The Hired Husband

by Judith Stacy

  “I’m going to take a lover,” Rachel said, the words popping out of her mouth before she realized it. A tremor ran through her. Good gracious, what had she said?

  Mitch seemed just as shocked. So much so, that his cheeks flushed a little.

  “A lover?” he asked, as if he hadn’t heard her correctly.

  “Yes,” she told him, pulling herself up a little. “In fact, I might take a series of lovers. When I tire of one, I’ll send him on his way and select another.”

  “I see.”

  Mitch nodded thoughtfully, but Rachel had seen this look on his face, also. Playful, teasing, with a hint of mischief.

  “In that case,” he said, “you’ll want to be sure you find a lover who knows what he’s doing.”

  “Well, of course,” Rachel said, though she hadn’t realized the necessity of it.

  “Someone who’s experienced, but not so experienced he’s grown tired of the whole thing. And knowledgeable. Knowing the right places to touch in just the right ways can make all the difference.”

  Heat rushed through Rachel. It seemed to be radiating from Mitch, as well. Why had she started this conversation?

  “Never mind.” Rachel waved her hand as if to erase the words that hung in the hot air between them. “This is all too complicated.”

  “I could help you.” Mitch moved a little closer and his voice dropped to a deep tone that sent a tingle through her. “As your husband, I’m duty bound to help you. I could demonstrate what you should look for, what to expect to insure high standards.”

  Rachel gazed up at him. She couldn’t help herself. Something about this man drew her, held her in place. Kept her from leaving when she knew she should.

  An ache rose around Rachel’s heart as she realized that this was one of those times when she should leave. Despite the fanciful remark she’d just made about taking a lover, she wanted a man in her life who would stay with her, who wouldn’t abandon her as all the others had. Mitch had told her in no uncertain terms that when he was done with her, he’d be gone.

  The world seemed to tilt sideways for Rachel as she gazed up at Mitch and she knew at that moment why she hadn’t given Georgie his answer the other night, why she couldn’t make the decision that seemed so obvious.

  She’d fallen in love with Mitch Kincade.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  He’d made it.

  Mitch stood before the mirror in his bedchamber. In his reflection he saw the black trousers and tailed jacket over the white shirt, bow tie and single-breasted vest he wore. Evening clothes, Rachel had called them. He also saw the steely glint in his eye and the determined set of his jaw, both gleaming with satisfaction.

  He’d done it.

  After all his years of hard work, planning and plotting, sweating, clawing and fighting, Mitch had achieved his goal. Tonight was his first formal occasion. The elite of society from around the city and across the state would be at Claudia Everhart and Graham Bixby’s engagement party. And Mitch would attend—with Rachel at his side—as an accepted member of their exclusive circle.

  Pride swelled Mitch’s chest. At last, he had it all.

  Joseph, the valet he still didn’t know what to do with, walked out of the large closet and gave him one last look.

  “Very good, sir,” he said with a nod of approval, then left the room.

  Joseph’s words should have been directed at Rachel, at least in part, Mitch thought. She’d selected the fabric, the color and cut of his tuxedo. It had hung in his closet along with the business suits, the topcoats and hats, the jackets and trousers for every imaginable occasion and the myriad of accessories she’d selected for him.

  With a final check of his appearance, Mitch left the bedchamber. In the hallway he saw that Rachel’s door remained closed. She’d been in her room since early afternoon preparing for the occasion. She wasn’t late, he’d gotten ready early.

  He’d completed his work on Albert Taft’s company books this afternoon and needed to give his recommendations one final look before he presented them. But the problems with the quarry had been the furthest thing from his mind.

  This morning Rachel had explained what to expect from the evening’s events. She made the dry subject of etiquette interesting. Sometimes, he’d even stopped thinking so much about her underwear long enough to pay attention.

  Rachel had told him that the hostess, Mrs. Everhart, Claudia’s mother, would position herself at the entrance of the drawing room to receive her guests, while Mr. Everhart, as the evening’s host, would mingle with those already assembled, seeing that everyone was happy and comfortable.

  When the butler announced that dinner was served, a procession would take the guests to the dining room. The host would offer his arm to the guest of honor, the lady who would sit on his right, and they would lead the way. The other couples would follow in line, with the hostess and her dinner partner going in last.

  Mitch had reminded himself that, though it seemed like an unnecessary production, this was the sort of thing expected of everyone wishing to maintain social acceptance.

  And, of course, the rules of etiquette didn’t stop upon entrance to the dining room. Everything was regimented, from the service of the food—always from the left, using the left hand—to refilling glasses from the right. Dishes could be removed from the right or left singly, but never stacked.

  The first course—soup could be expected—to the dessert course would be served following long-standing rules. Then there was the finger bowl to contend with, the disposition of crumbs and proper placement of the napkin. Afterward, guests could leave the table—thank God—for dancing in the family ballroom.

  He’d be expected to flawlessly execute the intricate rules of etiquette. Tonight he’d be judged not on his business expertise but his social skills. It irked him that the highbrows at tonight’s party, few of whom had ever known any real hardship, held that kind of power, that he needed their acceptance to succeed in their world, but it was a necessary evil. And, besides, he’d accomplished this last hurdle.

  He’d navigated unfamiliar social settings before and managed well enough. Rachel had coached him on what to expect. None of it worried Mitch.

  He jogged down the staircase, his feet barely brushing the risers. Tonight, nothing worried Mitch.

  Because he’d made it.

  He headed toward the study intending to work on his recommendations to Albert Taft when quick, light steps and the rustling of fabric took his attention. He looked back and saw Rachel descending the staircase. His breath caught.

  Her dark hair was arranged in an intricate design atop her head. White gloves covered her from fingertips to above her elbows.

  Her gown was a lavender silk taffeta. The cap sleeves that rode just below her shoulders were trimmed with ermine, as was the hem of the skirt. A large, single iris formed of crystal beads decorated the gown.

  But it was the fit of the dress that caused Mitch’s mouth to go dry. The bodice dipped low displaying the inviting swell of her bosom. The skirt was drawn tight across the front, then lifted high in back in a close-fitted style.

  Desire thundered through him. She was beautiful. He wanted to hold her, to touch her. He wanted to kiss her.

  He wanted to know what color underwear she had on.

  When Rachel reached the bottom of the stairs, she looked him up and down. Her gaze further inflamed his want for her.

  “Very handsome,” she told him.

  Mitch opened his mouth to reply but all that came out was stuttering and stammering.

  Rachel dipped her lashes and smiled, taking his fumbling words as a compliment. She straightened his tie and stood back, gazing at him with a critical eye.

  “Yes,” she declared once more. “Very handsome, indeed.”

  “And you’re…” Mitch gulped. “Beautiful.”

  They boarded the waiting carriage and Rachel talked about the people whom they would likely encounter at the party. Mitch might have concentrated bette
r on her words if he could stop thinking about her underwear. And if her breasts hadn’t been undulating with the sway of the carriage and gleaming in the glow of the gaslights they passed.

  The guests were in high spirits when they arrived at the Everhart home, or as high spirited as people of good breeding allowed themselves to be. Mitch greeted the other guests realizing that he already knew many of the men, thanks to Stuart Parker’s introductions at his gentlemen’s club. Rachel stayed at his side, as was expected, and the two of them moved through the room accepting quiet congratulations on their marriage. The night belonged to Claudia and Graham and their families, and the guests wouldn’t usurp that honor by bringing too much attention to anyone else.

  At supper, Mitch sat between two women he’d just been introduced to and managed to make conversation as he gazed across the table to Rachel’s breasts gleaming, this time, in the candlelight.

  When the meal was finally over, everyone made their way to the ballroom. With Rachel on his arm, pride swelled inside Mitch. She was the most beautiful woman in the room. And she was with him. She belonged here…and so did he.

  They stood together at the edge of the dance floor as Mr. Everhart presented Graham Bixby, his future son-in-law to the gathering. Applause followed, then the dancing began.

  Mitch couldn’t bring himself to join the swirling couples on the dance floor. He wanted Rachel to himself.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman here,” Mitch said as the music, laughter and chatter swelled in the room.

  “I saw you looking at me during supper.” Rachel gave him a disapproving frown. “I suppose I should have mentioned earlier that was unacceptable behavior.”

  “For a man to look at his wife?”

  “To look at her face is fine. But you were looking at my—”

  His gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts. He drew in a heavy breath and her cheeks flushed.

  “Stop looking at me there,” she whispered, her gaze darting left and right to see if any of the guests had noticed.

  He lifted his gaze to her eyes. “I suppose touching is out of the question?”

  “It most certainly is, so please control yourself.”

  Mitch leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Tell me what color underwear you have on.”

  She gasped and her cheeks flushed, as he’d seen her do so many times. It made him want her all the more.

  Then she arched her brow. “Did you consider that perhaps I’m not wearing underwear?”

  Mitch’s jaw sagged as he watched Rachel walk away, her bustle bobbing as she wound through the crowd, sending his desire for her pounding in his veins. He’d never wanted any woman the way he wanted Rachel. He didn’t know how he’d manage to get through the rest of the evening, seeing her in that dress, speculating on her underwear.

  “Kincade.”

  A big hand slapped his back, jarring his thoughts. A few seconds passed before his brain engaged and he recognized stocky, gray-haired Albert Taft standing next to him.

  “I don’t usually come to these things,” Taft said, gesturing to the crowd with a drink in his hand.

  Almost every time Mitch had seen the older man, he’d been drinking. He wondered now if Taft had added something extra to the punch, but smelled nothing on his breath.

  “But I decided, why not?” Taft went on. “It’s time to make a few changes.”

  Rachel had mentioned that Albert Taft had stopped attending most social functions since his wife’s death. Mitch wondered why he’d changed his mind.

  Albert Taft seemed to read his thoughts. “I can’t live here any longer. Too many…well, I need a change of scenery. I’m going back East. I’ve got a daughter and some grandchildren in New York. I’ll visit them for a while. Maybe I’ll take them all to Europe.”

  Mitch didn’t say anything, but the image pleased him for some reason.

  “I know it’s bad form to discuss business at these things,” Taft said, gesturing with his drink once more. “But since you’re here…”

  It suited Mitch well enough to talk about the audit of the quarry books he’d completed. Maybe it would help get Rachel and her underwear—or lack of it?—off his mind.

  “I finished up this afternoon,” Mitch said. “I’ll have my results and recommendations to you tomorrow.”

  “I’m not interested in either,” Taft said. “I’ve decided to sell the quarry.”

  “Then you’ll need the audit results to negotiate a fair price,” Mitch pointed out.

  “I’m not concerned about a fair price.” Taft sipped his drink. “I want to be rid of the quarry.”

  Mitch wasn’t surprised. Albert Taft hadn’t shown much interest in the quarry for a while so it followed that he wouldn’t want to put the effort into improving it. Selling it was a good option, under the circumstances.

  “I’ll send over my report and recommendations tomorrow. That’s what you paid me for,” Mitch said. “You can do whatever you please with it.”

  “Not so fast,” Taft told him. “I want to sell the quarry to you.”

  Mitch froze. “Me?”

  “Sure. Why not? You know more about it than anyone else—including me.”

  Taft’s accounting ledgers paged through Mitch’s memory. The quarry was in financial trouble. But despite serious mismanagement and neglect it could be made profitable again. Mitch already had a list of recommendations to present to Taft that outlined how it could be accomplished.

  “And you know what it’s worth,” Taft said.

  Mitch’s heart beat a little faster. He knew exactly what the quarry should sell for. He knew, too, that thanks to each and every dime he’d saved since he’d first sold newspapers on the street corner, he could afford it.

  Taft drained his glass. “So? What do you say?”

  “Give me a few days to think it over.”

  The chunk of money he’d hand over to Albert Taft would be nearly every cent Mitch had, so it wasn’t prudent to accept the offer on the spur of the moment. He wanted to double-check his facts and figures. Look everything over one more time.

  “Come by the house when you’ve made up your mind,” Taft said, then walked away.

  Mitch’s mind raced, taking his heart along with it. A business. A business of his own. One he could afford. One he could build on. A platform from which he could launch a financial empire of his own.

  He had to tell Rachel.

  The thought flew though his mind, pushing aside everything else. He wanted to tell her, share the joy of this moment with her. Nothing seemed more natural.

  Mitch moved along the edge of the crowded dance floor. When he didn’t spot her, he checked the nearby sitting room where the women gathered. Not there, either. Heading back to the ballroom, Mitch glimpsed a lavender beaded skirt through the open door of the balcony. He walked closer, saw that it was Rachel, then stopped still in his tracks.

  She was with a man. Mitch recognized him. Nick Hastings. They’d met at Stuart Parker’s club. It had been Hastings who’d suggested the detective agency that had found Rachel’s brother. He was a successful businessman who lived nearby.

  But he was more than that. He was tall and good-looking. He was a wealthy, successful man in his prime.

  And he looked perfect standing in front of Rachel.

  In the dim light, she gazed up at him, hanging on to his every word. She nodded. He spoke again. She answered. Then he smiled. So did she.

  Mitch’s heart ached. The two of them looked so right for each other. Hastings was of her kind. Wealthy since birth. Accepted. He fit in. He belonged. Just the sort of man Rachel deserved. Just the sort of man she should have.

  A stronger, deeper pain rolled through Mitch. He couldn’t bear the thought of Rachel being with another man—no matter how alike they were.

  Jealousy clawed at him. He wanted to bash Nick Hastings in the face, pull Rachel into his arms and carry her away.

  Another wave of emotion overtook him, this one cooling his rage. In that
single moment Mitch knew that nothing he ever acquired in this world would be worth a cent if he lost Rachel. Without her in his life, at his side, nothing else mattered. He couldn’t lose her—he simply couldn’t.

  But he’d told her over and over that he was there for the money. For his fee. He’d told her—shouted it at her—that he wanted her social connections and nothing more.

  How would he ever convince her that he felt differently?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Rachel paused at the door to the study, taking in the sight of Mitch and Noah standing side by side, looking out the front windows. They made her think of uneven bookends.

  Mitch was tall and broad, strong and sturdy. Noah was shorter and slightly built, but his long limbs and big feet suggested the potential of growing as tall and broad-shouldered as the other men in the Branford family.

  He’d lost his sickly pallor and filled out a little. How could he not after Mitch had instructed Cook to change the menu? Meat and potatoes, swimming in gravy. Rich desserts twice a day. The two of them ate like horses.

  Both were impeccably dressed in dark suits; Noah’s empty sleeve was tucked into his jacket side pocket, making it less noticeable.

  Where Rachel had wanted to protect and shelter her brother, Mitch had pushed him in his own, quiet way. Noah in the attic, boxing. She’d been appalled when she’d found out what Mitch was doing. Now, it seemed it had paid off.

  Pride swelled in her, watching the two of them. For all their opposite physical attributes, Mitch and Noah had connected. It pleased Rachel that they got along so well.

  She walked closer, wondering what had taken their attention out the front window. Mitch usually noticed when she entered the room, but not this time. He and Noah spoke quietly, neither of them taking their eyes off the front lawn and driveway.

  “She’ll have to ask her mother first,” Noah said as Rachel stopped behind them.

  “She might have callers,” Mitch offered. “And then she’ll have to change clothes.”

  They glanced at each other then, rolled their eyes and turned to the front window again.