Passion's Joy (44 page)

Unused to this situation, Ram waited impatiently downstairs. Where the hell was she? They were already late, late on one of the few nights it mattered. Correction: the only night it mattered. He had made a mistake, a potentially disastrous mistake but one he might rectify by tonight's dinner party, for one Reginald Kempster would be there.

It had all started long before he arrived home. He had been so bitter and angry over what had happened, fighting assassins sent by his peers, the grand aristocracy of Britain, that all he wanted was out. He had wanted out of England, the land and country of his ancestors, out and away from the unfathomable depth of the hypocrisy of the court. The price was high: he would have to leave London and Barrington Hall behind; he had to sell his holdings, holding which he had worked so long and hard to build.

There lay the problem. The price was too high, too damn high. He didn't know the exact moment it had occurred to him, but as he started to set his affairs in order and confront the chaos created by his brief absence, the thought gradually occurred to him that he could not leave. How does one leave a place like Barrington Hall? A heritage of centuries? A city, nay, a world, like London? For what alternative?

Even more important, only he had realized it too late, were the men and families dependent on him. The selling of his holdings had begun with his three iron mills in South Hampton.

Employing over a hundred men, the mills ran smoothly and efficiently at a fair profit. He had

thought he exacted a good price from one Mister Reginald Kempster, a merchant with connections with the crown.

Not long ago Joy had brought a woman in to see him. The woman had been hiding on the grounds, trying to escape the servants long enough to get an audience with him. She wisely seized the opportunity Joy presented; her story fell on those ever compassionate ears. He had not understood the accusation in Joy's eyes until the woman, not knowing he no longer owned the mills, was brought to him, and he heard her story himself.

The horror started with a three-fourths reduction in her husband's wages. "We knew ye were generous afore, we all did, and I kin see if ye cut the wage a bit; but I have six little ones, six," she pleaded softly. "An' now, thar but a hairbreadth from starvin'. The longer hours are killin' our men, too. Tis against the lord's will to force men ta work on the Sabbath, 'tis..."

He had not been the only one furious upon hearing this. Mr. Wilson and Mr. Linton stood in silent shock. Joy stared first with accusation and shock, too, but then she knew, despite everything, he was not responsible for it. "You didn't know about this, did you?"

"No, but I should have." He explained what had happened, sent the woman back with a bank note that could hold her family over until he had a chance to buy back the mills from Mister Reginald Kempster. That was what tonight was all about.

Ram's thoughts raced over the various ways he might approach Mr. Kempster. He needed to make a good impression; Joy would help with Kempster's wife of course. He would extend the Kempster’s an invitation to Barrington Hall. Then he'd explain he'd had a change of mind about the mills, that he wanted to buy them back. Hopefully, the meeting would be on amicable and friendly terms, and he could get the mills back without losing a fortune in the transaction...

For several precious minutes, Ram was lost to his contemplations until abruptly he realized he still waited. With a curse, he left his study, made his way up the stairs and down the hall to stop at her room.

Ram opened the door with her name on his lips, a name he never uttered. As his gaze adjusted to the brighter light, he encountered her form lying on the bed. Her long brown hair spread over the coverlet like a fan, and she wore only a white cotton chemise, that was all. This was enough to bring his gaze travelling over the outline of the soft mounds of her breasts, the flattened stomach, a small dark patch of silkiness and the curves of her long leg, all hidden beneath the tease of white cotton.

The quick, frighteningly potent physical effect of the sight of her like that for a long moment held him suspended. Awareness crowded into his mind in a flash of understanding; all the other women he kept in his life served only to provide momentary relief from his desire for her.

Aye, he wanted her and at times so desperately, he'd spring from his bed, ready to barge in her room and force her will to his. The only thing stopping him, the only thing that could stop him was the memory of a rain-washed night, the terror in those eyes as she fought to save the life she carried, a life he had given her with but one night of passion. Then too, she would never accept him willingly, knowing the inevitable consequence should she get with his child again, and he would have to force her. The idea was unpleasant, what followed more so. His desire was then reduced to numbers; he could force her once, twice, three times, conceivably more and still leave her womb barren, but what would he be left with? Only the renewed force of his desire; to take her once was to want her that much more again and again.

Joy never heard the door open, but the sudden sound of his curse brought her bolting up in the bed. Wide misty eyes locked with a cold hard gaze, and she gasped, meeting the cruel burst of naked fury. It held her for a moment transfixed, unable to separate the cold slap of pain from fear. So transfixed, she failed to notice the thin strings of her gown had slipped from one shoulder. Ram noticed though, and when he did, he lost control.

"What game is this? Do you purposely keep me waiting?"

She nervously pulled the coverlet over herself, then shook her head. "No ... no ... I'm sorry, I

—"

"Where the hell are your maids?" "I… dismissed them. I—"

"I’ll give you ten minutes to remedy the disaster of your appearance."

The door slammed. She listened to the click of his boots echo down the hall. A furiously

pounding heart banished her lethargy, but her hands trembled as she nervously donned the costume of Lady Barrington, murmuring a frantic prayer for the strength to get through the evening.

Please dear God, just one more evening...

Not more than ten minutes later, she emerged from her room, raced across the hall and descended the stair case, and as Ram's gaze encountered the beauty of her transformation, he had reason to regret the irony of his words. Disaster indeed! The simple gown of pale blue silk accented the darker emotion in her eyes, emotion also brightening her cheeks. The gown had the fashionably

high waist and alarmingly low neckline, a neckline triggering his quick geometric skill by producing the sum of four: only four inches of material allocated to covering the full thrusts of her breast. When he realized he held his breath waiting for her, he silently cursed the dressmaker, Sean, God, the devil, anyone and everyone who had anything to do with bringing her into his life....

Just give me the strength to get through this night.

By the preconceived arrangement of the day, an invisible line separated the gentlemen and their politics and business concerns from the ladies and their lighter matters. The ladies all clustered around the duchess as they always had and always would. All comments were addressed to her.

The grand dame had just returned from abroad—her home in Venice—and the ladies eagerly sought her stamp of approval on everything from their new gowns to that recent invitation.

No other family name held the same prominence and distinction as the duchess; her social position was unquestioned, if not unparalleled, and from her lofty position, she single handedly orchestrated the whole of society. While in the earlier days of the older woman's illustrious career, she had savored the power of it, of making or breaking careers on whims, of artfully arranging the hierarchy of society, now she was bored. It was a profound boredom, for that simple word summed up her existence.

Finally, as they waited, Lady Ann, so terribly delicate, afflicted with mild nervous disorders that made her seem all aflutter all the time, gave voice to what everyone pretended not to notice. "The Barringtons are late."

"Lord Barrington is always late," the duchess told them, regally reclining in the chair. "Once last year, I was waiting on Lady Margarite in court, and I recall Lord Barrington kept the entire household from moving to the country for two days. Apparently, he had arranged a meeting with the prince, insisting the prince put off the move a day. Then he had the unprecedented gall to keep the prince waiting another. I dare say," she sighed, "if Lord Barrington can keep the Prince Regent waiting, he can keep this company in wait.”

The duchess shrewdly watched Madame Merle Kempster blush and knew the woman took this as a slight against her name—Madame Merle having one of the richest, though alas, untitled husbands in England. It was good to keep them uncertain. Just to add to the confusion, she complimented Madame Merle on her jewels.

Madame Merle beamed with false pride and fondling her necklace, she said, "I understand Lady Barrington wears no jewels?" She had yet to meet the most talked of young lady.

"She doesn't have to!" Lady Ann leaned forward, her eye twitching infuriatingly. "Oh, my dear," she told the duchess. "She is lovely beyond belief! Though—" she giggled—"I suppose she'd have to be to capture Lord Barrington."

"Capture?" Lady Catherine questioned. "I believe the word is trapped." Young and beautiful herself, Lady Catherine was not the only lady who had reached for Lord Barrington, only to fall.

"Lady Catherine, tsk ... tsk—" the grand dame rebuked with a shake of her head yet with a contradicting smile.

"We all know it's true," Catherine said undaunted, too assured of her position with the elderly duchess to be afraid.

"Oh, but did you hear about the Regent's Ball?" Lady Ann asked excitedly. "That other man's attention to Lady Barrington?"

The duchess returned with another sigh, "Capturing the Prince Regent's eye is no feat of distinction, since his eye snares as many flies as butterflies."

The ladies laughed, but Lady Catherine warmed to the subject. "To my eyes, Lady Barrington is absolute proof that one simply cannot hide one's background for any length of time. Oh,"—she daintily sipped port from the tiny crystal glass— "I'm not referring to her numerous slips, slips a generous person might forgive, the less generous might dismiss simply for the amusement of it. And while it's true she seems to have swept society off their collective feet, there's something hidden beneath the facade of gentle sweetness."

"Facade?" The duchess showed mild interest.

"Yes, one that drops occasionally. For instance, the other night at my dinner party, Lady Barrington suddenly disappeared, only to be found by Lord Barrington and my husband outside in a circle of our grooms apparently discussing horse breeding!"

"Horse breeding?" Lady Ann paled as she tried to imagine what a lady might know of this subject. "I've seen her show a peculiar interest in politics, especially the House of Commons. Why, I've even heard her express opinions—to my Edward! But horse breeding?”

"Opinions that outrage!" Lady, Catherine added.

"At least there she's matched well with her husband," the duchess observed and the ladies laughed again.

"Yes, I've seen that," Lady Brett joined in, less bold than Lady Catherine, but just as enthusiastic. "As she listens to one politely, one might glimpse her foot tapping impatiently. And she does seem to exercise a preference for men and their politics."

"She also seems to have these ... ah, queer passions ..." "Passions?" The duchess wanted to know about this.

"Why, Negroes, if one can believe what one hears," Lady Brett said. "Negroes!" Madame Merle now seemed quite shocked.

"Children for another," Lady Catherine added, then said to Lady Brett, "Why, you remember during dinner—"

"Oh yes." Brett laughed. "Lady Barrington made the most outrageous suggestion, a charity ball for homeless children! She was quite enthusiastic, while we sat there too shocked to speak, and it was your long time friend the earl,"—she directed this to the grand dame—"who replied, 'For whom?" Lady Brett humorously mimicked the earl's deep voice, 'You mean those filthy urchins running wild in our streets like rats? Why my dear lady, where do you get such notions? Just the other day, my wife and I were ascending the steps of Saint Paul's when from nowhere this filthy pox-marked little boy broke through my footmen and snatched my wife's brooch. Help them?

Hanging them is too good ...' And well, you know how the earl can rave—"

The conversation abruptly ended then, as the Barringtons' arrival was announced at last. The duchess smiled. For the first time in recent memory curiosity had replaced boredom.

The duchess peered above her cards to Lady Barrington across the table. No wonder she attracted so much attention! She was lovely; she possessed an alluring beauty, one that drew the eye, then held it. The blue silk dress accented the paleness of her skin—and my, what a flawless complexion— the dark sable color of the artful pile of her hair, making her recall what Lord Marshmaine said about her eyes:"... like openings to a summer sky."

Lord Barrington's response was "Yes indeed, my mind has conjured those exact words, though in the future Marshmaine, my wife will not be a subject of your poetry!" They had all laughed, though indeed no one missed the warning.

Dinner had gone very smoothly, and presently, three card tables were arranged in the elegant drawing room at Stein Hall, where the ladies had adjourned for cards and music, while the men retired to the study for brandy, politics and business. Chatter abounded, and though Lady

Barrington replied politely and smiled occasionally, she remained aloof and quiet. If the duchess's shrewd appraisal wasn't wrong— and heavens but she was never wrong—Lady Barrington operated under restraint, as though the real woman lay hidden beneath the facade of gentle breeding. Facade, yes she thought, remembering the gossip hours earlier in this very room.

The card game ended at last, and the duchess watched as Joy congratulated the winner, then immediately withdrew behind—yes, they were right—a facade. What are you hiding, my dear girl? Could it truly be my same boredom? It took years for me, yet you're so young! Do you know— have you any idea—that any other young lady with your background would be thrilled to breathe the same air as our servants, let alone be presented as an equal among us!