But he’d take care of that problem.
Now, if he could only figure out how to take care of the problem of Loretta . . .
Chapter Nineteen
Four weeks later, on a cool evening in early December, Loretta sat beside Malachai in her parents’ large back parlor, listening to an ensemble that specialized in Baroque and early music. She and he sat in the second row, right next to her mother, who beamed upon them with myopic approval.
The room had been decorated in spectacular fashion, with tons of potted plants and flowers and yards of ribbon draped on the chairs that had been rented for the purpose. The chairs formed six rows that seated ten people each, and the people occupying them were dressed in the very latest modes, Loretta and her mother included.
Loretta hadn’t known either of her parents to take an interest in early music before this. Or any other type of music, for that matter. She suspected they’d been influenced by reports of her relationship with Malachai and wanted to investigate it for themselves. She wondered if it had been Marjorie or Jason who’d spilled the beans.
Squinting around the room, sans spectacles, since she wanted to look good for Malachai, she couldn’t make out expressions on anybody’s faces, much less those of Jason or Marjorie who sat together in the back row. Drat her poor vision anyhow!
She could see Malachai perfectly. He seemed totally absorbed in the music. He would. Every time Loretta wanted to talk to him—well, scold him, really—for buying William Tillinghurst’s businesses out from under her feet—with her father’s blessing, naturally—he got involved in something else. The only thing he ever wanted to talk about was marriage, curse it.
Suddenly, she wondered if it had been Malachai himself who’d reported to her parents that she refused to marry him, even though they were lovers. She wouldn’t put such a low scheme past him.
Squinting was making her feel slightly queasy—Loretta believed she’d picked up some kind of bug at the soup kitchen—so she opted to put on her spectacles. She fished them out of her small handbag and arranged the gold ear pieces. Ah, that was better.
Being able to see clearly was a blessing. She supposed she ought to thank her lucky stars that someone had invented spectacles, even though she couldn’t help but regret not having been endowed with clear vision to begin with. Such was life. And she really wanted to know how much Malachai had told to her father as he’d been stealing her businesses.
Leaning sideways and whispering in his ear while, at the same time, trying to appear as if she was interested in the music, she said, “Did you tell my father about us?” She settled back in her chair immediately, since she didn’t want her mother poking at her to be still.
Her question caught his attention. His head whipped around and he stared at her. Leaning over in his turn, he whispered, “Do you think I’m crazy? Or that I want to marry you at the barrel of a shotgun?”
She frowned at him. Perhaps he hadn’t been the one who’d let the cat out of the bag.
Catching her mother’s sideways glance, Loretta settled back in her chair with a sigh. She believed she looked her best this evening, even if she was wearing her spectacles and didn’t feel especially well.
She didn’t usually wear black because she deemed it to be a boring color, but this ensemble had caught her fancy when she’d seen it in Vogue. She’d had her dressmaker sew it up for her. It was rather revealing, with a strapless black satin under-bodice with a straight skirt and an uneven hem that showed a good deal of ankle. Loretta felt a smug satisfaction in the fact that she could support a strapless under-bodice, being fully endowed in that area of her anatomy. It was one of her endowments that Malachai seemed especially fond of, what’s more. The under-bodice was topped with a filmy black chiffon over-bodice with black silk edging and a black silk cummerbund. To top everything off, Loretta wore a black silk flower in her hair.
She felt both elegant and feminine, and she trusted Malachai judged her so, although they hadn’t had a chance to speak before the music began. Jason’s eyes had bulged when he’d seen her, and he’d let go of a low whistle, so she knew that at least one member of the opposite sex found her attractive—even if he might as well have been a brother to her.
She didn’t think Marjorie had approved, but that was Marjorie. If Marjorie had her way, neither one of them would ever appear in public unless they were covered from top to toe. And they’d probably be wearing veils, like those Arabian Mussulman ladies did, as well.
In spite of her quirks, Marjorie looked quite well this evening, too, although her gown might as well have been a nun’s habit compared to Loretta’s. Still, Marjorie always looked good in green, and the dark, shimmery satin was particularly stunning with Marjorie’s pale skin, hazel-green eyes, and bright red hair. Loretta was sure the poor woman was dying inside, no matter how good she looked, because Marjorie was always embarrassed to be noticed, and the gentlemen in the room were definitely eyeing her with approval.
Jason, Loretta observed with an inner grin, hadn’t left her side. He was such an odd duck, Jason. Loretta couldn’t understand why he didn’t simply declare himself to Marjorie and be done with it. Of course, Marjorie would surely reject him without a second thought. Silly woman. Jason was a wonderful man, and she ought to appreciate him.
It was all ridiculous. If Loretta felt stronger, she might just speak to one or both of them about it. Along with her queasiness, however, she’d been visited by a strange lethargy of late. Loretta, who prided herself on her pep and energy, disapproved. But she was sure the malady, whatever it was, would go away soon. Loretta was never ill for long.
The music stopped, and Loretta’s attention snapped back to the ensemble. She applauded politely, along with everyone else, although since they were all wearing gloves, the applause was muffled. Wryly, she thought about other musical evenings she’d attended at friends’ houses, with Negro bands playing ragtime tunes, and everyone ungloved and happy. When they clapped, the band knew it was being appreciated.
However, she supposed one shouldn’t expect people who played early Baroque music to anticipate thunderous ovations. The leader of the group, a gentleman named Joshua Pearlman, bowed low before the assembly.
Loretta wondered if the poor man had rented his shiny black suit. She knew from her friends that musicians as a group struggled mightily to be heard, rather like novelists struggled mightily to be published. And then, even if one were heard or published, there was no money in it. Perhaps she ought to put her money behind Mr. Pearlman’s group. She’d met him earlier in the evening, and could tell he’d been taken with her.
“And now we will play music by Henry Purcell.” He smiled at Malachai, who shifted uncomfortably. “We thought the piece would be appropriate, given Captain Quarles’ recent triumphant recovery of lost Moorish and Spanish treasure. This is incidental music composed in 1695 to accompany a theatrical play called ‘Abdelazer, or the Moor’s Revenge.’”
Loretta slapped a hand over her mouth and turned to stare at Malachai, who gave a visible start, clearly as surprised as she. She couldn’t help it when she began to giggle. Striving manfully—or womanfully—to stifle her amusement, she refocused her attention on Mr. Pearlman, who was gazing at her with a bruised-lamb expression on his sensitive face. She vowed to herself that she would apologize to him as soon as possible and explain why she’d been so diverted by the title of the piece. Then she’d throw some money at him; money seemed to be the universal salve.
Abdelazer was a lovely bit of music. Loretta, who had been forced to take piano lessons as a girl, but who had successfully resisted acquiring the skill, appreciated it. She applauded lustily when it came to an end, silently cursing her gloves.
Mr. Pearlman bowed, thanked everyone for their attention, gestured at his small band of musicians, all of whom stood and bowed, there was more applause, and then the assembly broke up. Refreshments were being served in the front parlor and the dining room. Loretta attached herself to Malachai.
�
��‘The Moor’s Revenge,’” she said, “fancy that!”
“Funny coincidence,” he acknowledged, his gold earring glinting in the light from the overhead electrical lamps. Loretta loved that earring, although she wasn’t sure why: perhaps because it singled Malachai out as different from the general run-of-the-mill gentleman. Not that he needed it. His sheer size and exotic, weather-beaten demeanor did that even without the earring.
She realized her mother was scurrying after her, trying to catch up with the two of them and she stopped attempting to think. Lately, her thought processes had been muddled anyhow. She tugged at Malachai’s arm to get him to slow down. “Mother wants to talk to us,” she said, hoping she was wrong.
Without even a groan or a sigh, Malachai stopped walking, turned, and smiled politely at Mrs. Linden, proving to Loretta once again that he could behave like a gentleman when he wanted to, even though he wasn’t really one inside. Perhaps that was why she loved him so much. “Beautiful music, Mrs. Linden.”.
“It was, wasn’t it? I particularly asked them to play the last piece.” Mrs. Linden, not built for rushing, pressed a hand over her thumping heart. “I thought the title was so appropriate, didn’t you?”
“Indeed, it was.” Malachai’s smile made Loretta’s own heart flutter like a hummingbird. She suspected even her mother was affected by all those large white teeth against that swarthy, sun-bronzed face. In an earlier age, Malachai should have been a pirate.
Taking her mother’s arm, Loretta leaned into the woman, as if to impart a confidence. Her mother always loved it when Loretta acted like a normal daughter. “Did you know that Captain Quarles’ ship is the Moor’s Revenge, Mother?”
Mrs. Linden gasped. “No! Is it really? I had no idea!”
Loretta was proud of Malachai for not pointing out that his ship’s name had been printed in every single newspaper in San Francisco for weeks and weeks and weeks. She didn’t do it, either. She knew her mother was adept at avoiding newspapers, except for the society columns. She memorized those, or so it seemed to Loretta.
“I thought that was the reason you’d asked for the Purcell piece,” she said.
Her mother blinked at her. “Oh, no, dear. I just saw the word Moor in the title and thought it would be nice if they played it.”
The corner of Malachai’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t laugh. “You were correct, Mrs. Linden,” was all he said.
“You certainly were,” agreed Loretta, not quite as successful as he at repressing her humor.
“I have something that I think will be fun for us as we take our refreshments, dear,” Mrs. Linden said with a confidential giggle.
Oh, dear. Loretta didn’t quite trust her mother’s idea of “fun.” “Oh?” she said. “What might that be?”
Her mother glanced around, as if ascertaining that no one else could overhear. “A Ouija Board.”
Loretta’s mouth fell open. “A what?” Never, in all her days, had she envisioned her mother enjoying anything as frivolous as a Ouija Board. Not that her mother wasn’t frivolous, because she was; but formerly, Mrs. Linden wouldn’t have dared bring such a thing in the house for fear of Mr. Linden’s scorn. There wasn’t an iota of fancy or imagination in Mr. Linden.
Mrs. Linden patted Loretta’s arm frantically. “Don’t yell, dear. It’s an Ouija Board. Mrs. Phillips brought it over, so your father can’t laugh at us. He wouldn’t dare be ugly to Mrs. Phillips.”
Loretta couldn’t help herself. She started to laugh.
“Who’s Mrs. Phillips?” Malachai asked, in what passed, in him, as a whisper.
Struggling to control herself—her mother was looking at her in hurt disapproval—Loretta stammered, “M-Mr. Phillips owns th-the b-b-bank!” She hooted and slapped a hand over her mouth.
“Loretta!”
“I’ll just take her out here until she stops laughing,” Malachai said to Mrs. Linden. He shoved open one of the French windows leading out to a balcony and dragged Loretta outside with him, leaving Mrs. Linden in the hallway, looking after them with a puzzled frown on her vague, pretty face.
Fog curled around the white wrought-iron bars holding the railing up, and the nippy early-December air made Loretta feel slightly less queasy. “Oh, my, I’m sorry. My poor mother.”
“She has a lot to put up with,” Malachai agreed.
Although her tummy had settled, Loretta’s disposition was as volatile as ever. Rubbing her arms, she turned on Malachai. “And exactly what do you mean by that? I know my parents disapprove of—”
He shut her up in the way that had become customary for him in the past several weeks, by grabbing and kissing her. It worked every time, even though Loretta felt as though she’d let the side down from time to time. Still, she leaned into his kiss, knowing as she did so that she loved and adored this man now and would undoubtedly do so forever, thereby ruining her life, because he’d surely tire of her one of these days. But at least he hadn’t yet.
When they finally drew apart, both were panting slightly, and Loretta, at least, was happy. “Oh, my,” she whispered. “I’m quite warm now.”
He chuckled. “Me, too.”
She gazed up at him with wonder. Of all the unlikely things to happen, she thought, the notion that Malachai Quarles had become her lover was perhaps the unlikeliest. He looked startling handsome this evening, in his black tails and pristine white shirt. He looked like a pirate who’d left the sea in order to toy with society for a little while and who would return to his nefarious activities as soon as he’d had his fill of wine and women. And he was hers. At least for a little while. She sighed contentedly.
He took her by the shoulders and looked down into her eyes. She sighed again, only this sigh wasn’t one of contentment.
“Listen to me, Loretta Linden. We need to get married. It’s no good, just being lovers. You have to marry me.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Malachai,” she said wearily. “Not tonight. I don’t feel well enough.”
She had felt well, until he’d brought up the M word. All of a sudden, her tummy began to feel funny again. Pooh.
His brows drew down into a deep V. “What do you mean, you don’t feel well? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” He took her arm and dragged her toward the French window. “Do you need a coat? What the devil do you mean, wearing that thing if you don’t feel well? There’s nothing to it, for God’s sake!”
“It’s the height of fashion!” Loretta cried, her feelings wounded, digging in her heels and clinging to the balcony railing. “I hoped you’d like it.”
He pulled on her arm. She clung to the railing. “I’ll like it better when you take it off, but you have no business being out here in the cold when you’re wearing next to nothing!”
“Stop pulling on me!” Loretta implored. “I’m fine. Really. I— Oof!” Malachai lifted her in his strong arms and put her down on the hall carpet as he kicked the window shut.
Since she found herself looking directly into the startled face of Joshua Pearlman, she smiled brightly as she patted her gown, which had become ruffled as Malachai carried her. “Mr. Pearlman!”
He backed up a pace and tugged at his evening jacket. “Miss Linden.”
Having had lots of practice, although not for quite a while, Loretta batted her eyelashes at the musician. “Your music was simply wonderful, Mr. Pearlman. I so enjoyed it.” Recalling that she owed him an apology, she opened her mouth, but didn’t get to use the air she sucked in.
“Pearlman,” said Malachai who, Loretta realized, had loomed up behind her. “Enjoyed the concert. My ship’s the Moor’s Revenge, you know. That’s why Miss Linden laughed back there. She didn’t know you were going to play that one.”
Joshua Pearlman seemed to shrink in front of Loretta’s eyes. Odd how that happened so often when her friends met Malachai. The only male friend to whom she’d introduced him who seemed unaffected by his imposing presence was Jason.
“Er . . . thank you,” Pearlman stammered. �
�Er . . . must be getting along now. Refreshments, and all that.” He turned, gestured to his musical associates, and they all slunk past Malachai and hurried down the hallway.
A young female violinist peered back over her shoulder. Loretta frowned, knowing the woman was eyeing Malachai. Drat her. Loretta knew from experience with her friends that you couldn’t trust musicians, who tended to be eccentric and immoral. Or so she’d been told, although perhaps the commentary had been intended for ragtime musicians and not those of the classical persuasion.
“What the devil’s wrong with him?” Malachai demanded, staring after the retreating early-music ensemble.
“You frighten people, Malachai. I think it’s your eyebrows. And your size, of course.”
His gaze whipped from the musicians to her, and Loretta saw that she’d diverted him from concerns about marriage or her health. She patted his arm and took it in both of her hands. “Come along now, dear. Let’s eat something.”
The notion of food made her stomach pitch unpleasantly, but she knew that Malachai needed lots of food in order to maintain his magnificent physique.
When they entered the front parlor, Loretta saw that Mrs. Phillips and her mother had already set up the Ouija Board. Jason and Marjorie were looking on, and Loretta noticed that Marjorie didn’t appear disapproving for once. She actually seemed interested.
Glancing at the door to the dining room and deciding she didn’t want to face all the food laid out in there, she said to Malachai, “Why don’t you go fill yourself a plate. I want to see the famous Ouija Board.”
“Huh. I’ve heard of them, but never seen one before.”
“Some of my friends enjoy working with them, although I’m not sure I believe that one can actually communicate with the spirits through them.”
The look he gave her told Loretta that he didn’t believe it, either, and that he harbored no doubts on the matter. “You want something to eat?”
Perfect Romance Page 27
