by Bird, Peggy
But there was no room in her plan to become mesmerized by him at the same time. She had to make certain to keep her own feelings in check, and not do something totally stupid—such as fall in love with him. All her schemes could run aground if she didn’t maintain a clear head about her situation.
She gritted her teeth, pulled hard on the door handle, and took the flight of stairs quickly to the upper-level offices. Her hand drifted to her stomach to quell the rampant butterflies. She replaced the grimace on her face with a smile and covered the few steps from the landing to Henry’s office doorway. Her future, as well as the future of Harry and Penelope, awaited. She took a deep breath, then opened the door.
Henry was on the opposite side of the room, sword in hand, and had his back to the door. Rosemary stood in the doorway for a moment, appreciating his form and physique, committing it to memory. For the good of the book, she told herself, of course. No other reason. But her eyes tarried for a long moment on his derriere before she cleared her throat to announce her presence.
He turned on his heel and pointed the weapon at her, just as he had done the last time with an imaginary sword. A sudden grin broke out on his face, exposing his white teeth. Or possibly they just seemed whiter than most because his skin was darker than most? Rosemary tried to quell her rampant thoughts, to clear her mind and focus. She should speak. After all, words were her livelihood.
“Hello, Mr. Cooper.” Good Lord, was that the best she could do?
“I thought possibly you were frightened away at the thought of getting a fencing lesson.”
Ooh, a dare. The bane of growing up with older brothers. She never could resist when someone issued a dare. Aware that she was about to enter uncharted territory, Rosemary’s hands went to the waistline of her skirt and she unbuttoned it. With a flourish, her skirt fell to the floor and she stepped over it.
“On the contrary, Mr. Cooper. I am excited at the possibility of besting you.”
His grin grew even wider. Her butterflies multiplied and performed swan dives into the pit her stomach had become.
“I see you’ve come alone. That’s not what I would expect from a fine, cultured lady such as yourself.”
“How many other fine, cultured ladies have you given fencing instructions to?”
“Touché, Miss Fitzpatrick. Shall we begin, then?”
Henry turned from her for a moment, gathered up a heavy vest and another weapon, and took a step toward her.
“You must wear some protection, as will I, so we don’t unintentionally slay each other.” He held the vest open, waiting to help her into it.
She moved in front of him and allowed him to assist her into the vest, as if it was a fine coat. “What if we want to intentionally slay each other? Is that permissible?”
Henry’s chuckle burst forth from deep within his body. Rosemary quivered as it wafted over her. Her back was pressed up against him as he assisted her.
“You are a cheeky little thing, aren’t you, Miss Fitzpatrick? Or should I say, Miss Wyatt? Or is it Miss Elliott?”
She turned around and faced him. He was standing ever so close. She lost herself momentarily in the deep brown of his eyes. It took every moral fiber she had to break their gaze, but she did. She took a step back.
“We both know Miss Wyatt was a ruse. And Miss Elliott was a mistake. Miss Fitzpatrick will suffice just fine, Mr. Cooper.”
“I still don’t understand why you needed to set up such a subterfuge in the first place.” He handed her a sword, its tip covered with a guard. “Let’s begin, shall we? For the time being, we’ll leave the tips covered and will work without headgear, so you can better see what I’m referring to.”
He took a position opposite her, blade facing out. “Fencing terminology is primarily in French, so you’ll get a language lesson as well as a fencing lesson.”
Henry touched his sword to hers. “This is presentation, where I offer to you my blade for engagement.”
“Doesn’t sound French to me, Mr. Cooper.” Rosemary held her sword against the light pressure Henry was exerting against it. The pressure against her blade grew stronger, the sound of steel on steel permeating the air as Henry’s blade slid against hers, and Rosemary’s grip faltered.
“The time for games is now over, Miss Fitzpatrick. En garde.”
She lifted her sword back up to waist level and presented it to him. “On the contrary, Mr. Cooper. The games have just begun.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Soon, they arrived back at camp to an anxious father. “Thank God,” he said as he enveloped his daughter in an embrace. “Are you hurt?”
“No, Papa. I’m fine.”
Harry glanced at his employer. “But now the Indians have their backs up. They’re going to be on the warpath from here out. It’s not safe for your daughter to be here. I think you should send her back to the old states.”
“No!” Penelope cried out. “I want to stay.”
“Hush now. We’ll talk about it over dinner. Will you join us, Harry?”
“Sure could use a strong cup of coffee after this. Or maybe a shot of whiskey.”
After almost an hour of holding an épée, Rosemary’s wrist began to tire. Henry was showing no sign of fatigue, but Rosemary could no longer hold her position, and her sword dipped toward the floor.
“I’ve worn you out, I see,” Henry commented as she began to falter. “You’ve done very well, though. Most beginners feign exhaustion after only thirty minutes.”
Rosemary bristled. “I’m not ‘feigning’ anything. But after only holding a pen and a piece of paper for so long, my arm and wrist are truly tired.”
“Let me show you one last thing, then, which may help.” Henry grasped her hand, which was halfheartedly holding the sword, and wrapped his own hand around it. He brought the sword up to waist level and rotated their wrists slightly inward. “Does the different grip help?”
Rosemary tried to focus on the shift in her wrist, but her entire hand was tingling and hot where his wrapped around it. She couldn’t get her mouth to work. All she could do was to stare at their conjoined hands. His fingers were much larger than hers and wrapped around hers tightly. The small lines at his wrist were more pronounced than hers, and there was a tiny scar on the inward side where wrist met hand. Without giving a thought to stance, and trying to ignore his body pressed up against her backside, her left hand reached over and captured his.
“Is this a battle scar on your wrist?” She bent over to examine the mark. It resembled the letter J. She ran a finger lightly over the old wound.
Henry opened his hand, which allowed her hand holding the sword to fall. She held his wrist with her other hand and turned toward him.
“It was my first mistake in fencing. My Uncle Jacques had been teaching me all he could of the sport for more than a year. I was getting better and better, and being the brash young man that I was, I thought I could best him. So I challenged him to a duel. I actually thought I could beat one of the most prominent fencing masters in New Orleans.”
“So what happened?” Rosemary whispered. She was very aware she was almost in an embrace with Henry. His heady scent nearly drove her to her knees as she tried to focus on his words rather than the closeness of their bodies.
“Well, of course, I lost the duel. As a prize, he branded my wrist with the first letter of his name and said he’d add to it each time he beat me after our initial match, until his entire name was emblazoned on my wrist.”
Rosemary ran her finger over the J again and grazed the smooth skin next to it. “But there are no other letters.”
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “That’s because I never lost to him again.”
“Oh.” For a woman who made her living writing words, she could think of nothing else to say. The story was compelling enough, but the feel of his warm lips on her flesh made her knees weak and her heart jump. She bumped up against his hard body as her balance faltered momentarily, losing herself in his masculi
ne scent of sweat and sandalwood.
And then moved from the shelter of his arms.
“I … I must go.” She stepped into the middle of the puddle her skirt had created on the floor and pulled it up over her riding breeches in one quick movement. When the last button was in place, she raised her eyes to him.
“Thank you for the lesson, Mr. Cooper. I have a much better understanding of the art of fencing now.”
“I hope you’ll consider continuing the lessons. I rose to the level of a fencing instructor before I departed from New Orleans and found teaching the art quite enjoyable.”
“I think I’d enjoy continuing the lessons when I have time, yes.”
“There is one more thing, though, before you go.”
Rosemary hoped to divert Henry’s attention from what she was certain he was going to say. They hadn’t discussed F.P. Elliott at all today. She raised her hand, palm up, and offered her wrist to him.
“Do you need to carve your initial?”
He took a step forward. She took a step back and could go no further. Henry had pinned her against the wall. He took another step forward.
“Although it is customary for the victor to lay claim to something of the person who has lost, carving up your wrist does not interest me. This is what I claim.”
Rosemary’s breath whooshed out of her as his lips met hers. He had branded her, even if he hadn’t used his sword point.
She reached up and pulled the leather strap from his queue, loosening his hair. Then she ran her hands through it as she’d wanted to do for weeks, luxuriating in the texture, so unlike her own. The kiss, which had started off gentle, suddenly turned into one of heat and possession. He pressed himself up against her, and ran his hands down her body to encircle her hips.
He broke the kiss momentarily and stared into her eyes. “Your hips, in those revealing breeches, have been driving me crazy for the last hour.” His head swung down to capture her lips again. His tongue sought entry into her mouth, and their tongues dueled much as their swords had just done. Rosemary couldn’t think. She could only feel. One sensation after another rolled over her body as Henry’s hands clasped her hips and his mouth seared her lips. She was helpless against him.
Finally, he broke the kiss and backed up a step, breathing heavily. Her breath was coming in labored gasps, too, as she stared at him.
“You’d better go, Miss Fitzpatrick. Now that I know you are a respectable member of society, it’s most inappropriate for us to continue meeting without proper supervision. And it’s most inappropriate for us to behave as such, as much as I’m enjoying it. Please, tempt me no further.”
Rosemary was mortified. She wanted him to fall in love with her, but she didn’t want him to think she was a loose woman. What had she been thinking, untying his hair and running her fingers through it? She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks in absolute embarrassment.
“Yes, of course, Mr. Cooper. You are right.” She ran her fingers over her bruised lips. “I’ll go now. Any future business we have to do can be accomplished through the mail.” She turned to leave the office.
He grabbed her hand as she turned. Puzzled, she turned back to him. Had she not been soundly put in her place? Did he want to mortify her even more?
“I agree, the business part of our relationship should be accomplished by the mail. However, I’d love to continue to see you, appropriately chaperoned, of course, on a personal basis. I know no one in town except for the Cabots, and am in need of a companion for the theatre. There’s a new play at Laura Keene’s theatre opening Friday night. Laura Keene herself has the lead role.”
Rosemary could not keep up with the shift in conversation. She thought he had rebuffed her yet again, and now he was asking to accompany her to the theatre? She ran a finger over her lips a second time, the taste of him still lingering on them.
“Yes, I already have it on my calendar. Mother, Papa, and I are planning to attend. We are huge supporters of women in the arts. I’m certain Mother wouldn’t mind having you join us in our box. Why don’t you come by the house for dinner on Friday, and we can all go to the theatre together?”
“An excellent idea.”
“I’ll discuss it with Mother, and we’ll send you a formal invitation with all the particulars.”
“I’ll see you on Friday, then.” He bowed over her hand and finally let it go. With a backward, last glance at him, she let herself out the door and paused on the other side, releasing a long, slow breath.
As much as he perplexed her, the plan she’d walked into their meeting with had worked! Henry Cooper was interested in her on a personal level. And the fact he wanted to see Laura Keene made her hopeful that he, too, supported women in the arts. Perhaps she could be the woman he supported most of all. But it was too early to let down her guard yet.
As she walked back to the family brownstone, her mind replayed the afternoon. Not the fencing so much, although it was informative and would be most helpful when she wrote her pirate scene. But the kiss he demanded as payment for besting her was running on a perpetual loop through her mind as her body continued to throw off sparks. When he’d pressed himself up to her, and she’d fit so neatly up against him, all she’d wanted was to stay there forever. Her lips, when she ran her finger over them, were plump and bruised, and were turned up into a smile of their own accord. She still couldn’t believe she had been so brazen as to unfasten his hair and weave her hands into it. She glanced down and found several strands of black hair, which had fallen loose as she ran her fingers through his locks. She carefully tucked them into her handkerchief. Yes, she could possibly make Henry Cooper fall in love with her. But could she keep herself from falling in love with him?
• • •
Henry thought Rosemary had been a sight in her chamois riding breeches that hugged her curves, but it was nothing compared to the vision she presented now. When she glided into the Fitzpatrick family’s parlor on Friday evening dressed for the theatre, he found it hard to catch his breath. The color of the gown with its large hoop skirt was somewhere between pale pink and burgundy. It complemented the pale blush on her cheeks and made her intelligent gray eyes stand out. Henry drank her in as if he was in a desert, and she was his oasis.
But the color was merely the beginning. The neckline was square-cut, with off-the-shoulder short sleeves. A row of starched lace adorned the edge, through which peeked just the slightest amount of décolletage. The sleeves were carefully constructed to form a stiff triangle shape, standing away from her arms before ending in a tight band just above the elbow. And the bodice of the gown was a series of vertical pleats, all leading to the dark burgundy bow around her waist. Her tiny wisp of a waist. Henry could not stop staring at her. Nor could he speak. The Fitzpatrick family must think him the biggest bore they’d come across. He had to say something.
He was a publisher after all. He worked with words every day.
Finally, his tongue unfroze itself. He took a deep breath and extended his hand toward her. “Miss Fitzpatrick, my compliments to your dress designer. You are lovely this evening.”
She grasped his hand with her gloved one, and he caught of whiff of her signature patchouli scent. “The designer is my own sister, Jasmine. As I told you the other day, my family is a huge supporter of women in the arts, of which my sister is one. I’ll pass along your compliments on the gown to her.”
Charlotte Fitzpatrick moved to Henry’s side and tapped him lightly on the arm. “I’m so happy Rosemary thought to invite you to dinner. Now we’ll have a chance to get to know you a bit better. It must be difficult being in a strange city with no friends to accompany you to events.”
“The Cabot family has been most accommodating, inviting me to functions. But, sooner or later, I must carve my own way. I have been very busy with the publishing company so far, but I’m getting the business under control now, so I do have more free time.”
“Well, we’re glad you can spend some of it with us. Shall we p
roceed to the dining room?”
He extended his arm to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and together they walked to the dining room, Charlotte chattering away. But all he could hear was the swish of Rosemary’s gown across the floor as she trailed behind them with her father.
Henry was grateful he could sit across the table from her at dinner. His eyes feasted on her as they awaited the first course. He remembered how soft her lips had been, how she had shocked him by pulling the strip of leather from his hair and then running her hands through his long locks. Their kiss had shaken him to his core. He had been attracted to her when she was posing as a secretary, but now that her true self had emerged, he was even more intrigued by her. Not only was she a member of society, but her parents were in the same class as the Cabots of Boston. His father might finally be impressed with his son. However, pleasing his father was not the main reason he wanted to forge a relationship with Rosemary. She was the true reason. The only reason.
George Fitzpatrick cleared his throat as they took their places and waited for the first course to be set in front of them. “I must apologize for my behavior at the debutante ball. Impersonating F.P. Elliott was most wrong of me, and I’m sorry I tried to dupe you, even if it was only for the moment, and I was quickly unmasked.”
“When your wife exposed you, you mean?” Henry smiled in George’s direction.
“Yes, sometimes Charlotte is terrible at keeping a secret. I was merely trying to assist my daughter, who lives in fear that you’ll cancel the contract with old F.P. after the last book is delivered.”
Rosemary sent a silent glare down the table to her father, which did not go unnoticed by Henry. He could not shake the feeling that subterfuge was running amok at the dinner table, even with the apology.
Henry dipped his spoon into the hearty clam chowder and brought it to his lips. Not quite as spicy as he preferred after all his time in New Orleans, but it was tasty.
Charlotte’s head bobbed in Henry’s direction in a blatant attempt to steer the conversation in another direction. “So tell us a bit about yourself, Mr. Cooper. Have you any siblings?”