Missouri Magic

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “Join me up on the seat, honey,” he said, interlacing his fingers to give her dainty foot a boost up. “The carriage is full, and you’re much too pretty a parcel to hide among the trunks and boxes.”

  Celesta smiled to herself. He would take several side streets through town, showing her off like a prize he’d won at a carnival, but she could put up with that. There were worse things than being squired about by a wealthy, winsome man who wanted to marry her—and she’d experienced some of them last night.

  Patrick chatted amiably as his matched pair of bay horses clip-clopped along the brick streets, about the business mostly—no allusion to maids or mice who’d met their Maker while under his roof. And then, as though he’d forgotten something, he pulled the carriage to a halt at Broadway and Main, the very center of the business district, and pulled a prettily wrapped package from under his seat.

  “For you,” he said with a boyish grin. “I—I’d hoped you’d attend the festivities on the Fourth with me, and wear these. But don’t open it now,” he added when she reached for the bright red ribbon. “Save it for when you’re alone, thinking of me, Celesta. I can’t wait to see you wearing them. You deserve fine things.”

  Intrigued, Celesta held the package the rest of the way home. It wasn’t large enough to hold a new dress or deep enough for shoes, and even though she knew Patrick was plying her with another gift, coaxing her toward the altar for reasons she hadn’t figured out, she had to admit she enjoyed his game a lot more than Damon’s.

  Frye watched Patrick hand the package to Celesta—obviously a bribe, since he was so damned public about it—and swore under his breath. Her eyes were sparkling as she hugged the box, and even though he alone knew how two-faced and reprehensible Perkins was, he had to admit the lumber baron’s boy was no lower a snake than he himself. The noon meal in front of him suddenly tasted too much like remorse, and he shoved his plate away, staring morosely after the carriage as it headed toward Holliday’s Hill.

  Why had Celesta’s lovemaking stirred him so? He’d intended to steal her innocence and capture her heart without making any emotional investment, to purge himself of Lucy, who’d treated him the very same way. He was playing upon her grief and vulnerability, expecting her to become clingy and demanding—as Miss Bates had when she announced her pregnancy—so that he could cast her aside without regret when his work in Hannibal was complete.

  And she’d played along, an enchanting victim who knew better yet succumbed . . . until Celesta herself took control. Damon, lie with me now . . . don’t you dare stop before we’re all the way there!

  All the way to paradise?

  If that’s what you’re promising. . . that’s what I expect.

  From that moment he was hers. The bold, romantic lines he’d caught her with were now binding him as well: Once you’re mine, you can never belong to anyone else, Celesta. . . take me now. Take all of me, honey.

  And she had. And in return he’d made her feel like the cheapest of whores by betraying the most elemental trust a virgin gave her first lover. Comparing her to Lucinda Bates was like calling a diamond a chip of glass, and his vengeful ploys had trapped them both. How could he continue to live under the Ransom roof as though he deserved Justine and Katherine’s confidence? How could he face Celesta without embarrassing her further, which would surely lead her aunts to draw the obvious conclusion about what he’d done to their niece?

  Damon tossed some money on the table and left the cafe, too disgusted with himself to remain among decent people. But he would have to resolve this problem, and soon—before Perkins discovered Celesta’s newest secret. He could only guess how Hannibal’s most sought-after bachelor would retaliate for coming in second. If he’d laced Rachel’s sugar with cyanide, who could tell how he might harm Celesta?

  Chapter 11

  “Are we finished?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  At last, she could quit keeping up appearances with Damon! Never had Celesta spent a more horrendous evening, helping Frye remove the paintings from the entryway and then preparing it to be papered. He’d politely insisted that he could manage alone, but Justine was determined that she would contribute to this project.

  The dark-haired carpenter’s aloofness infuriated her. He’d made the most inane conversation, and pointedly avoided letting their fingers touch as they worked, and he’d looked at her as though she were an unknown, unskilled apprentice who’d been foisted upon him. Now that her maiden aunt had retired for the evening Celesta, too, desperately needed time alone to untie the knots in her stomach.

  Katherine was working her needlepoint in the summer parlor, and Celesta bade her a quick good night, escaping up the stairs before her aunt could ask any embarrassing questions. The light still shone in a line beneath Justine’s door, but she crept by silently anyway, to the bedroom on the other side of the tower room. All day she’d pretended things were normal, all evening she’d acted excessively polite, and she was worn to a frazzle.

  Closing her door behind her, Celesta then slipped Patrick’s package from its hiding place beneath the bed. She’d need a better spot to stash these daring unmentionables, because Justine no doubt got nosy when she cleaned. God alone knew what the old maid would say if she saw what Mr. Perkins had given her!

  The delicate garments whispered seductively as she pulled them from the tissue wrapping: a ruffled, lacy corset cover and matching drawers, a hose supporter with a satin waistband, and five pairs of patterned stockings—all of silk, and all in fiery scarlet. Patrick must’ve gotten them at a St. Louis bordello or from a French mail-order house, because none of the shops in Hannibal sold such brazen apparel!

  Did he suspect she was already a wayward woman? Damon’s conquest? Or did he plan to seduce her himself, after the concert in the park? Both thoughts disturbed her. She was asking for more trouble if she wore these to the picnic!

  Yet the intricate lacework and the soft elegance of these underthings lured her like a siren’s song—never had she owned anything so fine. Everyone in town would attend the Fourth of July festivities, watching her and Perkins. . . not even her aunts would know what flaming lingerie her plain broadcloth dress was hiding. And now that she knew about the deceitful ways men had of stripping a woman’s dignity, Celesta could anticipate Patrick’s moves and avoid situations that would lead to another humiliating encounter. If her blond admirer thought this gift would render her defenseless against his advances, willing to do his bidding, he’d better think again!

  So after leaving her everyday clothing heaped on the floor, she slipped the shimmering underthings on, one by one. She checked the mirror often, noting the way the hosiery hugged her calves, the crimson supporter belts that blazed up her white thighs ... the buoyant, feminine flouncing of the silken drawers over her hips ... the provocative way the corset cover nipped in at her waist—even though she wore no corset—and made her seem bustier because of its strategically arranged ruffles.

  Celesta stared at her reflection, a secret thrill racing through her veins. Was that really the maid’s daughter gazing back at her? Too bad Damon had sent her away, saying he never wanted her again! She smiled smugly and began to pull out her hairpins, imagining how the startling contrast of ebony waves and scarlet silk upon creamy-white skin would affect him.

  Frye gaped at her, breathless, through the keyhole. He’d been mildly surprised when he’d peered at Justine the same way, noting her cigarette and the stacks of pulp westerns around her room as she rocked in her chair, listening to something on an Edison phonograph with earpieces. He’d suspected Celesta would pore over Patrick’s present when she was alone, which was one of his reasons for slipping upstairs. But he’d never expected this vision in scarlet openly admiring herself. He had to step away for a moment so that his manhood wouldn’t thump against the door like a happy dog’s tail.

  His other reason for risking this trip was to apologize—or try to—for the beastly way he’d treated her last night. Celesta’s tormented
expression as she helped with the papering preparations had stung as badly as if she’d raked his flesh with her fingernails. It was his place to make amends, to promise her he’d never again take advantage of her physical beauty, because such trysting was too dangerous, given their situation. But how the hell was he supposed to take a vow of chastity while she was parading around in lingerie that was begging to be torn off her?

  Katherine would be coming up to bed before long. He would surely lose his job if two of Hannibal’s most respected ladies threw him out for peeping at their niece. The longer he loitered, the better the chances he’d stumble over his tongue and alienate Celesta even further. Yet if he went into her room—

  A creak on the stairway made him grip the doorknob, slip inside, and fall back against the wooden panel with lightning speed. Celesta pivoted, glaring with the ferocity of a cornered panther—and Lord Almighty, with her raven hair tumbling over that frilly scarlet lingerie, she was the uninhibited wanton of every man’s dreams!

  “What in God’s name are you—get out!” she commanded in a hoarse whisper. “Justine’s just a room away, and if she hears—”

  “Then, you’d better listen to me without any fuss. We don’t want either aunt to find us this way, do we?”

  Only Frye would have the nerve to hold her captive in her own bedroom, knowing she wouldn’t dare scream. Too enraged to respond, Celesta planted her fists on her hips and glared at him, vowing to throttle him if he came one step closer.

  Damon waited until he heard a door close across the hall, willing his heart to cease its runaway beat. Had he ever been this agitated before? He doubted it—unless it was when he’d rushed back to the university after Lucy had begged him to stay engaged to her. He’d made some horrible mistakes in his anger, and he couldn’t afford to repeat them now.

  “I...I said some things last night that I deeply regret, Celesta,” he pleaded in a barely audible voice. “I can’t erase my words—they’ve haunted us both, I suspect—but I can try to compensate for my cruelty. I... hadn’t expected to enjoy you so much, but—”

  “But what?” she demanded. All evening he’d snubbed her as though she were a poor relation. He’d had plenty of time to grovel when they were both properly clothed, yet here he stood leering at her, no more a gentleman than he was last night.

  Her challenge meant she was forgiving him—or listening, at least—and as he drank in her lush, ruffled loveliness, Damon wanted nothing more than to hold her attention this way long into the night. But, oh, she was peeved! The blaze in her light green eyes warned him that only contrite humility would get him any farther.

  “You’re a bewitching sight, Celesta,” he breathed, and he stuffed his hands into his overall pockets to keep from reaching for her. “And you’re a more compelling lover than I’ve known for years. I—I hadn’t anticipated being so taken by your—”

  “That implies you have a heart,” she retorted with a raised eyebrow, “and I’m not so sure I believe that, after last night. Never have I been so humiliated, and never again will I fall for your lies, Mr. Frye. Get out of this room! Crawl back to your cave before I call my aunts.”

  He deserved this tongue-lashing, and he admired Celesta for venting her rage rather than sniveling about being ruined, like most girls would. She wore her wrath like a glorious gown, and he couldn’t resist stepping closer, pressing the point he was about to make as he changed his strategy a bit.

  “Since you confided your fears about Patrick having the chance to kill your mother, I owe you the favor of a warning, sweetheart,” he said in a low voice. “Call it insight from one man who has no heart about another.”

  She swallowed hard. “And what’s he got to do with this?”

  Frye gave her a wry smile. “Everyone on Main saw him hand you that package ... a gift you wear extremely well,” he added with a suggestive onceover. “But a man who gives a woman such intimate apparel is after only one thing. And since I’ve already claimed that, I can’t in good conscience allow Patrick’s pursuit to continue.”

  So his arrogance was alive and well, masquerading as humility only when it got his foot in the door. “Are you threatening me? Planning to brag about what you did to me last night, so you can rub his nose in it?”

  Her frown was truly menacing, but he stepped closer. “What will he think if he discovers I claimed you first? He’ll accuse you of leading him on, of trying to fool him into believing you’re still pure as—”

  “You tricked me out of my innocence, so now I’m impure?” Celesta demanded. Her scowl turned into a sneer as she riveted those pale green cat’s eyes on him. “I’m surprised you can still associate with me, Mr. Frye. This apology has turned into one more reason to—”

  Damon grabbed her as she marched toward the door, chiding himself for mentioning his competition. “To me, your coming to womanhood only makes you more alluring, more . . . provocative,” he whispered, allowing his gaze to linger on her quivering lips, on breasts that bobbed loosely beneath their crimson covering. “You weren’t ashamed of your desires when you were in my arms last night, and I never want you to feel cheapened or less a lady for letting your sensuality run its course. You were born to bring a man pleasure, Celesta. You certainly please me.”

  He glanced toward the door, still gripping her soft shoulders. “When you want to continue this discussion in private, come downstairs and we’ll—”

  She’d wanted to believe him. His words had soothed her bruised soul like a salve at first, yet he was now trying to snare her with them. “You’re insane if you think I’ll fall for that again!”

  “Am I?” Damon looked her over, a new plan already formulating as he smiled slyly at her. “Sweet dreams, Celesta. God knows I’ll be sleeping better now that we’ve kissed and made up.”

  “But we haven’t—I won’t—”

  Frye pulled her to him for an intense kiss that made her resistance snap. When he released her, she staggered backward, shocked at how quickly her desires had been rekindled even as her mind tried to shut him out.

  “You’ll be back, sweet Celesta,” he murmured as he eased toward the door. He turned the knob with a burglar’s silent expertise, and after he checked the hallway, he flashed her a wink. “Like a moth to the flame, sweetheart. I’ll be waiting.”

  Chapter 12

  And wait he would, by God! Celesta saw through every line of his apology, but he’d renewed her confidence. Each time she was with him that week, whether seated across the table or watching his shapely behind strain against his overalls as he hung paper, she smiled smugly. No more marionette acts. She was pulling the strings from here on out; and Frye could make eyes at her until the Second Coming, but it would do him no good.

  The aunts watched—and waited, she sensed. On the first of July she and Damon rehung the mirrors and family portraits, which appeared much less dark and dour now that they were set off by the elegant crimson paper with its gold flocking. When the ladders and leftover paper and buckets of paste were cleared away, Katherine stood in the center of the hall, her face glowing.

  “Isn’t it gorgeous?” she gushed, her hands clasped at her bosom. “Oh, Damon—why, this calls for a celebration! A special treat! What would you like for dessert tomorrow night?”

  Frye glanced surreptitiously at Celesta as he considered his answer. “Cherry tarts,” he murmured. I’ve been hungry for a tart all week—if it won’t be too much trouble, that is.”

  “No trouble at all,” Katherine twittered, and the next morning she and Celesta were rolling the dough as soon as they cleared the breakfast dishes from the table.

  Justine sniffed at them, grasping her market basket. “You’re pandering to him, Katherine. Lord knows we feed him like royalty, without giving him choices.”

  “Go to town, Justine.” The younger aunt looked up from stirring the thick, red filling, a smudge of flour on her cheek. “It was a simple enough request, and he’s worked very hard. You like the new paper as much as Celesta and I do—you
just won’t admit it. I saw you in there this morning, grinning like a girl in love as you looked at it.”

  The spinster slammed the pantry door, and Celesta couldn’t help laughing. “Was she really?”

  “Absolutely moony, she was,” Katherine clucked. She took the bubbling, sweet-smelling cherry sauce from the stove, her expression sly. “Of course, Justine’s not the only one who looks enamored when Mr. Frye’s working his wonders. And it’s no secret to me what he was insinuating, asking for a cherry tart.”

  Celesta’s face burst into flame. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Of course you do, dear,” she said with a chuckle. She looked up, her hazel eyes sparkling. “I was young once, you know. I remember those secret glances . . . how they make your heart hammer and what they lead to. Ambrose was a hot-blooded swain, and I—well, we were discreet, but we certainly weren’t shy, bumbling strangers on our wedding night.”

  Sighing, she cut the pastry rounds that would hold the filling. Why did Katherine’s every conversation center around sex? This was her most blatant effort yet at matchmaking, and it couldn’t have come at a more awkward time.

  “Is he taking you to the picnic on the Fourth?” her aunt asked coyly. “If he’s not, I’ll have to speak to him about—”

  “I’m going with Patrick.”

  Katherine’s spoon fell handle-first into the filling. “Why, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Because he asked.”

  Her aunt hurriedly pressed the circles of dough into the muffin tin, gasping with exasperation when two of them tore. “You watch yourself, young lady. It’s one thing to strike a match, but it’s another matter entirely to light your candle at both ends. I don’t trust Patrick.”

  “And you trust Frye? After what he did to Lucy Bates?” It was a relief that Katherine didn’t suspect what had flared like a fever between them, but this conversation still felt mighty tight around her collar.