Page 5 of Tamed By a Passionate Lady
Abruptly, he stopped laughing. He leant back in his seat, frowning slightly, picking up his spoon. For one second, he glanced back up her. Her smile had frozen on her face just a little, and she was gazing at him in slight confusion, as if she didn’t quite understand what was happening.
She picked up her soup spoon, dipping it into the hot liquid, bending over the bowl. She did not look up.
He felt a sharp stab of guilt. He knew that she was hurt. He knew that she didn’t understand why he had pulled back from her at the moment of connection. He even knew that she was wondering why it always happened; why the second that he engaged with her, on any level, he cut it off, cut it short, pulled back. As if he was drawn to an open flame, then realised how scorching hot it actually was.
He kept spooning the soup into his mouth, in an automatic motion, barely tasting it. It was a shame, because he hadn’t lied. It was a wonderful soup.
His eyes flickered towards her again. Adalinewasbeautiful, and she was infinitely desirable as well. Those dark gypsy eyes, that coiled black hair, that womanly figure. Not only that, but she was a good wife to him. She was loyal, generous, and gentle by nature.
He blinked twice. Suddenly, she started to dissolve in his vision.
Another woman was rearing into his mind. His lips tightened, and his heart started to instinctively beat faster. He didn’t want to think about her. He didn’t want her to appear to him now. Desperately, he tried to fight it away, but she had arrived as she always did.
Adaline’s dark hair and eyes, her curvaceous figure, all started to recede in his mind. Instead, he was seeing a woman who was startlingly different.
She was vivid, in his mind, now. Her petite frame, with fine bones. Her flaxen hair, falling in thick ringlets, framing her heart-shaped face. Her large blue eyes, bluer than the sky on a summer’s day.
Another woman. So very different from the one that he called wife.
***
It was the first time that he had ever laid eyes on her.
He had been a younger man, of course. Brimming with youthful vigour and bluster. A regular day at the Athenaeum, an exclusive gentlemen’s club, in his hometown of Liverpool. His father had first joined, back when it had opened its doors in 1797. And he had gradually brought his two sons into the fold.
It was a grand building, in the heart of Liverpool. In this space, gentlemen could discuss the issues of the day over cigars and brandy, looking out at the wide streets below. The talk was often of politics, or the vagaries of transport to the docks, for Liverpool was a port with the River Mersey its beating heart. Business thrived on the docks, bringing cargo to and from the new world.
That afternoon, he had been seated in his usual spot near the window. It was a late autumn afternoon. He remembered it clearly; how the red leaves had been scattered on the streets, how crisp the air had been. It was as if it had solidified in his memory, taking on a special light because of her.
He had watched Reuben arrive, taking off his coat and hat, handing them absently to the doorman. His friend had taken the stairs two at a time, almost jumping them. The next minute, he was sitting opposite him, ordering his brandy.
“Good day, old chap?” he had asked.
Reuben settled into the plush upholstered armchair. “A busy one, I must say.” He frowned. “Father is rather rattled. His ship was supposed to be here, arriving from Africa two days ago, but there is no sign of it.”
James had nodded. “I would not worry yet. It may have been delayed, for a number of reasons. It does not necessarily mean that it has encountered a storm, or pirates.”
Reuben’s nostrils had flared. “There are over two hundred slaves on that boat, James. A lot of potential income. It is supposed to dock here for a few days before sailing onto the new world.”
James shuddered slightly in distaste. He had his own private views on the slave trade, but he knew they were not popular in this club. Most of the very rich gentlemen had made their wealth in the slave trade, after all; Liverpool was a hub for it.
But he also knew that there was a small but vocal group who were opposed to it. They were called abolitionists, and privately he agreed with them. They advocated that it was morally unsound to trade in human lives, and to profit from the enslavement and misery of fellow men.
He knew that Reuben despised the abolitionists, calling them crackpots. But then, Reuben had to, didn’t he? His own family’s wealth was built on the slave trade. Mr. Silas Montgomery, his father, owned three large ships that constantly sailed to Africa and the Caribbean, collecting their haul before sailing on to the Americas.
That was one thing that he could be proud of – his own family’s wealth was in the manufacture of cotton. His grandfather and father had never got their hands dirty in the slave trade.
“Where is the ship bound?”
“Carolina,” replied Reuben, frowning. “And we lose money every day that the ship is delayed. I tell you, Father is having an apoplexy about it. Mother tells him he must calm down, or he will surely keel over.”
James smiled slightly. “And how is young Isabel?”
Reuben frowned absently. “She is the same as she always is, I suppose. She coughs constantly and recently had a month’s spell in bed. Mother despairs, but my sister has always been delicate, right from the moment she was born…”
James glanced out of the high window. Suddenly, his gaze was arrested by a young lady, walking along the street with an older companion.
His heart almost stopped beating.
