by Joanna Shupe
I wish for more than friendship from you and you are incapable of it, which hurts.
He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, ever. Was that why she cried the other night in his office? At the time, he attributed it to the emotion of her first experience with a man. Now he suspected the tear may have signaled something else. Something deeper.
Everyone is capable of love, but some people prefer to push it away.
The words pricked at him. Yes, Forrest had pushed everyone away, his demons too powerful to overcome, but that was not Kit. He had countless friends and acquaintances, a party wherever he went. The only person he’d pushed away had been his father, but that conniving bastard deserved it.
Granted, he didn’t see his brother or sister often. Both were still angry that Kit had retained his vast trust fund, while their funds had been bamboozled by dear old Dad. Perhaps he should make more of an effort to mend fences with his siblings. After all, they had a hatred for their father in common.
His gaze swept the empty entryway, the quiet rooms, and he stifled a sigh. Sitting alone at the funeral had been harder than he’d imagined. Arabella had come to comfort Preston, but there hadn’t been a soul to offer Kit comfort or share his grief . . . until Alice arrived. She hadn’t kept her distance or waited for permission, either. Instead, she saw him in the pew and came right up to hold his hand.
Christ, he missed her.
The front bell clanged, startling him. Wasn’t the entire city aware that he was in mourning? Who the hell would be calling today of all days?
Without waiting on his butler, Kit yanked open the door. His anger dissipated when he found Nellie Young standing there, a bag in her hands.
“You are an idiot.” She pushed by him and came inside, not even caring that he hadn’t invited her.
“Not keen on callers today, Nellie,” he said, still holding on to the door.
“Don’t care, Kit,” she said over her shoulder on the way into the salon. “I’m here to toast your friend and leave you to your misery.”
He flung the door shut, which closed with a satisfying snap. She was pulling a bottle and two glasses out of her bag when he threw himself into an armchair. “Not keen on drinking today, either.”
“Yes, your friend died in a drunken accident, I am aware.” She poured a small amount of clear liquid into each glass. “But you will do this.”
He accepted the glass from her and sniffed it. The vapor nearly melted his lungs. “What is it?”
“Poitín. It’s Irish and it’ll burn like the fires of Hell going down. Ready?” She lifted her glass. “Death leaves a heartache no one can heal; Love leaves a memory no one can steal. To Forrest.”
He lifted his glass. “To Forrest.” Together, they tossed the liquid in their mouths and swallowed. His throat went up in flames and he was certain his stomach had combusted. Leaning forward, he wheezed and gasped for breath.
By the time he gained control of his lungs, Nellie was already packing up. “Wait,” he said. “Give me a minute. I need you to explain.”
“My mother was Irish.” She pointed to her fiery red hair. “When she died, some of her family held a wake in the house. I remember hearing the songs and the prayers. It was filled with sorrow, but joy, too. I always thought it was a nice way to remember people. So, I never go to funerals, but I like wakes.”
“Where do you get that stuff?” He tilted his chin toward the bag where she’d stashed the liquor.
“Some boys over in Hell’s Kitchen. Any other questions before I go downstairs to say hello to Mrs. Henry?”
“Yes. Why did you call me an idiot when you first walked in?”
“Because you’re letting Alice marry the duke.”
His jaw fell open. “I am not letting her do anything. If she chooses to marry Lockwood, then that is her decision.”
“Kit. She is in love with you. Unfortunately, you won’t marry her, so what other choice has she?”
“I never lied to her. I never made promises or whispered sweet nothings in her ear.”
“Bully for you. Tell me, how many of the women you’ve slept with over the years came to the funeral today to hold your hand?”
His brows shot up. “How did you know?”
“You’d be surprised at what I know. And that is not an answer.”
“None.”
“Exactly. And how many other women came to your rescue and cooked a five-course dinner for fifty people?” She paused but he didn’t bother answering because the question was clearly rhetorical. “You think this devil-may-care, I-cannot-be-tied-down attitude is appealing, but I’ll tell you the truth. It’s not. Because we all know what this façade is hiding: fear.”
Irritation swept over him like a rash. “What about you? You are unmarried and flout society every chance you get. How am I any different?”
She rolled her eyes. “I am a woman. Marriage is a death sentence for me, not salvation. You’re a man. You get everything upon marriage—a constant bed partner, money, property, someone to feed you and look after you. Worse, you already have a loving, caring, wonderful woman who would trade anything to marry you, and you are too selfish to see it.”
“I am not afraid of marrying Alice.”
Smirking, she relaxed in the chair. “Tell me, then. Why won’t you marry her? Because I know you are wild about her.”
“I didn’t even know until today that she was interested in marrying me.”
“Again, not an answer—and I am skeptical that it’s never crossed your mind before. But let’s not quibble. Why won’t you marry her?”
This conversation was making his head hurt worse. “Fine. Let’s see. First off, I am opening a supper club, which is hardly a respectable business. Her parents would never approve.”
“Sounds like you are afraid that her parents would refuse your suit. What’s next?”
He gritted his teeth. “With my lack of standing in society, any wife of mine would practically be an outcast.”
“So you’re afraid the mean old matrons of Fifth Avenue will hurt your wife’s feelings?”
“I am beginning to truly regret opening the door to you today.”
“I bet. In tennis terms, I believe it is thirty–love in my favor. Tell me your next reason. No, let me guess! How could a man like you ever be faithful to just one woman?”
Crossing his arms, he glared at her. Yes, that had certainly crossed his mind.
“What?” She cupped her hand to her ear. “What did you say? That I’m right again? Forty–love, Mr. Ward.”
“The reason for your spinsterhood is becoming glaringly apparent.”
She threw her head back and laughed. “You make it so hard to be cross with you. All right, let’s get down to the brass tacks. Just say it, Kit. Just tell me the real reason and then it can be out in the open.”
Shooting to his feet, he crossed to the window and clasped his hands behind his back. He didn’t want to say anything more. She would mock him for whatever insecurities came out of his mouth. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Would I not? I know the whispers inside your head, the ones that make us doubt ourselves. The voices in the dark that tell us we are not worthy. You and I, we are kindred spirits. Which is how I know.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. How had she guessed that he still had his father’s voice in his head? That he feared the old man was right about him.
Worse, that he feared he was just like Franklin Ward. The charmer, the confidence man. Incapable of fidelity. One foot out the door at all times.
He did not want to be that man . . . but what if he was? What if it was deep in his blood, waiting for an unsuspecting woman to bring it out of him? He couldn’t risk it.
Alice deserves better.
“Perhaps,” Nellie said, making him realize he’d spoken aloud. “But feelings never bother with what one deserves.”
The tone had him turning. “You sound as if you are speaking from experience.”
“Immaterial. She wan
ts you but is settling for a duke. The question is, what do you want? Because if it’s Alice, then you must act quickly. And it’s worth noting, her mother won’t risk Alice being compromised. So do not think to do as your friend Harrison did. You’ll have to woo her the old-fashioned way.”
He gave a dry laugh that held no humor whatsoever. “I wouldn’t even know how.”
“I suggest you figure it out, then.” Nellie picked up her bag. “Unless, of course, you are ready to lose the best woman you will ever meet to another man.”
The idea of Alice and Lockwood sat in his stomach like a stone, more painful than the poitín. She wants you but is settling for a duke. Was it true? Alice had said she’d wished for more from Kit, but he’d told her time and time again that he wouldn’t marry her.
“I will pop down and say hello to Mrs. Henry. Think about what I said, Kit.”
“I will. Thank you, Nellie.”
She crossed the floor but then paused at the door. “Oh, and one more thing. Alice is my friend. If you are not prepared to crawl through fire to win her, then I won’t let you have her. Enjoy your afternoon.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Mary placed a huge flower bouquet—lilies of the valley and gardenias—on the tea table in Alice’s suite. “These just arrived for you, miss.”
Flowers? Alice put down her ladies’ magazine and reached for the card tucked into the bouquet. Had Lockwood sent these? Her heart, which should have raced at the idea, gave a mere thump. It was becoming more difficult to muster excitement for a match.
He’s a duke, for goodness’ sake. She had no other choice and Lockwood would make a fine husband. Alice should be positively thrilled.
She tore open the card. The crisp writing was short and to the point:
Fondly,
Mr. Christopher Ward
These flowers were from Kit? Her lips twisted into a broad smile. Then it fell. Why was he sending her flowers? And these flowers, in particular? Lilies of the valley were used to signify purity, either of person or intent. Gardenias represented sincerity in a promising new relationship, though Kit couldn’t possibly know that. She could not imagine that he followed such silly floriography.
Still, they were lovely. Perhaps this was his way of thanking her for coming to the funeral yesterday.
“Is there a vase?” she asked her maid. “If not in here, there might be one in my mother’s room.”
Mary went through the adjoining door into the other suite while Alice admired the beautiful bouquet. She had cried for most of the afternoon after leaving the church. For Kit, for herself. For what would never be. She loved him, but she would not give up her future because of him.
When Mary returned, she was not alone. “I hear you received flowers from the duke,” her mother said, wide eyes on the bouquet. Before Alice could hide the card, Mama snatched it out of her hand. “Christopher Ward? That scapegrace from the house party? Why on earth is he sending you flowers?”
“I haven’t any idea,” she lied. “But they certainly are pretty.”
Her mother pointed to the flowers. “Mary, dispose of those this instant. We must take care not to scare off the duke.”
“No, please. I’ll put them in my room.” Alice lunged for the box but she was too late.
In a flash, her mother gathered the flowers and handed them off to Mary, along with the card. “They will be disposed of and that is the end of that.” As if seeing Alice for the first time, Mama gave her a once-over. “Now, what are you wearing this afternoon?”
“This afternoon? Have we plans?”
“Alice, there is a tea at the Van Allens’ home. I told you this morning at breakfast. Do you never listen?”
Alice had hardly been paying attention, her mind stuck on memories of Kit. The idea of a society event today, with small talk and uncomfortable stares, sounded like absolute torture. “Must I go?”
Mama’s eyes widened. “Of course you must go. You are about to become a duchess, so we must show you off. The lilac dress, I think, Mary,” she called out to Alice’s maid.
The bell rang. Mama perked up and rushed to take a seat opposite Alice. She arranged her skirts and motioned for Mary to hurry. The maid answered the door and the duke’s smooth voice filled the space. “The Duke of Lockwood here to see Miss Lusk.”
Mary bobbed a curtsy. “Come in, Your Grace.”
Mama rose, doing her best at a welcoming smile. “Your Grace. How lovely of you to call this morning.”
Lockwood entered and promptly bowed. “Mrs. Lusk, Miss Lusk.” He looked dashing in a blue suit, his hair swept off his face. Freshly shaven, as if he’d just come from the barber shop downstairs in the hotel. Alice waited for some reaction, a zing of lust or attraction, but it never came. While she appreciated Lockwood’s appearance and personality, he didn’t set her heart aflame.
Only one man managed to do that.
You must stop thinking about him.
“Hello, Your Grace,” she said, and retook her seat.
“Good morning. I am wondering if you have dinner plans this evening. I realize it is last minute, but I would love to dine with you both in the hotel dining room.”
“I am not certain I feel up to dinner tonight,” her mother said, coughing delicately into her hand. “But Alice would love to go. Wouldn’t you, Alice?”
Not feeling up to dinner? That meant Alice would dine alone with the duke. Granted, they would be surrounded by a roomful of people, but still. What was her mother doing? “Uh, yes. Of course. I would love to, Your Grace.”
“Excellent. Eight o’clock? I’ll come by and escort you down.”
“I shall look forward to it.”
After a few minutes of small talk about the weather and his plans for the afternoon, he departed. Mama’s eyes were ablaze with satisfaction as she turned to Alice. “This is very good news. If he brings up the subject of marriage, try to look surprised.”
“Mama, he isn’t going to do that, not over dinner in a public dining room. And why aren’t you coming with us? You aren’t ill.”
“This is the perfect opportunity to give you both time alone while still remaining in public. As I said, act surprised if he floats the idea of a marriage between you.”
“I’ll try,” she muttered.
Her mother’s gaze narrowed until her lids were tiny, angry slits, and she folded her arms across her middle. “It wouldn’t kill you to appear even the tiniest bit happy at this development. Against all odds, you have a duke honoring you with his attentions. I expect you to smile and be agreeable tonight.”
“I will, Mama.”
“Now, I must write to the Van Allens and cancel for this afternoon.”
They weren’t attending the afternoon tea? “Wait, why?”
“Because you have a dinner to prepare for. We want you looking your best. Perhaps a nap first, then you may bathe and Mary can arrange your hair.”
The day stretched out in front of Alice like a military field march, during which she’d endure her mother’s heavy surveillance until she could escape to the hotel dining room. “Yes, Mama.”
“Also, you should eat something small so there is no need to eat during dinner tonight. There is nothing more off-putting to a man than watching a woman shovel food in her mouth.”
Alice knew this advice to be complete rubbish. She thought back to Kit’s lesson in the kitchen in Newport.
Anything that calls attention to a woman’s mouth has the potential to drive men wild.
And he had shown her exactly why in the club, which was that men loved to have their members sucked. She had loved it, as well, driving him wild with soft kisses and warm breaths, listening to his growls and grunts as she moved. Knowing she would never have another opportunity to see him like that made her want to weep. Again.
Her heart aching, she went into her bedchamber. Returning to her bed sounded like a fine idea at the moment. Then she spotted a small piece of vellum on her pillow. The card from Kit’s flowers. Her pul
se leapt. Mary must have saved it for her.
Lying down on the bed, Alice gazed at the paper, the neat writing. It was her last flower arrangement from Kit, so she hated to part with the card, even if it made her seem like a silly lovesick fool.
She lifted it to her nose and inhaled. The scent of gardenias still clung to the paper and she closed her eyes, missing him with a ferociousness that scared her. Would this terrible pain ever go away?
Kit slammed through the door of the supper club, the early-evening quiet only serving to amplify his loneliness. That had been a complete waste of an entire dashed afternoon.
Using Preston’s connections, Kit had secured an invitation to the Van Allens’ garden tea today because Alice had been on the guest list. Except her mother canceled at the last minute, which left Kit hobnobbing with Knickerbocker snobs for the better part of three hours. Granted, he was very good at hobnobbing, but he hated that High Society crowd, with their judgmental stares and whispered gossip.
In those elite circles, the Wards were nothing more than a tragic example of marrying outside their class. His blue-blooded mother had married for love, after all, choosing a working-class man instead, and then he took her money and deserted her. All afternoon, the women at the tea party had looked down their noses at him over oolong and macarons, setting his teeth on edge at every turn. It had been a miserable day.
You’ll have to woo her the old-fashioned way.
Thus far, he’d tried flowers and one failed society party. Not off to an encouraging start. He needed to do better to prove to Alice that he was serious about her. About them. About marriage.
Dragging a hand through his hair, he strode toward the bar. After all that tea, he was looking forward to a stiff drink. He poured a neat whiskey and then checked his pocket watch. His appointment should arrive at any moment.
His eyes drifted toward the office door. Heat and longing rushed through him, an ache that hadn’t dissipated since the night of the preview. Nellie was right. He wasn’t willing to let her marry another man, and his reasons for rejecting marriage had been based in fear. Once he’d admitted it, the barriers hadn’t seemed so great, so insurmountable. Because while they might share blood, he and his father were nothing alike. Kit had a firm handle on the concept of right and wrong. His father could not say the same.