by Jenna Kernan
She never intended to let that happen again. Kate set aside the dough and turned to face her aunt, hesitating when she saw Phoebe sitting beside the stove.
“Phoebe, will you get my sewing kit? I need to darn this stocking.”
Her sister set aside her knitting and felt her way out the door. Kate waited until the dining room door squeaked on its hinge then turned to her father’s only sister.
“Auntie?”
Her aunt would not meet her eye. That alone increased her apprehension.
“Hmm?”
“How much?”
Ella met her gaze, pressing her lips together and scowling because she was pressing the issue.
“How much?” whispered Kate.
Ella stared down at her apron. “Eight hundred.”
Kate wobbled and thumped against the counter, feeling like a fraying yarn doll whose knots had finally come loose. Her vision blurred and a sheen of sweat erupted on her skin.
Behind her, something clattered to the floor.
“Kate!”
She could never raise so much. She glanced at her aunt and saw her coming toward her. She was speaking, but Kate could not hear past the roaring in her own ears.
All the honest work she had done. Not enough—not nearly enough. It would happen again, just as it had after her mother’s passing, before she ever knew of Ella’s existence, back when she had no options but one.
Ella gripped her shoulders now.
She turned her head and called to Phoebe. “Fetch a damp cloth, child.”
“When is it due?” Kate asked.
Ella pressed her hands together before her as if about to pray, but then bit her knuckle. “It’s past due. Ninety days past due. They’re foreclosing at the end of the month.”
Kate’s knees gave way and she slipped to the floor, landing hard on her seat before the chopping block. Ella crouched before her.
Phoebe felt her way to Ella. “What’s wrong with Kate?”
“She’s feeling, um, unwell.”
“When were you going to tell us?” whispered Kate.
Ella wiped Kate’s face with the cool cloth. “I was hoping that with a new tenant, I might talk them out of it again. The bank doesn’t want this drafty, old house. They want their money.”
The cloth moved down Kate’s neck.
“It’s happened before,” said Ella.
“Before,” gasped Kate.
“Last Christmas time. Can you believe it? What kind of an establishment removes one from their home at that sacred time of the year?”
“But I brought them a hundred dollars and they stopped sending letters until now. Only this time they did put down a date.”
Kate closed her eyes.
“What’s happening?” asked Phoebe.
Kate ignored her sister. “Do we have any money at all?”
Ella hesitated only a moment. “None.”
Phoebe began to cry.
Ella cradled Phoebe to her as she glared at Kate. “And that is precisely why I did not tell you.”
Eleven days. How much would the bank accept and how would she raise it in only eleven days?
But she knew how. She would have to do it again, have to give herself to Sam, have to accept him pawing her, pushing into her. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the images of Luke folding her over a washstand and lifting her skirts over her head. Kate swallowed her pride and forced down her fears. She whispered the truth she could barely say aloud.
“I can’t say no.”
Chapter Five
K ate made it to her room before the tears started. They were angry tears, hot, scalding tears that took the fight from her drop by drop until she reached acceptance. There was no option but to become his mistress.
With dismay she noted her reflection in the mirror above her washstand. Her eyes were puffy, red and sad. She stared down at the faded cotton dress.
Kate straightened her spine and stripped out of her ordinary attire. Then she poured a pitcher of water into the basin, careful to turn the sharp chipped edge toward the rear, before splashing water on her face.
“If there was another way,” she said to herself. She grabbed the towel and mopped her face.
Kate put on her Sunday dress sewn from narrow panels of pale green-and-cream-colored remnants. When she had finished the milliner called it more quilt than dress but admitted that none of the customers would recognize the origins. For it certainly would not do to have a seamstress appear in public in an outfit matching one worn by a paying customer.
It was not fine, but it was the best she had.
Kate had once had an enviable wardrobe, but she’d lost that and everything else when her husband’s debts were settled.
She undertook her hair next, sweeping the long tresses into a loose knot at her nape. That was as close as she dared come to letting it down completely. Experience had taught her that men were enamored of long, loose hair and she needed every advantage before she went groveling to Mr. Pickett.
Kate tied her bonnet strings and tugged on her gloves. She thought of Sam’s hands, holding her as if he owned her already, and waited for the shudder of revulsion that never came.
He had told her that they would be good together. A good match. Did he mean that she would be a benefit to his business dealings? But that did not explain his contention that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. It wasn’t true—was it?
Still her stomach did flutter and her face grew hot as she thought of him. That had never happened before. And why did she look forward to their meeting instead of facing it with grim resignation?
“Madness,” she said to the empty room.
She descended the stairs, pausing at the coat tree to don a shawl. She stared at her reflection one last time. A properly dressed young woman stared back. She did not look like a femme fatale off to a clandestine meeting with a lover. She just looked…sad. Her eyes were those of a much older woman, but Sam would not be looking there. He would look, as all her admirers did, bewitched by her figure and her face. Men always stared at her mouth as though it were something rare and delicious. Sam was no different.
Yet he was different, because he was the only one who ever made her want to kiss him back. In his arms, she lost her common sense and forgot all that her first husband had taught her about the foolishness of love. Sam gave her hope and desire at once.
How sad that tonight it would all come crashing to an end.
She knew what to expect and it would be humiliating at the very least.
But before that, she needed to strike a hard bargain. There was no other way.
She marched down the front steps and set off purposefully along the street, slowing as she mused on his kisses and the heaviness they had caused in her breasts. How, at the time, she’d had an irresistible longing to press up against him. She recalled the moisture she had felt between her legs as she kissed him and felt herself flush. It was as if her body knew things she did not.
What had he said? Every person on this earth is that sort. Was that true?
Here she stood, a year older and hopefully one year wiser, in exactly the same place she had been once before—in need of funds with a rich man willing to care for her. Only this time he did not offer marriage.
That was better, was it not? This way she could leave him if he proved cruel.
She would never again bind herself in marriage. Only fate had rescued her from that blunder. She might very well have been tied to that brute for life. No, she’d never again sell herself so cheaply. Certainly she could tolerate lying beneath a man, if she knew that there was an end in sight.
But a mistress. Once she did this thing, she would become all that they had earlier called her. Kate sighed past the heaviness in her chest and continued on. Her reputation was expendable. She would sacrifice it or see her family set out on the street like rubbish.
She could do nothing less to save Phoebe. It was her duty, after all.
It didn’t matter that t
his time she knew the truth. Those pretty dresses and beautiful jewelry came at great personal cost.
Her husband had been as mean as a rattlesnake and after she discovered what was required of a wife, her initial affection had died a harsh death.
Her footsteps slowed again as she considered that Sam might be more dangerous than Luke, because her mind knew the truth, but her body still wanted him to kiss her.
She couldn’t understand her longing. She had thought that marriage to Luke had killed that part of her. Last time, Kate had recognized her mistake too late. Luke was a different man in private, where he lost his jovial manner, his glad-handing and his humor. If it had only been the brutal taking of her body, she might have born it. But he’d also used Phoebe as a hostage to ensure his wife’s compliance in the bedroom and in his business dealings. He’d been very careful to see that, while he dressed her in fine furs, satin and expensive jewelry, he allowed her no money and always kept her under close watch. She’d asked for an allowance only one. Kate shivered. After that, she’d considered hawking some of her jewelry, only to discover that he locked it up each night. His suspicion was justified. If she could have run, she would have.
She tugged at her gloves and marched on, like a general preparing for battle. The traffic on the street was heavy this time of day, with wagons coming and going from the livery and shoppers out running errands. She knew it was unseemly to arrive on foot, but she could not spare the cost of a carriage ride.
She passed the Coats Hotel and found, to her chagrin, that her steps faltered. It was the place where she’d first met Luke. He had glanced at her and then stopped dead. He’d been flirting with her when her mother arrived and embarrassed her by telling Luke that she was only fifteen. It had caused a quarrel between them because Kate had been so certain she was all grown up and had been flattered by Luke’s interest. Now she looked back with the sure knowledge that her mother had been right on every count. He was a rogue and a drunkard and a gambler.
Her stomach growled at the intoxicating aroma of fresh bread emanating from the bakery, but she did not pause. Pressing her hand over her rumbling belly helped quiet it.
The neighborhood changed on 2nd Street. She assumed Sam’s home would be impressive and so she walked away from the river. As she journeyed along, the shops gave way to homes of a grander and grander scale. She asked a gentleman on the corner of 22nd where she might find Mr. Pickett’s residence and he described the building to her in detail. She did not expect to find many gates flanked with stone lions, so she continued confidently on.
Her confidence fled when she reached her destination. What if he was not at home or was not alone or he had changed his mind? What if he had not changed it? Would she be forced to bed him immediately?
Kate stood in the road on aching feet as the afternoon sun vanished behind her. The light of the setting sun gilded the iron fence surrounding the huge mansion.
Kate stared at the stone columns flanking the open wrought-iron gate stretching up twenty feet. The forbidding entrance contrasted sharply with her home that welcomed passersby with a cheery sign ringed with pansies.
The large stone mansion looked as if it had dropped from the sky onto this lot, for there were no trees, bushes, shrubs or flowers to soften the hard edges. In fact, the only thing growing was weeds.
“Oh, my,” she said.
The structure was impressive, but somehow looked new and abandoned all at once.
Every window was ablaze with light, as if he were throwing a magnificent party, but the lack of window curtains made the house seem hollow.
She was beginning to feel the familiar nausea that she had not experienced since her late husband’s death. It used to happen when he came home, stinking of whiskey and impatient with her efforts to feign sleep.
Kate began to tremble. It took everything she had to not turn tail and run. Instead, she crept through the gates and up the granite steps to the massive walnut doors where she attempted to peer through the etched glass windows. She spied the bell and pulled it before she could completely lose her nerve.
The door yawned open.
“Good evening, miss.” The pinch-faced man gave a brittle bow then turned to her without lifting his gaze to meet hers. He gave no indication that it was unusual to find a single, unescorted woman on the doorstep. That made her wonder how often he faced this same circumstance.
Kate wished she had paid more attention to the papers. But by the time Mr. Porto finally relinquished them, she was either too tired or engrossed in reading a story to Phoebe.
“Whom shall I say is calling?”
“Ah, it’s Miss Wells to see Mr. Pickett. I have a card.” She reached into her reticule, past the derringer and tortoise-shell comb, to retrieve one of the preprinted calling cards and extended it to him.
“Do come in.”
He took her wrap and waited while she untied her bonnet strings and carefully secured the hat pins back into the crown.
The man held her hat and shawl and used the other hand to motion her to a seat in the entrance. So she was not to be shown into the parlor. It was a bad omen.
“I shall see if Mr. Pickett has yet returned home.”
Of course he already knew, but Kate was well acquainted with the rules of this engagement. “Thank you.”
Then she glanced longingly at the exit and took the seat in the hall that he indicated. There she waited. Her mind wandered to the alley and their stolen kisses.
Was that anticipation fluttering about in her belly? How unexpected. She flattened her opposite hand over her corset stays and muttered, “Traitor,” to her treacherous body. How could she long for him when she knew the humiliations involved when a man takes a woman?
The little thrill of being pursued wilted under the cruel reality. Luke had not waited for the marriage to take his due. The ring she wore in promise had given him license to her body and had it not been for Phoebe, she never would have seen the altar. She squeezed her eyes closed at the memory of the tearing sensation and the blood that smeared her thighs.
The pocket door, before her, crashed open. She jumped to her feet, sending her reticule swinging wildly from her wrist.
Kate concentrated on not toppling backward as she pressed her hand over her pounding heart. He’d nearly scared the life out of her.
Sam’s big frame filled the doorway, his shirt un-tucked, his sleeves rolled to the elbow as if he could not even take the time to put on a jacket before seeing her. Dark hair dusted his forearms. The top two buttons at his throat were undone, giving her a clear view of the bulk of muscle on his chest. To appear before a lady in such a state was unacceptable. She was about to tell him so when she remembered. She was no longer a lady.
She gaped up at him, registering his liquid brown eyes, twinkling as he grinned at her.
“You came,” he said.
He clasped her elbow and ushered her into the room, slipping the pocket door shut behind him. When she stood beside him, she recalled just how big he was. She clutched her bag before her, reassured by the small pistol secreted within. She should have met him in a public place, but the discussion they must have was so delicate it required privacy. Unfortunately, privacy allowed other things.
He released her and she stepped away.
“Did I startle you?”
She nodded, her hands pressed flat over her heart. “A bit.”
He glanced toward the closed door and then back to her. There was no need to ask what he was thinking now. She read it in the flash of heat in those eyes and in the step he took in her direction.
“Have you changed your mind?” he asked.
He took another step toward her and she scooted to the end of the tête-à-tête chair. It didn’t stop him. He just kept coming.
“I’ve missed you,” he said. It had only been eight hours since he’d found her, yet somehow her whole world had changed.
He leaned forward, closed his eyes and breathed her in. His eyes snapped open and pinned h
ers. “You smell like lavender.”
She blinked, overwhelmed by his eagerness. Could he expect her to seal the arrangement now? He moved closer and she squeaked as she retreated.
“I couldn’t get you out of my mind.” Another step brought him within inches. “I tried.”
What did that mean? Had he been with another woman? She pressed her lips together and scowled, then wondered why she should care?
She leaned away as he leaned in.
“Did you miss me?”
The night of the the attack she had dreamed of him and awoken with her body humming like a teakettle about to boil. But she would go to her grave before she would tell him that. Nor would she reveal the warm ache his presence now evoked. He seemed to take all the air from the room, making her light-headed.
“Not at all.”
He laughed. “Little liar.”
He caught her wrist and tugged until she collided with his chest. He sat on the armrest of the expensive double chair. In an instant, he had her cornered between his splayed legs. She stood trapped, eye-to-eye with Sam.
She struggled for a moment, but to no effect. She briefly considered shooting him, but discarded the notion, heartwarming though it might be.
His strong arms held her firmly, neither drawing her in, nor releasing her, as if he was waiting for her to grow accustomed to this intimacy.
It seemed she would have to render payment immediately. Why had she thought Sam was somehow different than her late husband?
Her stomach tightened, but the dread she expected did not come. She liked the feel of his fingers splayed around her waist.
“Kate?” He stared at her with a singular attention that caused her to catch her breath. “I want to kiss you again. Since I met you, I can’t seem to think of anything but kissing you.”
“Mr. Pickett.”
“Sam.” His voice was low and husky.
The sound did things to her insides.
“Say it. I want to hear my name on your lips.”
