Lilac

by Louisa Trent

  Tobias moved in on her.

  Just a step closer, but that was all it took. Cursing himself for being every kind of jackass, Sean locked a hand on Tobias’s upper arm to prevent him from coming any closer to the woman he knew he loved. A woman who was either too dazed or too soused to take stock of what was happening to her.

  “Sorry,” Sean muttered. Removing his coat, he flung it around Tegan’s bare shoulders. “This idea was a mistake.”

  “Tarnation! About fucking time you got a spur in the ass and came to your fool senses. This supposed threesome felt a sight more like a funeral than a party. No more sharing a pussy in a cathouse for you and me. You, my lucky amigo, have found the one.”

  Sean said sheepishly, “Could you maybe drop the Western twang now? Bad enough having you rub my mistake in my mug without doing it with a damn Western drawl. All this playacting is making my head pound. I never was any good at it.”

  Tobias chuckled. “You know what this means?”

  Turning Tegan into his chest, Sean kissed her rapidly closing eyelids. “No, tell me.”

  “We need someplace else to meet. Surer than your roving prick just went into retirement, Sally’s place is out to discuss buying and restoring property in Hell’s Kitchen. Unless… You intend to stop your charity work? I would understand you not wanting to invest capital in a place that very nearly destroyed you.”

  Sean shook his head. “Poor immigrant families have a right to live someplace decent. I mean to fix up the slums. Maybe I would have turned out a better man, if I had grown up someplace better.”

  With that said, he dressed Tegan and then led her away.

  His tired lady was sleeping on her feet.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Sometime after her brothel adventure, Tegan awakened in the guest room at Griffith House. Beside the bed, slouched in a wingback armchair, was the robber baron.

  No use hiding from what happened, she brought up her odd behavior straightaway. “That lemonade was not at all usual. What was it?”

  “Absinthe. One hundred and sixty proof. Chased with a few handfuls of cannabis candy.”

  “That would explain my fuzzy memory. I remember very little of last evening.”

  “What do you recall?”

  “Shadows. Glimmers. A handsome and charming man who kissed my hand, and with whom I may have acted improperly.”

  “Both the absinthe and cannabis produce lowered inhibitions and dreamlike euphoric states”—he raised a brow—“and heightened sexuality.”

  “Oh dear. Was I insatiable?”

  “Yes.”

  She plucked at the coverlet. “Oh my.”

  “But then, you always are. That trait in you is one of my favorites.”

  She faced the unpleasant truth. “I disrobed before you and someone else.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your friend Tobias? The charming man who kissed my hand?”

  At his nod, her hope for love with Sean cracked like a mirror. It was too late now for them.

  “I feel ill.” She groaned. “Truly ill. What have I done?”

  “You got rip-roaring drunk, flung off your clothing, and kissed a charming man.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Suggested putting the springs on a rickety bunkhouse cot to the test.”

  She looked down and examined her clenched fingers. “And did I?”

  “Nope.”

  Relief washed over her. Perhaps it was not too late for them after all. “Tell me—what did I do?”

  “Snored. Loud enough to wake the dead. You might have told me about that.”

  Tsking at his tasteless humor, she slipped a hand beneath the quilt to her nightgown-covered breasts and fingered the nipples.

  No piercing.

  “What happened?” she questioned. “You said you were going to—”

  “Have you pierced? I changed my mind.”

  He must have noted the disappearance of her hand. That was why he could read her thoughts. Sean noticed everything, except what counted most.

  “So…no piercing, no tattoo…no threesome?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  “But why?”

  “Despite what you might think, I am not so low as to take advantage of a soused young miss in a brothel.”

  Was that the only reason?

  Please…please…have there be more. There must be more than that reason!

  She swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

  He jumped out of the chair. “Maybe you should wait on that. You might still be woozy.”

  She was woozy. And not because of what she had ingested in a brothel.

  Admit you love me, Sean. Say the words. I need to hear them. Your change of mind tells me you care for me. But I need to hear the words. Words are important to me. Speak the words. Please…

  She flung out an arm. “So now what? Where do we go from here?”

  “Marry me.”

  Just like that? Where are the words? The romantic phrases? I need to hear them, Sean. Say the words!!

  “What!” She substituted scoffing for sentiment. “After all that has happened between us? You cannot possibly be serious.”

  Words are serious. Say the words, Sean!

  He cleared his throat. Now he would say them.

  But no.

  “Before we began our relationship,” he said instead, “you accused me of spying on your reform activities in Pittsburgh through the new Central Mine supervisor.”

  “Do you deny it?”

  “Nope. I did spy on you. And frankly, you should be grateful.”

  Now she flung both arms up in the air. “What?”

  “Up until Owen’s report, I knew nothing about Central. I had yet to examine the profit sheets. I won the mines in a gentlemen’s game of chance at my club, the deed exchanged for a note on a gambling debt. The winnings amounted to no more than a bloody nuisance to me. Hearing Owen’s testimony about your father relentless reform work piqued my interest. I wondered why an intelligent man would commit his entire life to a cause to the detriment of pursuing his own personal fortunes.”

  “The answer is easy. People mattered more to my father than amassing a large sum of money.”

  “You went without, due to his reform work.”

  “The shoe is on the other foot. My father went without, due to me. If not for me, he would have devoted everything to the cause, and he would have triumphed. As it was, he died feeling like a failure.”

  “A failure! How could he feel like a failure with you as his daughter?”

  “A righteous cause that affects many matters more than any one single individual.”

  “Not in my book.”

  “Your book is very slim, sir. It is all the same to you. All nothing. I suspect people, as a whole, are meaningless to you.”

  “You are not meaningless to me.”

  A lovely sentence. And she was touched. But she needed more, and because she did, she refused to settle for less. She had settled for less all her life. Not now. Not when it came to love.

  Why? Tell me why. Say the words, Sean. Why am I not meaningless to you?

  But he gave no explanation.

  And so she prodded him. “Only by happenstance do I mean something to you. You liked how I looked in an altered gown. Or how moving inside my body felt. Or some other purely coincidental, circumstantial reasons. If I had not arrived at your doorstep, we would never have met. We would not be having this conversation. I forced the issue.”

  “Oh, the conceit of the woman!” He rolled his eyes in feigned exasperation. “You give no credit whatsoever to the father you say you so admire.”

  “Unfair! I came here in his memory, to carry out the mining reform work he started.”

  “And I am saying I would like to do the same.”

  “Ha! To land on my good side, you would promise anything.”

  “You are full of yourself, Miss Ellis.” He smoothed a hand over her loose hair. “An admirable quality and w
ell deserved in this instance. However, as much as I would like to impress you…independent of your visit here, I had already decided, based on Owen’s report, to improve working conditions at Central Mine.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Why?”

  “Because the mine was and continues to be my responsibility. Because I wanted to rectify my previous negligence. Because I wanted to do the right thing by the people I employ, even if the right thing was belated. I happened to concur with your father’s exemplary research into the deplorable mining conditions at Central.”

  He held up a thick roll of papers, taken from the floor beneath his bedside chair. “Recognize these?”

  “Despicable man! Odious robber baron. You violated my private property. Those documents were closed up inside my reticule. You stole them from me while I slept.”

  “You have every right to protest the liberties I took in reading the documents. Twice.”

  “Twice. What do you mean, twice?”

  “Once after the storm and again now.”

  “I am surprised you did not light your coal furnace with them.” Hoping to still their agitation, she crossed her flailing arms over her bosom.

  “Please hear me out. As of now, what changes I do not agree with on face value, I am willing to judge the merits of with an open mind. Apparently, you are not inclined to judge me the same. As to violating your privacy—the reticule, the spying, and all the rest—I felt the end justified the means. The same as you did with me.”

  When she swayed, he clasped her around the waist. “Are you ill? Faint? Dizzy?”

  “No. Please release me at once.”

  He stepped back but continued to hover close by. “Granted, Tegan, I am not as informed as I should be about Central’s operations, but I mean to change all that. Only sound business practice to learn about one’s investments from the ground up, as it were.”

  “This, all of this, the mines, everything, is still not personal to you. You have not asked over the men, over their lives. Your thinking toward those who work for you has not altered. Your thinking has only altered toward me.”

  Has your thinking altered toward me? Or am I mistaken? Is your love for me only a figment of my romantic imagination?

  “Untrue. That day of the storm, I asked over the housekeeper’s name. She has been with me five years and I never once thought to inquire until then. Such is the power of your positive influence on me.” He took a deep breath. “After we wed, your sphere of influence can only make me a better man.”

  She narrowed her glance on him. “Is that the only reason you wish to wed me? To make you a better man?”

  “No. There is more.”

  At long last! Now you will tell me what my heart needs to hear.

  “You may carry my child.”

  His damned nobility crushed her.

  You idiot! Love me for my imperfect self. Not because you think me some idealized paragon of virtue. Not out of a sense of responsibility.

  “As you will recall, lately, I have not taken my leave of you, as I ought to have done. I may have planted”—his lips turned up slightly—“a turnip.”

  “But you said, due to my recent woman’s time, conception would be unlikely.”

  “Unlikely. But not impossible. No method save abstinence is foolproof.”

  And there it was. He was only trying to do the right thing by her. He did care for her, he did. But love? No. This was not about love.

  Keeping what remained of her dignity intact, she turned away from him. “Please grant me privacy. I should like to dress, then leave these premises.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Have your spies tell you.”

  “Very well. I shan’t stand in your way. But just so you know…I have instructed my business agent in Manhattan to disperse monetary death benefits to the families of any miner deceased during my twelve-month ownership of Central. If you have made up your mind to depart, my carriage will drive you to his office to collect what is due you.”

  The robber baron stood, bowed formally at the waist. “Good day to you, Miss Ellis. While brief of duration, my acquaintance with you pleased me greatly.”

  Epilogue

  Tegan put the finishing touches on the jaunty velvet chapeau she had designed, and then plopped the feathered creation onto a stand for display.

  A temporary placement. With business so brisk, customers snapped up “Tegan” hats as quickly as their namesake could make them.

  Open only two brief months, and already her small milliner’s shop had surpassed her wildest dreams of success. She was a thriving businesswoman! Word of mouth—all right, gossip—had spread her reputation in Pittsburgh and beyond.

  Tegan stroked a loving finger over the hat’s soft peacock plumage and then picked up a pair of scissors. Her next creation called for flowers. A chain of daisies, perhaps, and buttercups…

  Her father’s death benefit had gone into purchasing a former feed store in the center of town. She went to work and renovated the space from rafters to rough pine floor. The central location made the purchase a sound investment. To save on expenses, she lived in the tiny space behind the curtained showroom. Every penny she made went back into materials…

  Like the yellow felt she was cutting into petals, she mused, clipping away at the bolt of bright yellow fabric.

  The bell tinkled. The door opened. A customer entered the shop.

  Time was money, and so she continued to work. Over the squeaking scissor blades, she asked, “May I help you?”

  “I hope so,” a familiar voice replied.

  She went very still. What was he doing in Pittsburgh?

  Placing her petal making aside, she glanced up.

  A filthy miner, his face blackened with coal dust, stood before her sewing table, his dirty hand close to her ribbon case.

  Sean!

  She would recognize him anywhere. Even under a ton of coal dust, she would still know him. That was the miracle of love.

  She loved him, always would love him. But neither silly nor romantic, not anymore, she moved the ribbon display before he soiled the rainbow-hued satins with his restive fingers.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” She kept her voice formal. Better that way.

  He pointed to the stand. “Is that feathered hat for sale?”

  She shook her head in disbelief. He had come all the way here to inquire over a damned hat?

  Although she had tried not to, she had done nothing but think about him since her departure. Her yearning to write to him had consumed her. She longed to put her words on paper. To tell him how she felt. Of course, she had not. Most improper for a woman to do such a forward thing. Besides, she was poor, he was rich; money and mistrust divided them.

  Her heart could not have cared less about those divisions. Her heart had no pride. No dignity. Despite their differences in status, despite their mistrust of one another, her heart had missed him. Only work had eased the empty ache inside her.

  Why are you here?

  The romance inside her was dead, as was her belief in a storybook kind of love, but words were still important to her. Words mattered!

  Betraying none of her rawness, she framed her unasked question with words. What else was there but words? “I cannot believe you traveled all the way from Manhattan to inquire over buying millinery. Why are you here, Mr. Griffith?”

  “I told you I meant to learn the mining business from the ground floor. No better way to accomplish that than by going down into the shafts, shoulder to shoulder, with the men I employ.”

  “You dig coal?” she asked incredulously.

  “For the past month. I live on what I earn too.”

  After showing him the price tag on the hat, she said smugly, “You cannot afford to pay that amount on a miner’s wage.”

  “I grew up poor on the streets,” he said without reflection. “I have gotten by on far less than my wage at Central. And though I have lied to you, like about not being jealous of my footman when I wa
s jealous, insanely jealous of Tim—”

  “There was no need for jealousy—”

  “—I never lie to get what I want.”

  Warmth rose in her cheeks at his implication.

  “I do live off my earnings.” Grinning, he thumbed his jaw. “Just so happens, I play a mean hand of poker. And when I play, I always play to win.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the right amount. “Wrap the hat for a later pickup tonight.”

  She would not wait for him! “I close at six.”

  He tipped his miner’s cap. “See you then, Miss Ellis.”

  True to his word, the robber baron arrived five minutes to the hour, all cleaned up and looking mouthwateringly masculine. She still recalled the strength of his bunched muscles, how rigidly he had held all that male power in check so as not to hurt her, as she’d had her wicked way with him during an orgy that was anything but.

  Yes, she could admit it now. She had ravished him, not the other way round.

  With a pang of longing and regret, she removed her sewing apron. Underneath, she wore a shopkeeper’s plain black gown. “Your purchase is right over there, on the table by the door. Collect it on your way out.”

  He looked in that direction and then turned back to her. “The hatbox is lilac, your favorite color.”

  How did a man astute enough to guess her favorite color, cunning enough to seduce her with a gown made up in the same shade, not know the rest, like what to say at a moment like this?

  The man was positively dense. Tongue-tied and floundering too.

  “I swear, not seeing you these past two months has just about killed me,” he whispered, sounding for all the world like a broken man.

  Evidently, he did know what to say at a moment like this. Evidently, he was good with a pretty turn of a phrase. What woman’s heart would not take flight at such a pained declaration?

  Hers.

  She needed more.

  Oh, her heart did flutter, but still the organ did not take wing but stayed firmly planted in her chest.