The subject was obviously difficult for her and he didn’t wish to pry. Conversing with her from so far above was awkward so he sat uncomfortably on the rug.
He immediately wished he hadn’t. The exposure of a good portion of her full, round breasts scrambled his thoughts. How was he to concentrate on chess with such a monumental distraction? Averting his gaze took a concentrated effort.
He removed his coat and tossed it to onto the settee. Her gaze narrowed upon his chest and lingered there. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her examine him this way. He wished she wouldn’t. His heart began to hammer with expectation, but he cautioned himself not to read anything into the wandering glances of a woman scarcely finished with her girlhood. She probably had no concept of her effect upon him.
“Is it alright with you if I make the first move?” she asked with her hand already moving toward the piece she had in mind.
“Please.”
He managed to focus and recall some semblance of strategy as the match proceeded. The orchestra played somewhere far away, a cello and violin harmonizing in a waltz. Her long stocking-clad calves swayed back and forth in time to the rhythm of the music like a seductive metronome while her long neck leaned over the board. She studied the pieces. He studied the way a fallen tendril of her hair skimmed her pale, slender nape.
“It’s your move.”
“Is it?” When had she taken her turn? He sacrificed a pawn for lack of a better option.
Needless to say, she won the first match, but he dusted off his pummeled self-respect in the second. She looked up at him as though she couldn’t fathom how she’d lost. “Well, that wasn’t very gentlemanly of you. Where did you learn to play?”
“College.”
“Ah yes, college, where you become friends with the likes of Pembroke Treadway.”
He didn’t miss the note of disapproval in her voice. “Pembroke is not my friend. He’s an association. There’s a difference. At the time, I thought inclusion in his social circle was a wonderful achievement. We developed a mutually beneficial relationship. He wasn’t a strong student. I helped him with his courses. He introduced me into circles I never could have hoped to be invited to join.”
“With your natural charm, I doubt you needed him.”
He felt his ears grow warm, like a green schoolboy with his first infatuation. “You find me charming?”
She toyed with his captured knight. “Surely you’ve been told that before.”
“Let me think… No. Never.” He was grinning like a fool now, but he couldn’t help it.
The distant orchestra sounded much louder in the silence that fell between them. “Well, now we have a tie, a completely unacceptable state of affairs,” he said low.
She grinned, nimbly lining up the pieces again. “We must have a final match then. I won’t be able to sleep until this matter is resolved.”
This time she played as though she imagined herself on a battlefield, and her life hung in the balance. All he wanted to do was continue looking at her and talking with her all night long.
Her long lashes lifted and those bright blue eyes beamed at him, all innocence. “Oh, I almost forgot. We forgot to name what we were playing for.”
“Does everything have to be about loss or gain? Can we not just play for the fun of it?”
“Raising the stakes is part of the fun,” she said. “Name your prize.” There it was again, that suggestive tone. If she had any idea what it did to him, she’d never toy with him that way. Or would she?
“While you think on it, I’ll tell you what I wish.” She looked over her shoulder at the large wooden crate he’d brought with him from Paris. He’d shoved it against the heavy drapery to keep it out of the way, but it stood out in their elegant surroundings. “What do you keep in there? Jewels, sacred relics… something illegal?”
He snorted. “Nothing of importance or value.”
“Then why didn’t you ship it as freight? I want to have a look inside.”
Like cold water tossed in the face of an inebriate, he regained his senses. He didn’t wish to see the pictures. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But there was little risk of that. She was a decent opponent, but no match for him. “Very well. If you win, I’ll show you.”
Her eyes sparkled with excitement, and he felt a strange sort of tickle in his chest that such a possibility could intrigue her so. It took far more wicked subjects to capture the imagination of the women he knew.
“Now you must name your prize. What will you have?”
Out of nowhere an erotic image materialized in his brain. She was naked beneath him, her head tilted back in complete abandon. He was kissing her neck as she twined her hands in his hair, making the sweetest sounds he’d ever heard…
She was looking at him curiously.
The orchestra was playing After the Ball. The melody was muted by distance but distinct enough to remind him of the world outside of this cabin and their places in it, of promises, expectations, and consequences. “How about a dance?” he asked, praying she couldn’t guess the way of his thoughts.
His innocent suggestion made her blush as though he’d proposed something far more intimate. “I thought you weren’t in the mood to dance.” She curled her legs underneath her and sat up with remarkable grace. “Choose something else.” Her demand was quiet but insistent.
He’d been mistaken. She felt no attraction to him. There could be no clearer indication. Whatever signals he’d perceived had been a product of his imagination. He tried to come up with a substitute, but at the moment there was nothing he wanted more than to hold her.
“I think I’ll have a drink.” He rose and moved his head in a half-circle to ease the crick in his neck. “Would you like one?”
“I don’t drink alcohol.”
Of course she didn’t. He went to the well-stocked liquor trolley by the wall and mixed a Manhattan with a shaker. When he strained the cocktail into a glass, she eyed the amber liquid as if it were laced with arsenic. “Is that what they drink in New York? Maybe I shall try one.”
Now he wished he hadn’t offered. He felt like a corrupter of an innocent as he handed her the drink. She sipped it with resolve, as if this were the first daunting hurdle in some sort of athletic challenge.
“Do you like sports?” he asked, as he mixed another cocktail for himself.
“Not particularly, but I’m appallingly good at them.” Returning her focus to the chessboard, she moved her king’s bishop diagonally, but her fingers remained glued to the piece as if she couldn’t quite decide upon the usefulness of the move.
He laughed. “Appallingly? Such a strange choice of adverb for a talent.”
“It’s not good form to win at every competition, but whatever I try, be it tennis, badminton, or boules, I invariably do… I take after my father. He was quite the athlete.”
She’d revealed herself once again by her list of activities. There was little opportunity for badminton in the life of a stage performer. There would be rehearsals and performances and travel in an endless cycle.
She puckered her lips ever so slightly as she deliberated. Minutes ticked by and still she delayed, scrutinizing the pieces so intently she easily could have memorized their positions. He thought to remind of the official rules, but he didn’t have the inclination to disturb her concentration.
At last she released the bishop and rested her chin in the heel of her hand.
He took her bishop with his horse. Ha! The game was his.
She immediately moved her queen several squares forward and took his pawn. “Checkmate.”
The unadulterated joy upon her face caused a strange turbulence in his chest, which he pointedly ignored. He’d never seen the gaping hole in his line of defense. His eyes had strayed far too often.
She leapt to her feet and crossed the room. “And now for the revealing of the contents of the mysterious wooden crate, as agreed.”
He’d forgotten all about that miserable crate
. His own desire to view the paintings inside was so little he wondered why he’d even bothered to bring it with him. He went to refill his glass. “You made a poor bargain. It’s full of pictures by a little known painter,” he said over his shoulder. “Nothing worth looking at.”
“What sort of pictures?” She was on her knees before the crate now, eyeing it from all angles. “Which painter?”
He shrugged. “Terrence Barnett.”
“Your father, I presume. How can you be so blasé? He left you something, and you don’t even feel the desire to see what it is?”
He resented her attempt to analyze his feelings and had no intention of explaining himself.
She studied the fastenings and announced, “We’re going to need a tool of some kind.”
A bargain was a bargain. With a sigh, he summoned a steward and made the odd request. The man departed with a nod. “I seriously doubt we’ll see him again,” Leo said.
But the helpful steward returned in less than ten minutes, proudly wielding a short screwdriver and insisting upon prying open the crate for them.
There were only two pictures inside. Each had been carefully wrapped in brown paper. Leo couldn’t imagine Mademoiselle Arestine doing so. His father must have done it.
He lifted out the first one and removed the paper to discover a scene from his childhood he could not recall. His mother, wearing a pretty red dress with lace trim and an exaggerated bustle, was leaning over to comb his hair. He looked most displeased about it.
“How beautiful your mother was! You can tell he was madly in love with her to portray her so,” Madeleine mused.
“How did you know that’s my mother?”
She blinked several times as if trying to comprehend the question. “It’s obvious. You resemble her… And that little boy is clearly you. What adorable curls you had.”
Leo didn’t remember posing for the picture, and he certainly didn’t remember having such fine clothing or shoes. “Are you finished?”
She continued to gaze at the canvas. “Hardly. Look at that impish expression on your face. I’ll bet you were always getting into mischief.”
“I have no recollection of that… And you? What were you like as a child?” He sunk onto the nearest chair, one leg hanging over the armrest. “Leave out no detail.”
“That was a subtle shift of subject. I was… full of imagination, too much so, I think.”
“One can never possess too much imagination.”
“I was always writing songs and planting trees when I should have been out playing with other children.”
“Ah, yes. Your orange trees,” he mused, swinging his leg. “You’re really quite an eccentric.”
“You’ve found me out.”
“I like that about you.”
She stared at him in bemusement then quickly looked away. “Anyway, I doubt I’ll have time for such silly endeavors in New York.”
“You should. The press adores eccentricity, and growing trees is safer and easier than collecting wild animals as Mademoiselle Berhardt does.”
“And just where would I plant them?”
The garden behind his townhouse sprang to mind, and he shrugged to conceal his confusion over the absurd notion.
“That’s what I thought.”
She turned her attention to removing and unwrapping the remaining picture, adding more brown rubbish to the messy pile by her side. “Isn’t it strange to think that a person’s whole life can be reduced to the contents of a crate?”
With much effort, she accomplished the job and stared at the revealed image, a portrait of his mother and her best friend, Jeanne Valencourt. They were both very young. He supposed it was painted before Madame Valencourt met her future husband. She went by another name then and she was desperately poor. His father had captured the warmth and depth of their friendship.
Madeleine was utterly transfixed. He’s couldn’t comprehend what fascinated her so. The image was lovely, but it also reminded him that neither of the women depicted were speaking to him at present, and that depressed him. “If you like it so much, you can have it.”
She looked over at him in shocked disbelief. “You’d give away a picture of your own mother? How can you be so cold? These clearly meant a lot to your father, and he wanted you to have them.”
That was one possible explanation. “You don’t know that these represent anything of importance. For all you know, they’re just the ones that didn’t sell.”
“You can’t believe that. I certainly don’t.”
“Well, you didn’t know my father.” But maybe she was right. Maybe in his own limited way his father had cared about his family.
“I’m tired now. I’m going to bed.” She rose from the paintings, leaving them all for him to rewrap and put away.
“I told you you’d made a poor bargain,” he called after her. “You can still ask for something else.”
She closed the bedchamber door quietly behind her.
Chapter Eight
Standing at the rail, Claudine watched the waves lap against the hull while the seagulls soared into a pink and orange sky. The afternoon light was fading fast, but she was reluctant to return to the stateroom. Leo might be there, and she didn’t understand or like the way she was behaving around him: flirting, provoking, intruding. What had possessed her to comment upon his father’s paintings as she had?
And she was disclosing far too much about herself. He brought out something dangerous in her.
A few more passengers wandered off, leaving the boat deck deserted. Leo’s warning came to mind. In her experience, the worst things happened in private places, not public ones, but she moved on nonetheless.
The rumble of low laughter spilled out from an open double doorway. She glanced into a hazy sconce lit room as she passed. Men lounged in club chairs and around low tables, smoking cigars and playing cards. She hurried on.
At the end of the Promenade Deck, she came to a charming café with checkerboard floors, trellised walls covered in vines, and wicker furniture. Only the corner table was occupied, perhaps due to the hour. The only patrons, two ladies wearing elaborately trimmed wide brimmed hats, were so deep in conversation they didn’t even notice her.
She took a seat and absently perused a menu left at the table. Chocolate éclair, apple meringue, Waldorf pudding… Nothing sounded good. When had she lost her taste for sweets?
“Mademoiselle Barnett. What luck I’ve run into you again.” Mr. Treadway’s arrogant voice startled her. “Would you care to join us in our little diversion? We’re having a treasure hunt.”
She knew luck had nothing to do with these repeated encounters. He was pursuing her despite a complete lack of encouragement on her part. She glared at him. “No, thank you. I have other plans.”
He pulled out a chair and sat beside her. “Do you? Are you meeting someone here or are you alone as usual?”
“You should get back to your game.”
“I wonder that your brother doesn’t show more of an interest in spending time with you.” His strangely inanimate eyes bored into her. “Leo was so gauche when I first met him, but I took him under my wing, introduced him to my friends and family. But no matter how much I tried to elevate his tastes, he was always drawn to the lowest places and the cheapest women.”
Why was he telling her these things? And, more to the point, why had she stayed to listen? The gossiping ladies got up to leave so Claudine did as well, but she came to her feet so hastily the hem of her dress caught underneath her chair leg.
Mr. Treadway sprang up. “Let me help you.” He squatted by her feet and lifted the chair from her skirts, but he did not release the layers of scalloped lace from his fists. “Leo Barnett was my roommate for over a year at Harvard and never once did he mention the existence of a sibling, let alone one so fetching.” He stood up, far too close to her, with an insinuating smirk on his face. His breath smelled sweet and boozy, making her throat restrict in a reflexive gag.
She t
urned and fled, heedless of her direction. Behind her, heavy footsteps clacked along the wooden deck. She opened a sliding door and entered a part of the ship she’d never seen before. The footsteps continued. Outraged by his audacity, she turned to confront her pursuer. “Will you impose your presence upon me when it is obvious I do not enjoy your company, monsieur?”
He chuckled as he slowly drew near. “Such pretty speech you have.” Then very suddenly he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her backward until she was trapped between two hanging lifeboats.
His eyes flickered over her face and bodice as he loomed over her. “Leo can be a bit fickle when it comes to females. I never saw him with the same girl for more than a month. I, on the other hand, am quite steadfast in my decided tastes, and I think we might suit very well. As a foreigner, it might be in your best interest to make as many friends as possible in America.” Gloved fingers gripped her chin as his full lips lowered toward her mouth and his pelvis crushed her ribcage.
With a cry of distress, she pushed at his shoulders and screamed at him in French. In her terror, she could not recall one English word.
With a low chuckle he stepped back and allowed her to escape. As she ran, she noticed a middle-aged couple staring at her with disapproval as though she’d been the one to behave improperly.
Her accoster had already moved on. They must have been out for a stroll when they heard her shouting. The woman always got the blame in these matters.
She retraced the route back to the stateroom, oblivious to her present surroundings as a deep depression engulfed her. Maybe Philippe was right. Maybe there was something about her that invited this sort of treatment. Unbidden, their last encounter came back to her in sickening detail.
They’d never been introduced before the afternoon he appeared at her home. Her parents had rarely mentioned his name so she’d been surprised when he explained he’d come, at her father’s request, to see to her welfare during their absence.
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