Louisa Rawlings (37 page)

“Don’t get too involved,” she said. “Supper will be ready soon.” She smiled, watching him. This was where she wanted to be. In this drafty old studio. In this damp old city. With her love.

The smell of the sausages and onions finally pulled him from his work. Supper was a merry affair, with champagne and much laughter. Afterward, she stripped down and bathed, standing up in a large basin placed near the warm stove. Drew watched her, his eyes roaming over her body. She wasn’t sure whether he was seeing her as a lover or as an artist. But when she helped him undress for his own bath, she felt an odd sense of triumph. It was clear from the angle of his hard shaft that she had defeated his art tonight! While he dried himself, she moved impatiently about the studio in her flowing nightgown, extinguishing the kerosene lamps, locking the door, putting away the last dried dish.

“Tarnation!” she said at last. “Are you ever going to get into bed?”

He toweled himself slowly, his blue eyes filled with laughter. “I might.”

“Dang you!” She marched purposefully toward him, pulling off her nightgown just as she reached him. She snatched his towel from him, threw it to the floor. Grabbing his hand, she dragged him behind the screen and pushed him flat on the bed. “Now you just stay there until I get the candles blown out!”

He chuckled. “Yes, Mrs. Bradford. No wonder you were such a good hunter in the woods. You know how to go after your prey!”

“And I know how to capture it too.” In the darkness she perched on the bed beside him and leaned over, brushing her lips gently against his. His hands came up to stroke her back, tracing a line down her spine. She shivered.

“You have the nicest back,” he murmured. “And the prettiest little tail.” His hands caressed her firm bottom. "I used to walk behind you in the woods, watching how you moved in those trousers of yours. I had such wicked thoughts!”

“Did you now?” She left his lips and moved down to his hard chest, her tongue circling his masculine buds, as sensitive to teasing as were her own breasts. He twitched in pleasure, then inhaled sharply as her head moved lower. She nipped gently at the fold of flesh at his narrow hips, then hesitated for only a second before bending her lips to his quivering shaft. He was soft and warm; she felt her own senses quickening with the excitement of touching him, of kissing him there.

“Oh, God, Marce. Stop…”

She was growing hot and moist, eager for him. She couldn’t wait a second longer. She straddled him quickly, lowering herself onto him, feeling the delicious fullness of him within her. He lay on his back, eyes closed, his handsome features tense with passion. “You have a very willing prey,” he said hoarsely.

She giggled. “Tarnation.
Too
willing! It’s like jacking a deer at night with a lantern. It’s no fun to bag the critter when it just stands there!” Before he could stop her, she jumped off the bed, danced around the screen, and went to stand at the window. Down the street, the gaslights made little puddles of gold in the rain-soaked pavement.

“Get over here.” Drew stood in the center of the room, breathing hard.

She laughed. “No.”

“Then it’s time
I
was the hunter.”

“You’ll find you’ve got yourself a she-wolf!” She squealed as he lunged for her, just managing to elude his grasp. He cursed good-naturedly. Like a child would, to taunt its friends, she waggled her arms derisively in his direction. Drat! A tactical error. His long arms reached out, clutched at her fingers, pulled her in close. While she wriggled and struggled against him, he pinned her arms behind her and kissed her hard on the mouth. She melted for a moment, then, remembering their game, strained against his imprisoning arms.

“She-wolf be damned,” he said. He swept her up in his embrace and carried her to the bed, flinging her across the coverlet. Before she had time to plan her next strategy, he was upon her, his hard shaft finding the soft entrance, plunging deep.

She gasped and clung to him, moving with every wild thrust, arching to meet him in hungry joy. They rode out their storm together, cresting in a rush of feeling, of dazzling sensation, that left her breathless.

He laughed softly. “That’s the best trophy I ever came home with!” He sat up and looked at her. “Come to think of it…that scene at the waterfall. Which one of us is really the hunter after all?”

They crawled under the covers together, falling asleep in each other’s arms, as they always did.

It was hours later when Marcy awoke. She could still hear the sound of the rain pattering against the windows. Drew was not beside her. Beyond the folding screen, she saw the light of a candle flickering on the ceiling. Quietly she slipped out of bed. Drew, his trousers and smock pulled on carelessly, was at his easel, painting by the light from the candle stand. His forehead was creased in a frown, but the tenseness of his body, the way he slashed at his canvas with short strokes, spoke more of desperation than of anger.

Marcy sighed and crept quietly back to bed. It was not her place to intrude, though she ached with helpless misery. The more works Drew saw, the more painters he spoke to, the more he seemed to lose his confidence. Lying in bed, she felt the hot tears rolling down her cheeks.

Oh God, she thought. She loved him so much. And there wasn’t a danged thing she could do to help him.

“Oh, Miss Willough, you made a beautiful bride.”

Willough glanced in the mirror, seeing the smile of pleasure on Brigid’s face. And well
she
might be pleased! Hadn’t Arthur hired her away from Isobel—at double the salary, twenty-four dollars a month—to be Willough’s personal maid? She stared at her reflection. A beautiful bride. Around her the room hummed with activity as the two young chambermaids lovingly folded the lace of her bridal veil, hung up the white tulle and satin gown, turned down the sheets of the large bed. A beautiful bride. It was astonishing that her seamstress had managed to finish the gown in time, each silk orange blossom painstakingly tucked into a tulle flounce.

But Arthur had been impatient, setting an early date for the wedding. It was still only October. She stared at her pale face, paler against the white of her dressing gown. In less than a month she should have been Nat’s bride. On his birthday.

Brigid began to brush out her black hair. What have I done? she thought. It was as if, from the night of Arthur’s party and the announcement of their engagement, she had climbed aboard a speeding locomotive. Powerless to get off, to stop its headlong flight, she had watched—as though from a great distance—her life hurtle toward a future she neither wanted nor welcomed. But the round of parties had begun, the social world of New York finally taking Arthur to its bosom. There had never been a moment when she was able to tell him that somehow she had made a ghastly mistake.

And, after all, how would it have looked? Grandma Carruth would have cursed her from the grave, and the family would have died of shame.

Arthur had been a perfect gentleman, of course. That’s what had made it all the more difficult. He had kissed her a few times. Very respectfully. Not at all frightening. But she had felt none of the thrill that being in Nat’s arms had given her.

Nat. She gulped, fighting back her tears. She had hoped, until the last minute, that she’d hear from him. Then, pride in hand, she’d written to Mrs. Walker at MacCurdyville. Would she ask around for him? The letter had come only this afternoon, half an hour before the ceremony. Nat seemed to have vanished.

Daddy had been furious, of course, the night of Arthur’s party. “Quit?” he’d roared. “What do you mean the son of a bitch has quit? What the hell am I supposed to do for a manager with Clegg retiring?” In the end, Bill had been named manager, and Daddy had pulled one of the founders from the ranks to be the new clerk. There had never been a question of offering it to Willough. Wasn’t she getting married? She sighed unhappily, fingering the perfume bottles on her vanity. Perhaps he had
never
wanted her as a partner. And how could she fight Daddy? She didn’t want him to hate her.

But Isobel certainly hated her. In the past, though Willough had felt her mother’s animosity, Isobel had treated her with a certain amount of restraint. Now Willough had stolen her Arthur, and Isobel was not about to let her forget it. They had clashed over everything. The flowers, the guest list, the attendants—until Willough felt herself reeling with the waves of hatred.

Strangely, though Isobel made it clear that Arthur had hurt her by his actions, the two of them still spoke to each other. Indeed, Willough had overheard a mystifying conversation between them only the other day.

“You owe me a favor, Arthur,” her mother had said. “I did what you wanted me to do, though you lied about your intentions.”

“Isobel, my dear. You don’t understand.”

“I think I understand more than you know.” Her mother’s voice had been sharp with bitterness. “You owe me a favor. I’ll expect payment in return some day.”

Willough sighed, shook her head impatiently. “That’s enough, Brigid.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Putting down the brush, Brigid began to plait the black tresses into a long braid. She cocked her head to the sound of horses’ hooves clip-clopping down the circular drive of Arthur’s house. “It sounds like Mr. Bradford is finally going home.”

“Yes.” The wedding party had broken up more than an hour ago. Isobel, in her element among the cream of society, had received them in her flower-banked parlor at Gramercy Park after the service at Grace Church. Daddy had had Delmonico’s cater the banquet for two hundred and fifty guests. When the bride and groom had finally left the Bradford home, Daddy had followed in his carriage. He had closeted himself with Arthur in the downstairs study while they discussed the terms of the marriage.

It was a formality, of course. The terms had long since been agreed upon. A bankbook of ten thousand dollars, stock in the MacCurdy enterprises to go to Willough when she turned twenty-five. Held in trust by Arthur until then. It was the best that Daddy could do. He’d lost a great deal of money when the stock market had closed on the nineteenth of September. “Black Friday,” they were already calling it. There’d been too much building and speculation in the spring, particularly in railroad stock. The railroad panic had triggered a panic in the general financial markets, and dozens of banks had been ruined. Rutherford and Seneca had called in their loan—money that was already committed to the building of Daddy’s new finery. But Daddy had been lucky. Two out of three iron mills were now idled. He might be cash poor at the moment, but at least the MacCurdy Ironworks was still running.

“’Tis a pity you can’t have a proper honeymoon, ma’am.” Brigid nodded her head solemnly. “My friend Kathleen’s mistress went to Hot Springs for a whole month, she did.”

“After Saratoga, Hot Springs would have little charm, Brigid.”

“Well, Europe, then.”

“No. Mr. Gray doesn’t think it’s worthwhile at this time. The Season is just beginning. He doesn’t want to miss any of it.”

Brigid sniffed. “Especially as how the Carruth name seems to have opened up a slather of doors to him!”

“Brigid! Don’t you like Mr. Arthur?"

“Well, he’s not Mr. Nat, if you’ll pardon me saying so. And that’s a fact!”

Willough felt a pang at her heart. “Leave me now.” She waved an impatient hand at the two chambermaids. “And take those chattering magpies with you.”

She was alone. In this big, empty room. She looked around at the bed hangings, the fine carpets, the lace curtains at the windows. Arthur had spared no expense, redoing it just to suit her. He certainly treated her well. She sighed. She’d be a good wife to him. No matter how her heart was aching. Hadn’t she trained for this all her life? The social graces, the proper behavior. Grandma Carruth’s pride and joy. Isobel’s dutiful pupil. And Daddy’s obedient daughter. She supposed it would be that way with Arthur.
An independent woman is a disgrace to her sex
, Grandma always said. Only Nat had encouraged her to talk back to Daddy.

She extinguished all but the lamp near the large bed. It looked comfortable, with its clean white linens, and she was tired. The Goelets were giving a reception tomorrow. She wanted to look rested. She frowned. She wondered if she ought to say good night to Arthur first. He must be in his own room by now.

There was a knock at the door that connected their two rooms. Arthur came in, dressed in a red silk dressing gown. “I thought your father would never leave,” he said.

She smiled. “I was about to come and say good night to you.”

He smoothed his mustache. “Not yet. Not on our wedding night.”

She felt herself beginning to tremble. “But Arthur…I thought… You said you’d treat me with respect.”

One eyebrow shot up in surprise. “My dear Willough, you didn’t think that meant I intended to be a celibate bridegroom!”

She didn’t know what she had thought. Only that she hadn’t expected
this
. “Arthur, I’d really prefer…”

“Now, now, my dear. There’s no sense in postponing it. It won’t make it any easier if we wait.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. His mustache tickled her nose.

She thought, Perhaps it won’t be so bad after all.

He unfastened her wrapper and slipped it off her shoulders. He kissed her again, a little less gently this time, and began to unbutton her nightgown.