Cheryl St. John

by The Mistaken Widow

  The reception was informal, with a buffet set up in the dining hall. Nicholas observed that after a servant had taken each new guest’s coat and added their gifts to the growing pile, Claire greeted each one personally. Everything about her dress and behavior that day was exemplary, from her gentle admonitions when the help didn’t attend to the food table quickly enough, to the way she welcomed the guests.

  She didn’t know these Wick Avenue industrialists and bankers from the man in the moon, yet he passed a small group she stood within and overheard the questions she asked to stimulate conversation.

  “If this canal is such a grand idea, why hasn’t the project been undertaken?” she asked.

  “Far too costly,” replied Edward Coughlin, a retired banker. “And the mills are doing more business by train than by barge now.”

  “The canal idea has been kicked around for a hundred years,” Mayor Veys said. “One of these days someone will come up with enough money to underwrite the project.”

  Mayor Veys seemed taken with Claire. Nicholas noted the way the hawk-nosed widower preened beneath her attention. He observed as she drifted to another group, somehow managing to make her steps with the crutches appear graceful.

  “What do you think of my sister-in-law?” Nicholas asked, reminding Phillip Veys that the object of his attention was a Halliday and under Nicholas’s protection.

  “A striking woman. Damn shame about your brother. They must have been a fetching couple. She’s young and beautiful. She’ll remarry soon.”

  Nicholas’s stare swung from the mayor to Claire. Remarry? It was perfectly natural for someone to think that. Yes, she was young. And she was beautiful. And why should she settle for a lonely life as a rich widow when she could be a doubly rich wife?

  “You haven’t been at the theater for a while,” Edward said to Nicholas. They shared a box in the balcony, and Nicholas usually accompanied Leda. “Why don’t you bring Claire on Saturday evening? She and the missus can get acquainted—give her a chance to get to know someone.”

  The Coughlins were the cream of Youngstown society. Once welcomed into their circle, Claire would be an important part of the social structure. Nicholas followed her with his eyes.

  Milos Switzer, wearing handsomely creased black trousers and a gray coat, stood off to one side of the drawing room. Claire stepped over to speak with him. He leaned forward, a lock of his sandy hair habitually falling over one temple. His steel gray eyes held a perceptible spark of interest.

  “Saturday night then, Nicholas?” Edward asked.

  Claire seemed to say something just for Milos’s ears, and touched his sleeve. He smiled and responded to her words, and Nicholas couldn’t explain the unease their exchange evoked.

  “Yes,” he replied. “We’ll see you then.” Moving swiftly across the room, he drew up beside his sister-inlaw.

  Milos looked up. “Claire has done a marvelous job with the food, hasn’t she?” he asked. “Did you try the goose pâté?”

  Nicholas tried to reason with his unfounded exasperation. “Yes. Mother is an excellent teacher.”

  Claire’s clear gaze rose to his, and if he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought he saw hurt behind her quickly masked expression. She might have everyone else easily fooled, but he wasn’t going to fall for her wily charms and her phony New York accent.

  “How was Thomas when you stopped by the Cranes’?” Nicholas asked his assistant.

  “He’s doing well. Just frustrated over the loss of work. Mrs. Crane sent her thanks for the supplies.”

  “Do you think it was enough?”

  “It was half a wagon load, Nicholas.” He grinned.

  “Your generosity is admirable,” Claire commented.

  “Don’t let this fool you,” Milos said. “He’s as tightfisted as they come. Nobody wrests an extra penny from him in business dealings. He’ll haggle over the price on a pound of steel until his suppliers give up from exhaustion.”

  “My father started this business with a loan from Coughlin’s Savings and Trust,” Nicholas said. “I would be a poor son if I didn’t honor his memory by increasing his hard work and investments.”

  Claire’s shadowy blue eyes darkened.

  Samuel Breslow, a mill owner, stepped up beside him. “And you’ve done that twice over, Nicholas. Now you need to make yourself an heir to take the reins, so you can enjoy your old age.”

  An awkward silence lapsed. Nicholas resisted meeting Claire’s gaze. “It will be a good many years before I’ll be ready to let go of Halliday Iron,” he assured the man.

  “I have no doubt of that,” the man said with a chuckle. “I’ve brought you a box of cigars back from Georgetown. What do you say we go sample them?”

  Nicholas gave Claire a slight bow. “Excuse us.”

  Sarah nodded, and the two men made their way through the clusters of visitors.

  “I can picture him being a shrewd businessman,” she said to Milos. “It’s his other side that’s hard to accept. The one with compassion.”

  “He’s loyal to his employees,” Milos said.

  “And his family,” she added.

  “And his family,” he agreed.

  “Have you known him a long time?”

  “A very long time. We once fell in love with the same girl.”

  “Oh?”

  “We were ten.”

  Sarah looked up to see the good humor on Milos’s handsome face.

  “We hated each other for about a month.”

  “What happened?”

  “I made it look like he put ink on the teacher’s seat. He gave me a bloody nose. Then Mary Joy moved to Chicago, and we forgot about her.”

  Sarah smiled.

  “He and Stephen were like oil and water,” Milos said. “Nicholas did everything just the way he was supposed to, following the rules trying to please Templeton.”

  “Their father?”

  He nodded. “And Stephen went against the grain, broke all the rules, and didn’t care what anyone, let alone the old man, thought of him.”

  “Did their father favor Nicholas, then?”

  “Quite the opposite. Oh, he tried not to show it, but Stephen was his favorite. It was apparent in the way Stephen got away with the most outrageous behavior. While Nicholas…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, Nicholas just tried harder and harder to earn his respect. Now that I look back, it was like he was trying to make up for the disappointment Stephen caused.” His expression changed abruptly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I shouldn’t have said that. You’re Stephen’s wife.”

  “No, no. I’m grateful you’re frank with me. There’s so much I don’t know or understand about this family. The more I know the more it helps me deal with my situation.”

  Nicholas had never let on that Milos was anything more than a valuable employee. But of course, he’d been there with the family through the memorial service, a steadfast and supportive presence. Now she could see more to the relationship between the two men.

  A thought came to mind. “Did you find it surprising that Nicholas had me investigated?”

  His surprised gaze met hers levelly. “Did he?”

  “Didn’t you know?”

  “No.”

  “I thought perhaps he’d told you.”

  “I’m sure it was sound judgment on his part. Someone in his position can’t be too careful in protecting his property and investments. Anyone Stephen would have married would have received the same scrutiny. No doubt Nicholas will have his own wife investigated before he says his vows.”

  He seemed sincere enough. Apparently he’d be little help in gaining information about Claire. But his friendliness and easygoing charm made her more comfortable than she’d been all afternoon. “What did he tell you about me?”

  “Just that you would be arriving with a child, and that you’d been injured. He’s a fine-looking boy. I’m glad the two of you are all right.�
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  The afternoon grew late. Sarah and Leda opened the assortment of colorfully wrapped gifts and, a few at a time, their guests departed. Leda gave Sarah an enveloping hug, assured her she’d done a wonderful job and headed to her room to rest.

  Seeing that the servants were cleaning up, Sarah made her way toward the stairs. Her leg, which had begun to ache hours ago, now pulsed with a dull throb. She’d had her weight on it too much that day. Paused at the bottom of the staircase, she gazed up, steeling herself for the climb and tightening her grip on the banister.

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  Nicholas’s deep, silken voice caught her unaware, startling her. She turned and found him beside her. “About what?” she asked, her heart hammering.

  Had he learned something about her? Had one of the businessmen here today recognized her? She hadn’t seen anyone familiar. She’d had no reason to fear one of these steel industrialists would have had business with her father’s company. But it was possible she had entertained one of them in Boston and forgotten.

  “About your leg hurting,” he replied. “That is the source of the crease in your brow, is it not?”

  Relieved, she leaned against the glossy oak banister. “It’s not that bad,” she said. Not compared to other types of pain.

  “No reason to act like it doesn’t hurt,” he said. “That’s foolish.” Without preamble, he stepped forward and scooped her into his arms.

  He smelled faintly of tobacco, and strongly of that starched linen smell that emanated from his wardrobe, and more disturbingly like his own unique male self. For a moment she held her body stiff in his arms, resistant to his presumptuous action. But by the time he’d climbed a few stairs, she recognized just how grateful she was for someone’s concern. Though the man was curt-mannered and duty-bound, his arms were strong, and his care appreciated.

  Sarah allowed herself to relax into the unfamiliar measure of security his arms gave her, feeling safe, feeling as though she didn’t have to take the whole world on alone just yet.

  He reached the top of the stairs and Claire’s eyes, huge and round against her pale face, turned up to his. For a moment Nicholas thought his boots were stuck to the floor. After only a second’s resistance, her soft body had melted against him, her submission indicative of the extent of her exhaustion.

  It had only been a few weeks since she’d been in a terrible accident, as well as given birth. Watching her today, his conscience had nagged at him bitterly, making him question if he’d been too hard on her. No matter who she was, it was wrong of him to overtax her strength or jeopardize her health.

  He carried her swiftly to her bed and lowered her to the edge. As he pulled away, she yelped, and it relieved him to find only a loose strand of her hair caught on a button on his vest. Nicholas lowered himself to sit beside her, and studied the wild tangle.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, catching her pink lower lip in her teeth, an action that made her seem girlish, yet touched him in the erotic way only a woman could.

  “Let me. Move closer.” He said the words before he realized moving her closer would place all that marvelously scented hair beneath his chin.

  She leaned forward obligingly, and he reached for the snagged ringlet, untangling it from his button with great care. The ringlet was pure silk against his fingers. Once he’d loosened the tress, he held it, rubbing the satiny texture between his thumb and forefinger.

  She raised her head, not pulling away, but bringing her solemn gaze to his, and he read the question in those liquid depths. He made a visual inspection of her creamy-looking ivory skin, her disturbing bow-shaped lips and the riot of her wheat- and gold-toned hair.

  And without knowing he was going to do it, without waiting for his sensible mind to dissuade him, he took the strand of hair that hung beside her cheek between his fingers and stroked it, envying the lock its place against that temptingly beautiful face.

  In the next minute, he found his fingertips against her jaw, discovered the incredible softness of her skin, and saw her rise of color, but couldn’t remember ordering his hand to touch her.

  Against his lips, her fluttering breath tasted sweet and inviting, hypnotically drawing him closer. The seductive scent of her hair and skin set his senses aflame. She drew a shaky breath through provocative lips, and his craving desire to taste them melted his good sense like a hot knife through butter.

  His fingers sank into the mass of wanton ringlets at her temple. His lips came down over hers. She drew in a quick breath of surprise or pleasure—he wasn’t sure which—but he covered her mouth before she could object or move away.

  Adrift in the staggering sensations of desire the kiss unlocked, it took Nicholas a few minutes to realize she had pressed her palm against his chest in gentle protest.

  The action brought him to his senses, and he took his mouth from hers, pulled his hand from her hair and stood, his heart thudding.

  She sat with her gaze lowered, one hand supporting her weight on the bed beside her, the other rising to tuck back the recalcitrant lock of hair, then flutter to her lap.

  “I’m sorry,” she said on a whisper, and a silvery dot shimmered on her lashes.

  “I’ll take responsibility,” he said quickly. Too quickly. Too sternly, angry with himself.

  The dot became a drop that trailed down her exquisite ivory cheek. She dashed it away.

  “I’m sorry, Claire,” he forced himself to say. “You’re vulnerable right now. That was quite dishonorable of me. You have every right to be angry.”

  She shook her head gently, and only mouthed the word “No.”

  “I promise to behave with more discretion in the future.”

  She remained still and silent

  “Look at me, for God’s sake, it was just a kiss.”

  She did. And he wished like hell she hadn’t. He wished like hell he hadn’t insisted. Because when those glistening eyes rose to his, when he read the overwhelming bewilderment and hurt in their depths, he knew the truth.

  Oh, no. No form of denial would be sufficient.

  It hadn’t been just a kiss.

  Sarah prepared for the evening at the theater, wishing instead she were staying at home while Leda and Nicholas went out. That way she’d have hours to replace Stephen’s letters and read the remaining ones. So far, they’d availed little, containing mostly stories of his travels and the productions of his plays. The information would serve her well at some time, she was sure, but for now disappointment suffused her. She just wished an opportunity would arise to go through Nicholas’s clothing and find the key to his desk. She’d come to realize that the probability of that was nil.

  Sarah chose one of her new dresses, an onyx-black silk brocade trimmed with deep flounces of French lace, seed pearls in a cluster on the shoulders and in a triangular design on each side of the bustle as well as at her waist. The blouse cut to a deep V between her breasts and the overdress draped in a V shape from each shoulder to a point at her waist, a slimming design.

  She studied herself in the mirror, still unaccustomed to the womanly changes in her body. Her breasts were fuller, her hips more rounded and less girlish. What would her father think if he saw her now?

  That thought changed as she remembered the evening Nicholas had carried her to her room. And kissed her. Exactly what did Nicholas think of her?

  What did it matter? He didn’t even know her true identity, she told herself. But she couldn’t help wondering if she’d done something to encourage that kiss.

  And every time she wondered that, the more probable reason for the kiss came to mind: It had been just another test. A test to find out what kind of woman his brother had married, to prove the caliber of the mother of the only current Halliday heir. And each time she went over her reaction, she wondered if she’d passed or failed.

  Having little experience with kissing men, she had only minimal comparison. Nicholas’s kiss still kept her awake at night, still gave her pause to reflect o
ver its meaning and its heady effect on her senses. She’d never been kissed like that.

  Not with that tenderness or depth of sensitivity, as though she were someone deserving of reverence.

  But that was silly. Nicholas hardly thought of her as special or honorable. Just the opposite, so why did that worshipful distinction stay with her above all else? Above the warmth and the genuine sensuality of it? Above the shocking fact that he’d kissed her at all?

  She’d failed the test. His brother’s widow should have slapped his face and shared her affront with anyone within hearing distance. But she hadn’t.

  She hadn’t.

  She’d pressed her palm to his shirtfront, felt the rapid beat of his heart and the heat of his muscular body. She’d remembered the heart-stopping sight of him in his bath, and paralyzing heat had encompassed her. Through the din of blood rushing through her veins, she’d heard the voice of caution reminding her of her obligation to her son, and she’d pushed against the chest she desired to pull closer.

  She’d fought falling into a trap, and remembered the last time she’d believed a man’s sincerity.

  That thought raised her sensibilities into action. Nicholas had a purpose, and it boded no goodwill toward her. Sarah had doubled her effort to push him away, and he’d released her.

  She turned away from the mirror, away from the blush of humiliation and desire that even now tinted her skin at the memory.

  William was still awake in his crib, having just been fed before she donned her dress. She cradled him close and carried him to the window. “Mama won’t be gone long,” she promised, kissing his forehead. “And I will miss you terribly.”

  He gave her a toothless grin that melted her heart and brought a wide smile to her own face. “You are the most precious boy.”

  He smiled again, and her heart welled with love.

  “William is still awake?” Mrs. Trent asked, coming to stand behind her.

  “Yes. He’s starting to stay awake for longer periods. See that you pay him attention this evening.”

  “It’s my pleasure, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” She handed the baby to his governess and retrieved her reticule, placing its contents, along with a fresh handkerchief, in one of Claire’s evening bags. Testing the bulky lining of her reticule, she discovered the bracelet where she’d ineptly sewn it, and with a few deft plucks at the thread, released her very last possession.