Beguiled

by Laura Parker

  Eduardo watched her from a window in one curving wing of the house. He had deliberately chosen to place her in the bedroom wing opposite his, for her peace of mind and his. One thing had emerged very clearly and sharply from his afternoon musings. Before they moved from here, he would plumb the depths of her feelings for him and see if they could withstand the shock of what she might learn about him at some future date.

  He looked down at the note crumpled in his hand. He’d read it half a dozen times, marveling at how, amid the clumsy sentiment, Henry Wharton had delivered an innocent but deadly sword thrust to his peace of mind.

  Miss de Ronsard, darling

  I cannot account for the grief that your swift departure leaves within me. It is my finest and fondest hope that you will shortly return to the city and your friends. I, most of all, shall await that day.

  As per your request, I made inquiries about the banker, Lancaster. I regret to inform you of his death last year, following business difficulties that ruined him and the Manhattan Metropolitan Securities Bank. If I can be of further service …

  Ever faithfully yours,

  Henry Wharton

  Eduardo very carefully smoothed out the note and placed it back in her purse. What was she up to? How could she know of Lancaster? And, if she knew of him, what else did she know?

  He turned back to the window. She had moved to sit on the edge of the balustrade, the curves of her slender body gracefully outlined as she turned toward the river. Suffused in the rosy glow of sunset, she seemed a wood nymph come lately to rest at the edge of her domain.

  “You have secrets, menina, which I must and will learn. But, first, the game of love will be ours.”

  10

  Hudson River Valley, July 1875

  Philadelphia held a hand visorlike over her eyes as she peered anxiously up into the face of the man who stood over her in his shirtsleeves. “Are you certain this is necessary? It seems a drastic measure.”

  Eduardo gave her an interrogatory glance. “We went over this matter last evening at dinner. Saratoga will be filled with New Yorkers and though you met only a few, we can’t afford for you to be recognized. Therefore you must have a new look, a new disguise. Now lie down and we will begin.”

  “I’m sure this isn’t the least bit proper,” she murmured as she knelt down on the blanket he had spread in a sunny area of grass beyond sight of the house.

  After several companionable evenings and surprisingly good nights’ sleep, she had thought to spend her days at Belle Mont walking by the river and planning her future. But she should have known that Eduardo Tavares would have his own plans. Mumbling invectives against tyrants, she lay back upon the quilt. “Now what?”

  “Nothing more is required of you,” He assured her, and bent on one knee beside her. “Put yourself in my hands and let me do what has to be done.”

  He reached into the basket he had brought with him, retrieved a lady’s hairbrush, and tentatively stroked it through the tumble of waist-length waves nearest his knee.

  Thanks to several hard scrubbings with lye soap followed by applications of equal parts of olive oil and castor oil, her hair was once more its natural honey brown shade. The strands crackled with russet highlights while threads of sun-gold shimmered through the darker waves near her hairline. The lushness pleased him, and he ran his fingers through the length, luxuriating in the tactile pleasure. The waves corked and curled about his fingers, tangling in a playful tease of reluctance to escape. It was a shame to alter the color again. Yet at dinner the night before, she had begun talking about leaving him, saying that her share of the money from the diamonds was enough to repay her father’s debts and therefore she wanted to return to Chicago. She had lied but he could not say so without betraying that he was aware of the true amount of those debts. That, he suspected, would frighten her more than she already was. He knew the real reason she wanted to get away from him. It was to escape her attraction to him that she could no longer successfully hide.

  Poor frightened menina. How cautious she had grown in his company, afraid to look him in the eye when they spoke, shunning his offer of a hand in assistance as they walked the grounds. Yet he had mentioned none of this to her. Instead he had reminded her gently but firmly that she had agreed to help him sell three sets of jewelry and that she was honor-bound to see their contract through. Her reluctant agreement had satisfied him for the moment. What she did not yet know was that he had no intention of allowing her to leave him for any reason.

  Philadelphia had shut her eyes to keep the midmorning sunlight from her eyes, but when his fingers delved into her hair, they flew wide in surprise. “What are you doing?”

  “Testing for tangles, menina. What else?”

  She didn’t know what else he might be doing, but she was certain that whatever it was, there was some hidden reason behind it. “I’m perfectly capable of brushing my own hair. If you’d just give me—”

  “And deprive myself of the pleasure?” he broke in softly. “What man doesn’t dream of brushing a beautiful woman’s hair?”

  “Oh, and have you brushed many?”

  “Thousands! I’m quite an accomplished ladies’ maid.”

  Philadelphia stiffened. “That doesn’t recommend you highly to me. It sounds quite ungentlemanly and, well, vulgar.”

  He paused in mid-stroke, and she looked up to find a slight frown furrowing his wide brow. “This fear you have of me, is there any reason for it? What have I done to deserve it? You didn’t fear Akbar, not after the first day. Why then, senhorita, do you thrust double-edged words at me at every opportunity?”

  Gazing up at him from a prone position was definitely a disadvantage she decided as new emotions squirmed inside her. She knew that if he bent over and kissed her now she wouldn’t say another word against him. The very idea that his nearness evoked the yearning further disconcerted her. “I don’t know what you mean. Just hurry and finish before I’m baked by the sun.”

  He reached behind himself and picked up a small Japanese parasol made of bamboo and oiled paper. “I try always to provide your comfort. Trust me.”

  As he returned to his brushing, she opened the parasol and slanted it at an angle that shaded her face. Only then did she peek at him again and the sight was less than reassuring. Trust him? She did not even trust herself when he was about. And with very good cause.

  How could she say to him that her distrust was borne of the way sunlight and shadow played shamelessly over the surfaces of his gorgeous face? Just watching the light lick to a copper sheen his broad cheekbones while shadows slid down into the hollows beneath made her feel as giddy as did two glasses of champagne. Then there were those great dark eyes which obliterated sunlight, making midnight of noon. How could she explain the threat of intimacy that darkness brought forth? And his hair, soft, black, curtaining the temples of his face in waves as he bent over her, how dare it make her fingers itch to stroke it back behind his ears?

  Oh, there were a thousand other little distractions. Though he had recently shaved, the shadow of his beard still darkened the plane of his upper lip and lightly sooted his cheek and jaw. The natural tint of his lips seemed stained by rich red wine. Fine black brows, heavily drawn, were arched as gracefully as a woman’s. The radiance of his white shirt front made one draw favorable conclusions from the contrast it made with his skin. Even before she thought of it, the scent of his cologne had made her measure her breath in shallow intakes. The sun warmed his face and neck and she knew that the scent rising off his skin was what she breathed in. Even without touching her, he shared himself with her. Everything about him seemed a calculation in disturbance, disruption, and distraction. Had he planned this full-scale assault on her senses? She shut her eyes in defense of the sensation that she was saturated with the presence of Eduardo Tavares.

  Not unaware of her observation, Eduardo continued his administrations. This was only the first of several gentle assaults
he planned to make upon her defenses. Patience. That was the key. Soon she would become as comfortable with him as she had the subservient character he had played before. Then he would teach her about love and she would offer her mouth for his kiss as she had Henry—damn him!—Wharton. In the meantime, he didn’t dare register even in his thoughts his pleasure at the simple victory of being so close to her.

  Having tamed her hair to his satisfaction, he carefully stretched it out to its full length on the quilt behind her head. Then, with a comb he pulled from the basket, he parted off another length of hair and applied the brush to it.

  In the quiet peace of the summer morning, he repeated the action again and again until, finally, she lay with her waist-length hair spread out around her head like a sunburst halo. Though her face was hidden by the small parasol, the deep even breaths she drew told him that she was at ease, perhaps even dozing to the accompaniment of droning insects who inhabited the nearby shrubs.

  He sat back on his heels and withdrew from the basket a jar, the contents of which were known only to an elite class of Rio de Janeiro prostitutes. He had once made a bet with Tyrone as to whether or not a certain new and extravagantly priced girl was, indeed, a natural blonde. When the usual means had been tried, and their purses both a good deal lighter, Tyrone proclaimed himself the winner, having bet in favor of her authenticity. Eduardo smiled, remembering one of the few times he’d bested Tyrone. It had taken him a week and cost him several times the amount of the bet involved to win the woman’s confidence and learn her secret. In the end, he’d coaxed her into allowing him to help her apply the mixture to the more delicate places required. Later, he’d demonstrated the results of the mixture in Tyrone’s presence using a cutting from a wig.

  He opened the jar and gently stirred the mixture. The air filled with citron tangs, sharp hints of hydrogen peroxide, malty textures from the brewery, and faint eggy sulfur fumes. Had he not seen its results firsthand, he would never have dared apply the noisome concoction to her hair. Even so, he’d watered the portions down by fifty percent. He quickly dipped the bristles of the brush into it and began stroking it through her hair before he changed his mind.

  The first inclination that something unexpected was taking place came as a rough pungent odor cut through Philadelphia’s drowsing. She wrinkled her nose in defense and lowered the parasol. “What is that noxious smell?”

  “Magic,” he answered. “Be patient, and you’ll be pleased with the results.”

  “It smells like boiled renderings after lye has been added to make soap.”

  “It’s only ‘Eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog,’” he quoted with a laugh.

  “Don’t prose at me,” she answered sharply, laying the parasol aside. “Your humor always precedes some mischief of which I am usually the victim.”

  “I swear to you, menina, that I mean you no harm.”

  “That isn’t very reassuring.” Then, “Must we have that odor about us? You’re not putting it on my hair?”

  Eduardo dropped the brush and caught her by the shoulders just as she started to get up from the quilt. “Don’t move, menina, or you will spoil my work.”

  “You have put it in my hair!” she cried indignantly. “I want it out. Now!”

  “Fifteen minutes, menina, that’s all it takes.” He came to his knees beside her, pressing her firmly back with a hand on each shoulder. He looked down at her, laughter shaping his long mouth into a wicked scythe. “Think of it this way, we won’t be bothered by river flies while it works.”

  She stared back at him with murderous intent. “Release me this instant, senhor!”

  His grin softened under the heat of her gaze. “When you look at me like that I can’t imagine anything but holding you even more closely.” He saw apprehension snap her eyes wide and released her slowly, his hands hovering in case she tried to rise again. He had applied the mixture to only some sections of her hair but he suspected that a tactical retreat was in order. It would take several applications to complete the process, in any case. “I’ll make a bargain with you. If you remain lying so, still as a mouse for fifteen minutes, I’ll leave you in peace.”

  She reached up to touch her damp hair. “You swear you haven’t ruined me?”

  Eduardo looked up quickly. Please, please, he thought, don’t let me say it. Double entendres offered doubtful results at the best of times. And this was definitely not one of them.

  He rose to his feet, careful to avoid her gaze. “Fifteen minutes, menina, then you may go and wash your hair.”

  Philadelphia watched him collect his things and then walk away without giving him her promise. When he was out of sight, she adjusted her parasol to shade her eyes from the advancing sun. Fifteen minutes didn’t seem like a very long time, and besides, she did feel a bit drowsy. If she remained it was because she wanted to, not because he commanded it.

  She awakened to the whispery sensation of a chartreuse butterfly climbing her nose. Wiggling her nose didn’t dislodge the creature, so she very gently flicked him with a finger, and he took flight as though caught on a gust of wind.

  She sat up to watch his progress toward the flowers of the garden and then smiled at the beauty of the day. A yawn reminded her that she had fallen asleep. She reached back to catch her flowing tresses which the breeze was teasing into somersaults about her shoulders and realized that they were dry. Without thinking about it, she twisted her hair into a knot and secured it at her nape. The medicinal odor had abated somewhat but the faint scent still offended her. She had no idea what he had applied to her hair but she would have no more of it. In fact, as soon as she washed the odor out of her hair, she would tell him so. She rose for the quilt and gathered it into her arms, surprised to notice faded streaks on the cloth that she didn’t remember being there before. Oh well, she supposed the sun had done it. She was vaguely aware that more than fifteen minutes had passed. Precisely how many more she wasn’t certain of, but if the rumbling in her middle was any indication, it was nearly lunchtime. She would have to hurry and wash her hair if she didn’t want to miss the meal altogether.

  She crossed the lawn in quick lithe strides, thinking that the pleasure of summer in the country was that fresh sunshine and air made every sense sharper and more sensitive. For instance, her scalp tingled in response to the sun and her spirit was as light as the butterfly that swooped past. She was actually looking forward to sharing a lunch with Eduardo Tavares. She increased her pace in order not to be later than strictly necessary.

  Eduardo waited patiently at the head of the table for his luncheon companion. She’d sent word that she would join him, if tardily. He hoped that she was pleased by the morning’s work. A few more applications and he was certain she would look born to her blondness.

  He had even settled on the roles they would play in Saratoga, but he wasn’t ready to tell her just yet. While mothers and children streamed up to Saratoga from the first of June through the end of July, August was the month he had tapped for their visit. That was the month in which the resort city was vacated by thousands of wholesome families and reinvaded by the flashier set, racing and gambling people flush with money and excited by the idea of spending it.

  He drummed his fingers impatiently on the white linen tablecloth, wondering if the trip to Saratoga would be necessary, after all. He hoped not. He was determined that Philadelphia would learn to love him during the days they would spend here in this idyll by the river. If she did, there would be no need for future masquerades between them. Honor had kept him from actively pursuing her before, but now that hesitation was gone. The inquiries she had made about Lancaster were proof enough that she wouldn’t give up her false belief in her father’s innocence unless forced to. He wanted her, must have her. He was aware of her tentative response to him. With every seductive charm at his disposal, he would turn that attraction into passion, before they both went mad—or the truth drove them apart.

  The first
pitiful cry from the hallway outside the dining room launched him to his feet. The next instant Philadelphia lurched into the room. She was staggering, her hair streaming wildly over her shoulders and down her back while she moaned as if in mortal pain. She held a brush in one hand, a mirror in the other. She flew at him, hands lifted in attack. “Look at me! Look at what you’ve done to me!”

  Eduardo swallowed his astonishment. Sections of her waist-length hair were bleached nearly white while the rest remained a rich golden brown. He swallowed again, this time to curtail the amusement he knew was deplorably out of place. “You—you didn’t heed my instructions, senhorita. I distinctly remember telling you to you wait only fifteen minutes before washing your hair. No more.”

  Philadelphia bared her teeth in a very unladylike grimace. “You didn’t warn me that disaster would strike if I didn’t! You have ruined me!”

  “How so?” He looked away as the lashings on his amusement burst thread by thread. “I see a little damage, but it is temporary. I think you look—unusual. The effect is most—Ah yes! I’m reminded of—of—of …”

  “Stripes!” she cried. “Stripes! I look like a jaundiced zebra!”

  Eduardo lost the battle. His laughter burst free at an immodest volume that shook the china.

  Philadelphia stared at him as though he were the embodiment of all the gates of Hell. He was laughing, laughing at her humiliation and shocked hurt.

  Eduardo had turned away, as embarrassed as she by his schoolboy sense of humor. It was unforgivable. She must be furious. He was furious, too, with himself. When his mirth passed, he turned back to beg her pardon.

  He didn’t at first credit her trembling as the expression of tears hidden behind the latticework curtain of her hair. But then she was sobbing as loudly and freely as a child. She’d shed exactly two tears over the loss of Henry Wharton and none the day she helped auction off her home and its contents. Mae de Deus! Women took this business of their hair much more seriously than he’d ever realized.