Magnate (11 page)

“Oh,” Edith said, glancing between Lizzie and Emmett. Calls were required to be chaperoned, though Lizzie certainly wouldn't have worried over propriety if she had been alone. Edith's presence complicated matters.

“Excuse us, Edith. I'll speak with Mr. Cavanaugh in the hall.” She turned and led the way out of the room.

Chapter Seven

Emmett followed Elizabeth into the hall. Obviously he'd broken some absurd social rule by asking to speak with her alone, if the horrified look on the Rutlidge girl's face had been any indication. Not that Emmett cared about the ridiculous rules, especially not after the previous evening.

Elizabeth stepped further along the corridor. The house, he couldn't help notice, was decorated with the tasteful elegance one would expect from a family such as the Sloanes. No garish colors or gold leaf. Old, subtle paintings. Worn, expensive carpets. It was the kind of home that reminded you how long the occupants had been here, how well rooted their wealth.

But was that wealth only for show? That was what Emmett meant to find out. One way or another, Will Sloane would pay dearly for his part in all this.

Elizabeth stopped and faced him, her expression wary. She had dark smudges under her eyes, as if she'd had a terrible night's sleep. He could relate. He'd hardly closed his eyes.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a robin's egg–blue box that was tied with a white ribbon. “Here.” He presented the box to her, and she accepted it hesitantly.

“What is it?” She untied the bow and lifted the lid to reveal the smaller box within. She flipped the top open and then gasped. “Oh my.”

The way her gaze lit up, gray eyes sparking fire, caused a heady jolt of lust to streak throughout his body. He wanted to stoke that fire, watch her burn beneath him. Whatever else was between them, he could not help but notice her, react to her. He'd relived that kiss a hundred times, wondered how much more passion he could coax from this proper young woman.

Since she hadn't made a move to touch the ring, he took the box from her. “I thought you might need this today.”

He reached for her hand and slipped the band on her small finger. A perfect fit, yet uncertainty gnawed at him as she remained silent. Did she not like it? He'd been led to believe that diamonds were the fashionable stone these days, at least that's what Charles Tiffany had said last night when the man reopened his store so Emmett could pick out a ring. His choice, an antique setting containing a four-carat, emerald-cut yellow stone, spoke to his betrothed's refined taste, he'd thought. But perhaps it was too gaudy—

“Emmett, this is . . . It's too much. You shouldn't have.”

His stomach sank. Of course he'd bungled this. He started to take the band off her finger. “I'll exchange it, then. You may pick out whatever you want.”

Elizabeth curled her fingers protectively, surprising him. “No, I love the ring. There's no need to exchange it for something else. I just . . . I can't believe you thought of this.”

“Why wouldn't I buy you an engagement ring?” As soon as he said the words, he knew the answer. Elizabeth didn't consider them engaged. No doubt she'd been trying to think of a way out since they left Sherry's last evening.

Not that Emmett hadn't been trying to come up with an escape plan himself, but any way he looked at the situation, the two of them had to marry. He'd not allow his sisters to be ruined before they even debuted, period. They deserved the very best, and no matter the personal cost to himself, Emmett meant to ensure they had every advantage in life. He was marrying Elizabeth, and his sisters would be fully accepted into New York society.

And the retribution he planned for Elizabeth's brother was no one's business but his own.

“Emmett,” Elizabeth said, “I don't want you to think me ungrateful, but perhaps we should discuss this supposed marriage.”

“There is no ‘supposed' marriage, Elizabeth. This is real. Do you want me to hire someone to see to the details, or would you rather take care of the planning?”

Her jaw fell open. “The planning? Hire someone? We hardly know one another. You can't seriously be considering going through with this.”

As if he had a choice. Indeed, Will Sloane would pay dearly for blackmailing Emmett to go through with the ceremony, no matter how long Emmett's revenge took. Getting his hands on a large chunk of Northeast stock took a bit of the sting out, but Emmett would make sure Sloane regretted this.

His fiancée, for her part, couldn't sound more horrified if she tried. That shouldn't surprise him, but it did. After all, she was the one who'd asked him to kiss her. Had she been slumming? Wouldn't be the first time a high-society woman had thrown herself at him. Though the other night was the first time he'd taken up the offer.

As he'd done his whole life, he buried his emotions deep. He stepped back, putting distance between them. “I am prepared to marry you,” he said flatly. “If you want to break it off and suffer the repercussions, that is your decision. But I won't be the one to go back on my word.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Go back on your word? Your word to whom, exactly?”

Emmett could have bitten his tongue. Sloane had wanted Elizabeth to believe the marriage was real, that Emmett desired the match.
Make it look convincing, Cavanaugh. If she suspects you're lying, she'll never go through with it. And your sisters will suffer the consequences.
“That's an expression. All I mean is that I am going forward with this marriage.”

She blinked, her brows flattening. “Why?”

“Does that matter?”

“Yes. You know nothing about me.”

She knew even less about him—and Emmett meant to see it stayed that way. But he'd be damned if he'd try and convince her of something neither of them wanted. “Talk to your brother. If this wedding is called off, I won't be the one responsible. Grace Church has been booked for February twenty-second.”

“But that's merely a month away!”

“You are welcome to bow out, Elizabeth.” Emmett strode toward the entry, collected his hat and walking stick, and continued directly out the door. Before he closed the heavy wood behind him, he heard Edith Rutlidge say, “You have a lot of explaining to do, Lizzie.”

* * *

On Saturday afternoon, Lizzie found herself sitting in a brougham next to her fiancé. Emmett had written to ask if she cared to go for a drive, and she had agreed. Perhaps this way she could find out why he was determined to go through with this marriage. Her reasons were more obvious, as protection against scandal, but Emmett's baffled her.

The brougham turned south on Broadway. “Wait, you said we were going for a drive in Central Park.”

Emmett's lips twisted. “No, I said I wanted to take you for a drive. You assumed I meant Central Park.”

Yes, she had assumed as much. All betrothed couples of a certain status were expected to participate in the obligatory afternoon brougham and landau procession at Fifty-Ninth and Fifth. But then, Emmett Cavanaugh did nothing according to expectation. And thank goodness for that.

“Then where are we going?”

“A surprise.”

He appeared so pleased with himself, the devilish twinkle in his eye causing her heart to pound. Though it had only been a few days since his visit, she'd forgotten about his magnetism. The way her body was
aware
of him at all times. The cramped space in the small vehicle seemed to shrink in his presence, the air growing thinner to make her dizzy.

In a month she would be this man's
wife
. The idea boggled her mind. She hardly knew him. Was he truly prepared to marry her?

“How are the wedding plans progressing?” he asked, as if he could read her thoughts.

She sighed. “Exhausting. I had no idea there were so many details.”

“You are welcome to hire whomever you need in order to see everything done. Have the bills sent to me. There's no reason to run yourself ragged, Elizabeth.”

“Thank you, but I'll manage. Since you insisted on taking over the reception, I don't have much to organize.”

“All the same, please do not hesitate to cable if there is anything I or Colin can help with.”

They rode in silence as they crossed Houston then Canal, and continued on. When they passed St. Paul's, she asked, “Are we going to the Battery?”

“No,” he said, but didn't elaborate.

Finally they turned onto Beaver Street. Lizzie studied the buildings out the window. “Didn't you say you had an office building here?”

“Yes, I did.” Just then the wheels slowed before a new five-story limestone-and-brick office building, one with
EAST COAST STEEL
carved into the elaborate archway over the door.

The Romanesque revival structure encompassed almost half the block. Rows and rows of windows stretched into the sky, so high that one could probably see Brooklyn from the top floor. Thick columns, heavy arches, and intricate carvings turned the building into a work of art.

“Come with me.” Emmett descended and assisted her to the ground.

She lifted her skirts and walked with him through the large wooden door. A list hung on the wall, the offices and businesses contained within. Excitement hummed in her veins. Would one of these be hers?

“It's not there yet, if that's what you are wondering,” Emmett said behind her.

“What's not here?”

“Your company name.” He gestured to the black-and-white letters. “I wasn't sure what you planned on calling the investment firm.” He pointed to the listing for
Cavanaugh
with an office on the third floor. “This is you.”

“Oh, Emmett.” She clutched his arm and grinned. “Really? My own office?”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, and he blinked a few times. “Yes,” he told her gruffly. “I told you the space is yours for as long as you like.”

She bounced on the toes of her half boots. “May I see it?”

“Of course. This way.”

Giddiness surged through her, and she had to clamp her lips together to keep from peppering him with questions as they took the elevator up two floors. When they stepped out, he took her arm. “You are at the end of the hall.”

Each door they passed had the company name written in big, white block letters on the glass. “Will I have my name on the door as well?”

“Yes. Just as soon as you tell me your company's name.”

She'd been so focused on the wedding plans that she hadn't thought on what to call her investment firm. Best to use her name, because using
Cavanaugh
seemed strange . . . but then she wouldn't be a Sloane for much longer.

Emmett stopped at the last door. Reaching into his vest pocket, he withdrew a key and held it out in his huge palm. “Would you like the honor?”

She snatched the key and fit the metal end into the lock with a trembling hand. The tumbler caught and disengaged, and she turned the ornate brass knob to open the panel. A tiny waiting area appeared, another door behind it.

“This is for your secretary,” Emmett said, and strode farther inside. “Now come and see the rest of it.”

Hurrying forward, she threw wide the door. An airy, well-lit space, the office had a row of windows along one side. The plaster walls had not yet been painted, and wires stuck out from where holes had been fashioned. The wood floor was beautiful, finished to a glossy shine, and a very impressive six-arm gasolier hung from the ceiling. A small pot-bellied stove rested in the corner, ready to keep the room's occupants warm.

The space wasn't perfect. It needed quite a bit of work. Furniture, paint, equipment . . . but she loved every raw inch. “Oh, Emmett.” She turned in a circle to take everything in. “This is . . .”

“Not very dashing, I know. But the wiring's in for your gas, electricity, and telephone. I had them refinish the floors in pine. I wanted to leave the aesthetics to you, the furniture and the paint. But if you don't like it—”

He was nervous, she realized. Couldn't he tell how much she adored it? “No, I love it. I'm . . . I can't believe the office is really mine to use.”

His shoulders visibly relaxed. “Good. There was another space on the second floor, but without as many windows.”

She crossed to see the view. Beaver Street stretched out below, with Delmonico's at the corner of the next block. This would be her base as she advised clients, studied the stock reports, read the ticker tape . . . as she built a life for herself. The possibilities nearly made her giddy. “Where is your office?”

“Two flights up,” he said, coming up alongside to lean against the window frame. “East Coast Steel has the entire top two floors. Perhaps we can ride to work together in the mornings.”

Just hearing the words aloud sent a warm sizzle down her spine. Would she really be sharing a home with this man? The idea sounded insane . . . yet strangely appealing. No one had affected her so deeply in such a short amount of time, not like Emmett. He was different from the other men, the bon vivants who spent time at parties and clubs, with no aspiration other than to waste their family's money.

While Emmett might not have as much polish or shine, he had depth of character. A solid foundation, just like the surrounding empty space. And with a bit of attention and care, who knew what might happen?

“I would like that,” she said softly, referring to his comment about traveling to work together. “You won't mind a wife who works?”

He frowned, the cleft in his chin deepening. “I am not your brother or one of those other high-minded society fools. If you want to work, I'll not stand in your way. I'll support you, whatever you decide.”

Relief nearly weakened her knees. Though he'd encouraged her, a small part of her had worried he would try to curtail her attempts to run her own company. It was one thing to partner with a business associate's sister. Quite another matter when that woman was your wife. Not all husbands would be so accommodating—at least not husbands in her social circle.