by Denise Eagan
Smiling, Meredith answered in her light voice, “I shall most certainly take your advice, Sister!”
“Please do, for there is nothing quite so despicable as apricots,” Port said, giving his wife’s hand a squeeze. “And I shan’t apologize even at this late date, for against the wall is where they belonged!” The family laughed, dispersing the tension in the room. Relief lightened Nick’s heart, followed by a profound sense of belonging. His liking and respect for these Montgomerys, whose meticulous manners covered ambition, integrity and honor, had grown into love, too. He’d never warm to Society in general, but with them, he felt at home. They were family, minus the heavy weight of duty.
If only, a little voice whispered in the back of his mind, if only Star would rethink marriage. I could have it all—parents, brothers, her, for life.
Stupid. The Montgomerys, parents and brothers alike, accepted him as a trusted friend, but what they wanted for Star was different: a husband from the highest tier of Society, a man of equal class. She was the granddaughter of an English nobleman. He was a rancher.
He was one of them . . . but not one of them.
Finished eating, Ward and Morgan rose. “If you’ll all grant us leave, now,” Ward said, smiling affectionately at his wife, “Morgan has kindly agreed to accompany me on a morning sail along the coast.”
“It’s a beautiful morning for it,” Meredith said.
“Lee,” Morgan said as Ward took her hand. “You’ll let us know how Jess does later, I assume, after Dr. Blanchard has come to check on her again? Not,” she added quickly, at the concern creasing his face, “that she is in any danger.”
“Yes, Mother, of course. If you all will excuse me,” Lee said rising. “I believe I will go check on the lady.”
A few murmurs followed the three. After taking another swallow of coffee, Nick, heart in his throat, finally looked at Star. Her eyes were upon him. “If you don’t have something else planned, Miz Montgomery, I could use a stroll through the gardens.”
Not such an usual thing. He and Star took a walk through the garden a few mornings a week. Nobody even looked up. But Star knew differently. Her face grew wary, her lips thinned and she nodded, rising. “Why of course, Nicholas. I should love it above all things.”
He tried to appear casual as they wandered through glass doors to the gardens beyond. A riot of colors—pink, yellow, white and more—greeted them, all flowers and plants with unfamiliar names. The sun shone mightily upon them, its rays bouncing off the white broken-shell walkway. A tense silence walked with them as they headed toward their favorite stone bench, under a beech tree. It gave a view of the rest of the garden, the lawn, the beach and the ocean beyond, bright blue this morning, with white caps jumping now and again. It sure was pretty, he thought setting down. He didn’t like being it in by much; the salt water was sticky and strange tasting, and sailing hadn’t agreed with him, either. But looking at it, man alive, but he could stare at it for hours, in all kinds of weather. No wonder that Ward and Star loved it so much.
Star settled next to him, her thigh pressed against his, dragging him back to the problem at hand. “You wish to talk about last night, I suppose,” she said.
Straight to the point like always, leastways with him. He’d seen her dance with a phrase, and flirt with the truth around other men. But not with him, not most days. He loved that, too. “I need to apologize—”
“It was my own doing,” she interrupted.
He glanced at her. Her face was pinched, her eyes lacking the usual mirth. Damn, but he’d caused that pain, and the last thing he wanted was to worsen it. “Some maybe but . . . Star, if I’d known it was your first time . . . I just figured not, after all the talk about your fiancés.” He paused. “You seem pretty attached to Thompson.”
“We were—close—once or twice,” she said in a tight voice. “But in the end none of them were interested enough to follow through. Until now, I’ve consoled myself with the belief it was due to their being gentlemen, or fearful of my father. Perhaps I’ve been deluding myself.” Her voice cracked, and she stopped to take a breath before adding in a light tone that couldn’t cover the pain. “Perhaps I’m not much of a temptation.”
Damn. Damn it. Her words ripped through his heart like a saw through butter. For the first time in years, he felt a lump in his throat. “Star,” he said turning on the bench to face her. He took her hands and gave them a light squeeze. She lifted her head. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and her jaw was tight. “No, that’s not it. If you weren’t a temptation, they wouldn’t’ve proposed in the first place, especially when it’s common knowledge that you don’t ever want to marry. Most likely the problem is—not that it is a problem, not by my way of thinkin’—well you chose good men. Good men aren’t going to ruin you.”
She swallowed and looked down again. “I’ve tried to control it, you know, this—this craving. I wholly understand what my inclinations make me, the words that society applies to women such—”
“No,” he interrupted. “Honey, there’s nothing at all wrong with you. It’s just that most women satisfy those needs inside of marriage, which puts you between the devil and the deep blue sea. It’s not fair,” he said slowly, realizing for the first time the difficulty of her situation. The last weeks without Eva and May has stretched his self-control almost beyond endurance. What if he’d lived a lifetime that way? “But there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“And yet, Nicholas,” she said squinting up at him, “you seem to like everything else about me but that one thing.”
“Star,” he said on a breath, “that’s not true. I have a duty to my conscience is all.” And my heart.
“Yes, I fully comprehend that, but now that the damage is done?” she asked hopefully, searching his face. He winced and she added hastily, “Perhaps damage is the wrong word. At any rate, I suspect that if we—”
“No.” He dropped her hands. His muscles ached with the urge to shove aside honor, drag her into his arms and kiss her until she whimpered. “Not while I’m living under your father’s roof.”
“Why, if that’s your only objection, then may I suggest,” she said wry amusement marbling the suffering in her voice, “that you find another place to stay while you’re in Newport?”
The thought jerked through his mind and heart, then damn it to hell, settled there. She was right—if he was staying somewhere else—
It was still betrayal.
And would deepen his feelings for her, leading to even greater heartbreak than the trail he was current travelling. “Wouldn’t matter,” he said. “At the end of the day, I have to answer to myself.”
“I cannot dissuade you?”
“No, ma’am.” He paused. “You know you could have what you want if you’d change your mind about marriage.” He held her gaze, his heart climbing up his throat in mad hope that she’d say “yes” to a question he didn’t dare ask.
Something flickered in her eye. “I could never give up my work. You must know how important it is to me, Nicholas.”
His heart fell. Useless hope. She’d made it clear from the start: no matter what happened between them, no matter what he did, her work would always come before anything else—before him. It wasn’t a deal he could make. “Reckon I do.”
Another moment of staring and her shoulders fell. She sighed. “Well I suppose I must abide by your decision, for when I did not, it ended in disappointment. We are still friends, correct? You shall forgive my wanton nature, I suppose, as you have known it all along.”
Forgive it? He was in love with it! “Sure. We’ll always be friends.”
She nodded and rose. “Well, I have that at least. We have a tennis date this afternoon. Will you still oblige me in that?”
He grinned, rising too. “I dunno. Depends on if you promise to be gentle with me.”
“Gentle? Why on earth would I be gentle? It’s a game, Nicholas. It’s meant to be won!”
“Yeah, it’s not losing that wor
ries me,” he said, grimacing as they started down the path back to the house. “If you recollect the last time I ‘obliged’ you, you not only shattered my fragile male pride, but came close to cripplin’ me when you slammed that ball across the court.”
“Coward!” she said laughing. “That ball was at least three inches away from anything, uh, delicate.”
“Three inches ain’t much when talkin’ about those places!” he retorted. Back to verbal sparring, they entered the house, friendship restored.
***
Nick glanced around the overstuffed ballroom. Another ball, in another long week of boring, pretentious parties. Every blasted one of them came with the same crowd of women dressed in gaudy gowns and jewelry, and scarcer men dressed in black and white. Same parquet floor, same blinding gilt and marble that decorated all these “cottages.” Only the weather changed, but not to his way of liking. He couldn’t get used to summer in New England. The humidity left a body feeling sticky and unclean, no matter when he last bathed. Tonight was worse than most, forming a kind of haze around the room, frizzing women’s hair or turning it limp, and wilting gowns and shirts alike. The last was the only good point. His collar, having lost its stiffness hours ago, was no longer cutting into his neck, for which he was grateful even if he looked like he’d just limped in off the trail.
Limped in off the trail . . . in a tuxedo suit?
The heat was destroying his blasted mind. Man alive, but he missed home. Missed plain-cooked food, and dry heat, and cool mountain air. He missed straightforward men and women, and work, and, ah hell, he even missed the damned cows.
His eyes landed on Star, across the room, dressed in blue silk and stripped satin, tight in the bosom and spreading out on the bottom. As usual her gown was different from the other women’s, not enough to look wrong, but enough to stand out. The sort of dress only a tall, athletic woman like Star could wear. The band struck up a waltz and she hooked arms with Thompson who, face just about split with a smile, led her to the floor. Nick’s jaw clenched and he remembered another thing he missed. Smokes. Cigarettes or cigars, anything a man could hold in his mouth to keep from hollering, “Take you damned hands off my woman!”
Thompson was definitely Romeo. And after what he’d done to Star, he oughta be in jail.
Nick’s gaze fell on another familiar, yet equally annoying, fellow. Del Huntington. Huntington could be Romeo. He oughta be in jail, too.
Or that Cushing fella, who’d showed up the last couple days and had just about taken over all of Star’s time. Nick hated him for the arrogant, predatory gleam in his eye. Cushing belonged in jail, too.
Or that idiot Price, whose gaze too often strayed to Star, although mostly he was consumed by Jane. A fact that seemed to escape Huntington’s notice, more ‘n likely because he was still in love with Star.
Ah hell, Nick thought rubbing his neck, any of ’em could be Romeo. He’d throw ’em all in jail if he could. And would, at least one of them, just as soon as Keller figured out which was Romeo.
Romeo or not, though, none of them, not one, knew a damned thing about how to court a woman, especially one like Star. They hung on her, and fought over her, like drowning men over a single life preserver. Flirted with her, too, touched her and jostled each other to get closer. A man oughta have more pride than that. A man oughta give the woman room to breathe.
Who was he kidding? Star didn’t want room to breathe. She loved the attention. She invited it, more so since the night on the beach. The recollection wafted through his mind, quickening his breath. Her flirtations these weeks had shredded his guilt, leaving him free to remember all the good parts of that night—her eyes shining with desire, the starlight gleaming off her skin, the sound of her excited gasps and the feel of her tight, wet heat surrounding him—
Blood rushed downward.
Judging by the way she’d been flirting, she’d decided to find other men to share those same pleasures. Virginity beat, he thought, seeing red now, what was there to stop her?
He hated her for it.
The dance ended. Star raised her head to laugh up as Thompson, who linked his arm in hers and pulled her nearer than was socially acceptable, damn the man. He led her across the parquet dance floor, toward a pair of glass-paned doors leading to the garden. And through them.
Oh yeah, Nick missed smokes.
He missed his gun belt, too.
Missed the rough laws of the West, missed the right to shoot a man for touching his woman.
Enough. He’d be damned in hell before he spent another night ridin’ drag to Star’s herd of admirers. Spinning around, he heeled it for the door. He was going back to the Montgomerys’ house. He needed a drink, something a helluva lot stronger than anything they’d serve in the supper room.
***
Thunder rumbled in the distance as Star stared through the gloom of the night at the white netting of her bed’s canopy. A second set of storms passing by, after the first set had brought cool, dry air, which ought to help her sleep. But not tonight. Tonight her ears were tuned to the sound of Nick’s heavy footstep on the stairs across from her bedroom. He had a corner room, with her room next to his, and a bathroom and the nursery separating hers from Lee’s room. The rest of the bedrooms were on the opposite side of the stairwell, thus any step she heard pass by her door must necessarily be Nicholas’s. So far, however, she’d heard no steps.
When she had returned, early, from the ball two hours earlier, Nicholas had been in the parlor, still in ball dress, with a drink in one hand and a book in the other. He’d seemed disturbed. In fact, he’d seemed increasingly disturbed these two weeks since the disaster on the beach. She could not understand it. She’d done everything he’d asked, gracefully accepting his decision and treating him in the platonic manner he’d requested since their first meeting. It had been tremendously difficult; her skin and lips yearned for his touch, while her heart pleaded for a far deeper relationship.
In desperation, she’d turned her attention toward other men whom she’d once found attractive. Leander Cushing, in particular, newly arrived from a trip to Paris, who had once set her senses reeling. But in two weeks, she’d not mustered even lukewarm feelings for any of them. All she could think of was Nicholas, in spite of the fact that he’d grown unusually short-tempered. On occasion, he even snapped at her, which was so unlike her easy-going cowboy as to resemble Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
And he was still downstairs. Drinking. Alone.
In the distance, she heard a clock striking the half hour. Half past two.
Well that was quite enough, she decided throwing back the sheets. She was going to discover what was wrong. She slid her feet into a pair of slippers and reached for her blue velvet wrapper to cover the almost sheer silk of her nightgown. It was still so warm, though, she thought looking at the wrapper. What had she to cover at any rate? Nicholas did not want her, not even when she lay half-naked on the beach. What use was there in the wrapper? None.
She descended the stairs and crossed the hall. Light spilled through the partially open parlor door, and the clink of crystal rang in her ears as she slipped inside.
Nicholas stood bent over a parlor table, pouring brandy from a decanter into an already half-full glass. He lifted his head when she entered, stared a moment, then straightened. His dark blue eyes wandered over her body, and her breath caught in her throat.
He’d stripped off most of his clothing, leaving only his shoes, pants and collarless pleated shirt. At some point he’d unbuttoned the shirt, exposing his upper chest to her greedy gaze. He’d rolled up his sleeves as well, and as he lifted his glass to his lips, the muscles of his forearm contracted, displaying the strength generally hidden under fabric. After a couple of gulps, he let his arm fall to his side again. A slow, lascivious scrutiny of her person followed, and then his gaze caught hers. His eyes glittered with scarcely controlled lust.
“Miz Montgomery,” he said in a harsh, low voice. “Somethin’ I can do for you?”
“You’re—you’re drinking,” she stuttered, for it was difficult to think when he looked at her like that.
“Yeah. It’s the best way to get drunk.”
She took a deep breath. An ocean breeze rolled through the open windows, lifting the curtains and bringing his scent with it: male musk, combined with pine and leather and gun smoke. The breeze flowed over her skin but did nothing to cool the desire that sight and scent ignited. “You seem to have accomplished that already.”
“Hours ago. Now I’m just maintainin’.”
She bit her lip. “Perhaps you ought to go to bed instead.”
His eye twitched and he took another sip of his drink. His gaze roamed boldly over her breasts, her belly, along her thighs and then back up again. It felt physical, as if he was touching her. “If I could sleep,” he said, “I wouldn’t be drinkin’.”
“But how would you know that if you haven’t attempted it?”
His jaw, dark with a day’s stubble, clenched. A delicious little thrill fluttered in her belly. He wanted her. In spite of all he’d said, he still wanted her. “Go back to bed, Star.”
The sound of her name on his lips brought memories of the better moments on the beach, the marvel of his hard kiss and the magic of his fingers exploring her private areas. Her blood tingled in heady recollection, then flowed downward to settle between her thighs. “I couldn’t sleep, either.”
Eyes narrowing, he leaned against the wing chair next to him. Not for support, she supposed, but to appear casual. It didn’t work. Every beautiful muscle in his beautiful body was taut. Her hands yearned to run over them, his arms, his chest, relishing the power moving under her fingertips.
“You oughta know better than to sashay around a man at this time of night dressed like that.” He paused. “I can see through most of that gown, and what I can’t see, I can damned well recollect.”
He looked raw, dangerous, and exciting. Tendrils of fearful expectation trickled along her skin and tripped through her belly, then downward. Why had she never before considered using alcohol to seduce him?