Louisa Rawlings (35 page)

She blanched in fear, overwhelmed by his physical strength and presence. The thought of him spanking her, the intimacy of his hand on her buttocks, even in anger… She gulped. And when they were married, no part of her body would be safe from his touch. Her lips began to tremble.

He exhaled slowly and dropped his hands. “Willough, I’m sorry.” He turned to the door. “I’d better finish dressing. I’ll meet you in the parlor when you’re ready. All right?”

She tried to smile. She
did
love him. “I’ll hurry.”

Arthur’s new house on Fifth Avenue was an elegant marble mansion in the Italian style—far different from the sedate brownstones of Gramercy Park and Washington Square, which represented the “old” society of New York. The “new” society like the Astors, with money to spend, were building ornate palaces on the avenue above Madison Square at Twenty-Third Street. Boss Tweed himself had built his home uptown at 511 Fifth Avenue, at Forty-Third Street.

Willough could see that Arthur had spared no expense. Alighting from their carriage, they were ushered into the front hall, a magnificent foyer paneled in rich, dark wood, elaborately carved and hung with massive tapestries. A large chandelier, its gaslit globes blazing brightly, illuminated the hall and the red-carpeted staircase that ascended majestically to the upper floors. At one end of the hall Willough glimpsed, through wide double doors, a blue-and-gold-paneled room from which emanated the lilting cadences of a waltz. At the other end of the hall, matching double doors revealed a red-brocaded room massed with potted palms. In the center of the red room was a large buffet table crowded with platters of food, blazing candles, and silver bowls filled with scarlet roses. Besides the dining room and the ballroom, there seemed to be several smaller rooms off the foyer; from the tinkling sound of a piano, Willough guessed that one of them must be a music room.

Arthur greeted them cordially as the servants took the ladies’ wraps. He looked extraordinarily handsome, from the distinguished flecks of gray at the temples of his brown hair to his smoothly manicured mustache and the shine on his patent-leather shoes. His dress suit was superbly cut, a dapper contrast, Willough noted with dismay, to the badly fitting suit that Nat had managed to buy in Saratoga. “Isobel,” Arthur said, kissing her hand. “Brian. And Stanton. Good of you to come. I hope we can be friends.” He held out his hand, which Nat took reluctantly.

Brian laughed. “And business acquaintances, perhaps. I might have a little announcement to make later in the evening, Arthur.”

Arthur’s brown eyes flickered in sudden curiosity. “Really? Well, wait until our musicale, when everyone is assembled.” He turned to Isobel. “I took your advice, my dear, and engaged those opera singers from the Academy of Music.”

Isobel beamed. “Your home is lovely, Arthur. May we look around?”

“Please do. I’d show you myself, but there are still guests to greet.” He smiled warmly at Willough. “But I haven’t forgotten that I had invited
you
especially to take a glass of champagne with me. As soon as I can break away, I intend to hold to my promise. In the meantime, make yourselves at home. Stanton, there’s some good whiskey on the sideboard in the dining room.” His casual glance took in Nat’s ill-fitting suit. “You look like a hard-drinking man.”

Nat smiled, though a small muscle worked in the side of his jaw. “I can hold my liquor.”

“Well, I want to see the house,” announced Isobel. While Arthur moved off to his other guests, Isobel took Brian’s arm and began her inspection, exclaiming in delight at every painting and vase and piece of furniture. Nat went to take Willough’s arm, then changed his mind when he saw the look on her face.

“I want that drink,” he muttered. “Are you coming?” She nodded and followed him into the dining room, watching in silence as he tossed down a glass of whiskey. “What is it?” he said at last. “Are you still angry with me?”

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

How could she tell him of her doubts and fears?
She
was to blame, not he. For allowing other people’s words to upset her. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said miserably, “and everything’s wrong. I don’t know.”

His eyes were dark and troubled. “Shall I tell your father not to make that announcement tonight?”

She bit her lip. “No,” she whispered.

“Ah! There you are, Willough!” His face wreathed in a broad smile, Arthur moved through the dining room, nodding at his other guests. He led Willough and Nat to a large table in the corner of the room that had been given over entirely to the service of champagne. He handed them each a glass and raised his own champagne flute in a toast. “To the fulfillment of all our dreams,” he said softly. They drank, and then he turned to Nat. “Are you enjoying New York City, Stanton?”

“Enjoying is not quite the word I’d choose. It’s a handsome city, with beautiful homes and avenues—if one is able to ignore the ugly squalor and poverty of the side streets. Unfortunately, I’m not.”

“I said it before. You should have been a minister.”

They smiled tightly at each other. Oh, dear, thought Willough. Let them not quarrel! “What a lovely epergne!” she said quickly, indicating the centerpiece on the table, a large glass cornucopia brimming with grapes and small apples.

“Thank you. I bought it in France. The summer of ’63, I think. Lord, it was hot on the Continent that summer!”

A soft laugh from Nat, low and bitter. “It was hotter in Pennsylvania that summer. Particularly at Gettysburg.”

Arthur didn’t blink. “So I heard. I was fortunate. I had the money to buy a replacement.”

Nat’s jaw tightened. “Or the cowardice.”

Willough was horrified. “Nat! You’re a guest in Arthur’s house!”

He glared at her, his eyes burning. “But I’m not a gentleman. Remember?”

A suave smile from Arthur. “Fortunately, I am. I’ll consider the source and ignore your remark. Willough, would you care for a dance?”

She was burning with shame at Nat’s behavior. “Yes. Please!”

Arthur led her to the ballroom, where the musicians had just begun a polka. But after a few turns around the floor, Arthur stopped and guided her to a shadowy alcove between the windows. “You don’t really want to dance.” They sat together on a blue-brocaded sofa. Willough was too ashamed even to look at Arthur. “You look magnificent tonight,” he said. “I don’t suppose that fool Stanton has told you so.”

“Arthur. Please…”

“I don’t know what there is between you and Stanton. But I want you to know I’d be honored if you’d be my wife.” She stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise. “I don’t expect an answer now,” he continued. “But I want you to know that I’d treat you as you deserve to be treated. With modesty, and gentleness, and respect. I know there’s a difference in our ages, but that only makes you more dear to me. I could spoil you and pet you, my sweet Willough. I don’t know what hold Stanton has over you, but who could love you more than a man who has watched you grow from a shy and reserved girl to a beautiful woman? You’d rule my home…and my heart…like a queen.”

“Arthur…” she whispered, feeling overwhelmed.

“My love for you is pure and honorable. Only you can decide if your happiness lies with me.” He smiled gently. “Shall I take you back to Stanton now?”

She shook her head. “No. I’d like to be alone for a while.”

“I’ll leave you then. Perhaps you’ll save a waltz for me.”

She sat in her quiet alcove as the dancers swirled about the room, and thought of what he had said. A pure and honorable love. She didn’t love him, but the kind of love he offered her was infinitely less frightening than the unknown future with Nat. What shall I do? she thought, agonized.

She made her way at last back to the dining room. Nat was trapped in a corner with a dowager who clutched at his arm every time he tried to break away. She was hard of hearing, and kept insisting that he repeat himself into her ear trumpet. Willough deliberately avoided his desperate glances while she helped herself to a plate of oysters and wandered back to the foyer to inspect the smaller rooms.

Nat found her at last in the music room with its murals of cupids and goddesses, aimlessly picking out a tune on the paisley-draped grand piano. He waited until two gray-haired ladies had left the room and they were alone. Then he turned to her, his gold-brown eyes filled with uncertainty. “Am I still in the doghouse?”

“How could you call Arthur a coward?”

The eyes had turned to hard amber. “What would you call it?”

“Oh for heaven’s sake! Lots of men didn’t serve if they could pay for a replacement! And the war’s been over for eight years. It’s no reason to be rude to Arthur. And in his own house.”

“It’s one more reason to dislike the man,” he growled. He took a deep breath, relaxing his tension. “Willough, let’s go home,” he said softly. “I don’t belong here.” He tugged uncomfortably at his tight collar. “I’m sorry we even came to New York. In Saratoga, I only had your reserve to deal with. Now the wall between us is twice as thick. I’m not sure why…or what… But all this”—he indicated the lavishly appointed room—“it’s just so much more clutter getting between us.”

“Go home? The evening’s barely begun! How would it look?”

“Dammit!” he exploded. “I don’t care how it would look! When are you going to stop worrying about appearances in that priggish world of yours?”

“
Oh
!” It was too much! He was rude, insulting. Impossible. Tearing off her glove, she whirled on him and slapped him across the face. As hard as she could.

His head snapped back for an instant, and then he grabbed at her wrist, his fingers like a steel band, pulling her close. His eyes glowed in fury.

“Let go of me!” Her voice was shrill with fear.

“What’s going on here?” Arthur stood in the doorway.

Nat turned, his hand still grasping Willough’s wrist. “Get out of here, Gray. This doesn’t concern you.”

“I think it does. I’m not about to let a stupid clodhopper like you terrify a guest in my house!”

“You son of a bitch!” Nat released Willough’s hand and swung at Arthur, his powerful fist landing a blow that sent Arthur sprawling, blood gushing from his split lip.

“Arthur!” Willough was on her knees, dabbing at his mouth with her lace handkerchief. She looked up at Nat towering above them. “You coarse oaf!” she spat. “You crude animal!” (Could that be her own voice? Her own words?)

Nat’s face turned white, though the marks of her fingers still glowed red on his cheek. “And you’re a spoiled child,” he said coldly. “Twisted by your fancy society into a snob and a prude. I don’t know who that woman was in Saratoga, but she’s not the rich man’s brat I’m seeing tonight!”

She glared at him. Her fury had carried her far beyond the point of reason. “This rich man’s daughter is going to exercise her prerogatives. You’re no longer working for the Bradfords!”

“
Good
! I was just about to quit. I wasn’t sure you wanted me in the business anyway.” His lip curled in a sarcastic sneer. “But what will you do for kisses, now that you’re used to them?”

Damn him.
Damn him
! She looked at Arthur, still lying on the floor, trying to staunch the blood from his mouth. “Mr. Gray has asked me to marry him.”

There was a gasp from the doorway. Isobel was there, her eyes wide with horror. “Arthur! You…you Judas!”

"Then why don’t you marry him?” Nat challenged. “Arthur won’t
paw
you. He won’t assault your fine sensibilities with his crude lusts!”

“No.” Her voice dripped with contempt. “
Arthur’s
a gentleman.”

He laughed, a harsh, mirthless sound. “What you really mean is that Arthur’s
safe
. He’d expect separate bedrooms!”

“I find you disgusting, Mr. Stanton.” And frightening, she thought. Her heart had thumped in alarm when he’d said the word
bedrooms
. Nat would expect to sleep in the same bed with her. She’d never thought of it before. Now it filled her with fear and a cold dread of the unknown.

“If you find me so disgusting, then marry Mr. Gray.”

She looked up at him, at her mother still clasping a hand to her bosom in dismay. She felt an overwhelming urge to hurt them both for all the doubts and miseries she’d suffered because of them. “I
shall
marry Mr. Gray!” she said, on the verge of tears.

Nat sucked in his breath between tight-clenched teeth. “May you be damned to hell,” he said quietly. He turned on his heel and headed for the door.

Sobbing, she struggled to her feet and pointed a shaking finger at his retreating back. “You’re not to come round to MacCurdyville, do you understand? I’ll ruin you!”

Arthur stood up beside her and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. He ignored Isobel, who seemed about to faint. “Now, now, Willough dear. You mustn’t disturb yourself. Leave it to me. I’ll do whatever I must to see that Mr. Stanton doesn’t upset you again. Not ever again.”

“
Combien
?” Marcy pointed to the deep pink rose nestled in the basket of white blossoms.

The flower seller eyed her with suspicion, poked at a pot of yellow tulips, glanced up at the gray sky. “
Vingt-quatre centimes, Madame
.”

Tarnation! thought Marcy. She knows I’m an American, all right! Five cents for a rose! She shook her head and moved on down the boulevard. She’d get her flower from the Place de Clichy, as usual. Old Jacques never had the freshest blossoms, but his prices were more fair. And sometimes he even managed to give her a bit of greenery to go with the single flower she had bought every day since they’d come to Paris. It was only that the pink rose had caught her eye, reminding her of the bush she’d planted in front of Uncle Jack’s door.