Page 1 of Tamed By a Passionate Lady
Chapter 1
Adaline took her usual position, right at the edge of the garden, where the view out to the sea always took her breath away. Sighing deeply, she reached into the bag at her feet, taking out what she needed.
Her mind ticked off the items as she went: sketchbook, with many blank pages still left within it. Two pencils, each sharpened almost to daggers. One for outlines, and one for shading. Black ink, and brush, in case she wanted to add more depth, but she usually didn’t do that out here. It was only once she was back inside, in the parlour of Birkenhead Lodge, that she settled to that task if she was so inclined.
She opened the sketchbook at a blank page, gazing around for inspiration. Often she sketched the cliffs and the sea, but today they did not lure her for some reason. Perhaps she would sketch the garden instead.
Her eyes skipped around to the rose bushes along the edge of the path. They were beautiful, of course; a cacophony of colour and form, ranging from a deep crimson red to the palest peachy pink, blooming with abandon. And then there were the irises, deep purple, like the imperial purple on the robes of a king, and daffodils, buttery yellow, with a knob of orange right in the centre.
She sighed deeply, pencil poised. There was so much inspiration here, for a landscape artist. On this patch of earth, on the coast of Lancashire, all was beauty for the taking. A wild, desolate beauty, to be sure, once the manicured grounds of Birkenhead Lodge were left, but a beauty nonetheless. A forlorn, grey beauty that matched her soul far more than the streets of Coventry, where she had grown up.
Her pencil hovered over the page, and she bit her lip. She was unsettled this morning. Usually, as soon as she took her habitual seat in the garden to draw, she would feel some small measure of peace at least. She would become absorbed in her task, to the point that sometimes Mrs. Bolt, the housekeeper, would come out to remind her that luncheon was about to be served.
But today, it was proving harder than normal. Her thoughts turned melancholy, and for a moment, she gazed at the garden intently. She didn’t see the spectacular rose bushes or the majestic irises anymore. All was lost, and she frowned, her eyes filling with tears.
She turned around restlessly, gazing back over the sea. It was grey and choppy; she saw white waves breaking far out, as the wind whipped up. The sky above was the same dull metallic grey, scudded with swiftly moving clouds. In the very far distance, she saw the tall sails of a ship as it crashed through the ocean, on its way to Ireland, perhaps, or the Isle of Man.
She blinked back the tears. For one moment, she longed to be on that ship, sailing away. Far, far away from this patch of earth that she had tried so very hard to make her own. How was it possible that she still felt like a visitor within this house, after all this time?
Stop it, Adaline,she told herself sternly. You have made your bed, and now you just have to lie in it. The Lord does not look down kindly on melancholy women who feel sorry for themselves.
Taking a deep, restorative breath, she turned away from the sea, studying the garden again carefully. There was a small statue, tucked away in the garden, almost hidden by the plants. A stone cherub, with outstretched wings and a bow and arrow in hand.
She smiled slightly. It was Cupid, of course, the winged messenger, who shot his arrows into the hearts of men and women, causing them to fall in love.
Her smile faded. Cupid had found her, it was true, but his arrow had not pierced the heart of the one that she wanted. And perhaps he never would.
She bit her lip. She was feeling sorry for herself again. This was her life, and she just had to make the best of it.
Resolutely she picked up her pencil, drawing the outline of the statue. Within minutes she was blessedly absorbed in her task, her head bent over the page, her hand moving like quicksilver as she worked to capture everything that her eyes beheld.
***
She had no idea how much time had passed when she suddenly became conscious of a shadow, falling across her. She glanced up quickly then stiffened automatically, putting down her pencil with a resigned sigh.
“You startled me, Mr. Montgomery,” she said quickly, closing her sketchbook.
The man smiled. “I am sorry to hear that, my dear Adaline,” he replied, his eyes raking over her in that insolent manner which always made her feel so uncomfortable. “Why do you persist in being so formal with me? We are dear friends now. My name is Reuben, and I insist that you should use it, my dear.”
Her lips tightened. She didn’t want to call him by his Christian name. It implied an intimacy with him that she did not want. And she knew that if she capitulated, he would see it as some kind of small victory in this persistent pursuit of her.
She gazed at him steadily, in pure dislike. A tall, angular man, he had a long, almost aquiline face, with a thin nose and small, hazel coloured eyes. His sandy coloured hair ruffled wildly in the sudden breeze, for all the world looking like a bird that was about to take flight.
The strong breeze whipped her hair suddenly, too, causing the pins that held her bun to loosen and scatter. She felt it falling, whipping around her face so intensely that she was forced to pull it back with her hands.
“Do not do that, my dear,” said the man, in a husky voice. “Your hair looks like black silk, streaming in the wind…”
“Do not say that,” she said sharply, glaring at him. “It is not…appropriate, to say such things to me. You must be aware of that, Mr. Montgomery.”
He grinned, as if he had not even heard her words. With shocked eyes, she watched as he settled down on the seat beside her, pulling it closer.
“Ah, Adaline,” he said, in a light tone. “You must be aware that James has squirrelled himself away in his study, as is his morning habit.” A deliberate pause. “He cannot hear or witness anything that we say or do, which leaves us free to speak and act in any way that we desire.”
She pursed her lips, staring at him with distaste.
“You are my husband’s childhood friend,” she said slowly. “I do not understand, Mr. Montgomery, how you feel that just because my husband is not within earshot, that you can speak to me in such a suggestive manner.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up her hand, which was resting on the top of her sketchbook. Her skin instantly started to crawl, and she pulled it way quickly, still stunned that he could be so forward with her while her husband sat oblivious in the house beyond.
