by Bird, Peggy
Rosemary gave her mother a speculative stare. “Mother, you should be the one writing the dime novels, not me. Both you and Dorcas believe I should maneuver Henry to fall in love with me, and I’ve been trying to do so. But every time I’m with him, I feel reckless and out of control. Do you really think it will work?”
“Your father can deny me nothing, correct?”
Rosemary grinned. “Yes, it’s true. You do have him wrapped around your little finger.”
“Well, it didn’t begin that way. George thought he was running the show when we first met. Oh my, but he was a fine looking man …”
Her mother’s gaze became unfocused, and Rosemary attempted to steer the older woman’s thoughts back to the present. To Rosemary’s battle.
“So, you were as attracted to him as he was to you, right? How did you gain control of the situation?”
“I kept a tight rein on my emotions when I was with him. I teased him, of course, and allowed him to kiss my fingers. I made certain we were never alone together once I began to develop feelings for him, since I was unsure if I could control either him or myself. But I didn’t let him know my heart was beating as hard as his when we were together, until he proposed to me. Then I let my feelings be known to him.”
“So I need to keep my heart locked away when I’m with him?”
“Only if it’s on the verge of getting in the way. Your career is of utmost importance to you, is it not? So, if you want to preserve it, you’ll treat Henry Cooper as if he means nothing to you. He’s only someone you have business dealings with, and an occasional evening in each other’s company, until the true love of your life comes along. You might even want to invent other suitors, to spark some jealousy from him and make him realize he’d best be hasty in announcing his intentions. That tactic is what finally spurred your father to action. He became exceedingly fearful that another man would claim me before he could make his intentions known.” Her mother sighed at the memory before she continued. “Then, when Henry gets to one knee, you can let him know he’s the only man you’ve ever been attracted to.”
Rosemary sighed softly. “Easier said than done, I’m afraid. I believe he already knows I become putty in his hands.”
“It needn’t be for long, my dear. I witnessed the two of you last night, sharing whispers and holding hands when you thought no one was paying attention. It won’t take more than a few weeks for him to come around. That is, if you deny him the right to fondle you. And if you have the willpower to last for a couple of weeks. Just remember what you’ve accomplished so far in your life.”
“I hope you’re right, Mother.”
“You do find him intriguing then?”
Rosemary stood, signaling an end to the conversation. “Yes, Mother. Intriguing can be added back into the conversation. I find him complex, handsome, exotic, even. And with a past as dark as his hair.”
“Sounds as if he’d make a good hero for one of your stories, dear.” Charlotte picked up her embroidery.
Her mother might be on to something. Rosemary sprinted up the stairs to her garret room and took out her writing supplies. She had to finish her Harry Hawk story, but it was never too early to write down her ideas for the next one. Maybe her hero for her new series could be a man with a dark past and a good heart. A man whose body was as sculpted as the sword he preferred to carry. Whose long dark hair was tied back into a queue, and whose brown eyes snapped with excitement and lust whenever he was in her company. Her heroine’s company, she meant.
She grabbed the pinafore from its hook on the door and donned it over her day dress. Then she sat at her desk and began to compose her next story. Harry Hawk’s series was about to end, at least what had been contracted for. Once she told Henry who the true author was, he might not extend a new contract to her, and he might insist on his company retaining all rights to the Harry Hawk series. But a death sentence for her series didn’t mean she couldn’t write about a new hero and take it to a new publisher. There was no reason her career should end just because Henry Cooper might be cut from the same cloth as his father. She settled into her new story. If her hero resembled Henry Cooper, he couldn’t really say anything about it, could he? She hoped her ink supply would hold out until she got to the end of her idea.
• • •
Henry’s mind had been muddled for the remainder of the theatrical performance a few evenings ago, and ever since. Merely touching Rosemary’s hand through the layer of her glove cloth had been torment enough. When he’d backed her into a corner in a most ungentlemanly fashion and surrounded her in a mountain of fur and wool before he’d captured her lips, he’d been done for. If anyone had walked into the closet in search of their outerwear, they would have found a whole lot more than a coat. What had he been thinking?
Regardless of whether they were in proper, upright Boston or slightly more outgoing New York, such behavior was unacceptable in high society. Maybe in New Orleans, where convention was thrown to the wind, but not in a refined theatre in the heart of New York City. He ran his hands over his face as he relived their closet encounter. If anyone had walked in on them, Henry would’ve been forced to marry Rosemary before the next day ended. Perhaps, in the far recesses of his mind, that had been his motivation all along.
He was grateful his dress jacket had been long enough to cover his stirring manhood, but it still had been a most uncomfortable way to spend the second half of the play. Every time he’d thought he had control of himself, she’d lean into him to make a comment. One sniff of her perfume, and his shaft had swelled again. A tendril of her hair had escaped her stylish chignon and brushed his cheek as she’d leaned over to whisper something about the play. He had no idea what she’d said. Another time, her breast had touched his arm, nearly driving him to his knees. It almost seemed as if she’d been toying with him. Taunting him. He could not have endured much more sweet agony, and had breathed a sigh of relief when the curtain had dropped on the play and the evening had begun to wind down.
She’d asked a myriad of questions about the business and his family. Since he was getting to know hers a bit better, having shared a meal and an evening out, it was only fair, he guessed, she should have some questions about his background. And it was also reasonable she should expect some answers. But while he had no problem talking about the business arrangement between him and his father, talking about the man himself was something else again. Rosemary didn’t need to know the depths of his father’s cruelty.
He didn’t want to reveal the real reason he ended up in New Orleans when he was just fourteen. That his father couldn’t abide his own son, just because his firstborn favored his mother’s coloring. Over the years, Henry tried to believe Marguerite’s interpretation of the facts. She said their father loved their mother so much, and Henry was a constant reminder of her, that was why he was sent away. Marguerite might believe it so, but it was because she still held their father in a much better light than Henry. Deep down, he believed otherwise. His father had torn the family apart, separating Henry and Marguerite from each other at a time when they had needed each other desperately.
In Henry’s mind, his father had made one impetuous mistake by marrying a French woman. His Brahmin friends had turned their backs on him when he had brought her to Boston to live. With her death, Maxwell Cooper had been able to resume his place among Boston’s elite. Having Henry out of the way had eased things along. His fair-haired child, Marguerite, had been introduced to society, and his other offspring, his darkly handsome French-tinged son, had been forgotten.
Until his latest venture, the publishing takeover, had come up. Maxwell was an astute businessman and wanted to expand his empire. He could do so by using Henry. The New York location was perfect—far enough away from Boston so Henry still wouldn’t be a daily reminder of Maxwell’s wife, yet close enough for his father to keep an eye on him.
Regardless of how he had arrived in New York, all Henry had needed to do at the theatre was glance to his left, wh
ere Rosemary sat, to appreciate his father’s decision to take over the small publishing house. On an impulse, Henry had reached for Rosemary’s hand again, and begun to unbutton her glove.
“What are you doing, Mr. Cooper?” she had asked while holding the program in front of her face.
“What I should have done earlier. I want to touch your delicate skin, not some fragile cloth.”
He had tugged on the glove and peeled it away from her hand. Henry had given her entire right hand a long perusal, noticing especially the fresh ink stains on her fingers. As he entwined his fingers between hers, an idea came into his mind. What if F.P. Elliott really didn’t exist? What if the person who wrote the lively novels about the Wild West was really a woman? And what if the woman happened to be sitting next to him right then? What a crazy idea. But not without some merit. Mr. Fitzpatrick took pride in telling him their family was a bit different from the norm. What if the author hiding somewhere in the brownstone was really one of his daughters rather than an eccentric male relative? How unconventional. How different. How like the Fitzpatricks.
The rest of the play had gone on without him. His mind had whirled with the possibility young Rosemary Fitzpatrick was trying to outsmart him. She’d paraded herself in front of him posing as a secretary for several weeks, so he was well aware she could be cunningly duplicitous. Was her duplicity then only a ruse to mask her real identity? His mind drifted with the possibility. What would his straight-laced father think if one of the bestselling authors in Henry’s publishing house were a woman? And not just any woman. A highbred lady. Henry’s mouth had turned up at the corners with the thought. How ironic would it be if Maxwell Cooper padded his pockets with the efforts of a mere woman?
Was the entire family in on the duplicity? Henry’s eyes had bounced around the box, as he’d glanced at George Fitzpatrick first. George had been trying to cover for Rosemary on the night of the Cotillion, passing himself off as the elusive author before Charlotte had spoiled that deception. Henry had run his gaze over Mrs. Fitzpatrick. She had smiled serenely at him and nodded when she noticed the entwined hands.
Yes, both parents were very much in on the plot. Or what he speculated was a plot, anyway. He’d give himself a few more weeks to examine the evidence. And to figure out the reason for the deception. It wasn’t as if they needed the money Rosemary’s career brought into the family. New ink stains could be explained away by any number of reasons. He needed more than a few purple marks to make Rosemary reveal her true identity. He’d let her think he was still in the dark for a bit longer. Then, when he had some unmistakable proof that his idea was sound, he’d have to figure out what to do with it. Right now though, he just wanted to hold her hand again and explore the warmth the contact with her flesh caused in his body whenever she was near.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Penelope’s father turned to Harry. “Do you really think sending her back east is our best course of action? I do enjoy my daughter’s company.”
“It’s not just Screaming Eagle I’m worried about. I don’t think such a delicate flower is safe in this wild country, be it from Indians or white men. I’d feel a mite easier about things around here if Penelope made her way back home.”
Penelope’s eyes filled with tears as her gaze bounced back and forth between the two men.
“If you’ll see to getting her on a ship heading back to Virginia, I’ll agree to send her home.”
Harry glanced over at the young woman. She had called him her savior, and now she was staring at him with tear-filled eyes. He couldn’t deal with crying women. Made him all soft inside.
Henry cleaned his weapons as he waited for Rosemary to appear for their next fencing lesson. Instead of cleaning his swords, he should really be girding his loins. If what he surmised was going on with Rosemary was anywhere close to the truth, she was indeed a formidable opponent. And even though his first response was to wonder why she would intentionally try to lead him astray, his smile when he thought about the deception drove all the anger from him. Such a clever woman, she was. She certainly could be F.P. Elliott in disguise. He was eager to begin their dueling, both physical and mental.
Her footsteps as she walked down the outer hall to his office door caused an immediate response in his body. He ignored the swelling of his manhood as he turned, breath held, and waited for the door handle to turn.
Rosemary entered the room, and the breath he was holding left his body. Additional footsteps from the hall told him she was not alone. Her friend from the Cotillion, Dorcas, was with her.
“Mr. Cooper, do you remember Dorcas Winchester from the ball? My mother introduced both of us before I made a scene and fainted dead away.”
“Of course.” Henry bowed low over Dorcas’s outstretched hand, rising in time to catch the quick glance between the two friends.
“Mr. Cooper, it’s so nice to see you again. I promised Mrs. Fitzpatrick that I’d accompany Rosemary here today, but I have no interest in fencing. I do, however, have a great deal of interest in the pair of gloves I spied in the shop window a couple storefronts from here. So, I shall leave you two to your swordplay and will return within the hour.”
Dorcas smiled at Henry and disappeared from the room, leaving only him and Rosemary, with the air crackling between them.
As Rosemary quickly disrobed, leaving her skirt and petticoat in a puddle, he had trouble catching any further breath. Her feminine shape beneath her riding breeches and close-fitting shirt caused his mind to stutter. He assisted her into her protective vest and, without a word, handed over her weapon. She immediately fell into the basic advance position, remembering it perfectly from last time, lifting the toes of her right foot and straightening her leg. She pushed her heel out and landed on it, bringing her back foot up. Her blade was in his face before he even raised his.
“Aha,” she yelled, as she brandished the sword in front of him.
Henry lifted his blade, sliding it along Rosemary’s, effectively performing a coulé, and establishing control. Of the blades, at least. Control of himself was something he didn’t quite get on top of. Using the leverage of the entwined blades and his superior strength, he backed Rosemary against the wall, leaned in close enough to get a whiff of patchouli, and then leaned in further and captured her lips. He was not about to wait today until he bested her at swordplay to claim his prize. He’d waited long enough.
His kiss was not gentle. He’d been thinking about her since the night of the play. No, not true. He’d been thinking about her since the first day she’d entered his office, as Phoebe Wyatt. He’d never been so taken by a woman before. A woman with many layers and mysteries. He wanted to unmask her, remove the layers of her identity as well as her layers of clothing, to have her reveal all of herself to him, and his frustration was apparent in the way his lips bruised hers. She couldn’t escape his grasp, even with an épée in her hands.
He finally backed off a step when her whimpers of pain registered with him. His left hand grazed her cheek, as he deposited one last, more tender, kiss on her mouth. He was surprised to find dampness on her face. His eyes sought hers, and her eyes, her lovely gray eyes, were filled with tears, a few of which had escaped. He stared at her.
“I’m sorry, Miss Fitzpatrick. I lost control of myself.” He couldn’t deal with crying women. It made him all soft inside.
“You must cease this bosh, this nonsense.”
“Kissing you is nonsense?”
She suddenly found the floorboards extremely interesting. “No. That’s not what I’m saying. Not exactly.” Henry scrutinized her as she fought to get her emotions under control. She blinked rapidly, and when she finally returned his gaze, her eyes were clear.
“I’ve agreed to allow you to court me, and I enjoyed my last fencing lesson. Dorcas is the poorest of chaperones, admittedly, but I’ll go fetch her back if I need to. I am still a well-bred lady, and I will not tolerate any more of your illicit advances.”
Henry smiled. “You seemed
to tolerate it quite well. In fact, unless I miss my guess, that was your tongue I tasted in my mouth just now.”
Rosemary turned away. “Don’t be crude. Yes, I’ll admit to an attraction. But you, sir, take far too many advances with me. And I hope you respect me enough not to continue to take such liberties. If I can’t trust you, I’ll have to insist on a better chaperone, perhaps my mother, whenever we’re together.”
Henry blew out a breath and ran his hand over his tied-back hair. He certainly did not want to face Charlotte Fitzpatrick on a frequent basis. “There will be no need for a stronger chaperone, Miss Fitzpatrick. I’ll do my best to ignore your tempting lips in the future. You can put your trust in me. But can I trust you?”
She whipped around and faced him again. This time her eyes were clear. “Believe me, I won’t be tempted to kiss you from here out. You can trust me not to touch you.”
“That’s not what I mean, and I’m quite sure you’re smart enough to figure out exactly what it is I do mean. Quit toying with me, Miss Fitzpatrick, and reveal yourself.”
Rosemary didn’t reply. She simply handed him his sword, donned her skirts again, and left the room.
Henry took a measured breath. Their encounter surely hadn’t gone the way he had expected it to. He had been planning on spending at least an hour with her, enjoying her company and her utter delight in learning to fence. And verbally sparring with her at the same time. Instead he’d gotten only six minutes. He had pushed her, literally and figuratively, into a corner, and she had bolted like a frightened animal.
He ran his hand over his face. He never could figure women out. Especially when they added crying to the mix. The fact he was responsible for her tears caused his heart to ache. But it didn’t stop him from wanting her to return to the room, fired up and angry. However, the hallway was silent and Henry turned away.
• • •
Rosemary made it to the sidewalk before her vision blurred again with tears. Her relationship with Henry was not going according to plan, despite her mother’s and her careful scheming. Henry was supposed to be over the moon about her, and that much of the plan seemed to be on track, judging from his searing kisses. She ran her fingers over her lips, which still hummed from the contact.
