The Lady and the Robber Baron

by Joyce Brandon

  On the other hand, was she frightened of him because he seemed to want something only she could give? He could have any woman he wanted, why would he choose a ballerina? She glanced at the mirror and wondered what had come over her in the carriage to allow Kincaid so many liberties. Had the fire rattled her so badly that she’d lost all her inhibitions?

  Her lips tingled with the memory of his kisses. Could a man whose touch felt so right be so wrong? Her body seemed to have already made up its mind. Only her intellect was still resisting.

  Jennifer chose a red satin gown that emphasized her white shoulders and lifted her small breasts. She rang for Augustine and posed with the gown in front of the mirror. It was cut low in front and nipped in at the waist. Her bustle—one of the higher, smaller ones—provided an elegant fall for the pannier.

  While she was waiting for Augustine to come help her into the gown, she chose a black velvet choker and her grandmother’s antique cameo pendant for her throat, and cameo studs for her ears.

  “Time to get ready, mademoiselle?” Augustine asked, sticking her head in the door.

  “Yes, please.”

  Augustine tightened Jennifer’s corset stays, buttoned the gown, arranged Jennifer’s hair elegantly atop her head, and wove red silk roses through the shiny curls. As she smoothed the last tress into place and stepped back to admire her handiwork, Jennifer assessed herself in the mirror.

  Her face looked different. It seemed to glow with an inner radiance, as if her fears and confusion had coalesced into light. When Kincaid walked her to her door after the fire, he’d called her “princess.” In her mind she could hear the smoky baritone of his voice, turning the word into a caress, princess.

  The grandfather clock in the downstairs entry chimed seven times. Her pulses throbbed in anticipation. The front door knocker sounded. A surge of energy like a bolt of lightning jolted through her, leaving her light-headed.

  She heard men’s voices downstairs and then the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs. Jennifer scrutinized herself in the mirror again and suddenly decided the silk roses in her hair looked tawdry. She was determined not to give Chantry Kincaid the impression that ballerinas were loose women. She closed her eyes and covered her face. She couldn’t go through with it.

  The footsteps stopped in her open doorway. Without looking up, she said, “Malcomb, please tell Mr. Kincaid that I’ve taken ill and will not be able to keep our appointment.”

  Augustine coughed and gripped her arm as if in warning.

  Jennifer opened her eyes. Kincaid stood at the door, his face clouding over. He lifted one dark eyebrow, and heat flushed through her from the center outward until her whole body was on fire.

  “Sorry,” Kincaid said softly. “I know I shouldn’t have been so bold, but your butler’s arthritis seems to be bothering him, so I showed myself up.” He stood so still it seemed as if a force were gathering within him.

  Jennifer gazed into Kincaid’s intent green eyes and realized there wasn’t anything on this earth he couldn’t have—if he wanted it badly enough. “Please leave us, Augustine.”

  Head down, Augustine scurried past Kincaid.

  “I can’t…go with you,” she said.

  He shrugged one broad, powerful shoulder. “Look, this isn’t easy for me, either.” His husky voice stirred emotions in her. She felt like crying or running away.

  “I can’t work for you, either,” she said.

  “We’ll talk about it over dinner.”

  “No. It will just get more complicated.”

  “Maybe not. Besides, you like a challenge.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “How many women, especially women of your station in life, reach the exalted level of prima ballerina?”

  “I’m not like other women,” she said softly, miserably.

  “You’re not limited the way they are. That’s one of the things that draws me to you. When you dance, you defy the limits. When you kiss…”

  That wasn’t what she’d meant, but she was too mesmerized by his eyes to explain. She wanted to reach out and touch his warm, smooth-shaven face. The urge was so strong that her palms began to tingle.

  Kincaid lifted his left arm slightly, and she knew he expected her to step forward and slip her right arm into the crook of his elbow. She had never been so torn in her life. She still didn’t trust him, but she felt dizzy with confusion.

  Oh, God. Shaken, but unable to help herself, Jennifer took his arm, surprising herself as much as him.

  “I’m only going with you to get out of my contract,” she said, her throat so tight that the words were barely more than a whisper.

  “I know. I’ll take anything I can get,” he said softly.

  Jennifer was puzzled by his need. He didn’t sound like a robber baron who rode roughshod over anyone in his way. Unless, of course, this was part of the deception.

  Kincaid took charge of her as if he were accustomed to doing so. He led her down the stairs and, brushing Malcomb aside, helped Jennifer into her coat, turning her with firm hands and slowly buttoning each button. Jennifer’s eyes tried to evade his, but couldn’t. Something sparkled in his eyes. In a dancer she would have labeled it desire, intensity, the sheer guts to attempt the impossible. In a dancer she would have admired it. Seeing it in Kincaid made her tremble like a caught bird. Yet some part of her quivered with a strange exultation.

  Jennifer had watched actresses with their important lovers. It was impossible to live a sheltered life in the theater. And she knew that, without taking any liberties—unless it was in the way his warm hands touched her or the proprietary gleam in his eyes—he handled her as if he had already made love to her. Which, of course, he almost had.

  “Good night, mademoiselle,” said Augustine from the library door. She smiled, and Jennifer saw that she, the woman who had guarded her as fiercely as a tigress through childhood, earning her the nickname Mamitchka because she was so much like the fierce Russian women who guarded their daughters against lecherous men, had succumbed to Kincaid’s charm.

  “Good night, Mamitchka.”

  Kincaid opened the front door and held it for her. His driver swung the door to the carriage wide, and Kincaid helped her inside and then settled his tall frame beside her. The cushioned seats, the smell of the carriage, and the nearness of Chane brought back images of the night before. Her body tingled with awareness.

  Kincaid tucked the lap robe around her, and the coach rolled forward almost imperceptibly on well-oiled springs.

  “How long have you been a dancer?”

  Jennifer struggled to regain her composure. “We’re here to discuss my contract, remember?”

  “I told you, I never discuss contracts with beautiful women except over dinner.”

  Jennifer struggled to remember his question. “I have always been a dancer.”

  Kincaid laughed. “I’m seeing this beautiful blond toddler in toe shoes.”

  Jennifer decided to shift the conversation to him. Maybe this rendezvous would prove useful, and she’d glean some information for Peter. “How is your grandfather?”

  “My grandfather? How did you know about that?” he asked, peering through the semidarkness of the coach at her.

  “I have friends.”

  “He’s hanging by a thread.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. And how’s Latitia?” she asked, willing to be reckless.

  “My God,” Kincaid exclaimed. “How did you—”

  “Did you think you were the only one with connections?” she asked, glad she had shaken his composure.

  “Latitia is a friend.”

  “Do I look naive?”

  “Obviously not,” he said grimly.

  “I grew up in the household of Reginald and Vivian Van Vleet, hardly a monastery, wouldn’t you say?” Jennifer waited for his reaction to her parents’ names.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t been in New York all that long. I spent most of my adult life in Texas and England.”
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  “Doing what?”

  “School in England.”

  “Which one?”

  “Oxford.”

  The thought suddenly occurred to Jennifer that perhaps Kincaid hadn’t even been in the States when her parents were killed. “That explains your slight British accent. Well, I’m not at all compatible with you, Mr. Kincaid. The only thing I know is ballet.”

  “I know everything else, so we’ll do just fine.”

  Jennifer laughed in spite of herself. “So tell me when you and your friend are going to be married.”

  “We’re not.”

  “I think she’s set her cap for you.”

  “Latitia and I are friends—”

  “The best, I’m sure,” Jennifer interjected, smiling.

  “I assure you I’m not interested in her in that way.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve mentioned this attitude to her.”

  “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?”

  The driver brought the team to a halt, and Jennifer was surprised to see that they were in the Bricewood’s porte cochere. One of the bellmen opened their carriage door. Kincaid stepped down and reached up for her. Reluctantly, she moved to the door.

  “Besides being feisty, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he whispered as he lifted her down and into his arms.

  “Thank you,” she said, laughing to cover her breathlessness. He pulled her so close to him that she feared he was going to kiss her right there. His manly scent—a musky fragrance so faint and, she suspected, so purely his—reminded her of the kisses they’d shared last night.

  Kincaid guided her through the gaslit, half circle of the red brick carriage entry adjacent to the lobby of the spacious, high-ceilinged hotel. The brick drive was wet, and in the lamplight, plants in the atrium sparkled with dew.

  “I thought we were going to the theater.”

  “Why should I share you with my competition? Dinner, the theater, gambling, they’re all here,” he said, smiling, taking her cold hand in his warm one. “Even the New York Times has conceded that the Bricewood East is more than a hotel. Sanzian, king of French chefs, rules the kitchen of the Sangaree Room. Even Thackeray has paid homage to his Wellfleet oysters. They’re the best in the country.”

  “The Bricewood East? Are there other Bricewoods?”

  Kincaid smiled. “You’re quick,” he said, guiding her through two doors that opened as they approached, the two doormen smiling and bowing as he swept her past.

  “Not yet,” he continued, “but there will be. Before I’m done, there’ll be hundreds of them.” He swept her through the Bricewood’s lush main lobby, which looked even richer and lusher at night, and into the dining room where a dozen couples waited in line behind a thick maroon rope. Kincaid bypassed the waiting area and guided her to a reserved table for two. The maître d’ appeared at once.

  “May I order for you?” Kincaid asked.

  “Please do.”

  “The princess special,” he murmured.

  The maître d’ left, and Kincaid slipped her coat off, gave it to a passing waiter, and led Jennifer onto the Sangaree Room’s smooth marble dance floor. From a cotillionlike raised portico next to the dance floor, the chamber orchestra played a Brahms waltz. Most men were intimidated by the knowledge that she danced for a living. Not Kincaid. He held her with authority, his warm hand pressing against her spine, guiding her firmly.

  Waiters in gold and white moved noiselessly among gentlemen in glossy black evening coats and diamond-clad ladies in laces and ribbons as Chane spun her around the room. Jennifer glanced at the diners seated at the elegantly laid tables encircling the dance floor and saw faces she recognized: friends of the family, ex-friends who had snubbed her after her New York debut with the Bellini Ballet Company, others who had thrown themselves at her feet when her reviews were smashing, and still others who were cool no matter how good her reviews. Almost every gaze seemed riveted on her and her partner.

  “Are they usually so attentive?”

  Chane chuckled. The crowded room, which had buzzed with conversations on their arrival, had indeed fallen silent. “Only when one of the dancers is a world famous prima donna assoluta.”

  “And the other is their host.”

  Glancing at her and then around the room, he smiled, and dimples appeared on his craggy face. His hand tightened around her waist. Just the feel of his hand—so warm and strong and insistent—made her body flush with warmth.

  “Why did you choose dancing?” he asked.

  Jennie laughed. “To irritate my mother.” He looked startled. Aware suddenly that she had slipped into dangerous emotional waters, she continued softly, “Or because I’m a masochist. Or because I love it. I can’t remember now. I think it was one of those.”

  Chane laughed. “Your mother didn’t want you to dance?”

  “She hated my bleeding toes, my bruises, and my aches and pains. She begged me to quit a hundred times. No one could understand why I would put myself through such torture when I didn’t have to.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Well, why do you work? Is your father broke?”

  “No, but…” She lifted her eyebrows at him, and he nodded reluctantly. “So what do you do when you’re not dancing?”

  “For sheer enjoyment, I stay in bed all day. But if I absolutely must get up, I like to window-shop, drink coffee in French cafés, gossip with my friends.”

  “You have time for friends?”

  “Only ballet friends. I don’t have time for outsiders.”

  “What will you do next?”

  “Next?”

  “When you stop dancing?”

  A frown marred the perfection of her smooth brow. “I shall dance as long as I’m able. And when I can no longer dance, I will become a choreographer.”

  “What about life?”

  She shrugged. “Life beckoned, and I said no.” She felt strangely bemused, as if her head were floating above the room. She knew she was showing off for him, flaunting her most cosmopolitan attitude, but she couldn’t stop herself.

  Without a break, the music had changed. Now it was a swift, colorful mazurka. They danced well together. She relaxed and let the music carry her along, let his arms and his body lead her. Kincaid held her close, but they danced so well together she felt no strain, no desire to protest.

  He leaned down and whispered against her hair. “Jennie, love, why don’t you save us both a lot of time and just tell me what I have to do to win your love?”

  Caught off guard, she laughed nervously.

  Chane’s eyes were not smiling. They were intent and purposeful.

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to see if I can win your love? Don’t women enjoy setting up impossible requirements and watching men make fools of themselves trying to satisfy them?”

  Jennifer stopped smiling. “Do most women do that?”

  “One way or another, yes.”

  “How…demeaning.” She must have stiffened in his arms. He flushed. It might have passed unnoticed, but for a split second his eyes were like a pond in which the water cleared for a moment, giving her a glimpse of the bottom.

  “Do I sound cynical?” he asked ruefully.

  “Not really,” she said teasingly, her laughter bubbling easily to the surface.

  To Chane her soft, sultry laugh sounded as though it was fresh from lovemaking. A tingle of pure pleasure raced down his spine.

  “Why are you smiling?” she asked.

  “Would you like to see me frown? I’ve been told I have a very impressive frown. People unlucky enough to be frowned at by me have been known to jump off tall buildings.”

  “Oh? Really?”

  “I’ve had a couple of failures, but I’m working on it.”

  “King Midas in reverse.”

  Chane loved her soft, cultured voice, the way her easy laughter sounded like a song. He wanted to do outrageous things like throw himself
on the dance floor and kiss her ankles, but he knew he couldn’t tell her the truth. Easy conquests were boring, especially to a woman like Jennie, who undoubtedly had princes and czars at her feet.

  “Sort of a Jay Gould of the emotional world,” he said, grinning. “Everything he touches wilts.”

  “But he’s fabulously wealthy.”

  “Does fabulous wealth impress you?”

  “Yes. Do you have fabulous wealth?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And are you dashing and heroic?”

  “Incredibly.”

  “And have you ever slain a dragon?”

  “Not since last week.”

  “How did you do it?”

  “Checkbooks at thirty paces.”

  Jennifer laughed. She had a way of tossing her hair that reminded him of a young Thoroughbred—sleek and spirited. The soft, shadowy candlelight emphasized the strong, graceful curve of her creamy throat. His lips tingled with the need to press against that slim column.

  “I love the way you laugh,” he said.

  “Is that what you were doing? Trying to make me laugh?”

  “No, this is an act. I’m trying to convince you I’m a harmless fool so that when I lure you upstairs I’ll have the element of surprise on my side.”

  “Are you going to lure me upstairs?”

  “A good general never gives away information that would destroy his advantage.”

  She laughed again, and the sound, like tantalizing wind instruments, made his loins ache.

  The orchestra, upon his secret command, shifted into a Strauss waltz. “Does the music go on forever?” she asked, noticing. Kincaid smiled, and light seemed to dance and shimmer in the emerald depths of his eyes. Jennifer looked away, astonished at what was happening to her. She had somehow forgotten why she was here. As if Chane sensed her confusion, his hand touched her chin, and she couldn’t keep herself from looking into his eyes.

  The music rose to a crescendo. Kincaid swung her around and his hands guided her with the firmness and power of a trained dancer. Realizing she was out of step, she groaned in confusion. It wasn’t like her to lose track—that was her job.

  Kincaid’s hand guided her back into the flow of the music. “I love it when you get confused like that. Who knows what else you might be lured into doing?” His voice was low and intense with possessiveness, his eyes caressing.