The Whisper Of Wings (23 page)

Michaela feared dinner would be strained after the rather unpleasant beginning, but Mason Telford was far too interesting for the evening to be a complete loss. He kept up a steady stream of the most enlightening conversation, conversation that heightened Michaela's growing awareness of just how wonderful Christopher Standeven was. Mason included her in everything, as though talking to a good friend. She was grateful for his attention. It kept her mind off the dark-haired beauty seated to his left.

Several times, Portia attempted to dominate the conversation, but the two great minds of the business men eventually won out, and she was left to follow along with the others, only half listening most of the time. She seemed far more intent on getting Christopher's attention than actually holding a conversation of any interest. But she couldn't hold his attention for very long, and most of the time she appeared bored beyond measure.

Michaela couldn't help but sneak an occasional glance in her direction. In her opinion, Portia was overdone, with her gaudy red-sequined gown, her jet-black hair piled into a perfect coif upon her regal head, flashing rubies at her ears and throat, and her heavy makeup. It was a dress that screamed "look at me." The racy woman obviously had marriage on her mind, marriage to Christopher Standeven, and she would do anything to sink her claws into him. It was clear she didn't like Michaela's intrusion.

In light of Portia's adept flirtations, Michaela began to retreat into herself more and more as the evening wore on. She could never compete with a woman like Portia. Despite her showy clothing, she was far too sophisticated and beautiful. And the idea that Portia might just get her wish and capture the riveting Christopher Standeven was so disturbing to her that she could scarcely bear to sit and watch it unfold. Even the scant hope that Portia would have succeeded long ago were Christopher of a mind didn't seem to help. The very thought of the spiteful woman marrying him was too much to bear.

Trying to take her mind off Portia, Michaela deliberately focused on something Christopher was saying.

"This man is ruthless enough to be purchasing tax certificates from poor farmers, taking advantage of their Depression plight. It's an appalling practice. There are other ways to make money, other markets."

"Oh, Christopher. Always the gentleman," Portia chimed at the appropriate moment. "So politically minded. I find it all rather dull and dreary."

"I think it's interesting," Michaela said before she realized that she had. It seemed a bold thing to do considering.

Portia turned and fixed her with a lethal glare that Christopher couldn't see. Michaela all but hid her face behind her wineglass, trying to smile through the awkwardness of it all.

Mason, obviously ignorant of his daughter's embarrassing attitude toward Michaela, turned to acknowledge her remark. "And rightly so. Women
should
learn politics. You have a gem here, Christopher. She seems very intelligent."

Portia set her wineglass down a little too hard. Christopher saw it as just another ploy to get his attention, and deliberately ignored her. His eyes were trained on Michaela. He knew the dinner was awkward for her, but he was proud of the way she was handling it. She was a true lady.

Gerald smothered a strained laugh with a fake cough, exchanged a quick glance of sympathy with Michaela, and reached for another dinner roll.

Mason was still focused on Michaela, his eyes gleaming with delight as he explained, "You might find it interesting to know that your Mr. Standeven has been rumored to have the ear of Roosevelt himself on occasion."

Michaela was duly impressed and didn't mind showing it.

"And rumor it is," Christopher murmured.

"Poppy-cock!" Telford responded. He leaned closer to Michaela and gave her hand a conspiratorial pat. "Enjoy it while you can, my dear. It's the only modesty I've ever heard come out of the man."

Michaela laughed. Before now, it had seemed impossible that Christopher Standeven could be the subject of a good-natured tease, and it was a pleasure to experience. Somehow, it made her feel more intimate with him.

After dinner, the group retired to the sitting room to cap off the evening. Mason insisted on escorting her down the hall, insisted that she sit next to him. He seemed intrigued by her, quite taken with the intelligent conversation she offered him. Michaela could easily understand his interest, considering that his own daughter exhibited only boredom with anything outside her realm of desire.

"Quite the departure, wouldn't you say, old man?" he kept saying to Christopher, especially after she'd finished a particularly keen observation.

Michaela was delighted to have a captive of Mason Telford's caliber. Rather than be offended or annoyed, he seemed amused by the questions she plied him with, all too eager to oblige her with explanations of business and politics and diamonds.

Christopher sat just opposite them, his eyes glittering with some unfathomable emotion, the corners of his mouth lifted just slightly, as if he were pleased that Mason was so enamored with Michaela. Michaela was glad to be surrounded by the men who offered such substantial support, glad to be so occupied. With a sullen James Telford watching her and an angry Portia eyeing her with jealous regard, she needed the attention of the other men to keep her nerves steady. The evening proved a long one, but with Gerald's help and Mason's wit, Michaela managed to get through it. Still, she was relieved when it finally ended and she was allowed to retire to her room. It had been quite exhausting.

Long after his travel-weary guests had begged off, Christopher sat alone in his darkened office, sipping a brandy, his mind on Michaela. She'd done quite well for herself this evening. He was pleased. She was getting stronger. He took it as a good sign.

He was startled when the phone on his desk began to ring. He automatically checked his pocket watch. It was after ten, far too late for any polite human being to be ringing. Nonetheless, he picked up the handset and identified himself.

It was the private investigator he'd hired, the very phone call he'd been waiting for.

The man was very detailed and meticulous with his news. Even after Christopher had ended the call, he remained at his desk, brooding darkly. His conversation with the investigator had been enlightening, if not downright disturbing. It would seem that Michaela's father had contracted an arranged marriage with a man named Geoffrey Yelvington, a positively archaic notion in Christopher's estimation. With Michaela having disappeared, the man was claiming breach of contract. He intended to sue the family and take over at least a portion of the cotton business he'd been promised by the patriarch of the family, a promise that would only stand if Michaela married him. When two greedy men put their minds together, it was rare that innocent people didn't suffer. This time it was Michaela who would suffer.

Though her father had died just months prior, she was still obligated to Yelvington. She had made the decision to flee that obligation just a few days after her father's funeral, presumably when she realized that Yelvington still intended to make good on the arrangement. In her absence, he was causing problems, threatening litigation if Michaela was not found and the deal was not upheld.

Now he knew why her mother had been so insistent about Michaela's return.

The whole thing angered Christopher. Michaela was nothing more than a pawn in a game of greed. It incensed him to think that her father had seen her as nothing more than a bargaining chip to be used to patch a business that had begun to falter from his poor judgment, to consign her to marrying a man she didn't love, couldn't possibly live with. Were she to do so, the arrangement would destroy her soul, her aspirations, all that she was. Everything that was bundled together to make her Michaela would be taken from her, until she was empty. Empty of all that she had ever dreamed possible for herself. Her spirit would be broken. She knew it, and that's why she had run. She simply couldn't bear to live a lie. Christopher didn't blame her. He too would have run, at any cost, if only to salvage his soul.

His questions had been answered. He knew all that he need know about her now. She was no threat to his family. She was an innocent, a victim. And he'd be damned if he would allow this to happen to her. No one was going to hurt Michaela. Ever.

Michaela paused on the landing to listen. She thought she'd heard voices, but she must have been mistaken because it was quiet now. The hall was dark, and she found her way only by familiarity. She'd traveled this path so many times before that she could find her way to Mr. Standeven's office with a blindfold over her eyes.

After all the activities of the day, she'd been too excited to sleep. The great, hulking typewriter had sat there on her desk, beckoning, drawing her in, and she was not able to silence the characters in her mind, characters that begged to be brought to life. There was nothing for it but to give in, go downstairs and get more paper so she could work on the story she'd been creating, a story that would not let her rest until it was told in its entirety.

She had been like this ever since she was a little girl. She would lie awake in her room at night, her mind crowded with wondrous tales, dashing heroes, beautiful heroines. She'd be bursting to tell their story, to put it down on paper, but too often she wasn't allowed to do so. Her family would always find something else for her to do. But she had no fear of reprisal now. No dread of recriminations and cruel words carelessly flung about. Tonight was hers. All hers. She could do as she pleased. And the need to write was just too tempting to ignore. She had to have more paper.

In the hall, she paused again when she realized she was not alone. A slice of lamplight shone from under the half-closed door of the study, arching out into the hall and illuminating her feet. She hesitated, considering the best course of action. She didn't want to be seen. Should she return to her room? Or should she think nothing of it and continue on to Christopher's office where the paper waited? What harm could it cause? She'd always been free to roam wherever she chose, but with guests in the house, her late-night quest might prove awkward. She didn't want to cause Christopher—Mr. Standeven any embarrassment.

She hadn't yet decided what to do when she suddenly heard Portia's voice through the door, rising a little, as if in agitation.

"He can't possibly be serious about her. She's not even in his social class. It's just a diversion. It can't be anything else."

Michaela drew in a sharp gasp of hurt. Was Portia talking about her? Was she really the cause of all that venom?

"I'll marry him yet. If he wants Daddy's...."

Suddenly, a hand snaked out of the darkness and pulled Michaela into the dark recesses of the adjoining library. She started to squeal in alarm, but Christopher put a warning finger to her lips to stop her. She stared up at him in surprise. Even in the shadows, he looked handsome. She would know him anywhere, even in the pitch darkness of blindness, just by touch alone.

A rustling noise had drawn Christopher out into the hall, and he hadn't been surprised to see Portia and her brother entering the library. Portia was given to late parties, late nights, and even later nightcaps. She had probably come downstairs to partake of his fine brandy. The accompaniment of her brother was no surprise, either. He hadn't failed to note that young James had been rather too intent on that same brandy all evening. Portia was probably delighted to have an excuse to wander the house after dark. Perhaps she'd even hoped to run into Christopher by some odd fluke. Perish the thought.

Christopher was not pleased with Portia's comments. He was angered by the effrontery of the brash bitch. How dare she be so crass, and in
his
house.

He automatically ducked into the darkened doorway of the library, and stood there contemplating stepping into the study and surprising Portia into contriteness. But then Michaela had entered his line of vision, and he'd opted for silence instead, to avoid a nasty scene that would only hurt Michaela in the long run. Best to let it lay for a time. He didn't want Michaela to suffer Portia's full wrath. Still, he was appalled and angered that Michaela had overheard the remark, and he was barely able to contain his desire to confront Portia.

Too bad Mason wasn't aware of his daughter's hateful ways. He might not have bothered to bring her along. But Portia had probably begged him to come, eager to see Christopher.

One thing was certain. He would not let the indignity lie. He would take care of this. In his own time. In his own way.

The voices were muted now, almost incomprehensible, but still Christopher held Michaela gently within the circle of his arms, his eyes more intent than she'd ever seen them before, even in shadow. He looked angry, enraged, in fact.

"I'm sorry you had to hear this," he murmured, keeping his voice low to avoid being discovered by his distasteful houseguests.

Michaela had almost forgotten Portia's biting words. She was far too wrapped up in the feeling of being so near him, being literally enveloped in his strong arms. He didn't seem eager to release her anytime soon, and she was no more eager to be released.

"If she wasn't the daughter of a very good friend, I would throw her out on her vicious backside," he whispered.

Despite the anger in his words, his voice was nothing short of a caress that Michaela reveled in. She could have stood there all night, for as long as he wanted to hold her. But he was tensing now, moving away.