by Nan Ryan
“The Congress waters are the most favored of all,” declared Lillian Titus, with great authority.
“Now, Lillian, dear,” said the handsomely dressed, middle-aged banking heiress, Pauline Quinn, “there are others the Duchess must visit, as well. Why there’s High Rock and Empire and Excelsior and Triton and—”
“Yes, yes,” Lillian impatiently cut Pauline off. “But Congress Springs is the place to be.”
“Your Grace,” offered Maxine Delaney, an age-wrinkled tiny little woman in a big-brimmed straw hat, “the waters have a wondrous healing effect on both body and soul.”
The pretty divorcée, red-haired Caroline Whit, did not extol the benefit of the waters. She said nothing and Claire concluded that Caroline came to the springs to see and be seen. Claire’s eyes narrowed minutely as she watched the ravishing redhead saunter leisurely along, her hips swaying, breasts freely bouncing beneath her high-necked dress of shimmering yellow silk. Claire gritted her teeth, recalling suddenly that at last night’s gathering, Caroline had entered the dining room with none other than Hank Cassidy.
Soon Claire’s little group reached the beautiful park, which was filled with pavilions, splashing fountains, the lake, benches, obelisks and a bandstand. The lush, tree-shaded park was crowded with people, all dressed to the nines.
Claire noticed that it was mainly ladies who gathered in the pavilion to drink of the healing mineral waters.
It appeared that the gentlemen had made the trek to the springs solely to watch the morning parade. A band began to play as Claire reached the white pavilion. She patiently waited her turn and when she stepped up to the springs, the smiling dipper boy ladled up a half-pint tumbler of mineral water and handed it to her.
Claire thanked him, turned, and strolled away from the others. She sat down on a bench in the shade, raised the tumbler to her lips and took a big healthy swill.
And fought the strong desire to spew it out of her mouth. It tasted awful. Worse than any medicine she’d ever taken. Trying very hard not to make a face, she looked anxiously around to make sure no one was watching her.
But someone was.
Not thirty yards away, Hank Cassidy, arms crossed over his chest, stood leaning negligently against a marble statue. He was looking straight at her.
And he was laughing.
While Claire struggled to swallow the foul-tasting water, Hank pushed away from the statue and headed in her direction. He reached her, plucked at the crease in his tan trousers, lifted a well-shod foot up onto the bench beside her and leaned a forearm on his trousered knee.
Giving her a I’m-about-to-wink-at-you look, he said, “Go ahead, spit it out, Duchess. I won’t tell anybody.”
Claire swallowed anxiously, then swallowed again. “There’s nothing to tell, Mr. Cassidy. I find the waters quite refreshing.”
“Really? Then drink up and I’ll get you another dipper full.” He grinned devilishly then, lowered his foot to the ground, took the tumbler from her and tossed out the water.
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” Claire stated haughtily.
“No you don’t.”
Not waiting for an invitation, Hank sat down beside her. Claire was secretly delighted. She was sure he had come to the springs this morning in hopes of seeing her. She glanced at him and felt her breath immediately grow short. He was extraordinarily handsome with the kind of dark good looks that won women without any effort.
His hooded cerulean eyes were shaded with sinfully long black lashes and his beautiful lips were turned up into an appealingly boyish smile. His shirt collar was open and a couple of the buttons were undone revealing his smooth, tanned throat. Claire found it hard to take her eyes off him. She had to force herself to look away.
“Come to breakfast with me, Duchess,” Hank said and his rich baritone voice was most persuasive. “A cup of strong black coffee will get the bad taste of the water out of your mouth.”
“I think not, Mr. Cassidy,” Claire said dismissively and rose.
Hank stood up. Before she could stop him, he had reached for and taken hold of her hand. When his fingers closed around hers, Claire’s heart fluttered alarmingly.
But she remained outwardly composed. Hank laced his fingers through hers, squeezed gently, and said, “No breakfast? Fine. Then have dinner with me this evening.”
Claire made a halfhearted attempt to free her hand. Hank allowed her to unlace their fingers, but he didn’t let go of her hand. Instead his closed possessively over hers and Claire felt the warmth of his touch quickly spread through her entire body.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cassidy,” she said, “I have prior plans this evening.”
Hank’s hand loosened on hers but still did not release it. He slid lean fingers up to encircle her fragile wrist and placed the tip of his thumb on her pulse. And felt it race.
“Are you feeling well, Duchess?”
“I’m perfectly fine,” she said, hoping her face wasn’t flushed.
“Your face is flushed and your pulse is rapid. Perhaps you’d better let me see you home before you—”
“There you are,” came a firm male voice, interrupting.
Hank and Claire looked up to see Parker Lawson fast approaching. Claire anxiously wrenched her hand free of Hank’s and smiled warmly at the handsome Parker Lawson.
The men acknowledged each other, shook hands, then Parker turned his full attention on Claire. “Have you drunk of the waters, Your Grace?”
“Yes. Yes, I have,” she said.
“She thought the water tasted real good,” Hank said with a grin. “You might want to bring her another dipper full.”
Ignoring Hank, Claire smiled at Parker. “I’m ready for breakfast if you are.” She opened and raised her parasol.
“Yes, I’m famished,” said Parker, taking Claire’s arm. “Congress Inn serves a sumptuous spread. Shall we go there?” Claire nodded her approval. To Hank, Parker said, “I’d invite you to join us, Cassidy, but I’m sure you’re on your way out to the track.”
Not waiting for a reply, Lawson hurriedly ushered the duchess away. She left without a backward look. And, to Hank’s chagrin, Lawson leaned close and whispered something to her. She playfully slapped at him and laughed merrily as if she’d never before heard anything quite so amusing.
Hank Cassidy muttered an oath under his breath.
Eleven
Saratoga Springs was a small, close-knit resort community. Summer guests were endlessly sociable. Most attended several pleasant activities each and every day. And then were present for glittering gatherings at night, encountering many of the same people with whom they’d spent the afternoon.
Or had been with the evening before.
It would have been next to impossible to avoid seeing someone who was spending the season at the Springs.
And so it was that there was not one single day—or night—that Hank Cassidy didn’t run into the beautiful Duchess of Beaumont.
On each occasion, the gregarious duchess, who bantered and teased and laughed so readily with others, was—to Hank—consistently distant, barely acknowledging him. Baffling him. Bothering him. To the point that the sound of her frequent laughter had begun to annoy the hell out of him.
She never laughed with him no matter how hard he worked to entertain and amuse her. He’d had no trouble successfully charming other women with his special brand of flirtatious teasing. Most beauties easily fell under his spell.
But not her.
He was not accustomed to having women refuse invitations to dinner—and more—with him. With the exception of the frosty golden-haired duchess, every eligible lady in Saratoga—and a few who were not—jealously vied for his attention.
But Hank wasn’t interested.
Perversely, he wanted only this gay, glamorous woman who seemed to take pleasure in rejecting him. It was a predicament that was totally foreign to him. And it was most unsettling to be strongly attracted to a beautiful woman who wanted no part of him.
&nb
sp; The uncomfortable situation was made worse by the fact that he and the duchess were constantly at the same social functions. Be it afternoon band concert or evening dinner party or nighttime hop, the gadabout duchess never missed a good time.
She had managed, in the one short week she had been at the Springs, to thoroughly enchant everyone. Her striking blond beauty was not her only asset. She was—with everyone but him—genial, good-natured, and adept at repartee. There was, he felt sure, no pretense about her, no Victorian humility or false modesty.
Not one ounce of hypocrisy.
It was taken for granted by the resort’s well-informed gossips that the outgoing, flamboyant widow would very soon take a lover—or lovers—from the myriad dazzled gentlemen who were drawn to her as moths to the flame.
Hank Cassidy had his pride. He staunchly refused to play the drooling fool like all the others, but he did seize every opportunity their crossed paths afforded to try to attract her attention.
So far to no avail.
But he hadn’t given up. Would not give up.
The duchess’s brush-offs and rebuffs had only heightened his resolve to have her.
On a warm, sunny afternoon Claire stood before the glass counter in one of the stores at the Grand Union Hotel. A small, tastefully decorated, sinfully expensive shop that offered fancy goods. She was admiring a pair of imported French kid gloves when Hank Cassidy walked in and, uninvited, joined her.
“She’ll take the gloves,” he said to the clerk, “put them on my account.”
“Do no such thing!” she quickly instructed the clerk. She turned on Hank, her brow furrowed. “I do not accept gifts from strange gentlemen,” she told him flatly.
“Take a good look at me, Duchess,” Hank said and slowly turned about in a full circle. When he was again facing her, he asked, “See anything strange about me?”
I see the most compelling man I’ve ever met! A man in whose arms I can hardly wait to be. “I must agree with you on that. I see nothing out of the ordinary about you, Mr. Cassidy,” Claire said with a slight smirk.
“Well, then how about letting this plain old ordinary fellow buy you a pair of gloves?”
“I do not need your charity,” Claire scolded.
“What exactly do you need, Duchess?” he asked and his handsome face showed faint amusement. Claire felt her stomach do a turn. Hank took her elbow. “Let’s go.”
“Go? I’m not finished shopping.”
“That can wait.”
“So can you.”
“No, I can’t. Nor can you. If we delay, all the rockers will be taken. We must hurry.” Hank gently propelled Claire out of the store, at the same time motioning to the clerk to wrap up the gloves.
“The rockers taken? Is there a reason I should care if—?”
“Yes, there is,” he said, ushering her up Broadway, nodding and smiling to the people strolling past. “If you haven’t spent a lazy afternoon rocking and enjoying fruit ices on the veranda of the United States Hotel, you don’t know what you’re missing.”
Claire carefully concealed her eagerness to be in his company. Mildly aloof, she allowed him to escort her to the hotel. When they climbed the front steps to the vast veranda where hundreds of people were spending the summer afternoon, rockers immediately stilled, while conversations lowered and died away.
At once, all eyes were on the striking pair; the man, lean, hard, and handsome, the woman, delicate, beautiful, and feminine. The two most talked-about people in Saratoga; the Duchess of Beaumont and the Nevada Silver King.
“Your Grace,” people called out from several directions. “There are chairs over here. Won’t you join us?”
“Come this way, King, and bring your beautiful companion. Plenty of rockers here. Come. Come join us.”
“Thank you, thank you so much,” Hank smiled and acknowledged everyone, smoothly guiding Claire through the throngs of people, stepping around clusters of rockers and deftly shaking outstretched hands before hurriedly moving on. His hand at the small of Claire’s back, Hank gently pressed her forward toward the end of the long, crowded veranda.
“Over there,” he finally inclined his head, spotting a couple of empty wicker rockers slightly apart from the others on the shaded veranda. Claire nodded. They reached the chairs and Hank handed her down into one. She frowned at him when he pulled his rocker closer to hers. So close the wicker arms were touching. He folded his long frame down into the chair and slowly exhaled.
“Ah, is this the life?” he asked, beginning to rock slowly back and forth, his knees spread, long legs stretched out before him.
“Quite pleasant,” she replied. She laid her hands on the chair’s arms and blinked in surprise when Hank’s hand casually covered hers.
“I can’t stay,” she quickly said.
“Sure you can,” he replied. “What you need is a fruit ice to cool you off.” He raised a long arm in the air and motioned. A white-jacketed waiter immediately appeared. “The lady would like a strawberry ice,” Hank said and looked at Claire. “Wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose so. What are you having?”
Hank lowered his heavily lidded gaze to her lips. “Perhaps just a lick off yours.”
Claire inwardly shivered and looked away. “I really should be going.”
But she didn’t move. And when her fruit ice came, she sat there savoring it and readily admitted that it was quite delicious. She was enjoying herself immensely despite the fact that she was on edge, girlishly nervous in his presence, while he seemed totally relaxed.
He made easy inconsequential conversation and Claire found herself smiling and hanging on to every word. She loved the timbre of his voice, the way his blue eyes sparkled when he spoke, the flash of his white teeth when he smiled.
Claire couldn’t believe it when Hank yawned and closed his eyes. She stared at him, aghast. “If you’re going to sleep, then I—”
“I’m not going anywhere, Duchess.” Hank opened one eye and smiled at her. “I’m right where I want to be.” He closed both eyes again.
Claire slowly released a breath. She should, she knew, get up and leave. But she didn’t want to go. It was so nice here rocking in the shade on this warm summer afternoon beside this attractive man. She would never have told him, but she, too, was right where she wanted to be.
Claire cautiously turned her head and gazed admiringly at Hank. His handsome face in repose was like that of an innocent young boy. A wayward lock of gleaming raven hair fell casually over his high forehead. His mouth was relaxed, the sensual lips appearing to be soft, sweet, yet decidedly dangerous.
Claire slowly lowered her gaze to the broad chest which was gently rising and falling. His dove-gray linen suit jacket was thrown carelessly open. Beneath a shirt of fine white silk, the shadow of thick dark chest hair was a testament to his masculinity.
Claire felt her mouth grow dry.
Hank Cassidy was exactly what she was looking for in a summertime sexual playmate. Dark, seductive, a rogue if ever there was one. A rawly virile man who stirred the most shameful of longings in the bosoms of respectable woman, including her.
Claire wondered how he would look without his shirt. Without his clothes.
The prospect made the blood rush to her cheeks. She turned her attention to the lean, brown hand which was again warmly covering her own. His hand on hers looked like it belonged there. It felt right, felt good. Too good. She was weakening.
Time to go.
Silently, carefully she freed her hand from his. He didn’t stir. Never moved. He was sleeping, for heaven’s sake! Claire was more than a trifle insulted. Indignant, she left him there.
She was red-faced and angry by the time she reached the hotel’s broad front steps. While she was still tingling from the mere touch of his hand on hers, he had not roused when she got up to leave.
Flustered, suddenly doubting her appeal, Claire descended the hotel steps feeling as if everyone was staring and whispering that the fun-loving duchess
might easily charm everyone else but she had so bored the handsome Silver King he had fallen sound asleep.
Twelve
“Apparently I have greatly overestimated my charms,” Claire announced when she reached the estate and found Olivia out on the back veranda.
“Now I seriously doubt that,” said Olivia, needle in hand, a sky-blue chiffon garment spread out on her lap. “Tell me what has happened—or not happened—that causes you to make such a foolish statement.”
Claire sighed wearily and sank down onto a padded chaise longue. “I was in one of the shops at the Grand Union when Hank Cassidy walked in and…” She told, in detail, what had occurred, concluding with the distressing admission that Hank Cassidy had fallen asleep in his rocker. With a look of despair on her face, she said, “No question about it, Olivia, Cassidy was bored with me.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute. Perhaps the young man was simply quite tired,” offered Olivia. “Or maybe being with you made him feel so content he—”
“Content? I don’t want him content!” Claire shot up off of the chaise and began to pace restlessly back and forth. “I want him intrigued. Impatient. Tormented. I want him to the point where he’ll never sleep again.”
“If anyone can do it, you can,” assured Olivia with a throaty laugh. “Wait until he sees you in this.” She lifted the blue chiffon gown she was altering. “With your fair coloring and golden hair, you’ll be absolutely irresistible. If need be, I could have it ready for this evening if you’d like to wear it to dinner.”
Claire took the beautiful gown and held it up before her. Smoothing a hand over the soft, frothy fabric, she smiled for the first time since leaving the sleeping Hank.
“Seeing me in this should wake him up, don’t you think?”
“Guaranteed,” said Olivia, nodding.
“The gown’s not quite ready and neither am I,” said Claire, her self-confidence quickly returning. She handed the garment back to Olivia and said, “Another week should do the trick.” She pondered for a moment, then thinking out loud mused, “The Duchess arrives Saturday, August 10th. Today’s date is Saturday July 20th. Which means I can delay the inevitable for another full week, during which time I will run hot and cold. Confuse him totally before I breathlessly surrender next Saturday night. And then I’ll still have two entire weeks to spend with…” Her words trailed away. She smiled once more and declared, “Cassidy can continue to wonder and doubt himself for another seven days. And nights.”