Beguiled

by Laura Parker

  “No.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  It was a question Philadelphia had been expecting for days but one which she hadn’t been able to answer to her own satisfaction. Mrs. Ormstead said that she wasn’t hiding anything from her but the truth was she was hiding nearly everything. Her name, her disguise, even Akbar, were all lies. Yet, the scheme with Senhor Tavares to sell his jewelry had nothing to do with her association with Mrs. Ormstead. Certainly she wouldn’t repay the woman’s generosity by stooping to the ploy of offering her the necklace for cash. Still, that didn’t answer the question being put to her.

  “I’m here,” she began reluctantly, “because I have nowhere else to go.”

  Hedda considered a dozen observations she might make under the circumstances but chose to say only, “You say you aren’t in New York to find a husband, yet you’ll be courted if you choose to go about with me, constantly and with a great deal of persistence precisely because you seem impervious to blandishments. Young men are foolishly struck with the idea of pursuing the impossible. Such a waste of energies, but I suppose it keeps them from worse folly. Then, too, you may change your mind.” She picked up another envelope. “Now, let’s proceed, shall we?”

  When, at last, Philadelphia escaped the drawing room, the morning was nearly over. Throughout the interview, she’d repeatedly refused Mrs. Ormstead’s offers of assistance in enlarging her wardrobe. In the last moments, the conversation had become so heated that Hedda had ended the discussion by calling Philadelphia “an unfeeling, ungracious guest with a perverse ambition to thwart the wishes of your hostess!” She then thrust the half dozen invitations she had deemed acceptable into Philadelphia’s hands and dismissed her in order that Philadelphia compare their requirements to her wardrobe.

  As she walked along the hallway toward the conservatory, Philadelphia made a mental list of her gowns. She possessed a traveling dress, two day dresses, the ball gown that she had worn to the theater, a white linen visiting dress, and a green silk reception gown that she had purchased just days before her father’s unexpected death. It was the one item she had cheated the creditors of.

  The memory made her heart painfully skip a beat. Too late she realized that there had been a dozen other things she might have saved from the greedy grasp of those unscrupulous men had she not been too shocked by her father’s death to think properly. Most of all, she wished she had saved the pearls that were to have been her wedding present. Instead, to increase their profitability, she had participated in their sale. Strangely, she didn’t regret her broken engagement. She had not loved Harry Collsworth. He had been her father’s choice and to please her father she would have done anything.

  She shook her head, unwilling to be drawn in by the pain that lurked always at the edge of consciousness, and glanced down at the envelopes in her hand. The invitations were for dinner parties and receptions. She could wear her black ball gown once more. The green silk would serve twice, worn first for a dinner and then with an overskirt of lace for a soiree, but she didn’t possess gowns for the other occasions. How would she manage?

  Looking up from her contemplation as she entered the conservatory, she saw that the room was occupied. “Akbar” sat on a wrought-iron bench near a bank of ferns, his chin propped on his fist, lost in thought. For a fleeting instant she wondered what matter held his rapt attention. When the mood suited him he was as secretive as a mole and as changeable as an April sky. In rare moments when he thought himself alone, she sensed a melancholy solitude about him that was at odds with the vigor and energy he displayed to others. He was an enigma.

  Eduardo sat in uneasy alliance with his distracted thoughts. This was not the first morning he’d spent in idleness while Philadelphia enjoyed the company of Mrs. Ormstead and her nephew, but today’s wait had been more frustrating than most because he had disturbing news to keep him company.

  He should have known that Tyrone wouldn’t be mollified by a parting letter, but he hadn’t expected to be contacted so quickly. Tyrone’s letter had arrived for him in care of the hotel where he usually stayed while in New York. It was one of several methods they had established over the years in order to stay in contact while traveling. No doubt there were duplicate letters waiting for him in San Francisco, Chicago, Boston, London, and Sao Paulo. The letter was brief and to the point. Tyrone wanted him to return to New Orleans but didn’t say why. That left only one conclusion. There was trouble.

  Tyrone had never sought him out unless it had to do with his own quest for revenge. Yet that was at an end. If Tyrone was seeking him for another reason, he must be desperate. “The devil ever rides at your heels, amigo,” Eduardo murmured in his native tongue. He would have to act quickly for it was imperative that Tyrone never learn of Philadelphia’s existence.

  Distracted by the sensation of another presence, he looked up sharply to find Philadelphia standing in the doorway. He rose to his feet. “Memsahib wishes something?”

  “Yes. I need your advice.” She marched over and presented the invitations to him.

  Alert to every subtlety of her expression, he didn’t even glance at the envelopes she held out to him. “What is it that puts a frown upon the face of memsahib?”

  “Invitations which Mrs. Ormstead intends to accept in my name.”

  “Is that all?” The deep frown lines eased out of his expression as he slipped from English into French. “But that is marvelous! Your first foray into New York society was a success. You will, of course, accept them all. The de Ronsard diamonds should have a number of outings before they’re sold. After all, the more admirers they garner, the more valuable they become.”

  “You miss one salient fact,” she said, following his lead in speaking French. “My wardrobe isn’t equal to these occasions.”

  He shrugged. “You’re here to draw the attention of prospective buyers to the jewels. You must contrive something.”

  His preoccupation with the price the jewels might bring annoyed her. “Is the money so very important to you?”

  He raised one black brow. “Isn’t that the reason you agreed to accompany me to New York?”

  “Money was never my goal.”

  For a moment he merely gazed at her, noting a dozen small things about her, like how her beauty was composed of firm bones beneath the velvet skin, how the purplish tinge of her lids gave a haunting background to her clear golden eyes, how her darkened lashes lay against her plush-peach complexion, how even in the simplest lavender morning dress she appeared both drawing-room correct and yet possessed of the grace of a wild wood creature. She was young and impossibly lovely, and quite without his reasoning it out, he allowed jealousy to invent a new and irritating possibility for her interest in being appropriately dressed. “What is your goal, memsahib? Is it the norteamericano?’

  For a moment Philadelphia was at a loss to follow his reasoning. “Do you mean Henry Wharton?”

  Eduardo frowned in annoyance. “Henry, is it? Have things advanced that far?”

  “What things?” Her expression of amazement turned quickly to amusement. “You don’t seriously believe that Hen—Mister Wharton is interested in me?”

  “I do. He is. An ass could recognize the symptoms.”

  Caught between the impulse to laugh at what seemed to be his jealous tone and yet not quite able to credit it, she said, “Why did you tell him that the de Ronsards are nobility?”

  Again his shrug that managed to be both elegant and masculine. “I saw no reason to encourage his infatuation. You will soon grow bored.”

  “That’s insulting. You can’t presume to know what sort of man I prefer. And I don’t find Henry boring!”

  She’d deliberately used the name again but he didn’t snap at the bait. “Then perhaps you will explain to me your interest in this Henry.”

  “I certainly will not. It’s none of your business.”

  “You won’t because you can’t!” he said triumphantly. “You care
nothing for him.”

  She didn’t like one bit the feeling of being cornered, even by the truth. She had no serious interest in Henry Wharton but this display of jealous temper by a man whom she’d begun to think of as a friend smarted. “Mrs. Ormstead approves the association. She acknowledges Henry as her favorite relative.”

  “She also acknowledges that he was dropped on his head as a child,” he responded with obvious delight. “Is it his childish awkwardness that you find endearing?”

  Philadelphia folded her arms across her bosom. “I refuse to say another word to you on the subject. We’re business partners and this is not your business.”

  “I could so easily make it my business,” he murmured in Portuguese. In French he said, “Very well, mademoiselle partner. I bow to your wishes. I must absent myself from you for a few days. This will give you time to complete your conquest, if that is what you truly desire.”

  She heard nothing beyond his mention of leaving. “You are leaving? Where are you going?”

  The alarm in her voice was balm for his ego. “Does it matter so much to you?”

  “Of course it matters!” she answered before she could stop herself. To temper her confession, she added, “What will I say to Mrs. Ormstead? You’re my servant, after all. I should be sending you on some errand if you’re about to disappear.”

  His voice was flat. “How well you’ve accustomed yourself to the role of lady and her servant. You may tell her anything you wish. I will be absent a week, ten days at the most.”

  “Ten days?” Dismay rapidly replaced her annoyance. “Ten days? I can’t remain under this roof another ten days.”

  “Why not? Mrs. Ormstead is a generous hostess and quite fond of you.” He reached into the sash about his waist and withdrew a purse. “This should cover the cost of a new gown, perhaps two if you choose wisely. You’ve a handful of invitations to a fortnight’s worth of entertainment. What else could you wish for?”

  She refused the purse. “I can’t afford to be more indebted to you.”

  “It is a gift.”

  She was about to deny him again but instead she found herself staring up into his eyes, those great dark eyes that were at once imposing and yet vulnerable. She tried to remember what he looked like without the aging makeup and the false beard. She recalled the blue-black shade of his wavy hair hidden now beneath his turban, and the generous shape of his wide firm mouth lost beneath the bristle of beard. Then there was his dark copper coloring aged by rice powder and greasepaint.

  There was no mistaking the look of passion when it came into his face. The potent strength and vitality of it was there in the bright shimmer of his bittersweet chocolate gaze. A ripple of apprehension washed through her. This was like standing before a blazing fire; in taking in the heat she took the risk of being burnt.

  Against his will but not against his need, Eduardo reached out to lightly cup her cheek. She trembled beneath his caressing fingers. They were playing a dangerous game, he more so than she, and he didn’t want her to be hurt when, and if, certain revelations came to light. That was the reason he was leaving her, to protect her from his past, and her father’s.

  But his body wasn’t listening to reason. Except in rare moments, she seemed unaware of him as a man. In becoming her servant, he had become a eunuch in her eyes. She discounted his feelings and treated him with the friendly companionship of a brother. Well, he wasn’t her brother nor was he without the drives and passions of a whole man. He ached to draw her closer. Or was it she leaning toward him that presented the irresistible lure?

  Patience. The word his grandmother had spoken with no other direction when he was about to lose his temper, or refuse a parental judgment, or balk at the inevitable. Patience. The word tolled in his mind. Philadelphia Hunt was a rare and beautiful being whom he had no wish to frighten with a precipitous display of his intense desire for her. She was worth patience and frustration. It wasn’t her fault that when she gazed at him with those honey-colored eyes he felt the heat of that gaze curling deep in his loins. She wasn’t to blame for the fact that when he looked away from those eyes he saw her lips, full and softly parted, and begging for a kiss. He mustn’t touch, shouldn’t touch. Patience.

  Misinterpreting the strain on his face for distress because of her refusal to accept the money, Philadelphia took the purse from his hand free hand. “Thank you, Akbar. I promise that I will put the money to use in a good cause.” On impulse, she leaned forward to place a kitten-whisker kiss on his bearded cheek.

  A hard shudder passed through Eduardo as she touched her lips to his cheek, and he reached up to capture her face between his hands. Turning his head, he placed his lips against hers for a moment. Only that. No more.

  Philadelphia felt with surprising shock the touch of his mouth on hers. His lips were firm and dry and warm—and instantly gone.

  As he drew back, she stared up at him wordlessly, unable to comprehend what had just occurred. And then she did, and the unfairness of the too-brief moment moved her to speak. Drawing a breath to protest, she was taken by a sudden seizure that ended in an enormous sneeze.

  The inelegant timing of the percussive sound was what Eduardo needed to break the fragility of the moment. “The beard,” he murmured as he offered her the handkerchief he quickly withdrew from his pocket.

  Mortified, she grabbed the linen square and sneezed into it twice more before she could regain control of herself. As she looked up, eyes brimming, she saw that the upper edge of his crescent-shaped dimple showed above his beard.

  “I am most sorry to hear that memsahib suffers from the hay fever,” she heard him say in English as he reached out to turn her by the elbow toward the conservatory door. “Memsahib must remember to maintain a respectful distance from the flowers in the future,” he said in a resounding voice.

  Several things registered in her thoughts at the same moment as she looked toward the entrance. One: they were not alone. Mrs. Ormstead had paused in the hallway, in full view of the conservatory entrance. Two: his talk of hay fever was a ruse to cover the intimate scene the woman must have witnessed as she passed. And three: his warning about keeping a respectful distance had nothing whatsoever to do with flowers.

  “Thank you for the suggestion,” she answered in a clipped tone she would never have used with a real servant. “As I’ve said, you must leave at once, as soon as you are packed.”

  “As memsahib wishes,” he answered with a respectful bow. “When I have accomplished all that you command, I shall return to you with the swiftness of the wind.” He walked out of the conservatory, pausing only long enough to give Mrs. Ormstead a nod of his head before he disappeared down the hallway toward the servants’ stairs.

  “What’s this about Akbar leaving?” Hedda demanded when Philadelphia reached her, not at all abashed to admit that she was eavesdropping.

  “There are affairs, madame, private matters which only Akbar may attend to for me. If you don’t mind, I wish to intrude upon your hospitality a little longer. A week, perhaps?”

  “He’ll be away a full week?”

  “Perhaps a little more.”

  “Remarkable,” Hedda murmured. “When I was a girl no proper chaperon would abandon his charge for even a hour.”

  “Akbar isn’t at all a proper chaperon,” Philadelphia answered with gentle laughter as she moved toward the stairway. “He is a most singular individual.”

  “So he is,” Hedda said, but her gaze lingered on the young lady as she climbed the steps, for unless her hearing was at fault, Felise de Ronsard had spoken to her in English free of a French accent.

  Unaware of her mistake, Philadelphia suddenly smiled to herself as she reached the second floor. She hadn’t been burnt beyond recovery by braving the flame of Eduardo Tavares’s kiss, but the distinct smoky aroma of smoldering passion seemed to cling to her as she made her way down the hall to her room.

  “Here he is again, the odious man!” declared Jul
ieanna Wharton, Henry’s sister and Philadelphia’s companion for the evening. “I don’t know how you bear his company, even if he is one of your countrymen.”

  Philadelphia looked up in vexation at Julieanna’s words. It was true, the bane of her existence this last week had entered the Ferguson’s ballroom: the Marquis d’Edas.

  Even as he lifted one long-fingered hand in an intimate gesture of greeting that set her teeth on edge, she looked away, pretending not to notice him.

  “I could just swoon in mortification when he looks at me,” Julieanna confided. “Mama says his way with ladies isn’t quite decent.”

  “Your mama is quite right,” Philadelphia replied, and looked around for Henry only to discover that he had disappeared. With resignation she pulled her wits together, knowing that she’d need every bit of them to match words with the marquis. From the moment she’d been introduced to him at the opera a week ago, she’d sensed a quickening interest in him that had nothing to do with masculine appreciation of her beauty. He’d plied her with questions about her family and history, questions she couldn’t answer with the facile lies that came so easily to Eduardo Tavares.

  In the succeeding days, each time they met, he pressed her for details about her life in Paris, and her family and friends, until she began to feel the sinister touch of foreboding whenever he entered a room. Lies were difficult enough to tell when the dupe was ignorant of the subject. But how could she hope to hold off for long a man who was Parisian by birth?

  For the dozenth time that day she wondered what had become of Eduardo Tavares. He’d said he’d be gone only a week yet more than two had passed, and still he hadn’t returned. He’d not sent a message, or letter, or even a telegram. Sometimes at night she lay awake wondering if he were ill or injured or, God forbid, dead. No, she mustn’t think that way, not when she had to face the marquis yet again.

  “Oh, here he comes!” Julieanna whispered. “What can we do, Mam’zelle Ronsard?”