by Joanna Shupe
“A-a part.. in your act?” He threw his head back and laughed, the strong cords of his throat popping and shifting under rough skin. She suddenly experienced a sharp urge to drag her tongue over those ridges, to taste his laugh on her lips.
Sakes alive, she had to stop this. She jerked her gaze to the street, mortification burning through her veins. There could be no thoughts of that nature, especially around William Sloane. For pity’s sake, he probably demanded proof of a woman’s pedigree before he agreed to kiss her. Besides, she’d flirted with her baser nature years ago, as a young girl, and where had that gotten her? A lump formed in her throat, and the heavy weight of regret stole her breath.
You played with fire, girl. Now you’ve gone and gotten yourself burned.
Her mother’s shrill voice rang in Ava’s head. Yes, she had been stupid. Not a day went by when she didn’t remind herself never to be stupid again.
He finally stopped laughing, the cad. “I wouldn’t lower myself to a part in your act if it would secure me the presidency.”
“Are you certain? Because I can easily convince John he needs to see me twice a week.”
That drove the amusement from his expression. “You wouldn’t dare. I swear, if you do—”
“Calm down, railroad man. I do have other clients. Even for John, I’m not certain I have the time.” She shot him a glare. “But I could make the time if you don’t leave me alone.”
“I cannot leave you alone until you promise to leave John alone. I have too much to lose if this gets out. Or if you decide to sell his secrets.”
“You have my word I won’t,” she snapped. “Why can’t you accept it and go back to passing out campaign buttons?”
“Forgive me if I have a problem accepting the word of a woman donning a blond wig and adopting a Russian accent—which is abysmal, by the way. Have you ever met a real Russian?”
Mercy, she was tired of insults from this man. As if he had to remind everyone he met how inferior they were to his sublime greatness. “Don’t you have an empire to run? How is it that a man in charge of so much has this much free time to gad about the city?”
“I do not possess any free time,” he said. “Absolutely none. In fact, I left a very important meeting when I learned you were at Bennett’s. Which means my nine o’clock dinner reservations will be forfeit for supper at my desk instead.”
She slid her bottom lip out in a pout. “Oh, you poor, poor millionaire. I’m sure whichever half-witted innocent you were escorting tonight will understand.”
Funny, his eyes stayed on her lips. Did railroad man have an affinity for plump lips? Hers were on the large side, along with her bosom. He’d stared at that a time or two as well, she’d noticed. No doubt he was used to the thin, graceful women of the upper Fifth Avenue set, pale women who remained indoors. Who never had a hair out of place. Who could afford a decent corset to flatten their breasts. Ava’s curves and olive skin probably fascinated him, like one of Barnum’s oddities.
Well, he could stare all he liked. Perhaps she could even use his fascination to her advantage. Men like Will Sloane would not care for an aggressive, modern woman. Undoubtedly, he’d prefer a docile creature who stayed at home, sipping tea, until he returned from his club. Wasn’t that what every spoiled, rich man desired?
If such was the case, a little boldness on her part should scare him off for good.
“Do you ever back down?” he asked her.
She leaned in, pleased to see his gray eyes flash and darken. He smelled faintly of expensive soap, like sandalwood and lemons, and she looked at him through her lashes. “Never,” she whispered. “I never back down, and you would do well to remember it, Mr. Sloane.”
Raising a fist, she pounded on the side of the carriage. “Here, if you please!” The driver pulled to the side of the street and slowed the horse. When they came to a stop, she opened the door. “Thank you for the ride.” Jumping down to the sidewalk, she disappeared into the crowd.
Chapter Three
Will tapped his fingers on the railing and surveyed the well-dressed Saturday evening crowd from his second-tier box. Though opera season had ended prior to Lent, the summer season in Newport hadn’t yet begun, which meant tonight’s benefit performance of Much Ado About Nothing had attracted a large number of society’s elite to the Metropolitan Opera House.
While Will supported the cause—improving the lives of the city’s poor—he’d attended for a very specific reason. He’d recently decided to take a bride.
The time had come. Even his baby sister, the girl he’d raised since the death of their parents when he was sixteen, had married. Why shouldn’t he marry as well? He was almost thirty, after all. He’d sorted some financial troubles a few months back—firing his thieving investment firm and hiring his sister instead—and the Sloane coffers were overflowing once again. He’d even cut loose his mistress, Mrs. Osborne, last week.
The publicity surrounding his nuptials certainly wouldn’t hurt in the campaign, either. Soon, he’d be lieutenant governor, married, and free from the nagging stomach pain plaguing him.
Currently there were four candidates for the honor of becoming the next Mrs. Sloane. Each carefully researched, the families above reproach. All were beautiful and innocent, exactly as his mother had been when she married his father, before Archibald had weighted her down with cruel, biting words.
Will’s marriage would be nothing like his parents’ union. He would respect his bride. He would not cut her down before their son, bringing tears to her eyes over the breakfast table. Ignore her year after year in favor of singers and actresses. No, whomever he chose would be treated carefully, with honor and consideration above all things, until he died.
The image of a tiny brunette with round eyes and an even rounder figure popped into his head. His jaw clenched, remembering how Ava had leaned in and stared up at him in the carriage. Mere inches had separated them, and he easily could’ve closed the distance and kissed her. And for half a beat, he’d been certain she wanted him to. The woman was trouble.
Worse, nothing had been resolved between them. He wanted Ava to stay the hell away from Bennett. Why was that so difficult? Now he’d need to attend her show on Monday just to talk some sense into her. God Almighty, he was getting tired of chasing that charlatan all over New York.
“Will!”
He spun at the sound of his sister’s voice. Lizzie, wearing a stunning white opera gown adorned with ostrich feathers, came toward him. A large figure followed behind her, and Will ground his teeth to smother a sound of annoyance.
Smiling fondly, he went to greet her, kissing her cheek. “Hello, Lizzie. Thank you for joining me. You look beautiful.”
“And you look quite dashing yourself. You remember Emmett.”
A heavy silence descended, and Will forced out, “Cavanaugh.”
His sister’s hulking husband inclined his head. “Sloane.”
“Oh, you two.” Lizzie sighed dramatically, a familiar sound to Will’s ears. He’d taken care of her since she was eight, after all. “Please stop already. I expect you both to be civil.”
Not likely, considering Cavanaugh had seduced Lizzie and nearly ruined her reputation. “Of course,” he said smoothly. “Why would we be anything else?”
“Because you’re the two most stubborn men in New York. But I’m happy tonight so do not spoil the evening for me. That goes for you, too,” she told Cavanaugh over her shoulder.
Her husband took her hand and kissed the gloved knuckles, a besotted look on his face that had Will’s dinner threatening to reappear. “Of course, Elizabeth.”
Will shook his head. Never thought he’d see the mighty Emmett Cavanaugh—former Five Points b’hoy and now the owner of East Coast Steel—tamed by a woman. But it made sense, since Lizzie was unlike any woman on earth, and as long as Cavanaugh remembered that, Will would remain civil.
“Now,” Lizzie said, turning back to Will. “You said it was important that we join you tonight.
Why is that, exactly?”
“I need your help. I’ve decided to marry.”
Cavanaugh barked a laugh, a loud, booming sound that attracted the attention of several of their neighbors. He tried to cover it with a cough, but Will and Lizzie both shot daggers at him.
“Emmett, why don’t you fetch a glass of whatever Will has stocked in the salon? And I’d love some lemonade.”
Wearing a smirk that had Will’s fist clenching, Cavanaugh kissed his wife’s cheek. “I’ll leave you and your brother”—he snickered—“alone for a moment.” Shoulders shaking with amusement, the oaf lumbered away.
“There are so many worthy young men in New York.” Will crossed his arms over his chest. “You could have chosen any man other than him.”
“You forced the marriage, so you only have yourself to blame. But it’s too late because I’m keeping him. I happen to love him madly—and he’s the father of your forthcoming niece or nephew, so be nice.”
“A child whom I categorically believe to have originated through immaculate conception—and do not dare dissuade me of that notion.”
“Of course, dear brother,” she said, patting his lapel. “Just as I pretend not to know about your Mrs. Osborne.”
“You . . .” His mouth fell open. “Lizzie! You should not know of . . .”
“Your mistress?” Lizzie finished blithely, as if hearing that word out of his younger sister’s mouth didn’t mortify the hell out of him. “Yes, I know. Everyone who meets her knows. She brags about you quite openly—not that I’ve lingered to hear details.”
Shooting pain erupted under Will’s sternum, causing him to wince. He’d gone to great lengths to shelter Lizzie, even before their parents died, from any impropriety. Obviously, he’d failed with regard to his mistress. “I no longer have an association with her. I’m serious about this marriage business.”
Lizzie’s gray eyes, so like his own, widened. “My, you must be serious.” She clapped her gloved hands once and then rubbed them together. “Well, then, let’s see . . . There’s my friend, Edith. A bit spirited, but she’s good fun. Then there’s the Chester girl. She’s related to the Roosevelts by marriage.”
He held up a hand. “I’ve already narrowed the choices to four girls: Misses Iselin, Cameron, Baldwin, and Rives.”
Lizzie’s face fell, her brows drawing together. “I hope you’re joking.”
“Of course I’m not joking. Marriage is not something I would joke about. And Miss Cameron has just arrived. I need you to come with me. You know her family better than I do.” He made a move to start up the aisle, but Lizzie put a hand out to stop him.
“Will, those four girls are completely wrong for you. I should like to see you married, but to someone you care about. Someone worthy of you, not some foolish girl who can’t carry a conversation. The Rives girl can hardly remember her own name. Don’t you want the sort of marriage our mother and father had?”
Will nearly winced. Lizzie had no idea of the true nature of their parents’ marriage—and he meant to see it stayed that way.
He gazed out over the sea of black tailcoats and glittering jewels, thinking on the type of marriage he preferred. What he wanted was a peaceful union with measured expectations and traditional duties. An honorable business arrangement with respect and serenity. Lizzie had found love, but Will had no intention of the same for himself. “Come, let’s visit the Cameron box.”
“Why are you in such a hurry? Why not wait until the next round of parties in the fall?”
Stood to reason Lizzie would get the heart of it, and he knew better than to lie to her. In a flash, she’d sense the untruth and dig until he confessed the real reason. “The wedding publicity will help with the election.”
“You want to get married to . . . win votes? Are you insane?”
“Keep your voice down.” He nodded at Mrs. McVickar in the adjoining box, gave the older woman a practiced smile. She blushed and began fanning her face. Satisfied, he murmured to Lizzie, “The public likes a happily married man in off ice, and I need a hostess. I think it’s a sound plan.”
“Of course you do. You’re the groom, not a girl who will someday discover she’s a pawn in your political career. Damnation, Will.”
“I’m not certain I favor the curse words peppering your vocabulary since you married Cavanaugh.”
“Do not try to make this about me. I will not allow you to ruin your life—and someone else’s—just to win.”
“Lizzie, it’ll ruin my life if I don’t win. This is a huge opportunity, and I’m not going to let anything stop me.” Certainly not his sister’s disapproval.
And certainly not some swindler medium out to make a quick buck—even if he did have distracting fantasies about her mouth.
“Will, you already have nearly everything a man could want. You don’t need a political career as well. You drive yourself so hard, and I’ve never understood why. What more do you need to accomplish?”
Logically a part of him knew she was right. He’d never been satisfied with what he had; he always wanted more. Perhaps he’d never have enough. But that was a worry for several years down the road. “A career in politics, that’s what. I wish you’d stop trying to talk me out of my entirely sound ideas, too.”
“Fine, but I am not in approval of said ideas.”
“So noted. Come along to the Cameron box.” He placed her hand on his sleeve and led her toward the back of the box. “You need to leave your husband behind, however. He’ll only scare the others.”
* * *
By the time Lizzie and Will arrived at the Cameron box, the family was talking quietly amongst themselves. Mrs. Cameron noticed them first and came to her feet, dragging Miss Cameron along with her. “Good evening, Elizabeth.” The two women greeted each other while Will shook Mr. Cameron’s hand, and then Mrs. Cameron lifted her hand to Will. “Good evening, Mr. Sloane. How lovely for you to stop by.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Cameron.” Will bowed over her extended hand.
“You both remember my daughter?” She gripped the elbow of the younger woman and pulled her forward a bit.
“Of course,” Lizzie said smoothly. “How beautiful you look tonight, Miss Cameron.”
And the girl did look beautiful, with her light brown hair carefully styled close to her head, highlighting large-yet-tasteful pearl-drop earrings. A matching pearl necklace wrapped her throat in the modest neckline of her fashionable cream gown. Her face was pleasing, pale and unblemished. While she did not set off sparks inside him, neither did she repulse him.
And then she giggled, a girlish, uneven tittering that scraped across the back of his neck like phantom fingernails. “Good evening, Mrs. Cavanaugh,” Miss Cameron said politely before turning to Will and presenting her hand. “Mr. Sloane.”
He performed the obligatory bow. “Miss Cameron.”
That sound—a high-pitched, jagged giggle—emerged again and Will repressed a shudder. Perhaps the girl was nervous. Everyone present knew why the call had been paid, that Miss Cameron was the lure with which to draw a single gentleman into the box. The ritual was no surprise, yet he could imagine it a daunting experience for the lure.
“Are you looking forward to the play?” he asked her.
“Very much,” she replied, another giggle succeeding her words.
Would she titter at everything he said? He turned to his sister, polite smile in place but eyes pleading. Lizzie, being the smartest woman on earth, read him perfectly. She leaned toward Miss Cameron. “Have you seen this particular Shakespeare play performed before?”
“No, I’ve only read it.”
“Lillian is very well read,” her mother said proudly.
Will loved books as well. Perhaps they could start there. “And who is your favorite author, then?”
“Oh, I don’t have a favorite.” A giggle. “Besides, I’d much rather hear your favorite author, Mr. Sloane.”
His mood plummeted. Even without the giggle, a woman unable to vo
ice an opinion would bore him to tears. Too many years with Lizzie, no doubt. His sister never shied from speaking her mind . . . and neither did Ava Jones. He stiffened. Why in God’s name had she popped into his head?
He forced his attention back to the conversation. “I have many,” he answered smoothly. “But I mostly read newspapers and business reports these days.”
Lizzie patted his arm. “My brother is not a good deal of fun, I’m afraid. He works entirely too hard.” Before he could open his mouth to protest, his sister asked, “What do you like to do for fun, Miss Cameron?”
The young woman blinked. “Fun? As in . . .”
“As in fun,” Lizzie said amicably in what Will recognized as a desperate attempt to draw the girl out. “You know, hobbies. Do you have any hobbies or interests besides”—she swept her hand to indicate the opera house—“all this?”
Miss Cameron opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She glanced at her mother, helpless, and Mrs. Cameron said sharply, “My daughter is an accomplished musician. She speaks three languages and will make an excellent hostess one day. Not all women aspire to work in business, Mrs. Cavanaugh.” The older woman’s lips pursed together in clear disapproval over his sister’s decision to open an investment firm.
Lizzie went rigid beside him, and Will acted swiftly, putting an end to the visit before the night took a disastrous turn. “And those are noble endeavors, indeed. I see the performance is about to start. Perhaps we should all be seated. Good evening, ladies.”
As quickly as he could without seeming rude, he escorted his obviously angry sister to the corridor.
“How dare that woman,” Lizzie hissed on the way to Will’s box. “Did you hear her? Did you hear her insult me? The gall of her to—”
“Calm down, Lizzie. Do not waste your anger on such unworthy targets.”
“You are not marrying her. I forbid it.”
He gave a soft chuckle and nodded at a passing acquaintance in the corridor. “I recall saying something similar to you about your husband not too long ago.”
“It’s not funny, Will. She is perfectly wrong for you, and the mother is a monster.”