Regret Not a Moment (4 page)

“But don’t
you
want to ride Sirocco when we go out on the trail?” John asked.

“I can ride him whenever I like. Besides, I’m going to ride him in the hunt on Saturday. Has Mr. Magrath asked you to join us for that?” As Magrath was master of the hunt, and Alexander’s host, it was appropriate for him to invite Alexander to participate.

“He did.” John dismounted and handed the reins to a groom. “And I’m hoping you’ll show me a bit of the countryside today, so that I won’t be taken completely unawares.”

Devon liked the fact that Alexander respected the hunt tradition. And she liked the modesty he displayed by not assuming he would be able to handle whatever occurred on Saturday. The Tri-County Hunt was known throughout the world for the expertise of its members and the variety and difficulty of some of its courses.

“Well, let’s get you on Sirocco and then we’ll go,” said Devon. She held the stallion’s bridle and spoke to him soothingly while John mounted him.

John settled himself in the saddle and expertly manipulated the reins so that the stallion stopped prancing. Meanwhile, the groom helped Devon into the saddle of the gelding John had ridden earlier. She thanked the groom, then led the way out of the paddock area.

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” said John when they were under way.

Instead of giving him a coy reply, Devon said, “I have too.” Devon liked the way John gently talked to the stallion in order to calm him. And she couldn’t help remarking to herself that riding clothes made her companion look even more handsome.

When they had cleared the area immediately surrounding Evergreen, the two urged their horses into an easy canter.

“Be careful of the stone wall ahead!” cried Devon. “The other side is lower, so when the horse lands, you’ll get a jolt if you’re not prepared.” The two horses and their riders sailed gracefully over the wall, then, a little farther, over a white rail fence. The crisp November air and the bright sunshine spurred them on, and soon the horses were racing over the countryside.

Devon’s hair slipped out of its ribbon and flowed behind her in a silvery black stream. Despite John’s absorption with the riding, he could not help but admire the young woman’s unself-conscious beauty. Her riding attire showed off her graceful legs, long and shapely, and her tiny waist. She was slender but curvaceous, exactly the kind of figure John found most appealing. He noticed from the length of her stirrups that Devon was not as tall as he had originally presumed when he had met her at the Magraths. He estimated that she was perhaps five foot four, but her horsewoman’s erect posture and her innate dignity made her appear several inches taller.

They slowed their horses to a walk as they approached a wooded area.

“We’re lucky to have the warm weather today,” said John. “I don’t normally have picnics in November.”

“Novembers are up and down in Virginia. One day it snows and the next day the flowers start to bud because the weather turns so warm. Februarys here are more like winter.”

As they talked, they came to a small meadow where orange, red, and yellow leaves floated through the breeze to land on the grass still as green as in midsummer.

“This is a pretty clearing. Shall we stop here?” John asked. He was impatient for the opportunity to sit and talk to Devon. To be completely alone with her.

“I have someplace even better in mind,” said Devon, with a secretive smile. They rode in silence for several minutes. Soon John heard the sound of burbling water.

“Here!” Devon cried victoriously. John, coming up behind her, spotted a pristine miniature waterfall, perhaps four feet high. The entire width of the brook was only fifteen feet. By its side, in a clearing, was an immaculately painted white gazebo furnished with white wrought-iron chairs and a table. But most amazing to John was that the table was fully set for a meal, complete with linen tablecloth, china, and crystal. Also on the table was a silver bucket containing champagne.

“What a wonderful surprise!” said John. “However did you manage it?”

“The grooms rode out with it earlier.” She laughed, delighted that her surprise had had the desired effect.

Devon slid out of the saddle and indicated that John should do the same. She walked to the table and pulled one side of the tablecloth up, revealing a chest beneath it. Devon opened the lid and removed a platter of fried chicken; a bun warmer containing steaming homemade biscuits; potato salad; coleslaw; several cheeses; and, for dessert, purple grapes and a pecan pie.

“These are all my favorites!” John exclaimed, regarding the feast with appreciation. “I’m glad I worked up an appetite.”

Devon smiled at his enthusiasm. “Will you open the champagne while I serve?”

John did as Devon asked while she arranged the food on the plates. When they were seated, he asked, “May I propose a toast?”

“Please do,” Devon replied, wondering what he would say.

“To Devon Richmond,

Beauty, horsewoman, hostess extraordinaire:

May this be the first of many occasions I hope to share.”

“I didn’t know you were a poet,” said Devon, with a laugh. “I hope you won’t think it rude of me to drink to that toast, even if it
is
me you’ve toasted. Consider that I’m drinking to the last part. The part about many more such occasions.” Devon found it difficult to meet John’s eyes as she said this. His effect on her was heady.

“Devon—may I call you Devon?” John asked, his voice dropping intimately.

“Of course,” she said in a soft voice. Suddenly the two were no longer laughing. Devon could hear her pulse pounding in her ears.

John covered her hand with his, but the contact was not enough for him. He stood up, walked to her side of the table, and pulled her to her feet.

Her legs trembled so that she felt she could barely stand without his support. She knew he was going to kiss her. She wanted him to. Breathlessly, she waited. His lips touched hers, tenderly at first, then more urgently as he drew her close and pressed the length of his body against hers. She could feel his excitement, his heart beating against her own. Her arms went around his waist and she felt his hard muscles beneath the fine linen of his shirt. She could smell the maleness of him, his soap mixed with sweat. And the smell of the horse on him. It was the most purely erotic scent she had ever experienced. Overwhelmed with the intensity of her feeling, she pulled her mouth away from his and buried her face in his chest. She was dizzy with desire. He put his hand under her chin. She lifted her eyes to his. They were drowning in each other. The smell, the touch, the taste. She wanted to taste him again. He lowered his lips to hers. She opened her mouth as he slid his tongue into it. She couldn’t get enough of him. She pulled his head even closer. Pressed even harder against him. His arms tightened around her in a fierce embrace. Their bodies were melded together.

Then, slowly, reluctantly, he released her. She swayed against him, grasping his arms for support.

“Devon…” he whispered. He buried his face in her sweetly scented hair, the perfume of it setting him on fire. He knew he should go no further despite his desire. He was aware that, because of her inexperience and her enjoyment of the moment, she might allow him to make love to her, but he didn’t want to take advantage of her innocence. To betray her trust. “Devon, I must apologize,” he finally said, pushing her gently away.

“Don’t. Kiss me again instead,” she said with a grin.

“Don’t tempt me. I can’t be responsible for my actions if we keep this up. And I want to be responsible where you are concerned,” he said softly, tracing the outline of her lips with his thumb.

“Where I am concerned? Have there been many others?” asked Devon, regretting the words as soon as they escaped her lips. “No… I didn’t mean to pry. I’m sorry,” she said, looking at the ground in embarrassment.

John was touched by her obvious desire to know more about him. He was tempted to tell her that he had never felt about another woman the way he felt about her. Somehow, though, he wasn’t quite prepared to say those words. He had known her such a short time. He did not want to say such a thing until he was sure he meant it. He did not ever want to hurt her.

“I’m thirty-two years old, Devon. There have been women in my life, but—”

“Of course there have been women,” said Devon, cutting him off, not ready to hear more. She was afraid he might say something he did not mean. Something she would want to believe. Something that might later wound her if it turned out to be nothing more than gallantry.

“It was an absurd question,” said Devon, the spell now broken. “Let’s concentrate on this delicious picnic and forget I ever asked.”

Devon’s parents sensed that something had happened between the two young people when they saw them together at dinner. The interest that John showed toward their daughter seemed more personal than before, while Devon was uncharacteristically quiet and distracted.

She had little to contribute to the conversation between John and her parents. She was content to watch and listen. She noticed that her father seemed to enjoy talking to John. Devon thought that John seemed older when he spoke with her father; not because he was trying to impress Chase with his intelligence, but rather because of the quiet confidence with which he spoke of business matters. Indeed, John had more business experience than most men his age and had made a substantial fortune, apart from that which he had inherited.

While the men had brandy and cigars in the library after dinner, Devon and her mother retired to the main salon. They settled on a down-filled couch in front of the fireplace. Laurel picked up her needlework and stitched quietly for a few minutes while Devon nibbled at the contents of a crystal dish filled with cashews, a faraway look on her face.

Finally, Laurel broke the silence. “Did you enjoy yourselves this afternoon?”

“Yes,” Devon felt the color rise in her cheeks and looked into the fire so as not to meet her mother’s eyes. It was not that her mother would not understand a kiss… just a kiss, after all, Devon thought. It was that the feelings John stirred so exceeded that simple physical act that she was embarrassed at the possibility that her mother would read the emotion on her face. For a moment she envisioned how it had been that afternoon. She had never experienced anything like the heart-stopping, searing desire that John aroused in her. Had it been special for him, too? The thought nagged at her. He seemed so knowing. When he took her in his arms, it was with none of the tentativeness of the young men she knew. He was used to having his desire reciprocated. Used to women saying yes to him. Was he also used to women falling in love with him?

Laurel’s voice broke into Devon’s reverie. “How long will Mr. Alexander be in Virginia?”

“I… I don’t know. He has business with Mr. Magrath. I suppose whenever that’s finished…”

Laurel thought she detected a note of sadness in Devon’s voice. “Will you be sorry to see him go?”

“Yes.” There was no point in concealing from her mother how much she would like John to stay. “I wonder when I’ll see him again. Of course, we’ll be in New York in the spring. But that seems like a long time.”

“I wonder if he has any… attachments in New York,” said Laurel, studying her daughter for her reaction. Again she saw Devon blush.

Devon did not want to admit that the same question troubled her. She did not want her mother to become alarmed. “I have the impression that he is… uncommitted,” she finally said.

“Well then,” said Laurel, with a small sigh of relief. That was good. But of course she would make inquiries.

Loretta Morgan reflected carefully before turning down the dinner invitation from Whitney Ross. He was rich. He was handsome. He was married. Normally, she thought of these as the perfect combination of traits in a man. But now she had John Alexander, who had the first two attractions without the third encumbrance.

Before, when Loretta’s only dream had been to become a star on Broadway, she had been willing, even happy, to form attachments with married men. She had, in a coolly methodical way, chosen men who would be helpful to her career. That a man was married meant that he would not demand she give up her ambitions in order to make a home for him. And she had no intention of giving up the stage.

Now that her public was beginning to wonder about her single state, however, her press agent had convinced her that she must marry. He worried—and made her worry—that her fans would think there was something wrong with her. So she knew it was time. If only John Alexander would demonstrate something more than lighthearted enjoyment of her company. Though he showed hearty appreciation for her physical charms, John was clearly not emotionally entangled with Loretta. But of one thing she was certain: he would sever their relationship if he ever suspected she had been with another man. Not out of jealousy, but out of pride. At times she felt that he had maintained their relationship for fifteen months only as a matter of convenience. At other times, however, such as when they made love, she could almost believe that he would one day fall in love with her. Otherwise, she thought, how could a man be so… so skilled at giving pleasure.

“Come on, Loretta, you know you want to,” said Whitney, looking at her reflection in her dressing room mirror as he stood behind her. Really, it had not been wise to invite him here, she chided herself. Particularly when she was wearing only a flimsy silk wrapper. Whitney slipped his fingers beneath the wrapper where it made a V at her collarbone. Looking in the mirror again he saw her physical reaction to his touch through the thin material that strained across her full breasts. The wrapper had slid open slightly, exposing her long, white legs from the knee down.

“Please?” he said winsomely. “Just a little supper?”

Loretta was tempted. What if John did not want to marry her? Whitney Ross was one of the richest men in New York. He could give her many, many things. In addition, it would not hurt her career to be linked with such a glamorous figure. Or would it? There it was again. The question of her age and when she would marry. That she was physically attracted to Whitney meant nothing to Loretta. It was as easy to become attracted to one man as another. What counted for her was his ability to help her.