by Robyn Carr
Andrew was present, as had become routine over the year. “Are you the least bit curious about this novel?” she asked him.
“I haven’t had time for novels in years. I’m pleased for him.”
“Do you notice anything between John and my sister?” she asked pointedly.
“No,” he answered, glancing toward each one. “Is there something?”
“Yes,” she answered, “but I don’t know what it is. Exactly. Do you know there will be real people in this story? People who may not appreciate it. Ulysses Grant, Boss Tweed.”
“The Boss is dead. He can’t rise up and smite the author.”
“Patricia indicated there could be others. Found Fortune has a familiar sound…I know a few people who found their fortunes in this city. And Patricia is very smug about something.”
“I’ll have to read it. Save the first portion for me, Lilly. I’ll borrow it from you.”
“When did you become so tight-fisted? Borrowing?”
“I won’t be here for the first edition. I have to go to New York the first of May. I could be tied up there for two weeks.”
Lilly’s decision had been made. She thought the risk that Andrew would rebuff her far greater than any risk she might face as a result of her decision. She told her mother and grandmother that she was taking Elizabeth with her to New York to have dresses made and enjoy a brief holiday from work. That Lilly had never before taken time from work, even while touring Europe, did not raise a single eyebrow.
“Your loyalty is about to be tested as never before,” Lilly told Elizabeth.
“That,” said the assistant who had lost all her shyness over the past few years, “seems impossible!”
Lilly wrote only “Suite 511” on a note card she closed with wax. Elizabeth took it from her. “Lilly, are you absolutely certain?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “I simply can’t explain my feelings to you. You’re going to have to let me have my way.”
“Lilly, I’ve always trusted you about everything. I know something is going wrong with you now.”
“No,” Lilly said. And she thought, poor, poor Elizabeth! Taken along on a holiday and told, explicitly, there would be a man. She must not remember his face; she must pretend not to know his name; she must not hear a sound. Why? Elizabeth had asked. Why Mr. Devon? He’s a family friend, a married man! But Lilly couldn’t answer--the answer was six years long.
The sealed card was to be passed to an Astor bellman, who would put it in Mr. Devon’s mail.
The May nights were warm. She could hear the sounds from the New York streets through her opened window. There were horsecars, omnibuses, carriages, hawkers. Let one of those creaking wheels bring Andrew back from Wall Street, she silently begged. She believed there were women in his life, that he was routinely seduced as he went about a married man with no wife. Many would contentedly be a mistress to a man as rich and handsome as Andrew. Tonight, she thought, let there be no woman to whom he has committed his time.
She sat in her parlor, relaxed, comfortable in her white satin wrapper, her feet slippered and raised to the footstool. She held a book she didn’t read and lit a lamp on the table beside her when the sun went down. Elizabeth said nothing to her this evening. Elizabeth had already harped and pleaded-- Don’t sacrifice yourself! Don’t! But Lilly couldn’t think of this as any kind of sacrifice. Lilly told her, “Don’t stay with me then, if you can’t trust me, if you can’t respect me. I wouldn’t blame you. You’re a woman of high virtue. I am only a woman.”
“I don’t want you to be hurt,” Elizabeth had replied. “Talk to your mother about this need you feel! Mrs. Armstrong would know what to--”
“Need?” Lilly had questioned, laughter lighting up her face. Oh Lord, Lilly thought, it is so far past that! So long ago was the curiosity of a young woman, a girl. Far behind her was that first flirtation with desire. Need? This was as filled with purpose as the building of the Arms. This was not something Lilly felt she needed. She had proved quite well she could do without a man. This was something she wanted.
She wondered if Elizabeth would fail her, compromise or trick her. But she did not. There was a knock, the door was opened, Elizabeth’s voice said, “The sitting room, Mr. Devon,” and Lilly’s heart began to race.
He stood just inside the frame and Elizabeth pulled the double doors closed. He looked at her for a long moment. Finally she stood to face him. He made no effort to cross the eight feet that separated them. He had never seen her like this; her satin hugged the outline of her naked body and her thick auburn hair was loose and flowing over her shoulders.
“I want you to teach me that kiss again,” she told him.
“You may have finally gone too far, Lilly,” he said, his voice thick.
“I hope so, Andrew. I’m tired of trying to make do. There just isn’t anyone else for me. Grandmother says I refuse to compromise.”
“And in that, will be compromised.”
“Then you know what is intended? But do you understand?”
“I’ve known you a long time. I know how you think. This is--”
“Victoria Woodhull said this problem of sexual freedom is the greatest to challenge the human mind, she said it is only decent when it involves reciprocal love…and I know of no marriage that does. Not yet.”
“Woodhull,” he muttered.
“And George Sand said that love outside of marriage is more lasting than--”
“Quote me Tennessee Claflin, Lilly, quick! ‘Until we recognize the rights of nature, until we provide in a normal and proper way for every passion of the soul…’ You know I am not free!”
“I am. I want freedom. I want my hotel, my family, my work…you. I think they’re all right--they spoke of the hypocrisy of marriage and you’re living it. They said that free love--”
“Free love? You little fool! The cost is so high that even you cannot pay it!”
She shrugged lamely. “Nor can I seem to meet the cost of not having you. That has become expensive in loneliness and emptiness.”
“You stalked me. You played your seduction so carefully. All that business of having me come into the family--”
“You were less lonely when you did. I was less lonely.”
“You spent so much time, Lilly. Did I appear that difficult to conquer?”
“Stubborn. Pig-headed. Will you come?” she asked him, opening her arms. “I could follow you, sit in wait for you at this hotel or that. Eventually…”
He walked toward her, tossing aside his hat as he went. He slipped an arm about her waist, and his mouth was just above hers. “What is it you hope to gain, Lilly?”
“Joy,” she said, her breath warm on his lips. “Pleasure. Those things I can’t find. That part of me that can’t be complete alone. It’s you I love. I always have.”
“And what of heartache? Desperate, lonely nights apart? What of the pain of lies?”
“Worse lies than the ones we used before? Worse heartache than trying, before the world, not to look at each other? Worse than those evenings I have to spend with bores who want my business or my money? Oh damn, I took your advice. I wanted to love someone else!”
He lowered his lips to hers, gently touching, tenderly tugging at her lower lip. “Lilly, Lilly, I’m more married than ever. Is that the kind of life you wish on yourself? On me?”
“No,” she said, slipping her arms around his neck. “What I want for us is far greater--and far more impossible.”
“But this?”
“Tell me you don’t love me! Tell me you can find someone else and be happy. Tell me you’re content to be alone--”
“I love you,” he said. “That’s why I tried to protect you from this.”
“Don’t,” she said.
He kissed her lips, her neck, her ear. He slipped the wrapper away from her neck and teased the untouched flesh of her shoulder. His hands caressed her back and found her buttocks, pulling her hard against him. She could feel hi
m; all the power of him pressed against her while she reacquainted herself with the rangy flavor of his mouth.
He released her enough to untie the belt at her waist. “You’re settling for less than you could have,” he said, kissing her now and then. He slipped his hands inside her wrapper, feeling her skin, her back, her hips. This was something she had dreamed, his hands on her--firm, decisive, strong hands. He trembled! She felt the same ache in her nipples that her fantasies brought, the same pulling in her secret place, a place she intended to be a shared secret.
She put her hands against his chest, pushing him away. She took his hand and led him to the bedroom. The coverlet was pulled back on the bed, the pillows fluffed, the curtains drawn. The lamp had not been lit; Andrew did so, but turned the wick low so that the room was shadowed, like dusk. Lilly stood beside the bed, her wrapper hanging loosely closed.
Andrew kept his eyes on hers as he pulled off his tie, tossing it. He began to unbutton his shirt, tugging it out of his pants. He had to sit on the bed to remove his shoes, which he kicked aside. Finally he stood before her, barefoot and bare-chested. Her eyes filled with the sight of his chest, pale and broad and sleek, a tuft of hair in the center and a few wayward sprigs around his nipples. His hands were on his breeches. “This cannot be undone, Lilly,” he said. “This is another kind of life.”
She closed her eyes, tilting her head backwards, silent. A kind of life she had been afraid to imagine. She didn’t know what sort of secrets awaited, but she knew she was sorely, inconsolably unfinished. Any number of men would have been pleased by this invitation, but there was only one kind of man for whom she felt passion. It was hardly a coincidence that it would be Andrew--it could be no other. The circumstances that made him the worst choice also made him the only one: her equal in passion and intelligence; a poor-boy achiever, driven; a man married to a terrible woman whom he could not only forgive, but care for; a man tender enough of conscience to avoid her, discourage her, and refuse her.
His hands entered her robe at the waist, slowly moving upward separating the fabric, and she felt the satin of her cover sing across her skin as it flowed over her shoulders, down her arms, and fell behind her. Gone! Her breath came hard; his fingers were soft. She felt his body against hers. She pulled his head harder against her breasts when he kissed her there. Finally, he lowered her gently to the bed. It was while he knelt above her that she saw the naked body of a man for the very first time in her life, and at first the sight awed her. His legs, strong, bent, muscled, were covered with coarse black hair, and out of the thick batch below his belly had sprung that scepter that would soon be a part of her. She thought it a fearful, wonderful thing, and innocent as she was, wondered how he had managed to conceal it so well!
He made a study of her skin, each touch was the first touch. Lilly had tried the lips of others--unsatisfactory. She had been touched and grasped; she had slapped a few faces. But this was the thrill she had waited for. Passion is a thing of the mind. Andrew, though handsome and strong, was no more so than many others. For six long years she had wanted only him.
His lips were moist and tempting on the inside of her arms, at her breast, her belly. His hands on her were smooth, exquisite. His eyes, when they looked into hers, were a wilder green than she had ever seen. His features were hard as stone; it appeared he worked, and the strain was powerful. The longing she felt was intense, but nothing to compare to what she felt when he touched her inner thighs, her inner sanctum. His fingers, deft and clever, began to massage, stroke, tickle and tease. The longing grew and grew, like a fire stoked, a flame fueled. She could not be silent; she moaned the incredible pleasure he brought her and felt herself grow soft and wet and hungry while his kneading grew more fierce.
He lay beside her, on his side, and kissed her deeply, consuming her with the power of a kiss so desperate, so strong, she became lost in its darkness, in a space of mindlessness that seemed to billow like clouds around her head. Her hands sought the muscle of his chest and arms and lower, finally daring to touch that wonderful thing. It pulsed, warm and firm in her hand, and a growl of pleasure came from his lips against hers. And then her world burst into a flame of light, and she shook from it. She imagined she was lifted from the bed and her body became suddenly, astonishingly tense. What wild, terrible, impossible pleasure! It almost hurt, it was so profound. “Andrew!” she exclaimed.
He murmured softly against her lips, his fingers yet experiencing the shuddering response of her flesh. “Yes, Lilly,” he said, holding her closely.
She was not nearly recovered when he raised himself above her, his knees between hers. She locked her fingers into his thick, dark hair and drew his lips to hers. He lowered himself and began to probe. Her softness there, the slick invitation was still not enough. The resistance against his entry was tough. “Are you sure you want me to take this, too?” he asked. “I can make you happy without--”
“Please!” she insisted, clutching him.
“We have to have done with this, Lilly. Hold me.” She complied, her arms around his chest, meeting across his back. She felt his hands on her buttocks as he tilted her up to meet him. Her knees bent to brace herself, and he made a quick, frightful stab into her. She felt the membrane that was called virtue burst and her eyes teared from pain that was burning and quick.
He held her fast and still. She sighed against his shoulder. Done. He was hers now. She was his. The fullness in her nearly caused her to cry. The pain slowly gave way to a minor discomfort; the discomfort was soon lost. Andrew kissed her lips gently, a tender touch. “Are you all right, darling?”
She looked into his eyes and saw what she’d dreamt of seeing: the glow of happiness was there. The fulfillment of this coupling was not hers alone. She smiled up at him and gently touched the hair at his temples.
He moved, a slight rocking that soon began to sweep her into that feeling she now understood; the longing would rise and build and explode. But when she would have seized it and ridden with him, he withdrew, lay atop her where his manhood throbbed and spilled. Lilly knew enough of coupling to understand what he had done. The tears that smarted in her eyes were of loss. She could not reasonably have his child. In her mind she had traded that possibility for this. To keep him, she must not hope for a baby.
Chapter Nineteen
Andrew awoke in the morning to a strange humming. He stretched out a hand toward Lilly, found the bed empty, and opened his eyes. He looked through the posters to an amazing vision beyond the foot of the bed. Lilly hummed the tune from their last dance. Naked, breathtaking with auburn hair curling down her back, her hands held up to accommodate an invisible partner, she danced. Danced and turned and swayed, her hair bouncing, her long, slender legs carrying her around in a circle. He laughed--still there was the child.
Her eyes darted over her shoulder to see him awake, but she paused only briefly and continued her gliding dance. His eyes filled with the sight of her, just as he had filled the night with the texture and taste of her body. He sat up, the cover drawn to his waist, and rested his arms on his raised knees. “You’re mad,” he said, but he smiled as though he had been given a gift.
She twirled. Her eyes were half closed; her lips curved in a smile. Andrew had never seen a more beautiful sight. He threw back the cover, stepped out of the bed, and joined her. A chambermaid would have fainted dead: two naked dancers in the early, pink, light of dawn dancing to a woman’s humming. And he held her at arm’s length, the length he would employ in a formal dance. She made the music for their dance until she burst into laughter and embraced him, hugging him fiercely, joyfully.
“I have never really seen the morning before!” she said, her face bright from a night of passion.
“I have never had such a dance!”
“Do you think we’ll be consumed by laughter at Grandmother’s next party? Oh, Andrew, just think! Now these melodies have new meaning for me.”
He ran a hand down her hair, free and wild.
“Ar
e you happy, Andrew?” she asked. But he turned away from her. She reached out to his shoulder, turning him back. “I won’t let you be unhappy! I won’t let you spoil it! It’s too late--you said so yourself!”
Reluctantly, slowly, his smile grew. “Oh, Lilly, I don’t think you know how rare a woman you are.”
“Don’t I?” she asked, almost skipping away from him to pick up her wrapper from the floor. “What can you tell me about women, Andrew? Have there been many?”
“No,” he laughed, “not so many.”
“I’m sure this sort of thing happens quite often. What a clever secret was kept from me! But I am the one who is well known in the Astor--I can’t have a strange man in my room when the maids come. You’ll have to go. Now.” She stopped, looking him over. She gazed over his body, from his toes to his nose. “Oh, Andrew.”
“What did you expect? You know I’m not a eunuch.”
She understood now, how it gained power, lost power, and it made her laugh to remember her first thoughts. “Not a eunuch, but you are certainly greedy. Dress. Poor Elizabeth may not have survived the night.”
“What have you told her?”
“Hardly anything, and the poor darling doesn’t understand at all. She is ordered to keep the secret, that’s all. I’m sure she feels I’m a fallen woman at long last.” She tied her belt and picked up his shirt. “Andrew,” she questioned seriously, “is there another way? To prevent a baby?”
