by Andrea Kane
George cleared his throat roughly. “What, may I ask, are your feelings for Jacqueline?”
That was one question Dane could answer without deceit or hesitation. “I am in love with Jacqueline and have been from the instant I set eyes on her.”
George’s jaw sagged with relief. “I rather thought as much.” He paused briefly. “I suspect Jacqueline is also falling in love with you.”
Dane broke into a broad smile, inordinately pleased at hearing that possibility vocalized. “Despite her struggles to the contrary, I suspect you are right.” A startling realization struck him as he spoke, exploding in his skull with all the force of an avalanche and causing the triumphant smile on his face to vanish instantly.
Though he was relentlessly bent on discovering the truth about Jacqueline, the outcome of his findings would not change the fact that he wanted her as his. If Jacqueline were implicated, if she were, indeed, a traitor to America, it would wreak havoc on his soul, drive an unbreachable wedge between them … yet the reality of his love for her would not alter. Loathe her he might, but love her he would. Always.
Somewhat shaken by the overwhelming magnitude of his feelings, Dane went over and helped himself to an unoffered drink, tossing it off in one quick gulp. The irony of the situation was uncanny. He, who for two and thirty years had walked his own path, controlled his own destiny, earned the respect and ofttimes fear of those who knew him, was now reduced to putty in the hands of one small, compelling woman. It was downright laughable.
He refilled his glass.
George was watching Dane’s bleak expression and odd behavior with a frown. “You find the fact that Jacqueline loves you displeasing?”
Dane gave a hollow laugh. “No, Holt, I find the fact that Jacqueline loves me too bloody pleasing for my own good.” He bit off his own damning words. “However, the point is moot, for it changes nothing. She still refuses to marry me.” He glanced at George, gauging his position. “So you see my dilemma.”
George nodded. “I do.” He refilled his own glass. “As I said, Westbrooke, I know my daughter.” He stared down into his whiskey, lost in thought, apparently searching for the right words. He cleared his throat once, twice, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Am I to assume … could Jacqueline be … with child?” he blurted out awkwardly after a long interval.
“She could. I did nothing to prevent it.”
Blotches of angry color stained George’s cheeks’ and his jaw tightened imperceptibly. “Then it is up to us to change her mind from refusal to acceptance, is it not?”
“It is indeed.” Dane inclined his head. “Then I can expect your support?”
“My support? I believe that it has gone far beyond the point of my offering my blessing, Westbrooke. After what took place here tonight, I haven’t any alternative but to sanction a marriage between you and my impulsive, headstrong Jacqueline. The two of you have taken matters into your own hands and, as far as I’m concerned, sealed your fate. In every capacity but the lawful one, Jacqui belongs to you.”
“Yes she does, doesn’t she?” Dane knew he sounded smug rather than remorseful, but he just couldn’t feign regret. Not when victory loomed closer with each passing second. “Jacqueline, however, doesn’t agree. So you see, Holt, my only remaining problem is our charming, but reluctant, bride-to-be.”
George placed his glass firmly on the table. “I’ll talk to her.”
“We’ll both talk to her.”
“No.” George shook his head emphatically. “Give me some time alone with my daughter, Dane. There are … things about Jacqueline you don’t understand, things only I can approach.”
Dane’s head came up. “Your daughter is soon to be my wife, Holt. Shouldn’t I be privy to all that concerns her?”
“You will … in time. But for tonight, let me speak with her alone.”
It took all of Dane’s self-control not to press the issue, but his common sense told him that no further headway would be made tonight; not when Holt was totally preoccupied with Jacqueline’s lost innocence.
“Very well, George.” His decision made, Dane headed toward the door. “I’ll give you until midday tomorrow to make Jacqueline see reason.” He paused, his jaw set. “Then I am returning to claim her … be it willingly or kicking and fighting … as my betrothed.”
“For the last time, Father, I am not going to marry Dane Westbrooke!” Jacqui flung herself onto her bed with such force that Whiskey flew into the air, then landed amid the rumpled bedding with a soft plop. He sniffed the pillow where Dane’s head had been, turned his nose up with haughty distaste, and returned to nap on the warm indentation where Jacqui had lain.
George leaned back against the closed door, his expression one of anguish. “Your behavior is totally irrational, Jacqueline, and completely unlike you.”
“Perhaps that is because what you are asking of me is insane,” she returned stubbornly. “I am truly sorry that you discovered Dane in my bed. I did not intend for that to happen. I did not intend for any of tonight’s events to happen,” she added pointedly. “But they did. I refuse to sacrifice my entire life for a mere indiscretion.”
Crossing the room, George sat down beside her. “We are not speaking of a mere indiscretion, and you know it, Jacqui,” he said softly. “Just as you know that I would forgive you anything … even this … and never punish you by forcing you to, as you put it, sacrifice your life. What happened tonight, ma petite, involves much more than your virtue. It involves your heart.”
Jacqui looked away. “I can’t marry him, Father.”
“Ah, now we arrive at the true problem: can’t, not won’t. So you do love him?”
Jacqui made a choked sound. “I care for him.”
“Quite a lot, I should say.” George’s tone was filled with gentle wisdom. “Enough to take the risk of conceiving his child.” He saw her narrow shoulders tense.
“I doubt there could be a child this quickly.”
George put a supportive arm around her, drawing her close. “And if you are wrong? Would you want to deny your daughter the right to share with her father what you and I have shared all these years?”
“That’s unfair,” she whispered.
“Perhaps, but it is true nonetheless.” He stroked Jacqui’s hair tenderly. “You’ve been a blessing to me from the beginning. I could wish no less for any grandchild of mine than to be wanted and welcomed by her parents”—he smiled in fond remembrance—“as you were by your mother and me. Do you know that, when you were but a newborn babe, Marie would stare down at you for hours as you slept, telling me time and again that you were a rare and special child, destined to be someone of great importance, not just to us but to the world?” He chuckled. “She spoke with such conviction that I had no choice but to believe her.
“Time proved her right. By the time you were three years of age, you were already challenging things that others accepted without question … why night became day and why people needed to sleep when it wasted time better spent exploring.” He stared off, a faraway look in his eyes, as he became lost in memories. “At five years of age you discovered my library, and life was never the same after that. You struggled through all that you could on your own, and when a book was beyond your abilities, you demanded that I read it aloud. As you grew, so did your interests … and your questions.”
“I was quite a rebel,” Jacqui interrupted softly. “I often wondered why you and Mother encouraged it. Especially Mother. She was so very traditional, so loving, so … content.”
“Marie’s very sun rose and set on you.” George returned to the present with his daughter’s words. “She recognized that you were different than she, but she rejoiced in that difference. Ah, Jacqui, if she were only alive today, she would be so immensely proud of you.”
Jacqui closed her eyes against George’s shoulder. “I hope so,” she said in an unsteady voice.
George pressed his cheek against the silk of Jacqui’s hair. “I know so. She
loved you more than anything else on earth.”
“I loved her too. …” Jacqui was besieged by the insurmountable wave of remorse that enveloped her every time she allowed herself to think of her mother. Years had not dimmed the pain, nor the sense of isolation. “I miss her so much.” Jacqui’s words were choked, uttered in a small, strangled voice that was barely audible. But George heard. And he knew better than anyone how Marie’s sudden death of an inexplicable fever had affected their bright and inquisitive ten-year-old, who had never understood … or accepted … why her beautiful mother, who was the very center of her universe, had been taken from her so abruptly and without cause.
Jacqui hadn’t shed a tear since that day, nor had she ever been quite the same.
Withdrawing, she kept her pain and her remorse locked tightly within her, months passing before she could reach out for anyone, even her beloved father. When she finally emerged, it was slowly, warily, offering her love to but a few and never with the same joyful openness as she had in the past.
But George, brokenhearted by the loss of his adored Marie, understood. He wept for himself, for his precious child, and for all that had been taken from them.
“I miss her also, ma petite,” he murmured now. He paused, weighing his next all-important words. “Having shared the great love we did, Marie would want nothing more than for you to find the same … to fall in love with a man as unique as you; a man who not only loves you with all his heart, but who is capable of being a partner who will share your life rather than dominate it. Dane Westbrooke is that man, Jacqueline. You and I both know it. Just as we know that your mother would want you to marry him … to be happy.”
Jacqui sat up abruptly, torn between emotion and reason. “There is more at stake than just my happiness.”
“Ah,” George said thoughtfully. “You speak of the infamous Jack Laffey.”
Stunned, Jacqui turned to face her father. “So you do know.”
George chuckled. “I would be incredibly stupid not to have spotted the supreme coincidence of my forthright, ofttimes disappearing daughter having the identical views as those of the infamous Jacques la fille, would I not?” George pronounced the farcical pen name as Jacqui had devised it, using the French translation of Jacqueline: Jacques the girl. “Let’s enumerate the evidence,” he continued, counting off on his fingers. “You eavesdrop at the Subscription Room rather than join the ladies who are dancing in the Long Room. You read every newspaper from front to back … most especially the General Advertiser … while other young women indulge in romantic novels. You attend gala balls and stand amidst a circle of senators who are discussing America’s plight, never noticing the eager, doting gentlemen who lie panting at your feet.” He paused, his eyes twinkling. “Need I go on?”
An admiring smile tugged at Jacqui’s lips. “How do you feel about my successful facade?” she asked with caution and curiosity.
“Proud. Worried. Protective.” He smiled back, his lined, handsome face filled with paternal pride. “Can you blame me for any of those feelings?”
Jacqui shook her head, still absorbing her father’s revelation. He knew … had known … all along. Despite her speculations to that effect, she was shocked.
George stood slowly and sighed, turning to gaze down at his remarkable daughter. “I read your words each week and I’m amazed by your insight, more so by your accomplishment. No other woman would dare speak out as you have.”
“Bache would have my job if he knew I was Laffey,” Jacqui shot back, her delicate brows drawing into a frown. “He believes me to be a Republican politician … a man with strong connections and constant access to our government’s innermost circles. ’Tis the only reason he gives credence to my work.”
“I know,” George agreed solemnly. “Which is why I’ve refrained from discouraging you … despite my worry for your safety.”
“My safety?”
George cupped her chin. “Jacqueline … I’ve watched you, time and again, leave the house late at night. Several times I followed you to ensure that you were unharmed while meeting that young lad who delivers your column. But I cannot be with you constantly. So I worry.”
Jacqui gave George a wry grin. “I thought I was being so discreet. You knew all along.”
“Yes, and I’ve struggled with my decision since then.”
Jacqui went white. “You wouldn’t attempt to stop me. … Please, Father, it means so much. …”
“I know how much your cause means to you, Jacqui. But these are volatile times … considering America’s strained ties with England and the blood that is still being shed in France. … I fear you are taking a great risk.”
“I’m certain of all my facts and my opinions are printed as just that … my own beliefs.”
George shook his head. “I am not questioning your integrity; ma petite. What concerns me is how your articles affect public opinion. … Are they inciting people and thereby creating a further division within our own country, not to mention more hatred toward the English? Or are they merely enlightening, and therefore necessary during times when there is already too much secrecy? I just don’t know.”
“You sound like Dane,” Jacqui muttered without thinking. “Those are his concerns as well.”
“Dane knows your identity … that you are Laffey?” George was astounded.
“No … of course not,” she denied, coming to her feet in an agitated rush. “Although”—she gave voice to the nagging fear that plagued her—“I’ve often wondered if he suspects.” Even as the words left her mouth, she shook her head, refuting her own speculation. “But I must be wrong, for if Dane suspected I was Laffey, he would refuse to see me again.” She grew quiet, uncomfortably fingering the folds of her dressing gown. “Dane despises Laffey and everything he represents.”
“I would imagine he does. Dane and Secretary Hamilton are very close friends. And staunch Federalists, I needn’t add.”
Jacqui nodded mutely, and George saw the anguish she tried so hard to hide. “So how can I marry him, Father?” she asked in a strangled voice. “We are so very different. Dane would strip me of everything I believe in.”
“Would he? It seems to me that he would allow you far more freedom than any husband I’ve ever known would allow his wife.”
Jacqui’s cynical look told George she was not cheered by his words. “That doesn’t say very much, does it? Except that perhaps Dane is not as tyrannical as most men.”
“I believe it says quite a lot,” George countered, trying to make Jacqui see the truth. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking that Dane’s indulgence where you are concerned implies that he is weak, Jacqueline. I can assure you he is not; not in business or personal matters.”
Jacqui’s expression changed. “Dane has known a great many women, hasn’t he, Father?” Her meaning was clear.
George cleared his throat roughly. “I’m not privy to Dane’s social life, Jacqueline. Let’s suffice it to say that, between the ladies I’ve seen draped on his arm and the stories I’ve heard told …” He cleared his throat again. “Yes, there have been quite a few women over the years.” George’s tone was reproving, but his heart welcomed the telltale spark of jealousy that glimmered, for one unguarded moment, in Jacqui’s eyes.
“I thought as much,” Jacqui retorted, lowering her lashes to hide the unexpected pain her father’s words elicited. Erotic memories of Dane’s accomplished lovemaking shivered through her, coaxing her pulse to race and her blood to kindle. The realization that he had shared even a fraction of his exhilarating passion and heartstopping masculinity with other, more experienced women, made Jacqui’s insides clench with possessive rage. She could cheerfully, and without guilt, line his previous paramours against the wall and shoot them, one by one.
“To the contrary, my dear.” Jacqui’s seething was interrupted by George’s continued discourse on Dane’s exceptional personality. “Dane is one of the strongest and most respected men I know … and a far more formidable enemy th
an most. No, Jacqui, I can assure you that, in business as well as pleasure, Dane Westbrooke is a force to be reckoned with, a man who displays no visible weakness … save one. You.”
“Me?” Jacqui gave a hollow laugh. “Father, I believe you are exaggerating my influence where Dane is concerned. Generally, all he and I do is argue.” She flushed as George cocked a dubious brow, rushing on in an abrupt, defensive tone. “Passion might be a compulsion but it is no basis for a marriage.”
“True. But love is.”
Jacqui pressed her lips tightly together, her heart pounding frantically.
“Dane Westbrooke is in love with you, ma petite,” George went on gently. “He told me so himself.”
Jacqui turned away, recalling how Dane had murmured those same words to her … and when. “If he is, he’ll just have to get over it. Because—”
“And you’re in love with him.”
Jacqui flinched, her entire body going taut. “That is impossible, Father,” she denied in a fierce whisper. “I cannot be in love with Dane. … I won’t permit it.”
Reacting to the distress in his daughter’s voice, George went to her at once, turning her around to face him. Jacqui’s dark blue eyes were wide and terror-stricken. George took her hands in his. “We don’t always have control … at least not over our feelings, darling.” He hesitated. “I of all people know that.”
“You’re speaking of Monique.” Jacqui. was surprised. George rarely discussed Monique with her.
George nodded.
“You do love her, don’t you, Father?” she pressed.
“Yes, Jacqueline, I do. Very much.” Even if at times I wish I didn’t, he added to himself, recalling Monique’s odd and unsettling behavior of late.
Jacqui hesitated. “Is it the same as what you felt for Mother?”
“No,” he answered immediately. “The love I had for Marie is something that comes but once in a lifetime. No one could ever replace her in my heart. My feelings for Monique are … complicated … different.” He frowned, trying to explain. “She is a very important part of my life, filling a void that has been empty for too long. But it is not the all-consuming love I had with your mother … and what I believe you are destined to share with Dane.”