Defiant Rose (33 page)

“What’s so funny, boyo?” Clara asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Michael lied. “It’s just that Carney still has the ability to surprise me. And something tells me she always will.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

D
INING AT THE
H
ARVEY
H
OUSE
was like heaven after trying to eat on the train, but Rosemary couldn’t eat more than a few bites. She was still stuffed after breakfast, and the sight of the sumptuous dinner foods was nauseating.

She was sipping a cup of tea, aware that Michael was watching her with a peculiar smile as the waitress poured him a whiskey. Holding the glass to the light, he examined the amber contents, speaking almost as if to himself.

“This looks like a good whiskey, but appearances can be deceiving. I’ve heard that liquor is one of the more common beverages that people use to poison another, due to the heady taste. Have you ever heard anything like that?”

Rosemary choked, the tea burning her throat. “Poison?”

“Or adding any other substance,” Michael continued thoughtfully. “Like medicine, herbs…even a potion.”

The color drained from her face. Rosemary watched him intently as he sipped the whiskey, seemingly unconcerned about the implications of his words.

“The only problem with such a ploy is that one seldom drinks alone,” Michael explained. “There is always the possibility that one may choose the wrong glass. Then the result could be either deadly or humorous, depending on the initial intent.”

He knew. Without a doubt, Rosemary knew he had figured it out. A ghastly smile came to her face, and she turned quickly toward the window, trying to change the subject.

“Isn’t the countryside lovely? I think the western states are the prettiest, don’t you?”

“Worse, some of these medications—or potions, if you will—have long-lasting effects,” Michael continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Clara, for instance, told me that some of her medications last for months. Can you imagine? One false swig and a man or a woman could be affected for half a year!”

Rosemary gulped. She wondered what had possessed Clara to give him any such information. Michael Wharton was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. Paling even more, she pushed back from the table, wanting to get as far away from him as possible.

“Rosemary, are you all right?”

Smiling wanly, she nodded. “I think I’ll go back to the train now. We’re leaving within the hour.”

Michael nodded, then picked up the check and paid the waitress. Rosemary wasn’t sure, but she could have sworn she saw laughter playing around his mouth. She didn’t know what he was up to, but one thing was for certain—she didn’t want to wait to find out. She remembered the snake incident all too well.

The Pullman sleeping car was already arranged and made up for the night. Sighing in anticipation, Rosemary undressed quickly and slipped into the bed, wearing only a light chemise. Even with the motion of the train, sleep in a real bed, even if it was small, was a luxury.

The door closed and she glanced up, frowning as she saw Michael enter the tiny car. Nodding to her in greeting, he turned up the gaslight and began to unbutton his shirt. All the breath left her lungs as he took off the shirt, his bare chest gleaming in the lamplight. Then he sat down and began to remove his shoes.

Rosemary quickly found her voice. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He looked at her in surprise. “Getting ready for bed. You didn’t think I’d sleep in the aisle, did you?”

“But…” Frantic, Rosemary gathered up the covers and glanced toward the door. “Isn’t there another bed? I’m sure you’d be much more comfortable—”

“I’ll be fine here,” Michael assured her, annoyed. “After all, we are husband and wife. Don’t you think it would look a little questionable if I asked for separate quarters?”

Feeling very much like a cornered leprechaun, Rosemary tried to come up with an escape. This was something her mind hadn’t taken into consideration. With the invention of the sleeping car came beds, and of necessity, a certain closeness to one’s traveling companions. To spend an entire night with him was asking for trouble. He was too handsome, too charming, and too dangerous to her well-being. Carney the clown was running out of tricks, and this was the time she desperately needed them the most.

“I will sleep with Clara, then.” The suggestion seemed like an inspiration to Rose. “That will leave you the entire bed, which I’m sure you’ll find to your liking.” Rosemary sat up, prepared to scamper into the adjoining compartment, when Michael shook his head.

“Clara has all of her bags and apparatus in her compartment. There isn’t room for a cockroach to turn around. Besides, she’s already locked her door and is sound asleep.” He stood up, unbuckling his trousers. “But I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

She was trapped. Watching in horrified fascination, she saw him remove his pants, revealing a body that gleamed with muscle and masculine strength. He was gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous. Every line of his body, every play of muscle and lean flesh as he moved with a devastating grace, was as appealing as it was dangerous.

Rosemary swallowed hard as he got down to his underwear and started to remove that. She turned quickly, hearing his chuckle, then the soft swish of the covers as he climbed into the bed. He was too close, and it was too easy to let appearances slip into reality. It was a game he was playing, she reminded herself. He was punishing her because of the potion. Rosemary had no doubt of his intentions. The safest course was to squeeze her eyes shut, ignore his presence, and try to sleep. Not only would that be near impossible, but it galled her as well. Carney may have been subdued but hardly beaten.

Slipping a pillow from the bed, she ignored his curious glance as she stuffed the bolster between them, forming a small but effective barrier. Incredulous, Michael stared at the cotton wall, then at the beautiful clown lying beside him.

“Madam, surely you don’t think—”

“I’m certain you won’t have any objections,” Rosemary said sweetly. “After all, you’ve made it very clear that we are husband and wife in name only. I believe it took six guns to your head to make you perform the deed.”

“Rose—”

“So I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you further,” Rosemary said with a charitable smile. “Especially since Clara gave me a potion earlier. This one is supposed to make me sleep like a dead Irishman, but there is one complication.” She winked as if imparting a secret. “It will make me snore!”

Michael’s mouth dropped as she turned over, pulling the covers up. Almost instantly she was asleep, and worse, Clara was absolutely right about the resulting complication. Rosemary snored loud enough to wake the heavens, if not the people in the next compartment.

So much for potions, Michael thought in chagrin, but there was one intriguing idea that hadn’t escaped his notion. Rosemary was not completely immune to his presence. And that had potential.

“When are we going to get to this heathen city?” Clara muttered, tossing aside her books. “We’ve been riding on this train for days now. You didn’t say it would take this long to get to the den of sin.”

“We’ll be there shortly,” Michael said, giving Clara a stern look. “I’ve already wired my mother. She’s preparing rooms and is welcoming you both as guests.”

“Bah!” Clara glared back at him, her eyes bulging. “I’ll wager she’s as glad to see us as I am to see chilblains. Stick to the truth, Wharton. It was always your best defense.”

“It happens to be true,” Michael continued calmly, noticing the way Rosemary stiffened. He didn’t bother to add that his mother had been dutifully shocked, and it was only because she was so glad he was returning that she’d agreed so easily. He still hadn’t told her they were married—he’d decided to break that news to her later. “I know the rooms she means, and they are nice. I think you will both be very comfortable. I think it’s best if I introduce Clara as your aunt. It will avoid complications.”

Rosemary stared at the endless tracks, then at the distance where the city would unfold. In the past few days Michael had been obliging and courteous, if a little cold. He’d continued taking her to the Harvey Houses for meals, treating her to the best they had to offer, and was solicitous about her health. The baby, she reminded herself. That was all he cared about.

At night he still shared their bed, but thankfully, Clara’s potion did wonders. Last night she’d run out, and it had been torture lying in the same chamber with him and remembering what it had been like between them. If it was this difficult now, what would it be like in a few weeks or months? “Michael, I don’t think this is such a good idea. Why don’t we just call the whole thing off?”

She looked so vulnerable and appealing, her green eyes fastened to his, that he softened his response. “Look, if you don’t like it, I promise we’ll discuss an alternative. But the show will only be playing a few more towns and then will wait out the winter. If by spring, you don’t see it my way, I’ll reconsider. But you have to give it a chance.”

It was more than he’d been willing to give in days, but Rosemary was still cautious. “And the debt?”

“I’ll take care of it. Griggs will send me the balance of the receipts, and I’ll settle your loan. I have a feeling that Carney’s will be well into the black and easily able to repay the debt.”

“No thanks to you,” Clara muttered. “Don’t be taking any bows, boyo. Carney’s always does well.”

Rosemary smothered a chuckle as Clara and Michael glared at each other. But it did not stop the dread from creeping inside of her as they approached Philadelphia, nor the feeling that this would be her most difficult adjustment yet. Doing a backflip would be simple compared to fitting into Michael’s life.

It would have surprised her to find that Michael was thinking much the same thing.

“Philadelphia!”

The conductor called out, and the train wheezed into the city, the brakes squealing in protest as the wheels ground to a halt. Clutching her bag, Rosemary followed Michael and Clara out to the platform and looked about her in disbelief.

Denver had been a busy town, but nothing had prepared her for the sight that met her eyes. Building after building of granite rose before her, while the train station itself, with its high ceilings and arched doorways, was positively intimidating. Carriages rumbled by, jostling each other to pick up fares, while businessmen and women shopping in the dazzling array of stores filled the narrow streetways.

Michael called for a carriage, and immediately a ruddy-faced Irishman appeared, cheerfully loading their baggage onto the top and securing it with straps. As they rumbled down the streets, Rosemary couldn’t count the shops. There were tobacco rollers, carpet weavers, cabinetmakers, and upholsterers, dress shops and milliners, shirtmakers, and machine shops. Beggars offered battered tins to passersby, while women in furs with sparkling beaded purses brushed past them without an indolent glance. It was a bawdy town, elegant and tawdry at the same time. Rose was entranced.

As they passed Market Street, the buildings grew noticeably nicer and the streets more upscale. Mansions lined the walks, and streets named Walnut and Chestnut crisscrossed in an almost perfect grid with the numbered roads. The carriage stopped before a large granite house that was situated behind a park that the driver called Rittenhouse.

Rosemary stared around her in awe. She’d never seen anything like it, not in any of the towns she knew well. It was a mansion. Even from the road she could see the elegant architecture of the building, the rounded windows and carved cornices, the scrollwork and polished brass trimmings. Michael disembarked and paid the carriage driver, then knocked on the door. Rosemary and Clara stood directly on the step as the driver plunked their bags beside them. A servant appeared clad in a dark suit and a spotless shirt.

“Yes?” The man looked at Clara and Rosemary with obvious disdain, then his eyes fell to their bags. Clara had at least five, all of them bulging with her fortune-telling aids, while Rosemary had one battered piece. “If you are looking for the Hibernia Club, it is two blocks down and to the right.” The man started to close the door when Michael stepped forward and quickly stopped him.

“I don’t think that’s the right address, James.”

“Mr. Wharton!” The servant’s face changed from disapproving rigidity to outright pleasure. “I apologize. Your mother did say you were coming home with guests, but she failed to mention that they were of this interesting variety.” He opened the door wide, then stooped to fetch some of the bags. “Upon my word, sir, this should be intriguing. Do come in.”

Rosemary entered the house cautiously, while Clara scowled at every new sight. Inside, the foyer floor was black and white marble squares, while a monstrous mirror framed them all like a poorly executed painting. Statues and chairs were placed about in every available corner, while patterned wallpaper in burgundy and gold ran up the walls and even over the ceiling. Odd-looking seats, positioning one person behind the other, were placed in the adjoining parlor, while thick woolen rugs covered the floors. Gilt dripped everywhere, and art objects, especially fat roses, decorated every available space.

“My God, it looks like a museum,” Rosemary breathed, and Clara cackled in agreement.

“Yes, it is atrocious, isn’t it?” James glanced blandly around the room, then back to Michael. “It seems your guests don’t have an appreciation for modern-day design.”