Horsman, Jennifer

by Crimson Rapture

  "Yes, sir."

  * * * * *

  An invitation to the Phillips ball was a highly sought-after card by Boston's society. The ladies anxiously awaited meeting the beautiful young lady who managed to capture the notorious, infamous, and ever so wealthy Mr. Justin Phillips. And then, too, who could resist an evening of dancing and music, fine food, and new finery? The men had other reasons for looking forward to the ball. They wanted the chance to discuss Jefferson's latest outrage at length, and this with the collective wisdom of everybody who was anybody. They also wanted the chance to ascertain the truth of the rumor that Mr. Phillips planned to run the embargo. Fortunately, just about everyone who wanted a card had received one, for the ball was unquestionably the largest affair of the season.

  Richard's visit successfully distracted from Christina's growing nervousness until the actual day. Justin had employed a dozen more servants for the preparation, as well as the event itself, and, unbelievably, she had almost naught to do to help. She could hardly sit still for the bath, or Aggie's elaborate hairstyling.

  She tried over and over to tell herself that her fears were unfounded and probably irrational too. People would not measure her every move and judge her short. They would not wonder how Justin ever came to marry a meek, socially inept reverend's daughter. They would not sense his animosity toward her and then search for reasons.

  Still every ounce of fear was etched on her face as— feeling every bit like her maid's work of labored art— she finally stood in front of the looking glass. Like staring into puddles, this always caused some small anguish and she quickly reached an unkind judgment. So frightened by it, she could almost cry.

  No observer could possibly understand, much less predict her fears, for there were absolutely no visible grounds for her insecurities. No one except Justin.

  Justin entered her bedroom and he silently motioned the maids out as he stepped quietly behind Christina. He took in everything at a glance, her apprehensions, the inability to see herself as beautiful, every insecurity written in her wide, anxious eyes. And the sight of her standing before the glass like that would remain forever etched in his mind.

  "You're beautiful, Christina."

  It was an understatement. The gown and hair both were fashioned from the French Napoleonic court, currently in love with the ancient classic Greek style. The empire dress was made of a pastel blue silk, with folds of a white transparent-type material over that and all trimmed in a delicate lace. The short puffy sleeves left her shoulders bare. Her hair was lifted into a pile of loose swirls, with the tiniest of curls left to surround her face.

  Christina's gaze focused on his reflection standing next to hers in the glass and, uncertainly, she lowered her lashes, then looked back at her own reflection. She didn't expect a compliment from him and, worse, she couldn't believe it.

  "This dress," she whispered because she was close to losing what small voice she had, "Richard said it was the prettiest and, and—"

  "Christina, sweetheart, look at me," he said quietly, turning her around to face him. She lifted her eyes to him and with a desperate plea for help. "Are you really this afraid?"

  She bit her lip and nodded.

  Justin took her hand and led her to a chair. Before Christina grasped his intent, he lifted her on to his lap. "Close your eyes."

  She hesitated at first, not knowing why or what he was doing.

  "You remember, don't you?" he asked softly. She searched his face, remembering only too well but hardly able to believe he did. His eyes were intense, searching as well. She took the risk; she closed her eyes.

  Justin paused for long minutes as he felt her tension slowly drain from the moment she shut her eyes. She was soon leaning against him, enfolded neatly in his arms, like how many times before? He could feel the slender curves beneath the layers of clothes and, teased by that lavender scent of hers, the same scent she had worn the night of their wedding, his body's response was quick and predictable. He found himself suddenly fighting for control.

  "I want you to remember," he whispered, "a time not so very long ago. A time when you were very much in love." His voice, its rich male timbre and gentle coaxing, the slow caress of his hand, the inexplicable warmth emanating from him and the steady beat of his heart, all effortlessly transported her to that time.

  "Just for tonight, we will remember that time— before anything happened. The time when we were bound by our love forever, before even the birth of our son. Can you remember, Christina?"

  She nodded.

  "Any time tonight you feel afraid, or you feel your shyness start to overwhelm you again, or anything—if someone so much as asks you an impertinent question—I want you to come stand by me. I'll be there for you, Christina," he whispered with feeling. "And together I know you won't be afraid."

  Christina opened her eyes to him and he saw her unexpected hope. He could not resist; he did not try. He sealed the bargain with a kiss. So gentle and sweet, the kiss filled her with a sudden potent rush of her love, that she, too, could not think to stop desire's call. The kiss deepened and before Justin could think to warn her, he felt her arms slide around his neck.

  He stood up, bringing her with him, kissing still. It was worse. Her head tilted back and she pressed her slender figure against him, arching her back, all of which were signals he could hardly resist. He could not think to wonder at her response, nor she his. The bargain effortlessly, quickly ignited something that seemed just waiting to spring to life; a something that hardly cared that people were already gathering downstairs, cared even less that it wasn't supposed to be there under the present circumstances. Mindless and potent, that something wanted only consummation and wanted it now.

  Justin finally pulled her arms from his neck and broke the kiss, startling her by his laughter. "Christina, sweetheart, don't do that to me. Believe me, I'm a man with little to no willpower when it comes to such things. And you have no idea how quickly I could get your clothes off and lower you to the bed."

  "I'm... I'm, sorry, I—"

  "No." He stopped her. "Tonight there will be no apologies, remember?"

  A smile suddenly lifted to her eyes. She would not question this bargain tonight. She needed him tonight and for this one night he was hers again. That was all. She would not even allow herself to hope that it was a new beginning, however fragile.

  "Shall we greet our guests?"

  She nodded and, with a warm smile, he led her out. While she did not dare, he did. Hope burned bright in his heart, a hope that could not be extinguished by his many doubts.

  It was only three o'clock in high afternoon when the last of the first group of guests finally arrived. This party was composed of five couples, plus two unescorted gentlemen, and of course Richard. They would enjoy dinner before the other guests arrived for the ball. Introductions went smoothly, though she knew she could never keep the various names attached to each new face. Richard stood alongside her in the receiving line and Justin too, true to his word, kept firmly by her side.

  Rosarn and Aggie had both drilled her on the finer details of protocol and formalities for the past long week. Her own education on these matters had not been neglected but nothing in which either her father or Madelyne had prepared her could cover an affair as large or formal as this. Any time she stumbled, or suffered a moment's confusion, Justin was there to cover, startling her each time by his natural ease in such a formal setting. It was as though his wit and charm were suddenly set free to dazzle. And this was a man who was just as comfortable, perhaps more so, among a group of hardened, ribald sailors. She thought again of his great polarities of character and could only wonder.

  By four-thirty the party was comfortably seated in the dining room. Hope outdid herself. After the initial brandy drabs and fine ports, after the traditional first two courses, came among other tasty dishes, pot roasts and ham, stuffed potatoes, creamed corn, mixed vegetables, fresh wheat rolls. The table was a lovely sight too and Christina's heightened senses t
ook in every detail. A fine lace tablecloth covered the whole. Each matching piece of crystal, china, and silverware seemed pieces of art themselves. A warm fire and elaborate candelabra threw bright light into the darkening room. The gentlemen looked handsome in their formal black coats and lace collars and their ladies pretty in a smattering of pastel-colored gowns.

  A short speech by Justin convinced everyone present that Dr. Morrison was the most gifted young surgeon the New World had ever chance to lure to her shores. Richard did not argue the point. Mr. Campbell, dean of Harvard, seemed particularly interested, and inquiries into Richard's background began.

  Throughout the dinner, Christina felt in a trance. She had no idea how thoroughly charming others were finding her. Always far more interested in others, her natural tendency was to defer questions back and she did so time and again. A person would politely inquire into her background, then find themselves explaining their own. This created an alluring, through somewhat incongruent, air of mystery yet accessibility. The party became even more interested.

  She heard herself responding, even initiating occasionally. She heard herself laughing too. But there remained a part of herself on a warm sand beach on a distant island, wrapped in his arms before a campfire. She kept looking to him only to discover his gaze had already been upon her.

  Mr. Lowell went into great detail to explain how he got his title "King of State Street," this somehow following an inquiry into Christina's initial association with Justin. He was a determined man, and while he had a number of agendas tonight: discussing the current political situation with Mr. Phillips, sharing a good laugh over the bumbling French idiots, enjoying music and dancing with his lovely wife—now he would capture the elusive Christina Phillips.

  Toward this last measure, the older gent raised his glass in toast. "A toast," he announced to the group at large. "To Christina, the newest, most welcomed, and certainly loveliest addition to our society."

  Christina blushed prettily but refused to share the honor alone. "And to Dr. Morrison," she added softly, "whom I'm sure will prove a far more valuable addition to society."

  Glasses were raised again but Mr. Lowell chuckled. "You deferred yet again, Christina, but this time I shall not let you escape. Besides," he looked at his wife, "Muriel has cautioned me that tonight will be my last if I don't ascertain the truth of those delicious rumors about you." The group laughed good-naturedly. "Once and for all," he said, "do tell—could the fairy-tale romance with your husband possibly be true?"

  "Do tell" came from all corners of the table, echoing all at once.

  Christina looked first shocked, then pale. She suddenly found the napkin on her lap fascinating. She glanced quickly at Justin. He nodded slightly; his smile told her she had naught to fear, that she trespassed safe ground. She turned back to Mr. Lowell. "Dare I ask what rumors need my verification?"

  "The one that has it you met on the ship that carried Justin to prison in what," he growled, "what was yet another attempt by the English to rid our young republic of its best privateers and," he added with a smile, "it was love at first sight?"

  She could not look at the anxious, expectant gazes of the party at large. How had anyone come across this information? Would she never adjust to the American's brass forwardness? "Yes, that's true." She fondled her crystal goblet as she softly replied. "I met Justin on a ship sailing to Australia and, yes, he was an English prisoner."

  "Yes?"

  She paused nervously, then looked at Justin. "I can't answer the rest. I've been taught not to answer for my husband."

  Polite chuckles followed this clever evasion and all heads turned to Justin, whose own gaze rested on Christina. There might not have been anyone else in the room. "A lesson well learned, for I can indeed answer that myself. Yes," he said, remembering the young girl, that long rope of hair and the black widow's weeds, hiding in the corner. "I fell in love the moment I saw her."

  Christina felt his love as a tangible force that bridged the distance between them. No, don't let him make you hope again. It was only for the night. One night to love him again...

  "And you, Christina? Did you fall in love at first sight?" Mr. Lowell persisted.

  "My wife," Justin smiled, "needed a bit more convincing." The group laughed at this. "As for the rest of our auspicious beginnings," he looked directly at Mr. Lowell, "suffice to say," he smiled, "no gentleman would inquire further."

  Hearty laughter followed this obvious end to their curiosity and Christina breathed a sigh of relief. She then rose and, following the age-old tradition, she asked the ladies to join her for tea and music in the parlor before the other guests arrived for the ball while the men enjoyed brandy, tobacco, and, of course, politics.

  The rest of the evening was a blur in her mind. A blur created by a whirlwind of people and laughter, music and dancing. The ball was a huge success. It was well past midnight and closer to dawn when the last of their guests took leave, and when the servants were congratulated and dismissed, when the lights were extinguished and Christina found herself alone in her room.

  She sat at the dressing table in her nightclothes, brushing out her hair. Still filled with the night's excitement, she knew she could find no rest, not after all the people, dancing, and laughter. She thought over all parts of the evening, but again and again she kept returning to those times she found herself dancing in his arms.

  Holding a bottle of sherry and two glasses in his hand, Justin entered her bedroom and, just as he had twelve hours ago, he stepped behind her in the mirror unnoticed. Her hair was brushed smooth, spreading like a giant gold fan over her nightclothes. The less he noticed of the nightclothes, the better, he immediately realized. A single candle lit her reflection. She had a strange, faraway look. What thoughts caused that sweet smile on those lips?

  "What are you thinking of?"

  "Oh!" She turned, rising all at once. "Justin... you startled me!"

  "I didn't mean to. I came to congratulate you." He held up the bottle and glasses, then after setting them on the sitting table, he returned to stand by her. "You were a wonderful success."

  "My thanks to you," she replied sincerely. "You were with me the whole evening and—"

  "No. I'll take no credit for your success," he interrupted with a smile, knowing well how to stop her deferment. "I don't think you realize how quickly people take to you, how much they like you." She watched him expectantly, though with obvious uncertainty. He stood so close she could feel his warmth, a pleasant scent of brandy mixed with tobacco. His hand was suddenly brushing through her hair. "I would ask again. What were you thinking of just then?"

  "I... I was thinking of dancing."

  "Oh? With anyone in particular?"

  She nodded.

  "Dare I inquire who?"

  "I was thinking of you," she whispered but then frightened by the intimacy, she added quickly, "You're a marvelous dancer."

  "So are you." He smiled. Never had any lady fitted so naturally in his arms, or danced so with such light grace. "Especially since your only dance instruction came from Richard and Darrell."

  "How did you know that?"

  "Richard commented as we watched you. He tried to take credit." Justin laughed and Christina smiled. "What happened anyway? Didn't your father know the importance of dance instruction to a young lady's education?" The question was asked lightly and teasingly but he immediately saw in her eyes his mistake.

  "No, he didn't. He thought dance instruction—"

  "—Frivolous, like your sketchbooks," he finished for her. She nodded and he expected her to next excuse her father's petty tyrannies and was surprised when she didn't.

  "It's such a small thing really, but sometimes I don't think men realize that, that..." She groped for the right words.

  "That small things can be important?"

  "Yes." She nodded and with a wave of her hand to dismiss what she would next say. "I remember trying to understand, even believe that dance instruction was frivolous. In my
youth and idolization I tried to believe everything he did. Yet, the dance instructor would come to town and I would watch all the other young girls run off to lessons. They would each carry these special cotton, sometimes even silk slippers in their hands—to replace their boots and oh—" she smiled thinking of it, "how I wanted a pair of slippers like that. If ever I have a daughter, I'm going to get her a dozen—" She stopped abruptly realizing her reference to a daughter and she looked at Justin for his response.

  He made no response at first, though his eyes were suddenly alive with amusement and, yes, fondness. He was looking at her as before, when they had been very much in love. She felt suddenly confused again, unable to understand his apparent change in attitude, still unwilling to harbor any hope.

  "No," his hand lightly caressed her cheek, "don't be frightened. I'll ignore the reference to our daughter, at least for now." He smiled. He then led her to the sitting table, where he poured the sherry. "At the risk of ruining our lovely evening, I want to explain something to you," he began. "I, too, was thinking of dancing. I was thinking that after all I've known you, after all we've been through together, I have not— until this very night—shared such a simple thing as dancing with you. It made me think of a hundred other things I've not done with you. The small things that are indeed important."

  He struggled for several long moments. What he was trying to say was that he wanted a new beginning. He wanted to start at the beginning he had never given to her. He wanted to court her; to take her wining and dining, dancing and to the theater. He wanted to buy her things: dresses and hats and trinkets, send her flowers and cards—the whole lot of what he had never given her. He wanted to win her love back again.

  Beginnings were fragile, theirs more so than most. And he was not even sure it was possible. But if it were possible, he needed to understand what had happened.

  Christina had waited through his pause, not knowing what to make of it, yet alone knowing what to make of his speech. She would not hope, not matter what—she would not hope and, despite this, her best effort, a small twinge of expectancy made her pulse flutter wildly.