Before, when Loretta’s only dream had been to become a star on Broadway, she had been willing, even happy, to form attachments with married men. She had, in a coolly methodical way, chosen men who would be helpful to her career. That a man was married meant that he would not demand she give up her ambitions in order to make a home for him. And she had no intention of giving up the stage.
Now that her public was beginning to wonder about her single state, however, her press agent had convinced her that she must marry. He worried—and made her worry—that her fans would think there was something wrong with her. So she knew it was time. If only John Alexander would demonstrate something more than lighthearted enjoyment of her company. Though he showed hearty appreciation for her physical charms, John was clearly not emotionally entangled with Loretta. But of one thing she was certain: he would sever their relationship if he ever suspected she had been with another man. Not out of jealousy, but out of pride. At times she felt that he had maintained their relationship for fifteen months only as a matter of convenience. At other times, however, such as when they made love, she could almost believe that he would one day fall in love with her. Otherwise, she thought, how could a man be so… so skilled at giving pleasure.
“Come on, Loretta, you know you want to,” said Whitney, looking at her reflection in her dressing room mirror as he stood behind her. Really, it had not been wise to invite him here, she chided herself. Particularly when she was wearing only a flimsy silk wrapper. Whitney slipped his fingers beneath the wrapper where it made a V at her collarbone. Looking in the mirror again he saw her physical reaction to his touch through the thin material that strained across her full breasts. The wrapper had slid open slightly, exposing her long, white legs from the knee down.
“Please?” he said winsomely. “Just a little supper?”
Loretta was tempted. What if John did not want to marry her? Whitney Ross was one of the richest men in New York. He could give her many, many things. In addition, it would not hurt her career to be linked with such a glamorous figure. Or would it? There it was again. The question of her age and when she would marry. That she was physically attracted to Whitney meant nothing to Loretta. It was as easy to become attracted to one man as another. What counted for her was his ability to help her.
“No,” she said firmly, standing up and drawing the wrapper more tightly around her. “And now it’s time for you to go.”
“Go? But it’s only eleven-thirty, darling. The night is still young! Don’t tell me you’re going home to bed?” he asked suggestively.
“To sleep,” she said, laughing to soften her words. No point in offending him for good. Better to keep him dangling in case something went wrong with John.
She gave him a friendly peck on the cheek. “Good night, darling.” She headed toward the screen in the corner where she kept her street clothes. “Close the door behind you on your way out.”
John Alexander did not sleep the night of his dinner with the Richmonds. Images of Devon kept him awake. He envisioned her as she had been that afternoon, her hair shining in the sun as it cascaded behind her. He remembered her warm lips—her body straining against his.
And he remembered her question about his involvements with other women. There was Loretta, of course, but that was just an amusement. He wondered if he was ready for anything more—for he knew that Devon was decidedly more than an amusement. Devon had many of the traits he considered desirable in a woman. But he was not certain he was ready for a serious commitment. He enjoyed single life. He enjoyed Loretta and women like her. He intended to marry, of course. Sometime in the distant future. But now?
Still, if he could describe the perfect woman, she would have all of Devon’s characteristics. Devon had beauty, intelligence, self-assurance, spirit, and wit. He liked to be with her.
Why, then, was he so apprehensive about the feelings she aroused in him? he asked himself. It made him uncomfortable that she inserted herself into his thoughts, even when he was discussing business. He did not entirely like the feeling, he realized.
He tried to remember if he had felt as strongly about the two other women he had loved. It didn’t seem so in retrospect, but surely he must have. And those incidents had not turned out well for him. That meant, he decided, that he must not allow himself to lose control again. He needed to be apart from Devon. Or he would be helpless to fight the irresistible lure of her.
CHAPTER 6
THE morning of the hunt was cold, with the first brisk snap of winter in the air. Sirocco snorted and pranced as the groom led him from his stall for Devon to mount. Devon’s dark chignon and the horse’s sleek black coat made a striking contrast to the bright scarlet of Devon’s hunt coat and her white breeches. Devon was proud of the jacket, which bore the hunt colors on the collar, for it indicated that she had been promoted from subscriber to member of the Tri-County Hunt.
Although she had ridden with the hunt for years as a subscriber and her father was a longtime member, it had been a great honor for the master of the hunt to finally award her the right to wear hunt colors. One had to earn the right to go from subscriber to member, an honor that had been bestowed on her only three years before. To earn one’s colors, it was usually necessary to have hunted faithfully with the Tri-County Hunt for five years and to have proved oneself a sportsman in ability and spirit.
Devon was proud that John would see her in this light. As Devon waited for her father, she thought of the two days that had passed since she had last seen the New Yorker. She had missed him. And she had hoped that he would call on her, but he had not. It puzzled her, and she found him dominating her thoughts.
Of course he had sent a polite thank-you and a bouquet of flowers to Laurel for the dinner. And he had included Devon in his best wishes. But there were no romantic missives, nothing to indicate that their time together had been as special for him as it had been for her.
As Devon and her father trotted closer to the Magrath estate, just fifteen minutes away, she tried to pick out John’s figure from those of the rest of the riders. Since he was not a member of the Tri-County Hunt, John would not be wearing a scarlet coat, known as a pink, but rather a black or gray one.
As protocol dictated, Devon and Chase first went directly to the master of the hunt, Hamilton Magrath, to greet him. Beside him was his daughter Helena, unsuccessfully trying to control the prancing of her mount.
“You’re looking beautiful as always.” Magrath said, peering appreciatively at Devon. He wished his daughter Helena sat her horse even half as well as Devon. Helena had not yet been invited to be a member of the hunt, a fact which rankled her, since she had been riding for the same number of years as Devon. But, as master of the hunt, Magrath could not show any partiality in extending the privilege of wearing the hunt colors.
Helena noticed Devon’s eyes searching the crowd, and asked cattily, “Are you looking for someone?”
“No,” said Devon evenly. Where was John? He had been invited.
“Did you hear that Mr. Alexander went back to New York?” asked Helena with barely concealed glee. She smiled to herself as she saw Devon grow pale. She had noticed the attraction between Devon and Alexander the night of the dinner party.
It took all Devon’s strength not to burst forward with a torrent of questions. She did not, however, want to give Helena that satisfaction. “He mentioned that he would return home as soon as his business was concluded,” Devon replied with dignity.
“He left very suddenly,” said Helena, giving Devon a probing look. “I know he and Daddy didn’t finish their business.”
A pregnant silence hung in the air. Devon did not respond to Helena, but simply looked at her, a polite mask of serenity on her face. I’d like to slap the nosy fool, Devon thought to herself.
Helena, growing uncomfortable, broke the silence. “He probably had an urgent matter to attend to. I mean, he left so sud—”
Helena was cut off by the sound of the huntsman blowing the horn signaling t
he beginning of the hunt. It was the huntsman’s job to handle the hounds and to interpret the noises made by them.
Sirocco responded immediately to the signal. His ears perked forward and he snorted impatiently. Had Devon not been such an excellent rider and Sirocco so responsive to her, he might have been an unsuitable mount for the hunt. In the past, Devon had believed that the best mount for a hunt was not necessarily the best-looking. High-strung stallions often created havoc on the field. They could shy at sounds and unexpected movement, often throwing even the most experienced riders. In addition, Thoroughbreds often had the wrong kind of stride for the high jumps and narrow spaces of the hunting field, and could be uncomfortably bouncy mounts. But Devon loved Sirocco and felt in control.
She politely waited to move in line behind the more senior members of the hunt. Devon knew it was important to observe the protocol of hunting, for a breach of protocol could cause serious, even deadly accidents. For this reason, those whose horses sometimes hesitated at jumps were taught to move to the rear. And when taking a fence, experienced hunters would try to leave at least two horses lengths between riders, so that if there was a fall, there would be less danger of trampling the victim or injuring surrounding riders.
Soon the hounds picked up the scent—the line, in hunt terminology—of a fox. The huntsman sounded several short notes on his horn, signaling that the line had been detected. As the hounds grew more excited, the hunt picked up speed, and the riders galloped across a hilly meadow sprinkled with fences of modest height.
Someone spotted the fox as it broke cover, and cried, “Tallyho!” pointing in the direction of the animal. It scampered in a rusty blur into some woods bordered on one side by a small creek. The hounds, wildly baying, chased after it.
Bent low over her horse to avoid being slapped off by the branches overhead, Devon hurried along in the middle of the group. The ground was somewhat muddy along the banks of the creek, causing the riders to slow their mounts. Helena, however, was having trouble controlling her horse, which was eager to follow the hounds. Several times Devon noticed the animal slip, then regain its footing on the muddy earth. After every stumble, the horse sped up again, impervious to Helena’s tugs on the bridle. Devon suspected that Helena did not really like riding but rather considered it a link to the two most important men in her life, both superb riders. Devon recalled several occasions when Helena had bowed out of a hunt because of illness only to make a miraculous recovery for the ball that followed.
Thoughts of Helena fled Devon’s mind as the horses broke into a gallop over a field punctuated by stone walls and split-rail fences, many of them quite challenging jumps. Sirocco sailed over them, his Thoroughbred blood taking him easily to the front of the group of horses. Brent Hartwick, Helena’s husband, saw Devon go by and shouted an admiring comment. Hartwick urged his mount on, catching up with Devon and sailing with her over a small fence.
From her traditional position at the rear of the hunt, Helena observed the exchange. Inflamed beyond rationality, she used her crop to speed her horse forward. The horse, used to Helena’s attempts to restrain him, surged forward at this unaccustomed liberty. Helena knew immediately that the horse was running away with her, but she did not have the strength or the ability to stop him. The horse sped past one group of riders and began to approach the duo formed by Devon and Brent. Helena drew closer, until she was directly behind Devon’s horse. Devon turned and saw Helena, but was not concerned because she knew that Sirocco did not kick. She assumed that Helena was trying to catch up to them. Brent, intent on the wall ahead, did not turn. He was unaware that the rider closing fast upon Devon and himself was his wife. He, like the others, was accustomed to her being in the rear of the hunt.
“I… can’t stop!” Helena cried. She wanted to shout for help, but despite her fear, Devon’s presence inhibited her, so she satisfied herself with the milder warning and hoped that her horse would slow after the jump. But Devon and Brent, turning at the sound of her voice, saw Helena’s distress. Instinctively trying to help, the two reined in their horses, forgetting for a moment the approach of the wall. But Brent’s old hunter, with the wall in sight, did not break stride. Sirocco, always responsive to his mistress, momentarily slowed before Devon realized she had given the wrong signal. With sudden horror, she saw that she was too close to the jump to stop her horse safely. Helena’s horse, with or without his mistress, had every intention of taking the jump. To try to slow either horse now would endanger both women. Recovering herself in a split second, she allowed Sirocco to resume the rhythm he had almost imperceptibly lost.
Helena’s horse, still in a mad gallop, brushed dangerously close to Sirocco and made for the wall. The two horses were neck and neck. The jump was wide enough to accommodate them simultaneously, but a glance at Helena told Devon that the other woman was paralyzed with fear. She was no longer even attempting to control her runaway mount. Instead she wore a blank expression and clutched the horse as hard as she could with her legs.
“Helena!” Devon cried. “Get into position or you’ll fall!”
With relief, she saw the young woman obey, as if in a trance. Now, Devon told herself, I just have to make sure we don’t collide going over the jump. Collision was a danger, Devon realized in alarm, because although brush and trees had been cleared so that the hunters could use the wall as a jump, the cleared area was only about eight feet wide.
Helena, gripped with terror, was oblivious to Devon. Her only goal was to stay on her horse. She could see that Brent had stopped. He was just on the other side of the wall, ready to catch her reins as she rode by. If only she could reach him, Helena felt she would be safe.
It was Devon who saw what was happening even before Sirocco did. Helena’s horse, completely beyond the control of his mistress, headed squarely for the center of the jump, cutting into Siroccos space. Helena, panicking at her proximity to Devon’s horse, jerked the bridle to the left with all her might, and the horse’s head with it. Devon was on Helena’s right, so far over that it seemed she would collide with a bordering tree. But she did not. Instead, Helena’s horse, rebelling against the sudden jerking motion on the bridle just as he was taking a jump, pulled his head and body to the right, slamming into Sirocco’s head and side. The anguished cry of the wounded animals screamed through Devon’s consciousness as she tried to maintain control of her mount, reeling from the painful collision with the other creature. With the slow-motion awareness that often accompanies an accident, Devon noticed the strange angle of the trees. The impact of Helena’s horse had tilted Sirocco in midair, so that his right side was lower than his left. The delicate balance necessary to launch the powerful animal over the four-foot wall was irretrievably destroyed. With the dizzying feeling of a roller-coaster ride, Devon felt Sirocco’s legs slip from under them as he landed. In a blur, she saw Helena’s horse land upright, stumble for a moment, and gallop on. Then Devon felt herself slam into the hard ground with an impact that knocked the wind out of her. In terror, she saw the black mass of her horse block out the daylight as he fell on top of her. The impact knocked her cold, so she did not hear the sickening crunch of broken limbs.
CHAPTER 7
LORETTA rolled over languorously, reaching her hand toward John’s warm body. She caressed his lean, athletic stomach, then slid her hand lower. Although he was asleep, she felt him respond to her touch.
She smiled to herself. Last night had dispelled any doubts in her mind about John Alexander’s passion for her. It seemed that he had missed her even more than she had missed him. He had made love to her in a frenzy. She shivered with the delicious memory of it.
But Loretta had not correctly interpreted the night’s lovemaking. John had hoped that seeing the actress again would drive Devon from his mind. Indeed, Loretta still had the power to physically arouse him. It was just that every time she cried out, he imagined it was Devon. And regretted that it was not.
He had fled Virginia hoping to escape the disruption that Dev
on promised to bring to his life, but he had found her absence, and the possibility of losing her, as distracting as her presence. Since he’d met Devon, the vague prospect of marriage had been transformed into an idea that tugged at him against his will.
Marriage, to John, had always meant curtailment of freedom, dull routine. But he knew that Devon would not be a clinging, dependent creature, mindful only of her place in society. She was an interesting, independent woman—one he thought could make him happy. And that scared him. It scared him to know that if he married Devon she would be the most important thing in his life. That he would be devastated if anything happened to her. In loving her, he would give her custody of his heart and his mind. His happiness would come to depend on her. It was a frightening notion, yet one to which he was beginning to surrender.
The evening with Loretta, though a physical release, had convinced him of at least one thing: he no longer wished to continue their affair. The question was when to tell her that. He was too much of a gentleman, and felt too kindly toward Loretta, to sneak away at night immediately after making love to her. But he did not want to delay the unpleasant task. He would tell her in the morning, he resolved. Face to face. Honestly, but tactfully.
Then, in a few weeks, if he still felt the same about Devon… he had not quite decided what he would do.
Loretta, reveling in memories of the night before, thought that perhaps the time was right to broach the subject of marriage. But John was breathing regularly in a deep sleep. Maybe she should let him sleep. Maybe he’d be more willing to discuss marriage if he were fresh and rested. And after they’d made love again.
She slid from the bed and went into the bathroom to furtively reapply her makeup. She wanted to look her best. When she returned, she sidled back under the covers as quietly as she could. She lay on her back and snuggled close to John. She closed her eyes, but found that she couldn’t sleep. Her mind was too busy planning what she would say to him. She silently rehearsed the scene dozens of times. And every one ended with a marriage proposal from John. Loretta convinced herself that no other outcome was possible.
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