by Maya Rodale
Women were the real engine who made everything else possible.
And so, he had bought a mill and staffed it with well-paid girls eager to escape a life of housewifery and drudgery on farms all over New England and out West. They came by train in droves.
And so, he’d invented this Wild Rose Pink and designed it with a woman’s pleasure in mind. The color that flattered all complexions, the pleasingly soft caress of it against bare skin. It was designed to appeal to all senses, to be wearable at all hours of the day whether a corset, a tea dress, or a ball gown.
And he Made It Known.
The silk would be available on the first Saturday of the month.
Exclusively at Dalton’s.
But when the appointed day and the appointed hour arrived, there were no more than the usual number of customers milling about in the usual way, purchasing the usual things. He experienced a slight pang of concern.
Some of the silk sold. But not nearly enough considering how much he had spent on acquiring the massive inventory. Excess inventory could be lethal to a retail establishment.
By midday, when the anticipated hordes of women had failed to appear, Dalton started to fear that he would die, smothered to death by an absurd amount of stupid pink silk. He would be mummified in the stuff. Future generations would find him wrapped up in a cocoon of pink silk failure and question his soundness of mind, his mastery of his domain, his understanding of women.
At two o’clock the crowds he had anticipated still had not arrived.
Under his custom-tailored suit he began to sweat that this gamble would not pay off. It felt like failing to sell water to people in the desert, lifeboats to people on sinking ships, or give candy to children. It was mortifying.
But the calculations! The projections! He had done MATH! He had sixteen years of retail experience and extensive knowledge of his customers; such could not lead him so far astray. Dalton was not one to doubt himself, not on retail, in which he had made himself an expert at the expense of the rest of his life. He could not be wrong.
There must be something else at play.
“Something is afoot,” Dalton said to Connor. They were hovering anxiously in the mezzanine, awaiting the anticipated crowds and striving to appear utterly nonchalant at the nonevent happening in their store.
“Certainly not customers,” Connor replied drily.
“Where did we go wrong?” Dalton mused. “It’s pink silk. Women love pink and silk.”
“I generally like to avoid blanket statements of what women like and don’t like,” Connor replied. “But yes, it should be an easy sell and it’s not. And I reckon this ought to have been your first clue.”
Connor pointed to something in the newspaper he pulled out of his jacket pocket—a large advertisement for something called a “fashion demonstration.” At Goodwin’s. At two o’clock. Seating was limited and first come, first served which meant especially motived fashion-forward customers would have spent all day in Goodwin’s.
They could pass the time in that damned reading room. Have a nice luncheon and tea service in the ladies-only restaurant. Freshen up in the ladies retiring room. All before gathering on the fifth floor for a fashion demonstration, whatever the hell that was.
“Wait, it gets worse,” Connor said.
“I don’t want to hear about worse.”
“Of course you do. It’s cohosted by the House of Adeline.”
Dalton issued a swear word. The House of Adeline was the favorite of the fashion-forward women in the city. Something about dresses with pockets. He had approached her about a line of dresses for his store, but failed to close a deal with her, and so he hired someone else to design exclusively for his store—indeed there was an entire floor full of seamstresses sewing pockets into shirtwaists on the top floor, and forgot all about it.
“And there’s even more bad news.”
“Splendid.”
“There aren’t just advertisements but articles about the new spring trends and ready-made styles.”
“Why are you reading the ladies section of the newspaper?”
“I think the better question is why you aren’t. Seems like maybe you should have. Then you might have known that floral patterns were the new anticipated style for spring. And you would know that only Goodwin’s is giving an exclusive, live preview to the new ready-made styles designed by The House of Adeline, just in for spring.”
Dalton stood very still, considering.
“Florals for spring. Groundbreaking. And Miss Black had previously refused a deal with us, but she’s apparently struck one with Beatrice. It’s almost enough to make one think it’s all one giant conspiracy.”
“I know women talk among themselves but do you really think they organized all this just to spite you? The newspaper articles, advertisements, the fashion demonstration, the clashing style for spring . . . all just to best you?”
Yes, he did. Which was madness. There couldn’t possibly be some secret lady cabal, manipulating the current fashions just to vex him. But if there was, Beatrice, devious and organized, would certainly be at the center of it.
He meant that as a compliment.
Connor continued. “If it is a conspiracy against you—and that’s a big if—they would have had to know about the silk well in advance. How could any of them have known?” Connor asked, sounding a little confounded. He pushed his fingers through his hair.
Unfortunately, Dalton had an answer to that question.
“I gave it to her,” he admitted grimly.
“You gave it to her.”
“Yes.”
“You gave our exclusive product to her.”
“Yes.”
“To our chief competitor.”
“I did. As a gift.”
“May I inquire as to WHY and also what the hell were you thinking?” Connor was suddenly spitting mad. “Do you need to be driven off to a sanitarium like Edward? You gave our primary competitor our exclusive new product in advance of launch? What happened to your plans for revenge?”
Dalton had been thinking that it would look gorgeous against her skin. He was thinking the shade was a perfect match for her spirit: vibrant, passionate, powerful and sweet all the same. He was thinking as a man who wanted to please his lover, not a competitor who ought to keep secrets from his rivals.
Dalton had been thinking more and more about Beatrice and less and less about revenge, his firmly held ambition for over a decade. It was a fire that went out without his anger to stoke it and . . . he wasn’t angry. He was falling in love with her all over again. And when he let the love in, the anger faded. When the anger faded, he could see more clearly: his ambition to reign over retail in Manhattan was really just to impress her.
And yet this thing between them seemed to position them forever at odds.
Dalton did not want to be at odds with her.
If he was being honest in the quiet privacy of his innermost thoughts, he’d only ever wanted to love her and live with her.
This admission was something of a problem, as he’d spent the past sixteen years organizing his life around ruining the woman he really wanted to love . . . to make her love him?
What was wrong with the world that he had learned the only way to earn a woman’s love was to ruthlessly earn a fortune at her expense?
“Might I remind you that it’s not just your fortune on the line here, Dalton?” Connor said hotly. “I have much to gain—or lose—too.”
“I know. I haven’t forgotten.”
He just didn’t care in the same way he once did. Dalton yearned for Beatrice with a ferocious passion that even years of enmity couldn’t put a dent in. He sought to win her in the only way the world had ever showed him—more money, more power—yet it wasn’t working.
Now Dalton had to decide what mattered more: winning a battle or winning the girl.
Goodwin’s Department Store
Beatrice stood happy and proud in a flurry of feminine energy and activity.
There was Adeline making final tweaks to the models attired in her designs, seamstresses fluttered about dangerously with pins in their mouths and needles and threads, making last-second alterations. The air was tinged with girlish, nervous, excited chatter and laughter.
There were pretty dresses. A frenzy of activity. A friendly audience clamoring to see, for the first time, a dress on a woman’s body before they bought it. New styles had been promised. And pockets. Nothing made a woman mad with delight like a dress with pockets.
It wasn’t Wild Rose Pink but it was certainly something captivating. And the women were enchanted as models walked among them, carefully turning and deliberately showing themselves off at all angles because a dress and a woman’s body existed in multiple dimensions and it took up space.
“I hate to admit it . . .” Adeline began to confide in Beatrice.
“But the only way this would be better is if you could have used the Wild Rose silk?” Beatrice finished her sentence. “I am thinking the same thing.”
“You said it,” Adeline replied. “Remind me why we are not?”
“Because he has some idea of revenge and ruining my store. I sometimes even fear he may be wooing me to get to it. I can’t let him take down my dreams, and this store and everything it represents and everyone it serves. Not even over his exclusive Wild Rose Pink.”
“Noble.” Adeline nodded sagely.
“And I cannot let him win my store—or me,” Beatrice continued. She wanted to say more, but her something with Dalton was still secret and certainly not to be discussed in a crowd so thick it felt like all the women in Manhattan were there. Everything was so complicated, in spite of her efforts to keep a neat division between rivals by day and lovers by night.
Her pride was at war with her desire and it felt . . . ridiculous.
“But does it really have to be either/or?” Adeline mused.
“But what is the alternative?” Beatrice asked.
“And/and.” Adeline flashed a grin. “Must one of you have to lose in order for the other to win?”
“He’s the one with the ideas about revenge and—”
“Women have a dreadful habit of thinking too much about what men want, and not enough about what we want,” Adeline replied smartly. “We respond rather than light up the path we want to travel. Like a beacon. What do you want, Beatrice? What does happy even look like to you?”
But Adeline was off before she could answer; a hemline was askew and it was an urgent crisis that required her immediate attention. Customers were waiting with bated breath and open purses.
Beatrice was alone with her thoughts. Alone as one could be in a mad flurry of activity and the hum of feminine chatter, and the cacophony of women shopping, which is to say, the joyous ruckus of a sound of women publicly owning their desires.
She had made this possible.
She had created this moment.
She had orchestrated this wonder of women seeing and experiencing the world tailored for them for the first time, supported by each other, and full of opportunities. Be a beacon, they had asked of her, demanded of her. She, who had nothing to lose could afford to risk all to give them everything.
She couldn’t give that up.
This, this was what she wanted.
That’s what she was thinking when Dalton stepped into view.
Dalton was not interested in all the women demonstrating the new fashions or the women purchasing them. He was not interested in all the ready-made garments for sale.
He only had eyes for one woman.
Beatrice caught his gaze and made her way through the crowd toward him. As if by mutual agreement, they had not seen each other these past few nights. Ever since he had asked her to wear his exclusive color and declare herself as his to all the world. Instead of making love, she had done this . . . this demonstration of her independence.
“I see what you did there—” Dalton said.
“I’m glad that you think I did something. I’d be insulted if you didn’t.”
He noticed that she was humming with the energy of one who persevered in the face of an obstacle with no expectation of triumph and who was surprised and delighted to find she’d won.
“What are we doing, Beatrice?” Dalton asked quietly, and she turned to give her full attention. His heart started to beat hard when her eyes met his.
“Rivals by day, lovers by night. Right?”
“That’s what we were doing. Past tense.”
“It got complicated, didn’t it?”
“Can we go somewhere more quiet and private to talk?”
She nodded and motioned for him to follow and he did. She lead him away to the stairs, up to the fifth floor, in housewares, which was empty. Everyone was on the other floors.
A savvy salesgirl took one look at them and made herself busy on the far side of the floor, dusting an array of Tiffany lamps.
Beatrice leaned against a chest of drawers. It was on display in a staged bedroom, recently revamped. It did not escape his notice that the twin bed display had been replaced with a full-size one.
What did that mean? God, what was happening to him that he was now trying to read a woman’s intentions in the arrangement of furniture on display?
“Talk to me, Dalton.”
There was still something palpable between them, a smoldering-passion kind of something. He saw her hands reaching for him, then dropping to hide in the folds of her floral-printed not pink skirts. She wanted him, but wouldn’t indulge.
“Tell me what you have against pink silk,” he said. “Tell me why you are so intent on crushing it. After all, you have to admit it’s so pretty.”
“I have nothing against pink silk. I’m quite fond of it, especially Dalton’s Wild Rose. But not if it’s trying to ruin me. Not if I’m supposed to wear it as a sign of my submission to my competitor and/or lover.”
“It’s not possible for you and pink silk to peacefully exist in the same world at the same time?”
“You tell me.” She lifted one brow. “And I know we’re not talking about pink silk.”
“We’re not talking about pink silk.”
“You’re the one with a lifelong ambition to conquer. To deliberately devalue me so you can get me for a lower price. To have me. And I won’t let you.”
Dalton wanted to protest, to tell her she had it all wrong. But until very, very recently he had wanted to conquer, to run the store into the ground so he could buy it for a song, so he could be so powerful and her so vulnerable that he could have a chance with her. So he could have her parading around town in his exclusive pink silk, not so that everyone would know that she had given herself to him, but so he would know.
But when he thought about it, when he felt about it, that wasn’t what he wanted at all. He wanted to love her and be loved by her. He didn’t care what she wore—or didn’t wear.
“Do you think actively working to ruin the source of my freedom and joy is going to get you the girl?”
Dalton lived in the world. He read the news and novels, saw the plays, grew upon the same stories, that a man needed a fortune at any cost if he was ever going to get the girl. Get. To have and to hold. But a woman wasn’t a thing to have or hold, to possess or hold captive.
And oh, fuck, at last he felt like a duke. Her duke.
Having her but not really having her at all.
It wasn’t what he wanted.
Dalton stepped aside. Giving them both a little breathing room.
“Did you know, Beatrice, that you weren’t the only one wandering around a big empty house for sixteen years?”
Her eyes lifted up to his, searching, wanting to know more.
“Did you know that you weren’t the only one yearning to be touched?” Dalton asked quietly so only she could hear because ruthless, powerful, millionaire tycoons such as himself didn’t admit to such things. He knew such men kept such soft words bottled up inside, never to say them aloud, especially to a woman, in her territory.
But if felt so right and good to say it, to throw the weight off his shoulders.
He had not been alone. He had not wanted for company. But he been lonely.
“You were not the only one who had been lonely, Beatrice. You were not the only one hungering for touch and a connection. I’ve had all the success a man could dream of, and it’s still not enough. What I’m missing is the connection I feel when I’m with you.”
She was still. She was listening.
And the tension in his chest was easing.
He was actually saying these things. It was terrifying, exhilarating, and wonderful. It was like driving that automobile at top speed with the top down on a wide-open road. Like riding a bicycle down a country road and being aware for the first time of how limited you’d been your whole life and had never even known it. Until it was just you and the wheel and the wind in your hair.
“But men—” Beatrice protested.
“Tell me about men, Beatrice.”
“It’s just bodies. It’s just a driving need. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Lies. All lies,” Dalton said, spilling the secret that men had been perpetuating for centuries. “Maybe we also want it to mean something.”
“Well, you have a funny way of showing it,” she retorted.
“True,” Dalton admitted. “Men are idiots.”
Beatrice was silent for a moment, clearly thinking, and he made himself stay still with that silence.
“So as for our rivals by day, lovers by night . . . what does this mean for us? I still cannot wear the silk,” she said and he heard the question in her voice. Revelations about his feelings and humanity were all well and good but what did it mean for him and her in the here and now?
“What if I want more, Bea? What if I want more than a tumble in a store bed? What if I want more than a rivalry and more than revenge?”
There was a full-size bed right there. Made up in the finest linens and cashmere blankets and down feather pillows. Beatrice was the boss—she could order everyone away to afford them privacy.
“But, Wes, what if that’s all I want?”