Betina Krahn (39 page)

A master in the use of selective candor, he had confided in Dunwoody concerning his “deep affection” for Madeline. Then, playing on the fact that she had flown from St. Crispin to his arms, he insinuated that she was coming to feel the same. The priggish solicitor was so relieved to have his rebellious client show inclinations toward female conformity that he virtually opened the estate’s coffers to Gilbert. The extravagant new clothes had come from Madeline’s own money, and the staff who had assiduously attended her every whim had also been paid for with her coin.

He smiled, freeing his mind to spin its cleverest webs. If she welcomed his “rescue,” there would be a quick wedding to silence any untoward comment. If she refused his magnanimous “remedy” for her disgrace, the scandal of her abduction could be used to help prove her erratic and unstable behavior in the courts.

Either way, he would be seen as a devoted kinsman acting
in her best interest. And her lovely fortune would tumble straight into his appreciative hands.

It was only minutes before the coach pulled up before Cole’s house on Berkeley Square. He removed his coat and put it around Madeline, but when he climbed down and reached up to help her down, she refused to move.

“Where are we?” she demanded, looking up at the imposing brick facade, elegant doors, and well-tended greenery boxes on either side of the entrance.

“My house.” When she started to protest, he reached for her waist and hauled her from the coach bodily.

The doors seemed to open magically and he trundled her quickly inside. The marble entry hall was bathed in the light of two gas lamps that were turned low, but she had little chance to see the place. He tossed a string of orders to the houseman who met them, while propelling her to the steps and up.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, trying unsuccessfully to wrench away but succeeding in finally dragging him to a dead stop in the middle of the stairs. “Why have you brought me here?”

“We need to talk, and this is the safest, most private place I know.”

“Safest for whom?” She glanced up the stairs and glared at him.

He studied her resentment, belatedly seeing his choice of venue through the broken trust visible in her eyes. Reversing direction, he dragged her back down the steps and pulled her down a long hall and into a paneled room lined with bookshelves, furnished with a massive mahogany desk and heavy leather upholstery, and smelling faintly of fresh tobacco and aged whisky.

“Will this do?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral.

She pulled his coat tighter around her and surveyed the
room with rising discomfort. It seemed very much the way she might have expected his private study to be. Elegant but substantial … venerable … comfortable … a refuge from the responsibilities of the powerful male world. Just now
she
needed a refuge. And the very last thing she needed was to be closeted someplace “comfortable” with Cole Mandeville.

“It depends on what you have in mind,” she said, struggling to protect herself by feeding the embers of her anger. It was the only defense she could seem to muster against him and her need for him. “I don’t see any whips or chains—or thumbscrews.”

“Is that what you think? That I brought you here to torture you?”

“I haven’t the foggiest why you’d take me anywhere. I would have thought you’d be more than glad to see the last of me.” She told herself not to look at him, not to listen to the undercurrents of warmth in his tone, and fastened her gaze on the desk. “Or perhaps you’ve brought me here to take me up on my offer of a letter to Sir William.”

“Or perhaps because I care about you and I know you’ve had a rough time of it these last few days.”

That jolted her. Him caring? How dare he do this to her!

“Or perhaps because you have a guilty conscience about something,” she snapped. “A stolen kiss here and there perhaps? Well, who could blame a wealthy nobleman for indulging himself to pass the time when he’s sentenced to rusticating?”

His gaze grew intent, but his voice stayed treacherously soft. “All right. I’ll admit it. I do have a guilty conscience. It’s something of a novelty, and I’ve decided to prolong and even enlarge the experience by doing something about it.
Apologizing.”

Surprised by his declaration, she felt her determination ravel and tensed. “You expect me to believe you brought me here to apologize?”

“I made a terrible mistake with you, Madeline.”

“So you said. I don’t really need or want to hear any more of this.”

“I never meant to hurt you or to add to your problems.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have any pins in your desk?” she said purposefully, heading for the top drawer to look.

“In fact, I thought I was helping.”

“I need only two or three, and I can be on my way,” she declared with increased volume and vehemence, to blot out his words.

“I could see the disappointments, the problems coming a mile away, and I wanted to warn you, to prepare you.”

“If you would please just find me a parlor maid and a bloody box of silk pins!”

“What I couldn’t see was that I was as much a part of the problem as anyone.”

“You won’t help, fine, I’ll just wear your damned coat over my gown!” she shouted, feeling both her tears and her panic rising.

He reached the door slightly ahead of her and stood blocking the way. She couldn’t look up, not with her eyes burning with tears and her broken heart so visible in them. As she stood struggling for control, he brought his hands from behind his back. In one of them was a fringed pillow. He offered it to her.

“I don’t seem to have a tree on hand at the moment, but you can use the desk or the couch.” His voice softened dangerously. “Or me.”

She looked up, her eyes brimming, her whole body trembling … wanting … needing him … and so very afraid. She snatched the pillow, but before she finished swinging it once, the dam holding back that flood of anguish broke.

Suddenly his arms were around her, and his body was hard and warm and real against hers. And though she knew she could be walking off another cliff, she wrapped her arms desperately around him and let the tears come.

“That’s it,” he said softly onto the top of her head. “Get it out. Good, big sobs, remember. The louder the better.”

She pounded him on the shoulder, then proceeded to do exactly as he said, giving in to wrenching sobs. But, strangely, they didn’t last for long. The feel of his strong embrace and of his warm, supportive shoulder beneath her cheek somehow softened her grief. He led her to a seat on the couch and produced a handkerchief She wiped her face and blew her nose, and when he drew her into his arms again, settled back against him. The silence was so sweet that she was reluctant to break it for some time.

“How do you know?” she finally asked.

“You start talking furiously and you get a certain tight, you-can’t-hurt-me look.” He lifted her chin so he could see her eyes. “I just know, that’s all. Are you ready to hear my apology now?”

She nodded and he gave her a bittersweet smile.

“I didn’t mean to add to your problems, Madeline. I truly was trying to help. I saw you headed for disaster and wanted to save you from it. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I felt the urge to save someone?” When she shook her head, he shook his. “I don’t know either—it’s been too damned long to remember. I’m totally out of practice. I couldn’t see that warnings and advice weren’t what you needed. You needed someone to believe in you, someone to support you and take care of you. And every time you turned around, there I was, croaking gloom and doom and telling you how impossible it was.”

“It
was
impossible.” She wiped her wet cheek, then let him pull her head down onto his shoulder again. “I see it all so clearly now, and I feel so foolish. It was probably obvious to everyone on earth but me. Whatever made me think I could plan and build and run a factory, much less a whole community?”

What was it about her that made him suddenly want to rearrange, reform, and reconcile the whole blessed world just
to see her smile again? Perhaps it was that old saying about nothing being sadder than an angel’s tears.…

“There was nothing wrong with your plans, sweetheart. Your grasp of what it takes to run a business would put most bankers to shame. And as for strength and fortitude, I don’t know another single person—male or female—who could single-handedly plan and carry out what you managed to do.” He gave her reddened cheek a stroke. “The fault wasn’t in your knowledge, your ability, or your courage. It was in your lack of experience with people. You were just too trusting, too generous, too willing to believe the best about everyone.”

“So you’re saying the factory failed because I was too
virtuous
?” She sat up straight, sniffed, and shrugged out of his coat. “You don’t think having the bad judgment to hire helpless widows, drunken engineers, randy young hulks, and village idiots might have had something to do with it?”

“Very well, I admit your employees presented some problems. But Fritz seemed to do some of his best work with a few belts in him. And much as I hate to say it, Emily Farrow did have a flair for organization and correspondence. As for the Ketchums—if you could have imported a few more eligible seamstresses, they might have settled down nicely. They did a fine bit of carpentry when they could get their heads out of their—”

“Children—there were all those children I hadn’t counted on,” she said, scowling.

“Which you took care of rather nicely, I recall. With a schoolroom and nursery.”

“And there were problems with production itself.”

“Which were mostly solved. You had straightened out your supply problem and were working on smoothing the various stages of production, giving the workers a bit more say in what they did, encouraging their initiative and independent efforts.”

She felt a small bloom of hope and realized he was responsible for it. But a moment later she made herself come
back down to earth, telling herself he said such things only to make her feel better. He didn’t truly believe them.

“Well, it’s all moot now, isn’t it?” She avoided his gaze. “Everyone hated our products, even my employees.”

“A lot of products take a while to catch on. I was in Liberty yesterday. That’s one of the reasons I came to see you tonight, to tell you—” She looked up from her hands, tensing, feeling a bubble of expectation rising in her middle. “It seems there was something of a mix-up when they packed the samples for Liberty. Some of the children’s clothes you designed were packed in with the sample bodices and knickers. And at Liberty customers were queuing up to place orders for them.”

“The children’s clothes?”

“Those dark blue things that make them look like little sailors. The clerks had set up a special display and put up a sign touting them as ‘Ideal’ garments.” He took her face between his hands. “Madeline, I know they aren’t what you planned, but they are reform garments and a viable product. Your knickers and bodices might not change the way women dress overnight, but, who knows, when word gets around, they may sell better than you think. The clerks said most women seemed to like the idea.…”

“They liked my children’s clothes?” She grabbed his tear-soaked shirt. “They really like them? Wanted to buy them?”

“They did.”

“You wouldn’t just say that, would you?”

“False hope is crueler than no hope at all. I’d never do that to you, Madeline.” He was utterly serious as he took her by the shoulders. “Do you hear what I’m saying? Your Ideal Garment Company can succeed, can still work. You can still have your dream. And to prove it to you, I’ll take you to Liberty first thing tomorrow, so you can see the display for yourself”

At that moment he wasn’t just putting a gloss on the world to make her happy, he was telling the truth—to himself
as well as to her. It
could
work. She
could
make a going concern of it.

The idea hit him square between the eyes, sending ripples of shock radiating through him. Until that moment, as he encouraged her and defended her dream to her, it hadn’t occurred to him that he might actually have been wrong about Ideal. So many of his dismal expectations had been borne out, he had simply assumed he was right. Yet he had given her piece after piece of evidence to show that his skeptical conclusions did not tell the entire story. Mired in his own stubborn cynicism, he had ignored the other half of what was happening—the good half.

If he had been right, he had also been equally wrong.

It was as if he had suddenly smacked into a wall and found himself moving in an entirely different direction. It was all so clear that it astounded him. There was real potential in Madeline’s work, in her employees, in her ideas. With a bit of support she could have heeded sound advice, withstood the inevitable disappointments, and solved Ideal’s problems before they became cataclysmic. And if he was coming to that conclusion rationally and reasonably, that meant he was looking at things very differently from the way he was two months before. It meant he had—he could scarcely make himself think it, much less say it—
hope
.

“But what if I can’t make it work?” she said quietly. “I will have to hire all new workers and rebuild the factory. There has probably been damage to the machinery.…” She looked up and bared her deepest fears. “What if I can’t do it all?”

With his heart strangely full, he smiled and hooked a hand behind her neck, drawing her face close to his. She had just given him something priceless, and he wanted nothing more than to return the favor.

“Who says you have to do it all?” he said. “Hire people you can trust and then make them responsible. And then … I intend to be there … helping you, supporting you.”

“You do?” she whispered, her heart suddenly beating erratically.

“Every step of the way, angel.”

Her face lit with pleasure and she looked at his mouth, needing, anticipating.…

“Under one condition,” he continued, holding her away for one minute longer.

“And that is?” She wet her lips.

He reached for the shoulders of her bodice and pulled them straight down her arms, wrenching a surprised protest from her. Batting her hands away, he seized her corset and began wrestling it from beneath her dress. It took some doing to free it beneath the layers of petticoats and beneath the bustle paraphernalia, but when she realized what he intended, she twisted and shifted to allow him better access.