Love Me, Marietta

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I know you’ve had a difficult afternoon. I know how hard it’s been selling all that property you owned here, tying up all the loose ends so we can leave.”

  “I’d rather have been here with you,” he replied.

  That surprised me. “Really?” I said.

  “Making love to you is far more pleasant than haggling over property with potential buyers who expect to make a killing. I enjoy making love to you. As a matter of fact I’d like to do it right here, right now, right over there on that sofa.”

  “I—”

  “The prospect doesn’t appeal to you?”

  “I’d adore it, Derek, but—there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “It can’t wait?”

  “I’d like to tell you now. It’s terribly important. Something happened, you see, and—I’m worried, Derek.”

  He frowned again and poured himself another brandy and stood leaning with buttocks and thighs against the sideboard, looking at me with cool gray eyes, a curl at one corner of his mouth. I took a deep breath in order to brace myself, and then I related my tale. I told him about the man in the heavy navy blue coat following me to the market, told him of my encounter with Will Hart after I left Lucille’s. I had already decided it wouldn’t be wise to mention Jeremy Bond.

  “I was walking down the street, quite preoccupied, and he just stepped out in front of me. He said his name was Will Hart. He knew who I was. He knew a lot about me, about you, too. He—I was terrified, naturally, but I managed to stay calm. I asked him what he wanted, and he said he and his friend Bert—the man in the coat—had been watching us for a long time. He said—he indicated they were planning to do you some kind of harm.”

  “He just volunteered this information?”

  “I know it seems surprising, but he wasn’t overly bright. He was trying to intimidate me, he may have planned to do something to me. I deliberately tried to coax information from him, and I would have learned more if two men hadn’t come along. They were well dressed, highly respectable-looking men,” I lied, “and when Hart saw them approaching he hurried away.”

  Derek’s expression hadn’t changed an iota. He had listened with a cool, imperturbable look in his eyes, seemingly as disinterested as he would have been had I been relating a bit of gossip I’d overheard at the dress shop. I had expected a less stony reaction.

  “I don’t suppose I was ever in any real danger,” I said, “not there on the street in broad daylight, but it was highly upsetting, Derek.”

  “I imagine it was. I was a fool to ever allow you to go out alone.”

  “The pair of them are planning to do something.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “It doesn’t worry you?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “I’m frightened, Derek.”

  “You needn’t be. I can take care of myself, Marietta. I can take care of you, too, although it seems I’ve been negligent of late. You won’t go out again by yourself. You won’t leave this apartment unless I’m with you. The man’s name was Hart, you say?”

  “Will Hart. The other man’s name was Bert. He told me. Do you know them?”

  He shook his head. “The names mean nothing to me.”

  “I wonder who they are.”

  “A couple of disgruntled chaps out to settle an old score perhaps. I met dozens of the sort when I was smuggling, and I’m afraid I wasn’t always too patient with them. I was a stern taskmaster, and the men who worked under me were expected to toe the line. Hart and the other might well be former employees who hold a grudge against me—I never paid attention to names when I was in that business.”

  “I want you to carry a pistol, Derek.”

  Derek finished his second brandy and set the glass aside, folding his arms across his chest and peering at me with an inscrutable expression. He wasn’t a bit disturbed by what I had told him. That chilly calm infuriated me. I wanted to rail at him, but I knew it would be futile. With that jet black hair and those chiseled features, now as immobile as a statue’s, he looked formidable indeed. I told myself any ruffian would think twice before trying to accost him, but it was very little comfort. I’d feel much better if he would agree to carry a pistol. I knew it would be a mistake to press the matter.

  “I love you,” I said quietly. “If anything happened to you I—”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” he interrupted. “Don’t give it another thought, Marietta.” He lifted his eyes to glance at the exquisite gilt ormolu clock on the mantle. “It’s after six,” he said, “too late for our tryst on the sofa, I suppose. I want to bathe, and if I know you, my dear, it’ll take you at least two hours to properly adorn yourself.”

  He strolled casually out of the room, the long, soft white sleeves billowing. I felt empty, depleted by all the varied emotions I had so recently experienced. I should have known he would react that way—rather, that he would not react at all. The beautiful clock ticked steadily, softly, filling the silence with gentle metallic clicks. I needed him. I needed to cling to him and feel the strength of his arms, the warmth of his body. I needed comfort and reassurance, and he should have known that. He shouldn’t have walked out. I gazed at the long, plushly upholstered rose velvet sofa, thinking of what might have been. I fervently wished I had waited to tell him about Will Hart.

  Five

  Derek had ordered the carriage for eight o’clock, and now, at seven-thirty, he stepped into the doorway of the bedroom with an impatient look in his eyes, a look that blazed into exasperation when he saw that I was still wearing my dressing robe. He was, of course, completely dressed, in fine black knee boots, superbly cut black breeches and frock coat, shiny black silk neckcloth and a waistcoat of heavy steel-gray silk with narrow black stripes. He looked severe, formal and devastatingly handsome, scowl notwithstanding.

  “I detest waiting,” he snapped.

  “We have half an hour,” I said airily. “There’s no need to work yourself up, Derek. I’ll be ready in plenty of time. I’ve already done my makeup and hair, as you can see. All I have to do now is dress.”

  “If you’re not ready in twenty-five minutes, I’m leaving without you. I happen to be starving.”

  “If you’re that hungry I could step into the kitchen and fix something to tide you over. You know how slow the service is at Damon’s. People don’t really go there to eat, though the food’s magnificent. They go there to be seen and savor the luxury.”

  “Stop babbling and put on your dress,” he grumbled.

  I smiled to myself as he moved angrily back into the parlor and lighted a cigar. I could smell the fragrant aroma of smoke and fine tobacco. He began to pace back and forth like a caged panther as, still smiling, I removed the robe. I couldn’t refrain from teasing him now and then, prodding that restless impatience, gently fanning that so easily fired irritation. Derek didn’t know how to relax, but I planned to teach him in days to come.

  Putting the dressing robe aside, I slipped into the petticoat Lucille had created to go with the gown, the frail red silk bodice snugly caressing my breasts and clinging to my waist, the full, rustling red skirts belling out in splendor. The undergarment alone made me feel like a queen, the skirts lifting and floating with a soft silken music as, unable to resist, I made a graceful whirl in front of the full-length mirror.

  Almost reluctantly, I slipped the gown on over it, fastening it in back and smoothing the waist down, spreading the rich, rich deep-red brocade skirt over the underskirts. If I had felt like a queen before, I felt even more like one now. No, not like a queen, a queen had to be grand and formal, constantly aware of her dignity. I felt like a grande amoureuse, a bewitchingly beautiful amoureuse who captivated kings and made queens despair. With its off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves, seductively low neckline and form-fitting bodice, its lush, luscious skirt spreading out in sumptuous folds, the gown would make any woman feel this way.

  The red brocade was embroidered all over with tin
y flowers in an even deeper red silk, and the very simplicity of the cut was its greatest glory. The gown needed no frills, no bows, no panels. Lucille had surpassed herself, and I had followed her advice. I had done my hair up in a carefully arranged, seemingly careless arrangement of waves, three long ringlets dangling down in back. I had brushed my lids with the faintest suggestion of blue-gray shadow, tinted my cheeks with a pale, barely discernible blush of pink. My lips were pink, too, naturally so, and my blue eyes did indeed seem to sparkle like sapphires.

  How long had it been since I had felt this way in a garment? Much, much too long. Perhaps the last time had been when I was wearing the golden ball gown Lucille had created for the dance at Rawlins’ Place. That seemed such a long time ago, and now the man who had caused me such anguish, such indecision that night was waiting for me in the next room, still pacing back and forth as he smoked his cigar. I had wanted him that night when he came so brazenly into the ballroom, ruthlessly determined to have me even though he knew I had committed myself to Jeff. Loving Jeff in a very special way, fiercely loyal to him, I had tried so hard to resist Derek Hawke, had tried to hate him for so brutally casting me aside in Carolina, but I had been unable to deny the feelings he stirred anew, I had been much too weak to resist his demands. I hadn’t wanted to hurt Jeff … and in the end I had caused his death.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, willing away the past. The future was all that mattered now, my future with Derek. I stepped over to the bed to remove the cloak from its nest of tissue paper, and it was then that I discovered the gloves Lucille had slipped into the box as an afterthought, long red velvet gloves the identical dark red of the embroidered flowers. I moved back over to the mirror, pulling them on, smoothing them over my elbows, and then I took one final look at myself in the glass.

  The dress was cut daringly low, my breasts swelling against the cloth and rising round and full, half-exposed, the sleeves dropping down and leaving my shoulders quite bare. The bold, beautiful red of the gown made my hair seem an even richer copper-red, darker, providing a dramatic contrast with the sapphire blue of my eyes. I had never, I knew, looked more striking, more desirable, and it was with supreme confidence that I stepped into the parlor, pausing just inside in order to better observe Derek’s reaction.

  He was leaning against the fireplace, one elbow propped on the mantle beside the clock. His cigar was clamped between his teeth, a surly expression on his face. He looked up. He took the cigar out of his mouth and stared at me with gray eyes that gradually darkened with desire. He tossed the cigar into the fireplace, his eyes still on me. I could see him struggling with himself, trying to control those fierce emotions smoldering inside.

  “You like what you see?” I asked lightly.

  “I’ve never seen anything lovelier in my life.”

  His voice was deep. His gray eyes grew even darker, but the desire was gone now, replaced by stern disapproval.

  “Lu—Lucille did a splendid job,” I said.

  “She did indeed.”

  “‘Pompadour would have loved it,’ she said. She used to dress Pompadour, you know. This gown makes me feel—so gloriously female.”

  “Wear it with pleasure tonight,” he said. “You’ll never wear it again.”

  “I certainly shall. It cost a fortune.”

  “It’s a whore’s gown. It’s calculated to make every man who sees you in it want to bed you immediately. That’s what I wanted to do a moment ago. However elegant, however expensive, it’s the gown of a whore.”

  My cheeks flushed with anger. “I’ll take the dress off immediately!”

  Derek glanced at the clock. “There isn’t time,” he remarked. “I’d never be able to take you to a respectable restaurant attired like that, but then Damon’s is hardly respectable. Fetch your cloak.”

  “I’m not going,” I said icily.

  “I don’t intend to argue, Marietta.”

  “That’s what you think of me, isn’t it? You think I’m a whore! Perhaps I am. Perhaps I’ve had to be!”

  “We’re not going to have a scene, Marietta.”

  “Damon’s isn’t respectable, no, but then neither is this apartment, this neighborhood. You could have rented a place in the right part of town, where the gentry live, but instead we’re staying in this—this exclusive red-light district where rich men keep their mistresses.”

  “Fetch your cloak,” he repeated, cool in the face of my anger.

  “You’ve never taken me to a respectable restaurant, Derek. It’s always been Damon’s. Are you ashamed of me? Is that it?”

  “You’re being quite irrational,” he said calmly.

  “I think not. I think I’m making perfect sense. That’s why we haven’t married yet. You don’t really want to marry me.”

  Derek sighed wearily, stepped into the bedroom, and returned with the long red velvet cloak. He started to place it over my shoulders. I pulled away. He scowled fiercely, seized my arms, and pulled me back. I stood in stony silence as he placed the soft, luxurious folds over my shoulders and reached around in front to fasten it at my throat. The clock struck eight. I could hear the carriage pulling up in front.

  “I’m not going, Derek.”

  “You’re going,” he said sternly.

  “I don’t want to go now.”

  He fetched his own cloak, swirled it around his shoulders and gave me a look that clearly brooked no argument. The anger inside me was cold now, icy cold. I would go, all right. If I didn’t go willingly, he was quite capable of dragging me out of the apartment by force, and I preferred to preserve what dignity I could. He adjusted the hang of his heavy black cloak, a magnificent cloak lined with steel gray silk. His face was expressionless, his manner remote. He strode into the foyer and opened the front door, waiting.

  I hesitated a moment longer and then followed him. He locked the door behind us and, pocketing the key, moved toward the gates. The courtyard was bathed in moonlight, the air scented heavily with the perfume of flowers. The fountain splashed quietly. Derek held the gates open for me, closed them with a firm clank and helped me into the carriage. I sat stiffly as he climbed in beside me and pulled the door shut. He rapped on the roof with his knuckles, and the carriage began to move, wheels skimming over the cobbles, the horses’ hooves clattering noisily.

  “There’s no point in pouting,” he remarked.

  “Sometimes I actually detest you, Derek.”

  “I’m sorry about that, my dear.”

  Neither of us spoke again as the carriage moved through the labyrinth of narrow streets that grew more and more congested as we neared the restaurant. Derek sat with his hands on his knees, and in the moonlight that streamed in through the window I studied those long, beautifully shaped hands I knew so well, hands that could grip with brutal strength, hands that could caress lightly, fingertips touching flesh as though savoring the texture of satin. Moonlight gleamed on the signet ring he wore on his left hand, the ring he had worn ever since he returned from England, the ring he had fought so hard to acquire. It was silver, very, very old, the metal dark, the top a small silver circle with a black onyx hawk embedded skillfully.

  The ring had been passed down from generation to generation, and it was a symbol of his position, his place in the world, of all that the name Hawke stood for in that elite world of English aristocracy. He wore it with pride, a constant reminder of who he was. Derek was very much a part of that world, had spent years fighting for his right to belong, to wear the ring, and in my heart I knew that I could never belong, not truly. I could adapt, yes, and I could win token acceptance, even admiration, but I would always be an outsider, never really a part. Derek knew that, too. In my anger, I had hit upon a truth neither of us could honestly deny: Derek didn’t want to marry me. I now faced that truth squarely.

  He loved me, and he would honor the commitment he had made, but he did not want to marry me. Love me though he might, he would always secretly resent the fact that my blood was not as blue as his, my b
ackground shady and open to criticism. I might make him happy—I would make him happy—but the resentment would remain no matter how hard he tried to suppress it. I knew he would always disapprove of me, no matter how much he loved me, no matter how much I tried to win his complete approval. Earlier this afternoon, while I was waiting for him, I had told myself otherwise, had painted a glowing picture of our future, but now, as the carriage stopped in front of the brightly lighted entrance, I no longer tried to fool myself.

  Derek climbed out and reached in to help me down, taking my hand firmly, pulling me toward him. My crimson skirts rustled as I stepped down, and a gentle breeze caused my cloak to billow. Derek spoke tersely to the driver, giving him instructions, and then he escorted me into the elegant silver-gray, and blue foyer of the most expensive, the most famous restaurant in New Orleans, a restaurant, no “respectable” woman would dream of entering. He removed my cloak, removed his own and checked them both. His face was immobile as he led me toward the wide, curving archway that opened into the main room.

  Damon’s was the epitome of subdued elegance. There was no glitter, no gilt, no opulent plush. The walls were covered with a pale gray silk. The draperies that covered the windows were of deep blue velvet over cloth of silver, similar draperies framing those smaller archways leading to “private” rooms where a gentleman could dine undisturbed with his companion of the evening, Graceful white columns supported the pale, sky-blue ceiling traced with silver designs, and the chandeliers dripped with crystal pendants that reflected soft candlelight with silvery-violet glints. This main room was extremely large, circular in shape, patrons dining at tables covered with snowy cloths, sitting in fine rosewood chairs upholstered in pale violet or sky-blue brocade. Music played quietly, a soothing, unobtrusive background to the tinkle of china and crystal, the hum of low voices.