Luring a Lady (19 page)

“I do have an affection for you,” she said wearily. “But that's all I have. I can only apologize if I failed to make that clear before this.”

“I don't believe an apology covers it, Sydney.” Stiffly he rose to his feet. “Please give my regrets to your mother.”

Straight as a poker, he strode out, leaving Sydney alone with a miserable mix of temper and guilt. Five minutes later, Margerite came out of the ladies' room, beaming. “Well now.” She leaned conspira
torially toward her daughter, pleased to see that Channing had given them a few moments alone. “Tell me everything.”

“Channing's gone, Mother.”

“Gone?” Bright eyed, Margerite glanced around. “What do you mean gone?”

“I mean he's left, furious, I might add, because I declined his proposal of marriage.”

“Declined?” Margerite blinked. “You— Sydney, how could you?”

“How could I?” Her voice rose and, catching herself, she lowered it to a whisper. “How could you? You set this entire evening up.”

“Of course I did.” Frazzled, Margerite waved the oncoming waiter away and reached for her wine. “I've planned for months to see you and Channing together. And since it was obvious that Mikhail had brought you out of your shell, the timing was perfect. Channing is exactly what you need. He's eligible, his family is above reproach, he has a beautiful home and excellent bearing.”

“I don't love him.”

“Sydney, for heaven's sake, be sensible.”

“I've never been anything else, and perhaps that's been the problem. I believed you when you came to see me this morning. I believed you were sorry, that you cared, and that you wanted something more than polite words between us.”

Margerite's eyes filled. “Everything I said this morning was true. I'd been miserable all weekend, thinking I'd driven you away. You're my daughter, I do care. I want what's best for you.”

“You mean it,” Sydney murmured, suddenly, unbearably weary. “But you also believe that you know what's best for me. I don't mean to hurt you, but I've come to understand you've never known what's
best for me. By doing this tonight, you caused me to hurt Channing in a way I never meant to.”

A tear spilled over. “Sydney, I only thought—”

“Don't think for me.” She was perilously close to tears herself. “Don't ever think for me again. I let you do that before, and I ruined someone's life.”

“I don't want you to be alone,” Margerite choked out. “It's hateful being alone.”

“Mother.” Though she was afraid she might weaken too much, too soon, she took Margerite's hands. “Listen to me, listen carefully. I love you, but I can't be you. I want to know that we can have an honest, caring relationship. It'll take time. But it can't ever happen unless you try to understand me, unless you respect me for who I am, and not for what you want me to be. I can't marry Channing to please you. I can't marry anyone.”

“Oh, Sydney.”

“There are things you don't know. Things I don't want to talk about. Just please trust me. I know what I'm doing. I've been happier in the last few weeks than I've ever been.”

“Stanislaski,” Margerite said on a sigh.

“Yes, Stanislaski. And Hayward,” she added. “And me. I'm doing something with my life, Mother. It's making a difference. Now let's go fix your makeup and start over.”

 

At his workbench, Mikhail polished the rosewood bust. He hadn't meant to work so late, but Sydney had simply emerged in his hands. There was no way to explain the way it felt to have her come to life there. It wasn't powerful. It was humbling. He'd barely had to think. Though his fingers were cramped, proving how long
he had carved and sanded and polished, he could barely remember the technique he'd used.

The tools didn't matter, only the result. Now she was there with him, beautiful, warm, alive. And he knew it was a piece he would never part with.

Sitting back, he circled his shoulders to relieve the stiffness. It had been a viciously long day, starting before dawn. He'd had to channel the edge of his rage into organizing the cleaning up and repair the worst of the damage. Now that the impetus that had driven him to complete the bust was passed, he was punchy with fatigue. But he didn't want to go to bed. An empty bed.

How could he miss her so much after only hours? Why did it feel as though she were a world away when she was only at the other end of the city? He wasn't going to go through another night without her, he vowed as he stood up to pace. She was going to have to understand that. He would make her understand that. A woman had no right to make herself vital to a man's existence then leave him restless and alone at midnight.

Dragging a hand through his hair, he considered his options. He could go to bed and will himself to sleep. He could call her and satisfy himself with the sound of her voice. Or he could go uptown and beat on her door until she let him in.

He grinned, liking the third choice best. Snatching up a shirt, he tugged it on as he headed for the door. Sydney gave a surprised gasp as he yanked it open just as her hand was poised to knock.

“Oh. What instincts.” She pressed the hand to her heart. “I'm sorry to come by so late, but I saw your light was on, so I—”

He didn't let her finish, but pulled her inside and held her until she wondered her ribs didn't crack. “I was coming for you,” he muttered.

“Coming for me? I just left the restaurant.”

“I wanted you. I wanted to—” He broke off and snapped her back. “It's after midnight. What are you doing coming all the way downtown after midnight?”

“For heaven's sake—”

“It's not safe for a woman alone.”

“I was perfectly safe.”

He shook his head, cupping her chin. “Next time, you call. I'll come to you.” Then his eyes narrowed. An artist's eyes, a lover's eyes saw beyond carefully repaired makeup. “You've been crying.”

There was such fury in the accusation, she had to laugh. “No, not really. Mother got a bit emotional, and there was a chain reaction.”

“I thought you said you'd made up with her.”

“I did. I have. At least I think we've come to a better understanding.”

He smiled a little, tracing a finger over Sydney's lips. “She does not approve of me for her daughter.”

“That's not really the problem. I'm afraid she's feeling a little worn down. She had her plans blow up in her face tonight.”

“You'll tell me.”

“Yes.” She walked over, intending to collapse on his badly sprung couch. But she saw the bust. Slowly she moved closer to study it. When she spoke, her voice was low and thick. “You have an incredible talent.”

“I carve what I see, what I know, what I feel.”

“Is this how you see me?”

“It's how you are.” He laid his hands lightly on her shoulders. “For me.”

Then she was beautiful for him, Sydney thought. And she was trembling with life and love, for him. “I didn't even pose for you.”

“You will.” He brushed his lips over her hair. “Talk to me.”

“When I met Mother at the restaurant, Channing was with her.”

Over Sydney's head, Mikhail's eyes darkened dangerously. “The banker with the silk suits. You let him kiss you before you let me.”

“I knew him before I knew you.” Amused, Sydney turned and looked jealousy in the eye. “And I didn't let you kiss me, as I recall. You just did.”

He did so again, ruthlessly. “You won't let him again.”

“No.”

“Good.” He drew her to the sofa. “Then he can live.”

With a laugh, she threw her arms around him for a hug, then settled her head on his shoulder. “None of it's his fault, really. Or my mother's, either. It's more a matter of habit and circumstance. She'd set up the evening after persuading Channing that the time was ripe to propose.”

“Propose?” Mikhail spun her around to face him. “He wants to marry you?”

“Not really. He thought he did. He certainly doesn't want to marry me anymore.” But he was shoving her out of the way so he could get up and pace. “There's no reason to be angry,” Sydney said as she smoothed down her jumpsuit. “I was the one in the awkward position. As it is I doubt he'll speak to me again.”

“If he does, I'll cut out his tongue.” Slowly, Mikhail thought, working up the rage. “No one marries you but me.”

“I've already explained…” She trailed off as breath lodged in a hard ball in her throat. “There's really no need to go into this,” she managed as she rose. “It's late.”

“You wait,” Mikhail ordered and strode into the bedroom. When he came back carrying a small box, Sydney's blood turned to ice. “Sit.”

“No, Mikhail, please—”

“Then stand.” He flipped open the top of the box to reveal a ring of hammered gold with a small center stone of fiery red. “The grandfather of my father made this for his wife. He was a goldsmith so the work is fine, even though the stone is small. It comes to me because I am the oldest son. If it doesn't please you, I buy you something else.”

“No, it's beautiful. Please, don't. I can't.” She held her fisted hands behind her back. “Don't ask me.”

“I am asking you,” he said impatiently. “Give me your hand.”

She took a step back. “I can't wear the ring. I can't marry you.”

With a shake of his head, he pulled her hand free and pushed the ring on her finger. “See, you can wear it. It's too big, but we'll fix it.”

“No.” She would have pulled it off again, but he closed his hand over hers. “I don't want to marry you.”

His fingers tightened on hers, and a fire darted into his eyes, more brilliant than the shine of the ruby. “Why?”

“I don't want to get married,” she said as clearly as she could. “I won't have what we started together spoiled.”

“Marriage doesn't spoil love, it nurtures it.”

“You don't know,” she snapped back. “You've never been married. I have. And I won't go through it again.”

“So.” Struggling with temper, he rocked back on his heels. “This husband of yours hurt you, makes you unhappy, so you think I'll do the same.”

“Damn it, I loved him.” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hand as the tears began to fall.

Torn between jealousy and misery, he gathered her close, murmuring endearments as he stroked her hair. “I'm sorry.”

“You don't understand.”

“Let me understand.” He tilted her face up to kiss the tears. “I'm sorry,” he repeated. “I won't yell at you anymore.”

“It's not that.” She let out a shuddering breath. “I don't want to hurt you. Please, let this go.”

“I can't let this go. Or you. I love you, Sydney. I need you. For my life I need you. Explain to me why you won't take me.”

“If there was anyone,” she began in a rush, then shook her head before she could even wish it. “Mikhail, I can't consider marriage. Hayward is too much of a responsibility, and I need to focus on my career.”

“This is smoke, to hide the real answer.”

“All right.” Bracing herself, she stepped away from him. “I don't think I could handle failing again, and losing someone I love. Marriage changes people.”

“How did it change you?”

“I loved Peter, Mikhail. Not the way I love you, but more than anyone else. He was my best friend. We grew up together. When my parents divorced, he was the only one I could talk to. He cared, really cared, about how I felt, what I thought, what I wanted. We could sit for hours on the beach up at the Hamptons and watch the water, tell each other secrets.”

She turned away. Saying it all out loud brought the pain spearing back.

“And you fell in love.”

“No,” she said miserably. “We just loved each other. I can hardly remember a time without him. And I can't remember when it started to become a given that we'd marry someday. Not that we talked about it ourselves. Everyone else did. Sydney and Peter, what a lovely couple they make. Isn't it nice how well they suit? I suppose we heard it so much, we started to believe it. Anyway, it was expected, and we'd both been raised to do what was expected of us.”

She brushed at tears and wandered over to his shelves. “You were right when you gave me that figure of Cinderella. I've always followed the rules. I was expected to go to boarding school and get top grades. So I did. I was expected to behave presentably, never to show unacceptable emotions. So I did. I was expected to marry Peter. So I did.”

She whirled back. “There we were, both of us just turned twenty-two—quite an acceptable age for marriage. I suppose we both thought it would be fine. After all, we'd known each other forever, we liked the same things, understood each other. Loved each other. But it wasn't fine. Almost from the beginning. Honeymooning in Greece. We both loved the country. And we both pretended that the physical part of marriage was fine. Of course, it was anything but fine, and the more we pretended, the further apart we became. We moved back to New York so he could take his place in the family business. I decorated the house, gave parties. And dreaded watching the sun go down.”

“It was a mistake,” Mikhail said gently.

“Yes, it was. One I made, one I was responsible for. I lost my closest friend, and before it was over, all the love was gone. There were only arguments and accusations. I was frigid, why shouldn't he have turned to someone else for a little warmth? But we kept up appearances. That was expected. And when we divorced, we did so in a very cold, very controlled, very civilized manner. I couldn't be a wife to him, Mikhail.”

“It's not the same for us.” He went to her.

“No, it's not. And I won't let it be.”

“You're hurt because of something that happened to you, not something you did.” He caught her face in his hands when she shook her head. “Yes. You need to let go of it, and trust what we have. I'll give you time.”