by Ingis, Gail
Hank snorted. “Oh, they’ll wait. This war has left them with a shortage of men.” He flapped a hand. “Having said that, I don’t advocate going the route of a ball and chain. Just use them for fun.”
“Not my style,” Rork said. The last thing he needed was a woman filling his head with erotic images. It interfered with his work. He took another sip. The smooth liquor slid over his tongue.
Hank gestured to a servant for another bottle of whiskey. “Nothing wrong with a spot of dallying for a few days.” He swept back a curtain of brown hair that fell over one brow. “Perhaps the woman you saved is a guest here. Do you know if she is?”
“No idea. She ran before I got her name.” Rork’s head swam from the liquor.
“Perhaps she’ll show up at dinner.”
Rork nodded. Perfect, it would be perfect. His eyebrows rose as Hank downed the whiskey and poured yet another.
Voice slurred, Hank shook his head. “They’re trouble, but they can be a good deal of fun.” He waved the glass, spilling drops on the wood floor. His eyes slid to a redhead lounging against the railings. “We’re leaving in a couple days, but hell, why not have a bout of fun to while away the time?”
Rork followed Hank’s glance. Who is the redhead? It was clear she captured Hank’s interest, but she was too tawdry for Rork. His thoughts drifted back to the beauty with indigo eyes. He would have a fling with her if he could, but he doubted his mystery woman was the sort to indulge in such sport. Then again, based on her state of undress and her apparent disregard for proper conduct, maybe she was. A smile tipped his lips as an image of a wet gown clinging to her curvaceous body filled his head.
Hank stumbled to his feet. “Our guests have arrived. Have to make an appearance. See you in the drawing room for cocktails before dinner,” he slurred and wobbled off.
Finishing his whiskey, Rork contemplated Hank’s suggestion of a few nights of love. Gads, it’s insane not to take advantage. How often does such a beauty fall into one’s lap? He rubbed his clean-shaven chin. A long-term relationship doesn’t hold much appeal, but a night or two . . . I’m soused to the damn gills. Fog encased his head and blurred his vision as he left the veranda. He gripped the ornate balustrade to steady himself and climbed the twisting, double grand staircase to the drawing room.
Hank was already there with his guests and loudly ordered pre-dinner cocktails. He slapped Rork’s back. “Have a cocktail, old boy.”
Rork shook his head. “Too foxed, need some fresh air.” He also needed quiet, needed to sober up before he made a spectacle of himself at dinner. The cool spring air would clear his head. He pushed aside the lined, pale blue silk draperies and stepped through French doors onto a balcony. The night was alive with cicada mating calls, and an evening breeze sighed through the trees. He savored the strong scent of pines and gripped the railing.
Then he saw her.
His head cleared as he drew a sharp breath.
She rounded the outside terrace from the west wing, her emerald gown floating over the decking. Her hair was pulled back and pinned into twists entwined with colored jewels. Wisps framed her face and curled to her shoulders.
Dear God, she’s breathtaking. Rork’s mouth was dry, and his tongue stuck to his palate. He pushed away from the railing and walked to her like one in a dream, and blocked her path. Speech eluded him as he stared, absorbing every facet of her face. He forgot everything except her. Her vanilla and lavender perfume wove its way through his senses, seducing him further.
Her eyes widened. “You,” she breathed and bit her lip. Color drained from her face. She looked down, fiddling with her reticule. “I-I didn’t recognize you. Y-you had a beard.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “T-then.”
“When I saved your life?” he blurted. “Lady, you’re welcome.” Rork cursed himself for his stupid response. He cleared his throat, wishing he’d said something eloquent, but the words were out. In fact, they continued to hang there, echoing in his head. Of all the things I could have said, why that?
Long lashes lifted, and her eyes flickered, catching the light of the moon. They met his gaze for a moment before darting away. She took a faltering step to the side, and color flared on her cheeks. She was almost past him and through the door.
Rork’s insides twisted. He realized that in a moment she would be gone again. He grabbed her arm and pulled her back.
“Don’t!” She jerked free and put distance between them. She clutched the railing, staring across the moonlit valley.
“That is no way to treat the man who saved your life.” Rork groaned. “I rescued you from certain death, and you won’t even acknowledge me? A lady would not be so rude.”
She turned slowly to face him, her chest rising and falling with agitation. With eyes searing him with cool disdain and lips compressed into a tight line, she advanced.
Rork managed to smother a laugh. She was even more desirable when roused to anger.
“Exactly what do you want from me, sir?” Her delicate hands slammed onto her hips. “Was my thanks not sufficient after the-the unfortunate event?” She stood an arm’s length away, her head barely reaching his shoulders.
His groin tightened. He wanted to pull her to him, feel her body pressed against his. He smirked. “I believe at least acknowledging that I exist is in order.”
Wide eyed, she sighed and worried her lower lip. “Oh do you? And how would you like to be acknowledged for this-this bravery?”
Rork could think of a number of ways. Despite his alcohol-induced haze, he knew enough not to voice those ideas. Running a hand through his hair, he made no attempt to hide his admiration. The low bodice of her gown showed an abundance of alabaster skin. Beneath the gown were creamy, shapely legs that he’d seen all too briefly. Rork’s arousal strained against his trousers. He took a step toward her.
Her hands fell to her side, hanging loosely. Her eyes fixed on his mouth and moved up to meet his intense gaze. Her tongue moistened her lips.
That was all the invitation he needed. He closed the gap and wrapped his arms around her small waist, pulling her tight against the length of his body. A startled gasp fell from her lips. A tingle crept up the back of his neck. All sense of decency deserted him. He had to taste her, had to see if her mouth was as soft as it looked. She averted her head and wrinkled her nose, pushing her hands against his chest. “You’re drunk.”
The protest registered in Rork’s head. He released her as though she had slapped him.
She stumbled back, and her feet tangled in the hem of her gown. A cry escaped, and her backside hit the floor with a thud.
Rork unpinned his gaze from her lips and laughed. “This seems to be a recurring event.” He leaned down and held out his hand. “That’s twice I’ve swept you off your feet.”
She slapped her hands against the wood. A crimson flush crept from her chest to her hairline.
Bending, Rork smiled and took her arms. His hands slipped down to her gloved hands, and he pulled her to her feet. “There, safe again,” he whispered.
She yanked her hands from his, picked up her emerald-studded reticule, and took several steps back. “You arrogant, undignified blowhard!”
Rork couldn’t help the laughter that rumbled up. “Such language. I can see that my assumption was incorrect.”
“What assumption?” Her dark eyes gleamed a warning.
“The assumption that you’re a lady.” Rork leaned back against the balustrade. His eyes, wide and wild, locked on hers.
“How dare you!” She stomped one foot. Her voice rose as she continued the tirade. “You know nothing about me.” Her eyes flashed. “And certainly not enough to make such a crass statement.”
“You, madam, were rude.”
“Really? While you, on the other hand, accosted me twice, laughed at me, and then insulted
me.”
“Do you not at least see the humor in our interactions?”
She tilted her chin up. “I might have if the humor were not followed by insults.”
“They were not insults, madam. I merely spoke the truth.” Rork enjoyed crossing swords with her, and her feisty responses further piqued his interest.
“You, sir, are not a gentleman. Your hypocrisy is really quite astounding. I will not tolerate this insolence.” She turned on her heel and stormed off.
“Wait! What’s your name?”
She rushed down the stairs and back to the garden.
Rork shook his head, covering his face with his hands. “Capital, Millburn. You effectively chased her away.”
Chapter 4
Running along the veranda, Leila stumbled as her slippers caught in the hem of her gown. She lifted her skirt and raced down the stairs. She wanted to get as far from that man as possible. Perspiration beaded her forehead. Sweat trickled down her spine. She stopped and leaned against a tree trunk, struggling to catch her breath. What will I accomplish by running? This is ridiculous. Where can I go? I’ll never be able to avoid him. She ground her teeth.
Squaring her shoulders, she walked back to the stairs. He was still on the balcony, his back to her. She thought it might be possible to slip by him. After the brazen liberties he’d taken, she didn’t want a repeat performance. She knew she should have been smarter. Her mistake was ignoring him instead of politely thanking him. She held her breath and crept up the stairs on her tiptoes, heading for the French door.
“Ah, there you are. Wait, don’t go.” He staggered toward her.
She shrank back against the wall. Within a few strides, he was close to her. She put her hands up to keep him at bay.
“Wait for what?” She scooted past him into a passage leading to the ladies’ room. How can I expect civility from a drunk? Why did I let him goad me? It seems impossible to walk away.
Flapping her fan to cool her heated face, she hurried into the ladies’ room. Heart thudding, she leaned on the marble washstand, trying to catch her breath. Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, she studied her image in a French framed mirror. “I’m a mess.” She touched her flushed face. All fixable. She removed her gloves, dipped her hands in the washbasin, and splashed water on her face. Instant relief. She tucked errant hairs into place and smoothed her gown.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am. I went out for a minute.”
Leila squeaked and spun to face the attendant. Her eyes fell on a proffered cloth.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle ya, ma’am.”
“I feel a little indisposed.” Leila laughed weakly. “And obviously jumpy.” She took the cloth and dabbed her face.
“Aye, ya do look pale.”
“I do?” She turned and pinched color into her cheeks. “I should go.” She pulled on the damp gloves.
The attendant chuckled. “A pale complexion is fashionable.”
Leila grimaced. “I don’t favor the consumption look.” She walked out and rested a moment against the paneled wall in the passage, her eyes closed. She wondered if she should tell Hank about her knight in shining armor. Her eyes snapped open. Pah, he’s no knight. The man is a rogue. Hank would probably react badly. Trepidation curled through her. His moods are unpredictable, and he’s impatient with me, but I have to tell him. Shoulders slumped, she pushed herself from the wall. I’d better join them for dinner. Even if Hank hadn’t noticed her absence—and he probably hadn’t—her mother certainly would. Leila hurried to the drawing room. She lifted her skirt and increased her pace, the annoying encounter tucked away . . . for now.
Leila paused at the entrance. Gas-lit chandeliers illuminated the gay and fabulously attired throng that milled about the drawing room. Leila pressed a hand to her midriff and sucked in a breath. A soft laugh drew her eyes to a woman beside her.
“The décor is rather plain compared to the ballroom, don’t you think?”
The woman’s brown eyes sparkled, and Leila liked her instantly. “Yes, it is. I wonder if Mr. Herter is responsible for the ballroom,” said Leila.
“He could well be. He designed our home in Connecticut. His work is lovely. Oh, how rude of me, I’m Anna Lockwood.” She canted her head, her blonde ringlets catching the light. “May I ask your name?”
“Leila Ashburn Dempsey.”
She clapped her gloved hands, which made a dull thud. “Oh, is your husband the well-known author?”
Leila nodded.
“Please call me Anna. I believe you’re seated at our dinner table.” She dipped into a brief curtsy. “I must go. It’s been a pleasure. I promised to meet my husband. He’s at the fireplace.” She wrinkled her pert nose. “As usual, he’s probably discussing business.”
Leila automatically returned the curtsy, her eyes scanning the room for Hank. With an expert eye, she briefly studied the prestigious art hanging from crown moldings on ribbon-wrapped wires. Her own collection of landscapes, by local artists, flitted through her head. She mentally lingered on one of her favorites, Emerald Pool by Millburn. Sighing, she moved away from the art and continued looking for Hank.
He stood by the hearth, leaning on the mantel, surrounded by men. As usual, he held court, and his audience hung on his every eloquent word. She needed him alone. When Hank expounded on a subject, her intrusion invariably frustrated him. I must tell him. I can’t do it at dinner and risk him losing his temper.
Gathering her courage, she headed for the fireplace. Flames burned brightly in the hearth, warding off the evening chill. She smiled. Her cousin, Billy Ashburn, also basked in Hank’s charismatic aura. Cornelius Vanderbilt stood nearby, with Leila’s new friend, Anna. The man with his arm around her must be her husband. Leila prayed that stuffy old Sophia Vanderbilt didn’t see her.
Anna motioned to her.
Leila smiled and waved back.
“Well, what do you know, here comes my fair wife,” Hank slurred. A grin, dripping insincerity, split his face.
They turned. The orange glow from the fire flickered across the profile of a tall man with chestnut hair.
Oh, God, my rescuer. Leila’s heart stopped. What do I do? I must talk to Hank, tell him about this morning. She fingered her pearl necklace. Face burning, she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and approached. She took Hank’s arm and stood on tiptoe, whispering, “I need to speak with you.” She slid a glance at her rescuer.
Color drained from his face, and his eyes bored into her.
Her belly fluttered. Beardless, Rork’s fine face was smooth and strong. Aristocratic came to her mind. He closed his eyes and downed his whiskey. For some obscure reason, guilt assailed her. She averted her gaze and leaned against her husband. “Please, Hank, it’s important,” she whispered.
“Leila, darlin’”—Hank captured one of her delicate hands—“why don’t you sit with the women? I’ll be over in a moment.” Although sounding affectionate, Hank’s eyes were dismissive. He dropped her hand and waved her away. “Off you go, darlin.’”
Leila wanted to evaporate. She stared into his cold eyes, her courage quickly failing. She smiled brightly at the men surrounding him. “Pardon me for the interruption, gentlemen, but I’m eager to speak with my husband.”
“I said later,” he hissed.
Leila twisted her hands. Her eyes darted between the men and returned to her husband. “Hank, please.”
“Shortly, darlin’. I’m in the middle of a conversation.” Hank turned his back on her and amused Vanderbilt with another tale.
Gripping his arm again, she whispered, “Hank, I really must speak with you.”
His jaw tightened, and he peeled off her fingers. “Leila, meet my new acquaintance, Mr. Rork Millburn.”
Her mind performed somersaults. The artist Millburn
? Leila kept her eyes downcast and smoothed her gown with trembling fingers. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.” She glanced at Hank. “Please give me a moment,” she said softly.
Hank sighed and shrugged. “Gentlemen, apparently my wife is in immediate need of my services.” He sniggered. “Please excuse me while I attend her needs.”
She slid a glance at her cousin Billy. His eyes were alive with interest. Her heart sank. He was a gossip, worse than his wife, Eleanor. Once more, heat flooded Leila’s cheeks. She could also feel Millburn’s eyes on her but didn’t dare look up.
“Come along then.” Hank marched past her.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and followed him dutifully to the veranda. The soft glow of the moon stroked the mountains, and a breeze added a sharp sting to the night. She wrapped her arms around her waist, forming a meager barrier against her husband. Her stomach swirled in a raucous mix of emotions and uncertainty.
Hank rounded on her. “Are you daft, woman?” His voice grated on the cool evening air.
“Forgive me for my rude interruption, but I’m desperate to speak with you.” Leila’s voice was short of a whisper.
Hank slammed his hand on the railing. “Good Lord, Leila. Desperate? What could be so damn important? Do you know what you interrupted?”
“No.”
“Business with Cornelius Vanderbilt. You know him, don’t you? He founded the railroad.”
“Was it important?”
