Bound with Passion Read online

  Several days passed in that way, with Georgie spending all of her time at Camburton Castle, preparing for the wedding with her mother and Nora, and returning to Mayfield sporadically to check on the horses. Trevor wasn’t sure if she was avoiding them or simply busy, but he agreed with James that they needed to let her do whatever it was she needed to do for the weeks leading up to their marriage.

  About a week later, Trevor entered the drawing room, where James was putting the finishing touches on Lady Caroline Lamb’s wild hat. James turned, sensing Trevor’s presence, and gave him that broad, generous smile. “And how was your morning, my beautiful man?”

  Trevor crossed the room and kissed him on the mouth, then caressed his cheek as he pulled away. “All the better for seeing you,” he answered with a hint of melancholy.

  James set aside the hat and gave Trevor his full attention. “What is it?”

  “I heard back from my father this morning.”

  “And?”

  “And I suppose I thought I would feel better once I had.” Trevor shrugged and tried to smile.

  James looked at him with a thoughtful, sympathetic gaze. “So,” James drawled, placing his elbow into the palm of one hand and resting his chin in his other hand. “Let me see if I have this right.” He tapped his lips, and Trevor knew the direction of his thoughts. “You thought that once you fulfilled the absurd demands of a selfish, lonely old man by marrying a woman who—if we are lucky—will require a lifetime of coaxing and prodding to appreciate the smallest grain of what we have to offer . . . you thought you would feel happy when that was all arranged? Is that it?”

  Trevor took a deep breath. “Apparently, yes.” Then chuckled at his own misguided optimism.

  “Oh, my dear boy,” James said, trying to maintain an air of levity. “Don’t ever change. While the rest of us are forever seeing the dark despond, you always cling to the light. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  James reached for Trevor and pulled him into a hard kiss, clutching at the base of Trevor’s neck. When he pulled away, he didn’t move very far. “We will survive this, whatever this is,” James added with a short laugh. “I’m already starting to believe that you of all people could transform even the most coldhearted, tentative, fearful creature into your devoted slave.” James massaged his neck while he spoke.

  “But I do not want a slave,” Trevor said quietly. “I want us to be a family.”

  James finished rubbing the tight muscles at Trevor’s shoulder and then let his hand fall away. “Perhaps that is possible, but it’s clear Georgie will have to come to that conclusion on her own.”

  “But how? If she won’t budge without excessive prodding, and then she recoils from anything remotely resembling prodding, how are we to guide her?”

  “First off, I think it is time we both stop trying so hard. She has agreed to marry you. She’s agreed to get married at St. George’s in Hanover Square at her mother’s request. She’s even gone so far as to allow us to hope. By all accounts, Georgie is being incredibly agreeable.”

  James was relieved to see Trevor lift the corner of his mouth in a small acknowledgement of humor.

  James continued, “Let us go to London and enjoy this wonderful celebration. Not as a farce, but in the hope that her love will blossom at some point in the future. Most marriages begin with far less.” James patted Trevor’s upper arm twice. “Let’s go in to luncheon and cease these endless conversations about Lady Georgiana Cambury. I certainly don’t want to prove her suspicions correct.”

  Trevor shot him a questioning look. “What suspicions?”

  “That we spend all of our time speaking about her,” James said.

  Soon after the letters of invitation had been hand delivered, a slew of special rush orders came in for James’s hats. He was relieved to be extraordinarily busy for the few remaining weeks leading up to the wedding, but Trevor was becoming more than a tad frenetic.

  When Georgie unexpectedly agreed to the idea of the two men accompanying her back to Egypt, James knew that Trevor had been too elated to think past his exuberance. Yes, yes, Trevor would smile encouragingly as she regaled them with fabulous tales of the Sahara, but James could see his growing dismay about leaving Mayfield for eight weeks.

  And while Trevor fretted about the estate and how it would run in his absence, James was beginning to fret about the likelihood of them ever convincing Georgie to return with them to England. It was one thing to work on Georgie here at home, to gradually show her the beauty of their life in Derbyshire while they were able to display its charms to best advantage, but it was quite another to take her back into the exotic promise of the Mediterranean and then expect her to return willingly to the harsh north.

  He tried to set aside these negative thoughts, but James often found himself envisioning a desperately emotional parting on some crowded dock when it would be time to return to England and Georgie would declare she intended to remain in Egypt. Endless, unwanted scenarios played out in his mind, visions of Georgie tossing some brisk and careless farewell as she galloped off on a camel—did camels even gallop?—and leaving Trevor a passionate ruin.

  The plans were set, however, and the closer the wedding day came, the less James allowed himself to think of the potential consequences.

  A week before the wedding, Vanessa and Nora traveled with Georgie to London. Two days later, James and Trevor followed with the bulk of the luggage. In many ways, it was a rite of passage marking the change in their relationship: the end of their life as a couple up to that point and the beginning of their relationship with Georgie.

  They allowed enough time to stop for three nights during their journey. Their lovemaking was tender and bittersweet in those inns along the Great North Road.

  The roads were clear and they often went ahead of their carriages on horseback through the brightly colored autumnal countryside. While riding with Trevor, James was reminded of all the reasons he’d fallen so deeply in love with him in the first place: the gentle confidence, the unwavering conviction, the faith.

  That was it, really. Trevor believed in humanity in a way that James feared he never would. His own upbringing had been lacking in so many ways; he didn’t really understand the first thing about faith. Most of the adults who’d populated his childhood were of very little faith indeed, bordering on rascals. His father had been the youngest of five aristocratic sons, and the man had spent his entire life feeling robbed of his rightful share rather than earning a proper living.

  Perhaps that’s what Trevor meant when he said Georgie would be able to find a middle way through James. Because it was true: James understood Georgie. Lack of faith and an inherent cynicism were philosophies they shared.

  On their last night together on the road, James and Trevor were entwined in one another’s arms in the narrow bed of the Stag’s Leap Inn. After their second round of slow, protracted lovemaking, Trevor held James close and whispered, “You will always be mine.”

  That one small phrase, said so lovingly, replenished all of James’s faltering hope. They both slipped into a peaceful rest and awoke early the next morning, ready to close the final distance to London.

  Trevor was not the only one with a troublesome parent awaiting him in the capital. James had considered avoiding his mother entirely, but Trevor wouldn’t hear of it. The elder Mr. Rushford had died when James was a teenager, and his mother had miraculously come to her senses and left the stage in favor of a more reliable husband, a decent widower with a decent shop in Ludgate. She and this shopkeeper had been childhood sweethearts on adjoining farms in Hampshire before James’s father, the ne’er-do-well youngest son of the local gentry, swept Dolly off her feet and got her with child—got her with James, to be precise.

  Dolly’s life as an itinerant actress was now behind her—and along with it the son she had never wanted. Instead of minding him as a mother might, over the years she had pawned James off on her husband’s reluctant relatives in Wales. James and his mothe
r corresponded once or twice a year, probably because that’s what the decent shopkeeper husband expected more than James or Dolly actually wishing for contact.

  When the roads on the outskirts of London started to become more congested, James and Trevor decided to stop for a bite to eat before riding the rest of the way into the center of the city.

  “Aren’t we very close to your mother’s shop?” Trevor asked.

  James looked around and got his bearings. “I think you may be right,” he said. “But I just don’t know if I have it in me to see her yet. Perhaps later in the week?”

  “That’s fine, of course.” Trevor murmured a few soft nonsense words to calm his fidgeting horse before he continued. “But wouldn’t it be easier to see her now and then not have to worry about it for the rest of our time in town?”

  “Oh, very well, you are always so ready to do the right thing.”

  They sent the carriages on to Mayfair and directed their two horses through the crowded streets, the lanes becoming narrower as they went. When he reached a familiar-looking turn, James peered around the crowded lane and recognized the sign out front. Pickleworth’s.

  “Here it is.” James tried to sound blithe, but he knew his voice was strained with resignation. “Why don’t you hold the horses while I go in and see if there’s a stable that they recommend while we visit?”

  James entered the shop, and a tinkling bell above the door caused the tall, thin woman behind the counter to turn in his direction. Oddly enough, he had spent so little time with his own mother, he hardly recognized her. It was almost as if she had taken up the role of shopkeeper in one of her traveling plays, but she had been cast permanently. She stared for a few moments, the bright autumn sun that shone behind James’s shoulders perhaps making it difficult for her to see. But James knew the truth: his own mother didn’t recognize him either.

  “Mr. James Rushford, at your service.” He removed his high top hat and bowed elegantly. She had always been an easy mark for the pomp of the aristocracy. When he lifted his gaze, she had come out from behind the counter and was walking toward him with a genuine smile of approval.

  “Well, aren’t you the handsome one! Thank you very much for your letter informing me of your arrival. We weren’t expecting you for a few more days yet, but I did see the announcement in the paper yesterday of your friend’s upcoming marriage to Lady Georgiana.” She looked over his shoulder and out to the street.

  “Yes, Lord Mayson and I have traveled down together from Derbyshire these past few days in anticipation of that blessed event.”

  As if she needed to prepare herself to say what needed to be said, she clasped her hands in front of her and nodded solemnly. “So this will put an end to your particular friendship then?”

  James had had many years of practice when it came to disguising how it upset him when people referred to his friendship with Trevor in that mincing, disappointed way. But he realized he was, quite blissfully, out of practice. The two of them lived so openly, so freely in the world they had created both at Mayfield House and at Camburton Castle, always welcomed with open arms by Vanessa and Nora or any of the artists who stayed there many months of the year. Even Mrs. Daley and the servants in both houses respected their relationship.

  James had tried to prepare for this part. Outside of their protected enclave in Derbyshire, he knew it was common for people to voice their disdain for his particular friendship with Lord Mayson. But his own mother?

  Still, he let none of that show. In fact, this was an excellent dress rehearsal for what promised to be many days of drawing room innuendos in the coming week.

  “As a matter of fact, Mayson is here with me now. And I was curious if there was a stable you’d recommend nearby so we might water the horses while we take tea or—”

  A curtain that led to the back of the shop was pulled aside and a round-eyed, round-bodied man poked his round head out from behind the fabric. “Is everything all right, Mrs. Pickleworth?”

  “Yes, Mr. Pickleworth. Everything is quite fine.” She stepped aside so Mr. Pickleworth could see that she was talking to James. “You remember Mr. Rushford.”

  “Very good. And a good day to you, Mr. Rushford.” With that, the curtain dropped back into place and Mr. Pickleworth was to be seen no more.

  “He’s very busy now . . . ” she started lamely.

  “Oh yes, I’m sure you both must be very busy.” He looked around and gestured with his arm to encompass the entirety of the shop. Orderly jars of jam and perfectly arrayed dry goods filled the neat shelves. “You have created what looks to be a very tidy establishment.”

  She appeared to be quite proud of herself upon hearing the compliment, or as much as a godly woman named Mrs. Pickleworth was allowed to be proud in the eyes of the Lord. “We work very hard, and we manage.”

  When many more seconds of silence passed, James realized she was not going to ask him to stay for tea, nor was she going to inquire as to whether Trevor would be coming inside. He looked down at his formal hat, one more thing she probably saw as frivolous, but which actually made up the fabric of who James was. He placed the hat back on his head and smiled with perhaps a hint of sadness, but at least it was honest. “It’s been very nice to see you, M— Mother.” For a second there, he had been quite sure he too was going to call her Mrs. Pickleworth.

  “Yes. Very nice to see you, James.”

  “So then, please pass on my regards to Mr. Pickleworth. I will let you know when I am next in town.”

  “Oh, there’s no need to inconvenience yourself. It appears we are all of us well and doing fine.”

  “Yes, that is true. We all appear to be managing.” He bowed again formally, and he thought she exhaled with something akin to relief to be rid of him. “Farewell,” he added.

  She walked him to the door and pulled it open, that cheerful tinkling bell signaling his departure.

  Trevor had dismounted and was holding the reins of both animals loosely in his right hand while he leaned casually against the hitching post. Two young urchins had set their sights on the well-dressed country gentlemen and were begging him for a bit of coin. When Trevor looked up and caught James’s eye, his expression went from hope to disappointment in a flash.

  James shook his head with a quick jerk as the door to Pickleworth’s shut behind him. He strode across the narrow lane and joined Trevor in his negotiations with the two rascals. Trevor was trying to explain to them that if he gave them any money, he would be encouraging them to continue their life of begging. They laughed and talked over one another, promising him this would be the last time ever, smiling their best boyish smiles, tugging at their caps.

  A flash of his own youth—with many moments of having to survive by his own outstretched hand—caused James to reach into his pocket and hand each of them a gold sovereign. They stared at him in grateful disbelief.

  One of them had the quick wit and good humor to reply, “Well, if you go and give us that kind of money—of course we will spend the rest of our lives a-begging!” The other dirty-faced little boy bit on the coin for good measure, and then both of them ran and were quickly out of sight down one of the narrow alleys that wound its way through this part of London.

  James kept facing in their direction long after he’d lost sight of them.

  “So, am I to take it that we were not invited to tea with your family?” Trevor asked lightly.

  James turned then, without a hint of irony. “You are my family, Trevor. Only you.”

  As Franny made the final adjustments to Georgie’s wedding gown, smoothing down the old-fashioned silk and checking the seams and hem one last time, Vanessa looked as if she had never been more pleased.

  “You are so beautiful, Georgie.”

  Unsure how to respond to that, Georgie kept her attention on Franny. “That will be all, my dear,” Georgie said kindly. “Thank you so much again for your help these past weeks.” This was the last she would see of the sweet maid, and Georgie was surprise
d by the tug of emotion the realization brought. Over the past few weeks, young Franny had proved to be a wonderful helper, and Georgie was sad to leave her now that she was returning to the Middle East.

  When the maid had left the room, Georgie turned back to her mother and Nora and gave a small curtsy. “Does everything really look all right?” She took a piece of the delicate dress in each of her hands and pulled it gently to spread the fabric for them to see.

  Nora came over and smoothed her palm down the length of Georgie’s bare arm and then held her hand away from the fabric. “More importantly, how do you feel?”

  How did she feel? That was always the unanswerable question of late. She rarely knew the answer. Or rather, there were too many answers.

  “I think I’m fine?” She smiled hesitantly, knowing that Nora would understand.

  Nora squeezed her hand and nodded. “I think that’s quite all right to own your uncertainty on such an important day. There’s nothing worse than people who seethe with overconfidence, especially when one is feeling insecure.” Nora smiled at Georgie and then turned to look at Vanessa. “You know you do it, darling, and we know you can’t help it. But do allow Georgie to make this day her own, even if that means she shows a little hesitance or even a hint of honest fear.”

  Over the past few weeks, Georgie, Nora, and Vanessa had spent many long hours in one another’s company. What Georgie had thought would be a torturous battle of the wills had turned out to be one of the most salutary times she had ever spent with her mother. Nora was to thank, of course—she could foster reconciliation between a lion and a lamb if she set her mind to it. But it was also Vanessa. She seemed easier somehow, less inclined to take every remark as a barb where Georgie was concerned.

  The seamstresses in London had done a beautiful job transforming her mother’s original wedding gown. Even by Georgie’s reckoning and her limited knowledge of sewing, it was all quite splendidly done. The modiste had taken the fabric from Vanessa’s nearly thirty-year-old gown and created something that felt familiar and comfortable. At an early fitting, Vanessa had spied Georgie in one of her riding corsets while she was changing.