by Becky Lower
Finally, he broke the kiss and backed up a step, breathing heavily. Her breath was coming in labored gasps, too, as she stared at him.
“You’d better go, Miss Fitzpatrick. Now that I know you are a respectable member of society, it’s most inappropriate for us to continue meeting without proper supervision. And it’s most inappropriate for us to behave as such, as much as I’m enjoying it. Please, tempt me no further.”
Rosemary was mortified. She wanted him to fall in love with her, but she didn’t want him to think she was a loose woman. What had she been thinking, untying his hair and running her fingers through it? She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks in absolute embarrassment.
“Yes, of course, Mr. Cooper. You are right.” She ran her fingers over her bruised lips. “I’ll go now. Any future business we have to do can be accomplished through the mail.” She turned to leave the office.
He grabbed her hand as she turned. Puzzled, she turned back to him. Had she not been soundly put in her place? Did he want to mortify her even more?
“I agree, the business part of our relationship should be accomplished by the mail. However, I’d love to continue to see you, appropriately chaperoned, of course, on a personal basis. I know no one in town except for the Cabots, and am in need of a companion for the theatre. There’s a new play at Laura Keene’s theatre opening Friday night. Laura Keene herself has the lead role.”
Rosemary could not keep up with the shift in conversation. She thought he had rebuffed her yet again, and now he was asking to accompany her to the theatre? She ran a finger over her lips a second time, the taste of him still lingering on them.
“Yes, I already have it on my calendar. Mother, Papa, and I are planning to attend. We are huge supporters of women in the arts. I’m certain Mother wouldn’t mind having you join us in our box. Why don’t you come by the house for dinner on Friday, and we can all go to the theatre together?”
“An excellent idea.”
“I’ll discuss it with Mother, and we’ll send you a formal invitation with all the particulars.”
“I’ll see you on Friday, then.” He bowed over her hand and finally let it go. With a backward, last glance at him, she let herself out the door and paused on the other side, releasing a long, slow breath.
As much as he perplexed her, the plan she’d walked into their meeting with had worked! Henry Cooper was interested in her on a personal level. And the fact he wanted to see Laura Keene made her hopeful that he, too, supported women in the arts. Perhaps she could be the woman he supported most of all. But it was too early to let down her guard yet.
As she walked back to the family brownstone, her mind replayed the afternoon. Not the fencing so much, although it was informative and would be most helpful when she wrote her pirate scene. But the kiss he demanded as payment for besting her was running on a perpetual loop through her mind as her body continued to throw off sparks. When he’d pressed himself up to her, and she’d fit so neatly up against him, all she’d wanted was to stay there forever. Her lips, when she ran her finger over them, were plump and bruised, and were turned up into a smile of their own accord. She still couldn’t believe she had been so brazen as to unfasten his hair and weave her hands into it. She glanced down and found several strands of black hair, which had fallen loose as she ran her fingers through his locks. She carefully tucked them into her handkerchief. Yes, she could possibly make Henry Cooper fall in love with her. But could she keep herself from falling in love with him?
• • •
Henry thought Rosemary had been a sight in her chamois riding breeches that hugged her curves, but it was nothing compared to the vision she presented now. When she glided into the Fitzpatrick family’s parlor on Friday evening dressed for the theatre, he found it hard to catch his breath. The color of the gown with its large hoop skirt was somewhere between pale pink and burgundy. It complemented the pale blush on her cheeks and made her intelligent gray eyes stand out. Henry drank her in as if he was in a desert, and she was his oasis.
But the color was merely the beginning. The neckline was square-cut, with off-the-shoulder short sleeves. A row of starched lace adorned the edge, through which peeked just the slightest amount of décolletage. The sleeves were carefully constructed to form a stiff triangle shape, standing away from her arms before ending in a tight band just above the elbow. And the bodice of the gown was a series of vertical pleats, all leading to the dark burgundy bow around her waist. Her tiny wisp of a waist. Henry could not stop staring at her. Nor could he speak. The Fitzpatrick family must think him the biggest bore they’d come across. He had to say something.
He was a publisher after all. He worked with words every day.
Finally, his tongue unfroze itself. He took a deep breath and extended his hand toward her. “Miss Fitzpatrick, my compliments to your dress designer. You are lovely this evening.”
She grasped his hand with her gloved one, and he caught of whiff of her signature patchouli scent. “The designer is my own sister, Jasmine. As I told you the other day, my family is a huge supporter of women in the arts, of which my sister is one. I’ll pass along your compliments on the gown to her.”
Charlotte Fitzpatrick moved to Henry’s side and tapped him lightly on the arm. “I’m so happy Rosemary thought to invite you to dinner. Now we’ll have a chance to get to know you a bit better. It must be difficult being in a strange city with no friends to accompany you to events.”
“The Cabot family has been most accommodating, inviting me to functions. But, sooner or later, I must carve my own way. I have been very busy with the publishing company so far, but I’m getting the business under control now, so I do have more free time.”
“Well, we’re glad you can spend some of it with us. Shall we proceed to the dining room?”
He extended his arm to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and together they walked to the dining room, Charlotte chattering away. But all he could hear was the swish of Rosemary’s gown across the floor as she trailed behind them with her father.
Henry was grateful he could sit across the table from her at dinner. His eyes feasted on her as they awaited the first course. He remembered how soft her lips had been, how she had shocked him by pulling the strip of leather from his hair and then running her hands through his long locks. Their kiss had shaken him to his core. He had been attracted to her when she was posing as a secretary, but now that her true self had emerged, he was even more intrigued by her. Not only was she a member of society, but her parents were in the same class as the Cabots of Boston. His father might finally be impressed with his son. However, pleasing his father was not the main reason he wanted to forge a relationship with Rosemary. She was the true reason. The only reason.
George Fitzpatrick cleared his throat as they took their places and waited for the first course to be set in front of them. “I must apologize for my behavior at the debutante ball. Impersonating F.P. Elliott was most wrong of me, and I’m sorry I tried to dupe you, even if it was only for the moment, and I was quickly unmasked.”
“When your wife exposed you, you mean?” Henry smiled in George’s direction.
“Yes, sometimes Charlotte is terrible at keeping a secret. I was merely trying to assist my daughter, who lives in fear that you’ll cancel the contract with old F.P. after the last book is delivered.”
Rosemary sent a silent glare down the table to her father, which did not go unnoticed by Henry. He could not shake the feeling that subterfuge was running amok at the dinner table, even with the apology.
Henry dipped his spoon into the hearty clam chowder and brought it to his lips. Not quite as spicy as he preferred after all his time in New Orleans, but it was tasty.
Charlotte’s head bobbed in Henry’s direction in a blatant attempt to steer the conversation in another direction. “So tell us a bit about yourself, Mr. Cooper. Have you any siblings?”
“Yes, ma’am. Not as many as are in your family, but I do have a younger sister, Marguerite.”
&
nbsp; “What a lovely name. Does she still live in Boston?”
“Yes, she does. And she’s as different from me as day is from night. She is a blonde, with blue eyes.”
“So where did your dark, good looks come from?”
Henry shifted in his seat. He was truly being given the third degree, no matter how soft the voice asking the questions.
“I resemble my mother, who was French. Marguerite takes more after my father.”
“And Rosemary tells us you spent a large portion of your youth in New Orleans, of all places. How did you come to live there?”
“I joined my uncle, my mother’s brother, after her death. She was his only family in the United States, and he missed her, even though they lived in two different places for a large portion of their lives. I enjoyed my time in New Orleans. It’s such a vibrant place with its mix of cultures, and wonderful food. So unlike stuffy Boston.”
“But you must have been just a lad when you went to live with your uncle!”
“Mother, enough of your questions. Let poor Mr. Cooper eat his meal in peace, please.” Rosemary smiled across the table at him.
Silently, he sent her a meaningful glance that said he thanked her.
As the dinner came to an end, Henry picked up his wineglass when George Fitzpatrick offered a toast.
“Here’s to many more evenings such as this one,” George said. Henry noted Charlotte’s beaming smile and Rosemary’s slight discomfort. His mind was made up.
“Hear, hear. If I may be so bold, Mr. Fitzpatrick, I’d be honored if you’d allow me to court your daughter.”
Rosemary’s gasp was audible from across the table. Charlotte clapped her hands together.
George Fitzpatrick’s gaze flitted from Henry to Rosemary, and he smiled. “We do things a bit differently in this house, Mr. Cooper. I appreciate your good manners, but the decision is not mine to make. My daughter will be the one to allow you to court her, not I.”
Henry stared across the table at Rosemary and noticed her hand at her throat. Her huge gray eyes locked with his, and she took a big gulp of air.
“Yes.” The word was almost a whisper. Henry leaned across the table to catch the sound, his heart leaping as the single word spoke volumes.
Charlotte clapped her hands together again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As Harry settled in at the dinner table, he turned his attention from his employer to the young woman whose blue eyes raked over him in a most disconcerting way. “My savior,” she breathed.
Her father intervened. “Yes, it was due to Harry’s quick action that you were saved from Screaming Eagle today. Think what would have been your fate had Harry left with the hunting party, as he was supposed to have done. You could have been killed, or worse.”
“Oh, Papa, what could be worse than being killed?” Penelope laughed and placed her hand on her father’s arm.
“Why, daughter, Screaming Eagle could have had his way with you.”
The color left Penelope’s face, and the laughter died from her voice. “I didn’t think of that.”
Henry couldn’t wait for dinner to end. The pork roast, potatoes, and mixed vegetables had been most palatable, but once Rosemary had whispered her consent to entertain his courtship, he’d wanted to vault across the table and capture her lips again, taste her, to seal the bargain.
Although, to be quite honest, the vision he had in his mind, of things he wanted to do with Rosemary on top of the table, went far beyond a kiss. What he really wanted to do was to clear the table with one sweep of his arm, sending plates and candlestick holders crashing to the floor. Then he’d lay Rosemary on top of the fine mahogany and kiss every inch of her body before teasing her to what he guessed would be her first orgasm. And then he’d plunge into her, claiming her for himself. From the contact they’d had thus far, he could tell she would be a fiery lover, and he couldn’t wait to sample her yet again. To have his way with her.
However, he was realistic enough to know tonight would be a most proper evening, and he tried to rein in his lustful apparitions. Rosemary and he would be fully chaperoned by her parents in the carriage to the theatre, then in the theatre box, and again on the ride back to the Fitzpatrick residence. There would be no opportunity for even a chaste kiss this evening, much to Henry’s dismay. Rosemary was a highbred New Yorker, he was a Boston Brahmin, despite his appearance, and certain standards needed to be adhered to. But George Fitzpatrick’s comment about how this family did things differently stuck with him. Perhaps there could be a stolen moment in the theatre. If not, he’d have to wait for their next fencing lesson to claim another kiss from her. His manhood, which had swelled at his lascivious thoughts, was discretely hidden under the table, and he willed it to behave before he had to stand.
The dessert, a peach cobbler with ice cream, was placed in front of him. It smelled divine, sweetly fruity, yet as he took his first bite, he measured it up against the taste of Rosemary as he kissed her the other day. The cobbler didn’t begin to compare. Another spoonful, to be polite, and he was done.
George checked his pocket watch, and his eyes scanned the group. “We’d best be on our way. The curtain is rising in a half hour.” As one, they stood, moved to the front hall, and waited for the butler to hand them their coats and hats. Henry used the opportunity to stand beside Rosemary and inhale her strong signature scent. His body hummed as he took a deep breath.
He smiled. Rosemary was a strong woman. That was a most apt description of the petite woman with the tiny waist who stood beside him. She’d taken to fencing as quickly as any man he’d ever taught, and the twinkle in her eye as she’d faced him with a sword in her hand rivaled any opponent he’d ever faced. Yes, he was more than willing to spar with Rosemary, be it verbally or with actual swords. She was a worthy adversary. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, an interested one. When she placed her hand on his arm for the walk to the carriage, a bolt of white-hot desire radiated up his arm and down to his core. It was going to be a long night. He nodded in her direction and caught another whiff of her fragrance. Or maybe not long enough.
• • •
Rosemary couldn’t postpone the necessary conversation with Henry much longer. Or Mr. Cooper, that was. She could only refer to him as Henry in her head, since she’d revealed to him her true identity. She was not working class Phoebe Wyatt who could ignore the bounds of convention, but rather a highbred young lady who must, at all times, refer to him as Mr. Cooper. Well, to be quite honest, he still didn’t know her true identity at all. She could redirect the conversation in any of a number of ways, as both she and her mother had been doing all evening. But sooner or later, the conversation would have to happen. And then what? The carriage ride to the theatre had been accomplished in relative silence, with only her mother keeping up some modicum of conversation.
Perhaps a careful discussion with him this evening would give her some insight into how Mr. Cooper viewed women in business. She’d ask him questions about his family. Up until now, she’d been unaware he had a sister. Rosemary needed to find out more about her and how Henry viewed her place in society.
They settled into their theatre box seats and as her mother and father spent a few minutes nodding to acquaintances, Rosemary stole a glance at Mr. Cooper. Henry. Henri. She took a deep breath. He was staring at the stage curtain, obviously deep in thought, so she studied his profile. Dark eyebrows winged above deep brown eyes. Skin that seemed to always have been kissed by the sun. A fine, straight nose, and sculpted lips. Made for kissing. His long dark hair was tied back into its usual queue, and her fingers twitched as she remembered the sensations her fingers imparted when she’d removed the leather strip from his hair and woven her hands into his long locks. Involuntarily, her hand began to rise from her lap. She caught herself in the nick of time, before she publicly embarrassed them both.
Conversation was definitely needed to pull both of them out of the trance they’d fallen into.
“Mr. Cooper,” Rosema
ry began in a low voice, so as not to startle him.
His eyes blinked as he swung his head toward her. “Yes, Miss Fitzpatrick?”
“Tell me more about your sister, Marguerite. How much younger is she?”
“She’s several years behind me, and was only a child when we lost our mother and I moved to New Orleans.”
“It must have been difficult for you to move away from all you’d ever known.”
“Yes, it was. I was an angry young man, both at losing my mother and then being sent to New Orleans. But my uncle understood and redirected my anger to fencing. If not for Uncle Jacques, I would have lost my way forever.”
Rosemary’s brow lifted in surprise. “But I thought Uncle Jacques was the reason you left home in the first place. To be with him, since he missed your mother so much.”
Henry took hold of her hand. Even through her gloves, she could sense his heat.
“Someday, I’ll explain it all to you. But no, Uncle Jacques saved me from myself. I’ll never forget how he took a young, angry man under his wing. But let’s get back to your original line of questioning. What else would you care to know about my sister?”
“Does she work in the family business as well?”
“She would love to, but my father is against it. He thinks she should find a husband and have babies.”
“But why can’t she do both? My sister, Jasmine, is building a successful career as a dress designer, and she’s got one child already with another on the way.”
“That’s the way of it with my father. Proper young ladies spend their days doing charitable work and raising children. And nothing else. If they entertain a thought other than what society deems acceptable, they are to keep it to themselves.”
“Do you agree with his line of reasoning?”
The orchestra ceased tuning their instruments, and the room darkened.
“Shh. The play’s about to begin.”
She didn’t care a continental, as Harry Hawk was fond of saying, about the play any longer. Blast! What horrible timing. Just as she was getting to the meat of the matter. She wanted to tell the orchestra to hold off just a few more minutes. Instead, she stomped the floor.