by Bird, Peggy
That’s not all. Not by a mile. His wayward thoughts consumed him as he glanced at her under hooded eyes. He longed to unpin her dark chignon and drape her luxurious hair over her breasts, merely for the pleasure of getting lost in her locks. And to run his hands over said breasts. Henry could feel his manhood harden as his thoughts rioted out of control. A sudden image of the two of them rolling around on the rug beneath his desk, desperate to shed their clothing, raced through his mind. He nearly gasped at the vividness, and sat silently, trying to corral his wayward thoughts.
“Tell me, Mr. Cooper. Are you an accomplished fencer?”
His mind ceased its wandering. Ceased to work at all. He merely stared at her.
She waved a hand through the air. “I mean, I thought your stance, when I walked in, was quite impressive. Do you really fence?”
Miss Wyatt thought he was impressive. That was the only part of her question he latched on to. His male part became even more erect. He continued to stare.
She shifted in her seat. “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business. I understand.”
Still, he could find no words.
Rising from the chair, she stood in front of the desk and leaned over, her gloved hands resting on its top. “Are you quite all right, Mr. Cooper?”
She was but inches away from him. If he reached up, he could remove her hat, unfasten her hair, and let it cascade over her breasts, just as he’d imagined. He caught her scent. It was patchouli, as he had surmised the previous time he’d been close enough to her to have her perfume register with him. A classic scent, and one of his favorites. Of course, it would be the perfume she preferred. Strong and significant, yet subtle, just as she was. His head leaned toward her of its own accord. The inches closed as his gaze fastened on her lips. Her plump, luscious lips that were just begging to be kissed. Was it his imagination, or was her head moving toward him as well? Her pink tongue darted out to moisten her lips, breaking his stupor.
He stood suddenly. So suddenly, she gasped and took a leap backward. He moved fluidly around the desk and grasped her hand, hoping she wouldn’t notice the bulge in his pants. “Thank you, Miss Wyatt. I’m fine. Allow me to see you out.”
• • •
Henry closed the door behind Miss Wyatt and laid his forehead up against it. He had the urge to beat his head against the door, but feared Phoebe might still be standing on the other side. What had gotten into him? Ever since his father had turned on him, shortly after his mother’s death, he had become a master at hiding his feelings. His father never would know how much his rejection had hurt Henry. His Uncle Jacques never was aware how much Henry appreciated the time he took to teach a wayward boy fencing. He never told his uncle how much his instruction in the sport helped to harness Henry’s rage against his father. The various women Henry had been with in New Orleans had shown him the meaning of passion, but he never once had told them of his feelings toward them. No words of love had ever crossed his lips, either in English or in French.
Now, in a few short meetings, a tiny, working-class woman was threatening to topple his well-crafted world. How had he let that happen?
He turned from the door and punched the air with his fist. Not nearly as satisfying as punching the door would have been. He paced the room as he pondered his situation. He still had no knowledge of this woman’s background. All he could focus on was the fact she was intelligent, had intriguing eyes, and a mouth that begged for kisses. But he didn’t have a clue about the important matters in life. Where she lived, how she came to work for her uncle, where were her parents, if they were even still alive, how old she was. He punched the air again. None of the details really mattered. What mattered was she had wormed her way into his heart, and he was helpless against her. Now, what was he going to do about it?
His father would not be pleased if he brought home a working-class woman as his bride. Hmmm. Would that go into the “pro” column or the “con”? Henry thought of his mother again. She had been a working-class woman, a hatmaker, when Maxwell Cooper had swept into her life and offered to give her a life of privilege far from the seedy streets of New Orleans. Henry had been young when she died, yet he remembered her touch as she’d tucked him in at night when he had been just a child, how she’d never missed the opportunity to give him a kiss on the cheek and to tell him how much she loved him. He’d thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world, with her dark hair and flawless olive complexion.
He smiled as he thought of his mother captivating his father. Or had she? Did he regret his decision immediately after he married her? Didn’t he send Henry away once his mother died, so he wouldn’t have to see the resemblance of mother and child on a daily basis? To get rid of any indication of his father’s one mistake? The old saying about apples not falling far from the tree seemed to hold true in this case. Despite his resolve to never emulate his father, here he was, mooning over a girl who was totally inappropriate to his station in life. Just as his father had done. And his father had married the beautiful French woman, Marie DeJarnette, when he could have made her his mistress instead. Should he emulate his father completely and offer to marry Miss Wyatt? After only two meetings with her? Would she be flattered or shocked at the direction his thoughts were headed? Or should he take the path his father hadn’t, and offer to make her his mistress? Henry was fairly certain his father regretted his decision on many occasions, especially because it impacted his stature among his fellow Brahmins.
However, he would never voluntarily allow himself to follow the path his father had taken and risk ending up the same as his father. His best course of action, other than to be totally outrageous and offer to make Phoebe his mistress, his plaything, was to spend some time within the social circles of New York City. To take the Cabots up on their offer to introduce him to the upper strata of residents in the city. Dinner with some handpicked, single, suitable, ladies, perhaps an evening at the theatre, maybe a ball or two. The city was fascinating to him. Much more intense than New Orleans had been, much less stuffy than Boston. He just needed to get out more, spend less time behind his desk trying to make sense of the publishing business, and he’d meet the right woman sooner or later. Perhaps he should stop trying to meet Mr. Elliott and let F.P.’s dime novels, and Phoebe Wyatt, go to another publisher. Yes, if he did that, she would become a distant memory soon enough.
Even as he had the thought, his mind was crafting ways to arrange another meeting with her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rosemary made her way to the street in a sort of daze. Mr. Cooper, Henri, was a swashbuckling hero who had jumped off the pages of her mind and into her real world! His stance as his imagined sword sliced through the air had been magnificent. Such a shame she wasn’t writing about pirates, since he certainly had inspired her to pick up her pen and counter-attack with her weapon of choice.
She scoffed at the image of her pen and his sword dueling it out. But, in actuality, the image wasn’t far off the mark. She had bought herself time, but still needed to prove F.P. Elliott existed and wasn’t merely a figment of her imagination. She hoped her father recovered soon so they could get the blasted meeting over and done with. Then she could go back to correspondence by mail and never have to lay eyes on Mr. Cooper again.
As she let herself in the door of the family brownstone, her mother walked out of the parlor, almost as if she had been lying in wait for Rosemary. Removing her hat, Rosemary shook her head at the foolish notion her mind had pictured. Her mother was no stalking lioness. She turned and faced her mother with a smile.
“Ah, Rosemary, it’s so nice you’re back. We need to discuss your debut on Friday and see what yet needs done. Come into the parlor with me. I’ve started making a list, but I’m certain I’m forgetting things.”
As her mother moved back into the room, she didn’t even spare a backward glance, fully expecting Rosemary to do her bidding. Maybe the image she’d had in her head of the wild animal wasn’t so far off the mark after all. Rosemary co
uld not do what she wanted and bolt up the stairs while her mother wasn’t paying attention. With a small sigh, she followed her mother and sat down on a padded chair.
“Your gown is done, but you’re in need of one final fitting. Your slippers have been made, and your undergarments are ready. So all we really need to focus on is choosing the jewels you’ll wear, how you’ll style your hair, and what to do with those stained fingers of yours. I’ve been doing some research on what we can use, and I think if we soak your fingers in a mixture of lye and water, it should remove the worst of the stains. But I want you to not pick up a pen again until after the Cotillion.”
“But, Mother, I have a deadline to meet! I can’t suddenly become a lady of leisure! And won’t lye destroy my skin? What if I just hide my fingers with a beautiful pair of gloves?”
“If it turns out to be our only course of action, we’ll hide them. But please, heed my bidding and do not stain them further until after the ball. And do at least try the lye. Of course, you’ll wear gloves at the ball, but you may need to take them off at some point during the course of the evening, and you don’t want people to see how stained your fingers are. You are a finely bred young lady, not someone from the working class. But no one would be able to tell who you are from the condition of your fingers.” Charlotte shook her head as she took her daughter’s hands into her own and examined them.
“All right, Mother. I’ll do as you suggest. Is there anything else? I want to check on Papa and make certain he’s feeling all right.”
“He’s sleeping now. The doctor just left. He believes it’s merely a case of ague, and sleep is best for a full recovery. He’ll be back to his usual jaunty self in a day or so. I want you to leave your father alone for now. He won’t be saving you from having this discussion about how to fill up your social calendar for the remainder of the season. Let’s get on with it, discuss the topic like the civilized females we are, and see what we can come up with.” Charlotte picked up a pile of invitations from a tray and began to sort through them. Her calendar for the next few months was open and at the ready to pen in the events she chose for her daughter.
Rosemary willed her body to sit quietly and let her mother decide their best course of action to find her a suitable husband by the season’s end in August. Her mother was so certain the end goal of marriage could be reached in a matter of months. Amidst talk of musicals, theatre outings, carriage rides in the park, Independence Day parties in the Hamptons, dinners, and other small balls planned for the summer, Rosemary realized her writing time would totally evaporate in favor of the hunt for a mate. Finally, she’d had enough.
“Tell me, Mother. How does going for carriage rides and to the theatre help me understand what these suitors are all about, supposing there are any to be had? Let’s face it. Men haven’t exactly been banging at the door for me as they did for Ginger and Jasmine. But that’s beside the point. Shouldn’t I be having significant conversations with them about what their reading preferences are, what they want for their futures, and how they plan to get there; important topics such as those? Instead, you want me to have conversations about whether they prefer the waltz or the two-step, whether they care for light-colored horses or dark ones, and if they favor musicals over drama at the theatre. How do any of those conversations help me determine the true measure of the man?”
Her mother brushed a hand over Rosemary’s hair. “Ah, my darling daughter. What I suggest for a topic of discussion is merely the beginning of your conversation with a gentleman. What you talk about after asking if he prefers light-colored horses is entirely up to you. I’m only trying to help. And once these men do get to know you, they’ll be enchanted. You’ve become much too introspective since you’ve taken up writing, so it may be a challenge for you to meet and talk to strange men. I’m merely giving you ideas on how to open the conversation.”
Rosemary sighed. “I’ve just come from a meeting with the strangest man I’ve ever met, so don’t tell me I can’t hold my own against them. I did just fine. And I don’t really see the wisdom in this quest for a mate. I’m more than capable of making my own way in the world, without the need for a husband to support me. “
“I’m not talking about financial support, necessarily, although that is important. I’m talking about what marriage will give you. It is a gift you give yourself, or it can be, if you choose wisely. I want you to have the gift, Rosemary. I’m sure there’s a man out there who will understand your need to continue your writing and will support you as you pursue your goals, just as you’ll help him.”
The subterfuge she was attempting to pull with Henry Cooper popped into her head. “I’m not certain the world is ready yet for equality between the sexes, Mother.”
Charlotte leaned over and kissed Rosemary’s brow. “Maybe not the world, Rosemary, but your husband certainly will be if you make a proper selection. You’ll just have to be sure of yourself before you say yes. Your father has never held me back from anything I truly wanted and thought was important. He wanted us to stop adding to the family when we got to six children. If I hadn’t been able to charm him into rethinking his foolish idea, where would you be? Or Valerian and Saffron? Now, let’s see to those fingers of yours.”
• • •
Despite his best efforts, Henry could not stop thinking about his meeting with Phoebe. Or rather, Miss Wyatt. He’d be better off not referring to her by her given name, even in his head. Phoebe. Her name reminded him of the softness of a pussy willow in the springtime. God, she rattled him. There, he admitted it. Just one glimpse of the tiny woman with the wisp of a waist and those deeply intelligent gray eyes, and he was lost. It was a good thing he had already been seated when she’d leaned over his desk the other day, her lips mere inches from his. He would not have enjoyed the picture of his knees buckling in her presence.
He still could not understand why her infamous uncle wouldn’t show himself. A simple appearance was the only thing left to do before Henry offered a continuation of his contract and the popular Harry Hawk series. The sales numbers for Harry Hawk were impressive. Of course, he hadn’t yet told Miss Wyatt completely of his intentions. Best to let her twist in the wind for a while longer and see if she could indeed coerce the uncle into emerging from his home. The fact that Henry’s weekly, or semi-weekly, meetings with the young lady would cease once the contracts and paperwork were resolved flitted through his mind. Yes, perhaps it would be best to drag it out a bit longer. They needed to get to know each other on a deeper level before he would feel comfortable asking her to accompany him to the theatre. And he desperately wanted to ask her out. Yes, a few more meetings should be arranged. To discuss business, of course.
The attraction was there, on both sides, unless he was mistaken. Why not act on it? She wasn’t working for him, not really, so the obstacle of inappropriateness was removed. It was a fine line, to be sure, but technically, she worked for her uncle, who worked for Henry. She was not of his social station, but it didn’t matter since women were expected to marry in order to better their position in society. Not that he was thinking of marriage at this point. He shook his head. Hadn’t he just had the thought the other day of how his father would react if Henry brought Phoebe Wyatt home? But it wasn’t a serious idea, certainly not as serious as a marriage proposal. He merely viewed her as another way to get under his father’s skin. To perform a coulé, an attack sliding along his father’s blade to establish leverage. Was he so petty? Was besting his father enough of a reason to toy with Miss Wyatt’s affections? He raked his hand through his hair. No, of course not. He was not in a fencing match. This was real life, with real people and deep, raw feelings. Despite his unbridled thoughts when she was in the same room, he could not use Phoebe Wyatt merely to further his own agenda with his father.
Henry rose from behind his desk and began to roam the room. Automatically, his body adopted a fencing stance, and his steps were light and quick as he pinned an imaginary opponent against the wall. He always thou
ght better when he was on his feet, and fencing.
Perhaps what he needed was to broaden his scope, and not focus merely on Miss Wyatt. He again thought of the Cabots’ offer to introduce him around New York when he had the time.
The dictates of proper Boston society did grate on his nerves. Having spent most of his formative years with his uncle in New Orleans, he had no patience for the nonsense Boston and even New York thought was appropriate and respectable social behavior. His uncle enjoyed having fun at the end of a long day’s work or training in fencing, and Jacques really paid little regard to the “social correctness” of his company. If the person was of a good nature and fun to be around, he was welcome at Uncle Jacques’s table. Having grown up in such a freewheeling environment, every “proper” move within society chafed at him, and had since his return from his uncle’s.
However, he was in New York now, not New Orleans. His father’s Bostonian friends had taken pains to arrange his introduction to relatives living in New York. So far, he’d only had dinner with this branch of the Cabots. But they had invited him to the biggest social event of the spring to kick off the high season of 1859—the cotillion ball, to be held in a few days. He could dress up in his finest clothes and use the ball to become acquainted with some of New York’s proper young ladies. Yes, the more he thought about attending the Cotillion, the better the idea sounded to him. Then this ridiculous obsession with Miss Wyatt and her patchouli would end.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Harry smiled wryly as he thought of President Buchanan sitting down with Screaming Eagle and negotiating a land treaty. The man couldn’t maintain order in the civilized part of the United States. He couldn’t possibly interact with Indians.
“I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, you lie low, and I’ll try to smooth things over with the rail boss.”
