“Say you won’t marry this New York merchant prince. This—” His voice broke and he cleared his throat several times. “This reptile that you’ve allowed to fuck you. Say that you’ll wait for me to gain my freedom and you’ll marry me.” His eyes glittered, dark and warm. “Oh God, I have not stopped loving you—all these years have been a torment.”
Good God, he really believed she could still be his? The shock of it made her incapable of coherent thought.
He chose that moment to lean over and bring his mouth down on hers. Her body remembered his smell, his feel, his taste—all the sensations of her love for him. But it was nothing but aching nostalgia for her own lost innocence. She remained passive.
He backed away, his eyes hurt and confused. “This is loyalty to him?”
She rubbed her hand furiously over her lips, incensed that she’d allowed the kiss.
“Beth, let’s not forget the circumstances here,” he chided. “We love each other—quite passionately, in fact.” He gave her a scathing look. “Have you perhaps forgotten the things we said, the way we felt?”
“You certainly forgot—forgot long enough to marry someone else.”
“I. Told. You.” He ground the three words out harshly. “I let my family force me into that—” He clamped his mouth shut. Then a smile twisted his lips and he laughed softly. “I know you’re doing this just to spite me. To prove something to me.”
“You’re wrong. I love him dearly…ardently…insanely.”
He flinched, then blinked hard several times. “You speak so stridently, as if you must convince yourself.”
Did she need to convince herself?
A whole three weeks and just one terse note informing you that he shall be delayed. Can you continue loving such a man?
Her empty stomach cramped. She swallowed hard against a rise of acid. “It’s true, Joshua. I do love him.”
He scowled. “Maybe you think you do—but you’ll never be happy with him. He’s too cold natured for you. And you damned well know I am right.”
* * * *
Beth lay in bed all the rest of the night with Joshua’s last words echoing in her head. Their truth settled in her stomach like lead. Then, at dawn, when she finally fell into a fitful sleep, the clatter of a carriage on the brick street below her window awoke her. Nerves raw, she sat up and jerked the covers away. No use fighting it—she couldn’t sleep.
Could it be Grey’s carriage? This early? Oh, surely not. She rushed to the window and held her breath as the driver came round and opened the door. A tall, thin woman in a pale gray and white striped carriage dress exited the vehicle. With military-erect bearing, the woman briskly marched up to the front door and knocked. A girl of around seventeen or eighteen followed her, carrying a valise.
What the devil?
Beth grabbed her wrap, pulled it on over her nightdress, ran downstairs and flung the front door open. Her eyes met a washboard-flat chest covered in vertical-striped muslin. She looked up and encountered a pair of sharp, brown eyes in a thin, plain face.
“I am looking for Miss McConnell?” The woman spoke in a proper English accent.
“Yes,” Beth said. “I am Miss McConnell.”
“Good morning, Miss McConnell. My name is Miss Fairchild. Mr. Sexton has engaged me to be your lady’s maid.”
Grey had engaged a lady’s maid for her? For her? Yes, of course, she supposed he would. Her hopes soared. Surely, if he’d made such a step, he still wanted to marry her. “Gre—Mr. Sexton is arrived in the city then?”
“No, Miss, I cannot say. I did not travel with Mr. Sexton. I was given my instructions and travel money over two weeks ago and I am told he left shortly thereafter.”
“He left—” Beth frowned. “Mr. Sexton left New York?”
Well, to the devil with that! He’d left New York weeks ago and not even told her until his terse note from Baltimore. He had not made any effort to keep in touch with her and let her know what he was doing. She’d thought he’d been in New York this entire time until he began his trip back. Yet he’d been on the move since he’d left her. All her letters were likely waiting for him on a silver tray on his desk. Unopened and unneeded. Unwanted.
“Yes. When I spoke with his valet, Mr. Cooper, he mentioned a trip to Salem and on to Cambridge to fetch Mr. Sexton’s son. He told me to contact the Sexton business manager if I had any troubles.”
Beth’s stomach dropped to her cold, bare feet. “Oh.”
In the time since he’d hired Miss Fairchild, he could still have had second thoughts, hence his lack of communication.
Of course, he’d refrained from writing. Too honest to pen a false letter, he would wait to tell her in person. A gentleman would do no less.
Miss Fairchild turned to the girl at her side. “This is Mary, my assistant.”
Beth forced a smile for Mary, but the girl’s lashes lowered over her large, brown eyes and her lips curved upwards slightly.
Miss Fairchild’s gaze traveled over Beth. “Miss McConnell, have you eaten?”
Beth shook her head.
“Well, we must rectify that immediately.” She turned back to the girl. “Mary, find the kitchen and get some tea and breakfast for our lady. Quickly now, quickly.”
The girl dropped her valise and ran into the house before Beth could give directions. Beth started to follow her, but a hand on her arm stopped her. She looked up over her shoulder at Miss Fairchild.
“Come now, Miss McConnell, you are due at the church at noon and we have much to do,” Miss Fairchild said in a tone that brooked no disobedience.
* * * *
The next few hours were spent in a flurry of bathing, powdering, dressing. Beth found herself coughing in a gardenia-scented cloud, her hair bound tightly in curl papers.
Finally, Miss Fairchild excused herself. “I shall be back very shortly, Madam.”
Mary followed her out and closed the door. Beth breathed a sigh of relief, but a knocking at the door sent new tension tightening her neck muscles.
“Yes, enter,” she said.
It was Polly, thank heaven, one of Mrs. Hazelwood’s servants. She wore a frown on her pretty brown face. “Miss Elizabeth, this came for you.”
She handed Beth an envelope.
“Thank you, Polly.”
The young woman hurried away and Beth closed the door, then tore into the wax seal. Instantly, she recognized the barely legible scratches—Joshua’s characteristic horrid script. Her eyes raced over his florid declarations of love hereafter.
You’ll never be happy with him. You’re too different; he’s a New York man, for God’s sake. He’s too cold for you. He’ll always put business before you.
Acid lurched up her throat. She tried to force it down.
She took another glance at the letter then tossed it into the unlit hearth.
Grey must care for her. He’d gifted her with a near fortune and he’d done it before the wedding, at a time when she could still cry off herself. And yet…what did money really mean to one of the richest gentlemen in America? Who was to say he wasn’t regretful about the money too.
Yet a bequest like that must be a statement.
All right, so Grey hadn’t written to her. What did it signify?
Oh, nothing—except she’d thought of naught but him and she hadn’t crossed his mind once, at least not strongly enough to move him to write to her. In a month, not even one single line.
Suppose he didn’t show up at the church?
Suppose he did show up, but only to inform her of his change of heart?
Suddenly, everything she’d eaten that morning came roiling up in her throat. She went rushing for the chamber pot.
Afterwards, her heart was beating so hard she feared she would faint. She glanced at the clock. Three hours until she had to be at the church. She couldn’t possibly wait three hours. If he no longer wanted her, she wanted to know now. Not at the church.
But what if he wasn’t even in town? What if—
/>
Well, then she’d have an answer one way or the other, wouldn’t she?
She went to the washstand and washed her mouth out—and paused mid-slosh.
I am not coming to the wedding. I couldn’t bear it. However, if you can’t bear it either, I’ll be waiting in my office. We can leave town immediately. You don’t have to face anyone or explain anything.
I love you with every fiber of my being. You hold the whole of my future happiness in your hands.
The closing lines echoed traitorously in her mind. Lines she’d never expected to read.
Joshua wanted her.
He loved her.
He had loved her all this time.
He would be waiting for her. She spat the water out and rinsed her mouth again until the foul taste of sickness was gone.
What nonsense. Joshua had abandoned her once before. He had broken her heart.
But he wanted her now. He was waiting for her…
She glanced up in the mirror and caught a glance of that foolish girl who had loved Joshua so completely. Her mouth went dry and acrid as copper pennies.
She ran to her desk and fumbled through her letterbox for some paper. Finding nothing but an old letter, she flipped it over, then yanked the inkwell open. She hurriedly dipped her quill several times over, then wrote in furious, fast letters slanting sideways on the page.
I must see you. Right away. Else I don’t know what I shall do.
She underscored the ‘right away’ several times, then folded the paper, ran over and gave the bell pull several jerks. She waited by the door, tapping her foot in manic time.
A soft knock sounded and she flung the door open. Polly stood there, her large brown eyes wider than ever.
Beth shoved the note at her. “Please get this to Mr. Sexton as quickly as possible.” She gave the address of the little house on Cherry Street. “If he’s not there, then send it to his offices on Water Street.”
Chapter Nine
“Are you certain about this?”
Grey left off tying his cravat and cut his gaze away from his dressing room mirror to where Thomas Watson sprawled in a wingchair.
“As certain as a man can be about such matters,” Grey replied tersely.
Will hovered about, fussing with a brush at the already immaculate dark blue jacket hanging on the wooden valet. It was irritating the very devil out of him.
“Will, go see if Mrs. Reilly has any breakfast prepared yet.”
Will nodded. “Very good, sir.”
When the door had closed behind the servant, Grey breathed a sigh of relief. He’d gotten scant little sleep over the past weeks. With the embargo lifted, he felt pressure to personally oversee the launching of each and every available Sexton ship. The coast wasn’t yet blockaded but who knew how long until it would be? And Madison might set another embargo in place at any time.
He had intended to write to Beth, truthfully he had. But each day his mind had been so consumed with business he’d feared he would be too brisk. What did he know of penning letters to a fiancée? How could certain passionate feelings ever be done justice in mere words scrawled on a page? How could he possibly show the truth of his heart? Especially after what had passed between them on the evening of his departure. Day after day, he’d put the matter off. Or worse, under the strains of getting ready for war, he’d been so preoccupied he’d forgotten the matter completely.
Damn it, he wasn’t used to having someone else’s feelings to consider.
Then, suddenly, it had been time to return to Philadelphia. Realizing it, he’d suddenly been overcome with a desperate desire to return as quickly as possible. The desire had been so great it had disturbed him. For the sake of his personal discipline, he’d purposely forced himself to by-pass Philadelphia and stop in Baltimore to settle some pending business.
Thomas cleared his throat. The sound dragged Grey from his thoughts.
“What?” Grey snapped.
“When I arrived in town yesterday and heard you had delayed your return, I hoped you’d come to your senses.”
Grey gave his cravat a couple more tweaks. “I was held over in Baltimore. There were just so many pressing details. People refuse to plan ahead and then, when they do, they refuse to communicate in clear terms. There’s always some crisis.”
“That’s why other men delegate such matters—especially on the eve of their own wedding,” Thomas said dryly.
“Other men have lost their businesses with all the war and embargoes. These are difficult times.”
“Other men aren’t worth what you are worth.”
“The bigger one’s business is, the further and harder it will fall when it fails, and the more people will be hurt.”
Thomas sighed. “Well, you’ve always been stubborn and knotty-headed, there’s no denying it. Take this sudden seriousness over Miss McConnell. Grey, you cannot know her. Not fully, else you wouldn’t dare dream of making her your wife.”
Well then, here it was. The little drama he’d hoped his friend would have the tact not to enact.
Grey turned and slowly, deliberately, folded his arms over his chest as he met Thomas’s gaze. “I know her.”
“No. You. Don’t.”
“Thomas, believe me. I know all about her.”
Thomas cocked a brow. “Oh yes? Tell me honestly, how did you meet her?”
“Mrs. Hazelwood introduced us. She has great affection and esteem for Elizabeth.” He slowed his tongue to better smooth the lie. Mrs. Hazelwood had agreed to back this fiction, for Beth’s sake. Of course, he’d told Mrs. Hazelwood he’d met Beth at Mrs. Bickle’s Inn. He didn’t know if she believed him or only chose to believe him.
Thomas scoffed loudly. “Of all the ridiculous blather—save that story for others. I know her too—knew her first, I presume. And I certainly didn’t meet her in some polite parlor with an introduction by a society hostess. I first saw her at Mrs. Bickle’s Inn. She was playing the piano. Of course she caught my eye—she’s startlingly beautiful. But she seemed a decent girl.”
The emptiness in Grey’s stomach became an aching, acid roiling void. An image of Thomas’s body covering Beth’s, of her pale white limbs clinging to him as he impaled her again and again, took hold of his mind. It grew in vivid detail until it threatened to erase years of memories. Memories of shared commiserations between himself and Thomas at Harvard. Standing up for each other at their weddings. Sharing the joy of their children’s milestones.
Grey took a steadying breath and forced the erotic tableau from his mind. “Thomas, I don’t think you should say any more.”
“You must know this,” Thomas said, his calm, determined manner giving no sign he understood how he tempted the Devil’s own violence with his ill-favored importuning. “I take coffee at Mrs. Bickle’s often when I am here—it is a favorite haunt of some of my business acquaintances. One day it was raining and I was leaving and she asked me to give her a ride home in my carriage. After that, she didn’t play the lady, if you understand my meaning.”
Grey fisted his hands at his sides. Thomas was his oldest friend. He’d do well to remember that. The past can’t be changed. Can’t be changed. He let the words repeat in his head. A litany of sanity to cling to.
Thomas sighed with much drama. “Of course, afterwards, once I knew what kind of girl she was, I shunned her like the plague. I was of half a mind to inform Mrs. Bickle what kind of person she had employed. But I decided to be merciful.”
Thomas sat back and tossed his head back with a superior shake.
Grey’s stomach unknotted and something filled that empty space. Perverse, dark amusement. He knew the sort of life Thomas had led since his wife’s death. Thomas would have been just as eager to secure Beth as a mistress as he himself had been. No man could possess Beth’s beauty, know her passion, and be satisfied with just once. And Thomas suffered from an overweening and perhaps underserved pride when it came to his women.
Grey chuckled. “So she refused to see you a
gain?”
Thomas shifted in his seat and crossed one leg over the other, then braced his hands over his knee. His jaw protruded forward and he blinked in rapid succession. “That’s not it at all, Sexton. I simply don’t care to keep company with girls like that.”
Grey shook his head. “I find the whole aspect of holding women to blame for sex tiresome.”
A pang tapped at his chest wall. An echo of the terrible remorse he’d felt after he’d left Philadelphia, after the frightening eruption of feeling between himself and Beth. Her defiance. His jealous possessiveness.
But it was true. It was insane for men to hold women to blame for sex. Women had needs the same as men. If a woman was unmarried and had no sexual outlets, what was she to do?
And Beth had come back to him. Only to him. “She’s just young and impetuous. Surely you remember being so yourself?”
Thomas’ brows rose and he sat up straighter. “She’s not just young and impetuous, she’s—well, I shall just say it bluntly. She’s a harlot.”
Grey’s tolerance vaporized. “Take care. You’re speaking of the woman who shall soon be my wife. If you don’t cease, then it will be too late to avoid the consequences for us both. Do you understand what I am saying?”
Thomas paled a degree or two and sat up straighter in the chair. “All right, I apologize… I just can’t believe you’re serious about this.”
“It’s none of your affair.”
“Think about this, Grey.”
“I have. Deeply.”
“Oh, good God. Yes, she’s beautiful, but she’s not worth the price—or the risk to you and your cherished business.”
Grey turned back to the mirror and gave his cravat a final tweak. He forced his anger down. Watson was merely disappointed because Grey hadn’t chosen his daughter to wed. Yes, it would have been advantageous and a bit sentimental to link their families in marriage, but it wasn’t to be. “I was never going to marry Jenna. She’s too young, too innocent for my blood. Christ, I’ve seen her grow up—I feel like her uncle.”
“It’s not about Jenna, it’s about you. Yes, she’d have made you an excellent wife, and yes, I wanted the familial connection to you. But any number of young ladies in New York would make you a good wife. Why does it have to be this McConnell chit? What’s so special about her?”
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