Passion Becomes Her Read online

  “Of course I can!” Juliana declared roundly. “Now, into bed with you. We cannot have Piers coming to see his lovely bride-to-be and finding her with swollen eyes and a red nose. Good heavens! Unthinkable that the gorgeous Miss Kirkwood would suffer from such common complaints.”

  Thalia giggled. “It is a good thing he did not see me when I had the mumps. Remember how swollen I was?”

  Juliana shuddered theatrically. “Horrible. He’d most likely have run screaming from the house.”

  “Thank you,” Thalia said again, her blue eyes soft and full of affection. “There is not a wiser or kinder sister in the whole world than you.”

  Her own face reflecting her love for her sister, Juliana bent down and pressed a fleeting kiss on Thalia’s forehead. “You are a good, sweet young woman and greatly loved. Remember that as you go to sleep.”

  Leaving her sister, Juliana entered her own bedroom. She managed a smile for her maid, Abby, and prattled lightly about the night’s events as Abby helped her undress and slipped a soft gown over her head. It was only when Abby had departed and Juliana was alone in her room that she allowed the smile to fade and her shoulders to droop.

  Lying in the bed in the dark, the weight of responsibility for making things right for Thalia and her father crushed down on her. What a terrible coil they were in and it was clearly up to her to set matters right. She must get those letters back from Ormsby! Thalia and her father’s happiness depended upon it.

  If only she had been able to search Ormsby’s desk tonight and find the letters. But Ormsby, devil that he was, had followed her and ruined any hope of that! Of course, if Asher hadn’t been lurking behind the curtains, once his friend, Lord Kingsley, had distracted Ormsby, she’d have been able to complete her search before returning to the ballroom.

  She frowned, thinking about the implication of Asher’s presence tonight. What had he been up to? She didn’t for a moment believe that he had been invited to the ball, yet he had been hiding in Ormsby’s library…. Was Ormsby blackmailing Asher?

  Juliana sat up in bed, oblivious to the rumble of London traffic as she considered the events in the library. Asher had been up to no good tonight, that much was obvious. Why else had he been hiding behind the drapes? Why else had he covered her mouth and kept their presence a secret? He could have pretended they had stolen away for a private moment, but he had not. Her eyes narrowed. Asher hadn’t wanted to be found any more than she had…which meant he had something to hide.

  Knowing Asher, it was perfectly possible that Ormsby was aware of something disgraceful that Asher would not have appreciated becoming public. Asher Cordell had always been a mysterious figure in the neighborhood, appearing and disappearing at will, with no explanation of why or where he had been. The source of his fortune, rumored to be sizable, was also a mystery. His grandmother, dear Mrs. Manley, had made the occasional, vague reference to “investments,” but little else. Juliana wrinkled her nose. No one would be rude enough to inquire too deeply anyway. Except Ormsby…

  Could Ormsby have discovered something disreputable about Asher? And was Asher trying to get it back? Hmmm. If Asher was going to be poking about in Ormsby’s things, looking for whatever it was that had brought him to the library tonight, might he be willing to help her in the quest to get Thalia’s letters back?

  A dreadful thought crossed her mind. But if Asher were successful, would she be exchanging one blackmailer for another? She shook her head. No. Infuriating though he might be, Juliana was convinced that Asher would not stoop to blackmail. She almost giggled. Besides, he didn’t want to marry Thalia. And if he was going to be snooping about Ormsby, he could very well snoop for her.

  Optimistic for the first time since Ormsby’s visit on Sunday night, Juliana lay back down again. As sleep crept over her a nebulous plan formed in her head. She would talk to Asher. Asher would help her.

  Chapter 3

  Driving through the gently undulating Kent countryside the scant distance that separated his estate from his grandmother’s, Asher was almost happy. It was good to be home, good to be amongst familiar things, places and people. Determined to put his past behind him, he was looking forward to becoming what he had always appeared to be in the neighborhood, a well-to-do gentleman landowner.

  He had arrived back from London yesterday afternoon and had spent today conferring with the small staff that kept his comfortable home running smoothly and his bailiff, who made certain that the various farms and properties were producing as they should; tonight he was dining with his grandmother.

  A muffled sound from the blanket-covered basket on the seat beside Asher made him grin. Some weeks ago he’d spoken with the farmer who leased one of his grandmother’s farms and he’d made a slight detour to Farmer Medley’s this evening to pick up the small occupant of the basket. His grin faded. His grandmother had mourned Captain’s death long enough. It was time she had something to distract her.

  Reaching an offshoot marked by two towering oaks on either side of it, he turned the pair of blacks pulling his blue and gold curricle off the main road and drove down the driveway that led to his grandmother’s estate, Burnham. Asher had never met his great-grandfather, but he knew that when Sir Hilary Burnham died over forty years ago, with no male relative to inherit, the title had died with him. Which was just as well, Asher thought, because if there had been a male heir, his grandmother wouldn’t be living there now.

  The tile-roofed house, when it appeared at the end of the meandering driveway, was charming. Adorned with a pair of picturesque gables in front, the house was two storied; a small lake adrift with white and yellow water lilies and edged with drooping beech and spreading ash trees nestled at one side of the house. Ivy clung here and there to the aged yellow brick and the wide latticed windows glinted in the gold and scarlet rays of fading sunlight. It was not a large house but it had amply suited the needs of the various Burnhams who had lived there over the centuries. Certainly, his grandmother loved it and Asher felt great affection for the place himself. Which he supposed wasn’t a bad thing since his grandmother had made it clear to the family that she intended to leave the estate to him, her eldest grandson.

  Stopping his horses in front of the house, he handed the reins to the grinning stable boy who ran up. “Hullo, young Pelton,” Asher said, reaching for the basket. “Father well these days?”

  “Indeed, sir, he is. Mrs. Manley’s draught banished my pa’s congestion just as if it had never been.” Young Pelton wrinkled his nose. “Smelled terrible though.”

  Basket in hand, Asher laughed and leaped lightly from the curricle. “My grandmother’s concoctions always smell terrible, but they work.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said his grandmother in a teasing voice from behind him, “but my peppermint tea does not smell terrible at all.”

  Asher turned and something warm and light moved within him. His grandmother, Ann Manley, was seventy-five years old and even with her silver hair and softly wrinkled pink and white complexion, she looked and carried herself like a woman a decade younger. The top of her head barely reached Asher’s broad shoulders and her form was slim; her eyes were the same deep cobalt blue of his own and in her younger days, her hair had been as gold as the summer sunshine.

  Walking to where she waited on the wide path that led to the heavy oak front door, he dropped a kiss on her scented temple. “Of course, you’re right. I could never disagree with such a lovely lady.”

  She laughed and swatted him playfully on the cheek. “And you are a far too practiced flirt for a woman to take anything you say seriously.” Her eyes fell on the basket he carried on his arm, noting that the old blue blanket was moving about wildly. “Now what have we here?”

  Grinning, Asher presented her the basket. “Go ahead,” he said when she stared at the gyrations made by the blanket, “lift it up.”

  She did and her expression melted into one of pure delight at the sight of a tail-wiggling spaniel puppy in the basket. While the puppy a
nd his grandmother stared bemused at each other, Asher said quickly, “He’s a boy. Eight weeks old yesterday. The pick of Farmer Medley’s latest litter.”

  “Oh, Asher!” Taking the tricolored puppy with the floppy ears and big eyes from the basket, she held him to her breast and laughed when the puppy promptly washed her chin with his tongue. Stroking the puppy, she asked, “Medley’s line?”

  Asher nodded. Quietly, he said, “The same as Captain. Medley said that this little fellow traces several times all the way back to Captain’s dam.” To his dismay, his grandmother’s eyes filled with tears and she choked back a sob. “I thought it would please you,” he muttered, bewildered.

  Half smiling, half crying, she clutched the puppy tighter and said, “Oh, he does. He does!” She kissed Asher’s chin and added, “I’m crying because I’m happy. I would love any puppy you gave me, but one that is related, even distantly, to my dear old Captain is more than I could have dreamed.”

  “I hoped he would lighten your heart.” He ran a gentle hand over the puppy’s head. “He won’t be Captain, but I think he will grow up to be a good, loyal companion to you—just as Captain was.”

  Dinner was delightful. They’d eaten alfresco next to the small lake with the stubby legged puppy gamboling at their feet and exploring his new home. As dusk deepened into lavender shades, Asher’s grandmother’s hand resting on his arm, the basket dangling from her other hand, they strolled around the lake, watching the antics of the puppy. As they wandered, they considered various names for the new pet. Asher was all for continuing the military theme but Mrs. Manley smiled faintly and declared that this time she wanted a rather more romantic name. Grinning down at her, a brow quirked, Asher teased, “What—Romeo?”

  She laughed. Noting that the puppy was beginning to lag, she bent down and picked him up. After giving him a brief cuddle, she placed the puppy in the basket, where he curled up and promptly fell asleep. Smiling at the puppy, she said, “Nothing quite that romantic. I was thinking of something along the lines of Jupiter or Zeus.”

  Doubtfully, Asher eyed the roly-poly black and tan and white bundle nestled in the basket. “Somehow he doesn’t look very Zeus-like.”

  “Well, not at the moment,” his grandmother agreed. “But you must agree that he is a very handsome fellow even now. When he is grown, I am sure that he will be the handsomest dog in the neighborhood.”

  “If you feel that way, why not name him Apollo?”

  She beamed at him. “What an excellent idea!” Looking down at the puppy, she murmured, “Welcome to Burnham, Apollo.” Sleeping deeply, Apollo did not seem to be impressed with his new name.

  Asher was content when he drove away from Burnham an hour later. His grandmother was enchanted with her new companion and he didn’t doubt that despite the basket he currently occupied, before too many hours passed, Apollo was going to end up in bed with his new owner. Captain had slept at the foot of her bed and he didn’t expect that Apollo would suffer a lesser fate.

  A family of wealthy farmers had owned his own estate, Fox Hollow, for several generations and while not overly impressive or large, the house was quite handsome. Like Burnham, “comfortable” was the word that came to Asher’s mind as he drove past the sprawling brick and half-timbered house with its two wide bays that flanked the iron-hinged double front doors. There were over a thousand acres of rolling fertile land and forest that came with the estate, but its main appeal to Asher had been that it adjoined Burnham. When the surviving widow had approached his grandmother about the prospect of adding it to Burnham, Mrs. Manley had suggested that Asher buy it for himself. Smiling at him, she said, “That way you will have your own place and won’t feel like you’re standing around waiting for me to die.” The very thought of her death sent a pang through him, and while he had never once felt that he was standing around waiting for her die, her advice was sound and he had bought Fox Hollow for himself five years ago.

  Asher smiled faintly. Ormsby had been eyeing Fox Hollow for himself and had already offered the widow a bit over half of what it was worth when Mrs. Dempster approached Mrs. Manley seeking a fairer price. Fox Hollow had been worth every penny Mrs. Dempster was asking and Asher had been more than happy to pay the widow’s price. His smile faded. Which only gave Ormsby another reason to dislike him. He shrugged. Bastard should have made Mrs. Dempster a fair offer.

  Leaving his horses in the hands of his stable master, Asher ambled back through the darkness toward the house, feeling oddly at loose ends. For nearly as long as he could remember there had always been a new goal, a new scheme to consider and implement, but those days were behind him now. Except for the theft of the Ormsby diamonds, Asher was determined to leave behind that part of his life that did not bear too close an inspection. He had been very lucky that his part in any of the various schemes in which he’d partaken had never been discovered. He’d known that as long as he continued to dare fate, it would be only a matter of time before disaster struck. After last year’s near thing, he’d been damned lucky that he hadn’t found himself heading for the gallows at Newgate. That blasted Collard!

  Asher’s lips thinned. Over the years, he may have sailed close to the wind or worse, but he hadn’t left any bodies behind until Collard had killed the luckless Whitley last spring. It was one thing to trick a fellow or, he admitted with a grimace, steal from him, but murder? It had ever been his policy to get over the heavy ground as light as possible and the events in Devonshire the previous year had shaken him and had made him rethink his way of life.

  It wasn’t, he argued as he walked up to the front door, as if the desperate need that had once driven him to take such dangerous risks existed any longer. Burnham was safe these days and his grandmother no longer lived in fear that she would lose her home. She had, he thought grimly, nearly beggared herself seeing to it that he and his half brothers had been educated at Eton. He hadn’t known at the time that she had risked Burnham itself, quietly adding debt she could ill afford to see that her grandsons were educated in a manner befitting their birth. When he discovered her sacrifice he had been appalled and had immediately taken steps to stop the drain on her pocket. And if his methods had been desperate and fraught with danger and beyond the pale, he hadn’t cared. His grandmother would not lose Burnham.

  He shook himself, pushing away the bad memories. Presently, Burnham was secure and his younger half siblings were secure in their futures and no longer had call upon his purse. His two sisters, with respectable dowries discreetly provided by Asher, had made excellent matches. John, almost twenty-five and the half brother closest to him in age, was running the family estate, Apple Hill. Robert, next in age at nearly twenty-four, had his commission and horses, at no small cost to Asher, in an elite Cavalry unit, currently serving in Portugal.

  As for his stepfather, retired Lieutenant Colonel Denning…Asher’s mouth thinned. Despite an inclination to the contrary, he’d had no choice but to save his stepfather’s estate if the girls, at the time only twelve and ten, were to have a roof over their heads. And, he added grimly, if John was to have anything left to use one day to support a family of his own. Asher shook his head. Already struggling to shore up his grandmother’s finances, he had nearly buckled when he’d discovered what “Colonel,” as his stepfather preferred to be called, had been up to.

  It had been nearly a decade ago that the colonel had damn near lost everything, including Apple Hill, at the gaming table and Asher had scrambled frantically to keep the family from certain ruin. He’d been ruthless in his quest to pay off the colonel’s debts before it was too late and his methods, he admitted with only a slight twinge of guilt, had been definitely illegal. But, he reminded himself, those days were now in the past and it was time he stopped worrying about the family and concentrated on living his own life. Still, he admitted, as he opened one of the double doors, it felt peculiar not having some ruse or scheme rattling around in his head, and the growing notion that respectability might prove exceedingly boring nagged
at him.

  Stepping into the oak-paneled foyer, he was greeted by Hannum, his butler. Hannum wasn’t a proper butler, but since he had assumed all the duties of a butler and was married to the housekeeper, both of whom Asher had inherited when he had bought the house, Asher couldn’t think of him as anything less. To his amusement, both of them treated him with a friendly familiarity that would have raised eyebrows in a more conventional household than his own.

  His staff, originally consisting of Hannum and his wife, had grown over the years to encompass several more servants all related in some fashion to the Hannums. These days, his stable master, Liggett, was the husband of the Hannums’ eldest daughter, Margaret. Margaret herself also worked for him, since Mrs. Hannum had mentioned a few years ago that another pair of hands around the house would certainly be welcome and she knew just the person for the job. Asher was confident that the fellow and his helper who worked the gardens and the extra stable boys were also related in some way to the Hannums. He grinned. He didn’t mind. The Hannums were honest, hardworking and didn’t get under his feet.

  His grin widened as he took in his butler. Built on an oak-like frame, in his youth Hannum had been a fairly successful pugilist, as his broken nose and missing teeth attested. The first sight of those rough, battered features had been known to give visitors pause—which suited Asher just fine. Flashing a grin that revealed gaps in his teeth, Hannum asked, “And was Mrs. Manley happy with the little dog?”

  Handing Hannum his gloves, Asher replied, “Very. She has named him Apollo.”

  “Oho! Now that’s a fine name.”

  “What name?” demanded Mrs. Hannum. Salt and pepper hair neatly contained in a muslin cap, she was wiping her hands on a big white apron as she appeared from the nether reaches of the house. “The puppy? Was your grandmum pleased with him?”

  Asher nodded. “Indeed, she was. I suspect that even as we speak, the newly named Apollo is making himself quite comfortable in bed with her.”