Paxton Pride (11 page)

“I'll make do until Mrs. Leighton is ready to leave.”

“Fine.”

As if on cue, Modero appeared in the doorway holding Earnest's hat and walking stick. “Your carriage is ready, sir.”

“Thank you, Modero. Take good care of Mr. Paxton here, please. See that he gets whatever he wants. I should be back sometime tonight.” Earnest took the trappings from the butler and turned in the doorway to face the Texan once again. “Until later, Mr. Paxton?”

“Yes, later. Thanks for your hospitality and the use of your carriage.”

“Yes. My carriage.” An almost sinister or sickly clever smile flashed across Leighton's face. He turned and left quickly.

He knows why I'm here, Vance thought. Knows damn well. And it's almost as if he approves, even enjoys the idea of having another man mount his wife. Vance began to feel very tired of the city. He was weary of the intrigue, the clandestine debauchery hidden behind the venerable veneer of aristocracy and formal trappings of state. Worse yet, he was getting tired of himself, tired of the way he'd let the city influence him, slowly affect him, twist him to its inanimate will.

Modero re-entered, bowed, announced that Mrs. Leighton wished to speak with him in her sitting room and walked out again. Vance's immediate reaction was to leave immediately, to get as far away from Washington, from the teeming cities of the North, as soon as possible. The anger swelled in him.
Damn them. Damn them all
. He stalked out of the library to the hall, grabbed his hat from the rack and started out the front door, stopped only by a tiny noise from Modero. The butler stood partway up the stairs, waiting for him with a small, nearly invisible smile, more perhaps implied than expressed, frozen on his face.

What thoughts raced through Vance's head then? He didn't mind lying with Angie Leighton. Not in the slightest. She was an exciting woman. Her body was full, tough, responsive, ready to accept his slightest mood or whim, ready to reciprocate with unabashed sensuality. They had been together four times now and each time had been better. Each time they had used the memory of the time and times before as they tortured each other with the secret touches, the secret caresses they knew would please beyond pleasure. But this was something different. They had met before in his hotel room. Old Grover knew, of course, and possibly others, but the liaisons were essentially private. Now he was involved in a group affair. Earnest Leighton certainly knew, must have given his blessing. Modero had to be in on it—why else the supercilious smirk? Why was Angie allowing this to happen? Was he a pawn in some political game played beyond his knowledge or skill? Or merely an instrument to fulfill the strange sexual desires of an effete class for which he had no liking? And what of the gala? Was he expected to play the hired stud, pleasure the man's wife and then lead her to a party where everyone would undoubtedly read the sleepy residue of passion so evident in Angie's eyes?

And what would Karen think? Karen! Would she care, really? A cold-hearted little bitch, one who'd play with a man, lead him on only to clamp her legs closed and leave him hanging, empty and seething. One who'd marry an Alfred Whitaker for money and prestige and power. Well, the hell with her, he thought angrily. By God, he'd swive the lady waiting for him upstairs, swive her well and to the hilt and parade her forth for all their fancy world to gape at. The rumor mill would spin dizzily, fueled by giggles and hushed asides, gasps and innuendos enough to last until the next scandal thankfully reared its exciting head, relieving them of the boredom of the past so soon sucked dry by countless wagging tongues. Miss Fancy Hampton would puff and swell with indignation, but 'twould serve her right. Give her some notion of what a real man was, even if only through the look in Angie's smouldering eyes.

The decision was made in seconds. He tossed the flop-brimmed hat on the stand. Modero smiled knowingly, turned and led the way into the dark at the top of the stairs. Only one area of the hall was illuminated and this was spillover glow from their destination, Angie Leighton's sitting room. “First damn time I had to have a damn butler show me the way,” Vance muttered aloud.

“Sir?”

“Nothing.”

Modero bowed and gestured Vance toward the door. Vance moved with sure purpose and entered the room, one hand indicating to Modero he could leave. The door shut behind him softly.

A low chandelier lit the empty room evenly. A French dressing table with a marble top held scattered and sundry female accessories doubled by the mirror behind them. A deep leather chair to one side held a gown of red velvet. Two more mirrors. Three in all. He watched all three of him take a deep breath and savor the fragrant scent of a woman's perfume lingering in the air. Across the room a door led off and into what had to be her bedroom. Vance grinned determinedly. Angie Leighton waited in her den.

His coat slid from his shoulders, his soft buckskin boots from his feet. He shed his neckerchief, shirt and trousers, leaving all lie where they fell and strode naked across the room to the invitational door.

The soft yellow glow of a dim lamp highlighted his powerfully muscled form and gave him a god-like appearance. Like some larger than life statuary, a homage to what man once was and should be, his body was hard and lean, forged by fire, hammer and anvil, tempered in the boiling cauldron of time and empty space, left glowing with the slightest trace of copper, burned there by the sun. A primeval deity come to life. A man who had faced the elements, survived the rigors of a harsh pioneer upbringing and existence, and lived life to its fullest.

Angie lay on the bed. She was swathed in a shimmering gown of transparent silk. She gasped at the sight of the man her body hungered for and his latent animal sensuality swept over her, left her trembling with anticipation of the rapacious sexual feast to come. She unloosed the single bow holding the clinging silk across her breasts. It fell away as she lay back on the satin coverlet, her thighs, warm and inviting, parted beneath the sheer covering.

For a moment the two stared at each other, the mere sight of their naked bodies arousing them. No touch was needed between these two. Angie felt the throbbing ache awaken in her loins as the animal before her hardened, rose tumescent and pulsing to its full height. Her hand went down to sweep the remaining piece of silk from across her thighs, revealing the soft, moist lips so eager to be stroked, parted, entered and ravaged. Eyes burning and lips parted, she threw wide her arms to greet the carnal god as he approached. There would be no more waiting.

The sound of the party drifted upstairs, filtered down the hall and into her room. Karen sat alone, brooding over whether or not to return to the festivities. The evening had started off as well as could be expected. She swept down the stairs just at the right moment, paused near the bottom so those in the dining room could see her and managed to divert every eager male and jealous female eye in sight. Alfred ascended the stairs and escorted her the rest of the way down. He was totally enraptured by her beauty and after their first dance, allowed her to convince him they should put off the announcement of the wedding date until later in the evening when everyone had arrived. Business quickly intervened and they were soon separated, Karen to demurely accept compliments and return jealous barbs, Alfred to bask in the envious glow of his colleagues.

An hour passed and Karen found herself wandering the entire lower floor from dining room to reception room, from parlor to library, seeking the Texan. When she didn't find him she retreated up the stairs to the safety of her bedroom.
All right. I was looking for him. But only to let him see just who I am
. A tiny doubt assailed her.
Karen Hampton, of course. Soon to be Mrs. Alfred Randol Whitaker II. No. I shan't be! I'm Karen Hampton. I … I'm a fairy princess
. She swirled her skirts before the mirror.
Oh, I'll show him. But why isn't he here? Texans are so rude. He said he'd be here
.

A knock sounded on the door. “Who is it?”

“It's me, honey.…”

“Come in, Retta.”

The black woman entered and sat down on a nearby chair, fanning herself violently with her hand. “All dem people, all dem purty dressed people and none of dem can hold a candle to my baby. And where is my little girl? She up here by herself so's no one can see her.”

“I was just tired, Retta. That's all. All those people get so boring at times. They all talk about the same things, even dress the same, when all's said and done. It's no fun anymore.”

“Well now, Missy Hampton, I don't know how's you can say dat. Sit up. Lemme check yo' hair.” She reached over and dabbed at a tiny blossom. “No, suh. I can't see dat at all,” she said grinning, taking her time with the news she knew Karen wanted to hear. “You should see dat fella jus' made his entrance. Oo-whee, my oh my. Big as sin and twice as purty. Dressed like I never seed in dese here parts.”

Karen jumped off the bed and ran out of the room, leaving a laughing Retta behind. The bright lights and chatter from below stopped her at the top of the stairs.
Calm down. Compose yourself. The barbarian must be shown a regal princess, not a rushing silly girl tripping over her own skirts
. Head high, she descended haughtily. She was halfway down when she stopped abruptly. He was there, his presence a certainty beyond proof of sight. She turned automatically to where she knew he stood, eyes drawn to him of their own volition.

Vance knew she was looking at him. The sure knowledge of her presence behind him interrupted the conversation he was having with Edward Fox, a large burly lumber and mining man from the Montana Territory. Fox, an old friend of Barrett back East on business, was saying something important but Vance heard not a word, for all sound was blocked out by the sudden roaring noise in his head. She was there, incontrovertibly there, and he turned automatically, his muscles taught by some unconscious force. Vance Paxton, knowing the truth now, looked up to meet the gaze of the princess on the stairway.

For the first time in his life he was totally surprised. She was heartbreakingly beautiful. More beautiful than he remembered. A radiant sunburst in a city choked with darkness he felt had cast its shadow over even him. Purity she was, obviously worth far and above more than all the others pressing around him. In the island universe formed by their looks, he bowed to her, bowed deeply in deference to her beauty, her worth, her very person.

Karen's face went cold and she felt her heart turn bitter as brine, for from behind Vance's muscular shoulders Angie Leighton's eyes burned up toward her, oh so catty, ominous and daring. Karen steeled herself against any display of surprise, any indication of perturbation. Instead she forced herself to look nonchalantly away from them and continued down the stairs as if nothing had happened, smiling and calling gaily to the first person she saw.

Vance disengaged himself from Angie as the Hampton lovely made her way across the hall. He intercepted her before she could escape into the ballroom. Karen feigned surprise. “Why, Mr. Paxton. We had assumed you weren't coming. I'm delighted you were able to join our festivities, even if tardily.”

“I'm sorry I'm late,” he answered, his tongue slow and awkward. “You are more beautiful than I had remembered.”

“You flatter me unnecessarily, sir.” She tried to sound bright and gay but somehow knew the words hadn't come out that way.

Angie hurried up and re-attached herself possessively to Vance's arm. He appeared embarrassed, almost sorry she was there yet obligated to put a good face on the situation. “You know Mrs. Leighton, of course.”

“Of course,” Angie broke in, her voice sultry and confident. “Earnest was terribly sorry he couldn't make it. Mr. Paxton was good enough to escort me.”

“Yes, I see. I'm sorry Earnest was busy.” Something was dreadfully wrong. The world was rushing at her too fast. Events piled pell-mell on each other, surrounding her in a confusing welter beyond comprehension. Her head whirled giddily and she felt faint, but had to make the effort. “I'm afraid I shall soon have to learn how to cope with being a congressman's wife myself. So often alone, bored and with little to do save grow another day older.” Angie's face, bright and with a slight sheen of perspiration, swelled and shrunk in front of her like some monstrous, macabre mask.

“Ah, but one manages to amuse oneself if one tries hard enough,” Angie smiled, teeth and lips bloated horribly out of proportion. Her voice echoed hollowly in Karen's ears, receding as if the speaker were falling away, away.…

“I'm afraid I would find such a frantic search rather tiring,” Karen returned, functioning now on instinct and training alone. “It must, after all, become more and more difficult as time goes on.”

Angie's smile froze momentarily, froze in a hideous parody of courtesy and friendliness. Karen tried to go on but couldn't Angie was speaking, a delightfully camouflaged malicious retaliation, no doubt, but Karen couldn't hear her any more. The thunder of a thousand waterfalls filled her ears, blotting out all intelligible sound. Suddenly the entire exercise seemed petty and paltry, unimportant in the extreme. But why were his eyes so blue? To match the blue of Texas skies? To mimic the cool sweet depths of a hidden, secret pool where lovers were wont to meet?

“I'm sorry, but you'll have to excuse me,” Karen managed in a breaking voice. She turned and broke away from them, skirts swirling in a flurry of blues and whites, traces of shocking pink. The garden lay only yards away through the dining room and French doors. There she would find fresh air, air she could breathe without choking, without crying out in rage or fainting.

A whirlwind of flower petals gusting across a garden, Vance thought as he watched her disappear among the crowd choking the entire downstairs and spilling out onto the yard. He felt like a sheepish school boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The conversation had flowed around him too rapidly for his muddled state of mind. He had understood little, so intent had he been on watching Karen. That the two women had been throwing barbs at each other he had no doubt. But neither did he really care. He was more concerned with what he felt, what he finally knew he should have known, should have admitted to himself, days ago. He dredged his memory.…