Samantha James
Authors: The Secret Passion of Simon Blackwell
The
SECRET PASSION
of
SIMON BLACKWELL
Lady Annabel McBride slowed her stride as she strolled west…
Precisely at eight o’clock, the knocker at the front door…
Simon knew, the moment he stepped into the McBride residence…
Anne had resigned herself to her fate. There was nothing…
There was a low vibration of sound. A sound of…
In all honesty, Anne reflected quite some time later, it…
Anne was sorely mistaken in her belief that Simon gave…
She would never know what those words cost him. There…
Simon would have dearly loved to ignore his alluring new…
Shadows stretched across the floor when Simon rose to stretch…
It was late when Anne awoke the next morning, bleary-eyed…
A splinter of shock tore through her. Scalded inside, stricken…
The muscles in her throat had closed so that she…
A tentative truce had been established that night.
Oh, yes, Simon knew precisely what Anne’s family meant to…
Early the next morning, Anne peered cautiously into Simon’s room.
They did not speak of that night in his room.
All in all, Simon decided, it was quite a miserable…
“Hellooo!”
Anne had yet to tell Simon of her secret.
This was the first time they had slept together—all the…
Their daughter arrived the following May.
The physician visited today. He is pleased that my pain has begun to abate. But the pain he speaks of is of a different sort. Fortunate, he declared me yet again. Fortunate to have survived.
I grow weary of those words, for he cannot know the wrench of despair that tears at my very soul. The stillness that plagues each night in endless darkness.
No one can.
Yet perhaps it is only right. Perhaps it is only just.
Perhaps it is no more than I deserve.
Each night I wonder if the time has come to cease my entries in this journal. Yet I know I cannot. Not now. Not yet. For all I have left of those I loved so dearly is this record.
And my memories.
Perhaps someday it will not hurt so to think of them. Perhaps someday it will be easier.
But when? I ask myself. Dear God,
when?
It appears Aunt Leticia desires my presence on the occasion of her seventieth birthday. She and I are the only ones left of my mother’s family. Despite the fact I detest London in the summer—indeed I detest London at any time—I am obliged to humor her. I shall depart in the morning.
Simon Blackwell
London, 1848
Lady Annabel McBride slowed her stride as she strolled west through Hyde Park, accompanied by her cousin Caroline and Caro’s two young children.
“Lud, but I must look a fright,” fretted Caro. “The heat is particularly abominable for July, don’t you think, Annie?”
Anne peered at Caro from beneath the round brim of her bonnet. Overhead the sun poured down in brilliant radiance. The hour was well before noon; nonetheless, Anne was aware of droplets of sweat gathering between her breasts. Her striped silk walking gown was de rigueur for the day, the bodice tightly fitted, trimmed with ribbons and lace; of course Mama saw to that. But beneath, trussed up in stays, numerous layers of stiff petticoats and ruffled skirts, Anne felt much like a package to be tossed to and fro upon a ship and heaved to the farthest reaches of the sea.
Caro, on the other hand, despite her complaint, appeared fresh as a dew-laden flower, on this, surely the hottest morning of summer thus far.
How Caro managed to maintain her svelte trimness after two births in such close succession was a source of both envy and annoyance among society’s ladies—a tiny waist, after all, was a thing much coveted by all.
Anne, of course, knew it had much to do with Isabella and little John, aged three and two respectively; there was but a scant year between them. Both resembled Caro, with sun-gold hair, deep blue eyes, and dimpled cheeks. Lively and vigorous did not even begin to describe the pair, known to the family as Izzie and Jack. Add to the mix a decidedly impish bent—along with a child’s eagerness to explore each nook
and cranny of the world within view—the little ones were, in sum, a handful. Many a time their antics dictated that Anne hastily bite back the urge to laugh, lest the two be inclined to repeat whatever mischief had brought it on.
“Oh, pooh,” Anne announced with a quirk of her lips and a sidelong glance at her companion. “You are divine, cousin, and well you know it.” Anne was reminded of the myriad pins scattered throughout her hair. Already she could feel her coiffure drooping, thick and heavy, down the back of her head. Had she been at home in Scotland, she’d have dispensed with her bonnet, shucked off her petticoats (in the privacy of her chamber of course), and restrained her hair with a simple ribbon at her nape before venturing outside. But this was London after all, and admittedly the heat was much more bearable with her tresses swept high and off her face and neck. Oh, to be back at Gleneden, back in the climes of Scotland with a cool breeze swirling fresh from the waters of the loch.
A carriage clattered nearby as they advanced along the walkway. The warmth of the morning had not kept Londoners behind shutters and doors, closed tight against the heat.
Izzie and Jack had taken to scampering through the grass beneath the shade of a tree. Jack began to chase Izzie around and around the base of the tree trunk; Izzie squealed her
delight. Caro sank down on a nearby bench, shielding herself with her parasol and feverishly fanning her cheeks.
All at once her fan rapped shut. “Isabella!” Caro called out sharply. “You are not to wander off. Come now. Come to Mama!”
Anne saw that Izzie was skipping toward the Serpentine. Izzie flashed her mother a beatific smile over her shoulder, then began to run full-out as Caro rose to her feet.
“Come chase me, Mama!” the child sang out.
Anne laughed aloud, watching as Izzie uttered a high-pitched shriek and darted just beyond her mother’s reach. Caro, of course, was hampered by the bulk of her skirts. Anne’s gaze slid back to Jack.
But Jack was no longer there.
Her smile vanished. Anne dropped her parasol and was on her feet in an instant. “Jack?” Anxiously her gaze encircled the grassy area before her. The imp! Where the devil was the little scamp?
She caught sight of him then. He had taken his cue from his sister—but he was sprinting in the opposite direction, running for all he was worth. Anne called his name, but his legs pumped furiously; he raced as fast as his chubby legs could take him.
“Jack, stop!” He looked back at her, for it was a game to him now. Anne lurched forward to
give chase. Alas, her petticoats snagged between her legs and she nearly pitched forward onto her face. Again she silently cursed the unwieldy burden of women’s clothing. Righting herself, she glanced frantically toward the place where she’d last seen Jack.
Once again Jack had disappeared. Then she saw he’d nearly reached the broad, sand-covered track of Rotten Row.
A horse and rider were bearing down fast.
Panic enveloped her. Heedless of anyone who might chance to see, she grabbed handfuls of her skirts and dragged them high.
It all seemed to happen in a swirl of sound and motion. Someone shouted; the rider’s hands twisted in the reins and jerked back. His mount screamed and reared high; powerful hooves slashed the air. Terror closed Anne’s throat, for Jack was almost directly beneath the steed!
A horrifying dread clutched at her insides. God.
Oh, God
. Little Jack didn’t know the danger he was in. And she would never make it. She couldn’t reach him.
Anne was well aware what the force of powerful hooves could do to a man. A man could be maimed, crippled. Killed.
A child stood no chance at all.
From very far away, she heard a garbled scream—her own, she realized dimly.
And Jack…the boy had finally halted abruptly. He’d turned back toward Anne, his round little face looking faintly perplexed.
But there was something else. Some
one
else. She had no sense of who or where or even when he’d appeared. But in the blink of an eye came a flash of movement. A figure charged forward; the little boy was snatched high and away, just as the massive animal’s front legs hurtled down, mere inches from little Jack’s head. Anne was so close, the very earth beneath her slippers thundered and shook.
The rider called out his apologies. “No harm done now, eh?”
Anne barely heard. She rushed forward toward man and child. Her heart still thudded wildly in her chest. She was quivering from head to toe, both inside and out, shaken to the core by the close call.
Her gaze climbed upward, to the man who now held Jack in one arm, one hand curled protectively on the boy’s back. Anne’s lips parted as she sought to muster her wits about her. But before she could say a word—
“By God, madam, have you no sense?” Eyes the color of storm clouds raked her from head to toe. “What the devil is wrong with you? A good mother would never allow her child to be placed in such danger. Why the blazes weren’t you aware of your son’s whereabouts?”
Anne sucked in a breath, already breathless from her mad dash after Jack. But it wasn’t lack of air that held her tongue. It was shock. Sheer and utter shock.
And indeed Anne was, quite literally, stunned beyond speech. There was no denying the anger that fed the words. She could only gape at him, shocked by the force of his anger, stung by his bluntness. He was rude. Rude beyond measure—why, nearly beyond comprehension. Clearly he’d left his manners at his doorstep.
Her lips pressed tightly together. Anne had inherited her mother’s wealth of rich chestnut hair, her ivory complexion, and her warmth and generosity. But as the rest of the family well knew, her impetuous nature and her lightning temper were undeniably Scots—undeniably her father’s, God rest his soul.
Oh, how she longed to acquaint this man with the sting of her palm; for that matter, her fist. But such behavior was hardly ladylike, and she would spare this gentleman—ah, but she was exceedingly inclined toward generosity, it seemed, for his scathing tone did not warrant such restraint. It most certainly did not proclaim him a gentleman.
Her eyes narrowed. “Now see here,” she began.
“No, madam, you see here! The boy could have been killed because you, his mother, did not keep him in hand, like a proper parent
should. You are singularly unfit for your role as mother!”
And, Anne thought, he was singularly grim. Singularly an ass. Singularly a tyrant—certainly as fierce as one, if the thinness of his lips and his glowering countenance were any indication. By Jove, if he insulted her again, she
would
hit him. She
should
have hit him already. And Jack (oh, but the little fellow was surely a traitor of the worst kind!) was amusing himself with the shiny gold buttons on the man’s waistcoat. Jack was usually most fussy with strangers, but he appeared quite content with this one, which only inflamed her further.
“I am
not
,” Anne stressed through thin lips, “his mother.”
The man made a sound of disgust. “His nanny then. By God, you should be dismissed.”
Anne sucked in a breath. How dare he speak to her so!
“My boy! Please let me have him! Oh,
please!
”
It was Caro, breathless from her flight across the grass. She thrust Izzie into Anne’s arms. “Dearest, are you all right?” With a cry she fairly plucked Jack from the man’s hold.
“He’s fine, Caro,” Anne said quickly. “Not a scratch, thanks to the…gentleman.” It was all she could do to force the word
gentleman
past her lips.
Caro clutched the boy close. “John Ellis Sykes, you’ve given Mama such a fright.” She buried
her cheek against Jack’s plump neck. Her eyes squeezed shut, wet with tears.
The man’s gaze had narrowed on Caro. His severity began to ease. Not that Anne was surprised. Caro’s fragile, dimpled beauty had always had that effect on men. But Anne was still spitting mad at this man’s outburst. Despite the fact he was obviously a gentleman—his clothing and bearing declared him such—Anne was not given to call him one. And when he bent to retrieve his top hat from the ground, displaying a rather well-formed derriere, a most childish notion took hold of her. Oh, but what she wouldn’t give to place a well-aimed kick at his—
Sniffing, Caro raised her head and slanted the brute a watery smile. “Sir, I am indebted.” She held out a hand. “I am Mrs. Caroline Sykes. And you are…?”
“Simon Blackwell.” Ever so briefly, he pressed Caro’s gloved fingertips. “A pleasure, madam.”
Caro laughed lightly. “I see you’ve already met my cousin, Lady Annabel McBride.”
Anne did not offer her hand; Jack’s rescuer didn’t seem to expect it. He inclined his head, and the good manners ingrained by her very proper English mother dictated she acknowledge in turn. Anne did so, albeit rather stiffly.
Yet in that very same instant, she found herself swallowing, struck by several things in turn. His height, for one. He was tall, taller than she’d realized, as tall as her brothers. And de
spite his size, his reflexes were remarkably quick. His hair was like the darkest hour of the night, the same thick black as his brows. The brim of his hat cast a shadow over square, angular features. But then he turned his head ever so slightly, and she saw his eyes. It was almost jarring to see they were a pale gray, a shade darker than crystal. And unsettling, in a way she could not discern—in a way that had nothing to do with his rebuke.
All at once, she wanted nothing more than to depart immediately. Now. She didn’t like Simon Blackwell. She didn’t wish to participate in niceties. The sooner she and Caro took their leave, the better.
It appeared Caro was not of the same mind.
“I should welcome the opportunity to thank you properly, sir. Indeed,” Caro was saying with that brilliant smile that her husband, John, declared had snared him on the spot, “I should consider it an honor if you would join us for supper. Aunt Viv won’t mind, will she, Annie? I adore Aunt Vivian, and it has nothing to do with the fact she’s always called me her favorite niece. Aunt Viv brought a bit of English decorum and elegance to the family, my father always said. My father and Annie’s father were brothers, you see, both big, brawny Scotsmen. And Alec will no doubt join us for supper, I suspect. Annie and Alec are my cousins, as you’ve probably gathered, along with their
brother, Aidan, who’s off with his regiment in India. Now that their father has passed on, Alec is the head of the family, but he maintains lodgings elsewhere. And Aunt Viv has been generous enough to let me and my husband, John, stay with her while our town house is being restored.”
How Anne managed to stop her jaw from dropping, she had no idea. She
did
know she could have cheerfully throttled Caro. Granted, it was true her mother wouldn’t mind a guest. But why on earth had Caro regaled this stranger with a goodly portion of the family history?
Her expression must have displayed the nature of her thoughts, for suddenly Caro stopped short. “Annie? Is there something you wish to add?”
Anne stifled a groan. Instead she said lightly, “Caro, you allow no time for the gentleman either to accept
or
decline. Indeed, you make it rather difficult for him to say anything.”
“Oh, do forgive me.” Caro laughed prettily. “I’m running on, aren’t I? I’m sorry, I’m still a bit overwrought. Annie, you should have stopped me.” And yet again, she allowed no time for speech. She addressed Simon Blackwell. “Will you join us tonight, sir?”
Simon Blackwell shook his head. “It’s very generous of you to extend the offer, but I assure you, it’s quite unnecessary. I’ve no wish to intrude on your evening.”
So he wasn’t completely without manners, Anne admitted grudgingly, shifting Izzie to her other hip. But his polite refusal went unheeded by Caro.
“Oh, but it is necessary!” she burst out. “I should never be able to forgive myself if John and I didn’t convey our gratitude. If anything had happened to my little angel, why…I don’t know how I could bear it!” She hugged Jack fiercely, blinking back tears.
It appeared Simon Blackwell was not impervious to them. “I should hate to be an imposition,” he said slowly.
“Oh, but you will not!” Caro cried. Her beaming smile reappeared as she cited the address just off Grosvenor Square. “We generally dine at eight. Dinner is usually quite an informal affair, just the family. And if you fail to appear, sir, why, we shall send out the Runners to hunt for you. After all, we know your name now. And now, sir, until this evening, I bid you good day. Shall we, Annie?”