Heiress

by Susan May Warren

  “Jinx?”

  The voice roused her and she opened her eyes. Where—

  Bennett had his arms around her as she leaned into his chest on the seat of the landau. They’d returned home, the Rosehaven gardens perfuming the air, the movement of a fan—her hat—a light breeze before her face. As she pushed herself up, he scooped her up in his arms.

  “Bennett.”

  “Shh. You’re tired. Too much activity this morning, I fear. And it’s so hot out. I left to purchase you an orange and returned to find you snoozing on the carriage seat. I just hope the sun didn’t burn you.” He glanced at the driver as he said it, but Jinx was too busy tucking her head against his shoulder, her arm looping up around his neck. He again smelled of that Parisian fragrance—woody, yet with a hint of citrus and the efforts on the court this morning. She had the terrible urge to press her lips against the well of his neck, to taste his skin, the sense of it stirring—

  Oh.

  Oh!

  She leaned back, looked at him, and knew she wore her embarrassment on her face when he frowned at her as he carried her into the foyer. “What is it?”

  “Nothing. I’m okay. You can put me down.”

  “No.” He shrugged past the butler and her lady’s maid and carried her up the stairs to her room.

  He didn’t need to ask where it was, naturally, and he pushed open the door with his foot.

  “I’m really okay, Bennett. I was just fatigued after our match.”

  He set her down on the bed as Amelia rushed in after them. He turned to her. “She is hot and hungry. Draw her a bath and tell the cook to send some nourishment up immediately. She’ll be retiring to her room this afternoon.”

  “But we have to call on Elise.”

  He rounded on her, something dark and unsettled in his eyes. “Please stop trying so hard to find me a match. I promise, I can manage just fine on my own.”

  He turned to go and the abruptness of his words, his departure, pushed tears into her eyes. She closed them, turned away.

  She felt his hand on hers, then, closing. She opened her eyes and found his blue eyes on her, a kindness in them that she could never seem to slack her thirst for.

  “I will see you tonight, at dinner, after which I promise to best you in a game of cribbage.” Then he winked and strode from the room.

  * * * * *

  “I fear you have created trouble for us, Jinx.”

  Phoebe leaned up from the dining table where the butler had laid out the bookplates, which listed the descriptions and quantities of the china, silver, crystal, and gold services.

  “What do you mean?” Jinx had already approved the menu for the motoring cotillion from the chef—terrapin, creamed oysters, lobster salad, salmon mousse, salad, bouillon, ice creams, cake, coffee, tea, and plenty of champagne. She intended to empty out Foster’s supply.

  She’d already met with the housekeeper, determining the rooms to be used as well as the floral arrangements—they’d feature the roses from their own gardens and ship in arrangements from Fleishmann and New York City. They’d secured Paul Whiteman and his orchestra for the evening.

  Engraved, vellum invitations had already been sent, hand-scripted by Maris de Baril. “We only have the seating chart and the decisions about the footmen’s livery to make. With nearly a month to spare. I believe this might be my best-planned motor coaching weekend ever.”

  Phoebe, still dressed in her shirtwaist and skirt, her dark hair coiled tight at the nape of her neck, shook her head. “That’s not what I’m talking about. Surely this cotillion will be the finest of the season.” She turned to the butler. “Please leave.”

  Neville bowed and left the room, closing the doors behind him.

  “Mother?”

  “You’re in love with him.”

  Jinx let a beat pass, swallowed, and affected innocence. “Yes. He’s my husband.”

  Her mother let out a sound that might have been a laugh had it not sounded so harsh. “You cannot play games with me, Jinx. Bennett. You’re in love with Bennett.”

  Bennett. Yes. His winks, his laughter, his blue eyes in hers had been scrubbing at her mind all day since she awoke from her nap. Was he calling on Elise, right now? Taking tea with her? Walking with her through the gardens of her home? Perhaps he’d taken her for a carriage ride.

  Jinx stared down at the bookplates, turning pages. “I think the Dresden might be too formal.”

  “Don’t tell me you are unaware of your own feelings.”

  “He is my husband’s brother. I am supposed to find him a wife. Of course that necessitates getting to know his personality, finding a suitable match. And escorting him to make introductions. It’s all proper, Mother.”

  “I see how you look at him. How you smile when he enters the room. How you laugh together. You did this with Foster, when you first met.”

  “It’s my nature to be kind to my houseguests.”

  Phoebe closed her eyes, took a breath. If Jinx didn’t know her better, she might believe her to be praying. She slid into a chair opposite her daughter and took her hand, meeting her eyes. “I understand happiness in marriage has eluded you, Jinx. I understand disappointment and the need for affection. But this affair will destroy you and everything you have attained.”

  Jinx pulled her hand away. “I am not having an affair, Mother.” She managed to press out those words without a hiccough, despite the tightening of her throat. “We are simply relatives.”

  “Jinx. Do not assume that I do not understand the situation.”

  It was the texture of her tone, so soft, so foreign, that whisked tears into Jinx’s eyes. She tightened her jaw, drew in a shaky breath. Couldn’t look at her mother. “He’s just—he’s just kind, Mother. And attentive. And he listens to me. And he makes me feel…” She closed her eyes, held in her word. Beautiful.

  She brushed the wetness from her cheek. Found the appropriate word. “Happy. He makes me happy.”

  “Then he must leave.”

  Jinx looked up at her mother. No. No! “That is not necessary.”

  “Yes, Jinx. The longer he is in this house, the more the risk that he might recognize your affection. And that you might do something regrettable.”

  Regrettable.

  Jinx looked away, turned another page in the book, despite the blur of the handwriting.

  “Jinx. You haven’t done anything Foster might not approve of, have you?”

  “Of course not.” But the words came out high, uneven. She tried again. “No.” Although, Foster might have even disapproved of her wantonness that night, even if it had been him asleep in his chamber.

  The lie lay in her chest, burning.

  Oh, she’d done so much to betray him—and not just that night, but every day when she raced downstairs to breakfast with Bennett, or met him on the terrace for tea. Every night when she tried to burnish from her mind the memories of his touch, his smell, the sweetness of his embrace that forbidden night. She hated how often she stared at the adjoining door, wishing he might be on the other side. The fear that scuttled through her at the very allowance of that thought shook her to her core.

  Regrettable? She didn’t know how to articulate the word that embodied that night.

  Many words, perhaps, but not regrettable.

  Bennett, and his friendship, had awakened something dead inside. Made her feel alive.

  “Good,” her mother said, taking a breath, as if to rise. “That’s very good. Then it’s not too late. I’ll arrange for Bennett to take rooms at the Casino. You can tell him tonight.”

  “No!” She held up her hands, hating the way the word lurched from her, but… “No, Mother. Foster wants him to stay here.”

  Her mother gaped at her. “Foster doesn’t want to lose his wife to his brother!”

  “Foster doesn’t care about me. About what I want.”

  “Of course not. You’re his wife, not his mistress.”

  Jinx recoiled. Stared at her mother, whose face had
tightened, her own eyes reddened.

  “Haven’t you figured out yet the role of a wife? It is to manage her husband’s life, to give him a legacy. He finds his happiness elsewhere.”

  “And me? Where do I find happiness?”

  Phoebe’s hand went to her neck, the pearls there. She rose stiffly, wandered to the window overlooking the front gardens. Finally, “You don’t.”

  Jinx stared at her, an outline of darkness against the light of the window. “Mother, I know about Father’s indiscretions. I know how he hurt you.”

  Phoebe drew in a breath but didn’t turn.

  Jinx softened her voice. “Did you never once have a friend who made you feel as if your words, your thoughts, your laughter, mattered?”

  “Women in our position don’t have the luxury of true friends. Male or female.”

  No. “That’s not good enough for me. Bennett makes me…happy. Since he’s arrived I’ve realized I want more, Mother. I want to know companionship, maybe even real love. I want a marriage like Esme and Oliver.”

  “Don’t talk to me about Esme and Oliver!” Her mother rounded on her. “Oliver is dead, and Esme is lost. Living hand-to-mouth out in some feral land.”

  The words shucked Jinx’s breath from her, and again she felt ill, her head light. “Dead. Oliver is dead?”

  “He died in a fire in his tenement. The night Esme left us.” Her mother’s jaw twitched. She turned back to the window. “Esme was stupid and headstrong and she destroyed her life.”

  “We destroyed her life, Mother. We lied. We sent her away.”

  “So you could marry Foster! So you could live this life. Rosehaven. Your chateau in New York. You are among society’s elite; everyone wants to attend your cotillions, your dinner parties, your soirees.”

  “And everyone is laughing behind my back as I sit here, childless, while my husband cavorts his way around the globe with his yacht full of trollops. We conspired every bit of this life, Mother. We stole from Foster the bride he wanted. I probably deserve Foster’s cruelty.”

  Her mother’s shoulders rose and fell. Nothing of protest issued from her.

  Jinx allowed the silence to linger, soothe their words. Finally she rose and joined her mother at the window. She wove her hand into hers, not acknowledging the wetness on her mother’s lined cheeks.

  “Fear not, Mother. I don’t love Bennett. I am simply very fond of my brother-in-law. I find him to be everything Foster could be, if I could win his heart again. In Bennett, I see the man I thought I married.” Her voice fell, almost to nothing. “Please don’t deny me the pleasure of Bennett’s company, for as fleeting a time as this. Please don’t send him away. I promise not to disgrace Foster, to sully our reputations.”

  Outside, the sky had begun to purple with the twilight, long shadows from the oaks lay across the lawn.

  “Your reputation is not what scares me most, Jinx.” Her mother squeezed her hand. “Please don’t lose your heart to Bennett Worth, for I fear you will never get it back.”

  Chapter 9

  She wasn’t in love with Bennett. Jinx watched him as he surveyed Foster’s fleet of motor carriages, running his gloved hand over the olive-green fenders of Foster’s newest acquisition, a Benz Comfort, fresh from Germany. Bennett wore the same grand expression of his brother so many years ago, when Foster had pulled up in front of their mansion to ask her to go motoring.

  No, he’d wanted Esme to accompany him. Jinx had been his second choice. She sometimes forgot that.

  No, she wouldn’t love him. But sometimes, Bennett simply made her remember what it felt like to be noticed. Especially when he looked at her, a smile in his blue eyes. “It’s beautiful. Are you sure Foster won’t mind us driving it?”

  “Not at all.” She pulled her goggles over her eyes, adjusting them under her motoring hat, then allowed Amelia to tie the gauze veil under her chin. She already wore a fawn-colored alpaca duster, purchased especially for the sport of motoring, and now held up her arms for Amelia to fasten the cuffs tight around her wrists. “In fact, the Comfort belongs to me. It was a birthday gift.”

  She motioned her driver and his footmen to push the car from its stable in the garage house and onto the curved drive. She stood away as they started it up, cranking it to full power. It belched out black smoke, settled to a loud rumble.

  Beside her, Bennett also affixed his goggles. “Do you like your new coat?” She’d ordered an alpaca motoring coat for him, in gray, weeks ago, when Foster first suggested she might teach him to drive.

  “It’s splendid. And a perfect fit.”

  She’d taken Foster’s measurements and subtracted two inches from the waist.

  Overhead, the sky suggested an intemperate day, patches of crisp blue being blotted out with bulbous clouds, the kind bearing trouble. In the distance, over the sea, a swath of dark suggested rain. But, for the moment, she’d grasp the cool August day with Bennett.

  He’d been spending too much time with Elise.

  In fact, their names appeared together twice last week—once at an afternoon tea thrown by Mamie Fish, another at a coaching tournament.

  Society would have them married off in a week’s time if he didn’t school his attention to her. How could he possibly know if they were a suitable match after such a short courtship?

  She shooed the footmen away, allowing Bennett’s hand in assistance as she gathered her skirt and climbed aboard, settling behind the wheel.

  Bennett stared at her, frowning. “Are you driving?”

  “Of course. Did you not hear me offer to teach you when you first arrived?”

  He stepped up on the running board. “I thought you were playing with me. You drive?”

  “I am a better motorman than Foster.” She patted the seat next to him. “You have nothing to worry about, Bennett.”

  He raised an eyebrow but sat next to her. She noticed his gloved hand curl around the edge of the seat and suppressed a smile.

  Indeed, she had been the first of society’s ladies to dispense of her footman and partake in the sport of motoring. Something about the power of directing her own course down the road, under the canopy of elms and oaks as they rumbled down Bellevue, set her free. In a motorcar, she could determine her own speed, her own course, decide her own destination.

  The feeling had surprised her and wooed her quickly into the sport.

  She removed the arm brake and stepped on the accelerator. The motor carriage eased forward and she bit back another smile as Bennett collected a quick breath.

  “Certainly you have ridden in a horseless in Paris,” she said.

  “I preferred my own two feet in Paris.”

  They turned down the long drive and finally out onto Bellevue. She drove slowly enough to keep the nails and debris in the street from littering their clothing. Still, they passed a landau, the top up, and a Shay on their way to Bailey’s Beach.

  No Bailey’s for her today. In fact, she’d lost her appetite for bathing at Bailey’s. If she couldn’t sink her naked toes into the wet sand, she preferred to not let it frustrate her. Let Duchess Consuelo bask in society’s attention in her bathing hut.

  Jinx would choose driving along the beach with Bennett over society’s praise any day.

  “You are a professional, Jinx. I am impressed.” Bennett loosed his hold on his seat rail. “But I’m not surprised. You do everything well.”

  She kept her hands on the wheel, but her face heated.

  “I mean it, Jinx. Elise holds you in high regard. In three short years you have managed to become a powerful lady in Newport, and your motor coaching cotillion is one of the most sought-after invitations of the season. You manage your household with efficiency, your staff is well-trained and attentive, and you have even acquainted me with a host of eligible debs. I am in your debt.”

  She hazarded a quick glance at him, shaken by his words, his smile.

  “And you drive a horseless carriage.”

  They passed a landau carrying a
company of bathers, clad in their dark dresses and hats.

  “How are things going with Elise?”

  “She is pleasant enough. Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.” She grinned at him. Pleasant enough. That didn’t sound smitten, did it?

  He folded one leg over the other, sat back in his seat as she turned at Webster then motored down to Spring Street, the mercantile district. “We’ll cut over to Thames and observe the ships in the wharf.” Hopefully, Foster’s yacht wouldn’t be moored in harbor. She didn’t even want to know if he’d returned. Please not.

  Please, never.

  “Tell me about the motor coaching cotillion. I’ve been to several coaching weekends, but never a motorized event.”

  “It’s a way for Foster to display his collection of vehicles, really. Everyone is required to bring their newest acquisition. We display them in the front courtyard, and then, a few select drivers agree to run an obstacle course down Bellevue Avenue. It’s a grand event.”

  “Do you drive?”

  She turned onto Thames, braking for a milk cart stopped in the road. The odors of the wharf, with the redolence of fish and oil and the brine of the sea, saturated the air. From here, she made out the shiny masts of the yachts moored in the harbor, bright spires against the darkening horizon. Overhead the sky seemed undaunted by the danger at sea.

  She didn’t spot the Jinx.

  “No, I don’t drive in the cotillion. Too much to oversee.”

  “Society not ready yet for a woman driver?”

  “Perhaps.”

  He reached over and honked the horn affixed to the lamps in the front. Two schoolboys in knickerbockers looked up and waved. “I think you should drive this year.”

  She laughed and turned on Farewell Street, toward Memorial Park. So far to the north of Newport, no one would ever see her teaching Bennett how to drive. “And what would Foster say?”

  “Perhaps Foster hasn’t the right to say anything.”