Regret Not a Moment

by Nicole McGehee

  Devon, too, found herself reluctant to turn to her other dinner partner, though politeness dictated that she do so. The ruddy banker was an important friend of the ambassador, but he drank a great deal and spent most of his time discoursing on how he managed to be one of the few profiting from the Depression. Devon was eager to return to the marquis.

  As the footman placed the smoked pheasant in wild currant sauce before her, Devon scolded herself for her inappropriate attraction to the marquis. But as she turned toward him, an involuntary smile lit her face.

  “So… we are reunited,” he said.

  He has that absolutely deadly way that Frenchmen have of looking at you—like a visual caress, Devon thought. And he’s a master at it. Wherever the marquis looked, Devon felt a warm tingle, until her entire body felt flushed with heat.

  The heat was palpable to the marquis, who, though accustomed to such reactions, never failed to be delighted by them. Ah, this one will be delicious, he told himself. She is seductive, but seems unaware of it. She still has a refreshing innocence about her. “Are you newly married?” he asked, trying to solve the mystery of her.

  Devon looked toward John, who was on the opposite side of the table and several chairs away. Suddenly, she was stricken with guilt. How could she have allowed herself to feel such attraction for a stranger? She loved John. Loved him with all her heart.

  The marquis realized immediately that he had made a tactical error in bringing up Devon’s husband, yet he was amused by her reaction. She is very young, he thought to himself, suddenly feeling old at age forty-two. For a moment, his thoughts dwelt on his own wife. She was a charming brunette his own age who still had the power to intoxicate any man she wished. The marquis knew that she spent many lively moments without him on the French Riviera and in Italy. He did not mind, for it kept the piquancy in their marriage. They enjoyed each other on the occasions when their paths crossed. Had there ever been a time in their marriage when his wife had chided herself for being attracted to another man? He had certainly seen no sign of it. Yet here was a seemingly sophisticated woman, of potent desirability, who was still innocent enough to be embarrassed at her attraction for a man not her husband. Intriguing. Intriguing but dangerous to his own strategy, he realized. He had to immediately reassure her that she had not made her feelings toward him obvious.

  “You seem to he very much in love with him,” said the marquis in an indulgent tone.

  “Oh, yes. Very much.” Devon was glad to have the opportunity to say it. The marquis should not misunderstand—just because she had been friendly…

  “But you did not answer my question. Are you newly married?”

  “A little less than a month, actually,” said Devon. Again she glanced at John. This time he was looking at her. She smiled at him, forgetting, in her guilt, her earlier anger.

  The marquis also turned toward John and met his gaze. He very slightly raised his wineglass in a subtle toast. It was a polite gesture. A fairly commonplace gesture of greeting. But something about the marquis’s manner drew John’s attention.

  John returned the gesture, smiled once more at his wife, and turned back to the lady on his right. But he found himself trying to observe Devon out of the corner of his eye. Every time he reached for his wineglass, he turned his head a bit more than necessary so that he could have a better view of Devon and her dinner companion. Now he took a sip and noticed the rosy glow that seemed to emanate from his wife. Even just one glass of wine had the ability to give her pale complexion more than a hint of pink, but tonight the glow seemed to come from within as well. The look she gave the marquis as the footmen served the meat course—and she was forced to turn to the gentleman on her other side—disturbed John. There was a familiarity about their demeanor that John would have expected from two people who knew each other well—yet they had just met.

  John studied the Frenchman. He was distinguished, in a vulpine sort of way. He had an aristocratic bearing, but it was not affected. Rather, the man had about him an easy manner that John could see would be very attractive to women. He laughed and chatted comfortably and seemed truly interested in the conversation of the lovely blonde woman beside him. He flirted with her a bit, but John could see that the woman, though enjoying herself, was not as affected by his charm as Devon was. She seemed amused, but not enthralled. Devon, John realized, had concentrated on the man with an intensity he had previously seen her focus only on himself.

  John picked rather halfheartedly at his beef Wellington as he listened in distracted silence to the small talk of the woman beside him, a kind-faced American matron who had apparently attended the Lancaster Academy for Young Ladies with his mother.

  “Of course, your mother was two years behind me,” she was saying, “so I was not well acquainted with her. But she was a perfectly lovely girl…”

  John didn’t have to concentrate on what she was saying. He could just nod politely and pretend to listen, which left his mind free to think about Devon. About Devon and the marquis.

  As the salad was served, he watched his wife turn back to her seductive dinner partner. She was glowing. Positively glowing. And she was extraordinarily lovely. It was no wonder the marquis was taken by her.

  John watched her tilt her head sideways and laugh at something the marquis was saying. She looked enchanting, John thought, with her hair spilling over her shoulder, her smile lighting up her face. A wave of jealousy and desire such as he had never known swept over him. He wanted her in his arms right at that moment. Wanted to kiss away the misunderstandings of the past few days. To fill the rift that had grown between them with the warmth of his love for her.

  Just at that moment, Devon caught John staring at her. The desire in his face was unmistakable. She felt her heart turn over in response.

  He has that effect on me, she thought to herself, and I suppose he always will. She gave him her most beautiful smile and lifted her glass to him in the same toasting gesture the marquis had performed earlier. John grinned back, feeling heady with relief and euphoria. It was wonderful to be in love. Wonderful to have the most beautiful wife in the world. He was the luckiest man alive!

  The marquis, observing the exchange, sat quietly back in his chair and said nothing. It was clear to him, in that moment, that he could not hope to compete with the young man who was Devon’s husband. Devon would never agree to that final, most sublime surrender.

  He sighed to himself and turned toward the blonde industrialist’s wife. She was, after all, extremely alluring.

  It was not until Devon retired thirty minutes later to the ladies’ room that she discovered that the warm moisture between her legs was blood.

  CHAPTER 16

  WILLOWBROOK reminded Devon of the magnificent Greek Revival plantation houses that she had seen during her family’s voyage to Louisiana ten years before. Indeed, the Hartwicks, from whom John had bought the estate, had originally come from Natchez, Mississippi. Willowbrook, built in 1845 by Brent’s great-grandfather Beauregard Hartwick, had been intended to approximate the Hartwick estate in Natchez, and he had tried to transplant as much of its ambience as possible.

  As the Alexanders drove up to their new home in the twilight of the midsummer evening, Devon thought that the only thing missing from Willowbrook to make it a replica of a Deep South plantation was the Spanish moss that draped the giant live oaks along the delta. But Willowbrook had the live oaks. They canopied the long, straight, gravel-covered drive that led from the main road to the house.

  “The Hartwicks were so proud of this house,” Devon said wistfully, thinking back to the days before the Depression.

  “I loved it from the first moment I saw it,” John said. “I’m glad you do too.” He took his right hand from the steering wheel and covered Devon’s left hand.

  “Oh, stop here for just a minute!” Devon cried as she spotted the white Corinthian-pillared portico of the mansion through a frame created by the overhanging branches of the grand trees.

  “I
t looks very imposing, doesn’t it?” John asked.

  “Very. I guess the exterior hasn’t had time to get run down, even though I know Brent hasn’t had anything to spend on upkeep,” Devon said. In the last two years, she had noticed that some of the house’s delicate interior wall coverings had grown worn and the furnishings and paintings severely depleted as piece by valuable piece had been sold in an attempt—not always successful—to meet debts and maintain the productive capacities of the farm.

  “Well… I had the outside painted,” John admitted with an excited smile. “And everything’s been whitewashed and the garden brought back. Other than that, everything was in pretty decent repair. Old Mr. Hartwick apparently kept the place up until he died.”

  “Oh, yes. There was always work being done. But it looks more splendid than ever!” Devon responded happily. “I can’t wait to see it up close. Let’s go on!”

  The gravel drive ended at a vast Kentucky bluegrass lawn that featured a small brick-edged fish pond surrounded by flowers and flanked by eight venerable magnolia trees. A brick walkway led from the pond to the front staircase, a graceful, wisteria-covered affair of black wrought iron that swept down to ground level in wide, converging arcs.

  As John and Devon approached the stairway, he picked her up to carry her over the threshold. “I think I should be commended for including the stairs in this ceremony,” he joked.

  “Commended and rewarded,” Devon replied, giving him a feather-light kiss.

  The massive Corinthian columns that extended to the second story of the house created a spacious porch that wrapped around three sides of the house. The perfect symmetry of the building was punctuated by the four French windows that flanked each side of the front door. The main entrance to the mansion, a shiny black double door surrounded by narrow rectangular panes of beveled glass, was topped by a similar door at second-story height, which opened onto a balustraded balcony.

  “Can you open it for me?” John asked. “It’s not locked. Your mother arranged for someone to make things ready for us.”

  Once inside, John placed Devon gently on her feet and turned her toward him for a long embrace. But they were both too eager to inspect the house to linger.

  After a thorough look around, Devon decided that as impressive a facade as Willowbrook presented, her favorite vantage point was from the rear, where the second-story veranda spanned the whole width of the house, and French doors created another large living area of the outdoor space. From there, Devon could enjoy the vista of green lawn gradually sloping down to a small lake surrounded by weeping willow trees. The willows partially screened the view of the barn and stables, painted white to match the house, and the white-fenced paddock beyond. It was a scene of perfect bucolic splendor, a peaceful and inviting setting for Devon and John to begin their new life together.

  The next morning, Devon and John stood in the thirty-foot-wide center hallway and examined the scuffed floor.

  “I barely know where to begin,” Devon said.

  “The first thing to do is rehire the staff the Hartwicks had to let go. Many of them are still out of work, I imagine, with times as they are,” said John, looking up at the Regency chandelier, which was badly in need of polishing. “I considered hiring them when I bought the place,” John continued, “but I thought you would want to take charge of the hiring yourself.”

  Devon turned toward John with the dimpled smile he loved, and joked, “We’ve been married less than two months, but you already know me too well!”

  “Let’s just say I know my place,” John said with a chuckle, leaning forward to give Devon a peck on the lips.

  In response, Devon wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him to her for a more prolonged embrace. Their tongues intermingled as the heat from their bodies inflamed their passion.

  “Shall we go upstairs again?” Devon asked breathlessly. “Since we don’t have any servants yet to be scandalized by our behavior.”

  “We just got up!” John laughed. “I thought you were anxious to see the stables.” But his halfhearted objection was contradicted by his actions. With one easy motion, he swept Devon into his arms and, in a replay of the threshold ceremony of the evening before, carried her up one of the curving staircases that flanked the entrance hall. The master bedroom lay in the middle of the gallery that overlooked the foyer, and John carried Devon there now, kicking the door closed behind them and throwing her playfully onto their still-unmade bed. As Devon sunk into the soft goose-down mattress, her pink silk robe fell open, exposing her long white legs and the dark triangle that lay at their apex.

  John hesitated a moment at the edge of the huge carved four-poster bed, enjoying his wife’s beauty. Then he leaned over and slowly pulled off the pink velvet tie that encircled Devon’s waist, causing the robe to fall open entirely. Devon slid out of the robe and threw it toward the foot of the bed, reaching to pull John down beside her as she once more reclined into the pillows. John removed his own navy silk robe and let it drop to the floor, eager for the touch of Devon’s body against his.

  He lay beside her and rubbed his hands over her soft body, sinking his lips into the crook of her neck. He felt Devon’s tongue slip into his ear, her warm breath sending shivers down his spine. He trailed his hand up the length of her body and softly covered her breasts, teasing the nipples until they stood erect. Devon gasped with pleasure at John’s touch, spreading her legs wider to invite him into her. They found each other’s lips, and with a long kiss, John eased his way over Devon until his own legs were between hers, his erection at the mouth of her sex.

  Devon tried to draw him into her, but she felt John resist.

  “What is it?” Devon mumbled, her voice thick with desire.

  “You’re not protected, are you?”

  “No…” she moaned in reply. “But it’s a safe time.” Devon tried to pull John back to her, but still he resisted.

  “Darling, there’s never really a safe time.”

  Devon was tempted to argue further, but a memory stopped her. The memory of John’s face when he’d learned of her supposed pregnancy. For a few days it had seemed as though their love was doomed. Devon could not forget the rift that had briefly existed between them. John was simply not ready for children. Things had been so perfect since the moment at the American embassy dinner party when their eyes had met across the table and John’s desire had been rekindled. Then, later, when he’d learned that she was not pregnant, it had been difficult for him to hide his relief. Oh, everything he’d said had been properly regretful, but it had been easy for Devon to see that there was no genuine regret. At first, it had bothered Devon that he should be so relieved. But the happiness of the ensuing days of their honeymoon had almost obliterated the hurtful memories. And it reassured Devon, in her inexperience, to learn that they could weather a crisis in their marriage and emerge with their love intact. Her anger at John had passed like a summer storm, leaving behind it the fresh, giddy feelings that had existed before, made even more poignant by the threatened loss of them.

  Devon was certain that John would one day want to have children. In the meantime, she could understand his desire to have some time on their own. With a sigh, she reached toward the bedside table and withdrew the small rubber device that the doctor in New York had given her. She slid off the bed, put the pink robe around her, and went into the bathroom. As she inserted the device, she glanced outside the window at the bright, sunny garden behind the house. Beyond that, horses grazed in a field. As far as she could see, the land was hers. Hers and John’s. It gave her a wonderful feeling to know that she and he formed a unit.

  Exiting the bathroom, she threw off her robe and jumped back into the bed.

  “There now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” John teased.

  “I can see that the wait didn’t dampen your ardor,” Devon smiled.

  John covered her mouth with his and pushed her back onto the pillows. Devon could feel herself growing aroused again, almost as though
there had been no interruption. She closed her eyes and felt herself sink into the sensuality of the moment, enjoying the salty taste of John’s skin against her tongue, the feel of his fine brown hair against her breast. He skimmed her arm with feather-light kisses, stopping at the pulse inside her elbow. Then he shifted his attention to her torso, running his tongue from her breastbone to her navel. Devon felt chills of desire spread downward. He moved lower, teasing the insides of her thighs with his tongue. Then, with exquisite languor, he moved upward until she was writhing with impatience for him. He slid his lean, muscled body on top of her. She could feel his arousal, and she twined her legs around him, pulling him against her. Unable to wait any longer, he entered her. They moved together in pleasure like two perfectly matched dancers. Their movements grew more urgent, breathless, dizzying. Devon’s muscles locked as she felt herself approach a shattering climax. John quivered within her as he tried to contain himself until she had attained her pleasure. When he sensed that she was ready, he resumed his long, steady strokes in and out of her, driving her into a frenzy with the sweet friction. He felt her open herself fully to him, and then they abandoned themselves to the sensations that swept their bodies. At that moment, it seemed as though their love was a palpable entity unto itself. An indelible bond that would never be broken.

  “She’s gorgeous, there’s no denying,” said Willy O’Neill, head trainer at the Willowbrook stables. He pronounced the word “gau-jus,” his Irish brogue still evident, despite more than thirty years in America. Willy’s leathery, wrinkled face looked like a gnome’s. He had a bulbous nose, a wide, thin-lipped mouth, piercing blue eyes recessed under fuzzy caterpillars of graying eyebrows, and two tufts of hair above his ears that stood straight out from his balding head like wings. The phenomenon was a result of his nervous habit of putting on and removing a battered green baseball cap that inexplicably bore the insignia BROOKLYN DODGERS. As far as anyone knew, Willy had never been anywhere near Brooklyn. But no one teased Willy about the hat. Willy was not a man that people teased. He was over fifty, but he had about him an air of vigorous pugilism that discouraged familiarity. His short stocky body was pure muscle, and he was secretly proud of the fact that he had no paunch despite a ration of Irish whiskey each afternoon and each evening before bed.