The day moved on toward evening and the heat intensified, the breeze stilled. Agatha grew hot and weary. Scott grew impatient. Violet drank too much champagne punch and flirted outrageously with a portly merchant named Monroe Hixby. Willy came tattling that he’d found the pair kissing in the grape arbor. Agatha wished she, too, could escape to the grape arbor for some stolen kisses and time alone with her groom. While visiting with one of Waverley’s current paying guests, a Mr. Northgood from Boston, she restrained a sigh and searched furtively for Scott. She saw him across the lawn, tipping his head toward Mrs. Northgood. As if he felt Agatha’s gaze, he looked up and this time when their eyes met they exchanged no smiles.
I want to be alone with you, his long-suffering look said.
And I with you, hers replied.
Mrs. Northgood rambled on about the cost of heating homes in Boston in the winter, but Scott heard little of her prattle. He watched Gussie straightening her spine and pressing her left hip as she turned to attend to something Northgood was saying. Scott frowned and touched his guest’s elbow, interrupting her filibuster as she drew a breath. “Would you excuse me, Mrs. Northgood?” he asked, his concerned eyes fixed on his bride. Then he skirted the surprised woman and headed across the grass to give Gussie some needed relief.
Reaching her, he took her elbow proprietarily.
“I believe your wife is lookin’ for you, Mr. Northgood.”
Without apology, he led Gussie up the marble steps, across the crowded rotunda, and into his office, where a group of three men sat smoking cigars and talking commodities.
“Gentlemen, would you excuse us, please? We’re expectin’ Reverend Oliver with the marriage certificate for us t’ sign.”
The three moved off apologetically into the rotunda and he closed the door behind them.
“But we’ve already signed the marriage certificate,” Gussie reminded him.
“I know.” He turned to find her standing in the middle of the office floor wearing a weary grin, her weight on one foot—a sure sign that she was tiring. “I wish they’d all leave,” he said baldly.
“How unkind of us to say so.”
“You’re tired.”
“A little.” He came toward her slowly, arms at his sides.
“I saw you rubbin’ your hip, and now you’re keepin’ your weight off it.”
“It’s nothing. It always aches at the end of the day.”
Without warning, he swept her up in his arms and dropped to a deep leather wing chair, draping her feet over its arm. Smiling, she looped her arms around his neck, while he settled them comfortably, slumping back, dropping an ankle over a knee. A teasing grin climbed his cheek, bringing one dimple into play.
“So. Agatha Noreen, is it?” He lazily pulled the bow from his tie.
“It is.”
“Now why didn’t I know that before?”
She playfully coiled a lock of his hair around her finger. “A woman without secrets is like an answered riddle. There’s nothing to guess about.”
“Oh, so I married a woman who’ll keep secrets from me.”
“Now and then, maybe.”
“So tell me, Agatha Noreen Gandy, what else don’t I know about you?”
“Mmm...” She tilted her head back and appeared thoughtful, threading her fingers together at the back of his neck. “Justine visited me today.”
“Really?”
“Just before the wedding, in our room. I made my peace with her, I think.”
“And so you believe me now.”
“I always did, didn’t I? I believe she was right there in the parlor, witnessing our exchange of vows. And I think she approved.”
His absolute love for her became reflected in his eyes as they roved over her face. He ran a single fingertip from her hairline down her nose to her mouth, where it gently misshaped her lower lip while his dark eyes followed the movement.
When he spoke, he wore no smile. His voice was low. “Mrs. Gandy, I’ve been dyin’ t’ kiss you all day.”
Her heart fluttered as he satisfied his urge, joining his mouth to hers while she tightened her arms around his neck. His shoulders came away from the back of the chair and pressed her across his lap. Their tongues joined in lush complement. Their blood and skin and muscle hearkened. Their hearts took up an impatient beat as his hand came from beneath her knees to caress her breast within its tight confines of ivory silk.
Her breathing hastened, rushed out against his cheek. Her flesh changed shape and he fondled it with his thumb, feeling its hard core pressing up to meet his touch.
“Shall I send them all away?” he whispered against her mouth, his hand still at her breast, shaping and reshaping her as this day had reshaped her life.
“I wish you could,” she murmured.
He kissed her once more, wetting her lips, feeling his own washed by her tongue, letting his hand play down her ribs, along her hip, to her stomach, flat and hard and withheld from him by her tight, satin skirt. Down farther, to the suggestion of femininity between her legs where he was again thwarted by the stovepipe shape of the garment, which allowed no room for exploration.
She rolled close, freeing the rear of her dress in invitation. He slipped his hand between it and the free-hanging rear drapery, found a tape tie, and tugged, then slid his hand inside against her warm curves, down the back of one thigh.
Their kiss grew insatiable, brought the thump of impatience resounding through their bodies.
Someone knocked on the door. “Mr. and Mrs. Gandy?” Reverend Oliver opened it and stuck his head inside. “Somebody said you wanted me in here?”
Agatha and Scott started guiltily to their feet, their faces aflame.
“Oh... uh... yes!” Scott groped for a plausible explanation and suddenly remembered the gratuity. He leaned over the desk, opening its center drawer from the opposite side. “I wanted t’ give you this.” He withdrew an envelope. “It’s not much, but we want you t’ know we appreciate your performin’ the service in our house, especially on a hot day like this.” He shook Reverend Oliver’s hand. “Thank you again.”
“My pleasure.” The minister pocketed the envelope. “It isn’t often I get to perform the wedding service in a setting like this. Definitely my pleasure.” He smiled benignly, adding, “And of course I wish you a lifetime of happiness. Looks to me like you’re well on your way to that already.”
“We are, sir,” Scott agreed, then reached for Agatha’s hand and drew her against his side, interweaving their fingers.
“Well...” The minister ran a finger around the inside of his clerical collar. “It is a hot one, isn’t it? Believe the wife and I will bid our good-byes and head for home.”
Scott left Agatha to see him out and she lost her husband once more to their guests, ending their brief escape and interlude.
It was well after eleven o’clock before they saw the last of the carriage lanterns flicker off down the road. Everyone was gone at last and the houseguests had disappeared to their rooms. Willy had finally collapsed and Scott had carried him upstairs. In the dining room the punch bowl was empty. The remnants of the celebration lay scattered in the front parlor and on the lowest steps of the double stairways, waiting for morning to be cleared away.
“Y’all wants I should put out d’ gas jets in heah?” asked Leatrice, entering the rotunda, where Scott and Gussie sat on the bottom step.
“No, I’ll do it. You go on t’ bed, Leatrice.”
“Reckon I will. Mah bunions is killin’ me.” But she waddled over and stood before them. “It wunt mah place t’ say it befo’, but now dat y’all took a missus agin... well, it’s ‘bout time ya come t’ your senses. And ya sho’ picked a good one, Master. Yo’ mama an’ daddy be pleased. Maybe now Waverley have some pickaninnies, like it ought to. Been too many yeahs since any babies born in dese walls. Yessuh, too many yeahs. Now come here and let Leatrice give y’all a hug ‘fore she starts runnin’ salt all ovuh de floors.”
He rose and hu
gged her. Tall as he was, his arms wouldn’t reach around her, but he rocked her lovingly and kissed her wiry hair.
“Thank y’, sweetheart.”
Immediately, she pushed him away and smacked him with mock severity. “Watch who you callin’ sweethot, ya young pup.” Next she swung to Agatha, motioning. “You next, girl. Come heah so I can git dis bawlin’ ovuh wid an’ res’ mah bunions.”
Then Agatha took her turn at being enfolded against Leatrice’s spongy bulk.
“Ah loves dat boy,” came her scraping voice at the bride’s ear. “Y’all be good t’ him, heah?”
“I will. That’s a promise.”
“An’ have lots o’ pickaninnies. He be good at daddyin’.”
With that final word of advice, she set Agatha from her and waddled out the back door, grumbling once more about her bunions.
When she was gone, Scott and Agatha looked at each other and laughed. Then the laugh faded and they stood in silence, alone, with Leatrice’s parting injunction and its underlying message drawing their thoughts to the big rosewood bed above.
“Wait here,” Scott whispered, and left her standing while he extinguished the jets. In total darkness he found her once more, kissed her with a deep mingling of tongues, and lifted her into his arms to carry her upstairs. In their room the overhead flames flickered softly and the jets gave off a faint hiss. He took her inside and closed the door with a heel and still they kissed, savoring the realization that they were free to express their love in whatever way they desired. At last.
They lingered for long savory minutes of fully clothed delight, letting the wondrous sexual suppression build. He lifted his head and they gazed into each other’s eyes. The flames from the overhead chandelier seemed to catch and flare within his dark irises and her pale ones. Their breathing had grown erratic and their pulses drummed in strange places within their bodies. He let her feet slip to the floor and still they stared, while his hands rested at the sides of her breasts... close, but still delaying.
“Mrs. Gandy,” he said rejoicingly. “God, I can’t believe it.”
“Neither can I. Tell me I’m not dreaming.”
“You’re not dreamin’. You’re mine.”
“No, Mr. Gandy, I believe it’s you who are mine.”
He took both her hands and held them loosely. “And happy t’ be.”
“Can wives really kiss their husbands any time they choose?”
“Any time they choose.”
She kissed him, simply to exercise her right—a chaste, light kiss on the mouth, but a miracle nonetheless to one who’d for so long had nobody. He let himself be kissed, standing docilely, and when it was over he smiled warmly into her uptilted face. “I used t’ like the involved kisses, but the simple ones have their own sort of appeal, don’t they?”
In answer she gave him a far wetter one, ending with a surprising amount of suction. “I like them all.”
He laughed and slipped an arm around her shoulders, turning her toward the room. “Someone has been here and prepared a few surprises, it looks like.”
“Violet,” Agatha whispered fondly, her eyes sweeping the room.
Who but dear Violet? She had turned down the bed and freed the netting from the corner posts, sending crosschecked shadows over the crisp white sheets. She had brought up one of the baskets of sweet, sweet lilies from the front parlor and set it on the commode beside the bed, from where their heady perfume filled the entire room. And, irrepressible romantic that she was, she had carefully laid out Agatha’s newly made white nightgown with its lovingly crafted open work across the bodice and its narrow blue ribbon waiting to be tied in a bow beneath a bride’s virginal breasts.
The room glowed softly in the light of the gas lamps, the flowers bade a welcome, as did the soft shadows within the netting. The window sashes were lifted to the night air and into one a white moth flitted, moving to explore a woman’s brush and hair receiver upon the bureau, then on toward the flowers and finally to the white net, where it beat its wings to no avail. Not even a moth would be allowed to disturb the two who’d lie there. All this from Violet.
“She insisted on making the nightgown herself,” Agatha told Scott, “wishing all the time she could be here instead of me.” He might have denied her claim, but her respect for him grew because he didn’t. Because he understood love in its many guises more than any human being she had ever known.
“Would you like t’ put it on now?” he asked simply.
Her cheeks flared but she lifted her face. “It’s been so hot today. Could we... I mean...” She glanced at the pitcher and basin. “I thought I might like to wash up first.”
“Would y’ like t’ take a swim?”
“A swim?” Her eyes flew to his.
“It wouldn’t take long. We can be in and out like a flash.”
She thought longingly of the cool, cleansing water and welcomed the temporary reprieve.
“Together?”
“Of course.” He took her by both arms and turned her around, began freeing the buttons that held her rear draperies on. “We’ll be settin’ habits tonight, habits we’ll probably keep for the rest of our life. A swim before bedtime might be one we’d never be sorry we started.”
But she knew the habit he was concerned with was not the one of which he spoke, but the one he was initiating behind her at this very moment. Nonchalantly, he stepped around her and laid her outer skirt across one of the matched blue chairs. She watched with her heart hammering in her throat, thinking of the padding on her hip. As if it were most natural, he returned and set about freeing the buttons down the back of her dress. When it was open he kissed her shoulder, then circled her and skimmed the dress down her arms and held her hand as she stepped out of it. When it, too, lay on the chair, he removed his jacket and tossed it atop the dress, then returned to stand close before her. She was fully aware that her cotton combination revealed the vague image of nipples underneath. He let his eyes drift down to them briefly, then back up.
“Is there anything you’d like t’ do?” he asked quietly, waiting. “There’s no need t’ ask, y’ know.”
She glanced up, then quickly down, and her fingers trembled as she reached for his vest buttons.
“I’m afraid I won’t be very good at this.” She laughed nervously.
He tipped up her chin. “You must promise never t’ apologize at these times. And you must certainly know that nothin’ pleases a man more than a blushin’ woman.”
His words only added rose to the pink already in her cheeks. When the vest was free she stood behind him and removed it—too formally, she realized too late, though he didn’t seem to mind. He loosened his cuff buttons while she applied herself to those on his chest. When all were open to his waistband, she looked up and laughed nervously again, unconsciously gripping one hand with the other.
“Pull it out,” he ordered softly. “Then the next move is mine.”
His trousers were tight. When she tugged at his shirttails, his hips swayed toward her, but he only grinned and let her struggle. The tails were warm from his body, pressed into a network of wrinkles. Looking at them seemed as intimate as studying the flesh that had warmed them and made her heart canter. To show she had some spirit, she sailed the shirt across the room and let it fall near the chair. But when he reached for the button on the waist of her petticoat, she grabbed his hand.
“Scott... I...”
His hands stilled but remained at the button. “Are you shy? Don’t be shy, sweets,” he said, touching her cheek.
“Be warned... I’m... I’m crooked.”
His brows lowered. “You’re what?”
“I’m crooked. My deformity... my hips... one is lower than the other and I... I pad one... and... and...” She had stammered only once in her life, after she had been attacked in Proffitt. How disconcerting, how embarrassing to be doing so again, half-undressed before her bridegroom.
But he attacked the problem directly. He put both hands on her hips
and squeezed. “Is that what this is about? This puny wad of battin’ I feel here? Let’s see.” In an instant her petticoat lay at her feet and her secret was exposed. He held her by the hips, dipped his knees and bent back, inspecting her. “I knew a woman once who put these in her bodice. Stuck my hand in there and came up with a bale o’ cotton instead of a breast, and you can imagine what I... oh, damn my hide, I don’t think I was supposed t’ say that on my weddin’ night, was I?”
Long before he finished she was laughing. She flung her arms about his neck. “Scott Gandy, I love you. I was so worried about it. So terribly worried.”
“Well, worry no more, my lady. The point is, nobody’s perfect, includin’ me.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not. Come here and sit down.” He hauled her toward the portable steps beside the high bed. “You’re not shy about your feet, are y’?”
“My feet?”
“Because I’m goin’ t’ take your shoes off.”
He nabbed a buttonhook from the bureau and squatted before her wearing nothing but his wrinkled ivory trousers. Taking her heel in hand, he placed her foot flush against his crotch, and she couldn’t help staring at the unexpected sight. Each time he wielded the hook, her foot bobbed against him. Heat rose in her body and her imagination ran wild. The shoe came off and he set it aside carefully, taking her silk-clad foot firmly in both hands, massaging it. She lifted her eyes to find his rising from the dark patches at her breasts to her own eyes.
“Anybody ever taken your shoes off before?”
“N... no.” Her eyes skittered down again, drawn against her will to the seam of his trousers, then up his corded arms to the scar on the left one.
He kissed her instep. She felt her face grow hot, her insides liquefy, as he regarded her with apparent calm. When he spoke, his voice was unnaturally silky.
The Gamble (I) Page 48