Harmony (22 page)

He took the steps to the veranda, then stood on the stoop for a few moments to figure out a plan. All he'd thought through so far was shoving the flowers at her. After that, he was hoping something would come to him.

Gazing at the wilting bouquet in his hand, he felt like a jerk. This wasn't his style. Why he'd opted to do things this way, he couldn't quite determine—other than he'd been desperate for an idea, any idea that could mend fences.

The front door muffled music. It wasn't loud to begin with; it was a phonographic recording that sounded like it came from the side of the house. He couldn't quite make out the tune.

Now or never.

“Ah, hell . . .” he muttered.

He cranked the doorbell and stuck his fingers in the collar of his shirt that was neither particularly tight nor buttoned to the highest closure. He just felt like he was choking.

His gaze stayed on the leaded stained glass that decorated an oval cutout in the front door. No shadowy movements could be detected behind the pattern. The doorbell went unanswered.

Shifting on his feet, he rang again.

A minute must have passed before he decided to walk around the veranda to the side of the house. The bay windows were covered with sheer curtains. A door led to the porch; it was also swathed with a lacy fabric.

The beat of a two-step filtered through as Tom reached the door. He could finally make out the tune.

Joplin. “Maple Leaf Rag.”

Leaning close to the window, he peered inside what looked to be the parlor. A motion to his right caught his eye, and he tracked the figure to the center of the room.

“Jesus . . .” The word left him before he realized he'd even breathed.

So much for crying. . . .

Edwina was doing the high-stepping strut . . . in her woolies. A fitted white lace corset cover—minus the corset—hugged her breasts and showed fine cleavage in the V-shaped neck. Her drawers were some frilly type that matched the lace on the top piece. Black stockings covered her legs and feet, fancy embroidery in three colors at her slim ankles. Unbound hair fell in a curly cloud past her waist. Ivory skin, a lot of it bare, teased his senses as she pranced by a settee, then back down the length of the room to the end with a right sideward step.

The recording ended on her breathless smile. Cheeks rosy, breasts rising and falling from the exertion, she held her pose. Those tantalizing curls dusted her nose and she blew them off. With a soft giggle, she went to the player, lifted the arm, and turned the handle a few times to reset the phonograph.

When he thought she wasn't going to dance anymore, disappointment settled in his chest like lead. He couldn't explain why, but watching her move to ragtime's nice-and-light aroused him more than would a floozy in a full strip.

Lively notes drifted through the parlor again. She flitted about, taking a hop over her cat, who lay in the center of the rug with its tail softly moving.

Clearly, if he announced his presence, he would be interrupting a very private moment, when she was involved in something she obviously didn't want getting around. Edwina Huntington the finishing school teacher prancing in her whites, dancing the two-step—and being pretty damn good at it, too.

Thinking the situation through, he had two options.

A gentleman would walk away and forget what he'd seen.

That one got quickly scratched off the list.

He went for the second choice.

He knocked loudly on the parlor door glass.

9

B
y dancing, Edwina hoped to forget about that afternoon. But the scene with the ladies dropping her off on her doorstep kept replaying in her head.

“Have Marvel-Anne steep you some wormwood tea, dear,” Mrs. Treber had suggested, fussily tucking dripping hair back into her ebony coiffure.

Fanny Elward seconded her. “Yes, do. It always works to calm my Roger. And he would know what's best. He is the druggist.”

Iris Brooks chimed in. “Wormwood is the best. A soother when my George is in a tantrum over politics.”

“Don't I know,” Mrs. Plunkett added, her skirts leaving a wide puddle on the porch.

In a mousy voice, Mrs. Calhoon pointed out, “It's a good thing an election is more than a year off.”

Edwina had nodded to be sociable, but she'd wanted nothing more than to go inside and hide. Especially when the topic had abruptly turned to Tom Wolcott.

“He's not a bad-looking man,” Lulu Calhoon said.

Olive Treber threw in, “No, not at all. I wonder why he hasn't married.”

“Self-absorption,” Prudence Plunkett said in speculation.

Unyielding in posture, Mrs. Brooks said, “His business.”

“It's taken all this time. Perhaps we should consider him available . . . ?” Wet ribbons flat on her hat, Mrs. Elward grew thoughtful.

Edwina didn't want to hear about their plans to fix up Tom Wolcott with one of their daughters. She'd been about to beg forgiveness and take her leave when Mrs. Plunkett's words stopped her short.

“We're forgetting Miss Huntington. She may already have designs on him.”

“A handsome man,” Mrs. Treber pronounced.

“Quite,” Lulu Calhoon agreed. “We wouldn't blame you if you wanted to encourage him, dear.”

Mrs. Elward quietly asked, “Do you want to encourage him?”

“No,” Edwina said vehemently. Then tried to imagine Tom with one of their daughters. “I don't know. . . . Maybe.” She thought about her resolve not to get involved with a man. Not ever again. “No, definitely not,” she said, recanting. But if Tom Wolcott was an option, he could be . . . perhaps. “I might.” Confusion slammed around inside her head. Tom had said he thought Camille Kennison was very pretty. But Grayce Kennison wasn't here to put her daughter into the courting market.

Conviction,
Edwina told herself. “No, I shan't encourage him.” Her head hurt. She squeezed her eyes closed. She couldn't think.

“Poor dear.”

“She's not herself.”

“The grief.”

“She needs to lie down.”

“Shall we come in?”

“No!” Edwina shot back, her eyes flashing open. “I appreciate everything. I just want to be alone.”

Then she'd slipped into the house and took refuge. That had been hours ago. Now she just wanted to dance and lose herself in the music.

At first, Edwina wasn't sure the knock had come from the parlor door. But it persisted through the notes of the music, causing her to stop midtwirl and stare at the sheers. The form of a person, barely discernable, stood outside.

Had the bird watchers come back? And at the side of the house?

Caught off guard, she bit her lower lip. Warning alarms clattered. No, it couldn't be the mothers. There was only one shadow. One mother?

Frozen in limbo, Edwina mentally ran through a list of possible callers. Marvel-Anne had a key to the front door, so she should have come directly inside if there had been a need for her to return. But she'd left at six-fifteen after serving supper and helping Edwina out of her wet clothes. Not wanting to take a bath before she ate, Edwina had slipped her China silk kimono on and sat at the dining-room table with her hair down to dry. Crescencia Stykem might drop by unannounced, although her doing so was doubtful. They'd covered the protocol of calls in class this week. One of the mothers might have returned alone. If that was the case, she'd be in an awful jam, worse than the umbrella incident. How could she explain dancing to Joplin?

The knock repeated.

Without further rumination, Edwina put a stop to the music and grabbed her colorful blue-and-red wrapper. If she hadn't gotten heated doing the sugar cane and taken the robe off, the circumstances wouldn't have been as bad as they were.

Dancing to popular music was one thing; dancing to popular music in one's underwear was another.

Edwina slipped her arms into the geisha sleeves, then strode to the door. A grab at the curtains to view the person outside before unlocking the knob brought both a jubilant yet sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. At the sight of Tom Wolcott, she frowned.

“Open the door, Edwina.” Tom's resonant voice came clearly through the beveled glass.

She shook her head. “I don't want to talk to you.”

“Edwina.” Dark brows knit together. “Let me in.”

“That's all I need—to have to explain myself again.”

“Nobody saw me coming over. I took the alley.”

Edwina stared a moment, perhaps—but not quite consciously—debating whether to let him in. A bouquet of drooping flowers filled his hand. They had to be for her. But the goodwill gesture baffled her. This type of sentiment was uncharacteristic of a man who liked to show off dead animals.

But whatever the reasoning behind his visit, her secret had been discovered. And that threw her into the awkward—and potentially dangerous—position of having to defend her actions. She'd always worried she'd get caught one day, but the appeal of dancing had been too much to resist, so she'd taken the risk. She hadn't counted on Tom being the one who could expose her.

He could use the information to his advantage—namely by letting the town know that she danced to so-called hedonistic music. With her name ruined, the school would be also.

Edwina didn't want to believe it, but she could see Tom making roast meat out of her . . . then stuffing what was left to tack onto his wall—yet another trophy. Silently, she groaned. She had to find out what he intended to do—if he intended to do anything at all.

She undid the lock and took several steps backward, her hand rising to the bands of satin down the robe's front to make sure the edges fit snugly together—as if that were an issue now. He'd already gotten an eyeful.

No matter, she couldn't let her deportment slip in his company. She had to stand on ceremony in spite of the way things looked.

“Whatever the reason, Mr. Wolcott, evening calls are paid only to those with whom one is well acquainted,” she stated primly, her hand remaining on the robe's folds.

Without a word, he shoved the flowers at her.

She was helpless but to accept with her free hand. “Oh . . . well . . . thank you.”

“Hell, I owed you.” His fingers slipped halfway into his pockets and he rested his weight on one foot. “For this afternoon . . . and all.”

The blue of his eyes bored into her own; they lowered a fraction, then slowly inched back up. Flustered by his blatant perusal, she forgot to remind him about his language. She clutched the silk more securely to her breasts. At least the robe came to the floor and covered her feet. Aside from the curves of her body that the kimono accentuated, nothing was revealed.

Why, then, did she feel stark naked?

Turning away so he couldn't hold her captive with his gaze, she went to the center table and set the bouquet next to the family photograph album. “What happened this afternoon wasn't entirely your fault, Mr. Wolcott,” she said, running her fingertip across the picture book's mother-of-pearl cover. “I was a willing participant.”

She heard the dull tread of his boots as he came toward her. Stiffening, she waited for him to reach her and . . . do what? What did she expect . . . or want?

When he paused, she felt his presence. Close. Very close. The fragrance of shaving cologne pulled her attention. She tried to decipher the scent . . . musk and a hint of bayberry. Nothing overdone. Pleasant. And there was the lingering trace of tobacco smoke. She found that scent on a man appealing.

A wave of euphoria washed over her and prickled her skin. Did she imagine him lightly caressing her hair?

Facing him without warning, her breath caught in her throat as she backed her behind against the table's edge. Indeed, he stood close, close enough for her to fall into his arms. She couldn't do that . . . not again. “So . . .” She sighed foolishly and damned herself for doing so. “Is there anything else you wanted?”