Duchess for a Day

by Nan Ryan

  Olivia again nodded and told Claire, “Among the many invitations that came today, there’s one from the William Kissam Vanderbilts. I understand William is the eldest son of the late Cornelius Vanderbilt, the rail tycoon who was one of the richest men in the world.”

  “I know,” Claire murmured. “Since we arrived, I’ve heard a great deal about the Vanderbilts and Diamond Jim Brady and others. Saratoga definitely draws America’s richest.”

  “Not just Americans,” Olivia corrected. “I was in one of the small casinos last evening and overheard some owners talking about the Thoroughbred races. One complained to his companions that he had difficulty in obtaining stables. Seems several titled Englishmen are bringing over a string of fine Thoroughbreds for the final heats and…”

  “Coming to Saratoga?” Claire anxiously interrupted. “No! Suppose they know the duchess, know her well? There’s a great likelihood that one or all will be at the very least acquaintances of hers. They will expose me for the fraud I am! Did you hear any names?”

  “No, but there’s no need to worry,” Olivia said calmly. “The gentlemen in question are not arriving until mid-August. Just about the time we’ll be folding our tents and disappearing into the sunset.”

  “Thank heaven,” Claire said, heaving a sigh of relief and relaxing immediately. Changing the subject, she said, “So…did we win any money today?”

  “Call me Lucky,” Olivia replied with a self-satisfied smile. “Almost three hundred dollars in less than four hours.” They both laughed.

  “Now about that invitation from the Vanderbilts,” said Olivia. “They’re hosting a festive gala at the United States Hotel ballroom Saturday next, a week from tonight.”

  “Perfect,” said Claire. “Cassidy will be there, I’m sure, and I will—toward the end of the evening—make my move.” She shivered at the pleasant prospect. “Please RSVP for the duchess.”

  Hank had been cautiously encouraged by the duchess’s willingness to stay on the veranda with him, talk to him, smile at him. Looking at her took his breath away and touching her small, soft hand sent shivers throughout his body. He could have stayed there with her forever, rocking back and forth, relaxing, being lazy together.

  He had not really fallen asleep in his rocker on the veranda of the United States Hotel.

  His eyes had been closed, but he had been wide-awake. He’d known how the duchess had frankly examined him, believing he was asleep. He had felt her warm gaze moving over his face and down his body.

  Just as he had planned.

  It had taken great effort to lie totally still while she inspected him, but he’d managed. It had been harder still to stay where he was when she got up and left. But he had steeled himself, hoping that letting her think he had fallen asleep would throw her slightly off kilter. Make her doubt herself a little.

  She’d never know it, but as soon as she’d gotten up out of her chair, he had opened his eyes just a fraction. From beneath sheltering lashes, he had watched, pleased, as she anxiously threaded her way through the filled rockers. Never moving a muscle, he had carefully observed her conduct and could hardly contain his delight.

  She was insulted and upset. It was obvious from the expression on her beautiful face. This could mean only one thing. She was interested in him, despite her behavior to the contrary. And that degree of interest had elevated the moment she’d thought he had fallen asleep.

  She would now question her appeal. Would assume that his surprising nonchalance revealed an indifference of the kind she had shown toward him.

  Hank began to grin wryly.

  He knew, instinctively, that he was a step closer to seducing the beautiful Duchess of Beaumont.

  When next they met, she’d be doing back flips to get his attention or his name wasn’t Henry Columbus Cassidy.

  “Son of a bitch!” Hank swore when he returned to his cottage that very night after another long, disappointing evening. Ripping off his black neck piece, he tossed it on an overstuffed chair. “Damn her,” he muttered as shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket. “Damn me,” he grumbled, yanking the long tails of his pleated yoke-white shirt up out of his snug trousers.

  When the shirt was open down his dark chest, Hank poured himself a stiff bourbon and downed it in one long swallow. He made a face, set the empty glass down and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the hotel’s lush gardens and inhaled deeply.

  From a wooden box resting on a small metal table, he took a fine Cuban cigar. He bit off the tip, stuck the cigar between his teeth, struck a match, and lit it, cupping his hand against the night breeze that made the tiny flame dance and waver.

  The cigar afire, he shook out the match and dropped down into a padded chair. He lifted his feet up onto the railing and leaned back on his spine. Taking a pull on the cigar, he held the smoke in for a moment, then blew it slowly out and exhaled heavily.

  Soft feminine laughter floated up from somewhere in the vast gardens below and was immediately followed by the deep laughter of a man. Snatches of conversation drifted up as couples promenaded in the moonlight or sat on benches scattered about beneath the tall sheltering trees in the manicured gardens.

  It was a night for romance.

  It was pleasantly warm, with a hint of a breeze stirring the leaves on the trees and a big white moon sailing high overhead among the bright stars and high scattered clouds. From the expansive, well-tended gardens, the subtle scent of roses sweetened the night air.

  Alone, Hank smoked in contemplative silence, his body tense. He was edgy, restless, frustrated. His yearning for a woman he could not have was becoming an obsession.

  He had figured the Duchess of Beaumont all wrong.

  Apparently she hadn’t given a damn that he had fallen asleep on her this afternoon. He had arrogantly supposed that her ego would be bruised and her interest therefore piqued by his lack of interest. And she would therefore come buzzing around at tonight’s wine supper at the Congress Inn.

  Wrong.

  She hadn’t given him the time of day. Not a flicker of an eyelash or a flirtatious smile or any other signal that she was aware he was alive.

  Hank released a deep sigh of frustration. His blood was up. He wanted the beautiful duchess with a passion that had become distracting and troublesome. He was baffled by her continued rejection. And disgusted with himself for caring. He was acting like a smitten schoolboy and it was high time he snapped out of it.

  There were plenty of beautiful women at the Springs. Caroline Whit had made it clear she’d be happy to become his lover. As had the voluptuous brunette shipping heiress, Abby Hall. Rhode Island debutante, Dawn Fleming. Pretty Cynthia Warner. And Beryl Thomas. And Linda Jackson. And the list of willing beauties went on and on.

  No need to spend another night alone.

  Hank ground his even white teeth. He didn’t want one of the others. He wanted the cold, cruel Charmaine Beaumont. He wondered where she was this very minute. And who she was with. And what they were doing. Unwanted visions of her in the eager arms of Parker Lawson rose in his mind’s eye. Hank groaned in agony.

  He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he went inside to bed. He was far too discontent. Too restless.

  That damned duchess was spoiling his stay at the Springs. And he knew in his heart that worse torture was still to come.

  He was right.

  For the next full week the haughty Duchess of Beaumont made his life a hell on earth. He continued going to the track each morning to watch the workouts of his Thoroughbreds, but he was distracted, not totally focused as he’d been in years past.

  Other than those mornings at the track, Charmaine Beaumont was everywhere Hank went. But she would have nothing to do with him. She looked right through him as if he didn’t exist. Refused to give him a tumble.

  “Damn her, anyhow,” he complained now to his friend, Fox Connor, as he dressed on this warm summer Saturday evening for the Vanderbilts’ gala. “I can’t go any
where without her being underfoot. Does she never tire? She’ll be at tonight’s big shindig, I know she will.”

  Fox took a drink of Kentucky bourbon, smiled and said, “No law saying you have to go, is there?”

  Hank stopped tying his black silk tie, frowned, then laughed at himself and admitted, “No. The truth is I’m counting the minutes until I see her again. Which is ridiculous, since she goes out of her way to ignore me.”

  Fox drained his glass, set it aside, and rose to his feet. “I can understand that. I feel the same way about seeing a roulette layout. Heart beats faster. Palms grow damp. Hope springs eternal. And, like your devilish duchess, Lady Luck constantly rejects me.”

  Thirteen

  Claire was excited.

  She felt like a young girl who knew she was soon to experience the wonder of a first kiss.

  All afternoon she had swept in and out of the downstairs rooms, making sure the mansion was immaculate. Ready for the nighttime visit of one very special guest. When finally she was satisfied that the dark woodwork had been polished to a high gleam and the Aubusson rugs were spotless and the fine furniture and heavy drapery totally dust free, she issued the order to have six dozen long-stemmed ivory roses delivered to the estate at exactly midnight.

  Claire did not ask if having flowers delivered at midnight was possible. She had quickly learned that any request from the Duchess of Beaumont became a command which was cheerfully carried out by those who had been so ordered.

  “When the roses arrive,” she explained to Jenkins, the butler, “three dozen are to be artfully arranged in vases here in the drawing room. The other half are to be placed upstairs in the master suite.”

  “Very good, Your Grace,” said Jenkins. “Will that be all?”

  “The champagne will be iced and ready?” Claire asked.

  “At precisely 2:00 a.m., just as ordered.”

  “And no later than midnight all the servants will be in their quarters and sound asleep?”

  “Saving me, Your Grace,” he said without the slightest change of expression. “I will retire to my quarters shortly after two. The house will be dark, save for the low-burning chandelier in the foyer. The front door will be open.”

  “Thank you, Jenkins,” she said. “Has my bath been drawn?”

  “Indeed. It awaits you, steaming hot.”

  “Wonderful. If you can locate Olivia, please ask that she come up in half an hour.”

  “I shall convey your wishes,” said Jenkins. He bowed and turned away.

  Claire nodded, then moved around the drawing room one last time, humming happily. She straightened a sofa pillow here and smoothed a fold in the drapery there until finally she was pleased.

  Smiling, she hurried out into the black-and-white marble-floored foyer, lifted her skirts and climbed the carpeted stairs to her suite. Once inside she closed the double doors behind her, leaned back against them and sighed.

  It was nearing eight o’clock in Saratoga and the summer sun was beginning to set. The all white room was now bathed in a warm golden glow and Claire was so enamored of the sunset’s soft sensual radiance, she left the lamps unlit.

  Unhurriedly she crossed the carpeted room and moved toward the tall double doors thrown open to the balcony. She stood just inside the room, framed in the wide doorway.

  Claire smiled wickedly, and began to remove her clothes.

  The disrobing became like a secret pagan ritual, with the last rays of the spectacular summer sun streaming in to dazzle and dominate. And she was baring her flesh to this god of golden radiance. In seconds Claire stood totally naked before the powerful god of light and eagerly offered herself to him. She instantly felt the heat of his all encompassing kiss on her skin. It touched and tantalized every part of her bared body.

  Claire gloried in the hedonistic exercise. The dying sun was making love to her and she was enjoying every carnal moment of it. Her nipples tightened and tingled and she instinctively thrust her breasts forward, urging him not leave her, not take his seductive heat away.

  Her flat belly contracted sharply and the muscles in her bare thighs bunched and jumped involuntarily. She moved her feet apart, threw her head back, and let her arms fall to her sides. Her hands were outstretched, palms open, as if to draw him to her.

  She stayed there just as she was until the fickle sun god deserted her, dropping below the horizon, leaving the gathering twilight behind. And the naked Claire aroused and impatient for the dark lover who would soon take his place.

  Claire turned away.

  She walked into the shadowy bath where a white porcelain tub was filled and waiting. She lit a lone white candle and set the silver holder on the floor near the tub. She stood and twisted her long hair into an untidy knot atop her head and pinned it there. She climbed into the tub, stretched out, leaned back and sighed.

  Claire sang as she lathered her slender limbs and thought of Hank Cassidy, the man whose kiss could surely bring her erotic dreams alive. If all went as planned, before this night was over the alluring man of the West that looked so good in his custom-cut clothes would be out of those clothes and in her bed.

  Claire shivered deliciously, then immediately lectured herself. Was she building herself up for a fall? A terrible letdown? If indeed she managed—and it seemed a near certainty—to draw Hank Cassidy here to her luxurious lair and seduce him, would he disappoint? Would he be no more exciting a lover than her husband had been? Was ecstasy something totally different for a man than it was for a woman? Was there really such a thing as ecstasy for a woman? If so, would it ever be hers?

  A knock startled Claire out of her thoughts.

  “I’ll help you dress,” announced Olivia, entering the suite. “Why is it dark as pitch in here?” Her voice sounded suspicious, concerned. “Claire, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Claire called out. “In the tub. Be out in a minute.”

  Olivia went about lighting the lamps. “Better hurry. You don’t want to arrive at the gala so late Hank Cassidy will have come and gone.”

  Claire hadn’t considered such a possibility. That would spoil everything. Frowning, she shot to her feet and grabbed a large white towel. Hastily drying off, she tossed the damp towel to the floor and yanked up another. She wrapped it around herself, tucked it in over her left breast, and rushed into the bedroom.

  “Can you style my hair in five minutes?” she asked.

  Olivia smiled. “Can you get into your ball gown in five minutes?”

  Twenty minutes later a regal Claire skipped down the mansion’s front steps to the waiting carriage. On the veranda, a proud Olivia smiled, waved and watched as the carriage rolled away.

  Arms crossed, she continued to stand there even after the carriage had disappeared, leaving only a faint haze of dust hanging in the thin mountain air. Claire’s excitement and anticipation had rubbed off on Olivia. It had made her remember what it was like to be young and vitally alive.

  Olivia’s smile soon faded and she sighed.

  There were times—to this very day—that she could recall every detail of that warm June night so long ago when she’d met the only man she ever loved. What a summer that had been! What happiness she had known. What lovely dreams she’d had. Until…

  Olivia shook herself from her painful reveries, turned and went back inside the silent house.

  Every head turned when Claire, formally presented by her beaming host, W. K. Vanderbilt, entered the crowded ballroom of the United States Hotel at shortly after 9:00 p.m.

  All but one.

  Glancing out over the crowd, Claire instantly recognized Hank Cassidy by the set of his shoulders, the gleam of his midnight hair, and by the fact that he was taller than the other gentlemen. Hank’s back was to her. He did not turn to stare or acknowledge her as the others did.

  Claire experienced a quick stab of self-doubt.

  “May I have the first dance?” asked Parker Lawson, and he didn’t wait for an answer.

  The other coup
les stopped dancing and watched as a pleased Lawson spun the duchess around the polished floor. Claire’s hair gleamed golden beneath the blazing chandeliers and the skirts of her sky-blue chiffon gown swirled out around her shapely ankles. Smiling, Claire raised a hand in the air and beckoned the others to again take the floor.

  Amidst laughter and applause the dance floor once more became crowded. Hank Cassidy finally turned around. But he remained on the perimeter of the ballroom, arms crossed, the hint of a scowl on his handsome face.

  Eyes narrowed, Hank watched the duchess sway and turn and laugh. And when the orchestra paused between tunes, she graciously stepped into the arms of a middle-aged gentleman who had eagerly cut in on Lawson.

  The duchess was, as usual, stunningly beautiful. Her ivory shoulders were bare and her tight-fitting bodice pushed her full breasts up in the most enticing way. Her pale hair was elaborately dressed atop her head, but a couple of wispy golden curls had escaped their restraints to lie appealingly on her nape.

  Hank had a strong impulse to blow on those wayward locks until she shivered. What he really wanted to do was take the pins from her hair and watch it spill down around her back and shoulders.

  “Your charms are apparently lost on the duchess.” Hank turned to see that Caroline Whit had sidled up to him. “I’ve watched her closely these past two weeks and I’m afraid you’ve little chance of being chosen.” She smiled impishly.

  “Chosen?” Hank made a face.

  “Why, yes. Surely you know that everyone in Saratoga is whispering that the Duchess of Beaumont has yet to choose a lover.” Caroline gestured to the floor. “Parker is the odds-on favorite. I wouldn’t be surprised if the eagerly awaited tryst takes place tonight.” She gazed up at him. “Would you?”