by Diana Palmer
And he was. He stared at her in their parlor with narrow dark eyes that took in every line of her slender body in the well-fitted dress.
“Where did you get that?” he asked abruptly.
“Rich’s. Do you like it?”
Like it! The silhouette of the gown enhanced her perfect hourglass figure, and the neckline drooped to show the soft curves of her white breasts. Her arms were bare, as he’d never seen them, and they were round and white and soft above the white gloves she wore with her gown. She hadn’t used lip rouge, but her pretty lips were red just the same, and her cheeks were pink with excitement. In her hair, she wore an egret, a heron plume on a jet-jeweled comb. She was breathtaking and very stylish, for a woman who’d been raised in the country, outside society.
“You look very nice,” he said formally.
She could have said the same about him. Dark clothes suited him. He was devastating in white tie, but she was too shy to tell him that.
“Thank you,” she said politely, gripping her small purse.
“Shall we go?”
He opened the door and escorted her down to the waiting carriage. She was very nervous and kept picking at her purse for something to keep her hands busy. She wasn’t overly fond of Eli Calverson, and she had grave misgivings about John’s reaction to Diane. Claire knew that she might look passable in a nice gown, but she was no match for the elegant and beautiful Diane. Only love would have given her the edge, and she didn’t have John’s.
“How many people will be there?” she asked after a long silence, broken only by the sound of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestone street.
“Just the Calversons, Mr. Whitfield and his wife and son, and us.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a small, intimate gathering, not a party,” he returned gently, flicking lint from his sleeve. He glanced at her approvingly. “Oh, and one other thing, Claire,” he added, leaning toward her with a wicked smile. “Please refrain from making remarks about the motorcar.”
She glared at him. “Why?”
“Because Calverson thinks they’re inventions of the devil, that’s why. Bankers have to bow to convention to get business. Speaking of which,” he said suddenly, “do you remember the dog whose leg I mended?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the lady who owns him withdrew every penny she had in old Wolford’s bank and deposited it in ours.” He chuckled at Claire’s delighted expression. “That will show him to take a little more care with his driving.”
“Indeed it will. How delightful for your bank!”
“Calverson thought so, as well. Although,” he added, “I would have stopped just as quickly had she been a poor woman.”
“I knew that already, John,” Claire said. Her soft eyes lingered on his face, and he had to forcibly tear his own away from that adoration. He found himself thinking less often of Diane lately, although his heart was still sore from her loss. Claire was a charming companion. At times, he wondered what it would be like to have a real marriage with her. He thought more about it when he didn’t see Diane. He had been looking forward to tonight’s dinner, in any case, because his heart fed on the mere sight of her. But Claire’s appearance made him feel a sense of pride in his young wife. She would turn heads tonight.
IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG to get to the huge Calverson mansion. It had gingerbread woodwork and turret rooms, and it looked like a castle. As Claire mounted the front steps on John’s arm, she thought that it would never suit her; it was far too flashy. But Diane needed a showcase, and certainly this was it. Crystal chandeliers blazed through every long window, past exquisite white curtains. Even the staircase inside was hand-carved mahogany.
Diane came to meet them, barely managing a curt greeting for Claire before she went to John with her heart in her eyes and looked up at him with a hand on his sleeve.
“I’m so glad you could come,’ she said in her soft, husky voice. “Both of you,” she added reluctantly, glancing at Claire. “Mr. Whitfield’s business is so important to us right now. I hope you’ll both do your best to make him feel at home in Atlanta, and with the bank.”
“Certainly we will, my dear,” John said. His tone of voice was different when he spoke to Diane. His eyes as he looked at her were suddenly hungry and hot and full of pain. He tensed, because he hadn’t expected the feeling to rise in him so powerfully.
Diane saw it and her own eyes sparkled. She smiled coquettishly. “Why, John. You mustn’t look at me that way,” she whispered quickly, glancing toward the parlor door and totally unconcerned with Claire’s reaction to the byplay. “We must be careful. Eli already suspects—”
Before she could say another word, Eli Calverson came out into the hall to greet their guests, motioning impatiently for a hovering maid to take their coats. Diane took his arm and smiled up at him lovingly.
He flushed—and his good humor seemed to return. He patted Diane’s small hand and smiled at her before he turned to greet John. “There you are, my boy. Glad you could come. And how nice to see you again, too, Claire. You’re both looking well,” he said pleasantly, shaking John’s hand before he turned to kiss Claire’s. His eyes narrowed unpleasantly as he looked at her. “I do hope you don’t plan any trips in that motorcar in the near future, Claire. It could play havoc with Mr. Whitfield’s sensibilities. And we wouldn’t want to do anything to upset him, would we? It wouldn’t help John’s position at all.”
It was a veiled threat. She wished she could tell this fat toad what she thought of him. She didn’t dare. Her feathers were already ruffled from Diane’s tragic-queen performance. She smiled instead. “I haven’t much time for motorcars these days, Mr. Calverson,” she said, with quiet dignity.
“Glad to hear it,” he returned, and smiled more broadly. “Come in and meet our guests.”
He propelled them past Diane and into the parlor where a tall, silver-haired man was waiting. He looked bored and half out of humor. His wife, an insignificant little blonde woman dressed in pink, sat quietly on the velvet-covered couch, looking haunted. A tall, very good-looking young man about Claire’s age lounged with one hand on the mantel. He looked toward the newcomers and the boredom abruptly left his face. He smiled at Claire.
She was taken aback when he came forward as the introductions were made and possessed himself of Claire’s hand.
“No one told me that Mr. Hawthorn had such a lovely daughter,” he said, oblivious to the sudden shocked silence around him. “I’m Ted Whitfield, and I certainly hope to see more of you while we’re in Atlanta,” he added, kissing her hand.
A viselike hand on her arm pulled her back to John’s side. He glared at the younger man, assailed by a surge of jealousy that shocked him. “I’m John Hawthorn. And this is Claire. My wife,” he added deliberately.
Ted wasn’t the least perturbed. He only grinned. He looked rakish, with his blond hair and blue eyes and handsome face. “Is she, now? Well, well.”
“Ted, mind your manners,” Mr. Whitfield said abruptly.
“Sure, Daddy,” he drawled.
“John is our vice president,” Eli continued, a little shaken by Ted’s unexpected behavior. “A worthy addition to the bank. He’s a Harvard graduate, you know.”
“I’m a Princeton man, myself,” Ted said.
“Which class?” John asked, with a mocking smile.
Ted looked uncomfortable. “Well, I haven’t actually graduated yet.”
“Oh?”
Amazing, Claire thought, listening, how easily John could imbue that word with shades of contempt and hauteur. Her husband was still very much an unknown quantity. He intimidated the younger man without even trying.
“But Ted is at the top of his class, aren’t you, my darling?” Mrs. Whitfield purred at her handsome son, glaring at John. “He’s very intelligent,” she added for good measure, her face flushed with irritation.
“Obviously,” John drawled.
“Would you like a drink before dinner?” Eli asked abrupt
ly, staring pointedly at John.
“I don’t think so,” John replied, glancing with raised brow at the brandy snifter in Ted’s hand. The look and the implication were enough to make everyone more uncomfortable, especially Diane.
Claire was surprised at the way John behaved toward Ted. The boy was young and harmless, but John seemed to find him offensive. Diane, on the other hand, was kindness itself to the young man, putting herself out to make him feel at home. Claire wondered if she was doing it on purpose, to chastise John for his rudeness to Ted on Claire’s behalf.
The dinner was an ordeal for Claire. Noah Whitfield seemed very straitlaced, and his conversation was limited to financial talk that went right over Claire’s head. Diane hung on every word, although Claire was certain that the woman didn’t understand anything about money except the spending of it. Perhaps her fascination with Mr. Whitfield had more to do with his wealth than his conversation, Claire thought wickedly.
After the meal, the ladies retired to the living room for conversation while the men closed the sliding doors into the parlor so that they could enjoy brandy and cigars.
“That was a lovely meal, Diane,” Mrs. Whitfield said. “You must have your cook share her broccoli soup recipe with mine.”
“I’ll certainly ask her, Jennifer,” Diane replied graciously. “My, what a lovely gown you’re wearing. Is it a Paris label?”
“Of course,” the older woman replied, with a smile. “Etienne Dupree. You must know of him.”
“Indeed.”
“And your gown certainly has the hallmark of Paris,” Jennifer added.
“How perceptive of you to notice! It’s Charmonne.”
They were shutting Claire out, and doing a magnificent job of it. She was made to feel the little country girl supping with her betters.
She stood up.
“Oh, excuse me, Claire. I didn’t mean to exclude you from our conversation,” Diane purred.
Claire gave her a level, unblinking look that made her color. “One of my mother’s cousins was a Baptist minister,” she said quietly. “I remember her telling me that he walked everywhere to preach, and that sometimes his shoes were incredibly muddy. One Sunday, while he was preaching, a young man in the audience kept looking at his dirty shoes with a sort of contempt. My cousin stopped in the middle of his sermon to remind the young man that God was surely more interested in the condition of his soul than in the state of his shoes.” She smiled as the message went home to the other two. “Sometimes it behooves us to remember that heaven has no social levels, and that beggars and queens will walk the same streets on that side of life.”
Mrs. Whitfield went red. “Well, of course they will. I certainly never meant any offense!”
“Nor I,” Diane said uncomfortably.
Claire’s eyes didn’t waver. “I have no envy of your position and wealth,” she said. “And I covet nothing of yours,” she added pointedly—and with a smile, despite her anger.
Diane got up from her chair, flushed. “It’s rather warm in here, isn’t it? I’ll have the maid damp down the fire.”
Claire was too polite to smirk, but she felt like it. The venomous serpent, playing up to John as if he belonged to her! At first she’d thought that Diane truly loved John and was devastated at losing him. She no longer believed it. Diane played with John like a cruel cat with a mouse. She flirted and teased, but there was no substance to it. John was handsome and a man of position, but Diane probably did not believe him to be her social equal, so he would never have been a true candidate for matrimony. She was certain now that Diane had only been teasing him with their earlier engagement.
John deserved someone better than Diane as an object for his affections. Claire might not have Diane’s beauty or her class, but she loved him. One day, that might be enough.
In the meantime, she was going to walk a straight and narrow path, careful not to push her way into John’s privacy or make him ashamed of her. But that didn’t mean she was going to let people like Diane and Mrs. Whitfield push her around just because she didn’t have what they considered a proper background.
The conversation was stilted and rather sparse until it was time to rejoin the men. John noticed it at once and glared at Claire. Of course, he wouldn’t think it was anyone’s fault but her own if there were problems, she thought with resignation.
Ted took her arm and led her to the sofa, stalling what John had been about to ask her. He sat down beside her and engaged her in conversation about her motorcar, which he seemed to find fascinating.
“I understand that you can actually work on the beast,” Ted said, his eyes lighting up. “I have a friend at Princeton who’s pounced on Max Planck’s new quantum theory—vaporous stuff, quite incomprehensible to any but physics majors—but he has an interest in motorcars. He built an electric one, which he runs around the town. It’s something like that quadricycle that Henry Ford was trying to market in Detroit.”
“Henry Ford is a crackpot,” Mrs. Whitfield said irritably, still smarting from Claire’s earlier rebuke. “These silly machines are only a fad. They’ll die out in a year or so.”
“I believe that may not be the case,” Claire rebutted politely. “They’re going to be quite important in the future. They can last longer than horses, and they’re impervious to weather and illness.”
“You see?” Ted said. “Why, Ford has a factory in Detroit. And Mr. Olds—”
“I have an Oldsmobile.” Claire interrupted him demurely. “It has a curved dash and it’s quite delightful to drive.”
“You must take me for a spin, Claire,” Ted said enthusiastically. “I should love to ride in your motorcar!”
Ted’s mother was outraged. So was John. Mr. Calverson looked as if he’d like to toss Claire out on her head.
“So should I,” Mr. Whitfield said surprisingly. “I agree with Claire. Motorcars are the way of the future. I can even foresee machinery that will replace plow horses in the fields. Yes, mechanization is sure to come. Wise men will seek investments that pertain to this trend, and make fortunes at it.”
Mr. Calverson did a hundred-and-eighty-degree about-face. “Just what I’ve been saying all along,” he agreed, grinning. “I’m sure Claire would love to take you both motoring, wouldn’t you, Claire?”
“Next time we’re in town, we’ll make a point of it,” Mr. Whitfield said, smiling at Claire. “I’m afraid we have to be on our way back to Charleston in the morning. It’s a long journey, even by train. It’s been quite an experience to meet you, young woman. Unique.” He looked at Calverson evenly. “If this is the sort of executive you employ, then I’ll be proud to deposit my funds in your bank when we move our office to Atlanta, Calverson. Your people have amazing foresight. Even their wives,” he added.
Claire had to fight back a smug glance at her husband. She only smiled, and ignored the icy looks she was getting from Mrs. Whitfield and Diane.
“WELL,” JOHN SAID ON THE way home, chuckling, “you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“I like motorcars, and I’m in good company.”
“Such as the madcap Ted?”
She glanced at him over the high collar of her cloak. “Ted is like my uncle Will. He looks ahead.”
His eyes narrowed. He lounged against the door with his arms folded, staring at her. “What did you say in the living room to get Mrs. Whitfield and Diane so ruffled?”
“I reminded them that it doesn’t matter how much money you have when you get to heaven,” she said shortly.
“That was hardly politic, in your hostess’s home.”
“Was it politic for her to be all over you like honey?” she shot back, red-faced with bad temper. “Or cooing up at you with her husband in the next room?”
His eyebrows lifted. “You were playing up to Ted Whitfield.”
“I was not,” she said, with dignity. “He was playing up to me. I have better taste than to cuckold my husband,” she added in a pointed reference to Diane.
> “Stop right there,” he said in a dangerously soft tone.
“If she’d wanted you, she’d have married you before Eli Calverson came along,” she continued, unabashed. “But you weren’t good enough for her. Now that she’s got the golden gander, she can afford to make calf eyes at you behind his back. You’re too honorable to take her up on it, after all.”
He averted his face. “Diane is none of your affair.”
“I know that,” she said. “I won’t interfere, so long as you remember you’re a married man.”
“I hardly need reminding,” he said shortly. He leaned back against the seat. “The bank’s Thanksgiving social is a week from tonight,” he added coolly. “I believe the Whitfields are coming down again especially for it.”
“How nice.” She tucked her handkerchief in her purse. “I don’t suppose it would be kind to remind you that you and Mr. Calverson were getting nowhere until Ted mentioned my motorcar.”
He glared at her. “No. It wouldn’t.”
She smiled. He was miffed because she’d maligned his sweetheart. Well, she wasn’t going to back down an inch—and the sooner he knew it, the better.
HE IGNORED HER FOR the next week. She thought it was out of pique at the things she’d said about Diane. Actually it was his own confusion that kept him away. His jealousy of Ted Whitfield had shocked and puzzled him. He refused to consider why he’d been jealous of his wife, when he was supposedly in love with Diane.
The night of the bank party, Claire had to go downstairs to find John, because he hadn’t waited in their sitting room for her. She was swathed in her black velvet cloak with jet embroidery around the collar. The cloak concealed a dress she’d designed for herself—and had been able to finish in the week since Diane’s dinner party. She was certain that it was going to shock her husband, and it would serve him right. She might not have Diane’s beauty, but she had a better figure, and this dress was just the thing to show it off. Done in white satin and black organza, it had a tantalizing neckline that rose in swaths of black and white satin to make wide straps across her white shoulders. In her hair she wore a white egret on a black velvet-covered comb. Around her neck she wore a strand of pearls that had been her grandmother’s. She looked elegant and sexy, all at once, and the close fit of the gown emphasized her slender young figure. But John hadn’t seen it. And he wouldn’t, until they were at the party.
