“What?” he asked, with all the reluctance he would experience if he were to stick his neck into a guillotine.
She lifted her chin and such strength of character shone in her eyes, such determination and assurance of purpose, it took his breath. It dazzled him, holding him bemused. He stared at her, transfixed by her inner beauty and knowing all the while she was leagues above him. She was like a brilliant shining star. No…an angel.
He still held his breath, hoping against all hope for mercy.
For mercy from an angel might just be the thing to heal him.
She opened her mouth and he felt a peculiar pinching in his chest. “I feel sorry for you.”
She said the words so softly, so calmly, yet they hit him with gale-force impact. He flinched and staggered back a few steps. Maybe he even felt a bit ill. But she was turning and leaving.
He let her go.
* * * *
Emily sat at the little table in her boarding house room, wrapping her blanket more tightly about her shoulders to protect herself against the drafts as the wind howled outside. She forced herself to take another mouthful of her supper.
Black pudding.
A mix of pig’s blood cooked with flour. She forced a pleasant smile as she scooped some up with her spoon.
It’s nourishing. She lifted it to her mouth. It’s also filling.
She put the spoonful into her mouth and chewed. Then she grimaced.
Disgusting.
She fought the urge to spit it out and forced herself to swallow, her throat muscles seeming to work spasmodically. It wasn’t really so bad, she supposed. But months and months of a steady diet of it would put anyone off. Once she was able, she would never touch the stuff again. She had rented the least expensive rooms she could find and kept herself strictly to the most affordable foods.
She scooped up another spoonful then lifted it to her lips. She wrinkled her nose. The odor of the black substance seemed to have suddenly grown stronger, more repulsive. She turned the spoon over and let the pudding drop to the bowl then shoved it away, letting her spoon land on the table with a clatter.
She would never gain her former weight back at this rate.
But if she forced another bite, she feared she would retch.
Oh, how she longed for a crisp, shiny red apple!
Or a sweet, succulent pear.
She couldn’t even allow herself to think of a golden pineapple! But it was too late, she could easily imagine the exquisite pleasure of the tart-sweet juice gliding over her tongue. She widened her eyes at the power of her imagination to conjure exactly what she should avoid thinking on. She picked up the remaining crust of day-old bread and began chewing on it. Dry, mealy texture spread over tongue moments before the stale aftertaste made her grimace.
What she wouldn’t give for a little creamy, salty butter and tangy, chewy orange marmalade—
Stop it! She chewed more decidedly. For now, she must economize. She would eat plain, stale bread and black pudding for as long as necessary until she saw her book in print. She must make the money that Mr. Dalton had paid her last.
The image of his golden hair, his elegant features as he bent over her in bed, flashed into her mind. Alex…
No! She forced the image down.
It was quickly replaced by the image of him on the morning after. Trying to take control over her life as if to do so were his right. Commanding her. Taking back the money that he had agreed to give her. Money she had earned!
Money that she had so desperately needed.
He had stood before her and offered her his help, but only if she relinquished to him her authority to control her own affairs—her own life!
Only if she became his kept woman. His mistress.
What right had he to demand those things?
Just because he was a man, because he was older, because he possessed wealth and power?
No, she would not think of him. Not tonight, not on the eve of her appointment with Mr. Jefferson. To distract herself, she reached across the table for her notebooks. Her hand stumbled over a smaller journal that lay open.
She glanced down, seeing her attempts to capture a broad forehead, a narrow, straight nose and strong jaw line. Feeble attempts that never quite captured her memories.
She slammed the journal closed, then hurled it across the chamber. How foolish of her to indulge herself so. He was a part of her past. She should never think of him again. And she would not.
Determinedly, she opened her notebook with the draft of the mariners’ book. One by one, she gazed upon the faces of the men she had struggled to bring to life on the page from their relatives’ descriptions. Here and there, she saw the flaws, her failure to match what existed on the page with what her imagination held.
She sighed. She had done the best she possibly could. She had worked carefully for hours and hours upon each of them. There came a time when she must trust in her ability and her talents, and send her work out into the world for others to judge.
Her belly gave a little lurch at that thought.
She sighed and refocused her mind on something more pleasant.
Tomorrow, she would use the money that Mr. Jefferson had sent to her for a hired carriage. She would travel all the way out to his mansion on the Schuylkill River to meet with her benefactor. She could feel her anticipation tingling in the blood in her veins.
All her careful planning, hard work and sacrifices might soon pay off.
By this time tomorrow, it might well be goodbye to blood pudding and bitter boarding house coffee. And the mariners in Algeria—would they be one step closer to freedom? Yes, hopefully they would. Surely, her vision was correct, and her work would turn the hearts of the nation.
And no, she would not lay awake, thinking of Mr. Dalton. Not tonight.
* * * *
It had only been a week since the day Emily had left and Alex still couldn’t get his mind off her. It made other business hard to focus on. Even his own inner demons had to take a secondary place to his new, all-consuming obsession. What was she doing? Was she feeding herself regularly? Who was she seeing? Would she ever come back to him?
I feel sorry for you.
Her words echoed in his head. He couldn’t stop hearing them. Oh, she was far more perceptive than Alicia had ever been. It had taken Emily only one night to discover the empty void beneath his façade.
But still, he needed to be able to do something for her. To protect her against herself and her inexperience. She was all alone in the world and she needed guidance.
He had someone take rooms in the boarding house where she was staying; it hadn’t been difficult to find her. But what if she took it into her head to leave the city? What if she couldn’t be easily traced once that happened?
Christ. Had he misjudged the depth of her stubbornness and done the wrong thing by not giving her more money? He pictured her, going hungry, growing thinner. Forced to let men take her to their rooms—
“I am soon to retire from my position. I am done with politics.” The red-haired Virginian’s drawl broke into Alex’s thoughts. He’d come to visit the Secretary of State, Mr. Thomas Jefferson, here at his house on the banks of the Schuylkill River, for a teatime appointment. But he’d come early to discuss matters that concerned them both. The two men shared a deep concern about the fate of American mariners being held in Barbary since the vessels Maria of Boston and Dauphin of Philadelphia had been captured in the summer of 1785.
Alex looked up just as the other man leant back in his chair and stretched his tall, lanky frame.
“I cannot wait to return to Monticello and put all of this behind me. My daughters and my grandchildren need me more than this country does.” Jefferson gave a slightly wistful sigh.
Alex nodded and gave the appropriate, polite response but, in Alex’s opinion, Jefferson’s withdrawal had more to do with the upcoming fight over what to do about the Barbary pirate situation. Just this October past, the British had made a truce with Portugal and the
two Portuguese ships that had been guarding the Straits of Gibraltar had been called off.
It left American shipping without protection in the Mediterranean and the easy prey of the pirates. Jefferson’s views on handling the Barbary situation and his belief in the need for a national navy were in conflict with those of the Democratic-Republican Party, to which he owed allegiance. The issue of a national navy promised to be one of the most contentious debates in the coming congressional session.
“Last year, a young authoress asked for my help in contacting family members of the Dauphin’s captured crew who live here so that she could interview them for a book.”
Alex startled at the abrupt change of subject from something of such seriousness to some bored society miss and her book. “A captivity novel?”
Damned sensationalized novels that portrayed horrific experiences for vulgar tastes. It surprised Alex that Jefferson would even mention it.
A slight smile stretched Jefferson’s lips and he shook his head. “No, this work documents the real effects such loss has on the families and community while striving, in a surprisingly effective way, for objectivity and avoiding gross over-sentimentality. She includes sketches of these men based on the descriptions given to her. Very evocative—touches the heart in a way that is hard to put into words.”
Alex paused. Yes, there was merit in trying to humanize an issue that people had grown too desensitized about. “It sounds unique.”
“All the more remarkable given her youth.” Jefferson’s hazel eyes grew thoughtful.
“She’s young, then?”
“Yes, seventeen or eighteen—thereabouts.”
Oh, no. Not something like this. He’d had his fill of idealistic young women and their youth, naïveté, skittish stubbornness. And he couldn’t picture such a creature turning her head away from her own view to look at the deeper issues of the world. “It’s surprising that such a young girl would turn her interest to such a serious topic.”
Jefferson’s expression grew thoughtful and he nodded slowly. “Yes, well, it’s a personal connection. Her father was a mariner on the Maria out of Boston. Seven years ago he perished from plague while still in Algerian captivity. Her grandmother died in the recent fever. She has no source of income, no kin to depend on. It is a troubling situation. But I would like to see this work published in pamphlet form.”
Alex nodded. “For immediate distribution in Congress, free of charge.”
“Exactly. But for now, her most pressing need is for decent lodgings. She’s living alone in a boarding house—like a girl on the town—and it just doesn’t seem right. If we worked with her, it would be best if she could be living in a situation with an older woman around.” Jefferson stood. “Well, then, would you like to meet her?”
“Of course,” Alex said.
Jefferson moved in his loose-jointed way across the room, then leaned out of the door, speaking quietly to a servant.
They waited and discussed how the Portugal treaty would affect trade. Alex could barely taste the fine French wine Jefferson had given him. The last thing he needed right now was the additional responsibility of some knotty-headed, bluestocking artist girl. Well, Aunt Rachel could handle her need for room and board and whatever else a starving artist needed. He’d have a look at this girl’s work. If he believed it really matched Jefferson’s confidence, then yes, he’d provide the funds to have it printed. He needn’t bother himself over her further than that.
The door came open. He looked up just as a girl of medium height entered. Her dark curls bounced as she walked slowly, almost hesitantly into the study. As she passed the window, sunlight glinted on those dark locks, illuminating them to a glowing wine color.
Before his brain could react, his sensual memory recognized every line and graceful, sensual sway of that lithe little frame. And his body reacted accordingly, all the blood rushing from his head to his cock at once.
Halfway into the chamber, she turned to him. Her large, sherry-brown eyes widened and her face paled. She froze like a doe caught unawares.
“Ah, Miss Eliot.” Jefferson’s boots echoed on the hardwood floor.
A momentary joy beat through Alex’s blood, followed by the most profound thought. He had her exactly where he needed her to be.
Totally under his control.
He would not fail this time. He would see her safe and well-positioned in life. There would be no disaster this time.
He could never have her.
Not the way he’d intended a week ago, keeping her as a spoilt, petted mistress. Possessing her delicious sensuality and compelling inner fire for his own. No, she wasn’t some impulsive, willful girl who had run from her family. She was a good girl who had fallen on hard times and trouble, who had been forced to sell her virtue—a prime target for the first wolf she came across.
And he had been that wolf.
He’d have to find her a respectable husband. It was the very least he could do in terms of making up for what he’d done to her.
Jefferson was approaching her. He placed his hand lightly on her shoulder. Alex’s chest tightened in a strange way at the sight. God, Jefferson had no designs on her, he knew that. But the tightness was there anyway. The same burning possessiveness he’d felt that night in front of City Tavern. How the hell would he ever release her to another man?
It didn’t matter—he would have to. But first he’d have to see her fashionably clothed and introduced to the right people. He wouldn’t release her to just anyone. It would have to be a gentleman and someone worthy of her.
Restlessness quickened in his legs and he suddenly wanted to collect her and be gone. He came to his feet just a second after Jefferson did.
Jefferson led her to Alex. “Emily, this is Mr. Alexander Dalton.” He flashed one of his quick, shy smiles at Alex. “Good news, my dear. He has agreed to pay for the printing of your book.”
Her eyes were so huge, showing every bit of what seemed to be astonishment. Yes, he could relate to that. Good God, how dim-witted he had been not to think of her the moment a willful girl, a starving artist, alone in the city, had been mentioned? A renewed sense of the change in situation made Alex almost limp with relief. All those interminable nights full of worry were over.
She’s right where I need her to be.
The chamber still swam in Emily’s vision. The jolt was simply too much. Alex was too young and certainly too handsome to be anyone’s ‘benefactor.’ Her head had been spinning ever since Jefferson had spoken Alex’s name this morning.
But seeing him here had been a shock all over again. As if before had been merely a theory, distant from her. As if it somehow might not be true. As if somehow she might still be able to keep her wits, pride and freedom and still get the funding for her book to be printed.
Jefferson had said that Alex was rumored to be the second wealthiest man in Philadelphia but no one knew for certain how much wealth he held. His father had owned a sizable mercantile company but, upon his inheritance, Alex had sold it in its entirety to Sexton Shipping. Now he was a man who did not have to work but rather made his money investing. She’d known he was well off but was he really that wealthy?
His gray-blue eyes held hers unwaveringly, piercing her with their intensity until she shifted on her feet. She saw no sign of her charming defender from the Blue Duck. No sign of her gentle lover. Instead, she saw everything Jefferson had described.
And it frightened the very devil out of her.
“I want to see this book.” Alex’s voice sounded hard, commanding.
“Of course,” Jefferson said. He released her shoulder, then motioned toward his desk. “Please have a seat at my desk, Mr. Dalton.”
Alex walked over and sat while Jefferson spread her sketchbook open. Alex’s eyes flickered over the illustrations that had been the cornerstone of her life for over a year and a half. Then his eyes returned to hers, still piercing, still burning her.
She swallowed. What was going through his mind? H
ad she insulted him so deeply with her actions and her rejection of his protection that he would refuse to help her now?
“I want a contract written up between Miss Eliot and myself.” Alex—no, he was no longer her ‘Alex’—Mr. Dalton’s words shook her back into the moment.
Contract. Contract?! Contracts were about cold, hard decisions. Legal facts and rights. How could anyone contract art? Her forehead ached and she tried to relax her frown.
“A contract?” Jefferson said, glancing at Emily. She could see the surprise in his eyes. Her shock had not been misplaced. “All right, I can see to that.”
“No.” Alex’s tone was quiet yet held a hard, commanding forcefulness that few men would question. Clearly, despite his relative youth, he was used to wielding his power. Like a defendant awaiting sentencing, Emily’s heart pounded jaggedly against her rib cage as he continued. “I want to send for my cousin Peter Van Moerdijk to come here straight away.”
“He’s a New York man, isn’t he?” Did Jefferson’s voice carry a hint of suspicion? Perhaps she’d only imagined it.
“He’s my cousin and my brother’s personal attorney. I won’t expend a penny on this project until I have an agreement on paper.”
Just what did they think they were talking about here? This was her art. Her personal vision. She stood up straighter and lifted her chin. “Well, I say I do not agree to any contracts involving my work and this gentleman.”
Jefferson’s hands tightened on her shoulders, as if she might be considering flight. “Now, my dear, don’t go getting yourself in a state before you know his terms. They may be very reasonable.”
“I don’t believe they will be. He doesn’t have a reasonable demeanor.”
“Miss Eliot, what matters the most to you?” Jefferson asked.
“Getting my book printed—”
“And that is what matters to me as well.” Jefferson let go of her shoulders and led her to a blue brocade wingchair. “Please, just sit and let’s work out all of the details.”
With her legs weak from all the emotional shocks, she gladly sat. But she kept her spine rigid and refused to settle against the chair back. She wouldn’t show weakness in front of Dalton. Not now.
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