by Hope Tarr
She drew a steadying breath and reminded herself that giving way to madness such as this exacted a heavy, heavy toll. The last time she'd given her passions rein to rule, she'd come bloody close to ruining her life. At times such as this, though, with a handsome-as-sin stranger staring at her as though he must know what she looked like beneath her shift, it was all too easy to forget. Easy to forget it was the mind, the intellect that must rule the heart and body, not the other way around. Easy to forget that never again must a man, any man, be trusted.
Reaching for the shield of her reserve, she cleared her throat. "On the contrary, I am only surprised to see you here at all. From your remarks the other day, I would not have thought you a proponent of our cause."
"My remarks?" Hadrian felt the heat rising between them, too, although any reciprocity of feeling had no place in his plans. Immersed, he stared at her while he scoured his sex-soaked brain for some recollection of what he might have said to warrant such a starchy response. A great deal had happened in the past twenty-four hours, none of it good, and while he carried with him a clear mental picture of every detail of her from wind-kissed cheeks to broken hat feather, he couldn't recall a single word he'd said.
"I believe it was something to do with spewing rubbish and rot?" She arched one dark half-moon brow, waiting.
Damn but if his mouth hadn't gotten the better of him yet again. When the devil would he learn? "In that case, I hope you'll accept my most sincere apology. It's only that suffrage for females is a new notion for me, I freely admit it." He paused before adding with a slow smile, "And well, if you'll pardon my saying so, you don't fit my mental picture of what a suffragist should look like."
She bristled at that remark just as she'd known she would. "Just what do you imagine a suffragist should look like?"
He glanced toward her secretary, the one with the mannish manner and hawkish gaze, standing at the opposite end of the stage. "Rather I imagine what a suffragist is not. You're altogether too young and too pretty to be spending your evenings in stuffy lecture halls."
"My age and looks are of no consequence." But the blush limning those lovely high cheekbones told him the compliment struck home.
"In point, Miss Rivers, your image is the very thing that brings me here tonight." Feeling the urgency of dwindling time--he caught someone, the secretary, no doubt--hinting they would shortly be locking the doors--he said, "Is there somewhere we can speak in private?"
Nibbling her bottom lip, she hesitated. "Very well, there is a greenroom backstage."
She turned and started off toward the partitioned curtain, leaving him to follow. Backstage, she opened the door to what served as a waiting room for visiting speakers and entertainers, a tray of tea biscuits and a pitcher of water set out on the marble-topped sideboard.
Leaving the door ajar--did she really imagine he meant to pounce upon her--she asked, "What is it you would say to me?"
Amused at her skittishness, he said, "As I may have mentioned the other day, a great deal of my work is portraiture." He reached inside his jacket pocket for the forged letter Dandridge had supplied. "As it happens, my most recent commission is to photograph you."
Her eyes widened, and she gave a fierce shake of her head, the motion knocking the spectacles halfway down her nose. Pushing them back, she said, "That cannot be."
Rather than argue, he handed her the counterfeit letter of introduction, hoping the forger had possessed an able hand. She broke the seal, unfolded the paper, and began to read, spectacles slipping down her nose once more only this time she didn't seem to notice. Even with head bowed, the shock coursing through her was a palpable thing. He could read it on her face, feel it in the sudden stiffening of her stance.
She refolded the letter, very slowly, very carefully, and looked up. A less confident man would have taken her stricken look as a grave injury to his pride. "I cannot credit it," she said at length, looking so forlorn that suddenly, inexplicably, he wanted to reach out and hold her. "She said nothing of this before she left, not a word. This . . . command comes as so contrary to her character, I cannot fathom it."
Thinking quickly, Hadrian said, "If a series of photographs is what is needed to tip the scales of public opinion in your favor, then surely sitting for me is not so great a sacrifice given all the many sacrifices you must have made up until now?" The gentleness in his voice caught him by surprise. What the devil did he care for her so-called sacrifices?
"This letter is dated more than a week ago and yet you made no mention of it the other day when we met." Her keen-eyed gaze settled on his and though he'd been over warm all evening, Hadrian was only now conscious of the sweat soaking his collar.
"Yes, well, if you will recall, there was the small matter of the elements to deal with, in our case the wind, and errant papers to collect. By the time I knew who you were, that dragon of an assistant was ferrying you away as though fearful I meant to debauch you in the public park." He smiled at her then, the same reassuring smile he used to comfort crying children and other portrait subjects edgy at having their picture made.
She smiled back though it occurred to him that her eyes looked wistful, even a trifle sad. "Harriet is my secretary and as dedicated to our Cause as any of us. If she seems a bit protective at times it is only because the press has not always been kind."
Were we in different circumstances, I would be kind to you, Caledonia. Kind indeed. Startled, he realized he'd let his mind wander. What was she saying now?
"What I don't understand is why she would select you. Given your remarks the other day, you hardly seem a supporter."
Hadrian hesitated. He needed a hook and he needed it badly. The hall tonight, though packed, had shown a striking absence of men. Beyond the handful of photographers, representatives of that less-than-kind press, he'd looked to be the only male in attendance.
"What would you say to our striking a small bargain?"
Behind the glasses, her eyes narrowed. "What sort of bargain?"
"We will divide our session between your sitting for me--your sacrifice, if you will--and my submitting to your instruction on the finer shades of female equality? Should you succeed in winning me to your point, I will not hesitate to spread the word to other males who might be persuaded as well, including a barrister friend of mine who has the ear of those influential in the Fleet Street set." When she didn't answer, he cocked his head to one side, trying to read the thoughts behind those clear, soulful eyes. "You are very quiet suddenly, Miss Rivers, and looking at me rather strangely, I think. Come now, do we have a bargain or do we not?"
She hesitated, biting at her bottom lip in a way that had him hardening. "Yes, Mr. Rivers, I believe we do. I will call on you at your shop at noon tomorrow, if that is acceptable to you."
So she'd kept his card after all. Hadrian hid his smile. The woman had played into his hands entirely. More time in her company meant that much more time to carry out his plan, and if the prelude to seduction meant putting up with her prosing on about her blasted cause, then so be it.
Vanquishing her, it might prove easier than he'd first thought. "I shall spend what remains of this evening counting the hours."
She held out her hand. Amused she meant to seal their agreement with a handshake as a man would, he reached out to take it. Encouraged to find it cold and faintly shaking, he carried their clasped hands to his mouth, brushing a quick kiss atop her smooth white one.
She jerked away as though he'd burned her. "Don't count, Mr. St. Claire, but rather read. Barbara Leigh Smith's A Brief Summary, in Plain Language, of the Most Important Laws Concerning Women is an excellent starting point as it is both comprehensive and concise. You will derive far greater benefit from reflecting on Mrs. Smith's wise words than conjuring elaborate flatteries. You may see my secretary on your way out, and she will furnish you with a copy." She cast a meaningful glance toward the side door.
So he was being dismissed. What cheek! Suppressing a groan, he reminded himself that his goal
was to win her trust. "You do yourself a disservice, miss, if you believe my remark was anything but completely candid." With that, he started for the door.
Her voice called him back. "On the contrary, Mr. Rivers, it is you who do me the disservice."
That set him off his guard. He felt his smile slip and with it his some of his self-assurance. Turning about, he said, "Sorry?"
"You must think me a perfect simpleton indeed if you expect me to credit such rubbish, charmingly put though it may be."
Hadrian relaxed, feeling once more on firmer footing. The estimable Miss Rivers was flirting with him whether she recognized it or not. "Quite the contrary, miss, I am coming to understand that there is nothing of the simple about you."
Simpleton, I must be an utter simpleton.
Thrashing about her bed later that night, Callie allowed she had acted the perfect idiot. Only an idiot would agree not merely to sit for Hadrian St. Claire like some bloody trained monkey, but also to be cajoled into acting as his tutor. As if she gave a fig for what he thought, the thick-skulled man. Rot and rubbish indeed!
As for the letter of introduction, whatever could Millicent have meant by directing her to fritter away precious hours posing for a portrait when there was so much of critical importance to accomplish in over the next few weeks? Were her mentor still in England, Callie wouldn't hesitate to plead her case. As it was, the breadth of a great wide ocean stood between them. She briefly considered telegraphing a message but the lecture tour of the United States was a hectic affair involving a great deal of travel by train--did she really want to trouble Millicent with a matter that was, well, trifling?
And it was trifling, or at least should have been. Photographs, people sat for them all the time nowadays. Why, you could scarcely walk into a public park on a Sunday and not encounter at least one photographer, passersby patiently queuing up for shilling photographs of their babies, wives, and sweethearts. Yet the thought of having her imperfect image captured by a camera's unforgiving lens dredged up all the old insecurities.
God, would it never be over? She closed her eyes and rubbed a hand over her throbbing forehead. Ten years, and yet at times such as this, when it was night and she was alone, it might have been just the other day, the memory lodged in her consciousness like a deep-seated splinter.
It was springtime in the countryside, a lovely twilight evening. Lilac and early roses scented the air; the breeze was a silken caress against her face and bare shoulders, welcome balm after the stifling confines of the ballroom. She was nineteen and about to be married to Gerald, one of the season's most sought-after bachelors. Even her parents were thrilled-- this once she'd managed to please them. Yet something was wrong, or at least not quite as it should be, she could feel it. On pretense of her dance slippers pinching, she'd sought solace in the garden. Being careful of her gown, a pale pink affair with far too many ruffles and bows for someone her size, she perched on the edge of the stone bench and slipped off her shoes. Above her, the balcony doors opened. Cigar smoke drifted downward, choking out the scent of roses.
"So, old sod, how does it feel to be about to be leg-shackled to last season's leavings?" It was Gerald's best friend, Larry, his speech a telltale slur.
Cheeks flaming, she slunk back into the shadows and waited for Gerald to defend her.
Instead, he answered, "Oh, she's a milcher, to be sure, but with a splendid set of tits and a dowry beyond generous, I can bear marriage to a beast." He paused to take a puff. "The old gaffer must be desperate to be rid of her."
Chuckling, they stubbed out their smokes and went inside. Numb, she'd sat on the bench for what had seemed like hours. Eventually she got up, walked back in, and carried on with the evening as though nothing were amiss. It wasn't until the following morning that she called her parents aside and told them the engagement was off. When they declined to agree, she packed her bags and boarded the next train leaving for London and her Aunt Charlotte. She'd lived with Lottie ever since.
Every morning for the past ten years now, she'd scraped her thick waist-length black-brown hair into a tight bun, tucked her offending bosom into high-necked shirtwaists, and hid her curvy hips beneath layers of petticoats and skirts. She'd embraced spinsterhood and then the suffragist cause with the same enthusiasm, the same passion that other women applied to the roles of wife and mother. Instead of home and hearth, she'd chosen to fight as a soldier would fight, for a just and noble cause. Progress, albeit incremental, was being made. In a fortnight there would be the closed-door meeting with the prime minister, Lord Salisbury, who already had expressed some sympathy with their cause. Success was in sight, she could feel it. And if she hadn't found happiness exactly, at least she could claim contentment.
Or so she'd thought.
But at times such as tonight when all her restless energy spiraled toward a decidedly physical sort of pinnacle, content was the very last thing she felt. In the lonely stillness, she registered the rhythmic ticking of the bedside clock, which suddenly struck her as loud to the point of earsplitting. She thought about turning up the bedside lamp and reading for a while, or perhaps jotting a note or two in her journal but couldn't summon the self-discipline.
No, there was only one remedy, as shameful as it was inevitable. Closing her eyes, she slipped a hand beneath the covers and focused on conjuring "him," her fantasy lover. Though admittedly make-pretend and sketchy on details, he was real to her all the same. When she put her mind to it, she could all but feel the weight of him in the bed beside her, the warmth of his breath striking the side of her throat, the soft press of his lips as he trailed heated kisses over her body, a body which he miraculously found to be perfect in every way.
No matter how hard she'd set her mind to it, though, she could never fathom his face. The one time she'd tried to force it, the blankness assumed Gerald's features as she'd last seen him, bleary-eyed and sneering, which of course ruined everything.
The only part of him she'd ever been able to see clearly was his hands. Strong hands. Warm hands. Knowing hands, the palms broad but not too broad, the fingers long and sensitive, beautifully shaped. Even the fingertips had been meticulously attended to; the nails were clipped short, dustings of golden hair on the backs. And his knuckles, or rather the image of them stroking her cheek, her throat, the curve of her breast, was all it took to bring the throbbing between her thighs building to crescendo.
Only when she could bear it no longer, when the restless, budding ache was simply too urgent to ignore, did she give in and find herself with her fingers. But tonight was different, tonight was a first, for it wasn't her own too soft palm kneading her mons or her own too slender digits slipping inside her swollen to bursting sex, but the hands of a flesh-and-blood man.
Hadrian St. Claire's hands.
Stifling a cry, Callie fell back against the mattress and came.
"Hold on, Mum. I'm coming."
Head pounding from where he'd hit the wall, Harry crawled toward his mother, folded into the dusty corner like a schoolboy's broken paper missile. The floor between them was aglitter with glass, the only remains of his camera's shattered lens. Powdering the planks like new-fallen snow, it looked crystalline. Pure.
"Don't cry anymore, Mum. I'm here."
Reaching her, he stuck out a bleeding hand to comfort her, but she shoved him away, the angry red mark on her cheek matching the flash of her eyes. "Wicked ungrateful boy, only look what a muck you've made of things. Couldn't leave well enough alone, could you? Had to stick that bleedin' contraption of yours where it didn't belong."
"But Mum, he hurt you, he--"
"No buts." Dropping her voice to a whisper, she said, "One word from him, and I'll lose my place, and then we'll both be out on the streets." She slid her gaze toward the man standing in shadow, watching them from the far side of the room. Watching, always watching.
"You should mind your mother, boy." Footfalls came toward them, the shiny black shoes stopping within inches of Harry's bleeding fingers.
"Get up." Before Harry could move, the man reached down and grabbed him by the back of his collar, jerking him to his feet.
"Please sir, no. Take me. I'll do anything you fancy. Anything." Mum stumbled to her feet, tugging on the man's coat sleeve.
Hard fingers bit into the back of Harry's neck. "But I don't fancy you, you slattern. It's him I want."
Like a scruffed kitten, Harry found himself dragged across the room to the bed, the big brass four-poster where his mum entertained her clients.
He tried digging in his heels but it was no use. Tossed atop the mattress, he twisted to look back at his mother. "Mum . . . Mummy . . . please."
She turned her battered face up to the man. "You won't hurt him bad, will you?"
Hurt him bad, hurt him bad, hurt him bad . . .
It was then that the last of the fight left him. Harry squeezed his eyes closed and waited.
Hadrian awoke amidst sweat-drenched sheets. Shaking, he reached for the gin bottle by his bed, pulled out the cork, and knocked back a healthy swallow. It was the dream again, the one that had haunted him for years only not for some time. Indeed, he'd been halfway to believing it was a thing of the past, a milestone he'd finally moved beyond. As always, it came as a rapid-fire flash of images with feelings attached like strings to balloons. No, not balloons--too benign an image, that. More like a black fog of terror and shame, a demon perched silently on his shoulder, awaiting the opportunity to strike.
The earlier encounter with Caledonia Rivers must have rattled him more than he'd cared to admit. Raking a hand through his damp hair, he tried telling himself that however good and noble she might be, he owed her nothing. Regrettable as is was that he must ruin her, vanquish her to placate Dandridge and save himself, that's how it went in a dog-eat-dog world. He couldn't afford to let guilt make him soft, not now when he had everything to lose and so very much to gain.