Duchess for a Day

by Nan Ryan

  “Oh, Olivia, that is an understatement,” Claire replied. “I am having the time of my life!”

  “Good for you, you deserve it,” said Olivia. “Judging by the sparkle in your eyes, I suppose you intend to see the young man again very soon.”

  “In exactly two hours,” Claire said with a pleased smile. “We’re going to a dance tonight hosted by a gentleman known as Diamond Jim Brady. Have you heard of him?” Olivia shook her head. “Well wait until you hear this,” said Claire, eager to share what the gossips said about the colorful Jim Brady and his paramour, the actress Lillian Russell.

  “As you might surmise,” Claire told her friend, “Jim Brady is filthy rich!”

  “I would assume so,” said Olivia.

  “And he loves diamonds. He owns at least twenty-thousand of them. Twenty thousand! Can you imagine?” Claire laughed then and confided, “they say the buttons on his underwear are fashioned out of diamonds.”

  Olivia’s eyebrows lifted and her eyes twinkled. “For heaven’s sake! You have to be joking.”

  “Not at all. And I’ve seen Miss Russell, her diamonds flashing in the sunlight, riding about the boulevards astride a gold-plated bicycle Diamond Jim gave her.”

  “Will wonders never cease!”

  “No. Not here in Saratoga, they won’t.” She laughed merrily and added, “This should be a very interesting evening.”

  “And I’ll want to hear all about it,” said Olivia.

  At twenty minutes of nine Hank Cassidy knocked on the mansion’s front door. Jenkins admitted Hank and directed him into the sitting room.

  “The duchess will be down shortly,” Jenkins announced and disappeared.

  Before Hank could sit down, Olivia came into the sitting room and smiled warmly at him. “You must be Mr. Hank Cassidy.”

  “In the flesh,” Hank said with a grin.

  “I’m Olivia Sutton, companion to the duchess.”

  “A genuine pleasure to meet you, Olivia,” Hank said, adding, “May I call you Olivia?”

  “By all means. Please—” Olivia extended a hand toward a sofa “—won’t you sit down? Charmaine shouldn’t be long.”

  “Only if you’ll sit and visit with me,” said Hank, promptly winning Olivia’s full approval.

  The two sat on the sofa together and talked easily about the springs, the mineral waters, the races, the casinos and the colorful people who came to Saratoga in the summertime. They laughed together as Hank shared stories he’d heard about the free-spending Diamond Jim Brady and his legendary gambling losses. And of Brady’s constant companion, Lillian Russell, the blond, blue-eyed darling of Broadway.

  But both abruptly stopped laughing when Claire stepped into the wide arched doorway and, without saying a word, commanded their undivided attention.

  The two were momentarily awed into silence by her pale blond beauty. She looked ethereal, not of this world. More like an angel stepping out of the clouds. Her hair fell lose around her shoulders and was held back off her face with an oyster shell comb.

  She wore a ball gown of shimmering sky-blue taffeta with double flounces of lace around the low-cut, off-the-shoulder bodice. Her waist was incredibly small and attractively accentuated the full swell of her bosom.

  Olivia knew Claire’s secret.

  She had helped her dress. Beneath the blue taffeta gown was a tightly laced corset, an embroidered and beribboned corset cover, two frilly petticoats and, skimpy lace-trimmed satin underwear and silk stockings.

  Claire swept into the room and smiled at Hank as he rose to his feet and stared at her. She turned about in a complete circle, then asked, “Do you approve?”

  Hank needlessly cleared his throat. “You know I do,” he managed to reply, finding it hard to keep his hands off her.

  “You look exceptionally beautiful this evening, Duchess,” Olivia said. “You’ll be the fairest lady at the dance.”

  “Not necessarily,” Claire said. “Lillian Russell is a lovely woman and—”

  “Miss Russell pales in comparison with you,” Hank said. “I assure you, you’ll be the most beautiful woman there.”

  Claire plucked a fresh red rose from a nearby vase, broke off the stem, stepped up to Hank and tucked the fragrant blossom into the lapel of his elegant white dinner jacket.

  Looking into his indigo eyes that were flashing with ardent intensity, she said, “And I’ll be with the handsomest man.” She turned away from him. “We’d best be going,” she said as she leaned down, kissed Olivia’s cheek and whispered in her ear, “I’ll probably see you sometime tomorrow.” She straightened.

  “Have a wonderful time, you two,” Olivia said, rising from the sofa.

  “Nice to meet you, Olivia. You must join us for dinner one evening soon,” Hank said.

  “Why, thank you, Hank. That would be nice.”

  Hank took Claire’s arm and ushered her from the room.

  Outside the handsome pair hurried down the steps and Hank handed Claire up into the waiting carriage. He climbed in, stepped across her, sat down close beside her and put his arm around her.

  “You sure you want to go to the ball?” he asked and for a moment Claire was hypnotized by his penetrating eyes, beautiful mysterious eyes darkened with raw passion. His fingers toying with the gold chain bearing the medallion she always wore, he whispered, “We could just skip the ball, go back to the cottage and—”

  “Later, Hank,” Claire softly interrupted. “We’ve the whole night ahead of us.” She fanned her fingers over his smoothly shaven jaw. “Let’s go to the dance and stay until midnight.” Hank frowned and she explained, “It’ll be thrilling. Think about it. Sweet agony. The entire time we’re there we’ll be eagerly looking forward to midnight. Counting the minutes until—” she smiled seductively “—at the stroke of twelve, we escape to your cottage and spend the rest of the night sipping champagne and making love.”

  Hank’s hand released the golden chain. “You’re a cruel woman, Charmaine.” But he smiled and kissed her with tender restraint. His lips on hers, he reached up and thumped the top of the barouche, signaling the driver atop the box. They were immediately on their way.

  A phalanx of carriages were lined up on the west side of Broadway just outside the well-lit six-story Grand Union Hotel. The barouche had to wait its turn to pull up before the hotel’s canopied entrance. Claire and Hank didn’t mind. They held hands and talked of their day at the races and of their plans to go to the track again tomorrow.

  It was well past nine when finally they entered the big ballroom and were met at the door by the beaming Diamond Jim Brady. The flamboyant Brady lived up to his reputation. Diamonds flashed from his collar buttons, shirt studs, necktie pin, cuff links, belt buckle and watch chain.

  At his side, the buxom actress, Lillian Russell, was no less jewel adorned. Garbed in a gown of signature white satin, she had diamonds glittering in her upswept blond hair, dangling from her earlobes, caressing her bare throat and sparkling from her fingers.

  When Hank and the Duchess were introduced to their host and hostess, Diamond Jim took his diamond-studded eyeglass case from inside his breast pocket, slipped on his spectacles with their diamond-trimmed frames, and reached for his diamond-adorned pencil, explaining that he’d heard Hank had some fine ponies running and he wanted the names of a couple so he could make wagers. Diamond Jim pulled out his leather notepad with its diamond clasp.

  “Black Satin and Silver Dollar are my fastest, soundest Thoroughbreds, Mr. Brady,” Hank said.

  “Jim is so forgetful,” offered the husky-voiced Lillian and raised a diamond-decorated white feather fan to stir the still air. “Aren’t you, sugar?”

  Diamond Jim laughed good-naturedly. Clearly mad about the beautiful actress, he agreed that he was. “Now you young folks enjoy yourselves, you hear?” he said when he’d jotted down the Thoroughbreds’ names.

  “We will, Mr. Brady,” said Claire. “And thank you for inviting us.”

  “Call me Diamond
Jim, Your Grace,” he said. He slapped Hank on the back and added, “There’s all kinds of food and liquor at the far end of the ball room. Help yourselves.”

  His hand enclosing Claire’s elbow, Hank guided her through the crowd toward a long mahogany bar. They nodded and exchanged pleasantries with stellar guests that included Rockerfellers and Morgans and Vanderbilts. Many of America’s wealthiest gentlemen were in the Grand Union ballroom on this warm summer night.

  The presence of such notables meant nothing to Hank and Claire. They didn’t care who was at the dance. They only had eyes for each other. When finally they reached the bar and were handed crystal flutes of French champagne, they silently toasted each other, then turned and leaned back against the bar to drink the chilled wine.

  They stood very close together, their bodies touching, brushing, their free hands clasped between them. When they’d finished the champagne, Hank ushered Claire onto the dance floor. The orchestra struck up the popular tune, “The Band Played On.” Hank smiled, drew Claire into his embrace, and began to slowly turn her about on the crowded floor.

  Neither noticed that Caroline Whit, in the arms of Parker Lawson, was aggressively maneuvering toward them.

  “Now, you listen to me, Parker,” Caroline was saying in his ear, “You’re not to take no for an answer.”

  “Caroline, I really don’t think it will do either of us any good to cut in on them.”

  “It may do you no good, Parker, but I know how to make the most of a dance, if you know what I mean.”

  “Maybe you do, but apparently the duchess has the same talent. Take a good look at Cassidy—she’s got him wound up tighter than a ten-day clock.”

  “Parker, you get me over there and into his arms!”

  “Fine. We’ll give it a shot.”

  Parker deftly danced Caroline through the crowd and purposely bumped into Hank’s back. Hank paused, turned and looked around.

  “Oh, sorry, Hank,” said Parker with an apologetic smile. “Guess I’ve got two left feet.”

  “Hello, Duchess. Hank,” Caroline trilled, looking only at Hank.

  Hank and Claire nodded politely and went back to dancing. Caroline made a mean face at Parker and shoved him forward.

  “Shall we change partners, Hank. What do you say?”

  “No,” was Hank’s one word reply.

  Frowning, Caroline reached out and grabbed Hank’s arm. “You’re being rude, Hank.”

  “I know,” he said and drew Claire closer.

  Caroline turned her attention to Claire. “Your Grace, won’t you honor Parker with one little dance?”

  “Not tonight,” Claire said and never took her eyes off Hank.

  Hank smiled and commandingly spun her away, leaving Caroline Whit muttering in frustration and Parker Lawson shaking his blond head.

  “What did I tell you?” Parker said. “The duchess has Cassidy wrapped around her little finger. And she seems to be totally smitten with him, as well.”

  “That haughty British bitch,” Caroline snarled under her breath. “Coming over here to America, grabbing the man I want! Who does she think she is? And why did she come back to the Springs after all these years?” Caroline gritted her teeth as she watched the couple dancing away.

  Lost in each other, eyes half-closed, Hank and Claire swayed sensuously, bodies pressing, hearts beating as one. Desire flared and quickly escalated. Each gliding step, each gentle undulation was incredibly arousing. Claire could feel Hank’s thighs brushing hers through the taffeta of her gown, his pelvis sliding sinuously against her own.

  Her arms looped around his neck, her head on his shoulder, she drew a shallow breath when, as they turned in perfect tempo to a slow romantic ballad, Hank’s knee became insinuated between her legs. Her response was immediate and involuntary. Her tense, tingling body sought the temporary balm his trousered thigh offered. She pressed herself against it and wished the crowd around them would magically disappear.

  His hand flattened on her back, Hank drew Claire closer and whispered in her ear. “I can’t wait.”

  “Nor can I,” she murmured. “Let’s leave. Go to the cottage and—”

  “Too far away,” he said, and she heard the urgency in his voice. He abruptly stopped dancing, took her hand, and led her through the crowd toward the ballroom’s front entrance.

  Dancers paused to stare and whisper as the pair rushed out into the lobby. There, too, guests who were taking a short breather from the dancing stared and shook their heads, supposing that Cassidy and the duchess were leaving at this early hour.

  But they were not leaving.

  Hot for each other as only the young and vigorous can be, the golden couple simply could not wait until they reached the privacy of his hotel cottage.

  Claire saw Hank glance around as he handed her into an empty cloakroom. He followed her into the darkened room and hurriedly locked the door behind them. Unable to see in the pitch blackness, she heard him say, “Come here to me.”

  She did.

  At once they were kissing hotly and anxiously undressing each other. In the stygian darkness, they couldn’t really see each other, could only feel. It was enough. It was exciting. It was erotic.

  In seconds Claire had Hank’s shirt open and pushed apart. While she pressed kisses to his warm bare chest, Hank was deftly lifting her rustling taffeta skirts and shoving her lace-trimmed satin underwear over her hips and down her belly.

  As the satin whispered down her weak legs Claire’s hands went to the waistband of Hank’s dark trousers. Working to unbutton the snug black pants, she eagerly stepped out of her undies and kicked them aside.

  Before she could release him from the confines of his trousers, Hank tore her hands away. Then he puzzled her by turning her so that she stood at a right angle to him. Her skirt bunched up around her waist, he put one hand on her flat belly, the other on her bare bottom.

  “Hank,” she whispered softly, wishing she could see his face. “What are you—?”

  “Shhh, baby,” he murmured as both his hands slipped possessively between her legs, one from the back, the other from the front.

  His hands met and his tapered fingers began stoking the fires of her passion. Claire’s breath caught in her throat and her heart pounded with excitement. She momentarily wondered if Hank would ever run out of novel ways to swiftly arouse her to a fever pitch. She was sure that he wouldn’t. Thank heaven.

  The cloaking intimacy of the darkness made this forbidden lovemaking all the more thrilling. That and the laughter and talk from the foyer just beyond the locked door. For Claire it was incredibly thrilling to have her dark lover’s fingers stroking and probing and doing all kinds of marvelous thing to her while only a few short feet away, guests milled about in the foyer.

  “Ohhh,” Claire sighed as Hank expertly stroked her pleasure points, teasing her, toying with her, making her squirm and sigh and tingle.

  The next thing she knew Hank had turned her about and was pressing her back up against the locked door. Without a word being said, she reached down, freed him from his opened trousers, and felt him surge against her bare belly.

  Hank put his hands under her bare bottom, lifted her up and was immediately inside her. She released a held breath and said his name on a sigh.

  She clung to the strong column of his neck and wrapped her legs around his waist as he pounded forcefully into her. They kissed and hunched and bucked and gasped and all too soon exploded in wrenching orgasm. When the violent waves of ecstasy had passed, they sagged tiredly against the door.

  Coming to her senses little by little, Claire began to smile. Then to softly laugh. Hank laughed, too. They were laughing at themselves for misbehaving so disgracefully.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, Duchess,” Hank teased as she lowered her feet to the floor. “Seducing a respectable, naive gentleman during a crowded dance.”

  “I? What about you, Mr. Nevada Silver King? Dragging a helpless female into a darkened cloakroom to ravi
sh her!”

  They stayed there in the pitch-black darkness for a few more minutes, laughing, kissing, enjoying each other. Then they straightened their clothes and hunted for Claire’s discarded underwear.

  When finally they were presentable and exited the cloakroom, they disregarded the turning of heads and censuring looks that were shot their way.

  They left the gala and stepped out into the warm summer night. Hank raised a hand to signal the carriage. While they waited, Hank turned and looked at the beautiful flushed woman beside him. He grinned. A scarlet petal from the crushed rose in his lapel was sticking to the swell of her left breast.

  “What?” she asked. “What is it?”

  “Nothing, sweetheart. Just that you’re adorable and I’m glad you’re here with me.”

  “I’m glad too, Hank.” Claire smiled then and said, “What a lovely night.”

  “And it’s about to get lovelier, Duchess,” he said and squeezed her narrow waist.

  Twenty-Two

  It was Sunday evening.

  Olivia had not seen Claire and Hank since they’d left for Diamond Jim Brady’s dance on Saturday. Twenty-four hours ago. Olivia understood completely. The handsome pair were clearly in the first thrilling throes of a grand passion and wanted only to be alone together.

  Olivia was delighted for Claire.

  There was a new radiance about her and Hank Cassidy was responsible. There was no doubt in Olivia’s mind that Claire Orwell was happy as she’d never been in her life.

  Might never be again.

  Olivia knew all too well how fleeting such euphoria could be. Or how love lost was never regained, never forgotten. Olivia shook her head worriedly. Despite all her protestations to the contrary, Claire was in danger of losing her heart to the handsome man from Nevada.

  But for now, and for at least another week into which she would cram all the living and loving possible, Claire was absolutely ecstatic. It was obvious that she wouldn’t have traded places with anyone on earth. When it came down to it, how many people were ever lucky enough to make that statement?