He froze while she struggled with the layers of his shirt and unmentionables, eventually able to stroke the skin across his hips.
“Rose,” he warned, and she felt his own hands take a journey down to her backside, which he then cradled in his palms.
“Finn,” she teased back, but then she pushed against him and sat up. Looking down at this comely man, it didn’t matter a whit that their love was a secret. Before the eyes of God and the Massachusetts legal system, he was hers and she, his.
In short order, she slipped off her jacket and began on the buttons of her blouse. Forget her shoes. Leave her stockings. Though maybe she should have started with —
His hands closed over hers, stopping her movements.
“What are you doing, love?”
She stared into his gray-blue eyes. “Undressing. For you.”
He swallowed, blinked, then gave her a wry smile. “Like a sacrificial lamb?”
“No.” Her voice had turned husky. “Because I want you.”
That wiped the smile off his face. In about half a second, she found herself rolled under him with Finn looking down at her. The expression on his face warred between uncertainty and desire.
“Rose, why now? I’m so used to your resisting me with all the stubbornness of a Johnny Reb.” His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. “You’ve thrown me off-kilter, like a sailor on his maiden voyage.”
He lowered his head and put his mouth to hers until she parted her lips. The weight of him upon her soft body was delightful as he seemed to fit into the cradle of her hips and sink into the sensitive place between her legs. Finn was careful not to crush her breasts as he plundered her mouth. Her body pressed up against him of its own accord, until finally, he lifted his head and gazed into her eyes.
“I want to be really and truly your wife. Right this very moment,” she added, lifting her hips as much as she could under him, which was barely at all.
“Sweet girl. You are my real wife, and you’ll always be mine regardless. And we’ll keep you as a virgin bride until I return.”
He looked to where the neckline of her gown gaped slightly and lowered his head to place a kiss on the upper swell of her breast.
She gasped, wishing he would do more, perhaps draw down the bodice of her gown. Instead, he trailed his kisses upward to her collarbone and her throat, up her slender neck, along her chin line and back to her mouth. She enjoyed every single kiss, every rasp of the faint stubble on his face, as it ran over her sensitive skin.
Then, to her surprise, he slipped his hand into the top of her gown and ran the back of his knuckles across one of her breasts, brushing her peaked nipple.
She moaned and heard him echo the sound.
“If we continue to lie here like this,” Finn added, “I fear you won’t be a virgin much longer.” He sat up, pulling her gently to a seated position. “Come on, love, I’ll walk you home.”
She shook her head. “I have a carriage. I want five more minutes in your arms. That’s not too much to ask, is it?” She stretched out in the warm place he had just vacated, offering him her most pleading pout and come-hither gaze. He looked down at her and sighed.
“Rose, you’re not playing fair.”
“Whatever do you mean?” she asked, fluttering her lashes at him.
“You know exactly what I mean. You’re too tempting for a man.”
“You’re not simply any man,” she teased.
“No, I’m the one who loves you more than anyone or anything on earth.”
Rose sobered. This was no game, and he was not an idle flirtation.
“I know. And I, you. Please hold me a few moments longer,” she said, wishing the fear of separation weren’t clouding the joy of being near him.
“Shall I ask Liam to keep an eye on you while I’m away?”
Liam was Finn’s closest friend at the yard, a quick-witted Irishman who helped whittle the scaled wooden models of the ships before they were built.
“I thought he would be going with you,” she said.
“As did I.” Finn twisted a lock of her hair around his finger and studied it. “He told me this afternoon he’d been pulled from the roster. I thought it only a fluke, but then he asked if I wanted to be pulled, too. When I asked him how he could arrange that, he said he was only joking and putting on airs.”
She felt him shrug.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I have to be on that ship. Someone’s got to make sure she stays afloat.” Then by the captured skein of her dark hair, he tugged her face closer, and she forgot about the small surge of fear she’d felt at his casual words of staying afloat.
“I don’t need Liam to check up on me,” Rose told him as his talented lips nibbled along the column of her neck. She had enough watchful eyes among her mother and older siblings.
“Besides, it’s only for a month. You haven’t told him about me, have you?”
Finn’s mouth stopped its pleasurable journey.
“No,” he said, sounding irked. “You asked me not to, and I didn’t.”
She relaxed, immediately sorry she’d touched on the sore point between them once again.
“Please,” she begged. “Continue. Except on my lips this time.
Then she let his mouth claim hers, and five more minutes slipped into an hour.
***
One month became two and then three. And then a year. A year became two, and now, it had been over three years since Finn had kissed her lips. Rose had long since stopped haunting the Eastie waterfront for any news of the sunken vessel, weary of taking the ferry back and forth, of crossing over the very waters that somewhere blanketed her husband’s body.
Perhaps some of her friends had thought her a little strange with her fascination over the loss of the Garrard, one of the prototypes of the new steel-clad cargo ships. Her family appreciated the more grown-up, less wild Rose, but then, in the face of her uncharacteristic solemnity, they began to worry.
Finn had said the ship’s center of gravity was too high, with its five masts towering over the deck that rode low in the water, aided by a steam engine deep in the bowels of the vessel. Finn had railed against his superiors who’d built a ship that had a freeboard set too low. Waves would wash over the weather deck, he’d predicted.
Nevertheless, he’d done his job and headed out with other’s from the ship yard to test her for its wealthy owner.
The day the Boston Post announced the capsizing on the front page, Rose had been out riding with Claire. She’d come in to see her mother drinking tea and scrutinizing the paper.
“Such a shame,” Evelyn Malloy said. “Have a cup of tea, dear, you must be parched. All that running around that you and your friend do.”
“What’s a shame, Mama?” Rose asked, taking a cup and pouring tea from the pot steeping on the sideboard. She chose two lavender wafers, as well. They were among her favorites from their cook’s specialties.
“A ship went down off the coast.” Her mother had rattled the newspaper loudly as she straightened it and checked the details. “Somewhere slightly west and south of Yarmouth.”
Wordlessly, Rose had set her cup down and sat beside her mother. She had known even before she read it. Still, she slid the paper closer and looked at the headline. Then she scanned the first paragraph and saw the ship’s name.
She didn’t gasp, nor did she cry out. She let out the breath she was holding and managed to drag in another. She took a sip of tea with a trembling hand and tried to see past the tears that filled her eyes.
“Rose?” her mother said. “Are you crying?”
She couldn’t hide it. She nodded and dropped her teacup onto its saucer with a clatter, spilling its contents everywhere. Evelyn ignored the mess and put her hand over her daughter’s trembling one.
“Why ever for, dear?”
Rose could only shake her head as the tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Oh, my dear girl, you have such a soft heart.”
“
All those poor men,” Rose said at last, needing to relate something of what she was feeling, needing to feel comforted by her mother.
Sure enough, Evelyn put her arms around her youngest daughter.
“I hope it was quick for them,” her mother said. “They are buried at sea under God’s watchful eye. And their families will remember them, every one of them. There will be a memorial service, it says in the paper. Next Sunday. We can go if you wish.”
Rose nodded. Yes, she would remember Phineas Bennet every day that she lived.
Had he died resenting her for not telling her family about him?
Had he died wishing they’d consummated their marriage?
Had he died loving her?
Chapter Two
Boston, Massachusetts, 1891
Charlotte knew her husband was worried about his youngest sister because he sat, staring out of the window at the sea, his brow furrowed. He didn’t seem to notice as she entered their main room that served as the parlor and drawing room, as well as the place that they took their morning coffee and enjoyed a late night snifter of brandy.
She’d seen that look before, when one of his family members came to him with a problem. This time, he’d been closeted with his mother, Evelyn Malloy, for over an hour. When Charlotte had knocked on the door with tea, Evelyn had obviously been crying, and Reed was grim faced with his lips set in a tight, white line.
“Are you going to brood all night?” Charlotte asked after standing beside him for a moment in silence. She’d put to bed their two younger children as well as her two young cousins whom she and Reed were happily raising as their own.
At that moment, she simply wanted to soothe her husband’s furrowed brow.
He turned his head slowly after her words sunk into his distracted brain.
“I don’t brood,” Reed said, grasping her hand and pulling her onto his lap.
As he cradled her face in his hands, she gazed into his deep blue eyes and felt the familiar warmth of love along with the rapid rush of desire.
“I contemplate,” he added.
He lowered his head and kissed her. Her hands slipped around his neck and held him fast against her, pulling back only for a necessary breath.
“Well, Mr. Malloy, are you going to stare at that vast ocean and contemplate all night?”
Reed’s handsome face lit with a smile, and Charlotte’s toes tingled at the obvious message in his roguish expression.
“No, I believe I’ll take my lovely wife to bed. I have neglected her since dinner and owe her some special attention.”
“Do you want to talk about Rose first?”
His face darkened momentarily. “Tomorrow morning at breakfast, we can talk more about our melancholy Rose.”
Then he stood up, and Charlotte couldn’t stifle a gasp as he lifted her into his arms.
Carrying her from the room, her husband turned toward the stairs leading to their bedroom that she loved for all its memories and for the promise of more to come. She rested her head against his broad chest, smelling his sandalwood scent that immediately made her feel both serene and excited at the same time.
Reed represented home to her, and their love was currently her only source of excitement as she’d halted a successful journalism career until their four children were older. Nowadays, adventure was confined to their bedroom — or occasionally the soft rug in front of the fire in his study.
“Tonight,” he added, “no more words.” He pushed their bedroom door open with his shoulder and carried her inside.
***
Rose sat on a tufted red velvet sofa next to Claire Appleton and surveyed the room full of people, some old and sedately talking, some young and breathless. The noise level was only moderate as the band was taking a well-deserved break. She wished she hadn’t come, but her brother and mother were starting to worry overmuch, and Rose had to begin making an effort at normalcy.
She knew nearly everyone at the dance. At twenty-two years, she’d already been to more of these gatherings than she could count. All her peers and her friends, married and not, were there, and even some relatives. She spied her older brother and his wife, Charlotte, and her oldest sister, Elise, with her spouse.
When she did attend an event, Rose tried to avoid her siblings since they always seemed to scrutinize her behavior. By their expressions, they found her lacking. Earlier, her mother had worn a preoccupied mien as she did so often of late and had told Rose to go on to the dance without her. This gave Rose a measure of freedom she did not usually get to enjoy.
However, her jubilance was tempered by Reed having spoken with her earlier, letting her know in no uncertain terms that her family was extremely worried about her withdrawn behavior and that if it didn’t cease, she’d better be prepared to explain herself.
To where had the mischief-maker disappeared? The firebrand, the plague of his existence? He had wanted to know, for he sorely missed her.
Rose had nearly told him where that mischievous, lighthearted girl had gone — with her husband to the bottom of the Atlantic over three years earlier, but she’d held her tongue.
Instead, she had discussed with her brother what was bothering her of late.
“I want to do something with my life. Something important. Like Charlotte and Sophie. But what can I do? Everywhere you turn, you trip over a suffragette, even Mama and Elise. They will fail or succeed without me, as I have no interest in that regard beyond hoping they’re successful. There are women doctors and scientists, and I have no aptitude for that type of thing. Why, Mrs. Cochrane has already created an automated dishwasher, for goodness sake. How can I top that? What more could anyone want? I am too old to be a painting prodigy or any type of prodigy, for that matter. What can I do?”
Into her brother’s stunned silence, Rose had added, “Perhaps I should become an actress.” After all, she’d spent the past few years acting the part of a normal person, one who hadn’t secretly married the man of her dreams and then had her heart torn asunder when she’d lost him.
“Don’t you dare,” Reed had said, and she could see by the look on her brother’s face that he was absolutely serious.
No bother. She had no wish to go on the stage anyway. To be thrust into the limelight might have worked for the old Rose. This Rose wanted none of that.
“I’m only jesting, dear brother. There is all that memorizing to do,” she added, trying to sound blithe. “And I daresay the heavy makeup is terrible for one’s skin.”
“There’s Franklin,” Claire whispered behind her hand, bringing Rose’s thoughts back to the present.
Rose’s best friend had become even closer since the loss of Finn. As the only one who had known about their brief marriage, Claire was the sole person in whom Rose could confide and on whose shoulder she could sob out her broken heart. And Claire had performed admirably, shoring Rose up as needed, trying to lift her spirits, and as time went on, dragging her back into the social scene.
Moreover, after Rose’s marriage to Finn, Claire no longer tried to push her into the arms of the other Appleton sibling, Claire’s twin brother, Robert, with whom Rose felt only familial affection. For Rose’s taste in the opposite sex obviously ran to a more adventurous sort, a rugged man.
Certainly not a hobbadehoy like Robert Appleton. At last, Claire had informed Rose she’d relinquished her dream of having her for a sister by law as well as by heart, as she understood her twin would never suit.
Yes, Claire was an absolute peach. Rose squeezed her friend’s hand ever so slightly. It was definitely her turn to help her friend. Claire had been sweet on Franklin Brewster for the past three weeks and had yet to speak to him or to dance with him.
Rose sighed.
If she’d been interested in him, she would have marched right up to him already and batted her eyelashes and shaken her follow-me-boys curls, demanding he notice her. She would have made her intentions plain or simply asked him to write his name on her dance card. Not that Rose had felt like doin
g anything of the sort since Finn had come into her life and then all-too-soon left it.
Watching the young couples, she regretted that she’d never been to a dance with him. Yet they had found plenty of ways to have fun together. She’d drawn him out, refusing to dwell on his serious musings, and she’d enjoyed coaxing out his soft smile and his puckish laughter. She still missed both of those traits and found that her own had disappeared with his.
Even if she didn’t feel like laughing, she always felt like helping her dear friend. Although hardly the retiring type, Claire was far too hesitant when it came to the male of their species. Rose made a decision.
“Wait here,” she said to Claire, who immediately tried to grab for Rose’s arm and make her stop.
Rose looked into her friend’s widening green eyes and said, “Do not worry.”
“Impetuous trouble,” Claire murmured, reminding Rose of what old Mrs. Barnes had said when she’d seen the two girls entering the party.
Too late, Rose thought, already four steps toward Franklin Brewster, who stood with three other youthful Brahmin. His late father, whom he greatly resembled — both being tall and handsome — was a developer, not only in Boston but also in New York City. Mr. Brewster was a leader in the filling of the Back Bay project with over 700 acres filled and converted into buildable land. Franklin was indeed an eligible bachelor worthy of Claire.
The young well-to-do’s were talking and laughing, all the while scanning the room surveying the female company.
Rose walked right into the middle of them, silencing their laughter. They stared at her and she looked back at each in turn, not the least bit uncomfortable. Finally, John Claymore, whom out of sheer boredom she’d allowed to briefly flirt with her the previous summer, found his voice.
“Well, Miss Malloy,” and he offered her a saucy look as if she’d come over there to speak with him. “Is there something I can help you with? Perhaps a slot on your card.”
She glanced down at the dance card dangling from her wrist. Always empty and by her own choice.
“Not the likes of you,” she retorted, watching two spots of color bloom on his cheeks.
An Inconceivable Deception Page 2