Her lush mouth still invited him. He touched her closed eyes instead, briefly, lightly, then he let his hands fall back to her shoulders and finally freed her.
It was ending anyway, Jonna thought. Even with her eyes closed it was ending.
She blinked once. His hands were at his sides, but she could still feel them on her arms, at her waist, and then ever so gently on her throat. Her mouth bore the imprint of his, and she resisted the urge to raise her fingers to seal it there. The warmth and fragrance of him clung to her. She knew she would breathe it tonight when she went to bed. And finally there was a faint roar in her ears that made her deaf to the thrumming of her own heart.
Jonna didn't look away from him. His eyes grazed her face, watching, searching. He wasn't smiling. He just seemed to be waiting.
Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. "Grant didn't want me. I offered myself and he didn't want me."
Decker said nothing. A muscle worked in his cheek.
"I'm not certain I even like you," she said.
"I know." He said it softly, without a trace of humor.
Then why, she wanted to say, why did I explore your mouth with my tongue? Why did I let you touch me? Why would I let you do it again right now? Jonna's hands rested quietly on her lap. She looked down at them, willing her heart to be as steady and still. "I don't think you should kiss me anymore," she said.
"You're probably right."
Jonna wasn't certain she welcomed his agreement this time. She stole a glance at him. "It was an experiment for you, wasn't it? You wanted to see what I would do."
The slightest smile edged Decker's mouth, but his eyes remained grave. "Not the way you think," he said.
She frowned, wondering what he meant.
Decker cupped the underside of Jonna's chin and raised her face. He spoke to clear her troubled expression. "You should never doubt that you inspire passion."
Jonna's violet eyes cleared, and the crease between her brows vanished. She felt a tide of color and heat wash her cheeks. The words were out of her mouth before she had a clear thought of them in her head. "Did you want me?" she asked. "I mean, did you—"
Decker's grin finally came to the forefront, and it silenced Jonna. He lowered his hand and levered himself back against the headboard. "Never say you didn't know."
But she hadn't. "I just thought..." Her voice trailed away uncertainly. She didn't know what she thought.
Decker plumped the pillows behind his back. There was a newspaper on the nightstand. He picked it up and pretended interest in it. "Go to bed, Jonna," he said. The grin was gone again, and he did not look at her. "You may not like how I answer the rest of your questions."
* * *
It was at breakfast the next morning that Jonna learned Decker was gone. She surprised Mrs. Davis by not insisting that someone be sent to bring him back. "Jack will look after him," she said and the subject was closed.
When she saw Jack Quincy at her offices she only inquired briefly after Decker's health. Assured he was resting comfortably in his rented room, she didn't mention him again. Jonna found it easier not to think about Decker Thorne if she didn't have to talk about him. Her cool, rather remote expression whenever his name was brought up encouraged the silence of others.
Grant Sheridan returned from Charleston one week before Christmas. Jonna was hardly aware that he had overstayed the expected length of his voyage south. He was the one who reminded her he had hoped to return days earlier.
"What's wrong?" he asked as they retired to the salon. Grant caught her inside the room when she closed the doors and held her in his arms. "You've been very quiet this evening. I confess I had expected a warmer welcome."
Jonna raised her face. She saw his eyes drop to her lips. He looked at her mouth a long time before he lowered his head. Even though she knew that she didn't love him, Jonna wondered if she could learn to like Grant's kiss. She surprised them both by turning her head at the last moment and giving him her cheek.
"Jonna?" Grant said.
She eased out of his arms and put some distance between them. His eyes were very dark now, almost black, but they watched her without expression. She had no sense of whether he was hurt by her response or annoyed.
Jonna turned to the small pie table where the tea service had been placed. She picked up the silver pot and realized her hands were shaking.
"I think I'd prefer a more substantial drink," Grant said.
His voice came from immediately behind her. Jonna put the pot down slowly and smoothed the front of her gray silk dress. She found herself taking a deep, calming breath.
"Of course," she said. "In the sideboard." She waited, expecting him to go get it or to move out of her way. Caught between the table and Grant's powerful frame, Jonna couldn't take a step without bumping into one of them.
Grant placed his hands on the curve of Jonna's shoulders. Her silk gown was smooth and cool beneath his palms. Her skin would feel that way, he thought. He leaned forward, bent his head, and touched his lips to the side of her neck. He had been right. Smooth and cool.
Jonna closed her eyes. His hands lay heavily on her shoulders. He didn't force her to turn, but the weight of them kept her in place. His breath was hot, his mouth faintly damp. She felt a tug on her flesh as he sipped her skin. The knowledge that he was going to leave a mark there, like a brand, made her stomach turn over. She did not want him to touch her. "Grant," she said. "I don't want—"
That was when he twisted her in his arms. She thought later that it was almost as if her protest had excited him. At the moment it was happening she couldn't think at all. His mouth closed over hers hard. It was an act of ownership, of possession, and Jonna recoiled at the stamp of his lips on hers. She pushed at his shoulders, but her strength had no impact on his solid frame. At her back she felt the edge of the table.
Jonna bit his lip.
Grant's head snapped back. He tasted blood on the inside of his mouth. Letting go of Jonna, he took out a handkerchief and raised it to his lips. "What was that for?" he demanded, his black eyes cold and flat.
Jonna slipped sideways, out of his reach. Even though his voice was muffled by the handkerchief, it lost none of its angry edge. "I'll get your brandy," she said quietly.
"Forget the brandy. Tell me why I deserved that."
Jonna's chin lifted a fraction, and she regarded him steadily. "I didn't want you to kiss me," she said. "I don't think I want you to touch me at all." Before he could respond she continued quickly. "Please, won't you sit down? You asked me what was wrong. I think perhaps I can tell you."
Except to lower his handkerchief and tuck it away, Grant didn't move. "I think perhaps you had better," he said.
Jonna realized that he was not going to make it easy for her. She couldn't fault him for that. He deserved better than what she could offer him. "I don't love you," she said. "I'm sorry, Grant, but I never have and I don't believe I've misled you on that account. You know that I admire you, respect you, and value your counsel. I will always appreciate your friendship." She glanced at the floor a moment, gathering the threads of her composure. When she faced him again her voice was surprisingly steady. "It's not enough for a marriage. It never will be. Not for me."
"Jonna." There was a hint of condescension in his tone, as if he thought she didn't know her own mind. "What's happened while I've been gone? This isn't where we left things."
"Nothing's happened." It wasn't entirely the truth, but there was no explaining Decker Thorne to Grant. Not when she didn't fully understand that encounter herself. "And it's precisely where we left things. I don't believe I can say it more clearly. We're not engaged. You're not my fiancé. We will never be married." Jonna watched color leave Grant's face. It was his only visible reaction. "Please, Grant, I'm sorry. You must know I wish it could be different. I wish I could be different."
He took a step toward her and stopped when she immediately backed away. "Are you afraid of me, Jonna?" he asked. "Have I given you some re
ason to fear me?"
"No," she said. "No to both your questions."
He raised one eyebrow, his look patently skeptical. To prove his point he took another step forward. While Jonna didn't move he saw the effort it took on her part to stand her ground.
"It's not what you think," she said. "I don't want you kissing me again. You seem to believe you can change my reasoning that way."
"Can't I?"
"No."
Grant studied her for a moment longer. Every line of her slender frame was set stubbornly, and her mouth was mutinously flat. "I wonder who you're trying to convince," he said. He didn't let her answer. "I think I'll have that brandy now."
Jonna turned to the sideboard only as Grant sat down. She poured the brandy, served him, and then took tea for herself. She took the wing chair at an angle from the settee, guaranteeing he could not choose to sit beside her. "I'd like us to remain friends," she said finally.
"And business associates."
"Of course."
"But not partners."
Jonna didn't know if he was speaking of marriage or business. She supposed it didn't matter. Her answer was the same to both. "No," she said. "Not partners."
Grant regarded her thoughtfully over the rim of his snifter. "I see," he said.
But Jonna did not think he sounded convinced. She was wondering what more she could say when the doors to the salon opened. Mrs. Davis stood on the threshold with a young black girl at her side. The girl wasn't touching the housekeeper in any way, but her posture suggested she was trying to cling to the older woman.
"She's come to take the tray," Mrs. Davis said. "We've practiced what she should do."
Grant glanced over his shoulder at the door and then back at Jonna. He was calm now, his smile was almost teasing. "Another new one, Jonna? You must really find some good help and stay with them. Or is it Mrs. Davis who's the ogre?"
The housekeeper blushed. "Go on with you, Mr. Sheridan." She gave the maid a little push to enter the room. "I knew you wouldn't mind if we tried her out on you," she said. "She's frightened, poor thing. And she doesn't speak a word."
Grant watched the girl's passage with more interest than Jonna. "Is she deaf?" he asked.
"No," Mrs. Davis said. "She hears everything, but it's as if she doesn't understand. And no one can get a word out of her. I think she's mute."
"What's her name?" he asked Jonna.
Jonna looked to Mrs. Davis for the answer.
"Rachael," the housekeeper said.
Rachael recognized her name and swiveled around to face the housekeeper. She looked at Mrs. Davis expectantly, her dark eyes large and apprehensive. The housekeeper made a number of motions with her hands, indicating Rachael should go on about her business and remove the tray. The girl picked up the service quickly, aware of the scrutiny of the housekeeper, her employer, and the guest. Her hands shook, and the silver and china rattled noisily. The more she tried to steady herself, the more awkward her positioning became.
Grant set down his brandy and came to her rescue. "Here," he said quietly. "Allow me to help."
The small dark face stared up at him. There was worry first, then gratitude, but both expressions were shaded by fear.
Grant took the tray to Mrs. Davis. "I think more practice is in order, but you can't fault her effort."
The housekeeper smiled gratefully at Grant's understanding. "You're right about that." She stepped aside, let the girl pass, then left herself. Grant shut the doors and turned on Jonna. "You're a fraud, Jonna Remington."
She noticed he sounded quite pleased about it. "I am? How so?"
"You have nothing good to say about the abolitionists, yet you have set up this house to help one poor young Negress after another."
"One has nothing to do with the other," she told him. "That child's freeborn. Mrs. Davis plucked her out of the colored orphanage and has made a cause of her. She thinks the girl is perfectly trainable, but I have my doubts."
"How old is she?"
"Seventeen... eighteen."
Both of Grant's sandy brows rose. "Really. I would have thought younger."
"Apparently the records indicate otherwise."
"What happened to her hand?" he asked.
Jonna had suspected he'd noticed the girl's maimed hand when he'd reached for the tray. "You're not thinking of taking her on as a cause yourself?" she asked. "I thought you and your abolitionist friends only wanted to free slaves."
"That's a narrow view," Grant said. "But I'm not surprised you entertain it." He couldn't resist adding, "You and every other Boston merchant with Southern interests."
"Be careful, Grant. You'll tar yourself with that same brush. What are you if not a Boston merchant?"
He chuckled, raising his glass in a small salute. "As a matter of fact, I was thinking of taking up that girl's cause. Even abolitionists need to be reminded that slavery is not merely a problem in the South."
Jonna sat up straighter. "That girl is not a slave in my home. She earns a wage and her room and board."
"Of course she does. But I wonder how much freer she is here in Boston than she would be below the Mason-Dixon line."
"Well, you're not going to put her on display at one of your meetings to ask that question."
He smiled at her protectiveness. "See, Jonna, you are a fraud." He saw her mouth flatten as she dismissed this observation. "Tell me about the girl's hand."
"A dog bite, I believe. Fairly recent. Mrs. Davis asked Dr. Hardy to treat it. Apparently there's nothing to be done. He can't repair what's left of the ball of her hand, but at least there is no infection. He thinks she will always have some numbness in her fingers."
He nodded slowly. "That explains that business with the tray. I thought she was going to upend it on you."
"I suspect she was nervous as well. This evening is the first time she has worked in front of company."
Grant considered that. "Is it because you haven't had any guests in my absence or because she's only been here a short time?"
"Both," Jonna said.
Setting aside the snifter, Grant leaned forward. His elbows rested on his knees, and his hands were folded together. "Not even Decker Thorne?"
Deception did not come easily to Jonna. On the occasions it was necessary it was something well thought out, and she practiced it with considerable effort. She could not deceive Grant now. His question had come too unexpectedly. Besides, she knew she had already, in one manner or another, given herself away. What bothered her more than this knowledge was the fact that she had wanted to lie. "Captain Thorne was here one evening," she said. "But I suspect you knew that."
He nodded. "I heard about the fight within a few hours of arriving in Boston," he said. "And naturally the same people wanted me to learn that you were responsible for his release from jail. Knowing you as I do, I was surprised that he only spent a single night here."
"That was his choice."
"I thought it might have been." Grant stood, but he didn't approach Jonna's chair. "I wonder at your interest in him. It was not so long ago that you dismissed Decker out of hand." His smile did not light his flat black eyes. "It always seemed to me that it was Colin Thorne you favored. Or is it just that you find Decker a more acceptable substitute for his brother than I?"
Jonna recoiled as if struck. Grant's accusation took her breath away. She came to her feet, hands curled at her sides, and forced herself to speak calmly. "Perhaps we cannot even be friends any longer."
Grant Sheridan had never found it easy to be contrite, but he knew how to make an apology. Clearly he had overstepped himself with Jonna. "I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "I suppose I was getting some of my own back. Did you think I wouldn't be hurt by what you've said tonight? I love you, Jonna."
It was the first time he had ever said the words. She was struck by the fact that they made no difference. "I'm sorry, too," she said quietly. "But I don't return your feelings."
Grant hesitated, wondering what he could say t
hat would change her mind. It was with deep regret that he understood there were no words. He walked to the doors, opened them soundlessly, and made his exit. He was standing on the sidewalk in front of her house, well outside of her hearing if not her sight, when he finally swore softly to himself. "Nothing's changed." He recalled the kiss. His mouth against hers. The way she pushed at his shoulders and twisted in his arms. He remembered the texture of her skin under his lips. Cool and smooth. "You will be my wife."
Jonna stepped away from the salon's large window as Grant continued down the sidewalk. She let the velvet drapes fall back into place. Hugging herself, feeling chilled by this last glimpse of Grant, Jonna approached the fireplace. She knelt in front of it, raising her face and hands to the heat. What had he said, she wondered, just before he turned away from the house? It was too dark for her to make out the words, yet she had the distinct impression he meant for her to know them.
It wasn't fair, she thought, that she had never fallen in love with him. She had willed it to happen on any number of occasions. Once or twice she had even permitted herself to believe it was true.
Flames lighted Jonna's rueful smile and colored her complexion. She had never thought of herself as a particularly foolish person. Now she was revising that opinion. She mocked herself with soft laughter. She knew one or two people who would require no convincing.
* * *
Jonna spent Christmas Day alone. She gave presents to the staff, then dismissed those who wanted to spend time with their own families. The others she knew would gather in the kitchen and share a specially prepared feast in front of the hearth. She took her own meal in the afternoon, spending the rest of the day working in the library. There was the occasional interruption as Rachael brought tea and replaced wood in the fireplace, but save for these moments, Jonna was alone.
In other years she had accepted invitations. Most recently she had shared Christmas Day with Grant. She had no regrets about choosing solitude this Christmas, and she had none about Grant's absence. She told herself there was really no one she wanted to spend the day with, and for the better part of the afternoon and evening, she believed it.
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