by Joann Simon
"Oh, no, of course, I would not!" She was fairly dancing with anticipation.
He dropped his voice, his expression dead serious. "I was a pirate . . . captained my own vessel, the SKULLBONES.
There was not a ship that could outrun her. Ah, what times! The blood we let in the West Indies; the gold and booty we took. Quite enough to set me up very handsomely in New York when I arrived." He lifted a forkful of food to his mouth, chewed it nonchalantly. "That was in the past, of course. Now my income is quite honestly earned."
"Oh! My!" the young lady gasped, pressing her hand to her breast. "I—I had no idea."
"No, most do not. And we would not want it to get around. Some of these New Yorkers can be so peculiar and old-fashioned in their morals."
"T-true."
"Morals which I am delighted to see you do not share."
"N-o-o-o."
"Of course, as I said," he frowned, "I would not want to learn that word of this confidence had gotten round." He carelessly picked up the rather sharp knife at the side of his plate.
An incoherent noise escaped her lips.
"Are you quite all right? A sip of water, perhaps? You appear to be choking."
Christopher's dinner partner could only shake her head in the negative, her blue eyes now staring at him as though he'd suddenly sprouted horns. He covered his mouth with his napkin to hide a grin, and throughout the rest of the meal the young woman had not another word to say to him.
On most occasions he did not have to resort to such drastic measures, and he sailed through the social scene unaffected—until he met a woman who was quite out of the ordinary.
Bayard came to him in his office late one afternoon with two beautifully lettered invitations in hand. He threw them on the desk in front of Christopher and wasted no time in getting to what was on his mind.
"From Nathaniel Wilson. Invitations to a reception he is giving at his Broad Way mansion this weekend."
"Wilson?" Christopher shook his head. He'd been working on accounts, and the figures were still in his mind. "Yes, Wilson, as in N & D Wilson & Company." Christopher sat back, instantly alert. N & D Wilson were the biggest textile wholesalers in New York and proprietors of several booming dry goods shops in the city. He had been eager for the opportunity to get them as one of his accounts. The goods he brought in from New England would go quickly on their shelves, but Nathaniel Wilson, the man who made all the decisions in the firm, had been unavailable for months. "I thought he was out of town." "Yes, he was abroad visiting some of the British textile manufacturers. He has just returned to the city. Do you realize what this invitation means, Dunlap?" Christopher nodded. "How many others are invited?"
"From what I understand, it is a select gathering, the creme de la creme."
"Well, there is no question about attending, is there?"
"None at all."
Christopher picked up one of the engraved cards. "Reception, Dancing and Supper Following," it read. "Formal, I gather," he said, raising a questioning eyebrow to Bayard.
"White stockings and all."
"We had best hire a carriage then. I will pick you up at eight forty-five?"
Bayard grinned.
The two gentlemen, debonair in silk-lined capes, top hats, long-tailed dark evening jackets over pale waistcoats, knee breeches, and immaculate white stockings, were ushered through the grand doorway of the Wilson mansion at precisely 9:05 that Saturday night. They were received in a large marble-floored hallway where their hats and capes were taken, and then led through into a long drawing room to the left. A stately, very English butler announced them as they stepped forward into a room furnished with priceless European antiques and lit by three candle-filled chandeliers.
A portly but robust man of medium height immediately came forward to greet them. He extended his hand.
"Dunlap, Bayard. I am happy to see you could come. Nathaniel Wilson."
"Delighted to meet you, sir." Christopher returned the firm handshake.
"I have heard a great deal about you, young man, since my return."
"I am honored."
"And, of course, Robert Bayard is a name already well known in New York circles."
Bayard bowed his head in acknowledgment.
"You gentlemen would both appear to have been doing well since the war." His bright eyes were merry, yet acute.
Christopher smiled. "We have endeavored to stay in the black."
"I have just returned from abroad myself."
"So I have heard. You had a worthwhile trip?"
"Extremely so. Ah, but now is not the time to discuss business, and I do get carried away. Perhaps we three will have an opportunity to speak together later. For now, come in and join the company." He led them forward. "These gentlemen I believe you know. Phillip Hone, George Griswold. Mrs. Griswold."
The gentlemen shook hands, and Christopher and Robert paid polite compliments to the lady.
"And Jerome Weitz, another up-and-coming entrepreneur in our town."
Christopher had heard of Weitz, a banker and real estate speculator who, like Astor, had lent money to hurting merchants and property owners during the war and, through foreclosures on delinquent mortgages, was now the possessor of considerable real estate holdings on the island. With postwar property values climbing to the skies, the man's future wealth was assured. Christopher nodded to the dark-haired gentleman before him. Weitz looked to be in his late thirties. He was tall and slender, with sharp yet attractive features and brown eyes that fairly snapped with intelligence.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Weitz."
"And you, too. Robert and I have had the pleasure before. How goes the brokerage business?"
"In the last year, quite well." Bayard smiled.
"Yes, those of us who survived the war should prosper now. Good to see you again."
Nathaniel led them off. "One other party I would like you gentlemen to meet." He paused near where a group of men and women were chatting by the fireplace, then motioned to a woman at the back of the group. "Rhea, come here for a moment, will you?"
A raven-haired young woman in a ruby satin gown stepped around her companions and took Wilson's arm.
Christopher could almost hear Bayard's intake of breath, and he was similarly impressed. Here was one of the most beautiful women he had seen in a long time—a classic beauty, tall of stature, slender of form. Her lips were full and red, her features even—perfect—her face an oval from which her black hair swept back from a high, white forehead into a coronet of thick braids wrapped about the top of her head.
"Gentlemen." Wilson beamed. "I would like you to meet my daughter, Rhea Taylor. Rhea was widowed during the war and is now spending some time with me. Rhea, Robert Bayard, one of our more prosperous New York brokers."
Bayard took her hand and bowed over it. "My sincerest compliments." His dark eyes were alight. "I wonder where I have been wandering in this city that I have not made your acquaintance before now."
She laughed, a tinkling sound that warmed the air. "It is not you, sir, but I who have been wandering—in England with my father, and prior to that I was residing out of town, observing a period of mourning for my late husband."
"My sympathies on your loss . . . but a pleasure to have you with us now. Will you be staying in the city for long?"
"Indefinitely."
"Delightful."
"Yes, I am sure we will be seeing each other in social company again."
Her father interrupted to complete the introductions. "And this, my dear, is Christopher Dunlap, one of our newly established shippers, who, I might add, has been banging on my doors for business."
Rhea hadn't look at Christopher fully; now she did. Her eyes momentarily widened, then her lashes lowered and she smiled.
Christopher felt his chest constrict. Those eyes. Greenish, dark-lashed—Jessica's eyes—even of the same shape, with the slightest uplift at the outer corners.
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. "Yo
ur servant, ma'am. It is indeed a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"The pleasure this evening is mine as well," she smiled. "You are English?"
"I was born there."
"And retain the beautiful accent. I must tell you how much I enjoyed that country. Where in England were you born?"
"Kent."
Her brow wrinkled. "Did we go into Kent, Father? Oh, yes, I remember now. We visited one of the estates there for a party. Orchardhaven, I believe it was called. Very lovely—one of those magnificent old homes in which we Americans are so lacking."
Again Christopher felt a thrill go through him as memories pushed to the back of his mind for so long came spinning forward. He knew well the estate she mentioned. It lay less than twenty miles from his beloved Cavenly, and was the home of Sir Giles Gresham, one of his old cohorts. God, it seemed years since he had seen him. Giles—mad, wild, good-looking; the two of them tearing about London, racing high-perch phaetons across the countryside on a bet, or sitting at the card tables at White's until the wee hours of the morning. And here was this young woman in New York speaking of a world he'd thought he'd left far behind.
He couldn't question her, and only said: "Yes, I know of Orchardhaven. I am glad you enjoyed England."
Others approached Nathaniel Wilson, to greet their host and be introduced to his daughter.
"Perhaps later this evening," she said quietly to Christopher, "we might chat again at greater length. There will be dancing and a late supper."
Christopher nodded. "It would be my pleasure."
She smiled, but the glance she gave him might have been a touch. Then she turned to her father, who was again calling her name. Christopher and Bayard wandered off. There were many businessmen there of their acquaintance, and it wasn't long before they were deep in conversation.
It wasn't until after the dancing had begun that Christopher saw Rhea again, moving about the ballroom from this group to the next, a charming and gracious hostess. It was difficult to keep his eyes from following her—she was by far the most attractive woman in the room—and he was not the only member of the male sex who watched.
Bayard was up on the dance floor with the daughter of a gentleman whose export account he was cultivating.
Christopher leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed, and observed with great amusement the agonized expressions crossing his friend's face as Bayard tried to keep up the pretense of being enthralled by the company of the rather overweight and very plain girl on his arm. Christopher was just about to throw him a teasing wink when he felt a touch on his arm. He looked down and saw Rhea standing next to him.
"You seem far away, sir. There is someone on the floor who interests you?"
"Yes, indeed there is. My friend, Bayard. I am musing about the lengths to which one goes in the furtherance of business."
She glanced out to the floor, and smiled. "Yes, Clarissa Matthews. I have not seen you up dancing."
"No. I have been content to observe for the moment."
"I understand the next number is to be a waltz."
"Is it?" He turned toward her and was caught again by her green eyes. Almost involuntarily, he asked the question she was awaiting. "Perhaps you would do me the honor?"
"Most delightedly so. I have been waiting for you to ask."
"Have you?"
Her gaze didn't leave his. "Ever since we met so briefly in the drawing room and our conversation was so abruptly ended."
The musicians switched to a new melody, and Christopher gave Rhea Taylor his arm and led her to the floor.
Taking her hand in his, he placed his other on her waist, and they began to swirl through the steps.
She leaned back and looked up into his blue eyes. "I must admit, Christopher . . . and you do not mind me calling you by your first name?"
"Not at all."
"I must admit that I was hesitant about having the waltz played this evening. The dance was accepted in London, but standards are not necessarily the same in New York, and before going abroad with my father, I was out of society for so long."
"Your father said your husband was killed during the war."
"Yes. We were in Washington. William was secretary to the senator from Pennsylvania and had a brilliant career ahead of him. Unfortunately, when the British invaded Washington, he thought it his duty to go out and stop them, and joined one of the local companies."
"A tragedy that he should die so young."
"If only he had listened to me and fled that terrible conflagration . . . well, that is in the past now, is it not? And I was young when I married—perhaps too young."
"Your mother?"
"She died when I was a child. Father never remarried."
"Did you grow up in New York?" Gripping her more tightly, the better to steer her out of the way of a less graceful couple who seemed intent on running them down, Christopher noted that she did not seem at all averse to the closer proximity of their bodies. She was smiling up at him.
"Yes, I grew up in the city, and am glad to be back. England provided a much needed change, but this is my home."
"I would agree, this city has much to offer. Particularly of late."
She did not miss the offhand compliment. "I take it you are not married."
"No."
"And how long have you been in the city? I recall Father saying your shipping business was newly established?"
"It is, and I have been most fortunate thus far. I have been living in the city a little over a year."
"And before that?"
"Connecticut."
She was thoughtful. "I understand you are interested in doing business with father?"
He grinned. "Most undoubtedly so. Your father's account is one of the most prized in the city, and I believe I could suit his needs well."
The dance ended. They walked to the side of the floor, and she paused a moment beside him, once again riveting him with her green eyes. "I shall put in a good word for you." Then, in silkier tones, "I enjoyed the dance. Do not leave without coming to say good-bye to me."
"I would not think of it." He smiled, slowly; a smile she returned in kind as she turned and moved gracefully off the floor.
She was waiting for him when, well after midnight, he went to bid good night to his host. He had a very pleasant surprise as Nathaniel Wilson, cheerily shaking his hand, suggested an appointment in his offices later that week, setting a time and date to which Christopher readily agreed. As he turned to find Bayard and collect his hat and cape, Rhea appeared before him. The ruby gown, so stunning with her black hair, looked as fresh as it had hours earlier.
She laid a hand on his sleeve.
"Sneaking off without saying a good night to me?" she teased.
"Never would I have denied myself such a pleasure. I was merely trying to locate my friend."
"I saw him a moment ago out in the hallway—but wait, there is no need to rush off. Did you enjoy yourself?"
"Very much so. You give an excellent party, Mrs. Taylor."
"Rhea."
"Rhea," he repeated softly.
"Did you by chance have a word with my father?"
"Indeed. A very pleasant word or two. We have an appointment to meet later in the week."
"Excellent. You see I keep my promises."
"For which I am most grateful."
She smiled, a brightness that was reflected in her green eyes. "Think nothing of it, although I will tell you I never act without good reason."
"And you had good reason?"
"You make a very favorable impression. You fascinate me, and I do not think I have misled Father in judging you to be an excellent businessman."
"No, I do not think you have, either."
"Good. I like a man convinced of his own worth."
Christopher's eyes danced. "You are suggesting I am arrogant?"
"Although we have just met, I do not get that impression," she laughed. "Confident and self-contained, yes . . . and well aware of the
effect you have on women."
"You are very observant."
"I try to be, though one cannot know everything by merely observing."
"Quite correct."
"We shall have to talk again in the future so I may see how accurate my assessments are."
"I will look forward to it."
"As will I." And most eagerly, her expression told him. "Until then, Christopher, it has been a pleasure meeting you.""The pleasure was mine, Rhea. And thank you for a delightful evening."
"You are most welcome." She looked at him directly, fully, then slowly smiled. "Well, I will not keep you any longer, and there are other guests I must bid good night. Much success in your meeting with Father." And she swirled gracefully away, toward other guests.
As he and Bayard drove home, Christopher was thoughtful. Intriguing woman. Beautiful, intelligent; not one of these starry-eyed ladies looking for giddily impassioned love. Yet such a desirable young woman must be looking to form some kind of attachment. Perhaps her father had thrown the reception at least partly to present her to the most eligible men in New York. Was Christopher a candidate? If that was the case, then was he interested in such an attachment? In a purely analytical way, he reasoned Rhea would fit his needs handsomely—she was most attractive, quite charming enough to be the perfect hostess, sophisticated enough not to expect from him that which he could not give; and she was the daughter of one of the most successful businessmen in New York, whose goodwill would be a valuable asset to Christopher.
He realized he was attracted to her. Not in the same way or with the intensity that he'd been attracted to Jessica, but his response to this woman was far more than hisusual indifference. Then again, it was early yet, and to jump to conclusions in one evening was foolishness. As he reined the hired team onto a narrow street off the Broad Way, Bayard broke the silence. "What are you mulling over, my friend? The fair Mrs. Taylor. . . or the prospect of concluding business with her father?"
"That, too."
"The lady did seem quite interested."
"Do you think?"
"I would give much to be in your shoes."
"As they say, the grass is always greener . . ."
"In this case, infinitely so."
