Escapade (9781301744510) (35 page)

"Then why did you ever finance Mr. Addison's
campaign?"

"That was different It's one thing to give
money, quite another to-to-"

"Give anything of yourself?"

Her words were spoken softly enough, but he
felt the sting of them like the lash of a whip. She didn't look
angry with him, only unhappy, her eyes clouded with a look of
disappointment that made Zeke's heart sink. He had seen that
expression before. He would count it forever among his most
haunting memories of his mother.

He compressed his lips together. "The subject
is closed, Aurora. I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"Whatever you wish," she said primly. Her own
mouth was taut as he handed her up into his open carriage. He
sprang up across from her, and they sat facing each other in tense
silence. He tore at his collar, which seemed to be choking him.

He hadn't expected attending Addison's
funeral to be pleasant, but he hadn't quite bargained for anything
like this either. He dusted his hands as though he could still feel
the earth from the grave clinging to them.

He had hoped to put the morning's bleak event
behind him by taking Rory on a drive through Central Park. Her
engagement ring reposed in his front pocket, a huge chunk of a
diamond, the biggest Tiffany's had had to offer.

But when he suggested the outing to her, she
demurred. "I would rather you just took me home, Zeke."

He gave an exasperated sigh. "Why? Are you
still sulking just because I'm not willing to make an ass of
myself, following Mrs. Addison's ridiculous suggestion?"

"No, it has nothing to do with that. I simply
have things to do. I have a balloon company to run."

"I have been endeavoring to forget that
wretched fact."

The corner of her mouth twitched with
irritation, but otherwise she appeared determined to ignore his
remark. "I have a lot of preparations to make for Friday."

"Friday? What happens on Friday?"

"I haven't been idle either since we returned
to New York. I have been in contact with that man from Washington
who handles the army contracts. He's coming back to New York, to
give me another chance."

Rory smiled as though she actually expected
him to be glad of such tidings. For her sake, he wished he could
have been, but he felt nothing but a lump of dread settling into
his stomach.

"A chance to do what?” Zeke demanded. "Get
yourself killed?"

"The demonstration will be perfectly safe.
We've decided to take the balloon out of the city this time, launch
it in the countryside past Morningside Heights."

"And where will you end up? Back in the ocean
again? Or maybe impaled upon some farmer's fence?"

"Not all my flights end in disaster. In fact,
very few of them do."

"It only takes once. Damn it, Rory—" It was
on the tip of his tongue to inform her that he wouldn't allow it.
He wouldn't permit his bride to keep risking her neck in those
damned fool balloons. But one look at the stubborn tilt to her chin
told him how little effect such an order would have.

Perhaps the time for words was past. Action
was needed. Leaning back in the carriage seat, he steeled his jaw,
knowing what he had to do. He averted his face from Rory, fearful
she might be able to read his intention.

He didn't know precisely what she would do
when she discovered his plan. He was only sure of one thing. She
wasn't going to like it.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The morning after the funeral, Rory awoke to
the sound of a commotion on McCreedy Street. She had left her
windows open the night before, these first few days of May already
proving unseasonably warm, with the promise of a long hot summer to
follow.

She awoke feeling miserable, her hair damp
with perspiration, her muscles stiff, still aching with the
tensions of yesterday. Although she had not been acquainted with
Mr. Addison, his funeral had proved a sad affair, and sadder still
the way she had parted from Zeke.

He had left her at the door to her flat,
brushing her lips with a brusque kiss, a curt promise that he would
call upon her tomorrow. She was surprised that Zeke had said
nothing more about the balloons. She could tell how much he had
wanted to forbid her going up again and had braced herself for a
terrific row. Knowing how forceful Zeke could be about getting his
own way, his forbearance had been astonishing, almost disturbingly
so.

Equally astonishing was the fact that he had
not continued to press the idea of marriage upon her. It occurred
to her that perhaps he was beginning to have second thoughts. She
had sensed his impatience with her after the funeral about the
disagreement they had had over Mrs. Addison's suggestion.

Perhaps Zeke had good reason to be annoyed.
She had no right to be so disappointed because he showed no
inclination to pick up Addison's cudgels, run as a reform candidate
for mayor. And it wasn't as though she meant to plan his life for
him. She only knew that she hated it when Zeke talked as though
nothing mattered but self-interest and the power of money. He was
capable of entertaining feelings so much finer than that.

Yet never had the differences between them
seemed to yawn so wide. If they were that unsuited to each other,
it was better to realize it now, but it had been hard to convince
herself of that after spending a lonely night in her bed, aching
with the need to feel Zeke's arms around her.

With a low groan, she shielded her eyes from
the stream of sunlight pouring through her window. As she sat up,
coming more fully awake, the clatter in the street below seemed to
have intensified. She sprang out of bed, her heart skipping a beat.
She had told Zeke that she had to go to the warehouse today, that
if he wanted to call upon her, he had best be up early. Wouldn't it
be just like him to come pounding at her door before she was even
dressed?

Yet when she rushed to the open window, her
mouth drooped with disappointment. It was not Zeke's fancy equipage
rattling down the street that had caused Finn McCool to set up such
a wild barking and all the children to abandon their balls and
hoops and come running.

It was nothing but a delivery van, drawn by a
set of matched bays. Even pulled up to the curb, it still blocked
off half the narrow street. Despite her disappointment, Rory
couldn't help gawking herself as she glimpsed the fancy monogram on
the van's side. B. Altman and Co., a very exclusive Fifth Avenue
department store.

No wonder some of the housewives broke off
stringing up their wash to cluster together, pointing and
speculating. As for poor Miss Flanagan, she nearly fell out her
front window, straining for a better view as two smartly uniformed
attendants swaggered around to open up the back of the van.

Not in living memory had anyone on McCreedy
Street received a delivery from Altman's. Like Rory, most of her
neighbors shopped on the ground floor at Stern Brothers. As she
watched a considerable array of bandboxes being unloaded, Rory
wondered whose rich uncle had died, when she was beset by a sinking
suspicion.

The van attendants, their arms overburdened,
were struggling up the walk leading to her building.

"Oh, no," she murmured. "He didn't! He
couldn't-." She ducked back from the window and scrambled to find
her dressing gown. She was just shrugging into it when she heard
the rap at her door.

She fought off a cowardly inclination to
pretend she wasn't at home. Tying the sash about her waist, she
trudged to answer the summons.

Inching the door open, she said, "Yes? What
do you want?"

"Miss Aurora Rose Kavanaugh?'

She could hardly see the little man who
inquired after her name, the boxes balanced all the way up to his
chin. When Rory acknowledged his greeting, he grinned with
relief.

"Delivery for you." He edged his way past
into the flat. She opened her mouth to protest, tell him it was
some sort of a mistake, but the poor man's arms were fairly
breaking with the need to set down his load. The other attendant,
who followed right behind, was equally strained.

Besides she knew it was no mistake. Nor did
she need to see the arrogantly scrawled name on the order slip to
guess whose signature it was.

Damn the man! Now what was he about? She
supposed she should feel relieved. At least this proved that Zeke
was not that angry with her. Yet with each fresh load of boxes that
was carted into her flat, she became more dismayed. She wanted to
tell the attendants to stop, but she felt much like a sorceress who
had forgotten the words to the magic spell and could find no way to
get the genie back into the lamp.

By the time the two men had tipped their caps
to her and departed, her settee, the parlor table and all her
chairs were stacked to overflowing.

Distractedly running her fingers through her
hair, Rory opened a few of the boxes, but soon she had no desire to
pursue the activity any further. She winced at the sight of the
costly silks, luxurious furs. Good God above! There had to be
enough here to outfit every debutante on Fifth Avenue for the
season.

Her parlor was crammed so full, she could
barely find room to walk across the carpet, and she would have been
prepared to wager that half of McCreedy Street still lingered
outside, peering up at her apartment window.

It seemed disastrously appropriate that Zeke
himself should arrive in the van's wake. The sun glinted off the
sides of his shiny landau and the gleaming black coats of horses
and liveried servants.

A dark blue Prince Albert coat straining
across his shoulders, his top hat tipped to an arrogant angle, Zeke
descended to the pavement, swinging a gold-tipped walking stick.
The crowd fell back, as much in awe as if he had been visiting
royalty. Rory had a strong urge to drop a flowerpot of geraniums on
his head.

It was fortunate she never allowed herself to
be much upset by gossip, for Zeke had provided the Catholic Ladies
Sewing Circle with enough fuel to see them through a summer of
meetings. By the time he had made his way upstairs, there was no
need for him to knock. Rory already had the door open.

Their gazes clashed across the threshold.
Although Zeke removed his hat respectfully enough, his jaw was
tipped to that familiar belligerent angle. In that instant, Rory
realized neither of them had managed to shake off the tensions of
yesterday. Rather like two armies, they had merely fallen back to
regroup for a fresh skirmish.

Zeke didn't wait for Rory to greet him, but
strode past her into the flat. His gaze skated over the array of
packages.

"I see Altman's has already been here."

Rory closed the door. "Been here and nearly
buried me. What the devil is all this stuff, Morrison? If this is
your way of trying to make up for the misunderstanding we had
yesterday, it really wasn't necessary."

"This has nothing to do with yesterday. This
is your trousseau."

Her trousseau? Rory stiffened. Now she
understood why Zeke hadn't troubled himself to bring up the subject
of marriage again. In his usual roughshod fashion, he was taking
her assent for granted.

He poked beneath the lid of one of the boxes
with the tip of his walking stick. "I told Altman's to send a
little of everything. If there's anything there you don't like,
just send it back and exchange it."

"I can't imagine there's anything left to
exchange it for. I must have the contents of the entire store in
here." She placed her hands upon her hips. "Besides, I don't recall
your ever asking me to marry you."

"Then your memory is faulty, my dear " Zeke
shoved a pile of boxes off a chair with his cane and sat down. "I
intended to make it formal yesterday, but the mood didn't seem to
be right.” He forced his lips into a semblance of a smile. "In any
case, I don't want to waste any more time, so come here."

He patted his knee, and Rory choked on an
angry gasp, realizing that he had the brass to be suggesting she
perch herself upon his knee. He was acting nearly as badly as the
night when she had first met him, when he had demanded she become
his mistress.

Taking a deep breath, she struggled to keep
her temper. It wasn't easy when Zeke stood up flashing a diamond
beneath her nose. The thing was blinding, the stone larger than
some of the rocks she had skipped over the waters of the
Hudson.

"My mother never wore anything but a plain
gold band," she said.

"Well, I can do better than that for my wife.
Put it on." When she made no move to obey his order, he reached for
her hand. Rory whipped both of them behind her back.

"No, Zeke, you are not being fair. You
promised to let me have more time to give you my answer."

"I've given you plenty of time and it makes
no difference. You know I always get what I want." When she
resisted his effort to gain possession of her hand, he pinioned her
arms instead, plundering her mouth with a kiss that was rough and
demanding, slowly deepening to become fire-hot. Rory strove to hold
her body rigid as stone. But she was not a rock. Curse herself how
she might, she responded, melting against him.

He traced the curve of her cheek, the line of
her temple with his lips, murmuring, "What more does it take to
convince you, woman? I'm not the sort to go down on one knee and
spout poetry. Besides I never thought you'd be so silly as to want
that."

"I'm not. I just wish that you would- you've
never even said that you love me."

"I told you how much that I want you. It's
the same thing."

"No, it isn't." She wrenched herself out of
his arms. "Maybe you just want me the same as you wanted to be
rich, to own a house on Fifth Avenue."

"That's ridiculous, Aurora Rose."

"Is it? I just wish that I could be sure you
believed in something besides the power of your money."