by Darcie Wilde
Of course, her writing to ask for a meeting here in the park was most improper and inappropriate. But her evident unease as they walked, along with the distance she kept between them, was proof that she understood this. He did sympathize with her discomfort. Her sister’s actions had placed her in an impossible position, and driven her to the extreme.
Miss Morehouse lowered her eyes with becoming modesty, further evidence of her proper feeling.
“Oh, no, not at all. Well, a little.” Dickenson hated her bonnet. It was plain and unbecoming, and kept him from seeing if a blush rose in her cheeks at these words.
It was maddening to have her so close. If they had been alone, he would not have been able to resist seizing her, kissing her, and more, much more. It was weakness. She was his weakness. He must not give in yet, but he could soon. Very soon.
“I know how hard this has been for you, Miss Morehouse. It is natural you should be confused, and angry at this delay in our marriage.”
“I . . . no . . . well . . .” She hesitated yet again. “This isn’t what I’d wanted to speak to you about, not entirely. I . . . I had a favor to ask, but perhaps, as things stand . . .”
“You may ask me anything. Indeed, I am the first to whom you should apply.”
She made no direct answer to this, only fumbled in her reticule. She paused, and fumbled some more. “Oh, no! Where is it! Where is it!” She groped in the bottom of the beaded bag.
“What is the matter? Calm down. Speak clearly.”
“I can’t believe I’ve lost it! Leannah will murder me!”
“What have you lost?”
“The ring! The ring Mr. Rayburn gave . . . ”
“Did Rayburn give you a ring?” he demanded, but he already knew the answer. Rayburn most certainly coveted Genevieve. No one could want the older sister once they’d seen the younger. He could not help but imagine the brawler casting his lustful eyes over her, and offering her every manner of insult. He would kill the man. He would watch him die slowly for daring to think that Miss Morehouse could be purchased as easily as her sister had been.
“No! Certainly not! But he did give it to Leannah, and . . .” Genevieve let the words trail off. “Oh, I never should have come,” she muttered. “I’ve made so many mistakes. Anthony, I’m sorry. I haven’t been at all fair to you, but I can’t carry on with this anymore. You should go now. I’ll . . . I’ll write to you.”
“I will not leave, not until you tell me what this about.”
In that moment, a look of such unforgivable stubbornness crossed her delicate face that Dickenson could almost believe it was the sister standing there. But it quickly subsided, and when Miss Morehouse spoke, it was in her own sweet, modest voice. “Mr. Rayburn had a wedding ring with him when he married Leannah. It was just so strange that a man whom one met by chance would have a ring with him. I wondered, I mean, is it genuine?”
Of course she wondered. Of course she could not understand. Anger burned in him. He would track Rayburn down, catch him alone. He would make sure the brute never dared come close to Genevieve again, and he would bring men enough to do the job properly.
This thought warmed him enough that it was easy to speak gently. “Of course it was strange. It speaks well to your common sense that you should not only see this at once, but that you should lay the matter before me.”
“I’d put the ring in my bag. I meant to bring it to you . . . I thought you might be able to tell me whether it was real. But now it’s gone, and I must get home and find it before Leannah asks any questions . . .” She shook her head. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m making a mess of things again. And a scene.” She glanced quickly about to make sure no one was taking notice. But there was no one even near them, except some black-headed clerk sitting on a bench with a book in his hand. “You’d be well within your rights to cut me dead.”
If only I could. “None of this has been your fault.” Dickenson turned toward her. Despite the chill of the spring day, perspiration prickled under his hat and collar. It was impossible that so small and delicate a creature should exert such a hold over him. Dickenson’s yearning and impatience had only increased since he’d taken up with Valloy. His family had even begun to notice, and to remark on it.
Miss Morehouse bit her lower lip. Dickenson stared, fascinated. Even beneath the shadow of her bonnet, her mouth glistened. “I’m afraid it is my fault. All of it. If I hadn’t suggested we elope . . .”
“Which you only did because your sister refused to permit us to marry.” Anthony reminded her. She must learn to stop making excuses for that harridan. She had to conquer family feeling, and not only see Mrs. . . . Rayburn clearly, but to speak clearly of her defective character and the atrocities against decency that she had committed. When Genevieve was his, he would explain all this to her—patiently, of course—until she did understand. “I might wish you had consulted me more closely on the subject, but please believe that I do not judge you at all harshly because of it. You have never known a man’s proper guidance. Once we are married, things will be very different. You will be able to depend on me absolutely to guide you upon the right path.”
The strength of her surprise raised Miss Morehouse’s eyes directly to his. Dickenson felt an uncomfortable tightening in his groin. “A man’s proper guidance?” she murmured.
“Of course. Unlike your sister, you are a natural woman. You know that’s what’s been missing in your life, and your instincts have drawn you to the best and strongest man of your acquaintance.”
Miss Morehouse said nothing for a very long time. A thousand emotions flickered through her bright eyes and he heard her breathing grow ragged. His groin tightened again to see the color that rose in her pale cheeks and the light that burned in her gaze. Now that the truth had been spoken, her love was filling her, her love and her need for him.
“You . . . you . . .” She paused and pressed her hand against her bosom. “You think my sister is somehow . . . unnatural?”
Anthony blinked. Be patient, he reminded himself. She is not used to speaking of such things. “She is, and in your heart you understand this. Otherwise you would not be so eager to separate yourself from her.”
She drew herself up straight. Pride showed in every inch of her bearing. Anthony’s heart swelled. Once she was properly educated, she would be truly magnificent.
But her next words shook him to his core. “Perhaps, as I am from the same tree that grew such an unnatural branch, you should reconsider. I would so hate to disappoint your notions of what a proper and submissive wife should be.”
“But you cannot disappoint, don’t you see?” He strove to keep his voice calm. She was innocent still. He must not overwhelm her with an undue show of ardor. “Every word you speak demonstrates that you possess in full measure those proper feminine feelings your sister lacks. I promise, I have already set events in motion. Soon, I will be able to claim you for my own, and you will have nothing more to fear of your sister or her bullyboy.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“You must forgive me for speaking openly of such things, but I would have you understand that I know it all.” He seized her hand. He could not help himself. “I see how she dominates you and she poisons your life with her scheming ways. This business with the ring as well. He is trying to make a conquest of you. But it is all right. I know you are innocent in the matter. You will never hear a word about it from me once we are married, and . . .”
“How dare you say such things about Leannah and Harry!” Miss Morehouse twisted her hand, Anthony tightened his grip. He had meant to wait until their marriage to begin her education, but clearly he’d already left it too long.
“I will forgive you for raising your voice to me this once,” he told her firmly. “I know you are very confused.”
“Unhand me, sir!”
She struck him. Hard, and right across the face. Not with an open hand, but with a balled fist. Anthony saw stars. Then he saw red, a brilliant scarl
et haze between himself and all the world. She’d struck him. His free hand lifted over his head. The poisonous little creature had dared . . .
A hand slapped about his wrist, pinning his harm in place. Not a woman’s hand. A man’s. Realization brought him back to himself. He couldn’t see Miss Morehouse. He could only see the black-haired fellow who’d been sitting on the bench a moment before now. He stood directly in front of Dickenson and clamped his coarse hand around Dickenson’s arm.
“Is there some problem?” the black-haired man asked. His voice was calm, but his blue eyes were ice-cold.
“No,” began Dickenson.
“Yes,” replied Miss Morehouse. Now he could see she stood just behind the stranger, pale as marble and just as cold. “This . . . this . . . man is importuning me!”
The stranger’s eyes did not even flicker from Dickenson’s. “Sir, I think you had better leave.”
Anthony wrenched his arm out of the other man’s grip. It was more difficult than he would have credited. “This girl is my fiancée,” he announced. “You will cease to concern yourself in my business!”
“I am most certainly not your fiancée, nor will I ever be!” cried Miss Morehouse. “Of all the mistakes I’ve made, you are the worst of all! Good-bye, Mr. Dickenson! Sir,”—she turned to the stranger—“will you be so good as to escort me back to my carriage?”
Anthony could only stand and stare as the clerk bowed, and took Miss Morehouse’s arm. She was leaving. She was walking away from him and she was not even looking back. Her voice rang in his ears. The shrill contempt, the unnatural harpy’s fury. She’d struck him. She’d raised her hand to the one she should have been swearing to obey for the rest of her life.
He’d ruin her. He’d ruin them all. He’d spare no expense, stop at nothing. Then, when she was broken, when she was crawling, only then would he relent, and agree to take her back.
First things first, he would remove her sister. Never mind Valloy and his scheming with the father. The woman could not be allowed a single day’s more influence over his Genevieve. Fortunately, his family’s extensive business dealings taught him exactly what to do, and whom to hire. There was, in fact, a fellow right in her neighborhood who could be trusted to take the job. All he had to do was wait, and watch.
Thirty-One
For Leannah, the next weeks passed in a blur. Her days were filled to the brim with errands of all description. She had everything to buy, not only for herself, but for the beautiful house Harry had taken in Dobbson Square. The new brick residence was entirely unfurnished, and Harry left it to Leannah to choose how it should be fitted out—including the drapes, wallpapers, and all the movables. There were servants to be interviewed and engaged, a pantry to be stocked, and accounts opened with grocers and provisioners. Workmen had to be supervised, and everything in the house, or about herself, seemed to require endless amounts of measuring and remeasuring.
Not one item was to be puce, or even lavender.
The flurry of it all left her breathless, but nowhere near as breathless as the moments that came with the end of each day. That was the time when Leannah returned to the suite at the Colonnade to find Harry waiting for her. However tiring her day might be, however difficult the arguments with the workmen had been, it all fell away when Harry opened his arms and drew her to him. She did enjoy plundering the shops and warehouses with Genny and Meredith. That enjoyment, however, was nothing compared to the feelings that came over her when she remembered that come evening, she would again lie down next to Harry, and when morning arrived, she would wake up in his arms. Admittedly, most nights, they did not wait until the morning to wake, or until darkness to lie down. Her hands had healed, and she was able to caress his delightful body in the most intimate fashion without the irksome layers of bandages, or even his joking reminders to be careful. Although, more than once he did raise her arms above her head and order her to keep still so that he could pleasure her.
It was not only in the new house that things were changing for the better. With Meredith’s assistance, Leannah engaged a new doctor for her father. The doctor, in turn, brought in a staff of nurses. There would also be a new cook, new maids, and two new menservants as soon as persons of suitable experience in invalid households could be located. Genny was to have her own maid, and a brand-new subscription to the circulating library, which Leannah suspected would please her far more than having someone to look after her wardrobe. The stable bill was paid in its entirety, as were the grocer’s and the dressmaker’s. Harry sent his tailor around to the Byswater house to see about new clothes for Father.
“It’s too much,” Leannah tried to tell him, as she saw him writing yet another bank draft.
“No,” he said flatly. “It’s just as it should be.”
Those words were as close to anger as she heard him come in all those giddy days while spring warmed and brightened the world around them. She did her best not to dwell on the moment, but she still couldn’t help wondering. Harry’s family and friends clearly harbored serious doubts about her, and their marriage. So serious, in fact, that Harry made no move to introduce her to any of them. They did not go out at all. She once ventured the suggestion that they might have a small supper party, but he’d shaken his head and declared he wanted to keep to himself for a while yet. Then, he’d demonstrated the advantages of their absolute privacy to her in such a magnificently daring fashion that she quite forgot to argue the point.
It didn’t matter, Leannah told herself. They were just beginning. There was plenty of time yet. They had so much to learn about each other, and a whole new life to build. They could take this time. Call it, as Meredith suggested, a honeymoon. It might be the oddest honeymoon possible, and the capper on the oddest possible wedding, but it was hers, and Leannah was determined to enjoy it.
Besides, she really couldn’t find fault with Harry keeping her away from his family when she hadn’t yet taken him to meet Father. Not that this meant anything, either. Harry really didn’t need to meet Father until after the household improvements were complete and everyone was used to the changes. After all, her family would be moving in with them once the Dobbson Square house was ready. There was no need to rush the introductions, was there? She had told him the truth about her family and past. She would tell him anything more he wanted to know, as soon as he asked. She would hide nothing. He had only to ask.
But he didn’t ask.
Not that the days passed entirely in isolation. Encouraged by Meredith’s readiness to resume their relationship, Leannah wrote to some of her friends from the time when she had first married Elias—other members of what they’d informally christened the Schoolroom Club, because they had all been very young matrons and mostly married to older men. They’d formed a bulwark for each other against the usual slights and jibes that society leveled against girls in their circumstances. To her relief, Leannah found that not only was she remembered by her old friends, but she was readily welcomed back. She could pay at least a few calls, and to receive them in the suite at the Colonnade. She also found herself starved for news—of Amilee’s baby; of Margaret’s sister, who had become engaged to a member of the diplomatic corps; of Lucille, who had gone to Philadelphia of all places; and of Geraldine, who was whiling away her widowhood writing a fashionable novel.
Meredith had been right. It did feel like coming home.
If Genny hadn’t lost the ring, it might all have been perfect.
“I’ve don’t know where it is,” she’d said when Leannah had asked her for it. “I’m so sorry, Leannah. It is entirely my doing. I’ll explain to Harry if you want.” Her agitation was so extreme that Leannah felt a moment of genuine alarm.
“No, there’s no need,” she said hurriedly. “I shouldn’t have taken it off in the first place.”
But even as she said this, something nagged at her. Leannah did not believe for a moment Genny could be so careless with something so important. Could Jeremy have taken it as one of his pranks? Or had Ge
nny perhaps entrusted it to Mrs. Falwell, only to have it go astray afterward. Was she perhaps trying to protect one or both of them from the blame?
The very next day, Leannah stopped by the house to see how the new staff was settling in. She’d meant to raise the subject again, but Genny had shut herself up in her room with, the new maid said, a sick headache. She did descend eventually, but she was pale and distracted.
At another time, Leannah would have dug down to the bottom of it, but there were so many other arrangements and claims on her attention. Besides, by her next visit, Genny’s spirits rallied, so Leannah was able to believe it had all been as it appeared, a sick headache. The ring would be found. All other things would follow in their own time.
At least, this was what Leannah was able to believe until she received the letter from Geraldine inviting her and Harry to the opera.
“I’d love to go, Harry, but I really cannot risk meeting your parents or your sister for the first time in the round room,” she said, as she showed Harry the letter.
They had finished their supper and were now sitting together in front of the fire. Harry was reading the shipping news as he usually did, and making notes in the margin in pencil. Leannah was going over the lists in her new memorandum book, crossing off what had been completed and making additional notes next to those things that were not yet attended to. Geraldine’s invitation was only one item among many.
Harry glanced at the letter she handed him and put it aside. “It might be better if you did meet Fi in a public place,” he said, picking up his newspaper again. “That way she can’t start one of her ridiculous interrogations.”
Leannah closed her book slowly and contemplated her husband. She’d known something was wrong. She’d tried her best to ignore it because she’d grown to love the peace and private enjoyments of their life. But now, as he turned over the tightly folded paper, she could neither miss nor dismiss his bitter expression. Her heart twisted. He was afraid of his family. He was afraid that some part of his regard for them would prove stronger than the emotions that were growing in this marriage. Because like her, Harry really did care, or he would be made to care. Sooner or later, they both would.