Passion's Joy (42 page)

heavens. The pretense was absurd and he knew it. The longer she stared, the more ridiculous—and frightened—she felt.

Minutes gathered in unnerving silence, a silence punctuated by his labored breath pushing against his excessive girth, and just as she was about to scream, faint or run, a thick jeweled hand reached for her shoulder. It might have been a hairy black spider; she jumped, gasped and stammered, "I've not ever seen an El Greco before!"

His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent of England, laughed, a low deep laughter that spelled certain doom. "I dare say, you're not seeing one now."

The enormous man chuckled again. A hot sick wave of panic washed over her as the hand stayed, squeezing slightly. She felt his warm breath, and he was turning her and oh God—

"Jeezus!"

That single loud expletive came from the door, and she gasped, even before she turned to see the towering shape that filled the archway. Ram’s tall and imposing figure, outlined in the darkness, looked wicked and threatening, the devil himself emerging from hell to claim his maiden. The jeweled hand reluctantly left. She nearly swooned with relief, until the very moment the violence of Ram's person reached across the distance. She felt the hostility radiating from him; she heard it in the hard click of his boots as he quickly crossed the distance to her side.

Ram took her arm just above the elbow, and she trembled beneath the iron grip, suddenly knowing a far worse fear. His fury was palpable, having worked like hot liquid steel into his muscles, fueling the murderous rage in his gaze as he turned to the Prince Regent of England.

The prince, in turn, watched beneath the hooded lids of bemusement. "Your wife, my dear man, showed keen interest in my collection."

"Not," Ram interrupted smoothly, "in becoming part of it."

Light laughter greeted the comment, dying too quickly. "As always, your wit, my lord, is as blunt and sharp as a butcher's knife. Yet wielded unnecessarily, I assure you. To my utter delight, those lovely eyes viewed my prospects with only innocence."

"Indeed!" The murderous rage at last turned to her. "One, I swear to see tainted by the end of the evening. Which is now. You've met your end Joy Claret."

She gasped in a short cry as Ram kicked a slippered foot from under her and she toppled back, only to be caught effortlessly in his arms. He carried her from the room without bothering to beg leave or say goodbye, a formality unnecessary by the sound of royal laughter that followed

them. Frightened senseless, she wanted to die, just die. It was a disaster, the magnitude of which she could not guess. She knew only his anger, his rage radiating bright and hard as he carried her down the darkened hall.

"Please!" she cried in a whisper. "I can walk."

"The hell you can!" Ram carried her swiftly down the darkened staircase, through three anterooms and finally into the wide-open space of the magnificent ballroom. She saw a blur of pale silk and black as ladies and gentlemen parted to make way for Lord Barrington carrying Lady Barrington through the room. The roar of whispers, the keen gaze of every living soul present made her hide her face in Ram's shoulder.

She heard Ram call for their coach, explaining that she had twisted her ankle. A flurry of kind and concerned inquiries followed, hollow and hypocritical, for they all knew, and these were faint above the still loud roar of whispers, as even the music stopped now.

Dear God, how had this happened? How, when all she had wanted so desperately was to please him? Just three hours ago she had been standing in front of the glass. If only she could go back to the beginning. The beginning...

"Oh my lady, you're beautiful!" Pansie pronounced sentence on the reflection Joy watched, staring at it with incredulity and marked disbelief, this riding over nervous butterflies. Tonight was the grand ball to welcome the Prince Regent home from abroad; an event that would serve to introduce her to society as well. Never had she put so much time and effort into her appearance, all in the desperate hopes of pleasing him.

She first chose a pale pink gown, simple but lovely, only to find Pansie and Susan arguing about her selection. "Oh, all the ladies will wear pink. Pink or white, 'tis the fashion, and since most complexions look like death masks in white, the ladies shall all be wearing a shade of pink."

Joy had chosen one of her four pink-colored ball gowns for that very reason; the shade was fashionable and for once in her life she wanted to blend and belong. Yet Susan, with an amazing sense of fashion, provided an alternative.

She could hardly believe she was the lady in the glass. Modest and delicate, the full empire gown was made of white silk but with layers of sheer pale lavender gauze over a skirt and bodice of pale green. Silk ropes of white, lavender and green created sleeves draping loosely over her upper arms, leaving her shoulders bare. The colors accented her pale skin and dark hair, which Susan had

managed to twist and roll into a pretty crown. To her maid's distress, she refused any jewels, save for her wedding ring worn over lace gloves, but again Susan demonstrated a remarkable genius for transforming Joy's whims and eccentricities into fashion—she simply tied a thin dark-violet, velvet ribbon around Joy's neck. Such a simple thing, yet the effect was stunning; it drew one's gaze to the painfully slender lines of her neck and shoulders while, as if by some trick of magic, the dark violet played with the blue of her eyes.

Joy bit her lip nervously, unable to accept the reality of the picture she presented. She had been raised the charge of a poor country doctor, such a modest position in life. Months ago she struggled with poverty, with the far more pressing matters of finding enough food and medicine, not sparing a thought of worry over the only four worn skirts and dresses to her name.

Now, here before her was a lady of elegance and obvious wealth, surrounded by the walls of one of England's finest houses. She had boxes of jewels, at last count over seventy-three tailored silk dresses. Streams of people—human beings—waited on her, rushing to meet her each and every whim. Tonight a royal prince would take her hand and say ado! She never had such grandiose aspirations. Yet here she stood, a true-to-life Asherella—only minus the happy ending.

What would he think? Would this gown bring that same inexplicable, yet unmistakable disapproval—as though the country girl failed so miserably and completely in the role of Lady Barrington? Or would she meet only his indifference?

Ram what has happened to you? She closed her eyes, and on demand an image appeared of his bronzed handsome face leaning toward her to take her mouth, his gaze dark with desire, yet softened with love ...

Susan and Pansie stopped their excited chatter—all of which consisted of predictions that all the ladies would replace their jewels with velvet ribbons at the next gala—and exchanged confused glances upon seeing Joy's pained expression.

"Oh, my lady," Pansie thought to comfort her. "You're going to be a success, I know—"

A servant announced Lord Barrington in the previously unheard of position—he was waiting. Pansie rushed for the matching lavender wrap, and amidst sincere well wishing, Joy walked quietly from her rooms into the bright light of the hall.

While less than a tenth of the size of Barrington Hall, the London townhouse was a, stately mansion, one of the many prominently resting on the edge of Hyde Park. Double front doors led to stairs, descending into an enormous entrance hall the size of a ballroom. All the rooms both upstairs

and downstairs centered around the square, and from the balcony hall, one had a panoramic view of the downstairs.

Yet Joy was not looking, as with downcast eyes she made her way to the stairs, and lifting her skirts, she descended. The servants stood in gaping awe of the beauty thus appearing. Ram, magnificently clad in formal black evening clothes, took but one brief look before turning and snapping to a footman, "Saddle up Lance. I'll be riding."

Joy's gaze shot up at this and she stopped, her eyes nervously falling to her costume, as though to discover the fault he found there. After but the briefest greetings upon her arrival in London, she now received this rejection, one that felt like a hard slap to her face. Lance was his prized stallion, and ordering him saddled meant she would ride in the carriage alone. He would not even share a carriage ride with her.

When she finally found the courage to lift her eyes and ask what was wrong, Ram was gone, gone without a greeting or word. As she stared at the empty foyer, she felt her heart stop, her hands grow clammy, numb and cold. Even Ralph and Charles, the waiting footmen, seemed shocked by Ram's cold rejection of her. The reasons were unknown, yet the fact was plain—she had failed. The night had yet to start and she had failed already.

Failure pronounced even more, as she was led into the cool, moist night air and ushered into the empty carriage. With Lance's hooves sounding loud in her mind, her apprehensions heightened, intensifying dramatically with each turn of the carriage's wheels. She didn't dare contemplate the rhyme or reason of his rejection. No, not now. That would come later, much later she knew, after this fateful night was written and she was safely returned to the lonely walls of her bed chambers.

For now, her apprehension centered on getting through the evening. Here she was about to be presented to the most elite peerage in the world as Lady Barrington, and yet, her husband could hardly endure the sight of her. What would people think? Would they think he hated her, that there was an awful rupture between them? Then, would they, too, turn from her? She imagined herself standing alone and isolated, watching as handsome gentlemen engaged their lovely ladies, the only attention cast her way in the form of scornful or pitying sideways glances...

The picture was in her mind as the carriage came to a slow stop, and with a deep uneven breath, she tried to steady the tremor in her hands, preparing for the worst possibility. The carriage stopped behind a long line of other guests in front of the ancient walls of Windsor Castle.

One by one, the carriages moved up as their occupants descended. Each driver, at his turn, handed an engraved card bearing the name and title of the carriage's occupants to a waiting footman. This was raced to the grand hall, where the party was announced as the people unhurriedly descended. It took over half an hour before their driver handed down their card; the wait felt interminable, yet she wished fervently the suspension from time could stretch endlessly— as limbo was preferable to purgatory.

The next hours would forever remain a blur in Joy's mind, hours shadowed by her fear, uncertainty and apprehension, a nervousness unmatched by the wildest ride through a dark night. She was at all times acutely conscious of him and his nearness, the gentle press of his hand on her gloved fingertips as he escorted her up and through the doors, the inexplicable warmth emanated by this small but significant touch. Not comprehending what he was saying with it, she could but grasp this one small lifeline of his touch.

They emerged from the dark night into the blinding light of the palace. She had endured endless coaching on protocol, and it seemed something inside herself snapped as she stood there at Ram's side, listening to the lengthy stream of words comprising Ram's full title as their presence was announced. It was as though she withdrew and fled and a mechanical version of herself took over.

Joy was but vaguely aware that the room seemed to stop as everyone turned to see the Barringtons' much waited for appearance. With the possible exception of the Prince Regent himself, no one solicited as much attention as Lord Ramsey Edward Barrington the Third. As a scrubbing maid wrings laundry through a washboard, every detail of Ram's life was wrung through the gossip grind mill. The dark shadow of the Barrington family history only added another ingredient of illicitness, and then too, this was generally dismissed as exaggerated, especially by the many who knew and remembered Ram's father, his civility, intelligence and charm. Besides, who didn't have embarrassing family skeletons? Certainly not the Prince Regent. If the King of England could be mad, then so could Lord Barrington's father. This was the common wisdom concerning the matter.

The effect of the Barringtons' history on its most noted descendant was far less easily dismissed. Ram Barrington was one of the most eligible men in the world of Great Britain's aristocracy, and he refused to marry and sire an heir, this despite the many ingenious and persistent

attempts by nearly every lady. Though no one understood why, everyone saw how this gave him a license to outrage and excite.

One could sum up society's interest in Lord Barrington in three words: envy, admiration, outrage. The stories and anecdotes taken from his life were endless, and somehow the worst outrages were ones even the least generous were forced to forgive if not congratulate him on. First, the unimaginable amount with which he had increased his fortune was as well known as the unimaginable variety of his affairs. He demonstrated a shocking proclivity for large numbers in all things. One simply did not make money for money's sake like a common merchant; it was a vulgar endeavor in the extreme, one wisely relegated to the lower class. Yet, how could one fault him when so much went to charity? Then too, his connections in the House of Commons were well known, as was the social legislation he sponsored. Granted, much of this legislation was offensive and criticized as such, but few could fault the benevolent intentions behind it.

Lord Barrington also held the distinguishing mark of being the sole man to refuse a challenge and not only keep his honor intact, but to have his honor enhanced by the refusal. There had been many challenges, too, mostly due to his well-exercised preference for married women. Yet somehow the contemptuous amusement with which he delivered his refusal always made the challenger look foolish! One simply could not question Lord Barrington's courage or his infamous ability to fight, while his arrogance was such that one always had the unkind suspicion his refusals were as much due to saving himself the small effort acceptance required, as to sparing another man's life.