Harmony (33 page)

Her voice came through the cloaking dark. “I think we should go home now. We've done quite . . . enough . . . for the evening.”

He didn't feel that way about it. To him, they hadn't done nearly as much kissing as he would have liked.

From the outline of her shoulders, he could tell her stance was businesslike, yet she was upset—she was trembling. Her tone was that of a tutor when she said, “Practice the cards I made for you. Memorize them. Tomorrow we can do sixes if you feel ready.”

Disquiet marked his voice. “Will there be a tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course.” Then she added softly, “If you want to come back.”

“Edwina.” Her name sounded fragile to his ears. “I'll come back until you tell me not to.”

•  •  •

Thanksgiving came and went. Edwina had been invited to the Stykems' since it was the first time she'd have to spend the holiday without her mother. Mr. Dufresne had been asked to the residence as well. Tom Wolcott had not. Edwina had been painfully aware of this, but she also understood that the growing relationship between Cressie and Shay Dufresne was a two-way one.

The day before Thanksgiving, Tom gave Edwina a turkey. They'd been going over his eights tables for the third day, the numbers eluding him despite his daily practice with the cards. When they were finished, he went into the store and came back with the paper-wrapped bird. She'd bit the inside of her lip, trying not to give in to the smile that threatened, but the gesture was so Tom—so unsentimental, so wonderfully original. She'd loved the gift all the more.

The next few days had been torture, but not of the hurtful kind. It was an ache inside her, a longing. They hadn't kissed since that night. And each moment that passed without an embrace, without any form of physical intimacy, put Edwina further into a well of tension. Every time she sat next to him, their fingers seemed to have a reason to brush, to touch. He sent an electric current through her, sharp and alive with need. She knew he felt it, too. But he made no move toward her beyond the innocent. He'd said it was up to her.

She knew it. She'd agonized over a decision. When they'd fallen into each other's arms in the school, her shades hadn't been drawn. Anyone could have seen. She'd lost her head; she'd not been thinking. But that was exactly the problem. When she was with Tom, she didn't think about repercussions, only the pleasure she could have.

This afternoon, she'd almost kissed him, been brazen enough to do it. His pencil had fallen and they'd both reached for it. Their hands met, their eyes held. Their foreheads were close, so close. She had but to give in, part her lips, invite him. But fear prevented her from
telling him with her gaze, because she could not surrender—not without trying every means to resist him.

But she'd lost.

She knew that now. She'd known it for days. Weeks. Maybe longer. Since before Halloween, the notion had been there . . . the thought of having an illicit . . . She couldn't bring herself to think it, but there was no reason not to. She knew what she was getting into. She had experience.

She had tried to ignore the feelings. When she let them in, they came to her with the force of thunder and whirlwinds—in, of all places, the kitchen, as she'd stood with her hands in greasy dishwater, Marvel-Anne talking to her about keeping a pig in a pen out back as a means of disposing of scraps too old to use in cooking. Edwina had been listening with only vague attention. She'd been meditative, but then her breath had halted and she'd grown cold.

For the first time since returning to Harmony, it was real to her that she could die an old maid, never again to enjoy the feel of a man. Marvel-Anne had gone on in a drone. Edwina had merely nodded, thinking that this is what
it
came to, spending evenings talking about pigs—and after Marvel-Anne left, spending what remained alone, talking to a cat.

She'd decided right then the risk was worth it. An affair. No marriage, but sex. Oh, could she go through with it? What would he think of her? But hadn't he suggested such already?
More, if you say so.
Men were open to this sort of thing. Tom had said he'd wait for her decision. What other decision could he be waiting for? She trusted him. He'd proven himself by not telling about her dancing. He would keep their relationship to himself. . . .

Discretion must be foremost in this . . . this seduction.
Seduction.
The word played in her head. That's what she was going to do.

Tonight.

Saturday. It was Saturday night, and she'd told Tom
the previous evening that she'd have his books ready for him. He'd progressed enough to know basic math facts, but not debits and credits, assets and liabilities. She'd put his accounting to order in short time. She could have easily given it to him at the store, but she was going to use it as an excuse to get him to her house.

Seven o'clock.

Snow fell in wet plops. The kind everybody cursed. It clung and numbed in seconds. Nobody would be out. Even if somebody saw him walking, they'd have to follow him to her gate to know where he was going.

She'd rolled down all the shades. A single lamp was on in the dining room, where the books waited for his inspection.

Edwina had bathed and perfumed with an essence of roses. She'd dressed in a blue-and-white satin foulard with skirt pleats running all the way down to the hem. Its Gibson collar was white lace; three segments of piping over the shoulders emphasized the shape of her bust. No pins held up her hair. A single grosgrain ribbon kept it tied together. She stood in front of the vestibule mirror. There was barely enough light to see by. In her reflection she looked . . . bewitching—out to bewitch—to seduce.

The doorbell cranked. She gasped, swallowed.

Inhaling and trying to keep her heartbeat steady, she opened the door.

Tom had been about to say hello. His mouth was poised on the word, but he lost sight of it when he caught sight of her. The gaze that he boldly raked over her body, from every facet of her face and hair to her bodice and waist, just about made her crumble. His reaction was more than she could have hoped for.

The seduction had begun.

13

T
hey sat at the dining-room table. Edwina had positioned her chair directly beside Tom's. She went through the columns and explained how she'd arrived at the figures. Each time she ran her finger down a length of numbers, she leaned toward him. She'd gotten so close once, his hair tickled her cheek. She spoke, yet she did so automatically—just a series of words leaving her lips. Her thoughts were elsewhere. On the aftershave Tom wore. That hint of musk, bayberry. The way he nodded, seemingly intent on what she showed him but obviously distracted.

He asked questions. She watched his mouth, the way his lips moved—firm and sensual. She studied the squareness of his jaw. The way his hair fell over his collar, the ends a little damp from snow that snuck past the brim of his hat. His eyes—she would meet them every now and then, read the message inside them: desire. She saw it. She knew it.

His facial expression changed as he went from being intent on understanding her methods of bookkeeping to being preoccupied. At every opportunity, she touched him. Lightly. Flirtatiously. On the back of the hand. His wrist. His sleeve, where his muscle and broad shoulder
filled it out. His neck tendons strained. Yet he remained polite, pretending to be unaffected.

When they had examined every sheet of paper, closed the last book, Edwina wasn't sure what to do next. She'd tempted him at every turn, practically flung herself at him. Did he want a verbal invitation? Did he want her to spell things out?

Nervously toying with the button at her throat, she asked, “Would you care for some tea?”

“No.” Hair fell across his brow. The lamplight picked up the various colors of brown, even a hint of bronze.

Biting her lip, she quit fidgeting with the button. “Do you have to leave?”

His eyes bore into hers, silver-blue, icy in color. But the sensual message in them anything but cold. His voice was raspy and low when he replied, “No.”

She sighed silently, relieved. She relaxed just a little. He'd stay. Now what? Do what?
The next order of business will be to take Edwina upstairs. No . . . don't say that. Show him what you want if you cannot speak it.

The low-banked fire in the parlor popped and cracked on the other side of the wall. Its light was barely enough to see by in that room, but its warmth floated marginally through the first story of the house.

She wove her fingers around the handkerchief tucked halfway inside her cuff. She was fidgety; the soles of her shoes could barely stay flat on the carpet. “Would you care to listen to a recording?”

“If you want to.”

A compromise.

She rose on unsteady legs. Wetting her lips and keeping her breathing even, she went into the parlor and selected the “Emperor's Waltz.” Several cranks of the Victrola and the music played through the wide horn. Melodic violins resonated. The tempo was lyrical, light and pleasant, romantic—not like the jerky and foot-stamping ragtime.

Edwina turned to return to the dining room, but barely took a step. Tom had left the table and come into
the parlor. The light behind him cast his face in near darkness. She couldn't read what was in his eyes or clearly see his smile, but there was a hint of white teeth, perhaps a curved mouth. He seemed taller. Broader.

“Dance, Ed?”

“Yes.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I'd love to.”

He held out his arms and she fit herself into them. Her hand laid softly on his taut shoulder; the other fit into his strong fingers. They glided around the floor, smoothly and in sync.

“You didn't learn the waltz in a troubadour show.” She could hardly keep the count straight in her head.
One, two, three.

As they whirled together, thighs nearly meeting with their footwork, he disclosed, “I must have picked it up somewhere on the road. I can't remember.”

“Did you like traveling?”

“Sometimes.”

“Was Mr. Dufresne with you?”

“Mostly.”

One, two, three.
Edwina felt the ribbon slide from her hair. She smiled, not caring. Tom maneuvered them quite adeptly through the room, circling around the center table. On the final notes, he suggested, “Take a twirl.”

She let go of his hand and turned beneath his arm in one revolution. Then he brought her back into his embrace. His arms went around her waist. Her hair clouded over her shoulders. Their breaths mingled; their eyes locked. It seemed as if time had stopped and this moment would be theirs forever.

“Want to dance again?” Tom asked in a husky whisper.

She quietly shook her head. “No.”

The beauty of a kiss lies in its impulsiveness and its impressibility.
The words came into her head. She'd read them in her courtship book. How true they sounded at this instant. When she tried to speak, her voice failed her. He peered down at her waiting . . . waiting for her.
The prolonged anticipation of what she'd intended for this evening was almost unbearable. She had to do something. . . .

Closing her eyes, she dared to kiss him within a fraction of his mouth, just the corner seam. So warm and pleasant. Then ever so softly, on his chin and cheek. Raising on tiptoes, she cherished his forehead. What she could not say, she showed. She spoke her tenderness by pressing kisses to his lowered eyelids. Then her reverence by a caress against his brow.

He took her chin in his right hand, knuckles touching her throat, forefingers and thumb holding her face up to his. His mouth covered hers, persuasively and quite divinely. She sighed against him, parting her lips, snuggling closer into his embrace. Her mouth tingled. The kiss was rapturous and consuming.

When he gently broke away, one brow lifted . . . or so it seemed by the tone of his voice. “You've been drinking, Ed. Beer.”