A GROWING PASSION

by

Emma Wildes

The inside of the ballroom was oppressively hot and Victoria Manwell idly fanned herself, stifled by the crowd and heat. "I think I'll go outside and get some fresh air," she said, nodding toward the doors open to the terrace and the promise of cooler, cleaner air that did not reek of perfume, sweat, and stale champagne. "For being late fall, it is certainly warm. I thought I saw Stephen step out a second ago, perhaps I'll join him."

Her aunt merely nodded, half-absorbed in listening to a bit of scintillating gossip, her plump figure firmly planted in a chair. "Don't catch your death, dear, it's chilly outside."

The death of me, she thought darkly as she politely attempted to edge through the melee of swirling bodies, would be to have to stay inside for another minute. Gaining the exit, she stepped out onto the flagstone terrace and inhaled a great lungful of clean air, feeling vastly relieved. The truth was, she detested parties such as these, much preferring her garden or curling in bed with a good book.

Where is Stephen? she wondered, casting a look around. Other than a couple close together, whispering and leaning against the balustrade, there was no one in sight. Odd, she'd been sure she'd seen him, dressed as always in his very severe evening clothes, easing out the same doors just moments before.

The air wafted over her bared shoulders, feeling delightful. Strolling down the wide steps, she chose the path to her left and wandered down the winding length of it, leaving the merriment behind. The flowers were dying in homage to the encroaching threat of winter, she saw in regret, the roses drooping and beginning to scatter thick petals across the stones that paved the way. Catching a familiar scent, she bent and ran her fingers over one velvety blossom, the deep crimson like a familiar friend. "Queen Anne," she murmured, "I know your smell and you hang on longer than the others, don't you, darling?"

Wandering farther, she assessed with a connoisseur's eye the lack of general imagination in the layout of the garden itself. Even in the thin light of a wispy moon, she could see that the gardener had placed the yews, which defined the space, in such a way they must surely block the light, and the late blooming bushes were in the back, instead of the front where they would allow...

The sound of voices, one low and modulated, the other high and shrill, suddenly made her aware there were two people in the garden just ahead. She could see them just a few paces away, but since they seemed to be in the midst of an argument, hadn't noticed her approach. Not certain what to do, she halted, realizing she had blundered into some sort of lover's tryst for the woman had her arms twined around the man's neck and was saying in a wheedling tone, "Come on, darling. The coach house is empty and we have at least a few minutes before anyone will notice us gone."

Lord, Victoria thought irritably, how to retreat gracefully from this was a mystery, as they were standing just a few feet away. Moving a scant bit, she tried to skulk behind a sickly rhododendron, suddenly freezing when she heard his reply. "No thank you, though the generous offer is much appreciated."

The deep voice was familiar, startlingly so.

Stephen?

Unable to help it, Victoria stood there like a statue and watched. Stephen--it was indeed him, for as he went to remove the woman's arms from around his neck, he stepped into a shaft of filtered moonlight and she clearly saw his face--added, "Not that I didn't enjoy your bountiful charms, my dear, but you are now married."

What was worse, the woman was clearly none other than their hostess, the new wife of the Earl of Haldon, her pretty face drawn into a scowl, the decadent neckline on her gown showing off a great deal of white, creamy skin.

Dumbfounded, Victoria simply couldn't believe her eyes. Stephen Forsythe? The man she'd known since childhood, the quiet, serious scholar who had as much a passion for botany as she did herself, perhaps more?

And Lady Haldon? Who, according to Aunt Sophie, was little more than a high-born slut.

"Please." The earl's wife didn't seem willing to give up easily, rubbing her hand in a familiar gesture up his shirt front and then dropping it lower to caress shockingly between his legs. "My marriage needn't be a deterrent. We both know how these things work. Your misplaced sense of honor is inconvenient. I need you now. Besides," she added in a purr, "my new husband doesn't have your magnificent cock, darling."

"Your capacity for sexual neediness is etched forever in my memory," Stephen said, smiling wryly, stepping back away from the lady's questing hand, "but my honor is simply that. I won't cuckold your husband, my dear, he's a friend. Let's forget you ever asked, shall we?"

Petite and dark, her shining hair drawn up in an elegant chignon, Lady Haldon lifted her chin. "It's her, isn't it?" she asked in a silky lethal voice. "That bluestocking bitch with the red hair."

"Victoria?"

At the sound of her own name mentioned in this bizarre exchange, Victoria stiffened, realizing she should have retreated long ago, or else made her presence known, but now it was entirely too late and she wouldn't have been able to move anyway, even if her life depended upon it.

"It's not natural the way she digs in the dirt, like a common servant." The countess sniffed. "And she discusses it too, not even ashamed to be so--"

"Intelligent?" Stephen supplied in a voice that sounded cool, still standing a bit back from the woman confronting him. "The men here tonight don't seem to think she's common at all. Don't be catty, my dear, it makes you sound jealous."