by Sharon Kleve
He’d only come here tonight because his father insisted. The Brinkleys were one of the cadre of nouveau riche always seeking approval from the more established members of New York society. They’d built a grandiose mansion on Fifth Avenue to impress those in the highest echelons, who generally sniffed at such outlandish exhibits of wealth.
But, William Brinkley was an associate of his father. Hadley Barclay had insisted both his sons attend the Winter Ball thrown by Mrs. Eva Brinkley. That woman was dressed in an outlandish ensemble of purple, with peacock feathers standing upright on top of her head. Her bustle was large enough to make sitting an interesting endeavor. She flitted about the ballroom, waving her matching peacock fan and tittering with laughter.
Merritt mumbled an excuse to his two friends and crossed the room to stand with his elder brother. Fletcher wore his black tails and white shirt with effortless grace. His dark hair was shiny with pomade and his blue eyes coldly evaluated the scene before him.
The ballroom was filled with white roses, carnations and lilies along with other flowers, their scent mixing with the heavy perfume of the women present. Crystal chandeliers hung over their heads, with candles making the room as bright as if it was electrified.
The orchestra played familiar tunes as dancers swirled across the parquet floor. The precise steps, twirls and bows captured Merritt’s attention for a few moments.
“Have you settled upon a likely candidate to court?” Merritt enjoyed teasing his brother about his marital status, since their father constantly reminded his oldest son and heir that it was well past the time for him to take a wife. At thirty-four, Fletcher was handsome, rich and resolute that he simply didn’t need a wife to be happy and content.
“You should find one and let father brag about your children,” Fletcher suggested.
Merritt grinned. “Father doesn’t care about me. I didn’t inherit his sharp business sense, you did. He wants to build a dynasty upon your loins.”
“To hell with Father and my loins. These women bore me, shall we go off to the club, find some mates and see what other adventures we can embark upon tonight?”
Merritt continued to watch the dancers, and found himself searching the room for the Langdon girl. When his gaze settled upon her again, he realized she was actually quite lovely. She wore her fire-kissed locks pulled away from her face and curls cascaded down the back of the dove-gray gown she wore.
He wondered if she had green eyes, like so many redheads, or would they be a stormy match to her dress? She stood with a regal air and her movements were delicate. Some tall women slumped, trying to make themselves smaller. She lifted her chin, and in one brief, shocking moment, their eyes met across the room.
A tiny smile lifted the corners of her mouth, then she turned to lean toward her aunt. After a few moments, the raven-haired older woman lifted her head, found Merritt and Fletcher across the room and her lips flattened in disapproval.
He couldn’t tell what she said, but the younger woman turned to stare at them, a frown creasing her forehead. Now, that was interesting.
What had the aunt said to her niece to make her eyes grow wide, her mouth purse in surprise and her frown turn into a glower?
Merritt was intrigued. “You enjoy all the gossip, Fletcher, what do you know about the Langdon heiress?”
Fletcher grunted. “She’s very rich, or will be when she marries. Her aunt guards her like a watchdog keeping an eye on the hen house. She’s been in mourning, so wasn’t out last year for the season.”
“I heard about her father, nasty business.”
Fletcher nodded. “I actually feel sorry for the woman, because like us, she lost her mother when she was a child. Then the horror of her father being murdered, it’s a lot for someone so young to deal with.”
Merritt nodded his agreement. “Have you heard of any serious suitors?”
Fletcher stared at him and raised an eyebrow. “No, she’s been in mourning. This is the first I’ve seen of her and her aunt in a long time. Her father died while you were in Scotland, so you probably didn’t hear about it.”
“Do I detect a bit of interest?” Fletcher continued. “Father wouldn’t be pleased, he had some kind of falling out with that family years ago. I can’t remember the details, but it had something to do with Lorelei, the younger sister.”
Now Merritt was truly intrigued. His father never mentioned the past, and refused to even speak their mother’s name since her death seven years ago. Had there been a failed romance before his father married?
“They’re Knickerbockers, you know. An old Dutch family that arrived before the revolution. With her money and that pedigree, the offers will come pouring in, I’ve no doubt of it. She’ll be wed by June if not before.”
Merritt’s heart sank for some reason. He didn’t even know the woman, but something about her made him curious. He wondered what her voice sounded like, what perfume she wore and whether she giggled, twittered or simply laughed when she found something funny.
He needed to find out more about her. He grabbed another glass of champagne and drank it all in one gulp.
“Liquid courage,” he said as he turned on his heel and strode around the edges of the ballroom.
But, when he arrived at his destination, he was disappointed to find his quarry had disappeared. He spun in a circle, searching for her, then he spied a bit of gray satin rounding a corner of the hallway.
He discovered Miss Langdon casually floating down the hallway toward the solarium, a glass of champagne in her hand and her attention focused on paintings displayed on the walls. She paused in front of a large canvas and studied it.
He quietly joined her, standing a few inches behind her. Lilac, that was what she smelled like. Springtime and blooming flowers and warmer days. He closed his eyes to inhale her scent.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was cool, cordial but laced with a teasing note as she directed her gaze at him.
Forest green. That was the color of her eyes.
“I’m enjoying this lovely painting, of course. Just as you are.” He pointed at the wall. A woman with the same cinnamon colored hair as Miss Langdon leaned forward, looking down at a collection of odd creatures. There was a soft smile on her face.
“Your eyes were closed,” she reminded him.
He moved to her side and pointed at the painting. “Because it’s so lovely, I wanted to enjoy it as if seeing it for the first time.”
“So, you like paintings of fairies and gnomes and sprites?”
He actually had no idea that was what he was looking at, but in this case, the execution was outstanding. What intrigued him most was the lovely young woman standing in the circle of imaginary creatures.
“I like her. I think she resembles you, did you pose for this painting?”
Too late he realized that was a rude question to ask a young woman he hadn’t actually been formally introduced to yet. “My apologies,” he muttered.
Her laugh was like champagne bubbles and chimes. Bright, clear and sweet.
“I think perhaps that’s why this painting is my favorite in the collection. See how all the little creatures look up to her? They trust her and she’s important to them.”
Her voice trailed away with a note of sadness.
“I’m sorry to hear about your loss. I-I was…out of the country. In Edinburgh, studying medicine.” He was stammering on like a boy meeting his first girl in dance class. He felt like a buffoon.
Her green eyes darkened and her lower lip quivered. “Thank you,” she whispered.
What had he been thinking to remind her of her father’s death? This was all one giant blunder after another, and Merritt adjusted his collar, as the hallway suddenly felt too warm and close.
“Are you a doctor then,” she finally asked.
“Ana, where have you gotten off to?” The older woman’s sharp voice interrupted his answer.
“There you are. We should go.” She shot a poisonous glare at Merritt. “And wh
at do you want, Barclay?” She spit the syllables of his name at him.
“Aunt Olivia, he was only commenting on the painting. It seems we both admire Bertrum Finley’s style.” The younger woman tried to smile.
Merritt had no idea what she was talking about. Who was Bertrum Finley?
“I was just going to tell him about the exhibit we attended in London.” She leaned toward Merritt and settled one gloved hand on this arm. “Do you remember how much we enjoyed his paintings, Aunt Olivia?”
So, this Finley person was an artist. He glanced up at the painting again and noted the letters BF sketched in large letters in one corner.
He patted Miss Langdon’s hand affectionately. “I’m eager to hear all the details. He’s one of my favorite artists.”
Aunt Olivia inserted herself between the couple to break their connection and glowered at Merritt. “I doubt that.” She turned to her niece. “We should go now, I’ve called for the carriage.”
“Miss Howland, I was hoping you might provide a formal introduction to your niece,” Merritt said as the women turned to leave.
The older woman’s expression suggested she’d probably rather run him through with a sword, but she was bound by centuries of etiquette. One of the things the well-bred couldn’t ignore.
“This is, what’s your first name?” She grimaced. “Are you Fletcher or Merritt?”
“Dr. Merritt Barclay, ma’am.” He offered his hand.
“Ah— yes, the younger one.” She ignored his hand. “This is my niece, Miss Tatiana Langdon, which I’m quite sure you knew before you struck up a conversation with her.” Merritt and Tatiana exchanged pleasantries, but were interrupted by Aunt Olivia. “Yes, how do we all do.” She yanked on the billowing sleeve of Tatiana’s gown. “We mustn’t keep the driver waiting in the cold. Let’s get our wraps.” She nodded curtly in Merritt’s direction. “Good evening, young man.”
Merritt couldn’t believe the two woman swept down the stairs before he could even form words. He chased after them, and watched as the butler wrapped their fur capes around them and opened the door.
“I was hoping, that I might…” his voice was barely above a whisper. He coughed. Aunt Olivia appeared even more annoyed at the interruption as she looked down her nose at him and frowned.
But Tatiana shot him a brilliant smile, and warmth spread through him. “I would like to call upon you—when you are receiving,” he finally managed to say.
“Thursday,” her Aunt Olivia shot back at him. “From two o’clock until four o’clock.” Her voice could sour milk but in the last brief second, Tatiana winked at him.
Then they were gone, and Merritt leaned back against the wall. The butler and maid stared at him, but he couldn’t form any words or excuses.
He felt jubilant, as if the candles above them had shattered into a thousand brilliant pieces of light. He didn’t know why, but this chance meeting with the lovely, but sad Tatiana Langdon, filled him with hope.
Hope was a luminous thing to embrace in the darkness of winter.
CHAPTER TWO
“How would you like your hair arranged today, Miss?”
Tatiana wished she could tell Mary to simply gather it back with combs and leave it at that. But, today was their “at home” day when they received guests. Her Aunt Olivia had been most insistent that Tatiana be at her best for the anticipated onslaught of visitors.
It had been nearly two years since they’d received guests at their brownstone, fashionably situated near Central Park. Her father’s death had shaken her to the core, and she and her aunt became near recluses at Chemsworth, the family mansion in the Hudson Valley.
Truth be told, Tatiana preferred the quiet and solitude of the country estate. She loved sitting in the library, curled up with a good book and her cat, Sadie, by her side.
She soon grew weary of the glittering balls, dinner parties, nights at the opera and other entertainment the city offered. Although she enjoyed the museums and symphony, she constantly felt the crush of people swirling around her, asking her questions, and demanding her attention.
Her aunt had insisted this year they would join the social whirl of the season. Her ultimate goal was clear: to find a suitable husband for her niece. It was a campaign, with strategic planning, the recruitment of important allies and a clear objective spelled out right from the beginning.
It was made clear to her that Tatiana was the prize, with a family pedigree that went back to Colonial times and a rich dowry that would attract many offers of marriage. It was up to her to simply sort out the men who wished to court her and find the most acceptable candidate.
It didn’t seem to matter to Aunt Olivia that Tatiana had no interest in becoming a wife. From all of her observations, it wasn’t a very lucrative opportunity. Most of the society wives she knew made a pretense of being happy, but she’d heard enough gossip to understand they were simply treated as adornments by their husbands.
Tatiana didn’t want to become an embellishment for a man to use to move up socially or gain influence by taking advantage of her family connections. She wanted to be respected as a life partner to her husband, someone who contributed to their marriage.
But, when she’d voiced these concerns to her aunt, the older woman had scolded her. She’d insisted a woman shouldn’t expect to be happy in her marriage, she should be satisfied to manage the household and bear children.
According to Aunt Olivia, those were her main responsibilities. She should make every effort to find a kind man, who would expect her to perform her “wifely duties” in a most limited way.
Tatiana had an idea what her maiden aunt was insinuating and the older woman had sniffed and told her they’d have a conversation on the evening before her wedding that would make everything clear.
Why she had to wait until her marriage was imminent confused Tatiana. She was more than willing to hear the “sordid details” of the marriage bed, as her aunt had described marital relations.
Certainly Tatiana had heard enough whispering and laughter from their servants to have a good idea of what took place between a husband and wife. She’d been raised on a farm, and if she was shielded by her aunt, there were a few things that animal husbandry taught her.
Her maid, Mary, was nearly finished with the curling iron, creating waves around her face. Her hair was piled on her head in a tight knot secured with pearl combs. She much preferred the style she’d worn last night, with long curls cascading loosely down her back.
But, that wasn’t stylish enough her aunt had insisted. And despite her constant admonishments that they did not have to adopt every popular fad or style, Aunt Olivia could be a slave to fashion.
Her fingers brushed the lustrous gold velvet of her jacket. She admired the embroidery and the way the color set off her hair. She recalled the way the young man—Merritt Barclay—had commented on her resemblance to the woman in the painting, The Captured Maiden.
She blushed as she recalled their brief conversation. He was tall and handsome, with sandy brown hair and a warm, open smile. He’d been shy, and she was grateful for that. It allowed her to be bolder than usual.
She wondered if he’d be part of the gaggle of young men they expected to attend their “at home” today. Her aunt had quietly enlisted many of the mothers of single young men of their social class. Most of them were eager to throw their bachelor sons in her path.
Tatiana reminded herself, she was the prize. But, it was unfortunate that these men weren’t likely to be interested in what she thought or said. In fact, Aunt Olivia had schooled her in the proper topics of conversation and encouraged her to nod and comment only in brief sentences to anything the men talked about.
No man cared to hear a woman’s opinion, most especially a woman they might be considering for marriage. That thought saddened her, because she couldn’t conceive of having breakfast day after day with a man who didn’t even wish to talk with her.
What exactly was the point of marriage if it wasn�
�t for sharing the small moments of their lives? Had her own parents lived such a cold, distant life? Since she was still in the nursery when her mother died, she didn’t know how they treated each other.
But the sadness and grief her father expressed after her mother’s death led Tatiana to believe their marriage was more than brief conversations at meals and marching together into social events. She’d heard them laughing together, seen them exchange hugs and even kisses.
Maybe it was a fantasy, but that was the sort of marriage Tatiana wished for, one with love and caring. And kisses. She wondered exactly what it would feel like to have a man hold her in his arms, pull her forward and kiss her…
Mary blinked at her in the mirror. “Are you feelin’ right, Miss?”
No! Tatiana wanted to scream. I’m feeling tender, and I’m frightened and I don’t want to go downstairs and spend the better part of the day entertaining people I don’t know and probably won’t like. -She knew she was being unfair. Many of the gentlemen she’d met had been courteous, charming and attentive. Yet, other than Mr. Barclay, they’d left her feeling cold and indifferent. He’d actually made her laugh. And as she’d rode home in their carriage, she realized that despite his shyness, he’d managed to make her feel comfortable. His remark about the painting still warmed her. Many people regarded a woman’s red hair as a liability, something to be overlooked but certainly not celebrated.
Mr. Barclay’s observation of her resemblance to the woman in the painting thrilled her. It was the reason she was drawn to Finley’s work, because he often featured women with red hair. Like the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood he so admired, the artist seemed entranced with models who wore their long, red locks unfettered.
Tatiana stood and smoothed the soft cashmere wool of her striped gold and cream colored dress. She glanced in the mirror, wondering if her appearance was appropriately innocent and subtle enough. Apparently according to her aunt, innocence was a trait highly valued by young men.