person’s duty to aid another in distress?”

  “Quite so, my lord.” She paused and looked up at him before adding under her breath, “Especially when the person in distress identifies himself.”

  “Touché, Mrs. Lovering.”

  His smile actually touched his silver eyes, but Jane was too distracted by Clarissa’s obvious discomfort to examine the phenomenon further. She noted that when introduced to the other gentleman, a Sir Thomas Gooding, Clarissa would not look at him. And he, in turn, barely seemed able to utter the required niceties. Neither claimed a prior acquaintance, but Jane thought he looked vaguely familiar. Perhaps they had met in town.

  As they walked toward the parsonage, the earl’s grandmother addressed the two younger ladies. “I understand this little tea has interrupted a seaside picnic you planned for today. How I long to see the sea. But these old bones of mine make it difficult to go very often.”

  “We would be delighted to have you join us on an outing to the shore, if your health allows it, any one of these days,” responded Clarissa, who seemed to have pulled herself together.

  Mrs. Gurcher proudly herded the distinguished group into the front drawing room of the parsonage. At each moment her voice seemed to trill a bit higher and at times took on a warbling sound, especially when she learned that Cook’s little cakes were not quite ready. Clarissa and Jane, distressed to learn the requisite twenty-minute tea might stretch into forty minutes, hid their emotions. Strong constitutions and a thorough education in the fine art of stretching the topic of the weather fortified them.