That settled, she opened her eyes. She looked around at the white and gold furnishings of her bedroom. It was a woman’s room, no sign anywhere of a man in residence, she thought with some dissatisfaction. Well, no more, she promised herself.
She turned on her side and put her arm around John, who had his back to her. She lightly ran her fingernails over his torso. He moaned sleepily, but his body responded to her touch. He turned over so that he was flat on his back and looked at Loretta with half-open eyes. She expected him to reach for her. Instead, he stretched, then eased himself to the edge of the bed. He sat there for a moment, getting his bearings, then hoisted himself up and went toward the closet. He wanted to be dressed when they had their conversation.
“John?” Loretta’s voice registered her surprise.
“Yes…” He stopped and looked over his shoulder.
“Are you getting ready to go?”
“Soon. But let’s have a cup of coffee first,” John said, keeping his tone casual. He was not looking forward to the task ahead of him.
Loretta picked up a telephone that connected her with the kitchen and told the maid to bring in coffee and rolls. Placing the phone back in its cradle, she sighed. “Last night was wonderful, don’t you think?”
John emerged from the closet, wearing his slacks. His shirt hung open and his tie was slung around the collar. “Sure… wonderful,” he said, not really paying attention.
Loretta stood up and slowly came toward him, wrapping a shimmering white silk robe around her as she did so. She put her arms under his shirt and softly ran her long nails across his back.
“We spent hours making love. I guess you missed me, didn’t you?” She rubbed her silk-covered breasts on his bare chest.
John patted her arm in reply, then gently released himself from her embrace. He went toward the bed and stooped down to pick up his socks.
“Well… didn’t you miss me? Answer me!” said Loretta impatiently. She planted herself in front of him, arms akimbo.
John stood up. “Loretta, I’ve only been gone a week,” he said, a slight edge in his voice. He sat on the bed and put on his socks.
“You acted like you missed me.” Loretta smiled suggestively and moved closer to him.
John was never intentionally cruel, so he kept silent. He reached for his shoes.
Infuriated, Loretta demanded, “Did you or did you not think of me while you were gone?”
John lifted his head. “Loretta, I was in Virginia on business. There was nothing there to make me think of you.”
“But you told me you didn’t finish your business, that you left early.” Loretta’s voice was accusatory. “Why did you do that if you didn’t miss me?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Loretta,” John said with visible irritation. He stood up and rapidly started to button his shirt. “Why are you asking me all this? What possible difference could it make?”
He turned away from her and headed toward the bathroom.
“It makes a difference because I want to marry you!” Loretta shouted at his back, forgetting herself. John spun around to face her, mouth open in surprise. Loretta saw the shocked look on his face and immediately regretted her words. She had raised the subject of marriage before—in a jocular sort of way—but she knew her shrill, deadly serious tone now was a tactical mistake of immense proportions. She should have known better. Men were always blurting out such things to her. She knew how she greeted such admissions: with condescension. How stupid to put herself in the same position.
The shock on John’s face turned to understanding, then pity as he realized that Loretta regretted the admission. Loretta, observing the change, felt a hot fury grip her. Pity! He pitied her! Men begged for a smile from her and John dared to feel sorry for her!
“You!” she screamed. “You should be grateful. You don’t understand how men want me, you don’t—”
“Of course I do, Loretta,” he cut in, trying to placate her and avoid an ugly scene.
How dare he humor me, Loretta fumed. She knew that tone of voice. It was the tone the wardrobe designer used when she demanded changes. Or the hairdresser when she insisted on a more elaborate hairdo. It was the tone of a man who wished to smooth things over so that he could get on with his own life. It was not the voice of a man who loved her, or was even interested in her! He was indifferent to her!
“How dare you use that tone with me!” She was sobbing now. “You think I’ve been sitting around this place waiting for you? Well, I haven’t! Whitney Ross has promised to divorce his wife and marry me,” she lied, wanting to humiliate him as he had humiliated her.
“Loretta,” John cut her off, recognizing the lie and wanting to save her from making a fool of herself. He looked at the wreckage of the beautiful blonde star before him. Her carefully applied makeup was a messy smear, mixing with her tears. She looked older. She looked desperate. Soothingly, John said, “Loretta, I understand that you’re angry. I enjoy being with—”
“Enjoy? What do you think I am, your maiden aunt?” She let out a mirthless laugh. “Don’t you dare patronize me! I’m not waiting around for anyone. I’ve waited around too long for you. Now get out. Get out!” she cried. She grabbed his arm and shoved him toward the door. Then sank to the floor in a flood of tears.
John hastily headed for the door—then stopped. He did not want to leave Loretta in this state. Turning, he approached the sobbing woman. “Loretta. Let me help you up,” he said gently.
No words could have inflamed her more. There it was again: pity. Lifting her head, she stopped crying for a moment. She wiped her eyes with the cuff of her robe. Then she looked at John with such pure hatred that he recoiled.
“I hate you, John Alexander,” she said fiercely, in an ominously quiet voice. “I hate you and I’ll never stop hating you.”
The two stared at each other for a few seconds.
“Get out,” she growled in a voice that, in its very quietness, was more threatening than her screams.
John had no choice but to obey.
CHAPTER 8
THE first sensation of Devon’s return to consciousness was not pain but darkness. She tried to open her eyes and realized with horror that they were already open. Then she felt the pain. It was like a mummifying wrap covering every inch of her body, leaving no part of her untouched.
“She’s awake, I think.” Devon heard her mother’s voice, anxious, but at the same time calming because it was her mother. A warm hand covered hers. Her left hand. Her right hand was encased in something. She did not know what. She did not know because she could not see. Her stomach clenched in fear as she tried to speak.
She heard a creaky, guttural sound. Her voice, barely recognizable, whispered brokenly, “I… can’t… see.”
“Devon, I thought you were awake!” her mother said with great relief.
“Thank God. Thank God.” Devon heard her father, murmuring hoarsely to himself.
“Don’t try to talk,” said a gruff, firm voice. Dr. Hickock. She had known him since childhood. But she could not obey him. She had to talk. There were things she had to know.
“I… can’t… see.” Even though Devon’s voice rose barely above a whisper, the imploring quality of it was impossible to miss.
“You’ve suffered a severe concussion, Devon,” said the doctor. “Your head is bandaged. We’ve covered your eyes, but it’s just temporary,” he said reassuringly.
“I… hurt,” she said in a fractious voice, stronger now. She was bewildered. She did not remember why she was in such pain.
The doctor smiled in victory at Laurel and Chase when he heard the peeved quality of Devon’s voice. Your daughter is strong, his look told them. She is already fighting. She’ll be fine. He had been reluctant, until now, to be overly encouraging because he had feared the Richmonds would be disappointed by the slowness of Devon’s recovery. And it would be slow, no doubt about it. In addition to the broken bones, she had suffered internal injuries.
He w
as surprised that she was already awake, since it was only the second day following her accident. That was a good sign. He was relieved. He had treated all the Richmonds since he had been old enough to join his father’s medical practice thirty-five years before, and he felt tremendous affection for the family.
He was also surprised that Laurel had shown so much more strength than her husband throughout the ordeal. Chase Richmond was usually a congenial, back-slapping man’s man; a family man, of course, but not one given to displays of emotion. Yet he had wept like a baby as he waited outside the doctor’s office while his daughter was being treated. Laurel had been much more stoic, her anxiety evident only in the sickly paleness of her face and the handkerchief she had wrung and wrung until it was no more than a tight wrinkled little ball of linen.
Once Devon had been transported home in a makeshift ambulance devised from the Magraths’ Bentley (for the nearest hospital was fifty miles away in Washington, D.C.), Dr. Hickock had expected Chase to return to normal. Instead, the doctor and Laurel had listened, with a feeling of helplessness and sadness, to Chase’s broken-voiced entreaties to God to spare Devon’s life and make her whole again.
Laurel found herself hugging Chase close to her and cradling his head against her shoulder, as she had once done with their children. She murmured soothing words of comfort.
Dr. Hickock could not help but interject his own words of comfort into the highly personal scene. “She won’t die, Chase. She’s strong and she’s young. She’ll recover. It may take a while, but she’ll recover,” he had said quietly.
Laurel and Chase had looked at him gratefully upon hearing those words, but had not for one minute relaxed their vigil since that conversation, almost forty-eight hours ago. Now, as Devon’s eyelids fluttered against the bandages, and her mouth worked to form words, the three bystanders looked at one another with elation.
Devon was unaware of the intensity of emotion in the room, but she heard a long sigh of relief. A sweet smell, like orange blossoms, followed the sigh. Her mother’s scent. Mixed with it was the tweedy, tobacco smell of her father. The familiarity of these things comforted her.
“Do you remember what happened to you, Devon?” asked her mother.
“No,” she croaked.
“You had a hunting accident, darling, but you’re going to be fine. Sirocco fell on you. Not squarely, thank the Lord. But you have a broken arm and leg and several broken ribs/’
Devon was silent for a few seconds, trying to remember the accident. Then an agonizing thought crossed her mind. “Sirocco… ?” She wanted to say more, but didn’t have the strength. Her beautiful Sirocco. Was he dead? She had raised the horse from a foal, then trained him herself. They had a special bond. If anything had happened to him…
“He’s fine,” her father soothed, recovering himself now that he saw that Devon was well enough to talk. “He landed on his side, so he didn’t break any legs. He’s bruised, but the vet says he’ll recover nicely.”
“Laurel, Chase, Devon needs her rest,” said the doctor firmly.
“Go back to sleep now, darling,” said Laurel, lifting Devon’s good hand and kissing it. Devon squeezed her mother’s hand feebly. Her father stroked the blanket over her ankle, as though afraid he would cause her pain if he touched her. She could feel the blanket stir and she moved her foot slightly so as to make contact with his hand. It was the only form of acknowledgment she could muster. She wished she could summon more energy, but the foggy world of sleep beckoned her.
In that indistinct half-conscious world between sleep and wakefulness she lingered for a moment—just long enough to feel a new twinge of pain. It came from inside and she did not know its cause. It had something to do with… she could not remember. A blurred image swam into her consciousness, then dispersed, as though it were smoke blown away by the wind. She fell asleep trying to grasp the image that she knew, somehow, was causing her a pain deeper than that caused by her broken limbs.
Devon hastily put down the silver hand mirror she had picked up only seconds before, shuddering at the reflection she had glimpsed there. Although two weeks had passed since her accident, she was still severely bruised and in considerable discomfort. She had two black eyes and a myriad of cuts and scrapes on her face. But the worst, she thought, was her hair—what was visible of it beneath the gauze that circled her skull. Her head was too tender to allow her hair to be combed, so the once shining black locks hung in a tangled rats’ nest on her shoulders. Her frilly white batiste nightgown provided an incongruous touch of daintiness against which rested the already graying cast on her arm.
Devon’s maid, Alice, entered the room, carrying a bowl of broth on a small silver tray.
“Here’s a snack for you, Miss Devon,” she said, drawing up a silk-upholstered armchair to the young woman’s bedside.
“Thank you, Alice. You know, if you would put it in a cup, you wouldn’t need to sit here and feed me.”
“True, but if I put it in a cup, you won’t drink as much, and you need to build up your strength.” And with that Alice took a spoonful of the hearty-smelling liquid and brought it toward Devon’s mouth. Devon swallowed it without further argument.
Alice took that as a good sign and decided to broach the subject on her mind. “Miss Helena has asked if she could call on you today,” said Alice, in a studiedly conversational tone.
Devon stiffened at the words, but said nothing. As she had regained her memory of the riding accident, she had grown more and more furious at Helena Magrath Hartwick. Now she was tempted to tell Alice to send the young woman away when she next called.
Alice, as though reading Devon’s thoughts, said, “She’s been here every day since your accident, Miss Devon. She’s been frantic with worry.” At each visit, Helena had asked to see Devon, but Dr. Hickock, sensing that an unpleasant scene might occur, had put her off. He did not want his patient’s strength taxed. Today, however, he had told the Richmonds that Devon might begin receiving visitors, knowing full well that Helena would be among the first. That was fine. Devon was out of danger.
“Helena worried!” said Devon cynically. “Feeling guilty, you mean.” She slipped a finger inside the cast on her arm, trying in vain to scratch a spot just beyond her reach. Her forced inactivity and her discomfort grated on her nerves.
Alice did not reply, knowing that Devon’s better nature would finally make her agree to see Helena. Indeed, the young woman’s Southern upbringing was such that she could not commit a deliberate act of rudeness.
“All right,” Devon told Alice, in a tone that indicated she was girding herself for an ordeal, “ask her to come up when she gets here.”
Alice nodded approvingly, pleased that she had judged Devon correctly. “She’ll be here in fifteen minutes,” said Alice, trying hard To keep a touch of smugness from her voice. She rapidly propelled a spoonful of broth toward Devon’s mouth.
Devon stared at Alice as she swallowed, eyes wide with pretended outrage. “Rather sure of yourself, weren’t you?”
“Not at all, Miss Devon. I was sure of your good breeding.” Devon laughed at her tone of righteous innocence.
“You know me better than I know myself.”
“I’ve known you longer, Miss Devon, since before you were born.” Again, both women laughed at this silliness.
“Stop making me laugh,” Devon cried, “it hurts!”
Still chuckling, Alice stood and put the empty bowl back on the silver tray. “I’ll send Miss Helena up when she arrives.”
After Alice departed, Devon lay back in the bed and closed her eyes. She was tired again. She wished she had not said she would see Helena, but it was too late.
Her mind wandered back to the day of the accident. Before the hunt began, she recalled, she and Helena had talked. Now she remembered the conversation clearly. It had been about John Alexander. He had left Virginia suddenly. Thinking of it, Devon experienced a sharp twinge of pain in her throat. She had hoped for something to come of their mee
ting. He had seemed so right for her, so attracted to her. Why had he left? Was there someone else in his life? she wondered.
Then she shook her head to clear it. Maybe his leaving had nothing to do with her. Maybe it had been a business matter. It was self-centered, she chided herself, to believe that she influenced his actions. In any event, perhaps he would return. Helena had said that John’s business with Mr. Magrath was not finished. That gave her hope.
An image of their afternoon by the brook came to her. Even in her injured state, a flush of warmth suffused her body. She felt a physical longing for his touch. What promise it had held for her! Was it possible that she loved him? He had so many of the qualities she admired in a man, but when she thought of him, she did not think of those qualities; she thought only of his lips on hers, his hands on her body. She ached with the memory of it.
What if he did not return? Would her longing for him fade? Worse yet, what if the feeling did not go away and he did not return for her? Return for her—that’s how she thought of it. How could anyone live with such persistent yearning? she wondered. She had almost tasted its fulfillment. Could almost guess what her married girlfriends giggled about in hushed conversations, quickly stifled when she appeared. But did only married women know such pleasure? Could she ever be like those women she read about in the novels buried in dusty corners of her father’s library? Women who were men’s mistresses. Of course not, she told herself, it was unthinkable that she should ever commit such an act without marriage. But the alternative—never knowing the pleasure of lying with a man, never knowing the feeling of a strong body against her softer one—seemed equally unthinkable.
The feel of the linen nightgown against her bare breasts as she thought of such things aroused her. They wanted to be touched. She wondered how John would touch them. Would he kiss them? She had read of such things. The idea filled her with unspeakable desire. Tentatively, she reached her good hand to her breast and cupped it. She imagined it was John’s hand. Between her legs, she was wet with the heat of her imaginings.
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