by Maya Rodale
She paused here, feeling the dowager duchess and the duke horrified at the deluge of words she had just shared. And horror, too, that she had unburdened herself to a woman she had only just met.
“I’m so sorry,” Beatrice said. “I do not even know you and I am spilling forth my innermost secrets.”
“Please don’t apologize. There is nothing like the confidence between a woman and her dressmaker,” Adeline said. She set down the pale green and light blue fabric swatches she had selected and reached for vibrant reds and pinks instead. “It shall help me craft just the right wardrobe for you. If you are not going to wed, what will you do?”
That was the question.
Beatrice had an idea. Ever since Edward had said he was giving up on the store, she’d started dreaming about taking it over herself and proving that she could do better, that she could return it to the magical place it had once been.
Did she dare to say it aloud?
Would Adeline scoff at her the way her mother and Edward did this morning when she broached the subject? The dressmaker was a proprietor of her own establishment, so one had to think she would be amenable to women embarking on a business venture.
So she did.
She said the words.
“I have a mad scheme to take over my family’s department store.”
And oh, but that gleam in the dressmaker’s eye made Beatrice feel like maybe. And maybe was a new glorious feeling she hadn’t felt in a long while. Not since . . . she was twenty years old and young and in love.
“What if I told you that wasn’t mad at all?” Adeline asked.
“I’d say that was the reply I’d hoped for. But I need you to convince me of it. You must have heard the store isn’t doing well.”
“It’s not what it used to be,” Adeline replied diplomatically.
“My brother wants to sell it as swiftly as possible, but I have thoughts of saving it. I think I could do better. I certainly couldn’t do worse. The problem is that I need to convince my brother and the board of directors to allow me to try. And you know . . .”
“Men.”
“Exactly.”
“You might not have to ask for permission. Goodwin’s is a family business, is it not?”
“Yes. My father always said it belonged to all of us.”
“Then you might be entitled to have a say. You ought to consult with a lawyer.”
Well now, that sounded serious. But she did have experience consulting with lawyers. She’d hoped never to do so again, after going through the process of trying to divorce a duke, but for Goodwin’s, and her family’s legacy, for her future . . .
It would be worth a try.
But lawyers and legalities and stopping a sale that a boardroom full of men wanted to go through was only the first hurdle. Her stomach dropped into her shoes just thinking about it. All those suits, all those jowls, all those patronizing smiles. They had ways of making even the most confident woman forget her own name and Beatrice was still feeling a little raw and vulnerable.
“Suppose I could stop the sale,” she said. “The other problems would still persist—terrible sales figures, the store’s reputation for being outdated, to say nothing of my brother whose pride would never allow a woman to succeed where he had failed. It’s just so sad that my father’s dream, my dream, should be lost forever, at the hands of my wretched brother who would rather blame others than consider how to solve the problem.”
The dressmaker was regarding her curiously.
“Have you ever considered that you might be looking right at the solution?”
Beatrice was standing in front of the mirror. Looking right at herself. A woman of a certain age, allegedly past her prime, with faint lines around her eyes. Of course she considered that she was the solution. She wanted to be the solution. She wanted it so badly that she was considering facing the roomful of suits and jowls and patronizing smiles. Owning and running the store was her dream.
But the duke and dowager hadn’t gotten out of her head yet. Even on another continent she could still hear him.
You? You can barely manage the staff in this household. None of them respect you. How will you run a store? What do you know of business? I thought I told you not to style your hair like that.
“Please consider it,” the dressmaker said. “I think you can do it. And should you wish to discuss it further, you can find me and my friends here.” Adeline pulled a calling card out of the pocket of her gown and pressed it into Beatrice’s palm.
“We take callers on Tuesdays.”
Chapter Five
Goodwin’s Department Store
Friday
On the first of June in the year 1879, Wes Dalton swore revenge on the Goodwin family.
My name is Wes Dalton. You stole my love and insulted my honor. I have sworn revenge.
First, Beatrice had accepted the duke’s proposal, which broke the hell out of Wes’s young heart. Because their love had felt so strong, so sure, so all-encompassing that suddenly living without it seemed as impossible as functioning without several vital organs.
Next, Estella Goodwin had offered him money to get lost, in so many words. She hadn’t wanted him around, tempting Beatrice. Heartbroken and now humiliated, Wes had done what any poor hopeless bastard would do: he’d taken the money.
Finally, Barney Goodwin—who had plucked him from obscurity and trained him personally—had fired him when he found out about the whole business. Wes had deceived him by secretly carrying on with his daughter. He had shown himself to be a fortune hunter by taking the money. As such, he was not good enough for Goodwin’s.
No, he was better.
He had proven it with the spectacular success of his own store, which was bigger, taller, newer, more stylish, more popular, and much more profitable. But that wasn’t enough. He needed to do more.
So revenge. Obviously.
No matter how long it took or what it cost him.
Anything worth doing shouldn’t be done halfway.
And now, a mere sixteen years later, vengeance was about to be his. His slow burn of a plan had been in the works ever since that day in June and now, finally, the ultimate success was so close he could almost touch it, taste it. Own it. Claim it.
Dalton had not been invited to the meeting of the board of directors of Goodwin’s Department Store, but he still walked in like he already owned the place. Because that was how men like him—self-made millionaires with broken hearts rebuilt with steel and concrete and cash money—moved through the world.
A phalanx of distinguished-looking men in dark suits were seated around a long, highly polished table. The light was dim in the wood-paneled room. The air was thick with the smoke of cigars, the low rumble of male voices, the creak of wooden chairs and leather upholstery as older male flesh settled in and made itself comfortable.
Here was the Old Boys Club.
Edward Goodwin sat at the head of the table.
He was, as he was more often than not, a hell of a mess.
Dalton almost felt a pang of sympathy for him. He’d run his birthright into the ground and was about to sell the store for a pittance and a fraction of what it had once been worth, and to a man he thought beneath him. Even though Dalton had more money, more power, more success.
But Wes did not feel a pang of sympathy, because Edward Goodwin had been born with everything and had lost it due to his own stupidity and sense of entitlement. But that was to be expected when, from the moment of his birth, he’d been told he could do no wrong and that he could have whatever he wanted. As such, Edward never stood a chance against Wes when it came to innovation and competition among their stores.
But the man could have at least tried.
The distinguished members of the board all turned their attention to Dalton, the intruder in their midst.
“Gentlemen. I heard you’re selling Goodwin’s.”
A chorus of grumbled voices—How did he know! They had not decided!—conveyed that thi
s was true and they were outraged that he knew it.
Dalton smiled as he said the words Estella had once said to him. “I’ve come to make you an offer that you can’t refuse.”
The swift silence indicated that they were indeed of a mind to sell and interested in his offer in spite of themselves.
“Hold your horses, Dalton,” Edward said, already letting his pride and ego get in the way of the best deal he was likely to get. “There will be a formal process. We’ll entertain bids. Consider our options. Get the best price.”
Wes Dalton had not risen to such power and wealth by abiding by formal processes or bidding or waiting while people considered their options.
No, he made the first move. Dazzled. Blinded. Seduced.
It was his first rule of retail: surprise and delight. Never fail to astonish the customer.
“Two million dollars. Right here, right now. It’s more than a fair price. We all know that. It will spare you the embarrassment of a formal process of evaluating insultingly low bids that will reveal how few options a creaky old store like this actually has. We all know that Goodwin’s is not what it used to be.”
On the first of June in 1879, Goodwin’s had been the premier store in Manhattan.
On the first of June in 1879, the Goodwin family’s greatest ambitions had been realized. Through a dash of genius, good luck, and a strategic marriage, Barney Goodwin had made Goodwin’s Department Store into a successful retail empire and Estella Goodwin had navigated their entry into high society. The pinnacle of success was their daughter accepting the offer of marriage from an English duke.
Today the store was on the verge of bankruptcy and the daughter was divorced.
Oh, how the mighty had fallen.
Dalton stood, by all appearances, bored to death, while the board of directors grumbled and debated amongst themselves. They were in turns insulted by the presumption of the offer and tempted all the same. Perhaps it would be easier to just accept the offer now and wash their hands of the entire business. Buy a yacht, move on with their lives. That sort of thing.
Dalton checked his timepiece. He did not have all day for them to dither before ultimately accepting. He had no doubt of their acceptance. He always got what he wanted.
Except her.
He told himself that he didn’t want her anymore. On the first of June in 1879 he’d wanted her with the heat of a thousand suns. He would have died for her. That was before she accepted the duke, a rebuke to him and what they had shared and who she thought he could become. He had thought she loved him back and believed in him. Clearly not.
Now he only wanted revenge.
He had waited sixteen years; he could wait a few more minutes.
But the moment was interrupted.
By a woman.
For why else would all the men suddenly stand at attention? But for a woman, crashing into a gentlemen’s board meeting, strolling in like she owned the place. She did not even bother with hello.
“Gentlemen. There will be no sale.”
Wes stiffened. He knew that voice, even if he hadn’t heard it in sixteen years, even if it was soft-spoken. Even if her voice trembled. Her voice was inscribed in his soul and haunted his dreams. And if there was any doubt, he knew the way her voice made his heartbeat pick up the pace as if it had somewhere to go, immediately, and that somewhere was in her arms.
You’d think sixteen years would be enough time to forget about it. Apparently not.
My name is Wes Dalton. You stole my love and insulted my honor. I have sworn revenge.
Revenge, he reminded himself. Revenge.
But . . . she was back.
It was inevitable that they would meet again once she returned to Manhattan. The island was a big city and a small town all at once.
Truth be told, he’d expected to see her.
Not like this.
Not here.
Wes would never admit it but he had fantasized about seeing her again. But in his fantasies they were in a ballroom, or in his shop, or some other place where he could display his wealth and his power and the fact that despite all efforts to the contrary, they moved in the same circles now. He was eligible now.
But he didn’t want her anymore. He wanted revenge and he wanted it more than anything.
She might complicate things.
Connor had warned him.
She’d always been the flaw in his plans.
The wrench in his machine.
“There will be no sale,” she repeated as she swept into the room in a rush of dark red skirts, a smartly tailored jacket, and a hat perched upon her upswept blond hair. She stood with her spine straight and chin held high like a duchess. She seemed terrified and ferocious all at once.
But it was still her. The girl. The one with the soft skin and loud laughter. The one with golden hair and passionate kisses and spark that everyone had always tried to dim. She was the one who made him dare to dream of more. She was the reason he was here: rich beyond belief, wildly successful, and about to own the one thing she’d always loved most in the world.
And she was the reason he was lonely.
She was the reason his heart was naught but steel and concrete, like the city she’d left him alone in. He was staring at her—honestly, he couldn’t rip his gaze away—so that’s how he caught the moment that she saw him for the first time in sixteen years.
Confusion.
Widened blue eyes.
A gasp, from her lips.
Because she recognized him—time had been good to him and they’d meant something to each other, there was no denying that—but she didn’t understand what he was doing here. Now. She was looking at him like a complicated algebraic equation or a particularly fraught dinner party seating arrangement.
“Dalton,” she said softly. She remembered him and her expression hardened. And then she put it together. Where they were, why he was likely there. The look she gave was chilling. “Dalton’s.”
He swept into a bow. “Your one and only. Duchess.”
He watched as she put two and two together. He watched as all the implications dawned on her. The poor nobody she’d left behind was now a very rich somebody who was about to buy her store. Her lips pressed into a firm line.
It felt good. Damned satisfying, in fact.
Then Wes smiled at her. Because this was the moment he had been waiting for. All the sweeter that she was here to witness it. He would buy it, the thing she loved most in the world. And he would close it down. The name Goodwin would be a blip on the retail history of this island. While his name and his empire would prevail.
Fortunes reversed.
Beatrice made no move to indicate that they had once known each other. So it would be like that. He was enraged all over again.
She turned back to the gentlemen of the board. “As I said, there will be no sale.”
Her brother gave a huff of disgust. “Beatrice, what is this nonsense? Dalton here has already made an offer.”
“It’s not nonsense. It’s business. Though they might be one and the same to you, Edward. Otherwise we wouldn’t be in this predicament.”
Oh, he would not quirk a smile. She hadn’t lost her spark. Not entirely.
Edward predictably reddened.
“We’re going to sell. Dalton here has already made an offer.”
“Did he now?”
“He did,” Wes said.
“There will be no sale,” she said again as if just by repeating it enough she could make it true.
“Dalton made a good offer, Beatrice. I think I speak for the board when I say we all see the merits of a swift and lucrative deal. We can all move on with our lives knowing that Goodwin’s is in good hands. It’s a win-win situation.”
“Not for me it isn’t.”
The ensuing silence conveyed what no man dared to say aloud: She didn’t really count, did she?
“With all due respect, your ladyship, this is a complicated matter best left to men with more experience i
n such matters,” one of the men at the table said.
“First of all, it’s Beatrice Goodwin Archer, Duchess of Montrose, Marchioness of Hargrove, and Countess of Winslow, and an assortment of other lesser titles. You may address me as ‘Duchess’ or not at all. And if such matters are best left to you, then could you kindly explain how you have come to run Manhattan’s premier shopping emporium into the ground?”
Wes could explain.
Edward could not. Would not.
“I have consulted with my legal counsel and have been apprised that no sale of the company shall occur without my signature,” she said. “I am not inclined to sign. Not for anyone, but especially not to him. It seems he’s only ever wanted the store.”
She had thought him a fortune hunter; his acceptance of Estella’s offer seemed to prove it years ago. And this moment served to confirm it now.
She turned to face him. And he met her gaze.
He saw love and pain. Years of what if and if only. The tilt of her chin. The flash of her eyes. The color stealing across her cheeks. A woman, determined. But he also had visions of her walking down the aisle—to someone else. A woman, waving goodbye from a ship. He remembered the hurt like it was yesterday.
Wes had waited sixteen years for the opportunity to buy the thing she loved most in the world and destroy it. He could wait another week or two.
She held his gaze.
She wasn’t going to make it easy. But he had no doubt that he would succeed.
“You can consider it all you want,” Beatrice went on, “but according to my lawyers you cannot sell Goodwin’s without Mother’s and my agreement. It’s in the terms of Father’s will.”
She might complicate things, Connor had warned.
She already had.
Chapter Six
Beatrice really would have loved a moment alone to allow her thundering heart to slow, but it was not to be. From the moment she’d pushed open the doors to confront a room full of gray old men in gray suits, her heart had been pounding and hadn’t let up. She had been positively shaking under her dress. It had been a battle to hide her nerves, to keep the tremble from her voice, the fidgeting from her hands, as she had tried to project a confidence she didn’t quite feel.