The Duplicitous Debutante (Cotillion Ball)

by Becky Lower

  Perhaps they could pick up the reins of the conversation during intermission. With a plan in place to pick up the topic later, Rosemary directed her attention forward, to the stage. But she left her hand enveloped in Henry’s. Scandalous behavior, to be certain. She smiled. If he, and the rest of proper society, only were aware of the depths of her scandalous behavior. Once Rosemary’s duplicity was exposed, she would probably not be welcomed into the Cooper household, at least not by Henry’s father. Perhaps Marguerite would recognize a kindred spirit, but Rosemary was certain his father would not open his arms to her.

  If Henry truly wanted a reason to incur his father’s wrath, going against his father’s wishes that he marry into society might be enough reason for Henry to spurn her, despite his request tonight to court her. But if he adhered to the archaic notions of his backward father, would she want to spend eternity with him anyway? She reminded herself of her mission, which was to make Henry fall in love with her so he could not deny the continuation of the contract when she finally revealed herself as the true author of the Harry Hawk series. Harry and Penelope were depending on her to get this right. Rosemary straightened in her chair but didn’t loosen her grip on Henry’s hand. She sensed a duel about to happen, and she had best use every weapon in her arsenal to win the battle. En garde, Mr. Cooper. Both father and son.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Rosemary stood at intermission when Henry did, and they stretched their backs and legs. They had held hands during the entire first half of the play, and her palm was exceedingly warm. Even so, she was loath to release it from Henry’s grasp. Still holding hands, they moved to the theatre foyer to obtain some refreshments.

  Henry finally dropped her hand as the drinks were served. They moved off to the side of the room and spent a few minutes discussing the play while they drank the tangy lemon punch. Finally, Rosemary had enough of their small talk. Merely thinking of Harry and Penelope, and the precarious position in which she’d left them, compelled her to action. She decided to pick up the thread of their earlier conversation.

  “Let’s return to the discussion we were having before the play began,” she said, moving closer to him. “Do you agree with your father’s line of reasoning about Marguerite’s place in the world, and the place of all women?”

  Henry studied her closely and smiled slightly. “You remind me of a dog with a bone. Let’s just say my father and I tend to disagree more than we agree most of the time.”

  Rosemary wanted to stomp her foot again. Or punch Henry in the nose. He had given her a non-answer. She had to press the point.

  “But on this particular issue. Do you agree your sister should be resigned to only having babies and doing charitable works?”

  Henry ran a hand over his eyes. “My father’s business is called Cooper and Son, not Cooper and Family. He has no plans to change it.”

  “You could, unless you agree with him.”

  Henry gave her a glance she could only describe as speculative. Then, in a quick move, he removed the drink glass from her hand and set it, along with his own, on a conveniently placed tray. He took her hand again and led her to the small closet where coats from various attendees were stored. He backed her up against the wall at the end of the row of coats before she realized what was happening and captured her lips. She gasped in surprise as his tongue sought entry into her mouth. Her hands went to his shoulders to push him away, but his masculine scent overwhelmed her senses. Her hands instead encircled him as she melted against his muscular body. She moaned slightly, and the sound woke her from her stupor. She broke the kiss and moved a step away from him and from the coats that had hidden their indiscretion from the public. Or at least she hoped so.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked in a whisper as she ran a finger over her lips.

  “I figured it was the only way you would drop the subject of my father and his business ideas. And it worked. Shall we now return to the box for the remainder of the performance? Or shall I haul you to the back of the closet again and kiss you once more?”

  He smiled as he held out a hand to her. She still had no answers. Only questions. And a body that yearned for more of Henry’s touch.

  Why was her stomach fluttering so? Things were proceeding as she had planned, weren’t they? She wanted him to be attracted to her, right? And he obviously was, judging from the way her lips were bruised. But she should have better control around him, and it was confounding her that she didn’t seem to be able to keep her hands off him.

  • • •

  The afternoon following the play, Rosemary sat in the parlor with her mother sharing a pot of peppermint tea as they worked on refining their embroidery stitches. Rosemary’s stitches were not anywhere close to her mother’s perfect ones. And today, she had little patience for the work. She finally tossed the hoop to the side with a huff. “Mother, may I speak candidly with you for a moment?”

  “Certainly, dear. Shall we talk about the intriguing Mr. Cooper?” Her mother’s eyes roamed over Rosemary’s face.

  “Well, yes, my questions are about Mr. Cooper. Whether or not he’s intriguing is a moot point for the matter of this discussion, though. Last night, he told me his father’s views on the rights of women, but I can’t determine whether Henry shares those views. If he agrees with his father that the business should be only Cooper and Son, and not Cooper and Family. I can’t tell how he feels about the idea of letting his sister join the business, as I suggested. And until I do, I can’t be totally honest with him about who F.P. Elliott really is. Sooner or later, Henry’s going to tire of my excuses why the author can’t at least meet with him, especially if he comes to the house for dinners and such. But I can’t risk exposing myself to him if he’s of the same mindset as his father, and a woman is only a trifle, someone to grace his arm during a night at the theatre, someone to have his children so he may further his lineage. I’m truly at a loss on how to proceed.”

  “Have you asked him, point-blank?”

  Rosemary crossed her legs at the ankles. “Yes, of course I have. And I got answers that didn’t really address the issue. He said his father and he disagree on many topics, but he didn’t specify if this topic was one of them. When I attempted to press the issue, he distracted me.”

  Her mother turned a knowledgeable gaze toward her. “How exactly did he distract you?”

  Rosemary studied the pattern in the Aubusson rug. The design swirled, much as her thoughts did. And her emotions.

  “He, uh, kissed me.” Just thinking about their encounter in the coat closet made her body hum with pleasure.

  “In public? At the theatre? I see.”

  Rosemary finally raised her eyes to her mother, and was surprised to find the beginnings of a smile on her face rather than the scowl she expected.

  “What do you see? You can’t tell me you approve of such scandalous behavior on his part. What shall I do, Mother?”

  “Well, such outrageous behavior in a public place means only one thing. You can’t be left alone with him anymore. I’ll need to chaperone you, or one of the maids will, every time you are to meet. You shall continue to see him, invite him to dinners here, you can even continue your fencing lessons with him, accompanied, of course, at all times. But what needs to happen is for him to fall in love with you, to be so eager to get you alone again, he’ll propose to you. So that means he can no longer sample your kisses or do more than hold your hand. It will drive him mad with desire. Then, and only then, when he offers the world to you on a silver platter, you can tell him you are truly the mastermind behind F.P. Elliott. The man will not be able to turn you away once his heart is engaged.”

  Rosemary gave her mother a speculative stare. “Mother, you should be the one writing the dime novels, not me. Both you and Dorcas believe I should maneuver Henry to fall in love with me, and I’ve been trying to do so. But every time I’m with him, I feel reckless and out of control. Do you really think it will work?”

  “Your father
can deny me nothing, correct?”

  Rosemary grinned. “Yes, it’s true. You do have him wrapped around your little finger.”

  “Well, it didn’t begin that way. George thought he was running the show when we first met. Oh my, but he was a fine looking man …”

  Her mother’s gaze became unfocused, and Rosemary attempted to steer the older woman’s thoughts back to the present. To Rosemary’s battle.

  “So, you were as attracted to him as he was to you, right? How did you gain control of the situation?”

  “I kept a tight rein on my emotions when I was with him. I teased him, of course, and allowed him to kiss my fingers. I made certain we were never alone together once I began to develop feelings for him, since I was unsure if I could control either him or myself. But I didn’t let him know my heart was beating as hard as his when we were together, until he proposed to me. Then I let my feelings be known to him.”

  “So I need to keep my heart locked away when I’m with him?”

  “Only if it’s on the verge of getting in the way. Your career is of utmost importance to you, is it not? So, if you want to preserve it, you’ll treat Henry Cooper as if he means nothing to you. He’s only someone you have business dealings with, and an occasional evening in each other’s company, until the true love of your life comes along. You might even want to invent other suitors, to spark some jealousy from him and make him realize he’d best be hasty in announcing his intentions. That tactic is what finally spurred your father to action. He became exceedingly fearful that another man would claim me before he could make his intentions known.” Her mother sighed at the memory before she continued. “Then, when Henry gets to one knee, you can let him know he’s the only man you’ve ever been attracted to.”

  Rosemary sighed softly. “Easier said than done, I’m afraid. I believe he already knows I become putty in his hands.”

  “It needn’t be for long, my dear. I witnessed the two of you last night, sharing whispers and holding hands when you thought no one was paying attention. It won’t take more than a few weeks for him to come around. That is, if you deny him the right to fondle you. And if you have the willpower to last for a couple of weeks. Just remember what you’ve accomplished so far in your life.”

  “I hope you’re right, Mother.”

  “You do find him intriguing then?”

  Rosemary stood, signaling an end to the conversation. “Yes, Mother. Intriguing can be added back into the conversation. I find him complex, handsome, exotic, even. And with a past as dark as his hair.”

  “Sounds as if he’d make a good hero for one of your stories, dear.” Charlotte picked up her embroidery.

  Her mother might be on to something. Rosemary sprinted up the stairs to her garret room and took out her writing supplies. She had to finish her Harry Hawk story, but it was never too early to write down her ideas for the next one. Maybe her hero for her new series could be a man with a dark past and a good heart. A man whose body was as sculpted as the sword he preferred to carry. Whose long dark hair was tied back into a queue, and whose brown eyes snapped with excitement and lust whenever he was in her company. Her heroine’s company, she meant.

  She grabbed the pinafore from its hook on the door and donned it over her day dress. Then she sat at her desk and began to compose her next story. Harry Hawk’s series was about to end, at least what had been contracted for. Once she told Henry who the true author was, he might not extend a new contract to her, and he might insist on his company retaining all rights to the Harry Hawk series. But a death sentence for her series didn’t mean she couldn’t write about a new hero and take it to a new publisher. There was no reason her career should end just because Henry Cooper might be cut from the same cloth as his father. She settled into her new story. If her hero resembled Henry Cooper, he couldn’t really say anything about it, could he? She hoped her ink supply would hold out until she got to the end of her idea.

  • • •

  Henry’s mind had been muddled for the remainder of the theatrical performance a few evenings ago, and ever since. Merely touching Rosemary’s hand through the layer of her glove cloth had been torment enough. When he’d backed her into a corner in a most ungentlemanly fashion and surrounded her in a mountain of fur and wool before he’d captured her lips, he’d been done for. If anyone had walked into the closet in search of their outerwear, they would have found a whole lot more than a coat. What had he been thinking?

  Regardless of whether they were in proper, upright Boston or slightly more outgoing New York, such behavior was unacceptable in high society. Maybe in New Orleans, where convention was thrown to the wind, but not in a refined theatre in the heart of New York City. He ran his hands over his face as he relived their closet encounter. If anyone had walked in on them, Henry would’ve been forced to marry Rosemary before the next day ended. Perhaps, in the far recesses of his mind, that had been his motivation all along.

  He was grateful his dress jacket had been long enough to cover his stirring manhood, but it still had been a most uncomfortable way to spend the second half of the play. Every time he’d thought he had control of himself, she’d lean into him to make a comment. One sniff of her perfume, and his shaft had swelled again. A tendril of her hair had escaped her stylish chignon and brushed his cheek as she’d leaned over to whisper something about the play. He had no idea what she’d said. Another time, her breast had touched his arm, nearly driving him to his knees. It almost seemed as if she’d been toying with him. Taunting him. He could not have endured much more sweet agony, and had breathed a sigh of relief when the curtain had dropped on the play and the evening had begun to wind down.

  She’d asked a myriad of questions about the business and his family. Since he was getting to know hers a bit better, having shared a meal and an evening out, it was only fair, he guessed, she should have some questions about his background. And it was also reasonable she should expect some answers. But while he had no problem talking about the business arrangement between him and his father, talking about the man himself was something else again. Rosemary didn’t need to know the depths of his father’s cruelty.

  He didn’t want to reveal the real reason he ended up in New Orleans when he was just fourteen. That his father couldn’t abide his own son, just because his firstborn favored his mother’s coloring. Over the years, Henry tried to believe Marguerite’s interpretation of the facts. She said their father loved their mother so much, and Henry was a constant reminder of her, that was why he was sent away. Marguerite might believe it so, but it was because she still held their father in a much better light than Henry. Deep down, he believed otherwise. His father had torn the family apart, separating Henry and Marguerite from each other at a time when they had needed each other desperately.

  In Henry’s mind, his father had made one impetuous mistake by marrying a French woman. His Brahmin friends had turned their backs on him when he had brought her to Boston to live. With her death, Maxwell Cooper had been able to resume his place among Boston’s elite. Having Henry out of the way had eased things along. His fair-haired child, Marguerite, had been introduced to society, and his other offspring, his darkly handsome French-tinged son, had been forgotten.

  Until his latest venture, the publishing takeover, had come up. Maxwell was an astute businessman and wanted to expand his empire. He could do so by using Henry. The New York location was perfect—far enough away from Boston so Henry still wouldn’t be a daily reminder of Maxwell’s wife, yet close enough for his father to keep an eye on him.

  Regardless of how he had arrived in New York, all Henry had needed to do at the theatre was glance to his left, where Rosemary sat, to appreciate his father’s decision to take over the small publishing house. On an impulse, Henry had reached for Rosemary’s hand again, and begun to unbutton her glove.

  “What are you doing, Mr. Cooper?” she had asked while holding the program in front of her face.

  “What I should have done earlier. I want to touc
h your delicate skin, not some fragile cloth.”

  He had tugged on the glove and peeled it away from her hand. Henry had given her entire right hand a long perusal, noticing especially the fresh ink stains on her fingers. As he entwined his fingers between hers, an idea came into his mind. What if F.P. Elliott really didn’t exist? What if the person who wrote the lively novels about the Wild West was really a woman? And what if the woman happened to be sitting next to him right then? What a crazy idea. But not without some merit. Mr. Fitzpatrick took pride in telling him their family was a bit different from the norm. What if the author hiding somewhere in the brownstone was really one of his daughters rather than an eccentric male relative? How unconventional. How different. How like the Fitzpatricks.

  The rest of the play had gone on without him. His mind had whirled with the possibility young Rosemary Fitzpatrick was trying to outsmart him. She’d paraded herself in front of him posing as a secretary for several weeks, so he was well aware she could be cunningly duplicitous. Was her duplicity then only a ruse to mask her real identity? His mind drifted with the possibility. What would his straight-laced father think if one of the best-selling authors in Henry’s publishing house were a woman? And not just any woman. A highbred lady. Henry’s mouth had turned up at the corners with the thought. How ironic would it be if Maxwell Cooper padded his pockets with the efforts of a mere woman?

  Was the entire family in on the duplicity? Henry’s eyes had bounced around the box, as he’d glanced at George Fitzpatrick first. George had been trying to cover for Rosemary on the night of the Cotillion, passing himself off as the elusive author before Charlotte had spoiled that deception. Henry had run his gaze over Mrs. Fitzpatrick. She had smiled serenely at him and nodded when she noticed the entwined hands.