Comfort and Joy

by Sandra Madden

  “Yes. Well. You must have realized there would be complications arise from marrying a man you picked up off the street.”

  “Aye. I suppose I did now.”

  “How did your dance lesson go before the jig?”

  “Mr. Raymond taught me the steps to the waltz. But I do not care for the waltz, ‘tis too slow a dance.”

  “‘The waltz is considered by some to be a rather risqué dance.”

  She inclined her head in disbelief. “No. Why?”

  “When a man takes a woman in his arms like this...”

  Maeve caught her breath as Charles’s arm wrapped around her waist and drew her against the solid steel of his chest.

  “And takes her hand like this...”

  She could no longer feel her heart beating as Charles’s hand enveloped hers.

  “It is a rather intimate position,” he continued. “Especially when a couple is moving and their bodies brush against one another. Like this.”

  “Mr. Raymond did not hold me like ye are doin’.”

  Before Maeve could tell Charles exactly how Mr. Raymond held her, her husband’s mouth came down on hers.

  Charles kissed her fiercely, crushing her against him.

  As if she’d been sleeping for centuries, Maeve suddenly came alive, sparks of delight prickling her flesh as she savored his kiss, wet, warm, and delicious.

  A flood of feelings old and new spiraled through her at a dizzying speed. Her blood ran sweet and warm like the wildflower nectar fairy folk sipped as wine. Trembling within and without, Maeve did not think she could stand alone should Charles release her.

  Saints above! She prayed he wouldn’t release her.

  Charles lifted his head slowly. A wry smile played on his lips. “Do you now understand the danger in the waltz?”

  Chapter Six

  “Do ye like me new gown?”

  “Not me...my,” Pansy corrected Maeve patiently. “My new gown.”

  Maeve repeated Pansy’s example. “Do ye like my new gown?”

  “Do you like my new gown?”

  “Sure’n I’ll never get this right!” Maeve cried out in frustration.

  “Yes, you will. You’re an intelligent woman. We all are, actually. Victoria Woodhull promises women shall go far once we gain the right to vote.”

  Maeve learned all she knew about the Woodhull woman from Pansy. The shocking, one-time clairvoyant was divorced and an advocate of free love. Pansy revered the women’s rights advocate and recited her virtues frequently to Maeve, who could not condone either free love or divorce.

  “Sure’n I’m not lookin’ to go anywhere. I’m only interested in keepin’ me husband.”

  And keeping his kisses. Unconsciously, Maeve raised her fingertips to her lips, lips that still tingled from Charles’s unexpected and wondrous kiss yesterday.

  “My husband,” Pansy echoed.

  Pansy had been invited to Beatrice Rycroft’s holiday party. As soon as Maeve learned of it, she beseeched her friend to come early. Pansy happily complied and now busied herself perfecting Maeve’s appearance.

  “When Charles sees you tonight you shall not have to speak a word. He will find you utterly irresistible.”

  Maeve’s nerves had been on edge since dawn. It felt as if a toy top spun continually in the center of her stomach. Except for a spot of tea, she’d been unable to eat all day.

  Late this afternoon Ilona Potts had delivered the dress she wore. Maeve approached the beveled mirror tentatively. She had never looked irresistible in her life.

  She gasped at the girl reflected in the mirror.

  Trimmed with handmade lace, Maeve’s holly green velvet and silk dress swept back gracefully to a small bustle. The lush color complimented her fair skin and rose-petal cheeks in a captivating contrast. The sleeveless gown’s snug bodice crisscrossed in front, plunging into a deep vee that revealed a generous display of cleavage. She felt quite immodest, never having worn such a daring gown. If he could see Maeve now her dad would be cursin’ to all the saints in heaven and drainin’ his bottle of Jamison’s.

  For some unknown reason, with the arrival of Stella Hampton and Beatrice Rycroft, Charles’s housekeeper had become sympathetic to Maeve. Dolly had helped with her hair this evening, sweeping the sides back but allowing a mass of glossy raven curls to spill in a shining cascade from the crown of Maeve’s head to the middle of her back. Pansy completed the arrangement by artfully arranging silky tendrils to frame Maeve’s face.

  Unnerved by the stranger in the mirror, Maeve turned away and crossed to the window. A light snow fell, a glistening tumble of crystal flakes beneath the gaslights.

  It was a beautiful sight but instead of soothing Maeve, her nervousness grew as she gazed down at the street below. A stream of carriages waited to discharge their passengers.

  Wily in her way, Beatrice Rycroft had seen to it that Stella’s introduction to Boston society was the first, and possibly the foremost, party of the holiday season.

  “Sure’n I cannot go downstairs.”

  “You should not say ‘sure’n,’ “ Pansy corrected.

  “But I am sure that I cannot.”

  “But of course you can — and will.”

  “Saints above! Do ye not understand? I’ve never been to a party like this. I do not know what to say or do.”

  Pansy wrapped an arm around Maeve and spoke in a soft, comforting voice, unusual for her. “Maeve, you will be introduced to any number of people whom you may never see again. All you need do is smile and say how pleased you are to make their acquaintance.”

  “Aye?”

  “Most likely there shall be parlor games —”

  Maeve spun away. “Aye!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Sure…” she paused, correcting herself before speaking. “I do not know any parlor games.”

  “Silly! The rules of each game are repeated at the start. Do you think the rest of the guests will know every game?”

  Maeve gave a hapless shrug. “Oh, Pansy. I do not wish to shame Charles. Make my excuses. Say I have the headache. No one will be missin’ me. They don’t even know I exist.”

  “But I do know and I will miss you,” Pansy declared. Fire danced in her wide-set hazel eyes. “I only agreed to attend Beatrice’s party because of you. You cannot imagine how bored I would be otherwise. I meet these same people at every occasion, you know.”

  Maeve cast a suspicious glance at her friend.’’ Bored?’’

  Pansy grinned. Despite the freckles that Maeve knew she hated, Pansy looked quite pretty in her simple white satin dress. With her flaming red hair and ready smile, she would surely stand apart in this evening’s crowd.

  “Exceedingly bored.” Pansy repeated. “Now, following the games, supper will be served. It is always the same.”

  “What if I take up the wrong spoon during supper?” Maeve had studied the sketch of a proper place setting in Beadle’s Dime Book of Etiquette but feared she was so nervous she would forget what she’d learned.

  “The world will end, surely!” Pansy teased, taking Maeve’s hands in both of her own. “If you feel unsure, watch what I do and follow my lead.”

  But Maeve was awash with fears. She could not be comforted. “What if I forget mese...myself and speak too loudly?”

  “You won’t. But if you should, I will signal you.”

  “Ye know Mrs. Rycroft and Stella have avoided me. They may cut me.”

  “At Beatrice’s own party?”

  Because Pansy chose to answer Maeve’s question with a question, Maeve interpreted her friend’s reply as meaning yes, Beatrice Rycroft just might cut her. Maeve debated: should she flee now, before the party, or after when the whole town was talking about her social blunders?

  “Come, let’s go down and join the party else they think you are frightened of them,” Pansy urged, guiding Maeve to the door.

  “And that I am! Frightened. What if they don’t like me?”

  “You are bound t
o be the Belle of Boston. It’s just a matter of time. And this is where you start.”

  Maeve had little choice but to brazen it out. She pinned a sprig of holly in her hair.

  Charles stood apart, observing with his childhood friend, Spencer Wellington. Spencer enjoyed these gatherings more than he, taking particular delight in lampooning selected guests.

  Beatrice Rycroft had managed to invite a lively group of sons and daughters from Boston’s finest families to the first holiday party of the season. Her intimate gathering peaked at thirty guests.

  The parlor, drawing room, and study were opened and the servants had decorated the public rooms gaily with garlands of holly and pine, scarlet ribbons, and bowls of fruit. Juicy red apples and great round oranges stuck with cloves testified to the wealth and plenty of the household. The scent of cinnamon and warm mulled cider filled the festive air.

  Beatrice and Stella received their guests at the door. Always elegant, Charles’s mother wore gray satin bedecked with berry-red velvet ribbons carefully designed to conceal the sharper angles of her thin body.

  But he wondered at how Stella managed to breathe. The tight bodice of her scarlet gown pushed her breasts up and over the squared fringe neckline. Charles feared the pale woman might spill out before the night was over. But most of the male guests seemed quite taken with Stella’s clearly visible charms.

  Charles glanced at his pocket watch, wondering why Maeve had not yet joined the party. If he didn’t miss his guess, she had already begun to understand how different his world was from hers; how difficult it would be for her ever to fit in. She could never truly feel comfortable in Boston society.

  But dear God, the taste of her fired his imagination and brought his blood to the boil.

  The kiss he’d stolen yesterday afternoon had not served to satisfy Charles in any way. He wanted more, more of her.

  Tonight he resolved to stay close by Maeve’s side to make certain she would not be slighted. He didn’t wish to see the girl hurt, especially by the oft times wicked tongue of his mother.

  This evening Maeve would gain first-hand knowledge of the world into which he was born. A world she was ill-suited to, a world he often disliked. It was important to him that she understand how unsuited they were. An amicable parting as quickly as possible was in her best interest. He had no desire to break her heart.

  Stella sidled up to Charles as he pondered the evening ahead. Her overpowering spicy perfume forced him to step back.

  “Good evening, Charles.”

  “Good evening, Stella.” He turned to introduce Spencer, but his friend had wandered off. Spencer’s timing was impeccable.

  “It’s a marvelous party. Christmas is in the air,” she gushed.

  “Yes, well...it is.” And then Charles said what he was expected to say. “You look lovely, Stella. I daresay every male at the party will soon be under your spell.”

  “Thank you. You are so sweet.” She wrinkled her nose.

  Charles just stared for a moment. He supposed the wrinkling of her nose to be a failed attempt at girlish coyness. “You are the first to think so,” he finally replied.

  Apparently believing him to be teasing, Stella smiled broadly. “You are too modest, Charles.” Before he knew it, she’d tucked her hand beneath his arm. “Your mother tells me that following supper, the carpets will be rolled up in the drawing room for dancing. May I be so bold as to hope I shall have the opportunity to dance with you?”

  “I shall be delighted to have the first dance with the guest of honor.”

  “Your wife will not be jealous?”

  “My wife?”

  His wife.

  Charles had not used the term before nor spoken it aloud. It sounded odd to him. My wife.

  “Your mother confided in me concerning your unfortunate entrapment. But do not worry, I shall keep your secret.”

  “I appreciate your discretion.” Would Maeve be jealous of Stella? He had no idea. “Maeve really does not care for parties.”

  “I see. Poor thing.”

  “She will probably retire before the dancing begins.”

  Stella tipped her head and gave him a coy smile. “How convenient for you.”

  “My wife knows I would never do anything to injure her,” Charles blurted, purely in a burst of self-protection. He had no idea what seeds his mother might have planted in the mind of Stella Hampton. He had enough to worry about at the present without dodging a husband-hunting widow who seemed more than willing to overlook his martial status.

  “I shall look forward to the dancing,” Stella said. With another plainly seductive smile, she glided away.

  Charles was surprised but pleased that Stella had not brought her sharp-snouted, snarling dog to the party. He considered the widow attractive in a pale sort of way, but not his type. Although on further examination, he wasn’t at all certain what his type was.

  Having been a firsthand observer during his parents’ marriage, Charles had not developed the highest regard or hope for the institution. He thought love a much too intangible emotion and certainly no reason for marrying. A marriage arrangement made more sense and left less chance of expectations being dashed.

  Since he’d come of age, Charles had enjoyed the company of any number of women — some quite ineligible. He’d been exceedingly grateful the Boston beauties found him attractive, even though he understood the attraction might be to his wealth and social standing.

  Over the course of time, Charles chose his entanglements carefully, refusing any situation which might put his heart in danger. He’d been safely involved with a sassy courtesan for several years, an opera singer he supported until her marriage over seven months ago.

  Charles had not had a woman since.

  His deprivation had left him especially vulnerable to temptation. It was the reason he gave himself for having taken Maeve into his arms yesterday afternoon and kissing her. His self-imposed abstinence also explained why her lips tasted like spun sugar, why they felt as warm and soft as berries ripening in the sun. After being deprived of a woman for so long, it only stood to reason he’d want more of Maeve’s kisses.

  But Charles refused to take advantage of the situation. Even though Maeve was presently his wife, he’d soon be seeking a divorce.

  Unused to being kept waiting and impatient for her appearance, Charles made his way from the parlor. It occurred to him she might have developed a case of cold feet and had barred her door. If necessary, Charles intended to carry her down to the party.

  A group had gathered round the piano to sing a lively rendition of We Wish You a Merry Christmas. He stopped for a moment, envying their good spirits. It was, after all, the season of love and joy.

  Waving to Martin, who had just arrived without his wife, he turned to the stairs. And stopped. His breathing stopped, his heart may even have stopped. He did not know, could not think. He could only stare.

  Maeve stood at the top of the landing. The instant their eyes met she sent him a brilliant smile, a smile that made him feel as if he were the only man in the room. He stood rooted to the spot, stunned by her remarkable beauty, jarring bolts of white heat shot through his veins.

  Maeve descended the stairs slowly, a luminous vision in rich green velvet. The gown’s neckline revealed a tantalizing glimpse of creamy cleavage. Her sparkling lapis gaze never left his, even as Charles took in the silky raven curls that brushed her shoulders. He warmed as his gaze drifted to her lips, slightly parted, full and lush, the shade of crimson roses. Lips he knew were soft and moist as the morning dew.

  Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply. He had to get a grip.

  Pansy Deakins followed with what appeared to be an annoyingly smug smile on her lips.

  Acknowledging Pansy with a dip of his head, Charles clasped Maeve’s hand as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “You outshine the stars tonight.”

  Damn. What made him say that!

  Maeve responded with an even more radiant smi
le. “And ye are looking very handsome, yourself.”

  Her saucy gaze swept from his head to his feet.

  He quickly led his Irish wife away, heading for a quiet corner of the room.

  Unfortunately, Martin intervened. He held an unlit cigar in one hand and slapped Charles on the back with the other.

  “My aunt has done it again,” he said, looking about the room filled with beautiful young men and women. Everyone who is anyone is here. ‘Tis another Beatrice Rycroft success. And a fitting way to start the season.”

  “Yes, Mother has outdone herself.” Charles quickly scanned the foyer entrance and then the parlor. “Where is your wife? Did Sally not accompany you?”

  “Sally’s not well. She suffers from morning sickness morning, noon, and night.” Martin’s gaze fixed on Maeve’s décolletage. “She could not be with me this evening but sends her regrets.”

  “Give her my best wishes, and enjoy the evening Martin.” Unreasonably irritated by his cousin’s rude ogling of Maeve, Charles started to lead her away.

  “And who is this enchanting woman on your arm?”

  “Did I not introduce you? Forgive me. This is...Maeve.”

  Maeve inclined her head and smiled sweetly.

  Martin appeared enthralled.

  Charles decided to finish the introduction quickly and whisk his wife away. He didn’t trust his cousin — never had, really. Just because Martin was married did not mean he would behave honorably toward Maeve — or any woman, for that matter. Martin loved women as a whole. What’s more, he made no secret of the fact that he preferred variety in his life. Charles suspected his cousin kept a mistress.

  “Maeve, this is my cousin, Martin Rycroft.”

  “Charmed, my dear. Absolutely charmed.”

  Maeve blushed.

  “Where did you meet?” Martin blurted, turning to Charles. “I have —”

  “We met last week...by chance,” Charles said, tugging at Maeve’s hand.

  Martin grasped Maeve’s free hand, preventing Charles’s flight. “My dear, you’ve managed what no other woman has been able to do for months. You have captured my cousin’s eye.”

  “As he has captured mine.”