by Maya Rodale
That slayed him. Right there in the middle of housewares, while leaning up against a finely crafted chest of drawers. What if this—a tumble in a department store bedroom, with a woman who only wanted a diversion—was the highest peak he could ever reach?
How positively tragic.
But Dalton was not ready to admit defeat, even if his concept of what it meant to win or lose was rapidly evolving.
“I have a proposal for you,” he said and he had to laugh at the panic in her eyes. “Nothing serious,” he quickly clarified. “One night. You, me, New York City. Let’s leave our competition aside and just enjoy each other’s company and see where things go.”
“I believe the word you’re looking for is courtship.”
“I believe you’re right. What do you say?”
Chapter Twenty-seven
The Goodwin Residence
One West Thirty-Fourth Street
The next day
That evening Beatrice had plans. Plans which were best described simply as Wes Dalton. Her twenty-year-old self was thrilled at the prospect of a romantic evening out on the town with him—without a chaperone, too. Ah, the perks of being a scandalously divorced duchess!
But present-day Beatrice felt somewhat conflicted. She was on fire with anticipation to be with him, bare her body and soul to him. But it was clear he wanted more than that from her, more than she wanted to give.
But she had promised him a chance to woo her.
Tonight was the night.
A crash of contrary feelings were roiling within her as she stood at the drawing room window, peering out, waiting for the moment of his arrival so she could slip out without him coming to the drawing room.
Because Beatrice wasn’t alone. Her mother sat near the fire, embroidering.
“You are all dressed up, Beatrice. What are your plans for the evening? I thought you declined the invitation from one of the Vanderbilt brothers.”
“I did.”
Beatrice paused, debating whether to share her real plans for the evening. It would be easy enough to say that she was joining some lady friends at a lecture or dinner party. But the truth was near to bursting out of her chest so she had to say something.
“I’m going out with Wes Dalton this evening.”
Her mother did not even look up from her embroidery. “Interesting hour for a business meeting.”
Beatrice kept her gaze focused on the window.
“I don’t think it’s quite entirely business.”
“Ah. I see.”
And so an awkward silence ensued. Admitting to one’s mother that one was having an affair was not quite the done thing. It was not exactly a topic of polite conversation. And there was the fact that, at the moment, Beatrice was feeling unnervingly like a young girl of sixteen and not a woman of six and thirty, free to live her own life without explanation or apology.
“I’m not an eighteen-year-old debutante anymore, Mother. I’m divorced and already scandalous and if I want to spend an evening with a man, I can. I will take precautions not to be seen but—”
“Of course you can, especially if you take care not to be seen. Don’t think that you are the first unmarried woman of a certain age to take advantage of your freedom.”
Well, if that didn’t stun her into momentary silence. Permission from her mother to have an affair, as long as she did it properly and circumspectly. That was unexpected.
“I just wish you wouldn’t do so with . . . him,” Estella said.
Her mother’s dislike of Dalton was long overdue for a reckoning. Beatrice turned from the window to face her mother.
“Why don’t you like him? That business with him and me was so long ago. He may have been a fortune hunter back then but he certainly isn’t now. He has one of the three great fortunes of the age!”
“Are you sure he still isn’t after the store?”
It was a moment before Beatrice answered. “No.”
He had made his intentions clear to her: he wanted more than just a quick and casual romp. He wanted courtship and romance and possibly marriage. Thanks to the Married Woman’s Property Act, she would still own the store if they did wed. But once their intimate lives were intertwined . . . it would be impossible to keep him and the store truly separate. He would still have claim over her body and time.
“Mother, why are you so sure that he is still after it and not me?”
“Besides the fact that he made an outrageous offer to buy it for more than it’s worth? Besides the fact that he made it plain that it has been his life’s ambition to own it?”
“Besides all that.”
“He reminds me of your father.”
Beatrice availed herself to the settee, wrinkled skirts be damned.
“You’re going to have to explain that.”
Her mother sighed and set down her embroidery.
“I was once like you, Beatrice. Remember, it was my father who had started the store. It was called Bergdorf’s back then, and I followed him around, soaking up all the crumbs of information that came my way. I observed his innovations, his reasons. I saw how he trained the clerks and crafted his advertising copy. I delighted in setting up displays with him. I was just like you. Or rather, you were just like me.”
“You wanted to run the store yourself.”
“I did. Your father promised me that we would run the operation together. First he wooed me, then he charmed my father with his grand ideas and a fancy degree. And before I knew it, my father was selling the business to my husband and it became his. A wedding present.”
Estella laughed and it was bitter.
“Then I had you and Edward and thus reasons to stay home.”
“He even changed the name,” Beatrice said softly.
“And then it wasn’t mine anymore.”
Beatrice realized then that the enormity of the loss hadn’t lessened one bit. She could feel the ache of it.
Her mother resumed her embroidering. Stabbing the needle through the fabric and pulling the thread taut. All these feelings, unspoken, but let out in the push and pull of the needle and thread through bits of embroidery displayed throughout the house. Little monuments to all the women’s feelings that had been left unspoken.
“But you seemed to like all the society stuff, Mother. You were forever going to parties and hosting teas and matchmaking.”
“A woman’s ambition cannot be created or destroyed. It can only change forms. It will manifest where it is allowed. Be that home, children, church, or social climbing. Or a career or business should she be allowed.”
But I was not allowed.
The words didn’t need to be said. They filled up the room anyway. They made it hard to breathe. All that tension that never, ever had a release.
Her mother’s hands stilled as she looked up and met her daughter’s gaze unflinchingly.
“Have your fun, Beatrice, but don’t lose your head to him. You have a chance to live the unlived lives that came before yours.”
Oh, but what a weight for a woman to carry upon her shoulders.
It was the same crushing weight Beatrice felt when the well-meaning Ladies of Liberty held her up as a beacon to all the other women out there. Beatrice’s success or failure was somehow an indication of what was possible for the future, and to make amends for the past.
What a burden and what a gift, all at once.
Beatrice stood and returned to the window, watching and wondering if any hours in the day were lived for herself alone. Was it so very wrong if she seized one or two, just for herself?
A carriage pulled by four white horses rolled into view. Dalton leapt down.
Beatrice turned to her mother.
“Thank you, Mama.”
And then she was off, through the foyer and the front door and standing at the top of the stoop.
“No automobile?” she called down to Dalton.
“Apparently Prince Charming always arrives in a carriage pulled by white horses. Well, here I a
m.”
Oh, it was plain to see what he wanted. Her. All of her.
But what did she want?
The Top of the World
The offices of New York World were in the tallest building in New York City and thus quite possibly the world. The terrace on the top floor was not open to the public—especially not at this late hour. But one of the perks of being a millionaire tycoon with friends in high places was the ability to call in a favor and obtain exclusive after-hours access to the best view in Manhattan. It was vitally important to pull out all the stops when trying to woo a woman as magnificent as Beatrice.
Dalton had a second chance. No one ever said Wes Dalton failed to seize an opportunity.
Beatrice sighed when she took in the view of the city, the river, the sky. “I am in awe and enchanted and utterly terrified all at once.”
Me, too, Dalton thought. He wasn’t thinking about the view.
“I thought I would show you my favorite view of the city,” he said. “When you’re down on the streets, it’s a constant crush and hustle. But up here it’s quiet and you can see how far we’ve all come.”
“The city is so different than I remembered,” Beatrice said, staring out into the night sky, a mix of stars and man-made lights, a vast expanse of sky and towers of steel and brick jutting up, insisting on making their presence known.
“You were gone so long.”
“A lifetime, practically.”
“A city block can change from year to year. I hardly remember what the city looked like last year, let alone when you left.”
Then again, he hardly ever stopped to notice. He was always so busy making the journey from his mansion uptown to his palace downtown and back again, with the forays to parties and the theater. He hardly ever slowed down to observe everyone else’s progress, so consumed he was with his own.
He led her around the corner, where a table had been set for dinner. There were candles in glass lanterns, fresh flowers, chilled champagne. A waiter stood nearby, ready to pour champagne and serve them food.
“Oooh, Dalton, you’ve outdone yourself. This is unexpected.”
“My first rule of retail is to surprise and delight. Always astonish the customer.”
She laughed and turned to him. “You have rules?”
“Rules. Truths. Words to live by. Whatever you want to call it. The fact is, I didn’t stumble my way to earning the title of merchant prince of Manhattan.”
“Tell me everything,” Beatrice said as she took a seat at the table.
“Tell my competitor all my trade secrets?” But then she smiled and he was lost.
“Well, if you’re still trying to buy my store, then perhaps you had better keep your secrets to yourself.”
There was a beat of silence as he considered. Hardly longer than a heartbeat of silence. He knew what she was asking.
This was his moment to decide and to let her know.
“The second rule is that a customer—most often a woman—should always have a choice,” he said smoothly as if it were just conversation and he hadn’t just surrendered. “Why offer one style of gloves when I can offer her a dozen? Because the other important rule is that a woman should always get what she wants.”
“I think I like your rules.”
“A woman—a customer—should always have the right to change her mind. No questions asked.”
Dalton was speaking about returns. And by virtue of her position as president of her own retail operation, Beatrice was uniquely suited to understand the hard dollar amount that cost him every time a woman had a change of heart. He paid the price so she could walk away happy.
She was looking thoughtful now, staring off at the view of the city until she fixed the full force of her gaze on him.
“Do you ever think about the choices we made all those years ago?”
“All the time, since you returned,” he said. “And almost all the time before that. Chances are I’d be nobody or nothing if I hadn’t taken the money your parents offered. I like being somebody. Though I’m starting to wonder if it isn’t everything.”
“Would you take the money again?”
“Have you ever noticed something about the heroes in fairy tales and popular stories?” he asked and her eyes flashed with attention. “They are always princes. Royalty. Nobility. The wealthy. The duke always gets the girl.”
She, who always had a quick retort, had nothing to say now because he was right.
“I thought,” he continued, “that if I wanted to get the girl, I needed to be rich and powerful. And drive a carriage pulled by four white horses.”
“You didn’t need all that.”
“Didn’t I?” There was a moment of silence between them. Because all evidence suggested that he did. Just so he could be loved. “Would you say yes to the duke again?”
“I don’t know,” she sighed. “But I don’t know that I would have chosen you, either. I had nothing but love for you, Wes. But I wish my choice hadn’t been between two men, between all or nothing. I just wish I could have chosen myself.”
“And now you finally have.”
She said yes with no uncertainty and he understood. Beatrice was finally allowed to be herself. To fall in love with herself, to commit to no one but herself. He had nothing that could compete with that. He had a store and a name that carried some weight in this town—but she had her own. He had a fortune—but she wanted for nothing. He had a magnificent carriage pulled by four white horses but she was a witch who could summon a hack in the rain.
Dalton checked all the boxes for Prince Charming.
And all she wanted was to ride off into the sunset on her own.
But after the sunset?
“We made our choices and we have lived with them,” he said. “But we are here, now free to do whatever we wish.”
“I want . . .” She sighed and summoned the words. “I want something between all or nothing with you. But I don’t want to give up my freedom. What do you think, Dalton?”
Would he be content with Beatrice at night only? To agree was to risk the greatest happiness or the greatest heartache. He hadn’t gotten this far by playing it safe. So he raised his glass and said, “Rule—give a woman whatever she wants.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Later that night
The thing about being a divorced duchess is that there is very little one could do that would cause a scandal greater than divorcing a duke, which meant Beatrice was at tremendous liberty to do whatever she wished.
And if one wished to go home with a certain tycoon at a certain late hour, one could.
In fact, one most certainly did.
Dalton’s carriage sped through the night—the streets blazingly empty at this hour—and stopped before a massive, wildly ornate mansion clearly designed to impress, and definitely overcompensating for something. She recognized it for what it was: a declaration in stone and money that he was a man of consequence.
She followed him from the carriage to the front door, hand in hand. It was late, it was dark. His mansion took up an entire city block so really, no one was close enough to see.
Beatrice hesitated at the threshold.
Her body was humming for the pleasure she knew she’d find with him on the other side. But it was going to mean something, maybe even more than she was ready to claim.
And so, she paused.
Then he slipped her hand in his, entwined their fingers, and looked at her, a question in his eyes. Are you ready for what comes next? She was on fire for it and nervous all the same. But it was Wes, her first love. He of the soulful blue eyes and burning ambition and plain yearning. He of the kisses that made her knees weak and the secret rules that were really the keys to his kingdom.
She stepped over the threshold.
The foyer was a vast marble affair, deliberately designed to impress and intimidate except that she was accustomed to such. Beatrice knew what it meant to live in a house like this. One could never truly be at leisur
e, one always felt a pressure to be worthy of it, to match it. And so she felt a little sorry for Dalton.
“So this is your house.”
“It’s where I sleep.”
“My voice is echoing in your foyer,” she said with a laugh. Which echoed. “It’s like the duke’s castle but with electric lights and central heating and running water.”
“I have all the modern conveniences. Would you like a tour?”
“I’m not here to see your house, Wes.”
She reached out for the lapels on his jacket, pulled him close, and lifted her mouth to claim his.
“Not wasting any time,” he murmured as he broke the kiss to press his mouth to the curve of her neck.
“I think we’ve waited long enough for this, don’t you?”
“You have no idea.” He pulled out her hairpins and they skittered across the marble floor. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders. Then he started on her dress, right here in the foyer.
Are you ready for what comes next?
Yes, God, yes.
She coyly undid the buttons on his vest. But then she ripped open his shirt, and buttons went flying. She laughed and the sound echoed. But she wasn’t laughing anymore when she slid her palms against the firm planes of his chest. She lowered her head to tease one of his nipples with her tongue; his sharp hiss of breath made her feel like a queen.
“Beatrice,” he murmured. “Bedroom.”
And they stumbled their way there. Kissing. Undressing, leaving a scattered trail of clothes and things from the foyer, up the grand curving staircase, along the second-floor landing. And then her back was up against a heavy wooden door, Dalton’s hands at her waist, his mouth claiming hers, her dress in a state of disarray, her heart pumping wildly.
And the night was only just getting started.
Years. Years Dalton had waited for this moment. Beatrice in his bedroom. Beatrice reaching out for him, her gaze so nakedly dark with desire for him. Beatrice touching him. Beatrice lifting her mouth to his for a kiss. He felt desired. He felt desire. He felt proud, triumphant even, to have this woman in his mansion, like he was finally worthy of her.