Over the first course of green turtle soup, Thibault posed a question to the guests at the table. “Do you think we’ll end up at war with the Spanish?”
Memories of high school history classes skittered through Tory’s mind. “If the media have their way, you can be sure of it.”
“Media?” Jason asked.
The others at the table went silent, turning their attention on Tory.
“The newspapers,” she explained. “Yellow journalists are clamoring for war. They’ll force us to fight eventually.”
Stunned silence reigned at the table. Tory glanced at Rand, wondering what she’d said to provoke such reaction, but found him studying the table as if he’d never seen a soup plate before. A muscle twitched in his cheek.
“Perhaps, Miss Caswell,” Mrs. Fairchild announced in an icy voice, “you are unaware that Mr. Thibault owns one of the largest newspapers in Chicago.”
Tory turned to the man on her right. “How fascinating. Tell me about your advertising. Who are your biggest clients?”
Thibault choked on his broth. “Why would you be concerned with such matters?”
Tory ignored his patronizing tone. “Advertising has always interested me. Even if someone has the best product in the world, it won’t sell if the public doesn’t know about it.”
At the other end of the table, Mrs. Fairchild raised her voice. “Hasn’t the weather been lovely the past few days? Such a relief from February in Chicago.”
Fairchild took his cue from his wife. “I saw in the latest Chicago papers where they had three feet of snow.”
“Excellent climate here for turkey shooting,” Thibault agreed, dismissing Tory. “Why don’t we all go hunting next Monday?”
Jason and Fairchild nodded in agreement, and Thibault returned to sipping his soup.
With her cheeks still stinging from his slight, Tory tackled her dinner partner again. “Why won’t you answer my question?”
Thibault looked up in surprise. “About advertising? Why would you bother your very pretty head with such matters?”
She disregarded Rand’s warning looks. “Who knows, Phineas Thibault? Someday I might wish to open an advertising firm of my own.”
“You? A woman?” He laughed raucously, as if he’d been told a risqué joke. “Bad enough you girls think yourselves capable of voting, but running a business? Lord, give me strength!”
Laying a gloved hand on his arm, Tory batted her eyes coquettishly. “Are you a betting man, Phineas?”
At the far end of the table, Rand squirmed and suppressed a smile, obviously enjoying himself.
Thibault dabbed his walrus mustache with his napkin and narrowed his eyes beneath bushy brows. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m willing to wager one thousand dollars that women will have the vote within the next twenty-two years.” She grinned triumphantly, while Mrs. Fairchild gasped and Rand, gray eyes twinkling, placed a hand over his mouth, as if to prevent comment.
“Those women—one dare not call them ladies,” Mrs. Fairchild said with a sneer, “should stay at home where they belong. Their husbands can vote for them.”
“What if they don’t have husbands, Mama?” Angelina, pretending innocence, threw Tory a sidewise conspiratorial glance.
“Every self-respecting lady has a husband,” her mother snapped at her.
Angelina’s face turned pale, then a deep flush worked its way up her throat and across her cheeks as she glanced toward Jason, who was staring at Thibault.
“What about it, Phineas? Will you take the lady’s offer of a wager?” he asked.
“A thousand bucks.” Thibault smoothed his mustache with his index finger. “That’s quite a sum.”
“Larger than I carry with me when I travel,” Tory admitted with a wicked grin, “but Cousin Randolph will lend it to me, I’m sure, and Mr. Fairchild can hold the bets.”
She flicked a smile down the table, catching Rand’s shocked expression.
After a second, the dazed look cleared his face, and he spoke in a hearty tone. “I’ll be happy to provide you with the sum, Victoria. And, Phineas, because I trust my cousin’s instincts, I’ll raise the wager another thousand if you’re interested.”
You sly devil, Tory thought. I didn’t name you Money Man for nothing.
Thibault dismissed Tory once more, turned his back to her and leaned down the table toward Rand, extending his hand. “Two thousand dollars it is, Trent. And if the ladies don’t have the vote by 1919, you’ll owe me the lot.”
Satisfied the man would pay dearly for his boorishness, Tory dipped a spoon into her soup.
Across the table, Angelina fidgeted and changed the subject. “Do you have other family, besides your aunt Emma?”
“My sister Jill just married last week. She’s moved to Australia with her husband.”
“Australia!” Mrs. Fairchild’s eyebrows shot up in disapproving peaks. “Did she marry a criminal?”
“Excuse me?” Tory asked.
Mrs. Fairchild’s ample bosom heaved as if she addressed a small child. “Isn’t Australia where England sends its criminals? I asked if your sister married one?”
Wishing she could smack the pompous woman’s fat cheek, Tory counted silently to ten. Judging from Rand’s ruddy complexion, his hostess had infuriated him, as well.
Tory struggled to keep an even tone. “Jill married an anthropologist.”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Fairchild said with a condescending sniff.
Tory sighed with frustration. Every word she spoke offended her hostess.
Angelina came to her rescue once more. “Your dress is lovely, Miss Caswell. Do you shop in Atlanta or New York for your clothes?”
“Aunt Emma shops for me. To be honest, I don’t know where. She—travels a great deal,” Tory replied, thankful for a friendly face.
Rand tried to catch Victoria’s eye, but she dropped her gaze to her plate. Splotches of red colored her cheeks, and his heart ached at her discomfort over the slights of Thibault and Mrs. Fairchild. If he’d had any doubts about her unhappiness in his world, the last few minutes had dissolved them. Unintimidated by either position or wealth, she viewed herself as the equal of any man—heresy in his world, and certain to land her in perpetual trouble if she continued as she had that evening. And if she curbed her intelligence and curiosity, she would no longer be his Victoria, the woman he loved.
“Will you be here long, Miss Caswell?” Angelina asked.
“No.” The look Victoria sent Rand pierced his soul. “I’m only passing through. I’ll be returning home shortly.”
“Then I hope to see you again before you go,” the young woman said.
“Miss Fairchild,” Rand broke in. “I can promise that you will encounter my cousin again before she leaves.”
“Wonderful,” Angelina said. “You know, it’s very strange, Miss Caswell, but I feel as if we’ve known each other for a long, long time.”
Chapter Twelve
Emma’s snores rattled through the closed door of her bedroom, thwarting Tory’s efforts at sleep. Throwing back the covers, she padded to the doors opening onto the tiny balcony. As she stepped into the night air, the perfume of orange blossoms on the breeze reminded her of the dinner she’d had with Rand on the hotel terrace. Had it only been a few nights before?
Would this be their last night together? Returning to her bed for the blue silk robe draped across its foot, she shrugged the garment over her voluminous white gown and tiptoed to the door.
She paused, listening at the threshold, but Emma’s heavy breathing rattled on unabated. Easing open the door, she checked the deserted passageway, then sped on bare feet down the hall to Rand’s door.
He opened it almost immediately after her faint knock and pulled her inside, into his arms.
“I hoped you’d come,” he murmured against her hair. “Although you really shouldn’t—”
“Why should I care about my reputation when I won’t be here much longer?”
“Reconsidering?”
“About staying here with me,” he pleaded. “I’ll do anything you want, give you anything you want. I’ll fight with you for women’s rights, buy you your own advertising company—”
He’s right. You’d have everything you could ever wish for—and Rand, too, her heart whispered.
But her head spoke louder. She brushed away his hands and stood at the window, staring out into the darkness. “What good is my own company if no one will do business with me? You saw the attitude of Fairchild and Thibault tonight at dinner. It’s men like them who determine a company’s success.”
His arms circled her waist and he pulled her against him. “What do you care what those men think?”
“I don’t care. But I couldn’t stay in business without their approval—and that of their wives. And you saw what a hit I made with Mrs. Fairchild.” She grimaced at the memory.
His breath warmed the back of her neck. “There has to be some way we could work this out—”
“It’s no use.” Stifling the voice inside that urged her to give in, to submit to the prejudices of Victorian society, to face anything except leaving him, she struggled against tears. “I came to say goodbye. Let’s not quarrel. Who knows how much time we have left?”
She melted against the contours of his hard body thrusting through the fabric of her nightclothes and luxuriated in the heat of his flesh, memorizing every muscle, cataloging every scent of sandalwood, sunshine and the pleasant musky maleness of him, striving to retain every note and cadence of his voice.
He reached across her waist, unknotting the silk sash of her robe and easing it off her shoulders before cupping her breasts through the thin cloth of her gown. Her nipples tightened when his fingers grazed them, and a low moan of pleasure escaped her lips.
“It can’t be done.” He buried his face in her shoulder, nuzzling her neck.
“What?” Her mind strived to follow his words while her body responded to his touch with tingling awareness in every nerve.
“I can’t love you enough in one night to last a lifetime.” Turning her toward him, he traced her face with kisses and undid the buttons of her gown, sliding it off until it puddled on the floor around her feet.
“You don’t have to,” she said breathlessly when he scooped her into his arms. “Come back to my time with me.”
After lowering her to the bed, he moved the lamp closer, turning up the flame. “I want to remember you always as you look now.”
“Come with me,” she repeated.
He ripped his shirt over his head and tossed it aside, then with a swift, deft movement, shoved down his trousers and kicked them away. Stretching out beside her, he leaned over her, his tanned face flushed with passion, his gray eyes smoldering.
“I love you,” he whispered, rubbing his jaw against her temple, drawing her body against the length of him, “but, like you, I can’t surrender who and what I am.”
His lips crushed hers with violent tenderness while his hands explored the curve of her abdomen, the swell of her hip, the sensitive flesh of her thighs. Desire burgeoned within her.
“Please,” she urged him.
Rolling onto his back, he positioned her above him, pinioning her, thrusting, pulling her toward him as he suckled her breast, exploring every nook and crevice of her with his fingertips, filling her with his passion. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, moaning in the back of her throat.
Her breathing quickened, matching his gasps. He clutched her to him and cried out, while the lamplight shattered into a thousand stars.
She slumped against his chest, and her perspiration mingled with his as their ragged breaths joined. Cradling her face in his hand, he wiped away her tears with his thumb.
“You’re crying?”
“I can’t help it.”
“Are they sad or happy tears?”
“Both.”
With extraordinary tenderness, he smoothed her hair from her face. “No matter what happens in my life from this day forward, this will have been its happiest hour.”
He wrapped her in his arms, holding her against him as if he’d never let her go. When his breathing evened, she knew he’d fallen asleep.
Disentangling herself from his arms, she shifted to lie beside him, where she could peruse his sleeping features. With a hesitant finger, she traced the line of his jaw, outlined his lips, swollen from kissing, then drew her fingers down the broad expanse of his chest, across his narrow waist, over the triangle of dark hair toward the hard muscles of his thighs.
Her hair grazed his chest as she brushed his skin with kisses, and when she raised her head, he stared at her with eyes like gray smoke.
“What are you doing?” His husky voice sent her pulses pounding.
“If this is to be the happiest time of your life,” she said with a laugh, “we must make it last longer than an hour.”
But she wasn’t laughing when he rose and covered her body with his own.
Their lovemaking continued throughout the night. Fiercely, tenderly she tried to memorize the feelings, knowing the night must last a lifetime, unwilling to close her eyes for one precious second.
Toward morning, before dawn, a horse clopped down the drive.
“It’s the milk wagon,” Rand said. “You must return to your room before the other guests awaken.”
He sat propped against the headboard, and she lay back in his arms. “I know.”
But she didn’t move. She couldn’t bring herself to leave the warmth of his embrace or the shelter of his bed with its memories of the night’s lovemaking.
“Today we must watch over Angelina,” he reminded her.
“I know.” She clutched him tighter.
“My meeting with Phiswick isn’t until this afternoon, but perhaps you’d better ask Angelina to lunch, just to keep an eye on her.”
“I will.” Her muscles refused to budge. His arms wrapped tighter around her, and his body hardened beneath her.
“When?”
“Later.”
“Later?”
“Much later.” She turned toward him and lifted her lips to his.
* * *
MORNING SUNLIGHT streamed through the windows at the ends of the corridor as Tory scurried to her room. She passed no one in the hall, and when she entered her suite, Emma was gone.
After soaking in a hot bath, she dressed in a crisp white shirtwaist with leg-of-mutton sleeves, a black skirt and sturdy black boots. Grabbing up a straw boater like the one she’d seen Angelina wear in the hotel’s historical exhibit, she hurried to the main desk.
“What room is Miss Fairchild in, please?” she asked the desk clerk.
“Suite 242.”
“Thanks.” She’d started toward the stairs when the clerk called to her.
“If you’re looking for Miss Fairchild, she left the hotel a few minutes ago. Said she was going sailing.” He lowered his voice discreetly. “Although she didn’t look too happy at the prospect.”
Panic bubbled in her throat, making speech impossible. She nodded to the clerk, then, hiking her skirt and petticoats to her knees, raced down the hallway to Rand’s room and banged on the door.
Rand, his jaw covered in shaving soap, yanked open the door. “What in—”
“No time,” she gasped. “Angelina’s already left to go sailing.”
“Damn and blast!” He jerked her inside, where she stood nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other while he wiped the later from his face and buttoned his shirt.
“Please hurry,” she cried. “If anything happens to her, it will be all my fault.”
He shoved his shirt into his trousers, then pulled her toward the door. “Our fault. It took two, didn’t it?”
They dashed across the lobby, down the western corridor and onto the portico
. At the bottom of the bluff, a sloop bobbed beside the long pier that extended into the bay.
“Angelina!” The strong sea breeze threw Rand’s voice back toward them.
They raced to the edge of the bluff and stumbled down the steep stairs to the dock.
“Angelina!” Tory screamed, but wind filled the sail, and the boat heeled over and sped out into the bay.
Their feet pounded against the dock’s wooden slats as they dashed to the pier’s end, but the sloop had sailed over a hundred yards into the bay.
Tory stood, wringing her hands as she watched the craft depart. An errant gust of wind buffeted the dock, almost knocking her off her feet, and when she looked again, the sloop had capsized.
“My God, she’s overboard! She’ll drown!” she screamed to Rand.
But he was already jerking off his boots. With a single bound, he jackknifed into the water, swimming toward the struggling girl with long, powerful strokes.
Angelina’s tiny form seemed a long way off as Rand plowed through the choppy waters toward her. Her head disappeared beneath the surface twice, and just before Rand reached her, she went under a third time.
Rand dived where she’d last appeared, but when he broke the surface, he was empty-handed.
Tory paced the dock, praying every prayer she knew in between castigating herself for her selfishness. If she hadn’t made love with Rand that one last time, she could have caught Angelina before she headed toward the island.
When Rand finally surfaced again, he had Angelina in his grasp. An unmoving, completely still Angelina. Was she dead? Had he found her too late? He tucked her inert form beneath one arm and stroked toward shore with the other. After what seemed an eternity he reached the dock, and Tory leaned down and dragged the unconscious girl onto the rough planks.
The Angelina before her looked like the ghost she’d first met. Her skin paled to chalk white, and blue rimmed her lips. Tory pressed her fingers to the girl’s neck but could find no pulse.
Rand levered himself onto the pier and lowered his ear to Angelina’s heart. “She’s gone.”
His eyes, as haunted as those of Angelina’s ghost, stared at Tory.
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