by Tracy Sumner
Charlie hid a smile at Mrs. Peters’ word choice.
A full hour and a half later, Charlie stood before the mirror, as presentable as she ever would be. Mrs. Peters had finally left to attend to her own toilette, proclaiming Charlie “tolerable.”
Her chaperone was perturbed because Charlie had refused to don the hideously wicked corset, a mass of stiff bone and ties she was having none of. It looked like a contraption used to keep a prisoner from escaping.
There had also been the minor disagreement over the hat. It had a ridiculous ostrich feather jutting from the top, which kept flopping down to rest on Charlie’s nose. So, that was that.
She had agreed to the stockings, which actually felt light and mysteriously thrilling against her skin; the gloves, which she planned to discard as soon as possible; and the fan, which she intended to hold in her hand but never open. She had, in fact, completely ignored her chaperone’s quick lesson about how to use one. What did she need a fan for if not to fend off heat?
Even though she was wearing a preposterous amount of clothing—unnecessary layers and adornments—Charlie could not quite suppress the spark of excitement that skipped through her as she gazed in the mirror.
She’d never worn her hair in this kind of twist before. A chignon, Mrs. Peters called it. Of course, she’d seen Kath and Lila wear their hair this way many times, but she had never tried it herself. There wasn’t much to doing it once you knew how. Mrs. Peters had even intertwined a blue velvet ribbon amongst the strands.
She ran her hands along her waist. Admittedly, the turquoise silk dress fit well. Her needlework simply could not compare to this. Now she understood why women paid a seamstress great sums of money. Charlie was very handy with a needle, but this dress was a work of art. Neat, perfect stitches—not a bit of thread showing.
She gave a quick pull to the neck of her dress. It was round and showed a hint of cleavage she had not known she’d had—and was not sure she wanted to expose—and just the barest trace of shoulder, too. Mrs. Peters had noted her surprise and assured her the dress was all the style. Quite modest.
Too modest, too blue, too plain is what her chaperone had actually said.
Charlie’s gaze dropped once again to the valley between her breasts. A flush lit her cheeks as she imagined Chase’s lips there.
The sound of laughter drew her to the window. Three men were there on the lawn, their red-tipped cheroots glowing in the darkness. She noticed Chase immediately. The familiar tilt of his head, the line of his shoulders. He leaned his head back, glancing into the star-filled sky. He was bored. She knew him well enough to tell. Smiling softly, she placed her palm flat against the glass.
She loved him.
Surprisingly, this was not the startling denouement she might have expected. Love had crept up on her as peacefully as fine wine on the senses. She’d respected him from the start. How could she not? He was brilliant—observant and so remarkably diligent that she felt a fierce surge of forbidden pride every time she worked with him. It was true he could be harsh and demanding, but she’d come to believe this was only because his mind sliced through topics as rapidly as an oar through water.
Liking him...well, that had taken a bit longer. Although, it was inevitable they would like each other. They shared a comparable sense of humor and an incredible number of common interests. They agreed on most political issues, argued about religion, debated the necessity of philosophy, differed on the issue of ecology, promised never to discuss fashion and acquiesced enthusiastically with respect to intimate relations.
In truth, that aspect of their relationship had begun almost immediately. She had not liked him the first time she laid eyes on him, but she had never been able to deny his attractiveness.
Her gaze followed him as he walked to the house, pulling a hand through his hair in an impatient gesture. She loved watching him. It was crazy, the fancy of an obsessed lover, she knew, but he moved with a feline grace and agility that never failed to crowd all thought from her mind and propel hot blood through her body.
He could be stooping to gather a fallen penny or brushing dirt from his boots.
Irresistible...that’s what he was.
She lifted her hand from the glass. Too bad. It had been too dark to see what he was wearing.
Mrs. Peters knocked and without waiting, entered the room. “We should make our way downstairs, Charlotte.”
Charlie circled to face her chaperone, her dress dancing through the turn with her.
“Don’t look as if you have swallowed a pit, my dear. This is going to be an enjoyable evening.”
“Humph.”
Mrs. Peters sighed and slipped her arm through Charlie’s as Charlie passed her on the way to the door. “Now remember, head held high, shoulders back. Walk slowly. You have a lovely figure. No need to ruin it with an ugly curve.”
“Mrs. Peters, do you realize I am twenty-four years old?”
Much too reasonably, her chaperone said, “Of course I do. Guidance is what you have been missing. Age means little.”
“When it comes down to it, a newspaper is a commercial venture.”
Adam nodded and exhaled a wisp of smoke. His fingers caressed the thin cheroot. “I only ask, does ethical journalism have to be sacrificed for the sake of fiscal concerns?” He flicked ashes into a bronze urn on the table next to his chair and recrossed one outstretched leg over the other.
Tanner Barkley, one of the best newspapermen in Richmond and an old friend of Adam’s, only smiled.
Adam relaxed his rigid posture and laughed, realizing Tanner’s game. “I know. I need to bury my idealistic tendencies. Who would think I still had any after so many years in this business?”
Tanner lifted his glass to his lips. “Legitimate press must take its place in political society.”
“Yes, but who benefits from the shift from independence?”
“It would seem to me the press may then cease to be seen as the dangerous and revolutionary force it is currently viewed as in some circles.”
“I think the view is deserved to a certain extent, and so do you. Furthermore” —Adam stubbed his cheroot in the urn with a forceful twist that followed through in his words— “there is no benefit for anyone from a newspaper’s alignment with political society, as you so graciously christened it.”
Tanner’s pale gaze skipped from his empty glass to Adam’s frown. “You—”
The sound of the library door opening and closing suspended all conversation. The men swiveled in their chairs in time to see a whirlwind of turquoise sweep across the room. “Shush! Don’t tell her I’m in here,” the whirlwind hissed before disappearing behind a velvet curtain.
The library door sounded again, this time with a great deal more force.
“Is she in here?”
Adam tried to eradicate any trace of surprise from his face and turned to regard Mrs. Peters with a practiced expression of indifference. “Excuse me?”
Mrs. Peters, her face drawn into a tight pinch, glanced at Tanner, then at Adam. Her face reddened. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Chase. It is just that, that,” she struggled, “young woman is giving me a difficult time. Again.”
Adam dusted ash from his trouser leg. “She’ll turn up. Try the kitchen. One of her favorite haunts.”
Mrs. Peters nodded, a quick bob of her head, apologized again and backed from the room.
Tanner laughed as they settled back in their chairs. “What was that all about?”
Adam glanced at his friend and shrugged. How could he explain the inexplicable? Better to let her speak for herself. “Come on out, chicken.”
“Is it safe?” A slipper shifted beneath the curtain.
“Yes. I think I glowered harshly enough to keep her away for at least ten minutes.”
“Thank heaven.” Charlie released a breath as she emerged from the folds of the curtain. As if nothing remarkable had taken place, she shook her skirt and strolled toward them. “You didn’t have to tell her
about the kitchen. Now I’ll never be able to escape there again.” She waved her hand. “Just continue your discussion. Pretend I’m not here.” She walked around the room, touching one object, picking up another.
“For God’s sake, sit,” Adam finally said.
She glanced up with a teasing grin. A feral light entered her eyes.
She looked beautiful tonight, and unlike the usual, doubtful Charlie Whitney, this Charlie Whitney knew it. With a flip of her shirt, she strolled to the chair sitting behind his desk and sank into its leather depths.
Her gaze locked with his across the desk. Was she remembering what they had done in that chair two nights ago? They had been so energetic, the chair had flipped over, pitching them to the floor.
The floor had served quite well, too, as he recalled.
He pulled his gaze away and glanced at Tanner, who looked at him, then Charlie.
Adam cleared his throat. “So, what did you do?”
Charlie leaned forward and placed her palms on the desk. Her chest thrust forward with the movement. Adam watched Tanner stir in his chair. He suddenly felt the insane urge to jab his friend in the ribs. Hard.
“What did I do? That woman, bless her heart, is making me crazy. It’s just too much for her to chaperone a woman like me. Ridiculous, anyway, as if I were a pubescent young girl. After the twentieth introduction, I had to escape.”
Adam started, belatedly remembering his manners. “Miss Charlotte Whitney, Mr. Tanner Barkley. Miss Whitney works for the newspaper in South Carolina. Charlie, Mr. Barkley’s an old friend of mine who works for the Times as a traveling correspondent.”
“How do you do, Miss Whitney?” Tanner nodded his head, then laughed as she presented her hand. Clearly hesitating, he finally shrugged and shook it.
Adam exhaled and made himself refocus his attention. He did not own the woman sitting across from him. No matter how much he wanted to in the darkness of the night.
Tanner laughed, and Charlie joined in.
Adam’s blood bubbled beneath his skin.
“What could you possibly mean about your chaperone, not knowing what to do with a woman like you?” Tanner asked with a grin.
“She wants a woman who follows the rules. I don’t follow anyone’s rules but my own.”
“Hmmm...interesting.”
Adam grabbed his glass and stood. Be damned if he'd sit and watch Tanner Barkley flirt with his—with Charlie. “Another, Tanner?”
Tanner nodded and extended his glass.
“Me, too.”
Adam rolled his eyes. “Of, course.”
“Miss Whitney, Adam and I were just discussing politics and the press. The old man over there thinks it doesn’t benefit anyone for a newspaper to go in that direction. What do you think?”
Adam felt her gaze skip to him. He turned, balancing the glasses in his hands, avoiding her eyes.
“But that’s—”
Adam placed her glass in front of her. “I never said I agreed with a partisan press. I said you had to learn to accept it.”
“Yes, I suppose you did.” She shifted her gaze to Tanner. “My opinion is very likely biased, Mr. Barkley. The owners who are making these decisions know nothing about the people who produce the newspaper. They have no concept of the values and convictions that those people bring to their work.” She lifted her glass with both hands and took a small sip. “In essence, they make the decisions based more upon increasing the fundamental consciousness of the working class in the direction they want to increase it. Manipulation, plain and simple.”
Tanner’s teasing smile slipped a notch. “I can’t argue with that assessment, ma’am.”
“Newspapers are only going to grow with the growth of the news agencies. Paper costs are getting lower, the literate population is increasing. If only...” Adam pulled his gaze from her, focusing on the noise of a carriage arriving outside.
“If only?” she prompted.
How could he answer a question that had no clear answer? If onlys served no purpose in life, except make you feel like shit in the bottom of a livery stall.
If only Eaton had lived.
If only Charlie needed him more.
If only the two of them were alone in a world free of complications.
If only they had more time.
He had purchased the train tickets this morning. Charlie was leaving in two days. Mrs. Peters had practically yelled with relief, glad to be fleeing a confusing situation. Charlie, besides a slow, sad smile, had shown little emotion about the announcement.
While he felt like someone had kicked him in the gut.
“If only?” Again, she tried.
He looked back at her, smiled and shrugged.
“You’re going soft, Adam,” Tanner said.
“Maybe so,” Adam concurred. “Maybe so.”
Charlie pursed her lips and rose from her chair. “I should go find Mrs. Peters. She’s probably dredging the river bottom for me.”
Adam slipped his watch from his pocket and flipped it open. Closing it with a snap, he got to his feet. “Guests are arriving, and I’ve neglected my duties as host long enough. I’ll walk you out. Tanner?”
Tanner stretched and yawned. “Please, excuse me. I had a long night; awake till dawn waiting for a contact. I may stay behind and finish my drink, if you don’t mind. Hate the formalities, introductions and all, you know.”
Adam did know. This was not his, nor Tanner’s, affair. Why had Tanner been invited? He socialized with him, of course, at their club and a few other places he would just as soon forget. But, neither of them were dinner party men.
Just who would be at this damn thing?
Charlie passed him on her way to the door, her skirt whispering against the polished floor.
She was angry with him. All right. He was trying to keep his emotions from her. He was trying to deny the incredible vulnerability he felt when he was with her. He could not be as honest as she. He just could not. Because if he was, then he would never be able to let her go. And loving someone again was much more than he was willing to risk.
It was too late.
He caught her, though, slowing her with a light touch to the back of her neck. Her skin burned his fingertip as surely as a flame. “Wait.”
She stopped but didn’t turn. “I need to go.”
He moved closer until he pressed against her. Remembering Tanner was in the room with them, he fought the urge to kiss the skin exposed by her neckline and upswept hair. “You look beautiful. More beautiful than any woman I have ever seen.” He inhaled, catching her scent at once: roses and something earthy, like fresh cut grass and sunshine.
She half turned, eyes wide, surprised.
He smiled. “I don’t lie.”
“You don’t tell me everything, either.” She sighed, and he saw her shoulders tremble just a little. “You must know that you’re my best friend.”
He swallowed and took a step back. “You are mine. You know that, too.”
“Then, why? Why lock me out?”
“Sweetheart...two days. You’re leaving in two days.” He balled his hands into fists at his sides. “Why make this any goddamn harder?” He could not keep the anger from his voice. She wanted him to share his whole life, then casually say goodbye. Was he allowed to keep something from her to save himself?
“I don’t think of what we’ve shared in the same way that you do. I never have.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He watched her force a smile. “I’m sorry. I’m just nervous.” She fluttered her hand, an insouciant movement unnatural to her.
He noticed, felt a moment’s frustration, then shook his head as it occurred to him that the little sneak was turning his own tricks on him.
Hiding behind smiles and inane, insincere gestures.
She grasped the handle to the library door, and his gaze followed her. The sleek cut of her dress in harmony with her slim build, silk curves inviting his touch.
&n
bsp; She laughed and snapped her fingers. “Ahh, yes, I meant to tell you...”
He blinked, forcibly separating himself from his hunger for her. “Tell me?”
She pulled the door open and half turned on the ball of her foot. “Mrs. Peters wanted me to mention that Miss, Miss...” She scratched her chin with a gloved finger. “Elliot! Miss Elliot called at the last minute to say she would accept the invitation to dinner.”
“Shit,” he whispered beneath his breath as the door closed behind her.
Marilyn.
28
Realization
The making or being made real of something imagined.
* * *
She was attractive. Charming. Intelligent.
And Marilyn’s attractive, charming, intelligent hand was resting lightly on Chase’s arm.
He was the height of elegance tonight in a black linen suit complete with striped waistcoat and snowy white shirt. His tanned skin glowed in contrast to the crisp color.
Charlie looked away. She smiled and nodded to the man seated to her left. He had made a comment she supposed she should reply to, but she’d not been listening. Something about the performance. She smothered a yawn and joined in the applause.
At least she had made it through dinner. Too much food. Mindless conversation that interested no one. Meddling disguised as polite banter. What fun was it to eat when so many people were hawking your manners and the amount of food you put into your mouth? She’d felt like she was having dinner with thirty chaperones.
She glanced around the parlor, a large, rarely used one she had never been in before. It was a comfortless room, full of stiff furniture and belongings she was afraid to touch. Ceramic figurines and crystal vases, miniature portraits of people she guessed had no relation whatsoever to Chase. Chairs from other rooms had been brought in to form a half circle before the piano. Luckily, she had been a late arrival and sat on one of the sofas behind the chairs.
Chase and Marilyn Elliot sat on the other.
The woman had cornered him, obvious for everyone to see. Imagine Mrs. Peters’ embarrassment if she ever realized she had invited Adam Chase’s mistress to her little soiree. Perhaps, though, polite society allowed this, if prudently handled. Charlie didn’t know. All she could tell that mattered was that the mistress chew with her mouth closed.