by Maya Rodale
When the laughter faded out, when the teacups had been refilled, when Beatrice had availed herself of another cookie simply because she wanted one, Ava turned to her and said, “So you must go shopping. And then you’ll know what to do.”
Just go shopping.
The great advice of this audacious ladies’ collective was to “just go shopping.” It was not quite offered in the pat-on-the-head, buy-yourself-something-pretty way of patronizing men everywhere.
But still.
Her exhilaration was somewhat diminished. But it seemed rude to convey that, so she said brightly that she should best be on her way. The Ladies’ Mile wouldn’t walk and shop itself. They said their goodbyes and accepted the invitation to come again and went out to collect their hats.
Harriet caught up with her in the foyer a moment later, before she left.
She clasped her hand.
“I know this may all seem daunting to you, Beatrice. But think of what you can do for womankind from such a lofty position.”
If she could just get her employees to listen to her.
“I am considering it, Harriet. That is what makes it all the more daunting.”
And just like that, going up against the boy who broke her heart and the man who was the retail king of New York was the least of it. All the girls were watching her. Counting on her.
“But know this, Beatrice. You have us to help you. We are standing behind you, cheering you on and offering our support. You are not one woman alone against the world, even if you may feel thusly.”
This made Beatrice think, for a brief shining second, Maybe. Maybe she could do this.
All quite overwhelming, really.
And there really was only one thing to do when the circumstances of one’s life were tremendously overwhelming: spend some time perusing a selection of shoes. Get lost exploring different fabrics and imagining dresses that she could conquer the world in, wander slowly through a store and let herself forget everything . . . other than darling new hats or new china patterns.
In other words, go shopping.
Chapter Eleven
Dalton’s Department Store
Shop was too small a word for Dalton’s. Store didn’t even begin to capture the expansive spectacle. Department store gave a hint of what one might expect, but it was woefully insufficient. Maybe that’s why they called it the Marble Palace. Six stories of white Tuckahoe marble in the Italianate style, it spanned an entire city block, and was full of beautiful scenes and exquisite things to stoke a woman’s desire.
But mostly one only needed to say “Dalton’s” and it was understood.
This was not Dalton’s first store; he’d started with a small one on Reade Street and over the years had increased the size of his stores as his profits increased. The Marble Palace was his masterpiece. A palace of wonder, desire, a splendor. Anything a woman could possibly want was presented in stunning visual displays that inspired intense yearning for things she didn’t even know she wanted yet somehow, suddenly, vitally needed.
He built this.
All of it.
He did it right across the street from Goodwin’s. The location was not accidental.
All in the hopes that one day she would come back to New York and wander into his shop.
Dalton was well aware that she had married a duke and lived on a vast estate on the far side of the world and owned her own department store across the street, if she was ever in town, and therefore was unlikely to ever cross the threshold of his.
Yet a small part of him had long anticipated the moment that it might happen. And when it did happen, he would impress her with his wealth, power, prestige. He would make her burn with regret, he would inspire her with an intense yearning for the man she thought she didn’t need but yet somehow, suddenly, vitally needed.
A foolish dream.
And yet—there she was.
Dalton, dressed in a crisp dark suit, watched from the mezzanine as she pushed through the revolving door—the first and only in Manhattan, thank you very much—and slipped into the shop. It was his habit to spend the better portion of his day on the floor, observing his customers and employees and their intricate dance together.
Beatrice happened to catch his eye.
Dalton was in no rush as he proceeded down the central aisle toward her. He was content to observe the way she traced her fingers along a table of soft, pastel-colored kidskin gloves—a store exclusive, imported from Europe—and linger over a display of diamonds presented on a bed of deep sapphire velvet, locked behind highly polished glass.
He felt no small measure of pride at having orchestrated this moment.
“Of all the department stores in Manhattan, you had to walk into mine,” he murmured.
She looked up, hitting him with those blue eyes.
“Oh, hello, Dalton,” she said in that way of hers, like they were old friends and nothing more. Yet his heart was thundering with sixteen years of anticipation of This. Exact. Moment.
Look at me now, Beatrice.
Dalton stood in the heart of the marble palace he had built. In an era of obscene fortunes he possessed one of the larger ones. In other words, he was no longer the boy she’d left behind, but a wealthy, powerful, prestigious man to be reckoned with. He had played the game and won—almost.
“What brings you into the shop today? Is Goodwin’s not to your satisfaction?”
“If you must know, Dalton, I’m here as a spy intent upon stealing your trade secrets.”
“Most women come in for perfume, silk, a little trinket.”
“I’m not most women.”
“I know.”
There was a world, a lifetime in that “I know.” They both paused subtly in awareness of it, neither of them wanting to make a thing of it. They were enemies now and he’d do well to remember it even if the feelings of sixteen years earlier were crashing over him now like time had never passed.
“Would you like a tour?”
“Do you really mean to offer? I am the competition.”
“I heard rumors to that effect.” After her unapologetic determination to stop the sale of Goodwin’s, he’d heard about her brother taking an extended holiday, allegedly for his drinking problem. “How is Edward?”
“He has made the excellent choice to prioritize his heath,” she said smoothly. “My mother and I are supportive of his endeavors to get well. He will take all the time he needs.”
It was rather curious timing, given the scene he’d witnessed between the siblings at the board meeting. A nearly bankrupt business without its leader only helped his cause. For a moment, Dalton wondered if it would be too easy. For a second, he felt a pang of dismay as if he hungered for a real challenge.
“And who does that leave in charge of the store?” Dalton asked. He noticed a quirk of her brow and upturn of her lips.
“You’re looking at her.”
He did look at her—fashionably attired, as beautiful as ever—wondering what ruthless streak ran behind that serene expression, that elegant countenance.
“You are the new president of Goodwin’s,” he said flatly.
“Yes. Someone has to restore it to its former glory. Why not me?”
“So you are not jesting about being the competition.”
“Did you doubt me, Dalton?” Beatrice asked with a deceptively sweet smile.
There was no good answer to that question. Instead, he said, “Let me show you around. I’m sure you’ll find ideas worth stealing.”
She laughed and rolled her eyes. A divorced duchess of a certain age rolled her eyes at him, the merchant prince of Manhattan (or so people said) and one of the city’s most eligible bachelors. She rolled her eyes like some young, holier-than-thou girl of sixteen.
Just like that, he remembered young Beatrice, and he remembered working at Goodwin’s and finding her . . . distracting. He remembered when she first noticed him and all the moments they stole together, young and madly in lust. Running through the hou
sewares department and sales floor after hours. Making eyes over bolts of silk and satin under bright chandeliers. He remembered her laughter. Her enthusiasm. Her inability—or refusal?—to filter her thoughts. He remembered the way she rolled her eyes when her mother told her to soften her laugh or move less exuberantly.
He did not want to remember that version of Beatrice, the version he had once loved.
Instead, he focused on the woman in front of him. His competitor. His rival. His last obstacle before the sweet satisfaction of revenge. She was bright, intelligent, and apparently ruthless. But he had years of experience and was equally determined. He could afford to give her a tour; let her steal his secrets, he’d only dream up more.
“Let’s start with millinery,” he said.
They started with millinery. Dalton explained that he employed his own milliners. He also pointed out the display of the Audobonnet, a hat decorated without feathers, which Miss Van Allen had persuaded him to display prominently, in addition to a donation to her cause, if he would not stop selling feathered hats altogether.
He would not stop selling the popular fashions; he was in business to make money above all.
But only now, as Dalton was explaining this to Beatrice, did it occur to him that he was sacrificing rare and beautiful birds so that he could sell more hats, generate more profits, all to impress a woman who had left him and a society that cared only about him when he had money.
Poor birds.
He moved along, reveling in her gasp of delight at a picnic display. His merchandiser, a gentleman named Mark, excelled at staging beautiful, sensual evocative moments to enchant customers. He instinctively knew one of Dalton’s primary rules: always astonish the customer. Sparing no expense, he had painstakingly re-created a clearing in a forest complete with real trees and flowering bushes that had to be watered thrice daily and replaced weekly. On the clearing—with tufts of soft green moss—an elegant blanket had been spread out and upon it a gorgeous picnic had been arranged. Cake. Champagne. Fresh fruit.
Nearby one could purchase the Dalton’s Fine Picnic Set—an elegant wicker hamper complete with a crisp linen blanket, a set of four china plates, gold plated cutlery, crystal flutes. And champagne, naturally.
It was a picnic befitting a duchess.
“Well, you don’t do things by half, do you, Dalton?”
“I don’t believe in sacrificing beauty and pleasure,” he said, gazing into her eyes. “And one doesn’t come to Dalton’s for anything less than the best.”
“So noted,” she murmured.
The words beauty, pleasure, and the best hung in the fragrant air between them.
They were not thinking about picnics. Or merchandizing.
Nearby, a woman was buying one of the hampers and making arrangements for it to be wrapped and delivered to her home later that afternoon.
“I find that ladies don’t wish to be encumbered by their purchases, so we offer a delivery service for all packages,” he explained. “I’ve been given the impression that women prefer not to be reminded of their desires and indulgences by carrying their purchases out of the store. They prefer to enjoy them in the privacy of their own homes.”
The words desire and indulgence and secret hung in the air between them.
He remembered sneaking into her bedroom and hiding behind the curtains while the duke was shown to the formal parlor.
Dalton gave Beatrice a tour through the other displays in the store, from housewares to women’s accessories. Everything was a riot of color and a sensational orgy of textures: the soft whisper of cashmere, the heft of a cut crystal goblet, the gleam of a polished silver brush-and-mirror set, the gorgeous array of silks, satins, and tulles, the heady fragrance from the massive bouquets of fresh-cut blooms that were placed throughout the store.
Dalton had already seen it all. But now he got to watch Beatrice, wide-eyed, drinking it all in. Tracing her fingertips along the soft fabrics, breathing deeply when they passed a bouquet of roses and lilies. She was sinking into that trance of awe and wanting and utterly forgetting everything beyond these marble palace walls.
Rule: make women want.
The secret to his success was this: he wasn’t merely selling stuff. One only needed so much and not more. But that was not what fortunes and legends were made of. Only by constantly stoking a customer’s desire, only by constantly offering an ever changing and utterly tantalizing image of what might be if only she bought that necklace, that dress, that pretty china tea set, could a fortune be made.
Dalton knew this.
He was also good at being immune to all this desire and indulgence. Was.
It was in home furnishings that things fell apart.
“What is this?” Her eyes lit up as she saw the dramatic swath of red draperies. God save him from Beatrice’s eyes when they sparkled with wonder and delight. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“This is the Turkish Corner.”
“Ooh, that’s right! I read about this in the newspaper. You have all the young hearts aflutter and all the old staids in uproar. You have inspired the interior decorating craze of the moment.”
“Precisely the reaction I expected when one of my buyers saw it on a recent trip to Turkey and decided to stage a display in the store.”
He’d known it would cause a scandal, which is exactly why he brought it to the store. The Turkish Corner was a tentlike affair, with soft fabrics creating an intimate cocoon that was barely lit by an arabesque brass lantern. The interior was strewn with plush cushions. The warmth of light, the comfort of the cushions, the sensation of privacy all conspired for seduction.
Neither of them ventured any closer to the display, even though they could certainly enter and really experience the seclusion, the moody light, the sense of being shut away from the whole world. Just him and her. A long dormant, long forgotten flare of lust struck him. He didn’t want to feel that way about her.
My name is Wes Dalton. You stole my love and insulted my honor. I have sworn revenge.
Revenge. Right. That hot burning rage that had driven his every waking moment for years. Sweet, sweet vengeance that was practically his.
Never forget.
But Beatrice, God, Beatrice, was apparently oblivious to his anger and his admittedly awful plans to bankrupt her store, buy it for nothing, burn it to the ground. She looked up at him and flashed a grin as if what happened all those years ago hadn’t happened. And then she asked, “Well, shall we?”
Dalton just stared.
No they shall not. It was a terrible idea. They were enemies. Rivals. The last thing they needed to do was ensconce themselves in a den designed for seduction.
“We shall not,” he said. “But you go right ahead.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
And she did. She pushed the drapes aside and disappeared and he wanted to follow her like he would want to breathe air on a sinking ship. He had always known she was impulsive. Unfiltered. Content to flaunt propriety and say yes to temptation. He just thought they would have gotten to her by now. The duke, the whole aristocracy, her mother, all those rule people. They hadn’t crushed her yet. And if they hadn’t . . .
Who was he to try?
She popped her head back out.
“Oh, come on, Dalton! I don’t bite. I thought you were a charming, downtown rogue and now you’re just another uptight, uptown man. What happened to the wild boy I once knew?”
You broke his heart.
Young Dalton was long gone. That young, romantic, idealistic downtown rogue had received a harsh lesson in hoping beyond one’s station. He had learned that money mattered more than love, that power and prestige counted for more than kisses. When the opportunity to have those things presented itself, he took it.
But now he thought about what he’d paid for it.
The girl he gave up.
The empire he gained.
All for this moment when she was here and he could impress her and show her what s
he had missed. It would make the inevitable revenge burn all the more.
Rule: give women what they want.
“Fine,” he said. And he pushed aside the curtains and joined her in the “cozy corner” haven that was the top interior decorating trend of 1895.
He knew, logically and rationally, about the appeal. But he hadn’t felt the emotional impact of the space until he was ensconced inside with Beatrice. All of a sudden he couldn’t breathe.
They hadn’t been this close, nearly touching, for years. All of a sudden he felt twenty-two again. Passionately yearning and desperately uncertain all at once, with an intensity that was paralyzing.
“It’s just like old times, and yet not at all, all at once,” she said softly.
“That makes no sense and yet I know exactly what you mean,” he replied.
This, this was like old times. Just the two of them, the department store as their playground, a world within a world where nothing mattered as much as catching one of her quick smiles, or sparking her laugh. It was coming back to him now: the heady rush of first love, the first hot flares of lust. It made a man think maybe about everything and anything—like a high society heiress marrying an assistant store manager.
He didn’t want the memories.
Memories got in the way of revenge.
He didn’t want the tension of competitors to morph into the tension of desire.
But there it all was, in the air between them, a feeling of fierce competition, unbelievable hurt, uncertainty. And still, after all the years of heartache and anger, in this moment he wanted nothing more than to kiss her.
He didn’t want the feelings.
Feelings got in the way of revenge.
“I should think you’ve seen enough,” he said, standing and making his escape. “Good day, Beatrice, and good luck.”
Chapter Twelve
The Ladies of Liberty Club