Regret Not a Moment

by Nicole McGehee

  He squinted at the clock on the mantel. It was four o’clock in the morning. That was the problem with having an affair with an actress. One didn’t have supper until at least midnight. That meant no bed until one, which left only a few hours until dawn. Whitney Ross was very strict about reappearing at home by dawn. Or rather, his wife was. She did not mind the relief from her wifely duties that Loretta afforded her, as long as their children did not miss Whitney at the breakfast table. They must never know about his affairs, she had warned him, for if they did, she would be forced to divorce him. She would not allow them to think that she tolerated the humiliation. Well, he certainly did not want a divorce on the grounds of adultery. The woman would walk off with a fortune.

  Four o’clock. He had to be home by six. That meant he had time for one more…

  “Loretta, my love,” he said, rolling back toward her. He slipped his hand under the sheet and tickled the inside of her thigh.

  “Don’t bother me now!” she snapped, slapping his hand away.

  “What have we here?” he asked sardonically.

  “That bastard friend of yours is engaged!” she almost screamed.

  “That… who?” he asked, knowing immediately who she meant.

  The one thing that bothered Whitney about Loretta was the knowledge that it was John’s rejection of her that had allowed him to have her.

  “I suppose I wasn’t high class enough for him,” Loretta snarled, forgetting, in her anger, her claim that she had dropped Alexander. “He wanted some innocent little fool!”

  “Loretta,” moaned Whitney, grabbing the newspaper from her hands and throwing it over the side of the bed, “forget about all that. I have to go soon. And before I go…” He completed his sentence by lightly pinching one pink nipple between his index finger and thumb.

  “Look, I’m not in the mood,” said Loretta irritably.

  “You know, darling, the word ‘mistress’ is truly a misnomer. It implies that you have some sort of authority over your lover. In fact, the opposite is true. I say we fuck,” he said, deliberately using the vulgarity for its shock value.

  “I don’t need you!” she said scornfully. “I can have anyone I want!”

  “Anyone you want in show business. And certainly your pick of nouveau riche types who want a glamour girl on their arms. But you want society. And that, my dear, you don’t just run across every day,” he said mockingly as he spread her legs apart with his knee. Her resistance excited him. “You think that if you’re seen with enough society types, eventually one of us will marry you. And you may be right.” He could feel her resistance slipping away with every word he spoke. He risked releasing one of her arms so that he could reach between her legs and caress her. “But you’d better hang on to the one you’ve got while you’re looking for the one you’re going to marry.”

  Loretta was dumbfounded. She was an actress, but Whitney Ross, who had never shown any interest in her thoughts, never asked her opinion of anything, had seen right through her as easily as if she had confessed her plan to him. In a way, it was a relief to have someone know the truth. As long as that someone was her friend.

  “You conceited ass!” she said, but her tone had a rough affection to it and she rubbed herself against him invitingly.

  “There… that’s more like it,” said Ross, lowering his head to her breast and sliding his tongue over her nipple. And when he slipped his erect member into her, he met no resistance.

  “There’s a… woman… here to see you, Miss Devon,” said Truitt, the Richmonds’ butler at the New York town house. The vine-covered Georgian Revival residence was in the trendy neighborhood known as Sutton Place, popularized only ten years before by Anne Vanderbilt.

  The Vanderbilts, like many other wealthy families—including the Richmonds—had sold their Italian Renaissance mansion on upper Fifth Avenue in favor of the more compact quarters.

  Devon looked up from her book inquiringly. She was sitting in the main salon of the house, where she and her mother often received afternoon callers, but it was January 8, and most of their guests had already streamed through the house during the holidays.

  “Who is this… woman?” Devon was disturbed that Truitt had carefully avoided using the word lady to describe the guest. It alerted her to the fact that the caller was not one of her friends. Indeed, Truitt’s demeanor told her that it was someone of whom he disapproved. She could not imagine why such a person should wish to see her.

  “A Miss Morgan. She says she has a personal matter to discuss with you.” Truitt sniffed derisively, certain that no such woman could have something personal to discuss with Miss Devon. Devon thought for a moment. She trusted Truitt’s judgment. The dignified man had worked for the Richmonds since he was a fourteen-year-old stable boy. He had been promoted to the post of butler by the time he was twenty-eight, so now, after forty years of greeting people, first at Evergreen then in the New York town house, Truitt was not mistaken about the person calling, Devon knew.

  “A personal matter?” she said, racking her brain as to what it might be. “Well… I suppose there’s no use speculating. Send her in please, Truitt.” Devon’s arm cast had been removed but she still wore the cast on her leg so she did not stand to receive the guest. Seated before the large, white marble fireplace, she made a lovely picture in a floor-length, blush pink dress of the finest cashmere. Her hair was brushed straight back from her forehead and tumbled gracefully to her shoulders in shimmering waves. Her face was no longer marred by bruises.

  Devon had a shock when she saw the woman who followed Truitt into the room. She recognized her as the Broadway star she and her parents had seen just two nights before in the most successful play of the season.

  “Why, you’re Loretta Morgan!’” she blurted out, pleased and surprised to meet the actress face to face. “I just saw your play two nights ago. You were wonderful!” she said.

  Loretta, momentarily disarmed by the warm reception, stood awkwardly staring at Devon. She had dressed with care, wishing to look every bit the successful star that she was. Her ermine coat stunningly highlighted her platinum blonde hair. She had not wanted to give the fur to Truitt at the door, preferring to wear it when she first met Devon. Now she shrugged it off and handed it dismissively to the butler. At a nod from Devon, Truitt retreated from the salon, leaving the two women alone.

  Loretta stood before Devon in a beautifully cut yellow silk dress which, though high-necked and long-sleeved, emphasized Loretta’s curvaceous figure. She wore high-heeled black shoes that drew attention to her long legs, a black suede beret, and matching suede gloves, which she now removed. Her lips were painted a bright red, the same as her fingernails. Devon thought she looked smashing. But she understood with amusement the reason for Truitt’s disapproval. Never had a visitor to the Richmond home been quite so… colorful. Yet Loretta Morgan’s glamour was undeniable. She did not look ridiculous, just a bit larger than life.

  “Miss Morgan, I didn’t know that my parents knew you,” said Devon, not noticing the other woman’s silence. “I wish they were here, but I’m afraid they’re out. Won’t you sit down anyway?”

  Loretta looked around the delicately furnished room. Although she had every luxury in her own penthouse, the understated elegance of the Richmond home bespoke generations of discerning taste. Two long Palladian windows that overlooked the street allowed even the meager winter sun to fill the space with light. The walls were covered with eggshell silk brocade that had mellowed to a rich cream color. Eighteenth- and nineteenth-century French paintings of museum quality were hung casually about the room. The salon was not overcrowded with furnishings, but rather featured damask-covered divans and chairs in airy pastels, strategically placed to promote conversation. Dominating the space was a large Aubusson carpet in subtle shades of cream, rose, and pale blue.

  Loretta, awed by an elegance she knew she could never duplicate, settled uneasily into a straight-backed Louis XV chair opposite Devon, but she stood up again al
most immediately.

  “This isn’t a social call,” she said tersely, pacing in front of the fireplace. “I have something to tell you about a mutual friend.” She stopped and stared into the flames as she uttered the words, not wishing to look Devon in the eye. The warm reception Devon had given her was unexpected and she was not sure how to react. She had come to the Richmond home filled with venom and a wish for revenge, but she now realized that Devon had done nothing to hurt her. Seeing the young woman sitting helplessly, her broken leg propped up, she understood that her grievance was against John, not Devon. For a moment, she softened.

  But the innocent questioning look that she encountered in Devon’s eyes exasperated her. Why had he picked this well-bred virginal girl? She could never satisfy his passion as Loretta had!

  Suddenly Loretta wanted to wipe the innocent look off Devon’s face—wanted to make her feel the pain that she had felt at John Alexander’s rejection. It was obvious to Loretta that Devon had been cherished and protected all her life. The idea galled her.

  “Your fiancé,” snapped Loretta. “You don’t know what kind of man he is.”

  Devon’s face changed immediately. The light of innocence in her eyes was extinguished and replaced with understanding. Then a cool mask fell over her beautiful features. Loretta was shocked at the transformation. Was it possible that she had misjudged Devon’s ignorance? She was quick, Loretta had to admit, and perhaps not as innocent as she seemed.

  But Devon only half understood the nature of John’s relationship with Loretta, and she didn’t really want to know more. The logistics and emotions involved were completely foreign to Devon. What was clear to her, however, was that the woman intended to create unpleasantness. Devon had been brought up to avoid unpleasant confrontations at all costs. So although she was dismayed, she did not show it. Instead, she tried to disarm Loretta and forestall her confidences. “I know all that I need to know about John. Whatever he was to you has nothing to do with me,” she said evenly.

  “You don’t know everything you need to know,” retorted Loretta, angry that her words had had so little effect. “All of last year, John and I had a love affair. He used to wait for me every night to finish up at the theater. He was like a panting dog, he wanted me so much!”

  Devon was shaken by the vision Loretta’s words conjured. Hands tensely clasped in her lap, body perfectly still, Devon studied Loretta as the blonde woman glared challengingly at her. There was a blatant sexuality about the actress. The sexuality had been evident two nights ago on stage, but was even more pronounced now that Loretta was standing before her. There was no doubt that she was ragingly attractive. And yet, John had ended the relationship. The woman was admitting as much by her very presence. Would she be standing here now if she were not desperate? No. Clearly John was lost to her, and she knew it. With that thought, Devon no longer felt threatened by Loretta. After all, John had chosen to marry her, not Loretta.

  Devon’s gaze coolly met Loretta’s. “The situation has obviously changed, hasn’t it?” she asked in a neutral tone. She did not want to incite Loretta further by using a mocking voice.

  “It changed because I got tired of him!” Loretta cried, moving closer to Devon so that she stood directly in front of her chair.

  “I don’t believe you,” Devon said stonily. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be here.”

  Loretta stamped her foot, frustrated by Devon’s poise. She groped for a response, but in her excitement, she could only think to say, “I’m here because I want you to know what you’re doing before it’s too late!”

  “An act of charity?” Devon said, raising one eyebrow in marked disbelief. She was feeling quite sure of herself now. It was obvious that the woman was eaten up with jealousy. John had never denied the fact that he had had women before Devon. Well then, she told herself. This was one of them. So be it. She refused to let it touch her. It had nothing to do with their love.

  “You think someone like you can hold him? What do you know about pleasing a man like John?” said Loretta scornfully.

  “Miss Morgan, I don’t see the point of continuing this discussion any further. Whatever interest Mr. Alexander had in you is gone. It doesn’t matter why or how. I’m going to marry him. I suggest you reconcile yourself to that,” said Devon, reaching for the bell pull to summon Truitt. But before she could do so, Loretta bent over and grabbed her wrist.

  “Just remember this,” she hissed, hating Devon for her unruffled demeanor, for her privileged birth, for everything she represented that Loretta could never become, “when he goes to bed with you at night, he’ll be comparing you to me. You won’t be able to live up to that! You won’t know how to please him. And he’ll come running back to me then!”

  Devon jerked her wrist from Loretta’s grasp and rang the bell pull. “Don’t wait for him, Miss Morgan,” she said, pronouncing each word with deliberate iciness, “you’ll be wasting your time.”

  Truitt appeared immediately, indicating that he had been hovering worriedly outside the closed door.

  “Miss Morgan would like to leave now, Truitt. Will you please show her out?” said Devon, in a voice that was so pleasant and calm that an observer would have supposed that a routine social call was coming to an end.

  Truitt looked at the red-faced blonde angrily making her way toward him, then at his mistress, straight-backed in the armchair, a tight little smile on her face. Impassively, he turned and led Loretta from the room. Loretta did not wait for Truitt to help her on with her coat, but snatched it rudely from his hands as she hurried out the door.

  Devon did not change for dinner that evening. Instead she sat quietly thinking by the fire until John was announced. He dined at the Richmonds several times a week now.

  “Darling,” said John. He stood behind Devon’s chair and leaned down to kiss her after hastily looking around the room to be sure they were alone. “Don’t you look beautiful. I love that pink dress on you.” He caressed her silky hair, relishing the feel of it in his fingers. His hands drifted down to her shoulders and Devon reached behind her to grasp them lovingly in her own hands.

  “I know it’s one of your favorites,” said Devon warmly. “That’s why I didn’t change. Besides, it’s just family tonight.” Devon turned and pulled John gently around her chair so that she could look at him.

  “I thought tonight would never come,” said John with a big grin, sitting on the hassock in front of her and leaning forward for another kiss. This time his lips lingered on hers as she put her hands up to his neck. At the sound of a door closing in the hallway, he backed away from her, sighing with regret. “I missed you today. What have you been up to?”

  “Oh, the usual thing,” said Devon casually.

  “I saw Bart today. He said Sydney might call on you. Didn’t she stop by?”

  “No,” said Devon. “No visitors at all today.”

  CHAPTER 14

  MARRIED to John, truly married—Devon could not believe how happy she was. Their state room on the luxury ship was crammed with friends wishing them bon voyage on their honeymoon trip. Just a week ago, most of the same people had crowded into the little church in Middleburg, Virginia, for Devon and John’s wedding.

  It had been so beautiful. Devon still grew misty-eyed as she thought of it. Her gown, though not a French design as Grace would have liked, could not have been more perfect, in Devon’s view. The long, straight lines of the dress had been carefully cut to mold Devon’s slim figure, its long-sleeved, off-the-shoulder style showing off the lovely roundness of Devon’s neck and shoulders. It was of rich ivory satin entirely covered with Alencon lace, ending in a long train. The veil—her mother’s—had been almost as long. It began with a coronet of pearls, then flowed into an expanse of lace-trimmed tulle.

  John had looked so handsome in his gray morning coat that Devon had been afraid her face would betray her longing for him—and in front of the minister! She glanced at him now as he clinked his glass against that of his best friend
, Charles Wittingham. Her heart fluttered as she remembered their wedding night. It had been all she had hoped for, yet all so new and unexpected!

  They had spent their first night as man and wife in a guest room at Evergreen, since their new estate, Willowbrook, was undergoing renovations. Laurel had tactfully placed them in a secluded wing of the house, knowing that they would cherish the privacy. They had entered the room following the afternoon-long reception, and had not left the luxurious old canopied and curtained bed until twenty-four hours later. A supper had been sent up on a tray but it had remained largely untouched, as John and Devon’s hunger for each other had been far greater.

  At first, Devon had been nervous. She had managed to push Loretta’s taunting words from her mind for months, but suddenly, faced with the threat of not pleasing John, they replayed themselves in her mind over and over, as though Loretta were standing by her side, mocking her. Would she please him? she wondered. She had been told to expect some pain—would it ruin their pleasure?

  But all her worries had been dispelled as soon as John had taken her in his arms. He had hugged her to him for several minutes, kissing her and whispering endearments, then he had turned her around and slowly undone the long row of tiny pearl buttons down the back of her dress.

  Cold and excitement made her shiver as he slipped the luxurious material off her shoulders and ran his warm tongue up her spine to the nape of her neck. From behind, he took one of her firm breasts in each hand, sensually massaging them until she ached with desire.

  He turned her around then and knelt before her where she stood in nothing but transparent lace-trimmed panties, frilly garters, and white silk stockings and shoes. With teasing feathery kisses, he encircled each nipple in turn until they were both erect, straining for more attention. Devon could feel his touch vibrate through her body. With excruciating slowness, he slid the panties down her satiny legs, helping her to balance as she lifted first one leg, then the other, to remove them.