by Andrea Kane
He watched Jacqui catch her lower lip between her teeth and chew on it nervously … a typically feminine gesture. The realization hit him that, unconventional or not, Jacqueline was indeed a woman, with not only a woman’s needs but with her sensibilities as well. Perhaps what she required was the very thing Dane intended to offer her. A commitment.
Slowly, he lowered her feet to the floor, keeping her in a loose embrace. “We have to talk.”
Jacqui stepped back. “Talk? Is that what we were just doing?”
“No. But it is what we are going to do now.”
She studied Dane quietly. “All right.” Moving out of his arms, she sank down onto the settee, gesturing for him to do the same.
“Jacqueline, you’re nineteen years old,” Dane began, sitting beside her.
“Actually, I’ll be twenty next month,” she put in, wondering where on earth this was leading.
“I stand corrected.” He stared at the polished tip of his boot, aware that he was searching for words he had never before spoken, determined to say them first to Jacqueline before he even approached her father. “In any case, you are no longer a child, but very much a woman.”
Jacqui gave a deep sigh, folding her hands purposefully in her lap. “Yes, Dane, I know. I can well imagine what you plan to say.”
“Can you?” The deep timbre of his voice was a caress.
She nodded. “Yes. You are going to remind me that you cannot … will not … go on as we are indefinitely. I do understand. As you just said, I am not a child, but a woman grown. I recognize your needs. I am also fully aware of my own needs … probably more so than any other woman you’ve encountered.”
Something in her tone gave Dane pause. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that, no matter what should occur between us, you must clearly understand that the only person I will ever truly belong to is myself. Regardless of whether I share my thoughts, my beliefs”—she paused—“even my body with another, it will not alter that fact. My identity,” and she smiled softly at her own choice of words, “is my own.”
Unreasonable anger began to churn inside Dane. “And where will your husband fit into all this?” he demanded.
Jacqui looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “My husband?” She uttered the word as one would a profanity.
“Yes, your husband,” he snapped back. “The man you eventually marry.”
Jacqui laughed. “Whatever gave you the idea that I planned to marry?” she asked in an incredulous tone. “I would never even consider the idea.”
“Why the hell not?” Dane came to his feet in one fluid motion.
“Because, my arrogant sir, if you study the marriage vows you will learn that when a woman marries she must relinquish her thoughts, her opinions, her very soul to the man she weds.” Jacqui was becoming angry as well. “She becomes nothing but a piece of chattel—a belonging, an acquisition of her husband’s. None of which I intend to be.” She glared up at him, almost angry enough to blurt out the truth. Almost. “There are … aspects of my life that I would be unwilling to change … for anyone,” she said instead.
“And if you fall in love?” Dane’s thoughts were centered on but one thing. His voice was deadly quiet, his jaw clenched.
Jacqui rose, her chin stubbornly set. “I would never have expected such a fanciful, romantic question from you. But since you’ve asked, here is my answer: I hope I am never weak or foolish enough to succumb to love, but if I should, it would change nothing. Were I to marry, force myself to be a dutiful wife, my love would soon turn to hate. So, in the end, I would be alone anyway.”
Something flashed in Dane’s eyes, a distant, pained memory, that was gone as quickly as it had come. He knew firsthand what happened when marital love deteriorated into resentment and finally into dust. “I understand,” he said, his tone odd, flat.
Jacqui gave him a curious look. “Have I so shocked you with my opinion?”
“No. You haven’t shocked me.” Dane replied curtly. He glanced down at his timepiece. “I must be leaving, Jacqueline; I have an appointment in less than an hour.”
“All right.”
Dane studied Jacqui, his eyes hooded, his expression dark, brooding. She looked to be on the verge of questioning his strange mood shift, then abruptly seemed to change her mind.
Without a word, he went to her and tugged her to him for a series of long, thorough kisses. He didn’t release her until she was kissing him back with the same ferocity that burned inside him. Even then, he kept her in his arms, tightly held to his chest.
“We are going to the Binghams’ party on Saturday night,” he told her when their breathing had returned to normal.
Jacqui stiffened. “Oh no, we are not!” she shot back, adamantly shaking her head against him. “I refuse to go to one of their garish balls. Why, Mrs. Bingham is nothing more than a flaunting, haughty extension of Hamilton’s Federalists. … She and her husband are little better than English nobility!” She paled as she realized what she’d just said.
But Dane’s only response was a deep, lazy chuckle. “Try to keep that opinion to yourself on Saturday, mon chaton,” he advised, nuzzling her hair with his lips. “Although I do believe it has been said before.”
“Didn’t you hear me, Dane? I said I’m not going!” She pushed ineffectively at his massive chest.
“I heard.” He continued the caressing motion of his lips. “Have I told you how much I love the scent of your hair?” he breathed. “So sweet. So soft. So beautiful.” He felt her inadvertent shiver and smiled against the satiny tresses. “Think of it as an opportunity to reinforce your hatred for the cursed aristocrats of our fair city. Or think of it as an evening to accumulate more ammunition for the Republican cause. Or just think of it as an opportunity to spend the night dancing in my arms.”
Intrigued by the prospect of spending an entire evening eavesdropping on the Federalists who frequented the Binghams’ parties, and aroused by the subtle images conveyed by Dane’s words, Jacqui could feel herself weaken. “Even if I agree to go, there is little chance that we’ll be dancing together,” she managed faintly.
“Why is that?”
“Because I assume lots will be drawn. And with the number of people who attend the Binghams’ balls, I fear I shall be relegated to another man for the duration of the evening.” She raised her head and gave Dane an impish smile. “So you see, sir, that final argument is not a convincing one.”
“Do not be so certain of that, my love.” He gave her a cocky grin.
Jacqui’s hands curled into fists. “Even you cannot tamper with the lots!”
“Accompany me and see,” he invited, a challenging gleam in his silver eyes.
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Absolutely,” he agreed. He bent his head and nibbled lightly on her lower lip. “Not only staunch Federalists will be attending. Your father will be there, you know.”
Jacqui sighed. “Yes, I know. Father has some land dealings with Mr. Bingham. Which means that Monique Brisset will be there as well.”
“You don’t like your father’s … companion?” Dane questioned.
“They are hardly companions, and no, I don’t.”
Dane’s shoulders shook with laughter. “I would not want to be your enemy, mon chaton colereux.” He tangled his hands in her thick curls.
“Sometimes I feel as though you are my enemy.” The words were out before Jacqui could censor them. She felt angry and foolish—angry because it was unlike her to blurt out her feelings and foolish because it was ludicrous to refer to a man in whose arms she was clasped as an enemy.
But Dane seemed unsurprised by the bizarre statement. “No, sweet,” he murmured softly, stroking the nape of her neck, “never that. We will be many things to each other, but enemies? Never.” His penetrating silver gaze reached deep inside her. “I am going to know you as no other man ever has or ever will, Jacqueline.” He paused, weighing his words. “In many ways I already do.”
A
knot of fear tightened Jacqui’s stomach. Amid the pleasure of the past weeks, she had all but dismissed the idea that Dane knew who she was, knew what she was doing. Now, with his words, her doubts returned full force. Could he possibly suspect? Was this “courtship” more than it appeared? And how on earth could she find out? The uncertainty was maddening.
“Seven o’clock,” he was saying, running his knuckles across her smooth cheek. “I’ll come for you.” He kissed her softly. “Can you be ready by then?”
Jacqui was strained from apprehension, spent from physical sensation. All she could muster was a weak nod.
Dane smiled tenderly. “Good.” He scooped her into his arms and gently deposited her on the settee. “There. Now you needn’t worry about falling.” He winked. “Until Saturday, my love.” He lifted her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. “Au revoir, chaton.”
Jacqui watched him go, feeling a sudden shiver run through her. She was profoundly aware that she stood on the fringes of an enveloping tempest … one that had the potential to destroy her. She could confront it … or she could walk away. The decision was hers.
It appeared she had much to think about before Saturday.
So did Dane.
Strolling toward home, he devised his plan.
Obviously, Jacqueline was not ready to consider marrying him. That presented a definite problem: Definite, but not insurmountable. Other than the totally unacceptable choice of conceding defeat, Dane was left with only one option. He would have to call upon the sole advantage he had over his brilliant, headstrong Jacqueline, use the only means he had for changing her mind.
Dane was going to shamelessly, purposefully, relentlessly seduce Jacqueline Holt. He was going to heighten her need for him until it overcame all doubt, driving her into his arms. When that happened, he would teach her the mysteries of passion, bathe her senses in pleasure, love her in every possible way a man could love a woman.
Then, when she was glowing and sated, he would ask her to marry him … and she would accept.
It was an infallible plan.
CHAPTER
7
YOU’RE RATHER MOROSE TONIGHT.” Dane took a deep swallow of whiskey and regarded Thomas with concern. “Is it business again?”
Thomas looked restlessly about the City Tavern’s Coffee Room. “Among other things … yes.”
“Other things,” Dane repeated thoughtfully. He rolled his glass between his hands, seeming to contemplate the amber liquid. In truth, he was thinking about the deep lines around his friend’s eyes, lines that had not been there before. “What happened to that large payment you said you were expecting?”
“Soon,” Thomas replied, shifting in his chair. “But not soon enough. My debts are getting rather … extensive.”
Dane’s response was immediate. “Let me lend you—”
“No.” The last thing Thomas wanted was to take Dane’s money. He was already ridden with guilt … for betraying this fine man he called friend, for endangering the stability of his country, for disregarding every principle he had learned fighting beside the brilliant leader who had taught him the meaning of integrity … Alexander Hamilton. But there was just so much a man could take before he reached the breaking point. And Thomas had definitely reached his.
Clearing his throat roughly, he waved away Dane’s offer with a definitive sweep of his hand. “Thank you, Dane, but I have to extricate myself from my financial dilemma.” He tossed down his drink. “And I will … very shortly.” He hesitated. “Actually, the waiting would not be nearly so difficult if …”
“If?”
“If my personal life were in better order,” Thomas answered reluctantly.
“A problem with your mystery lady?”
Thomas grimaced, drumming his fingers nervously on the table. “Not a problem, precisely. Just a disagreement regarding our degrees of involvement.”
Dane recognized the symptoms only too well, “You’re in love with her.”
Thomas gave a short, humorless laugh. “To say the very least … yes.”
“And she?”
A pause. “She says she loves me. But every blasted time I make plans for our future, she becomes vague and uncooperative. I don’t know what to think.”
“Women have a way of keeping us off-balance,” Dane concurred dryly. “But perhaps she is truly not ready to settle down. Is she very young?”
“Not that young.”
Dane frowned at Thomas’s evasiveness. “Why won’t you allow me to meet her?”
Thomas brought his glass to the table with a thud and came to his feet. “Please, Dane, don’t press me. I’m not up for it.” He straightened his waistcoat and glanced down at his timepiece. “Besides, it’s half after six. Didn’t you say you were due at the Holts’ at seven o’clock?”
Dane stood as well, his elegant black evening clothes perfectly molded to his tall, powerful physique. “Yes. I’m escorting Jacqueline to the Binghams’ party.”
“You’re becoming rather involved with Jacqueline Holt, are you not?”
Dane grinned. “Rather.” He placed a supportive hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “Thomas … if you need assistance from me …”
“… then I shall certainly ask for it,” Thomas finished with a tired smile. “Go and fetch your lady, and enjoy yourselves.”
“Are you seeing your lady tonight?”
“No. Not tonight.” Thomas looked away.
“Thomas—”
“Good night, Dane,” Thomas interrupted abruptly. “I really must be off.”
Dane nodded. “Of course.”
But he was worried.
“Tell me, mon père, do I look suitably dressed for an evening with Philadelphia’s aristocracy?” Jacqui’s question was asked in a bantering tone, but George Holt did not laugh. Watching his elegant daughter spin about the sitting room in her scarlet and gold satin gown, he realized, with more than a twinge of sadness, that his little girl was gone. In her place was a stunning young woman. A young woman who, if George’s suspicions were correct, was falling in love.
“You look exquisite, Jacqui.” He gave her an indulgent smile. “Lovely enough to dine with the President himself. Dane Westbrooke is a very lucky man.”
Jacqui flushed, brushing an imaginary speck off her full skirt in order to avoid her father’s knowing eyes. He’d always been able to read her thoughts far too easily.
“You’re beginning to care for him.” George’s voice was filled with gentle understanding.
Jacqui lifted her head with a start. “He intrigues me,” she qualified. “And he accepts me for who I am.”
George smiled. “Who is that, my beautiful daughter?”
Jacqui gave him a pointed look. “You’re teasing me, Father. You, better than anyone, know the answer to that question. I am exactly as you raised me to be … strong, independent, and committed to what I believe in.”
It was true. Since Marie Holt had died unexpectedly ten years before, George had encouraged Jacqui to be, not only his beloved only child, but his intellectual partner and confidante as well. So, unlike the other young ladies of her age, Jacqui had been educated, not only in French, music, and the like, but in politics, literature, and business. All of which she took to like a fish to water.
She had been keeping the ledgers for Holt Trading throughout her teens, and George couldn’t ask for a more thorough, painstaking accountant.
If there were times when Jacqui’s bold tongue and unwavering political opinions made George wonder if perhaps he’d been too lenient in her upbringing, he did not allow himself to dwell on it. Nor did he allow himself to ponder the ramifications of her controversial undertaking this year past. Some things were better left alone.
With eyes that were suspiciously bright, George went over and took Jacqui’s hands. “Yes, Jacqueline, you have turned into exactly the woman I always prayed you would be. I only wish your mother were alive to share in my joy.”
Jacqui felt her throat tighten. She
and her father rarely spoke of her mother. After ten years, the pain was still fresh.
Raising up on tiptoes, Jacqui placed a warm kiss on her father’s smooth-shaven cheek. “You’d best be going, papa,” she murmured. “Monique will be waiting.”
He gave her a mock scowl. “You’ll forgive me if I act the part of the doting father for a bit. I plan to wait until your escort arrives before I take my leave.”
“Then you needn’t wait any longer, Herr Holt,” Greta announced, appearing in the room. Her normally ruddy complexion looked even rosier than usual. “Herr Westbrooke has arrived.” She smoothed her hands down the front of her apron and adjusted the bow in the back.
Jacqui fought back a smile. “Thank you, Greta. Please show Mr. Westbrooke in.”
Greta scowled. “You should not be down here, Fräulein,” she scolded. “A gentleman should be kept waiting a respectable period of time before his lady appears.”
Jacqui could no longer suppress her laughter. “That is ridiculous, Greta. I am ready. Why would I pretend not to be?”
“It isn’t proper for …”
“Don’t waste your breath, Greta,” George advised, seeing an oncoming argument. Checking his timepiece, he noted that he was expected at Monique’s home in a quarter hour. “Show Mr. Westbrooke in.”
Bristling, Greta barked, “Very well, sir.” She cast an annoyed look at Jacqui and made a loud sound of disapproval. Then she hastened off.
“Thank you, Father,” Jacqui said, her eyes twinkling. “We might have been here the remainder of the night.”
“That is precisely what I was afraid of.”
“Herr Westbrooke,” Greta bellowed from the doorway.
Dane strolled in, tall and bronzed as a Greek god, dark as Lucifer himself … and magnificent as sin.
Jacqui felt her insides melt.
“Good evening, Dane.” George extended his hand.
Dane shook it. “Good evening, George.” The acknowledgment was automatic and Dane hardly knew he’d made it. His gaze was fixed on the melting vision in red and gold who stood beside her father.