by Laura Parker
Philadelphia didn’t know when she stopped relaxing and began instead to feel a subtle but insidious coiling inside her. She had been drifting halfway between consciousness and sleep, riding the pleasant ripples of sensation caused by the passage of his hands over her skin, when the shadings of the impressions gradually altered. The soothing, calming strokes became more powerful than the achy threads of pain. Strong fingers smoothed over the jagged twinges, replacing them with a sweet heavy somnolence. Splinters of discomfort dissolved under his caresses, blending and spinning out again to become silky threads of pleasure winding and binding her in a gossamer of delicious shivery feeling.
Her breathing deepened. Her pulse tripped up its even tempo to find a faster beat. All at once she knew that he was no longer easing her pain but deliberately stirring very different sensations, inexplicable but troubling sensations she’d never before experienced. Even so, she wasn’t at all certain she wanted them to end.
The knock at the door jarred her awake, snapping the threads of secret pleasure. Her eyes flew wide open, and she met Akbar’s gaze. So intense was his black stare that, for an instant, she thought she saw in his eyes a match of the secret pleasure that made her body pulse. In shame, her gaze skittered away from his. When she felt his hand slip from beneath her skirts, she realized as shame deepened into disgrace what she had done. She’d lain like a wanton under his touch, enjoying his caress, and he knew it!
She shrank back into the pillow, wishing that she could creep away and hide from his all-seeing gaze. Even as she drew her legs up and away from him, the inside of her thigh still tingling with the memory of his fingertips, her fiery blush moved lower to sting her breasts and stomach.
“Breakfast, miss!” came the cry from beyond the doorway after a second sharper rap on the door.
“A moment!” Eduardo quickly rewound the bandage, cursing the circumstances that had forced Philadelphia’s sudden withdrawal from him, and then rose to cross the room to the door. He hadn’t known what he would do next—no, that was wrong. He had known exactly what he wanted to do next. He had felt her tremble as he caressed her and known the rare pleasure of being nearly out of control himself. He, Eduardo Domingo Xavier Tavares, master of his own emotions and actions, had known an elusive moment of indecision. For him the moment was rarer than yellow diamonds, more precious than gold, and far more dangerous than the bite of the piranha.
“I was about to call Mr. Hobbs, the butler,” the maid said when Eduardo swung open the door. “Thought your mistress had fallen asleep.”
“Memsahib does not raise her voice to answer servants,” he replied censoriously and took the tray from her. “You may go.”
“No one but I gives orders in my house.” Eduardo looked up to find Mrs. Ormstead standing in the open doorway. “Your manners are atrocious, Akbar. You will apologize to me.”
Bowing low to hide his smile of amusement, he saluted the old woman. “A thousand pardons, Memsahib Ormstead. May the sting of a thousand bees stab my eyes should I offend you again.”
Hedda Ormstead turned to her maid. “Did you hear that? A trifle overstated, perhaps, but I like the spirit of it. You may pass this incident on to those below and say that I wholeheartedly approve of the groveling tone of this apology. Hereafter, I should like it to be emulated. Well, girl, have you nothing to do?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The maid bowed and hurried out.
Hedda watched the girl’s flight in amusement. “I do so wish I had her vigor. I’d keep her hopping then, I can tell you.” She turned to her injured guest, whom Akbar was bending over with her breakfast tray.
When she’d followed her maid up the stairs, Hedda had expected her guest would be alone. Finding Akbar with her was a rude shock. Her gaze sharpened as she saw the young woman refuse to meet her servant’s eye as he spoke to her in whispered French. Her face was averted from him, as though she were embarrassed or felt put upon by the man.
A fine figure of a man he was, too, Hedda mused. With his broad-shouldered silhouette and narrow waist he recalled to her mind the young gallants who’d come calling on her when she was forty years younger. The thought surprised her. Indeed, Akbar possessed the physique of a man much younger than his graying whiskers would suggest.
Hedda smiled at her own wayward thoughts. Folly. So much folly. In the last twelve hours she’d found herself thinking of things that she hadn’t thought of, or allowed herself to think of, in years. It was having youth under her roof, she decided. Youth troubled the tranquility, disturbed the peace, and maddened the reason of maturity. She was well rid of her own youth but, oh, something was afoot here. Curiosity was a feeling long absent from her, but here, surely, was a puzzle worth exploring.
Suddenly she changed her mind about what she’d come to say. “Good morning, Mam’zelle Ronsard,” she said crisply as she came forward to stand before Philadelphia. “Goodness, child, you look as flat as three-day-old ale. You didn’t sleep a wink, did you?”
Philadelphia smiled at the lady. “Bonjour, Madame Ormstead. I am sorry I cannot rise to greet you properly.”
“If you could do that, you’d not be here,” she answered in a severe voice. “Why didn’t you ring for a sleeping draft? You wasted a perfectly lovely night. I slept like the dead, which is no small matter to a woman of my advanced years.”
Philadelphia didn’t mean to laugh but the conflicting pent-up frustrations of pain and acute embarrassment suddenly sought release and she found herself erupting in peals of laughter, long and loud and unstoppable.
Hedda Ormstead’s lips twitched as she watched the girl’s pretty face turn scarlet with mirth and her eyes fill with tears of embarrassment. “You’re a naughty child, mam’zelle. I should toss you out but I’ve developed a rather sudden and wholly illogical desire for your company. Oh, do subside, dear, so that you may agree to be my houseguest for a while.”
Philadelphia sputtered to a stop, her gaze darting to Akbar in a silent plea for advice.
Eduardo turned to the woman. “Memsahib Ronsard is most humbly flattered by your gracious invitation, Memsahib Ormstead, but does not wish to overburden you with her person.”
Hedda’s winged brows took flight up her forehead. “Remarkable! You read all that in a glance? Can you tell the future as well?” She looked at Philadelphia. “I thought it was your ankle that was sprained, not your tongue.”
Philadelphia smiled. “Akbar cares for me so well that he sometimes forgets that I can speak for myself. I am most flattered by your invitation—”
“And so you accept it,” Hedda finished for her. “Please don’t protest, I do so hate mealy-mouthed protestations. I am determined to have you. Have I not as good as kidnapped you? You are here. Your things are here. The bill for your hotel rooms has been settled.”
“My bills are paid?” Philadelphia said in wonder. “But why? You don’t know me. I am a stranger. I could be anyone.”
“But you happen to be a pretty young thing who fell under the hooves of my horses in an hour when—oh, never mind that. Do mend quickly. There’s a play, the final one of the season, to which I have tickets on Thursday. You will accompany me. And, of course, the redoubtable Akbar.”
Her eyes twinkled as she looked him over. “I most especially wish society to view your heathen. It will give them something to chew over during their Sunday visiting. Now eat your breakfast before it’s spoilt. You may come with me, Akbar. I’m interviewing a new carriage driver this morning and want your opinion in the matter. After that, you may review my stable. I’m not at all pleased with the look of one bay’s mouth. That ham-handed fool, Jack, may have ruined him.”
“As you wish,” Eduardo answered but he didn’t immediately follow Mrs. Ormstead as she left the room. He waited until Philadelphia was forced by his silent presence to look up at him. “Is the pain better, menina?” he said in a low and husky voice.
Philadelphia thought that holding his gaze was the most difficult thing she had e
ver done. “Yes. The pain is better.”
“Good. That was my only purpose,” he replied and turned and left the room.
Philadelphia caught her lower lip between her teeth when he was gone. A relief of her pain, that was all he sought in touching her. It was she who had allowed her emotions free rein and so had needlessly embarrassed them both. The thought that she had been such a ninny shamed her all over again. She groaned and sank lower in the lounge, feeling very young and very green and very confused.
“The gown will do,” Mrs. Ormstead said with a single nod of her head.
Philadelphia stood before the free-standing mirror as Amy, the maid, fluffed her train. When Senhor Tavares had provided her with the black silk gown she couldn’t imagine when she’d have an opportunity to wear it, but she had to admit that it seemed the perfect item for the theater. Of course, had she been going about under her rightful name, she wouldn’t have dared wear so frivolous a gown a scant two months after her father’s death.
Her father was dead. The sorrow cut sharply and instantly through her pleasure. How could she forget? How could she be happy even for a moment when her father lay in his cold dark grave while infamous lies still went abroad to haunt his memory?
Remorse poisoned her thoughts. She’d joined in this mummery for a noble purpose but had she accomplished anything? No, she had allowed herself to be caught up in a set of useless circumstances.
“Whatever is the matter, dear?”
At Mrs. Ormstead’s distressed tone, Philadelphia looked round, blinking back the brine of tears. “Nothing, madame.”
“I doubt that. You look as though you’ve suffered a sudden attack. Does your ankle still trouble you?”
“Oui. That is it,” she answered, using the ready excuse. “But it will pass, I am certain.” Hedda regarded the young woman sympathetically. “Perhaps I’ve pushed you from your sickbed too soon.”
Philadelphia turned about, her train sweeping a graceful arc on the floor. “Oh no, madame, you haven’t pushed me. I leaped from it gratefully. The monotony of my days had become a burden.”
“Very well. You make a pretty picture, Mademoiselle Felise.” She noted in approval the way Philadelphia’s hair had been swept back from her face and held in place by a corsage of red silk roses. “Amy managed a credible job with your coiffure. I particularly like the way that single curl trails down your back. What did you say, Amy?”
The maid blushed. “I said, ma’am, that I didn’t do the mam’zelle’s hair. She did it herself.”
Hedda’s eyes widened. “Why ever did you do that?”
“I have not always had the services of a maid,” Philadelphia replied with a simple shrug. She couldn’t very well say she didn’t want the girl to see and question the telltale stains her dyed hair left in the washbasin. “Akbar is many things. A hairdresser, alas, he’s not.”
Mrs. Ormstead looked about. “Ah yes, Akbar. Where is that wretched heathen?”
Eduardo detached himself from the shadows of a nearby alcove. “I await the memsahib’s pleasure.”
The older woman’s eyes widened again. He was dressed in much the same manner as usual but the color and fabric of his attire were more elaborate. His coat of heavy scarlet silk brocade reached just below his knees. A sash of gold belted his waist. A matching piece of gold silk was wrapped about his head and held in place by the now familiar sapphire brooch. In place of black trousers and boots he wore white silk trousers which narrowed at the ankles to reveal black patent slippers. But the item which caught and held her attention was the heavy gold chain which he wore around his neck like a chamberlain’s collar of rank.
Eduardo came forward slowly to meet Philadelphia. She looked beautiful and, if possible, more desirable than she had the first time he’d seen her in that gown. “Salutations, memsahib. I have brought your jewels.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a necklace. “Allow me,” he intoned solemnly and reached up to clasp it about her neck.
“Good heavens!” Hedda Ormstead exclaimed when the full glory of the diamond necklace was revealed.
Philadelphia reached up to touch it shyly. “It is all that is left of my family’s treasures.”
“Le collier de Ronsard,” Akbar announced. “No doubt, it is honored to bask in the light of your beauty, memsahib.”
The older woman’s gaze shifted briefly between the pair. Odd talk that, from a servant to his mistress. He spoke more like a lover than an underling. As for the look in his eyes, if he were not instantly obedient to the girl’s every wish, she doubted the girl’s aunt would ever have allowed him to accompany her halfway around the world.
Philadelphia, too, felt the weight of his heated gaze on her naked shoulders. The breathless sensation that often came over her when he was near turned quickly into the constriction of shame. She’d made the mistake of misreading his intentions before. Never again. “Please help me with my stole, Akbar,” she said in a husky voice.
Only when his warm hands brushed her skin as he enfolded her into the garment did she realize that asking for his help was a mistake. He stood so close behind her so that the fragrance of his cologne enveloped her. For an instant she drowned under the twin sensations of his touch and smell.
“Shall we go, children?”
Hedda smiled as the pair started guiltily. Good, she thought. Let them be ashamed to gaze at one another like sick calves. A mistress and her servant; it had all the makings of a deplorable, treacle-sweet—and disastrous!—romance. It must be nipped in the bud.
She had not been blessed with children of her own but retained the thwarted motherly instincts of forty years keeping. She knew exactly what to do. Felise de Ronsard needed a proper suitor, a young man of breeding and a little money, someone who would show her that Akbar, handsome though the scoundrel was, was not at all what she needed and should have.
The frown lifted from Hedda’s expression. She had a nephew, really a nephew’s son, from a branch of her family whose company she usually avoided as being too tedious to be endured more than once a year on their New Year’s Day visits. The boy must be about twenty-one, graduating from Harvard soon, if memory served. His name was Harry or Herbert, or was it Delbert? It didn’t matter. She recalled him as a pleasant-faced child with soft brown curls and bright gray eyes. If his mother hadn’t ruined him with smothering or his father with a too-generous allowance, he might be a suitable match for Felise. She’d arrange a meeting quite soon.
The Booth Theater blazed with gas lights as the Ormstead carriage drew up before the arched doorway. As she was handed down by the footman, Philadelphia decided that the granite facade of Italianate Renaissance styling made it one of the handsomest buildings she had ever seen.
With Mrs. Ormstead leading, they made their way through the elegantly dressed patrons thronging the lobby. What she lacked in stature Hedda Ormstead more than made up for in presence and character, to which the crowd responded by parting neatly before her passage. The movement was rather like that of the Red Sea before Moses, Philadelphia observed with a smile.
In fact, the stir created by the arrival of the silver-haired matron eclipsed for a moment the presence of those who had come with her. It wasn’t until the theatergoers realized that the bearded, turbaned man and beautiful girl in black were with Mrs. Ormstead that they began to turn their stares on Philadelphia. Yet Mrs. Ormstead didn’t give anyone a chance to address her. She led her party up the staircase, past the lovely frescoes lining the walls, and into the narrow hallway that backed the tier of box seats.
Only when she was seated in one of the first chairs of her box did Hedda Ormstead permit herself a tiny smile as she looked at Philadelphia. “That went well. Of course, we shouldn’t have arrived before the end of the first act, but then one would have remained in ignorance of the point of the story, and I do so enjoy a good rousing tale.”
Philadelphia smiled. “What is the play this evening, Madame Ormstead?”
“I haven
’t the slightest idea,” Hedda answered and raised her lorgnette. “Do sit forward in your chair, mademoiselle. You can’t be seen properly by those in the orchestra seats. That’s right, now remove your wrap. Akbar? The mademoiselle is warm. Take her wrap.” The order given, she turned her lorgnette and attention to the galleries. “I only hope those present are worth our efforts,” she added, half under her breath.
Philadelphia had avoided looking at Akbar as he moved from his place by the door so she was greatly surprised when he gently but firmly squeezed her shoulder under the guise of removing her cashmere shawl. It was a gesture meant to hearten her spirit but it annoyed her instead. “Madame is pleased to show off her house-guest?”
The young lady’s cool tone brought Hedda’s attention back to her. “Have I offended you, mademoiselle?” She reached out and laid a small smooth hand over one of Philadelphia’s. “I mean you no harm, dear. I’m only an old lady with too little to occupy my time and mind.”
Philadelphia turned her hand under the older woman’s to give hers a squeeze. “Forgive me, too, madame. I am only a little—how do you say—skittish?”
“I would never say that,” Hedda remarked in amazement. “That’s a racing term, is it not? Where would you learn it?”
Philadelphia flushed. She didn’t know where she’d heard it.
“Memsahib’s uncle was a cavalry officer and now maintains private stables near Delhi,” Akbar supplied smoothly from the darkness behind them. “The conversation at his dinner meals is often full of talk of bloodlines and racing.”
“Really!” Hedda shuddered. “How positively horrid for you. The English may think themselves the peak of society but I say the talk of hounds and horses has no place at a dinner table where ladies are present. Now, turn your head to the stage, mademoiselle. I perceive that the curtain is going up. Once the lights dim, you’ll not be nearly so noticeable.”
She need not have worried, Philadelphia thought, as for the next hour she sat with hands folded calmly in her lap while enduring the attentive gazes of what seemed to be half the audience. Had the patrons given as much attention to the play as they did her, the players would have thought themselves a smashing success.