The Scandalous Miss Howard

by Nan Ryan

  “Totally,” she replied. “Heaven on earth.”

  “I know,” he said, agilely rolling up into a sitting position. He put his arms around her, drew his long legs up, crossed them, and sat Indian style.

  “I like this,” she said, wrapping her arms around his dark head and clasping his sides with her bent knees.

  “So do I,” he replied, moving his lips to the pale pink nipple rubbing against his bearded chin.

  “Oh, yes,” she sighed as he suckled her and began the rolling, thrusting motions of his pelvis.

  The naked pair sat there in the middle of the bed on that cold, rainy afternoon and made passionate love. The first session didn’t last all that long. They were so hot for each other that they had hardly begun the rolling, rhythmic movements of lovemaking before they felt their shared release overwhelming them.

  Neither minded.

  Both knew they had all afternoon.

  After that first urgent climax had passed and they had calmed somewhat, they switched to a different position and began to make lazy, leisurely love, looking into each other’s eyes as they came together.

  For Laurette, the lovemaking was absolutely wonderful. Sutton enjoyed it too—so much so that he had to constantly remind himself, as she clung so sweetly to him, that making love with this particular woman was no different from making love to dozens of others. Pleasurable, of course, but that was all.

  The fevered union involved only his body, not his heart. A heart once badly broken was forever immune to pain. His certainly was. This woman whose soft, yielding body accepted him so readily was no one special.

  The lovemaking was nothing special.

  While it might not have been special for Sutton, it was very special for Laurette. Utterly divine. She had never guessed that such physical pleasure was possible.

  Now hours after they’d come upstairs, darkness was quickly falling. Laurette, lying warmly in Sutton’s arms, was so stated and peaceful she fell asleep.

  For a time Sutton continued to hold her and to gaze at her angelic face, her exquisite body. She looked so young, so innocent. He felt his heart squeeze painfully in his chest.

  She had no idea what his true intentions were. She believed that he cared for her, wanted to be with her, was giving himself to her in the same sincere way she was giving herself to him.

  Sutton closed his eyes. His jaw tensed. His belly contracted.

  Perhaps what he was doing to her was too cruel, too inhumane. His eyes opened, then narrowed. He hardened his heart. He carefully untangled himself from Laurette and rose from the bed. He picked up the bedcovers and spread them over her. He placed one pillow beside her face.

  Then he dressed to leave.

  When Laurette awakened a short time later, she found a note on the pillow along with one white rose. The note read, “Till tomorrow.” Laurette sighed with happiness. Taking the note and the rose with her, she walked naked down the hall to her bedroom. There she placed the note on her bedside table and the rose in a crystal bud vase.

  She drew on a robe and went downstairs. Starving, she hurried into the kitchen and ate a cold supper of cheese and bread and drank a glass of milk. When she had finished, she went back upstairs. She started toward the master suite at the front of the mansion but suddenly stopped.

  Laurette decided that although it was surely shameful, she would skip her nightly bath. Sutton’s kisses and his scent clung to her body and she was reluctant to wash him away. With a wicked grin she returned to the guest room where they had spent the lovely afternoon.

  The rain had finally stopped. The moon had risen. Laurette opened the curtains to let the moonlight spill in. She took off the robe and crawled naked back into the love-tumbled bed.

  Sutton filled her thoughts and she wondered at her deep and immediate fascination for this particular man. From the minute she’d seen him at the Ivys’ party, she had been totally captivated. And, contradictory as it seemed, while he was a total stranger, he was, somehow, hauntingly familiar.

  That mysterious feeling of familiarity drew her helplessly to him. Yet something about him frightened her, some elusive thing she couldn’t put her finger on. He was not like any man she’d ever known. He could be incredibly charming and witty. He could also be quiet and somber. He could, she had noted with interest, sit perfectly still for an hour, not moving a muscle or blinking an eyelash. And, he was very powerful in his stillness. It gave one a sense that he was combustible.

  Dangerous.

  There was, Laurette felt, something secret, something hidden, something Sutton didn’t want her to know. He asked her many questions, not just about herself, but about all her friends, to which she’d gladly supplied answers. But when she questioned him, she often got only vague replies. Why? What was he hiding? And why, she wondered, did he have such a poor appetite? His tanned body was beautiful to her, but it was lean to the point of thinness. And no wonder. No matter how tempting the meal, Sutton ate very little.

  Laurette pulled the covers tighter.

  She was suddenly trembling and it was with doubt and fear, not the recollection of shared passion. She was afraid of Sutton Vane and she didn’t know why. She immediately chided herself for her foolishness. She certainly hadn’t feared him enough to stay out of his arms, out of his bed.

  And that worried her. She couldn’t believe how she had behaved with this man. Was behaving. Would continue to behave for as long as he desired her. It made no sense. With the exception of the sweet, urgent loving she’d shared with Ladd all those years ago, Laurette had never enjoyed intimacy. She had loathed making love with her husband, had spent all the years with Jimmy dreading his touch, wishing he would leave her alone.

  Then along came this dark, mysterious stranger and from the moment she saw him she couldn’t wait to be in his arms. And when Sutton took her in his arms, it was as if she had always belonged there.

  As if she belonged to him.

  Twenty-Eight

  “I passed a vacant lot on Canal Street last week. Find out if it’s for sale. If it is, buy it. If not, locate another large, desirable lot downtown that is available,” said Sutton to Bones.

  Bones nodded and scribbled “Canal Street lot” on a page in the well-worn leather binder that was open on his knees. “We’ll get right on it.”

  “Meet with the architect who designed the island house. Tell him to draw up plans for a floral shop with a large greenhouse in back.”

  Again Bones nodded, unquestioning. “Anything else?”

  Sutton reached for the silver box that held his fine Cuban cigars. He took a cigar from the box and nipped off the end with the cigar clippers. Putting it into his mouth, he lit a match by striking it on his thumbnail.

  Bones, seated across the mahogany desk, waited patiently for Sutton’s next request.

  The cigar now lit, Sutton blew out a narrow plume of smoke and said, “Have one of our men visit the Orphans Asylum on St. Francis. He is to speak with the director, Mrs. Abigail Young. Find out from Mrs. Young if any or all of the children would be interested in taking piano lessons. Explain that the lessons will be free, but the benefactor has requested that his or her identity remain unknown.” Sutton stopped speaking, drew on his cigar, exhaled, then tapped its ash in a crystal ashtray.

  “That it?” Bones asked.

  “For now,” said Sutton. “How long will these little tasks take?”

  “We should have some answers for you within forty-eight hours at the latest.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks, Bones.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said the burly man as he closed his leather journal and rose to his feet.

  Declaring he could not stay away from her, Sutton made it a point to be with Laurette every moment she was free. And, he made love to her anytime he could manage to get her alone for a few minutes or a few hours.

  Laurette was dazzled, overwhelmed, obsessed with him. Willing and ready to fall into his arms wherever and whenever, she savored every thrilling moment
of their lovemaking. Every touch, every kiss was magical. She made no attempt to conceal the fact that she was wild about him.

  Wanting desperately to believe that he felt the same way about her, Laurette pushed aside any lingering doubts about this man who had turned her humdrum world upside down. Sutton Vane had made such a wonderful difference in her life, she would be forever grateful to him. She told herself not to look ahead, not to worry about tomorrow, not to wonder where this passionate affair would lead. She cautioned herself not to assume that it would last. Something this wonderful rarely did.

  At the same time she prayed that it would. Already the thought of losing him was unbearable. He was everything to her. Until she met Sutton, Laurette had felt as if her life was over, that she would never know true happiness again.

  She had been wrong.

  She had never been happier than she was now.

  Sutton showed up at the Dauphin Street mansion a half hour early on a balmy evening in mid-February.

  “Oh, no!” Laurette lamented as she grabbed a robe and raced down the stairs.

  “I know I’m early,” he said apologetically when she opened the door. Smiling, he reached out with both hands, gripped the satin lapels of her dressing robe, drew her slowly to him and whispered, “Forgive me?”

  “I’ll think about it,” she teased, then nearly swooned when he drew her up on tiptoe and kissed her ardently.

  “Know why I’m early?” he asked.

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “I was hoping I’d catch you like this, not yet dressed.” His blue eyes gleamed and she read his meaning. “You have anything on under that robe? I don’t think you do.”

  “No, Sutton,” she scolded, smiling, as she pulled free of his arms. “There isn’t time. If we’re to meet the Ivys at eight, then I must hurry back upstairs and get dressed.”

  “Need any help?” His arched eyebrows lifted devilishly.

  “Absolutely not,” she said. “Wait in the drawing room and I’ll be down in five minutes.”

  She turned away. He caught her arm and drew her back. He kissed her and said, “I can hardly wait to get back from the theater.”

  “Nor can I,” she honestly admitted.

  As she hurriedly climbed the stairs, Sutton moved toward the arched doorway of the drawing room, but didn’t go inside. Instead, he turned and wandered aimlessly down the long corridor toward the back of the house. He paused when he reached the open door of the music room. Light from the hallway spilled into the shadowy room.

  He smiled.

  A sad, melancholy smile.

  At the room’s center sat the same large, square piano—ornately carved from black mahogany—upon which he and Laurette had learned to play while their teacher, the genteel Miss Foster, stood over them.

  So many years ago.

  A lifetime ago.

  Sutton ventured inside. He let his hand sweep across the piano’s top. The wood was dusty. The piano, he was sure, had not been played for a very long time. He sat down on the bench. His long fingers settled comfortably on the ivory keys. Without thinking, he automatically began playing the Chopin’s polonaise that he and Laurette had learned when they were children.

  He caught himself after playing only a few distinctive notes. He ground his teeth and his hands immediately stilled on the keys. His heart hammered.

  Laurette, dressed and halfway down the stairs when the first familiar chord was struck, stopped abruptly, leaned against the bannister and put a hand to her fluttering heart. She shook her head as if to clear it.

  She shivered and the fine hair lifted on the nape of her neck. Why, she wondered, should this upset her? Why should Sutton playing this particular piece upset her so? The polonaise was part of every talented player’s repertoire. And Sutton was talented. At everything he did.

  Feeling both chilled and flushed, Laurette forced herself to take deep, relaxing breaths. She told herself that she was behaving foolishly. Ghosts from the past were haunting her. Would always haunt her.

  Finally she exhaled, began to smile and proceeded on down the stairs. A coincidence, that’s all it was. Nothing more. She was being silly.

  “Your piano is badly out of tune,” said Sutton, now strolling back up the hall toward her, “I’ll send someone around to work on it.”

  Laurette stopped on the bottom step of the stairs. She looked at him and said, “I didn’t know you played.”

  “I don’t,” he said as he moved closer and put his hands to her waist. “Do you?”

  “No, not really.” She needlessly cleared her throat and started to ask why he had chosen the piece of music he had begun playing. But before she could speak he silenced her with a kiss. By the time his warm, smooth lips left hers, she had forgotten the question.

  “We’re late, love,” he said, “Let’s go.”

  After an evening at the theater where the renowned stage actress Ada Rehan gave a magnificent performance as Katherine in The Taming of the Shrew, Laurette and Sutton said good-night to the Ivys and went directly to Sutton’s Government Street mansion. There they shared a late supper, complete with chilled champagne, upstairs in Sutton’s private suite. After the sumptuous meal, they made love in the big, oversize bed while a fire in the marble fireplace cast a warm golden glow over their naked, entwined bodies.

  By the time Sutton took the sleepy Laurette home in the wee small hours of the morning, he knew without a doubt that she—just as he had intended—was beginning to fall in love with him.

  Laurette was surprised, but not alarmed, when Sutton wasn’t waiting in his carriage near the hospital steps as had become his custom. She wrinkled her brow when she saw the empty street. She looked both ways, but saw nothing coming in either direction. She waited a few minutes, reasoning that he might have gotten away from his house late and would arrive any second.

  When fifteen minutes had passed with no sign of him, Laurette began to feel uneasy. Then she laughed at herself for being anxious. He was probably on the way to her house this very minute. Laurette hurried down the steps and began walking fast, toward home. Once there, she built the fire, then freshened up, certain that Sutton would knock on the door any minute.

  He did not.

  Seven.

  Eight.

  Nine o’clock passed and still he had not come. Laurette tried to think back; had he told her that he was tied up this evening? That he wouldn’t be able to make it?

  No, he hadn’t. He had said, as he had kissed her good-night, that he would see her the minute she was finished at the hospital.

  Puzzled, Laurette restlessly paced the drawing room, wondering what could have happened. Where was he? Her stomach was beginning to churn and she felt as if she was going to scream if he didn’t arrive soon. Surely there was a reasonable explanation.

  Ten o’clock came and went, the chimes of the hall clock struck the late hour, startling her, mocking her. She finally realized that she might as well go up to bed. He wasn’t coming. It was as simple as that.

  Laurette shook her head in denial. He would come. He would. And soon. She would wait a while longer.

  At eleven, a confused and disappointed Laurette tiredly climbed the stairs. Once in bed, she lay awake, edgy and upset. She had the terrible feeling that something was very wrong, that Sutton had stayed away on purpose. That he hadn’t wanted to see her that evening.

  But she so wanted to believe that everything was all right, that Laurette convinced herself that one evening’s absence meant nothing. After all, Sutton had been with her every night since their first evening out together. She didn’t own him. He had other friends besides her. Perhaps some of those friends had shown up at his house unannounced. He couldn’t very well turn them away; he was too kind and well-mannered to do that.

  As she finally drifted toward slumber, Laurette assured herself that tomorrow Sutton would sweep through her front door, take her in his arms and explain everything.

  It never happened.

  Days passed an
d Laurette didn’t see him, didn’t hear from him. A full week went by and she was completely bewildered by his pointed absence. Hurt and heartsick, she wondered what she had done wrong. She couldn’t go to him and ask, she could only wait and wonder.

  In an elegant corner suite at the luxurious St. Louis Hotel in New Orleans’s bustling French Quarter, Sutton lolled lazily in a tub filled to the brim with hot, sudsy water as the February sun set over the city.

  In one hand he held a Cuban cigar, in the other a snifter of brandy. His hooded eyes were almost closed, but his bearded jaw was ridged with tautness. He was, to his chagrin, bored and he was lonely. She kept intruding into his thoughts and that rankled him. He hadn’t counted on thinking about her, missing her.

  Hell, he didn’t miss her; he was just suffering twinges of guilt from what he was doing to her. By now she was confused and upset at his sudden disappearance. Good! Let her worry and wonder and miss him. That was, after all, the purpose of this stay in New Orleans.

  Sutton crushed out his cigar in a porcelain ashtray beside the tub. He drained his snifter of brandy, set the glass aside and rose to his feet. He began to smile as he toweled his lean body dry. Tonight he had a late engagement with one of the city’s most beautiful raven-haired belles.

  Gossip had it that the lovely, twenty-three-year-old Miss Caroline Summers, this year’s Mardi Gras queen, was a bit of a tart who knew how to give a gentleman, married or single, an enjoyable time in bed. Sutton assumed it was true because, after being introduced to her last evening at a wine supper, the beautiful Caroline had leaned up and whispered in his ear, “Would you like to make love to me, Mr. Vane?”

  Momentarily taken aback, Sutton had glanced warily at her father, who stood nearby and softly replied, “While I’m most flattered, Miss Summers, as you can see, I’m with someone.” He nodded toward the wealthy widow he had accompanied to the party.

  “Her? Why she’s old enough to be your mother!” Caroline sniffed.

  Sutton had chuckled softly. “Mrs. Sullivan is not exactly in her dotage, Caroline. She is a very young forty-one.”