Louisa Rawlings (30 page)

“To be made love to? God, I hope not. But not now. Not like this. There’s a right time. And for you, I think that time will be on your wedding night. With your husband.”

She drew back and looked at him. “Arthur?”

His voice trembled in his chest. “Do you want it to be Arthur?”

She smiled and ran a gentle finger along the edge of his chin. “No,” she whispered.

His eyes searched her face. “Willough? By all that’s holy…
Willough
? Can it be so?” She nodded. “And would you marry me if ask you?” She nodded again. He laughed softly, relief and astonishment washing over his countenance. “I can’t believe it. Willough…beautiful Willough…that I love so…”

“Merciful heaven, Nat! Will you
please
kiss me again? I’ll be an old maid before you kiss me, let alone by the time we’re married!”

He kissed her softly, then released her and led her to the sofa, sitting down and pulling her onto his lap. She felt very small nestled against his brawny chest, enveloped by his arms. “I used to watch you too,” she said shyly. “You’re such a good person. It showed in everything you did. The way you cared about the Wilderness, your concern for the men. They think so much of you.”

“But I frightened you.”

“I don’t know why. I thought about you so much. I missed you terribly on the weekends, when Daddy and I would come to Saratoga.” She sighed. “Perhaps I was afraid of my own heart.”

“Are you afraid of me now?”

“No. It’s only…I don’t know how to put this. I’m not sure I understand myself. I’m not afraid of you—as Nat. But you…the man…I’m always aware of how small I feel beside you. So…so helpless. It’s frightening.”

“And does this frighten you?” He tipped up her chin and kissed her softly, then deepened his kiss when she responded willingly to him. She threw her arms around his neck and tangled her fingers in his soft curls. Could this be happening to her? To be sitting on a man’s lap, kissing him like a hoyden, like a wild, abandoned creature?

He stirred suddenly and grunted, drawing back from her kiss. His eyes were dark and smoldering. “Now you’d better go to bed,” he said. His voice was a deep rasp in his throat, and his chest was heaving as though he had been running.

“What is it?” she began, then sighed in dismay. Without really knowing, she understood. And it was all her fault. She rose from his lap and struggled with her loose tresses. “I’m sorry. I seem to bring out your base nature.”

He stood up and took her hands in his. “My God, Willough, you make me feel like a
man
. There’s nothing base about that. It’s healthy and natural.” His eyes swept her lush curves. “You have the most beautiful body…”

“Nat, please.” She tried to pull away.

“I won’t touch you. I promise you. But why should you be ashamed?”

“Because it’s shameful.”

“No it’s
not
,” he growled.

“Let me go,” she whispered.

“No. I told you I won’t touch you. But I
want
you, Willough—as a man wants a woman. Don’t forget that. And don’t be ashamed of it either.” He released her hands and cradled her face in his palms. He kissed her softly. “Now go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning. If it’s all right with you, I want to speak to your father.”

“Of course.” She moved toward the stairs, wondering how she could be parted from him even until the morning.

“Willough?”

She turned, waiting.

He was smiling gently. “You haven’t said it yet.”

She felt herself blush, her normal reticence returning. “I’ve let you kiss me in more ways than I could have imagined! You know how I feel.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“It’s very difficult for me, Nat.” Her eyes were begging him.

“I know. There’s a high wall around you—built of ignorance and inhibitions. And snobbery too. I’ve got to break it down, brick by brick, or you
will
hate me on our wedding night. That’s why I want you to say the words, no matter how embarrassing it seems.”

“Nat…please…I…”

“Say it, Willough.”

“I love you,” she whispered, her face burning. She smiled in relief. That wasn’t so difficult, after all! Nat was right. All the conventions, all the genteel propriety—a confining wall to be breached, with the help of a tender tutor. She grinned. “I love you, Nat Stanton!” she exulted. She sailed up the stairs to her room, feeling giddy with happiness. The moonlight streamed through her windows; Martha had neglected to pull the shades. She undressed without lighting her lamp, then stopped, her clothing around her ankles, her hand poised on her nightgown. She stepped out of the circle of garments on the floor and stood in front of her cheval glass, staring at her nakedness. She’d never in her whole life had the courage to look at her own body this way. Her breasts were firm, her hips rounded and sensuous. And the moonlight turned her naked flesh to silvery velvet.

She laughed softly. A beautiful body. That’s what he’d said. Reluctantly, she turned away from the mirror, slipped into her nightdress, and crawled into bed. She thought of the paintings in the museums. For the first time, she found herself wondering what a
real
man’s body looked like. Nat’s body. She laughed again. Mother would be scandalized. She hadn’t even felt a pang of shame at such thoughts.

Nor had she a thought for Arthur Gray, who cursed softly and cracked his whip over the head of the chestnut mare as he drove a rented carriage the next morning. He was in a foul mood. The carriage was old and shabby—the best the hotel could supply—and he hated driving himself. The sooner he got home to his own elegant coach and driver, the happier he’d be. But he needed to get those papers from Brian before his train left today. And the name of that alderman who was interested in buying some land up in the Clinton area. Brian had met the man in Saratoga last week. Arthur smiled grimly to himself. He could work out some arrangement with the man. Brian didn’t have to know all the details. No point in cutting him in for more money than he had to.

Arthur cursed again. Damn last night! It had been perfect—the honeysuckle, the moonlight, Willough trembling beside him, virginal and innocent. And no privacy! With Brian sleeping in the boathouse and that oaf watching the parlor, what the hell was he supposed to do? It was years since he’d tried to take a woman out of doors, or in the backseat of a carriage. And then they were usually the experienced whores from Mulligan’s Hall on Broome Street. They didn’t make a fuss at the discomfort, and they didn’t have nearly as many skirts to contend with!

But he wanted Willough. God, how he wanted her! All the years, all the frustrated passion with Isobel had suddenly focused on her daughter, till he was obsessed with her, mad to find satisfaction in her warm and young body. Yes. Supper at Delmonico’s. Upstairs. It was very private, with a comfortable settee in the corner, and soft lights and champagne. And a door that locked.

He drew up to Brian’s house and was ushered onto the veranda, where breakfast had been set out. Only Stanton was there, drinking coffee. Arthur nodded coldly and was surprised at the cordial greeting he received in return. He helped himself to eggs and bacon, wondering what could have put Stanton in such a good mood. Somehow it only added to his own black humor. When Brian appeared, he concluded their business quickly, eager to be on his way home. He’d just wait to see Willough, and then he’d leave.

He heard a rustle at the door, and turned. Willough was there, floating out on a cloud of pink silk foulard and looking like an angel. He frowned, examining her more closely. Something was different. It wasn’t just her hair, arranged in soft curls and ringlets that cascaded down her back, or the spray of flowers she’d tucked behind one ear. Her whole
attitude
seemed changed, the way she moved, smiled, carried her head.

“Good morning, Daddy.” She kissed Brian on the cheek. “Arthur…” She smiled fleetingly in his direction—friendly, impersonal, indifferent—and turned her attention to Stanton. “Nat.” The voice was soft and melting. Stanton crossed the veranda to her and stared deeply into her eyes before leading her to a place at the table.

Damn! thought Arthur. Something’s happened between them! He should have come back into the house with her last night, made sure Stanton had retired. He cursed his own stupidity. He should have taken her, no matter what. The thought that she might have lost her virginity to Stanton last night enraged him more than anything else. He studied them both again. No. It wasn’t likely. Stanton didn’t seem the type. And Willough still had that air of fragile innocence. If Stanton had educated her in the ways of sex last night, she’d either be brazenly bold this morning or blushing with remembered shame. He smiled in satisfaction. It gave him a certain comfort to think she was still in the dark.
He
would enlighten her when she came to New York City for his party.

Brian looked up from the plate of food he’d been shoveling into his mouth, and motioned to the servant. “Ah. Martha. Is that the mail?”

“Yes, sir.”

He riffled the few letters. “Bills!” He sniffed. “When they want to be paid, they can find you. A letter from my dear wife. She needs more money, I don’t doubt. Here’s one for you, Willough.”

Willough had been picking at her food, exchanging shy glances with Stanton. She looked up in surprise. “For me?” She took the letter and ripped it open, smiling delightedly as she read it over. “It’s from Drew!”

Brian snorted. “My artist son? What’s he up to now?”

“Oh, Daddy! It’s wonderful! He’s got himself
married
, and now they’re both on the way to Paris, France, where he plans to paint.”

“Dammit, he’s no son of mine,” Brian growled. “Martha, what the hell did you put into that coffee? Bring me a glass of mineral water!” He turned to Willough with a scowl. “I don’t want to hear you mention your brother’s name again.”

Willough looked up from the letter. “Her name’s Marcy. He sounds very happy,” she said softly.

“Wife or no wife, he’s no good to me unless he’s working beside me at the ironworks.”

Arthur said, “I’ll have to send him a wedding present. I was always very fond of Drew.”

Brian smiled in malice. “So was Isobel. I wonder what she thinks of this news?”

“She doesn’t know,” said Willough. “Drew has asked us to tell her.”

Arthur arose from his chair, put on his gloves, picked up his hat. “I’ll tell her. It will be easier to take, coming from me.” He said his good-byes, reminding them once more about his party, and hurried out to his carriage.

The train ride to the city was intolerable, the clacking of the wheels echoing his impatience and frustration. He had to have Willough.
He had to have Willough
.

He frowned, thinking of his upcoming interview with Isobel. It wouldn’t be easy telling her about Drew’s marriage. She had always doted on the boy. But wait a moment! He sat up stiffly. Drew was in Paris. It was clear he meant to make a career of his painting. If Brian had pinned any hopes on his son succeeding him, he would have to think again. The succession, if not the total inheritance, would now fall to Willough. He laughed softly. And Willough’s husband.

It wasn’t just the money, of course. He could have married half a dozen heiresses if all he wanted was the money. And he did well enough for himself. The Fifth Avenue house would make that clear to New York society. But Boss Tweed was in trouble, and all his alliances were crumbling. There were too many aldermen and commissioners who would be ready to “sing” if it came to that. And some of them might even remember Arthur Bartlett Gray from the old days. He needed the power that would come from a controlling interest in the MacCurdy industry.

And a socially connected wife, with a name like Carruth… It was almost as good a name as Astor, and more respected in some quarters; the Carruths had been the cream of New York society while John Jacob Astor was still selling furs. With a wife who counted the Carruths in her family tree, he could move beyond Tammany Hall and sordid politics. Yes. To seduce Willough might satisfy his passions (and he had always found something exciting in corrupting an innocent), but
marriage
would guarantee his future.

But what to do about Stanton? There was certainly an attraction between the two of them. It might just be a passing fancy on Willough’s part; sheltered young girls often enjoyed flirting with the danger of crude men like that. But surely she wouldn’t marry him. Still, he would do well to hasten her disaffection. He had a sudden thought. He would invite Stanton to his party. In the city the man would look like the bumpkin he was; Willough’s rustic sweetheart would soon lose his charms when viewed next to a Fifth Avenue gentleman.

Arthur stroked his mustache thoughtfully. The job could be done. But he’d need an ally. He couldn’t appear to challenge Stanton directly. He would seem too much like a jealous rival.

Isobel
. She had a way of making even a second-generation heir appear an upstart. She could cut Stanton to ribbons. But he’d have to be careful. The news of Drew would devastate her. If she thought for a moment that he, Arthur, wanted Willough for himself, she’d die. He chuckled under his breath. He’d appeal to her snobbery, suggest that Willough’s infatuation might lead to marriage. The thought of Stanton as a son-in-law would horrify her. And—more subtly—he would appeal to her dislike of Willough. If he phrased it in just the right way, he could get her to destroy Stanton.