Evening Star

by Catherine Coulter

  “Stop shaking me, dammit. I had to wear it.”

  He released her but she saw that his eyes were still angry.

  The final webs of sleep cleared from her mind and she repeated calmly, “Really, Alex, I had to wear it.”

  “Why? Why the hell would you do that to my child?”

  She sighed, rubbing her arms. “My gown wouldn’t fasten without it.”

  “Then why didn’t you wear another damned gown, for God’s sake?”

  “Must you continue to be foul-mouthed and yell at me?” She was fast losing her patience. “For your information, Mr. Saxton, it was the only gown I could fit into, and only with my last corset.” She looked toward her smoking corset in the fireplace.

  “Why didn’t you buy another gown?”

  She raised her chin. “I haven’t had the time.”

  He groaned and ran his hand through his hair. “You’re a bloody woman, and you’re telling me that you—”

  “Yes, I, a bloody woman, haven’t had the time. I haven’t harmed your precious child, Alex. Now, would you please stop your ranting and let me go to bed?”

  “That wasn’t the only reason, was it?”

  “No. If you would know the entire truth, I didn’t want people looking at my waistline.”

  “I should beat some sense into you. So this is how you treat your promises to me? As for what anyone thinks about your pregnancy, I don’t give a good goddamn. You are pregnant, dammit, and everyone will know it soon enough.”

  “Well, I have no more corsets left now, so you needn’t worry.”

  He was still angry, and she sighed. “Please, Alex, I’m so tired.”

  “You should be, it’s the middle of the night.” He drew a deep breath and said very calmly, almost gently, “I expect you to stop pretending nothing has happened, Giana, to yourself or to anyone else. You are pregnant with my child and in the role of my wife, and your scurrying about, doubtless working harder than you did in London, will not change it. It must stop, Giana. No more rushing about from morning until midnight. You will get more rest. If you don’t care about our child and your own health, I do. You will obey me in this, else I’ll lock you in your room.”

  “I’ll thank you to stop giving me orders.”

  “I will stop when you no longer act like a stubborn mule and assume the behavior of a reasoning adult.”

  He was acting as if she were a willful child and he the wise father. She gritted her teeth and said at him, without thinking, “I will do exactly as I believe right, Alex, with no more smug orders from you. I am not a fool, as you seem to believe, and what’s more, I will have my partnership with Mr. McCormick.” She paused but a moment, staring up at his set face, and said, “Indeed, I fully intend to accept Charles Lattimer’s offer of a loan to do it.”

  He said slowly, his eyes darkened, “You are telling me that Lattimer offered you the money?”

  She nodded.

  “And just what collateral does Lattimer demand?”

  “Twice the amount of the loan, from my twenty-five-percent ownership of Van Cleve/Saxton.”

  He shook his head, and his voice was suddenly weary. “You know that Lattimer and I do not deal well together. Did it not occur to you that the only reason he is offering to back you is that he knows well you will fail and thus he will get to me through you?”

  “That is not true, Alex. He is lending the money because he believes that the partnership will succeed. He is, after all, a banker, and a successful one at that. It has nothing to do with any male fights the two of you have nurtured.”

  Alex said slowly, seeming to select his words very carefully, “Lattimer and I do not deal well together for a very simple reason: he was a suitor to my first wife. Laura’s father preferred me as his son-in-law. Lattimer has never forgiven me for what he believes was underhanded dealing, in other words, marrying Laura for her money without caring for her. He doubtless sees the loan as revenge.”

  For a moment Giana doubted her judgment. But to offer her the loan because he was, years ago, in love with the same woman as Alex, likely believing out of disappointed spite that Alex was a blackguard, seemed to her vastly improbable. No, Charles believed in her scheme, and after all, he was Derry’s husband, and thus solicitous of her as well. Only two proud, stubborn men, she thought, looking away from Alex toward her smoldering corset in the fireplace, could contrive to act like two dogs in the manger, chewing a bone that should have, years ago, been decently buried and forgotten.

  “Very well,” she said, untying her petticoats. “I am going to bed.”

  Alex frowned at her, knowing full well that Giana intended to accept the terms Lattimer offered. Though it angered him all the more, he knew the story he had told her about him must in truth sound like a tempest in a teapot.

  She shrugged her shoulders, unaware that the sight of her, disheveled, her hair falling loose down her back, one long hand winding over her breast, was fast turning his anger into lust. At his continued silence, she jerked her head up. “If you want to be in a foul mood, Alex, why don’t you just sleep downstairs?”

  “No,” he said, stepping toward her. “I want to sleep with my wife and make love to her.”

  Giana whirled about to face him, standing only in her white chemise, a lacy, quite sheer garment that reached her knees, and left little to his imagination. “I think not, Alex,” she said. “I find it difficult to feel any desire for you, much less liking, with your continual disapproval of me.”

  “That will change quickly enough,” he said deliberately, sweeping his eyes over her, “when we’re in bed.”

  “Stop it, Alex. I want nothing to do with you, do you understand? I am not some sort of strumpet, here for your blasted pleasure.”

  She felt his arms close around her, and drove her fist into his belly. He held her immobile against him, and laughed, his breath warm against her temple. “I told you, love, that you should wait until after our child is born. You’ll be stronger then and can smack me good.”

  “Stop laughing at me.” She tried to pull away from him, but he merely held her against him with one arm and grasped the top of her chemise and ripped it down her back.

  “Are you going to throw it in the fire?” He did not answer her, only lifted her in his arms and dumped her onto the velvet covers of their bed.

  “Stubborn little fool,” she heard him mutter to himself as he tugged off his shoes.

  When he stood facing her, naked in the midst of his discarded clothes, she gasped, her eyes on his sex. “You will not do this, Alex. I will fight you, do you hear? You will not force me.”

  She was a fool, she thought, just as she had been in the garden the night of her mother’s wedding. She had believed then that he would try to savage her like the men at Madame Lucienne’s. He was stretched his full length on top of her, his long legs covering hers, her hands trapped in his above her head.

  She stared up into his dark eyes, but inches above her, and tried to steel herself against him. Why would he not be brutal? she thought, trying to free her hands. “You are hurting me, you big bully.”

  She was not sure if he did, but in the next instant her body was cool to the air. He had rolled off her and risen. She watched him numbly as he doused the lamps, then felt the bed dip when he lay down again.

  Alex lay on his back, his arms pillowing his head, cursing himself for seven kinds of a fool. His frustrated anger had led him to dominate her in the most primitive way imaginable, and the most despicable. There was much he had told her and quite a bit that he hadn’t. Damn her. She knew he was right, at least about her acting with blind bravado, denying him and their child. And she knew he didn’t want her to leave him, didn’t want her to take their child back to England. How could she be so natural in his bed, share such pleasure with him, and still consider returning to a desolate, spinsterish life after she left him?

  “Alex?”

  “Yes?”

  “Please don’t hate me.”

  His frust
ration made him say, “Not hate you until after you’ve taken my child and left me?”

  She gave a pained cry, but he hardened himself against her. He turned on his side to face her. “What do you want from me, Giana?”

  He could hear her breathing harshly, her indecision almost palpable in the silence between them. Suddenly she hurled herself against him, and he felt her hands drawing his face to her. He accepted her against him, kissing her deeply, his hands sweeping over her body. He let his fingers probe over her woman’s flesh. She was swollen and moist, and the light touch of his fingers made her gasp. So it was no game she was playing with him. He wanted to yell at her to trust him, to forget. To forget what? The truth? That many men treated their wives just as she feared he would treat her?

  He felt her hand move from his chest, tangling in the thick hair at his groin, until she found him. He jerked as her fingers closed gently about him, and tightly closed his mouth against the groan building in his throat.

  There were no more words between them, only the sounds of pleasure as they caressed each other.

  When she lay against him, her leg thrown over his groin, her hand curled in the hair on his chest, he found to his surprise that sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. His heart finally slowed from a climax that had made him want to yell his possession of her. He would not let her leave him, not after the birth of their child, not ever.

  Chapter 20

  Leah cleared her throat as she opened the London Times, Alex’s gift to Giana, delivered in bundles nearly every week since Giana’s arrival in the Saxton household, and announced her daily tidbit of news to everyone at the breakfast table.

  “The most interesting event in London today,” she began, “or three weeks ago was the triumphant arrival of”—she stumbled over the odd name—“ Kossuth, the leader of the Hungarian revolutionaries. Lord John Russell, the Prime Minister, you know,” she added proudly, “to show England’s sympathy with the revolutionaries, is offering to pay eight pounds to every Hungarian refugee arriving from Turkey who needs help to pay his passage to America. To us,” Leah finished.

  “So much violence in Europe,” Giana said. “In every country it seems, save America and England.”

  “Even our country may tear itself apart,” Alex said.

  “I saw you reading Mrs. Stowe’s novel, Mrs. Saxton,” Anna Carruthers said.

  Giana nodded toward Mrs. Carruthers. She liked Leah’s new governess immensely, from the top of her white bun to the toes of her sensible shoes. She was like a comfortable, very kind mother-in-resi-dence. And Leah liked her. Anna was German, and well-educated.

  Alex looked up from his toast. “Uncle Tom’s Cabin?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Giana said.

  “My business associate in Atlanta, George Plummer, is irate about the book, needless to say.”

  “I didn’t know you had a business associate in the South, Alex.”

  “There is quite a bit you don’t know about me yet, Giana,” he said.

  Giana looked up in surprise at his impassive face, but the brief tension between them was quickly broken by Leah’s giggle. “Oh, this is wonderful.”

  She ducked her head behind the newspaper and read aloud, “‘William Hodgson, who just died in Newgate prison, is reported to have been one hundred and six years old when he drew his last breath. He was imprisoned for making a revolutionary speech in 1793.”’

  “Pigheaded English,” Alex said.

  Giana sent an amused glance at Alex before saying to her stepdaughter, “It was worth hearing two bits of news today, Leah, instead of just one. Imagine, one hundred and six years old.”

  “Father’s right,” Leah said, frowning. “It doesn’t seem very fair, does it? He only made a silly speech. Think of what he could have done for all those years if he had been free.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Carruthers said quickly. “Well, in any case, we don’t know the content of his speech, do we, Leah? Now, child, it is time for you to come with me and learn about the geography of England. We will study Somerset today, your English stepgrandmother’s birthplace.”

  Giana started. She hadn’t answered her mother’s latest letter. Well, she would simply appropriate Alex’s study and write her of her partnership with Cyrus McCormick for the export of his mechanical reaper to England. She said to Leah, “I hope you will meet my mother, Leah. She is fascinating and beautiful.”

  “Even though she is a damned duchess?” Leah said, parroting Alex’s words.

  “Leah.”

  “Yes,” Giana said, smiling, “she is a duchess and still fascinating and beautiful. And,” she added, “more intelligent than most men.”

  “But not smarter than Papa,” Leah said with all her child’s certainty.

  “I would not be so sure, Leah.”

  Alex said, “Speaking of duchesses, next week is Thanksgiving, the celebration of our own illustrious Puritan grandfathers.”

  “Thanksgiving,” Giana repeated. “I have heard of it. It is a formal celebration, is it not? Every year?”

  Alex winked at Leah’s excited expression. “It is an American tradition.”

  “Puritans—that famous monogamous breed?”

  “Ah, yes,” Alex said.

  “We have apple pies and cider every year,” Leah said.

  “Ja, and sweet potatoes,” Mrs. Carruthers added, a smile reaching her pale blue eyes.

  “And when does this Thanksgiving event take place?” Giana asked.

  “Next week,” Leah said. “Thursday. Shall we have company this year, Papa?”

  Giana gazed at Alex expectantly. “We will see, puss,” Alex said, pulling his watch from his pocket and consulting it. “My dear,” he said to Giana, “I regret to leave you, but I have promised my charming company to a dreary group of shipbuilders. Unfortunately I won’t be home until late.”

  Giana nodded, her brow furrowed in thought. There was curiosity in Alex’s eyes when he leaned down to plant a light kiss on her cheek. “Get to sleep early tonight, all right?”

  “What? Oh, yes, Alex.” She gave him a dazzling smile, to which he cocked a black brow. It was not until they were at the dinner table the following evening that his curiosity was satisfied.

  “About Thanksgiving,” she said, bending another dazzling smile toward Alex as she toyed with her custard.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “Leah tells me you usually do have guests for Thanksgiving.” Her chin rose a bit. “I would like to invite the Lattimers, Alex.”

  “What a marvelous idea,” Anna Carruthers said. “Mrs. Lattimer is such a charming lady.”

  “I should love to see Derry,” Leah added. “Maybe Jennifer won’t come.”

  Alex looked at the three pairs of expectant eyes fastened on him. He knew it must be difficult for Giana, seeing Derry almost daily, to have to forgo her company socially. He couldn’t imagine Charles Lattimer wanting to share dinner at his home. Let it be Lattimer to turn down the invitation. He forced a nod and a belated smile.

  “Thank you, Alex,” Giana rose quickly from the table. “I must speak to Agnes about what to cook for this Thanksgiving.”

  “My dear,” Alex said, “Agnes is one of the original survivors of my Puritan grandfathers. She knows exactly what to do, I assure you.”

  Thus it was, to Alex’s chagrin, that the Saxtons greeted their Thanksgiving guests the following Thursday, with the smell of Agnes’s turkey and candied sweet potatoes filling the house.

  “Lattimer,” Alex said.

  “Saxton,” Charles said.

  Giana and Derry exchanged glances as the two men reluctantly shook hands.

  “Jennifer,” Giana said, “how delightful you look today. And such a lovely day it is. I was expecting howling winds and snow at the end of November, but instead we have such sun and warmth.”

  Jennifer merely nodded in greeting, unable to get a word in through Giana’s exuberant chatter.

  “We are having suet pies for dessert,” Giana continu
ed brightly to Derry.

  “No, love,” Alex said, “mincemeat pies.”

  “And the turkey weighs over twenty-five pounds, Derry,” Leah said.

  “Then we shall all have to loosen our belts, won’t we?”

  Thank God for Leah, Giana thought some minutes later over the dinner table. The child chattered happily, and remembered to ask Charles Lattimer politely if he was enjoying Agnes’s turkey. He gave her a startled look and a smiling yes.

  Jennifer waited until Agnes served the mincemeat pies, topped with vanilla ice cream, before she touched her fingers to Alex’s hand and said in a caressing voice, “I am delighted to visit your home again, Alex.” She looked about the dining room. “I’m pleased that you haven’t allowed any changes. But then, of course, your wife doesn’t have time for domestic concerns, does she? And poor Miss Guthrey. Such a lovely person. I hear that she had to accept a position with the Waddells.”

  “How delightful for her,” Giana said over her pie. “I did not realize that you were acquainted with Miss Guthrey, Jennifer.”

  “I’m glad Anna is here,” Leah said.

  Jennifer nodded vaguely. “She was so happy here, I understand. But then again, she is very pretty, is she not?”

  “Jennifer,” Charles Lattimer said.

  “How true,” Giana said. “I was dreadfully jealous of her, you know, Jennifer, and couldn’t wait to have her removed. I wanted Leah and Alex all to myself.”

  Jennifer stared at her.

  “I’m sure you understand my feelings. I become quite rabid when any lady regards Alex with a fond eye. The English, you know, Jennifer, are very possessive.”

  “Is there a petard about?” Derry asked.

  “Does everyone have wine?” Giana asked. “Leah, pour yourself some lemonade. I have an announcement to make—and a toast, I trust, is in order.”

  Alex shot her a suspicious look, but obligingly filled his wineglass.

  Giana smiled, raising her glass, and looked directly at Alex. “Alex and I have decided that I should curtail my business activities over the next months and become more a woman of leisure. You see, we are going to have a baby.”