by Forever Wild
He heard a rustle at the door, and turned. Willough was there, floating out on a cloud of pink silk foulard and looking like an angel. He frowned, examining her more closely. Something was different. It wasn’t just her hair, arranged in soft curls and ringlets that cascaded down her back, or the spray of flowers she’d tucked behind one ear. Her whole attitude seemed changed, the way she moved, smiled, carried her head.
“Good morning, Daddy.” She kissed Brian on the cheek. “Arthur…” She smiled fleetingly in his direction—friendly, impersonal, indifferent—and turned her attention to Stanton. “Nat.” The voice was soft and melting. Stanton crossed the veranda to her and stared deeply into her eyes before leading her to a place at the table.
Damn! thought Arthur. Something’s happened between them! He should have come back into the house with her last night, made sure Stanton had retired. He cursed his own stupidity. He should have taken her, no matter what. The thought that she might have lost her virginity to Stanton last night enraged him more than anything else. He studied them both again. No. It wasn’t likely. Stanton didn’t seem the type. And Willough still had that air of fragile innocence. If Stanton had educated her in the ways of sex last night, she’d either be brazenly bold this morning or blushing with remembered shame. He smiled in satisfaction. It gave him a certain comfort to think she was still in the dark. He would enlighten her when she came to New York City for his party.
Brian looked up from the plate of food he’d been shoveling into his mouth, and motioned to the servant. “Ah. Martha. Is that the mail?”
“Yes, sir.”
He riffled the few letters. “Bills!” He sniffed. “When they want to be paid, they can find you. A letter from my dear wife. She needs more money, I don’t doubt. Here’s one for you, Willough.”
Willough had been picking at her food, exchanging shy glances with Stanton. She looked up in surprise. “For me?” She took the letter and ripped it open, smiling delightedly as she read it over. “It’s from Drew!”
Brian snorted. “My artist son? What’s he up to now?”
“Oh, Daddy! It’s wonderful! He’s got himself married, and now they’re both on the way to Paris, France, where he plans to paint.”
“Dammit, he’s no son of mine,” Brian growled. “Martha, what the hell did you put into that coffee? Bring me a glass of mineral water!” He turned to Willough with a scowl. “I don’t want to hear you mention your brother’s name again.”
Willough looked up from the letter. “Her name’s Marcy. He sounds very happy,” she said softly.
“Wife or no wife, he’s no good to me unless he’s working beside me at the ironworks.”
Arthur said, “I’ll have to send him a wedding present. I was always very fond of Drew.”
Brian smiled in malice. “So was Isobel. I wonder what she thinks of this news?”
“She doesn’t know,” said Willough. “Drew has asked us to tell her.”
Arthur arose from his chair, put on his gloves, picked up his hat. “I’ll tell her. It will be easier to take, coming from me.” He said his good-byes, reminding them once more about his party, and hurried out to his carriage.
The train ride to the city was intolerable, the clacking of the wheels echoing his impatience and frustration. He had to have Willough. He had to have Willough.
He frowned, thinking of his upcoming interview with Isobel. It wouldn’t be easy telling her about Drew’s marriage. She had always doted on the boy. But wait a moment! He sat up stiffly. Drew was in Paris. It was clear he meant to make a career of his painting. If Brian had pinned any hopes on his son succeeding him, he would have to think again. The succession, if not the total inheritance, would now fall to Willough. He laughed softly. And Willough’s husband.
It wasn’t just the money, of course. He could have married half a dozen heiresses if all he wanted was the money. And he did well enough for himself. The Fifth Avenue house would make that clear to New York society. But Boss Tweed was in trouble, and all his alliances were crumbling. There were too many aldermen and commissioners who would be ready to “sing” if it came to that. And some of them might even remember Arthur Bartlett Gray from the old days. He needed the power that would come from a controlling interest in the MacCurdy industry.
And a socially connected wife, with a name like Carruth… It was almost as good a name as Astor, and more respected in some quarters; the Carruths had been the cream of New York society while John Jacob Astor was still selling furs. With a wife who counted the Carruths in her family tree, he could move beyond Tammany Hall and sordid politics. Yes. To seduce Willough might satisfy his passions (and he had always found something exciting in corrupting an innocent), but marriage would guarantee his future.
But what to do about Stanton? There was certainly an attraction between the two of them. It might just be a passing fancy on Willough’s part; sheltered young girls often enjoyed flirting with the danger of crude men like that. But surely she wouldn’t marry him. Still, he would do well to hasten her disaffection. He had a sudden thought. He would invite Stanton to his party. In the city the man would look like the bumpkin he was; Willough’s rustic sweetheart would soon lose his charms when viewed next to a Fifth Avenue gentleman.
Arthur stroked his mustache thoughtfully. The job could be done. But he’d need an ally. He couldn’t appear to challenge Stanton directly. He would seem too much like a jealous rival.
Isobel. She had a way of making even a second-generation heir appear an upstart. She could cut Stanton to ribbons. But he’d have to be careful. The news of Drew would devastate her. If she thought for a moment that he, Arthur, wanted Willough for himself, she’d die. He chuckled under his breath. He’d appeal to her snobbery, suggest that Willough’s infatuation might lead to marriage. The thought of Stanton as a son-in-law would horrify her. And—more subtly—he would appeal to her dislike of Willough. If he phrased it in just the right way, he could get her to destroy Stanton.
He thought, Sweet, cruel Isobel. She would do anything to prevent her daughter’s happiness.
In Saratoga, Willough stared out at the sun-dappled lawn, pressing her hands nervously together. It had been hours since Arthur had left, hours since Daddy and Nat had retired to the dining room. She could hear the murmur of their voices, broken occasionally by the sound of Brian’s laughter. Good! Whatever Nat was saying of his intentions toward her, Daddy was not displeased. But why didn’t they hurry? She had already been into the kitchen twice to see to the picnic basket Martha was preparing; she couldn’t pester the poor woman again! She took a deep breath, filled with a sudden longing. Please hurry, Nat, she thought. She ached to have him kiss her, to hold her in his arms. He had brushed his hand across her shoulder as he had seated her for breakfast—a tantalizing thrill that had left her hungering for more.
She heard the sound of heavy footsteps, then Brian slid open the dining-room doors. “Well, lass, it seems you’re to be married!” he boomed.
Her eyes flew to Nat’s face. He was smiling broadly, the dimple in his cheek more pronounced than ever. “November sixteenth,” he said. “It will give you less than three months. But I wasn’t about to wait a moment longer!”
“It’s a good time,” said Brian. “We usually close down Three and Four for repairs then. That way, we won’t miss Nat while you’re on your honeymoon.”
Willough felt a pang of dismay. Why did he think of the business first? “But aren’t you happy for me, Daddy?”
“Of course I am, lass! Nat’s a fine man. You couldn’t have done better. You’re giving me a man to run the ironworks, the way it should be run. That damned brother of yours…”
Nat stepped forward and took Willough’s arm. “I’m marrying your daughter, sir. Not the business. And right now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s your daughter I want to spend the afternoon with. If she’s got that picnic ready.”
“Waiting for ages.” She smiled shyly. His eyes were on her lips. She shivered in anticipation. “Will you an
nounce our engagement at once, Daddy?”
“No. We’ll wait a couple of weeks. Until I’m in the city and I can discuss it with your mother.”
“I’d prefer not to wait.”
“No, Willough. My mind is made up.”
Her lips pursed in annoyance. “But Daddy…”
“Dammit, Willough! One headstrong child is enough! A son who runs off and gets married, and now a daughter who thinks to tell her father what to do!”
Would she ever be able to please him? “I’m sorry,” she said. “Whatever you say, Daddy.”
“Where’s that picnic?” asked Nat. There seemed to be a sharp edge to his voice. He steered Willough through to the kitchen to pick up their basket, then led her out into the sunshine, taking a path that meandered along the shore of Saratoga Lake. When they came to a grassy bank sheltered by a large yellow birch, he stopped. “This is a lovely spot.”
She shook out the lap robe that Martha had packed and spread it on the grass. “Are you angry with me, Nat? You’ve hardly said a word since we left the house. And you haven’t even kissed me today.”
He gathered her in his arms. “I’m sorry. I must be a fool. I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at him, I suppose. When he talked about a man to run the business. As though you hadn’t worked beside me all that time. I saw the look on your face.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, I suppose I’m angry with you too. You’re still the good daughter obeying him without question. Dammit, Willough. You’ve got more spunk than that. Why can’t you stand up to him?”
She sighed unhappily and stirred in his embrace. “I’ve never felt free. I’ve always tried to please him. And my mother, too, I suppose. Though it never seemed to help.”
“Why don’t you try to please yourself for a change?”
“I’m not sure I know how!”
“Do you feel free with me? I don’t want you to be like so many women today, who go from being their father’s little girl to their husband’s. Do you feel free with me?”
She felt his hard-muscled arms wrapped tightly about her, imprisoning her. “I still feel frightened,” she said. “Yet not frightened. It’s so confusing. But I want to be free with you, if you’ll be patient and gentle.”
His eyes were warm with concern. “How are you frightened?”
“When you look at me, when you hold me…” She took a shuddering breath. “Since that first day, I don’t think there’s been a moment when I haven’t trembled when I’m with you. It’s so strange. I’ve never felt this way. It has to be a kind of fear.”
He smiled tenderly. “Or passion.”
“That’s a terrible word! A lady doesn’t think such things!”
“What damn fool told you that?” he growled. “Passion is something all women should feel, if they allow themselves! Now put your arms around my neck,” he ordered, “because I’m going to kiss you until you can tell the difference between passion and fear!”
He bent his head to her, his mouth hot and eager as it covered hers, pressing and insistent, moving against her lips with a hungry intensity. The trembling, which had been a small flutter in the pit of her stomach, now crept upward, setting her heart to thumping madly. Surely he must feel my heart beating, she thought. They were pressed breast to breast. Breast to breast. At the thought of the proximity of their bodies, despite the layers of clothing, she felt the most extraordinary feeling sweep over her. She stiffened in panic and pushed him roughly away.
“What is it?” he said. “Are you afraid?”
She found it hard to control her voice. “I…I don’t know.”
“What did you feel?” he asked gently.
She knew her face was burning. “Oh, I can’t…”
“Try.”
She put a trembling hand against the flat of her belly. “Here…” she whispered. “And here.” She averted her gaze as she allowed her hand to drop lower.
He laughed softly. “You’re a perfectly normal woman. At least your body is normal. I don’t know what they’ve done to your head.”
“What do you mean?”
“You pushed me away. But how did your body feel? I’m not talking about what you think is proper or right. Or whether you think you ought to feel that way. Did you enjoy the feeling? Did you want me to keep kissing you?”
She bit her lip. “Yes. But…it’s so wicked.”
“No it’s not.” He grinned broadly. “We’ve answered one question, at least! It’s not fear. It would be a strange kind of fear that left you so eager for more!”
She felt as if she would cry. He was so gentle and understanding. “Oh, Nat, I do love you.”
“I intend to see that you never stop. But for the time being, how about feeding me? Let’s see what Martha packed in that basket.”
She giggled and sat down on the blanket, spreading her skirts around her. “I told her I wanted something special. We planned the menu together,” she said, unpacking cold roast capons, pickled melon rind, and an artichoke pie, already cut into neat wedges.
Nat sat beside her, frowning at the pie. “What’s that?”
“Why, it’s artichoke!” She stared at him in surprise. “It’s really very good. It’s just the hearts, sliced up and cooked with onions, then put into the crust.”
He scooped up a wedge and took a tentative bite. “Well, it’s good, I suppose. But I’d prefer honest food.”
“How ridiculous! This is perfectly lovely food! Why I…” She stopped, seeing the look on his face.
“I didn’t have your advantages,” he said quietly. “You’ll have to get used to a plain man. With plain tastes.”
“Oh, Nat, I’m sorry,” she said, shamefaced. “I did sound like a snob again, didn’t I?”
He smiled. “A bit. But the pie is good. I’ll take another slice. And something to wash it down.”
“I’m afraid it’s just fruit punch. I still have a lot to learn about you. When I think of it, you probably would have preferred a bit of rum in it.”
“You’ll learn.” He laughed, helping himself to half a capon. “Just so you don’t plan a wedding I can’t eat!”
She wrinkled her brow. “You really didn’t give me much time.”
“I don’t want a fancy wedding.”
“But I must decide whether to have it here or in New York City.”
“Where would your parents prefer?”
She sighed. “It’s not as simple as that. They…don’t really live together. Daddy visits Mother in the city occasionally, but…”
Nat grunted. “Yes. That would explain it.”
“Explain what?”
“Nothing.”
“No. Tell me!”
“I’m not sure you’ll want to know,” he said gently. “Your father and Mrs. Walker…in MacCurdyville…last year…”
She gasped. “I don’t believe you! Not Daddy!”
“He’s not a god, Willough. He’s just a man.”
How could he say such things about Daddy? “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said sulkily.
He stared at her for a long time, then, “What’s your mother like?” he asked.
“We don’t get along very well. Drew has always been her favorite.”
“My mother died young. I was only eight. We lived near Ingles then. Near Gramps. It’s funny, I don’t remember my mother without thinking of how beautiful the land was then. They hadn’t stripped all the trees or cut into the hills. We used to walk in the woods, she and I.” He sighed. “She loved the woods.”
“Why didn’t you stay?”
“Gramps did. He had his work. He was a trapper. But my father was heartbroken when she died. He couldn’t stay. And my little sister was sickly. She needed hospitals, medicine. We moved to Troy, so Dad could work in a manufactory. Ugly city.” He shrugged. “My sister died anyway.”
“Oh Nat…”
He smiled in reassurance, leaned over to kiss her. “Don’t look so sad. It was a long time ago. Now, is that cake I see in the basket?”
“My favorite!” He laughed. “We used to go out gathering hazelnuts, my kid brothers and I. And one time…”
While she cut him a piece of cake and poured another glass of punch, he told her stories of his childhood. A loving childhood. With brothers, and parents. There was a gentleness, a serenity in him when he talked of those days. The tension, the quiet frustration that she had so often sensed in him, seemed to drop away. Perhaps that’s what she’d seen from the first, all unknowing—the warmth and concern, the goodness in his heart.
And the masculinity. Shamelessly, she let her eyes travel the length of his strong body, taking in every detail. The hard-muscled legs beneath his trousers, the outline of his thighs, his narrow hips. And something dimly perceived, and dimly understood—a shape, a roundness revealed when his frock coat fell open. She gulped and forced her eyes to move upward. His chest was broad; she remembered the mat of golden hair that drifted across its hard expanse. She wondered if he still owned the leather vest she’d seen him in the first day they’d met. His shirt fit badly, the sleeves too short for his arms. But they left her that much more of him to look at. His arms were almost as hairy as his chest had been, a dusting of golden curls that poked out beneath his sleeves and glinted against the dark tan of his hands. His hands were strong-looking. Short fingers with a wide palm. Wonderful hands, she thought. Powerful, yet tender, gentle. She shivered in pleasure, imagining those hands on her arms, on her face, on her… She couldn’t even begin to picture where. She had only a vague image of those hands on her pale skin.
“What are you thinking about?” His voice was deep and filled with laughter.
Startled out of her reverie, she glanced at his face, then looked away, feeling the blush of shame color her cheeks. “Nothing.”
“Your thoughts couldn’t be any more wicked than mine, so there’s no use blushing! Wouldn’t you like to know what I’m thinking?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll tell you anyway. We’re getting married on November the sixteenth. I just realized it’s my birthday. Thirty-one,” he added, in answer to her unspoken question. “And you’ll be my birthday present. I’ve been imagining the scene. You’ll be wrapped in your bridal gown like a beautiful birthday gift. It will be a cold night. With a fire burning in the fireplace. No other light. I’ll unwrap you in front of the hearth and watch the firelight flicker on your soft body, and see the glow of love in your eyes. And then I’ll carry you to the bed, and then”—he closed his eyes and laughed shakily—“and then it won’t be my birthday. It will be the Fourth of July.”