A Daring Arrangement

by Joanna Shupe

  The crowd went wild. Nora immediately swung her head to gauge Julius’s reaction. Her escort appeared slightly bewildered, shoulders stiff and his brows lowered. His stare remained fixed on the man on stage as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Nora hadn’t ever considered that a woman of Miss Desmond’s caliber would perform in a place like this.

  She touched his arm. “Does she normally—?”

  “No. Never.”

  He said no more, his mouth compressing into a tight line as a beautiful buxom woman glided to the front of the stage. Miss Desmond’s wide smile did not falter as the patrons shouted and stomped their feet, though her gaze swept briefly over Julius. Had she known he was here?

  An exquisite dress of shimmery light blue silk accented every nook and cranny of Miss Desmond’s lush frame. The fabric shone in the light as she moved, drawing every eye in the room like a lighthouse in the dead of night. Her brown hair was piled in careful curls, a single red-and-black poppy tucked behind her ear, while jewelry sparkled at her ears and throat. She executed a slight curtsey and the applause rose in volume.

  Patrons began moving toward the stage, men crowding the small tables at the front. Julius glanced over his shoulder and then cursed under his breath. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Nora didn’t want to leave. On the contrary, she was looking forward to this performance. Was Julius uncomfortable at the idea of watching his former paramour? If so, that was unfortunate. Nora couldn’t wait to see if Miss Desmond’s singing skills were as spectacular as rumored.

  “No,” she told him. “I want to stay.”

  A man jostled her chair as he rushed forward, and Julius grabbed her elbow. “This is not safe.” He had to nearly shout in her ear to be heard. “You’ll be hurt if we don’t leave.”

  Before she could tell him to go to the devil, a voice started singing—a crisp, flawless soprano that instantly quieted the room. Everyone stared, entranced, as the notes rippled throughout the space. Lifting. Rising. Swelling with emotion and passion. Nora had never heard anything like it. Factoring in Miss Desmond’s looks, that this stunning woman sang so astoundingly seemed almost unfair.

  Nora couldn’t look away. The unfamiliar tune was about love and loss, about having one’s heart broken by a careless man. Though the actress’s gaze remained trained on the back of the room, Nora couldn’t help but wonder if this was a message to Julius.

  For his part, he watched the performance absently, his focus instead on the men crowding around the floor. He seemed concerned rather than annoyed or flattered. If he had any remaining feelings for his former mistress, he was doing a dashed fine job of hiding them.

  Nora, on the other hand, remained fascinated. To command a room in such a bold, audacious manner, to hold and then revel in the attention . . . What must it feel like? She could well imagine the striking couple: Julius, with his cool Nordic handsomeness, and this dazzling firebrand. No wonder the city’s newspapers had been so eager to follow their exploits.

  The song built to its natural conclusion, the last note held for a full minute. When she finally stopped, Miss Desmond removed the poppy from behind her ear and tossed it into the crowd.

  It landed on their table. Directly in front of Julius.

  He scowled at the flower as if it were poisonous. Before Nora could ask him what was the matter, men lunged for their table. Nora gasped and flew to her feet as large sweaty bodies converged from all sides, sending the champagne bottle and glasses crashing to the floor. The flower was lost on the ground, and men fell to their knees, wrestling each other for it. Punches were thrown and Nora began to realize the seriousness of the situation.

  The Haymarket had erupted into a full-out brawl.

  Men pushed Julius aside in their quest for the flower, and he was soon lost from her view. Head swiveling madly, she tried to find him. An elbow jabbed her ribs. A shoulder bumped her back. Something kicked her leg. Spinning, she called, “Julius!”

  Dear God in heaven, what if she couldn’t get out of this mess?

  She began pushing and shoving as best she could, attempting to extricate herself from the brewing insanity, edging toward the sides of the room . . . The group only thickened, however, and she found herself surrounded by drunk, eager men determined to retrieve the flower.

  “Nora!”

  Turning, she saw him a few feet away, his hair disheveled. He’d been cut above his eyebrow, red trickling along his temple. His face etched with determination, he began moving toward her, shouldering men out of his path.

  He was nearly in arm’s reach when one of the men jostled him. “You had the flower!” the man shouted in Julius’s face. “Where is it?”

  Oh no. If the crowd believed the flower to be on Julius’s person, they’d rip him apart.

  “I don’t have it,” Julius returned, but the man did not appear convinced and tried to get inside Julius’s inner coat pockets. Julius threw a punch but the man easily blocked it.

  She had to do something. A bottle hit her shoe, so she reached down and grabbed the neck. When she straightened, Julius and the other man were engaged in a brutal shoving match.

  The attacker had ripped the shoulder seam of Julius’s frock coat in trying to wrestle it off. “He’s got the flower!” the man shouted to the crowd.

  Julius’s arms were trapped in the twisted fabric of his coat and she could see the panic in his bright blue eyes. Using the heavy glass bottle, she struck the attacker over the head with all her strength. He crumpled to the ground, releasing his hold on Julius.

  Instead of thanking her, Julius grabbed her hand and tugged her in the direction of the stage. When they reached the edge, he lifted her onto the raised platform and then jumped up after her. They hurried behind the curtains to the backstage area.

  Behind the stage was also chaotic. Dancers raced to and fro, shouting at each other while collecting their belongings. Smart ladies. They knew to escape before the riot spilled over in this direction.

  “This way,” Julius said and clasped her hand once more. He led her to a large steel door in the rear of the building. A giant man stood guard, his tree-trunk arms crossed over his chest. “Hatcher,” he greeted, then flicked his gaze to the side.

  A woman stood there in the shadows. Miss Desmond. She was bundled now, her recognizable features nearly obscured by the hood of her cloak.

  “Julius.” She stepped forward and clasped her hands. “May I speak with you?”

  “Not now,” he snapped, anger punctuating every word. “I’ll deal with you tomorrow. Open the goddamn door, Pete.”

  The guard flung open the door and Julius stormed out of the building, Nora in tow. Before they disappeared into the alley, Nora craned her neck to see Miss Desmond lingering. “You were magnificent!” she called to the other woman.

  The actress’s lips curved just before Nora lost sight of her.

  Chapter Eight

  Julius’s hands shook as he helped Nora inside his carriage. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so damned terrified. Noise from inside the Haymarket echoed in the New York City darkness, and he guessed the roundsmen wouldn’t be far behind. Fucking Poppy. Why in the hell would she deliberately set out to cause a riot tonight?

  He tried to drag in air, kept telling himself he and Nora were safe. Poppy couldn’t have known what she was doing. She doesn’t know your history. She doesn’t know what you’ve lived through.

  Most likely, Poppy had thought to make him jealous. After all, everyone knew whoever held the flower at the end of her performance was invited backstage to spend the evening with her.

  Once in the carriage, Nora’s cheerfulness did not help his mood one bit. She appeared perfectly poised, every bit the English lady. One would never guess she’d just emerged from a brawl.

  He, on the other hand, felt rattled to the marrow of his bones. He’d seen violence. He knew how mobs could lose control and human decency, the anonymity giving them license to commit gruesome acts.

  He�
��d been a boy of thirteen during the Panic of ’73. He’d never forget the bank runs, the throngs of New Yorkers breaking windows and doors, dragging bank clerks in the streets when the money ran out. Workers lost jobs, their homes. Sometimes their lives. Rallies and protests were organized, but the police often used brutal force to squash any sign of trouble.

  In those days he’d worked as an errand boy on the exchange, often running from the broker houses to the exchange floor. One morning the Workingmen’s Association held a demonstration on Wall Street to protest the obscene wealth and perceived greed of the traders. When the police arrived on horseback, waving brickbats and ordering the crowd to disperse, the men began to argue and soon fought back.

  Julius had been frozen with fear, armed merely with paper and a few pencils, not nearly enough to defend himself against the clubs and fists. The area rapidly descended into an orgy of violence, with horses trampling and blood flying. He only narrowly avoided getting his head bashed in by jumping into a cellar way and hiding until the worst of it blew over.

  It was a lesson he never forgot: how quickly savagery and bloodshed could erupt. He blew out a breath and rolled his shoulders. Two more minutes and those jackals in the Haymarket would’ve torn him and Nora apart.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Fine.” He fixed his gaze on the street and attempted to calm himself.

  “You don’t seem all right. Are you upset about your coat?”

  “No, I am not upset about my damn coat.” Did she truly have no idea? He bit down on the angry words stinging his tongue. Wasn’t this disaster what he’d warned her about in the first place?

  You let a pretty face and a prettier smile change your mind, idiot.

  “Then what are you upset about?”

  Jesus. “Were you not there? Did you not see what happened? You could have been killed. Violated. Maimed. I know you were sheltered over there in London, but have you no sense whatsoever?”

  Her brows lifted. “Nevertheless, I am unhurt. In fact, you are the injured party.” She indicated his forehead.

  “Another minute or two in that mob might’ve produced a very different outcome. These places are not safe for you, Nora.”

  “Ah. Is this the part when you say, ‘I told you so’?”

  He leaned in and pointed a finger at her. “It’s no less than you deserve. This was a terrible idea.”

  “Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear. However, it was your former paramour who started tonight’s riot. I have to wonder over her purpose.”

  “I cannot begin to guess, but you’d best believe I’ll learn of it tomorrow.”

  “Perhaps your attention is what she wants.”

  No, impossible. Poppy had more attention in one day than a normal person needed in a lifetime. Moreover, if she cared to see him there were better ways to go about it. “Doubtful—and don’t change the subject.”

  He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Blood streaked his skin, surprising him. Then Nora suddenly shifted to his side, sitting close on the velvet bench. She reached into his breast pocket and withdrew the handkerchief resting there. Holding his jaw with her free hand, she dabbed at the cut above his eye. “Let me see if it needs to be stitched,” she said.

  He inhaled sharply at her gentle touch. She was close, so close that the smell of her—lavender and reckless woman—caused his head to swim. Without her cloak, the cheap, low-cut dress revealed a daring amount of creamy, plump bosom. He wrestled with the urge to cover her while at the same time praying to see more skin.

  She pressed hard on the wound and he flinched. Christ, that hurt. He drew back. “What was that for?”

  “You’re staring at me quite rudely.”

  As if he could help it. A blind man would stare at her in that dress. “You’re incredibly beautiful.”

  “I thought we established a strict no-flattery rule between us.”

  “I don’t remember such a rule—and I refuse to adhere to it, regardless.”

  “Rather keen to be flattered, are you?”

  Devilment danced in her eyes, captivating him, and he chuckled. “If you feel so inclined, absolutely.”

  “I hardly think you need flattery, Julius.” She folded the handkerchief carefully, avoiding his gaze and leaving him to wonder what she meant by that statement. He let the comment drop as she continued, “Admit it, you had fun this evening.”

  “Fun is not the word I would use.” He crossed his arms and reclined in the seat. “Dangerous, hair-raising, and foolhardy seem much more apt.”

  “Really? I would say invigorating, enlightening, and fascinating—even if our names will not appear in the papers.”

  How could she not be affected by what just transpired? She was either incredibly sheltered or incredibly reckless. Neither boded well for Julius’s purposes. “Can I assume that Robert does not escort you to dance halls over in London?”

  “No, he hates those places. He doesn’t wish to attract attention when the two of us are together.”

  He suddenly understood. “He hides you away, doesn’t he?”

  She scowled, her shoulders stiffening. “Absolutely not. He’s careful. We cannot parade through Mayfair, for heaven’s sake.”

  Julius had been to London many times. There were plenty of places to explore where an earl’s daughter would not be recognized. “I think not. I think the two of you meet, let’s see, in his apartments. And, when you are feeling adventurous, perhaps a tiny tea shop somewhere off the beaten path for a quick cup and a slice of cake?”

  Surprise flashed over her features before she hid it, and he knew he was right. Still, she didn’t admit it. “There is a large difference between being prudent and being ashamed. Robert is not ashamed of me.”

  The more he learned of this Robert the less Julius liked him . . . and he hadn’t been especially fond of him since the very beginning. No wonder this sheltered English beauty craved the excitement of New York City nightlife.

  That craving, however, could lead to Julius’s downfall.

  He remembered Tripp’s advice, to flirt with her and shake some of her regard for the artist. All he needed was for Nora to care about her reputation, to want to stay in society’s good graces for a bit longer. Thinking herself in love with an outsider back in London only prompted her to more audaciousness here in New York. “So will it need to be stitched?” he asked, making no effort to shift toward her.

  She leaned closer to inspect his wound once more. Her right hand brought the handkerchief to rest above his brow, her body angled across his. A quick tug would bring her on his lap, where her plush bottom would rest atop his groin. A thick, heavy wanting slid over his skin—a reaction that had absolutely nothing to do with distracting her from a fortune-hunting Rembrandt and everything to do with the alluring, intelligent, and maddening woman in front of him.

  Her chest rose and fell swiftly, color staining both her cheeks in the low lamplight. The air in the carriage changed, growing thick with anticipation, and breathing became difficult. Their eyes locked, and he saw the recognition, that she understood what was happening between them. Time seemed to stand still as he remembered the kiss from the gardens and wondered what to do next. He could foresee three results:

  One, she moved away and pretended this never happened.

  Two, he gave in to temptation and kissed her, whereby she pushed him away in anger.

  Three, he kissed her and she eagerly kissed him back. Again.

  Wasn’t hard to calculate the odds. He’d predict a 76 percent chance on option number one. For number two, he’d give it around 23 percent. That didn’t leave much chance for number three but, God above, the possibility of tasting her need and passion once more nearly had him jumping out of his skin.

  Focusing on the numbers, however, didn’t prevent him from noticing the delicate bow of her upper lip. The curve of her jaw. The small freckle on the bridge of her nose, or anything else that added together to create her exquisite face. Why did he f
ind her so tempting?

  Her gaze flicked to his mouth and the odds for number three began to climb. Sweat broke out on the back of his neck, the effort to hold perfectly still nearly killing him. He didn’t care to scare her so he waited for an indication, a hint of what she wanted.

  His hopes were dashed when an unsteady breath escaped her mouth right before she returned to the bench across from him, arranging her skirts carefully. Avoiding his eyes.

  He clenched his jaw. Dashed option one. Sometimes he hated being right.

  Good heavens, she’d nearly kissed him.

  Panic fluttered behind Nora’s ribs, making it impossible to catch her breath. For one brief second, with desire darkening his eyes, his expression hungry and intent, she’d been certain Julius would break their agreement and kiss her. When he hadn’t, she’d almost taken matters into her own hands and kissed him.

  What the devil was wrong with her?

  She loved Robert. Sweet, sensitive Robert, who had professed his love for her on countless occasions. She and Julius barely knew one another and were usually at odds. So why on earth had she wanted to taste him just one more time?

  The only logical explanation was a momentary fit of madness brought on by the late hour and the excitement of the riot. Any other reason was intolerable. Robert was the love of her life, her future husband, the only man she should be contemplating kissing. The end.

  So why, sitting across from Julius, was she now filled with a terrible disappointment?

  “Do you regret tonight?”

  She lifted her chin and faced him squarely. “No.”

  “I meant a moment ago, when we almost—”

  Had he read her thoughts? “Stop. There is no reason to discuss it.” Her words were clipped and precise, and she sounded every inch the English aristocrat. Not that she could help it. First, she was an English aristocrat, and second, her brain was still reeling from the almost-kiss.

  For God’s sake, cease thinking about kissing Julius.