by Bird, Peggy
“Yes, ma’am. Not as many as are in your family, but I do have a younger sister, Marguerite.”
“What a lovely name. Does she still live in Boston?”
“Yes, she does. And she’s as different from me as day is from night. She is a blonde, with blue eyes.”
“So where did your dark, good looks come from?”
Henry shifted in his seat. He was truly being given the third degree, no matter how soft the voice asking the questions.
“I resemble my mother, who was French. Marguerite takes more after my father.”
“And Rosemary tells us you spent a large portion of your youth in New Orleans, of all places. How did you come to live there?”
“I joined my uncle, my mother’s brother, after her death. She was his only family in the United States, and he missed her, even though they lived in two different places for a large portion of their lives. I enjoyed my time in New Orleans. It’s such a vibrant place with its mix of cultures, and wonderful food. So unlike stuffy Boston.”
“But you must have been just a lad when you went to live with your uncle!”
“Mother, enough of your questions. Let poor Mr. Cooper eat his meal in peace, please.” Rosemary smiled across the table at him.
Silently, he sent her a meaningful glance that said he thanked her.
As the dinner came to an end, Henry picked up his wineglass when George Fitzpatrick offered a toast.
“Here’s to many more evenings such as this one,” George said. Henry noted Charlotte’s beaming smile and Rosemary’s slight discomfort. His mind was made up.
“Hear, hear. If I may be so bold, Mr. Fitzpatrick, I’d be honored if you’d allow me to court your daughter.”
Rosemary’s gasp was audible from across the table. Charlotte clapped her hands together.
George Fitzpatrick’s gaze flitted from Henry to Rosemary, and he smiled. “We do things a bit differently in this house, Mr. Cooper. I appreciate your good manners, but the decision is not mine to make. My daughter will be the one to allow you to court her, not I.”
Henry stared across the table at Rosemary and noticed her hand at her throat. Her huge gray eyes locked with his, and she took a big gulp of air.
“Yes.” The word was almost a whisper. Henry leaned across the table to catch the sound, his heart leaping as the single word spoke volumes.
Charlotte clapped her hands together again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As Harry settled in at the dinner table, he turned his attention from his employer to the young woman whose blue eyes raked over him in a most disconcerting way. “My savior,” she breathed.
Her father intervened. “Yes, it was due to Harry’s quick action that you were saved from Screaming Eagle today. Think what would have been your fate had Harry left with the hunting party, as he was supposed to have done. You could have been killed, or worse.”
“Oh, Papa, what could be worse than being killed?” Penelope laughed and placed her hand on her father’s arm.
“Why, daughter, Screaming Eagle could have had his way with you.”
The color left Penelope’s face, and the laughter died from her voice. “I didn’t think of that.”
Henry couldn’t wait for dinner to end. The pork roast, potatoes, and mixed vegetables had been most palatable, but once Rosemary had whispered her consent to entertain his courtship, he’d wanted to vault across the table and capture her lips again, taste her, to seal the bargain.
Although, to be quite honest, the vision he had in his mind, of things he wanted to do with Rosemary on top of the table, went far beyond a kiss. What he really wanted to do was to clear the table with one sweep of his arm, sending plates and candlestick holders crashing to the floor. Then he’d lay Rosemary on top of the fine mahogany and kiss every inch of her body before teasing her to what he guessed would be her first orgasm. And then he’d plunge into her, claiming her for himself. From the contact they’d had thus far, he could tell she would be a fiery lover, and he couldn’t wait to sample her yet again. To have his way with her.
However, he was realistic enough to know tonight would be a most proper evening, and he tried to rein in his lustful apparitions. Rosemary and he would be fully chaperoned by her parents in the carriage to the theatre, then in the theatre box, and again on the ride back to the Fitzpatrick residence. There would be no opportunity for even a chaste kiss this evening, much to Henry’s dismay. Rosemary was a highbred New Yorker, he was a Boston Brahmin, despite his appearance, and certain standards needed to be adhered to. But George Fitzpatrick’s comment about how this family did things differently stuck with him. Perhaps there could be a stolen moment in the theatre. If not, he’d have to wait for their next fencing lesson to claim another kiss from her. His manhood, which had swelled at his lascivious thoughts, was discretely hidden under the table, and he willed it to behave before he had to stand.
The dessert, a peach cobbler with ice cream, was placed in front of him. It smelled divine, sweetly fruity, yet as he took his first bite, he measured it up against the taste of Rosemary as he kissed her the other day. The cobbler didn’t begin to compare. Another spoonful, to be polite, and he was done.
George checked his pocket watch, and his eyes scanned the group. “We’d best be on our way. The curtain is rising in a half hour.” As one, they stood, moved to the front hall, and waited for the butler to hand them their coats and hats. Henry used the opportunity to stand beside Rosemary and inhale her strong signature scent. His body hummed as he took a deep breath.
He smiled. Rosemary was a strong woman. That was a most apt description of the petite woman with the tiny waist who stood beside him. She’d taken to fencing as quickly as any man he’d ever taught, and the twinkle in her eye as she’d faced him with a sword in her hand rivaled any opponent he’d ever faced. Yes, he was more than willing to spar with Rosemary, be it verbally or with actual swords. She was a worthy adversary. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, an interested one. When she placed her hand on his arm for the walk to the carriage, a bolt of white-hot desire radiated up his arm and down to his core. It was going to be a long night. He nodded in her direction and caught another whiff of her fragrance. Or maybe not long enough.
• • •
Rosemary couldn’t postpone the necessary conversation with Henry much longer. Or Mr. Cooper, that was. She could only refer to him as Henry in her head, since she’d revealed to him her true identity. She was not working class Phoebe Wyatt who could ignore the bounds of convention, but rather a highbred young lady who must, at all times, refer to him as Mr. Cooper. Well, to be quite honest, he still didn’t know her true identity at all. She could redirect the conversation in any of a number of ways, as both she and her mother had been doing all evening. But sooner or later, the conversation would have to happen. And then what? The carriage ride to the theatre had been accomplished in relative silence, with only her mother keeping up some modicum of conversation.
Perhaps a careful discussion with him this evening would give her some insight into how Mr. Cooper viewed women in business. She’d ask him questions about his family. Up until now, she’d been unaware he had a sister. Rosemary needed to find out more about her and how Henry viewed her place in society.
They settled into their theatre box seats and as her mother and father spent a few minutes nodding to acquaintances, Rosemary stole a glance at Mr. Cooper. Henry. Henri. She took a deep breath. He was staring at the stage curtain, obviously deep in thought, so she studied his profile. Dark eyebrows winged above deep brown eyes. Skin that seemed to always have been kissed by the sun. A fine, straight nose, and sculpted lips. Made for kissing. His long dark hair was tied back into its usual queue, and her fingers twitched as she remembered the sensations her fingers imparted when she’d removed the leather strip from his hair and woven her hands into his long locks. Involuntarily, her hand began to rise from her lap. She caught herself in the nick of time, before she publicly embarrassed them both.
Convers
ation was definitely needed to pull both of them out of the trance they’d fallen into.
“Mr. Cooper,” Rosemary began in a low voice, so as not to startle him.
His eyes blinked as he swung his head toward her. “Yes, Miss Fitzpatrick?”
“Tell me more about your sister, Marguerite. How much younger is she?”
“She’s several years behind me, and was only a child when we lost our mother and I moved to New Orleans.”
“It must have been difficult for you to move away from all you’d ever known.”
“Yes, it was. I was an angry young man, both at losing my mother and then being sent to New Orleans. But my uncle understood and redirected my anger to fencing. If not for Uncle Jacques, I would have lost my way forever.”
Rosemary’s brow lifted in surprise. “But I thought Uncle Jacques was the reason you left home in the first place. To be with him, since he missed your mother so much.”
Henry took hold of her hand. Even through her gloves, she could sense his heat.
“Someday, I’ll explain it all to you. But no, Uncle Jacques saved me from myself. I’ll never forget how he took a young, angry man under his wing. But let’s get back to your original line of questioning. What else would you care to know about my sister?”
“Does she work in the family business as well?”
“She would love to, but my father is against it. He thinks she should find a husband and have babies.”
“But why can’t she do both? My sister, Jasmine, is building a successful career as a dress designer, and she’s got one child already with another on the way.”
“That’s the way of it with my father. Proper young ladies spend their days doing charitable work and raising children. And nothing else. If they entertain a thought other than what society deems acceptable, they are to keep it to themselves.”
“Do you agree with his line of reasoning?”
The orchestra ceased tuning their instruments, and the room darkened.
“Shh. The play’s about to begin.”
She didn’t care a continental, as Harry Hawk was fond of saying, about the play any longer. Blast! What horrible timing. Just as she was getting to the meat of the matter. She wanted to tell the orchestra to hold off just a few more minutes. Instead, she stomped the floor.
Perhaps they could pick up the reins of the conversation during intermission. With a plan in place to pick up the topic later, Rosemary directed her attention forward, to the stage. But she left her hand enveloped in Henry’s. Scandalous behavior, to be certain. She smiled. If he, and the rest of proper society, only were aware of the depths of her scandalous behavior. Once Rosemary’s duplicity was exposed, she would probably not be welcomed into the Cooper household, at least not by Henry’s father. Perhaps Marguerite would recognize a kindred spirit, but Rosemary was certain his father would not open his arms to her.
If Henry truly wanted a reason to incur his father’s wrath, going against his father’s wishes that he marry into society might be enough reason for Henry to spurn her, despite his request tonight to court her. But if he adhered to the archaic notions of his backward father, would she want to spend eternity with him anyway? She reminded herself of her mission, which was to make Henry fall in love with her so he could not deny the continuation of the contract when she finally revealed herself as the true author of the Harry Hawk series. Harry and Penelope were depending on her to get this right. Rosemary straightened in her chair but didn’t loosen her grip on Henry’s hand. She sensed a duel about to happen, and she had best use every weapon in her arsenal to win the battle. En garde, Mr. Cooper. Both father and son.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rosemary stood at intermission when Henry did, and they stretched their backs and legs. They had held hands during the entire first half of the play, and her palm was exceedingly warm. Even so, she was loath to release it from Henry’s grasp. Still holding hands, they moved to the theatre foyer to obtain some refreshments.
Henry finally dropped her hand as the drinks were served. They moved off to the side of the room and spent a few minutes discussing the play while they drank the tangy lemon punch. Finally, Rosemary had enough of their small talk. Merely thinking of Harry and Penelope, and the precarious position in which she’d left them, compelled her to action. She decided to pick up the thread of their earlier conversation.
“Let’s return to the discussion we were having before the play began,” she said, moving closer to him. “Do you agree with your father’s line of reasoning about Marguerite’s place in the world, and the place of all women?”
Henry studied her closely and smiled slightly. “You remind me of a dog with a bone. Let’s just say my father and I tend to disagree more than we agree most of the time.”
Rosemary wanted to stomp her foot again. Or punch Henry in the nose. He had given her a non-answer. She had to press the point.
“But on this particular issue. Do you agree your sister should be resigned to only having babies and doing charitable works?”
Henry ran a hand over his eyes. “My father’s business is called Cooper and Son, not Cooper and Family. He has no plans to change it.”
“You could, unless you agree with him.”
Henry gave her a glance she could only describe as speculative. Then, in a quick move, he removed the drink glass from her hand and set it, along with his own, on a conveniently placed tray. He took her hand again and led her to the small closet where coats from various attendees were stored. He backed her up against the wall at the end of the row of coats before she realized what was happening and captured her lips. She gasped in surprise as his tongue sought entry into her mouth. Her hands went to his shoulders to push him away, but his masculine scent overwhelmed her senses. Her hands instead encircled him as she melted against his muscular body. She moaned slightly, and the sound woke her from her stupor. She broke the kiss and moved a step away from him and from the coats that had hidden their indiscretion from the public. Or at least she hoped so.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked in a whisper as she ran a finger over her lips.
“I figured it was the only way you would drop the subject of my father and his business ideas. And it worked. Shall we now return to the box for the remainder of the performance? Or shall I haul you to the back of the closet again and kiss you once more?”
He smiled as he held out a hand to her. She still had no answers. Only questions. And a body that yearned for more of Henry’s touch.
Why was her stomach fluttering so? Things were proceeding as she had planned, weren’t they? She wanted him to be attracted to her, right? And he obviously was, judging from the way her lips were bruised. But she should have better control around him, and it was confounding her that she didn’t seem to be able to keep her hands off him.
• • •
The afternoon following the play, Rosemary sat in the parlor with her mother sharing a pot of peppermint tea as they worked on refining their embroidery stitches. Rosemary’s stitches were not anywhere close to her mother’s perfect ones. And today, she had little patience for the work. She finally tossed the hoop to the side with a huff. “Mother, may I speak candidly with you for a moment?”
“Certainly, dear. Shall we talk about the intriguing Mr. Cooper?” Her mother’s eyes roamed over Rosemary’s face.
“Well, yes, my questions are about Mr. Cooper. Whether or not he’s intriguing is a moot point for the matter of this discussion, though. Last night, he told me his father’s views on the rights of women, but I can’t determine whether Henry shares those views. If he agrees with his father that the business should be only Cooper and Son, and not Cooper and Family. I can’t tell how he feels about the idea of letting his sister join the business, as I suggested. And until I do, I can’t be totally honest with him about who F.P. Elliott really is. Sooner or later, Henry’s going to tire of my excuses why the author can’t at least meet with him, especially if he comes to the house for dinners and such.
But I can’t risk exposing myself to him if he’s of the same mindset as his father, and a woman is only a trifle, someone to grace his arm during a night at the theatre, someone to have his children so he may further his lineage. I’m truly at a loss on how to proceed.”
“Have you asked him, point-blank?”
Rosemary crossed her legs at the ankles. “Yes, of course I have. And I got answers that didn’t really address the issue. He said his father and he disagree on many topics, but he didn’t specify if this topic was one of them. When I attempted to press the issue, he distracted me.”
Her mother turned a knowledgeable gaze toward her. “How exactly did he distract you?”
Rosemary studied the pattern in the Aubusson rug. The design swirled, much as her thoughts did. And her emotions.
“He, uh, kissed me.” Just thinking about their encounter in the coat closet made her body hum with pleasure.
“In public? At the theatre? I see.”
Rosemary finally raised her eyes to her mother, and was surprised to find the beginnings of a smile on her face rather than the scowl she expected.
“What do you see? You can’t tell me you approve of such scandalous behavior on his part. What shall I do, Mother?”
“Well, such outrageous behavior in a public place means only one thing. You can’t be left alone with him anymore. I’ll need to chaperone you, or one of the maids will, every time you are to meet. You shall continue to see him, invite him to dinners here, you can even continue your fencing lessons with him, accompanied, of course, at all times. But what needs to happen is for him to fall in love with you, to be so eager to get you alone again, he’ll propose to you. So that means he can no longer sample your kisses or do more than hold your hand. It will drive him mad with desire. Then, and only then, when he offers the world to you on a silver platter, you can tell him you are truly the mastermind behind F.P. Elliott. The man will not be able to turn you away once his heart is engaged.”
