Cinders to Satin

by Fern Michaels

  “Sit down, Aggie, and have some lemonade. Miss James is your client. I spoke with her briefly, and this is her list of colors and preferences. Mr. Kenyon wants her dressed fashionably and suitably.” Bridget spoke with her usual take charge manner.

  “Stand up! Let’s have a look at you!” Aggie commanded. Callie obeyed. “Beautiful. Good bones. You’re a bit too thin, but that’s fashionable these days. I’ll make wide seams so they can be let out if you gain a pound or two. If your man will bring in my pattern books and fabric samples, we can begin with your selections and measuring.”

  Edward was at the door before Callie could summon him. She tried to hide her smile, but he caught it and winked. He returned minutes later, his arms full of pattern books and bolts of cloth. For the first time since she had come to the house, Edward noticed a gleam in Callie’s eyes. Vanity. Pretty things. That’s what women liked, and who could blame them? This was a wise move on the master’s part, he decided.

  Three hours later, Callie sank down into her chair. She had no idea how tiring selecting and being fitted for garments could be. Aggie wore a pleased expression as she jabbed pins back into a wrist cushion. Scissors followed, as did the tape measure. “It will be my pleasure to dress you, Miss James. You’re a joy, simply a joy. Good hips, enough of a bosom. You’ll show off my creations to the best possible advantage. And you’ve made very intelligent choices. I’ll start work tomorrow, and we can have a fitting a week from today. Also, I require a deposit,” she said, almost all in one breath.

  Bridget enjoyed the expression of panic in Callie’s eyes when Aggie mentioned money. Almost before the words were out of the seamstress’s mouth, Edward was there, holding out a white envelope. Bridget felt cheated. She knew the black man would have a sneer on his face when he turned to face her. Instead she was rewarded with a blank look that was perfectably respectable. How did Byrch do it? She couldn’t find help like this treasure.

  “Miss Callie, you have an appointment in fifteen minutes,” Edward said quietly to indicate the meeting was over. Bridget took her cue, rising and waiting impatiently while Aggie said her goodbyes and then following her to the door. She accepted Callie’s expression of thanks with a slight sniff and gushed with false congeniality. “Perfectly all right, Callie. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world! Heaven knows you need someone to turn you into a silk purse!” She smiled, showing her small white teeth. “Ta! I’ll pop by for tea one afternoon, and we can have a real girl talk!”

  “Go along to the kitchen,” Edward said softly. “I just made fresh lemonade, and there’s a salad. I have to carry these bolts and books out to the carriage, and then I’ll join you.”

  Callie nodded gratefully. How would she ever manage without this man? When he returned to the kitchen, Callie faced him anxiously. “Edward, I need to know how much all of this is costing. It must be a fortune, and I don’t think I can accept it.”

  “You should discuss that with Mr. Kenyon. It’s not my place to discuss finances with you.” His tone was gentle but firm. Callie understood perfectly when he said, “not my place.” Edward was aware of his place just as she should be aware of hers. Why couldn’t she remember it? Why did she always have to aspire to something more, something or someone that wasn’t meant to be hers? She must remember her place, be careful of stepping out of it. She would die if Byrch ever had to suffer the consequences. She must remember her place!

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  All through another of Edward’s perfect dinners of roast lamb and fresh green salad and mint jelly, Callie watched Byrch across the immaculately appointed table. Byrch usually returned from the Clarion rather late, staying in the office until he “put the paper to bed,” as he called it. Although the approaching summer days were longer, it was necessary to light the lamps when they finally sat down to dinner at seven-thirty.

  Byrch played the perfect host, slicing off the most tender bits of lamb for Callie and serving her the piquant rosé wine he knew she preferred. “Did you have fun with the dressmaker today, Callie?” he asked, looking up from his plate.

  “Yes, I did,” she answered. “Aggie seems to know her business, but of course, I’m hardly a judge. The little I know about dressmaking comes from my time in the Powers family. But I’m certain Aggie would please even Mrs. Powers.”

  “It’s strange, but I’ve never really thought of Anne Powers as a fashionable woman,” Byrch mused. “Oh, I’ve always known her tastes ran to the finest, but perhaps because I’ve never liked the woman, I’ve never thought of her as feminine or fashionable. Expensive, socially aspiring, yes.”

  “I know what you mean,” Callie told him. “I’ve always thought of her as a kind of dowager queen, running her kingdom with an iron hand. Poor Mr. Powers,” she sighed.

  “Oh, don’t feel too sorry for Jasper.” Byrch poured the sparkling pink wine into his glass. “I’m certain you’d be hard put to find a happier man these days.”

  At Callie’s curious glance, he continued. At least, Byrch told himself, this was a pleasant conversation, and she seemed interested. It had been so long since he’d had her friendly attention. He went into great detail about Jasper. “Jasper assures me Anne Powers is quite content living in Boston and acting as her widowed brother’s hostess,” he concluded. “And Jasper himself looks better and younger than he has in years since he’s taken up residence with Loretta Cummings. He’s still president of the bank, and he’s been in love with Loretta for years. She’s a wonderful woman, and she’s good for him. Naturally it goes without saying, there’s been no mention of divorcing Anne. She probably wouldn’t allow it. It would be publicly humiliating for her.”

  “I’m glad for him. I always felt Mr. Powers had a great capacity for love, and I’m glad he’s found a woman to return it in kind,” Callie said softly, thinking of the many kindnesses Jasper had shown her and remembering how the man poured out his love to little Mary. A haunted expression came over her features, and Byrch noticed.

  “Sweeting, you just said you were glad for Jasper. What’s the problem?”

  “Oh, I was just thinking of Mary and how much he loved her. I know now what it means to lose a child, and I don’t think it’s something you ever recover from.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it is. And no one is expecting you to forget Rory. I don’t want you to. I like to hear you talk about him, Callie, and it’s good for you to do so. I only wish I could have known him; I think we would have become great friends.”

  “Yes, Byrch, I think you would have.” She smiled with only the barest trace of wistfulness. He was glad to see that her eyes betrayed no hint of tears and that she was at last able to mention her son without choking with emotion. Edward was right. Time. All things in good time.

  “Now tell me about the dressmaker. But first tell me what you thought of my cousin Bridget. You didn’t let her intimidate you, did you?”

  Throughout dinner, Callie relaxed and regaled Byrch with descriptions of Aggie and a detailed list of the proposed garments. She hardly mentioned Bridget, except to say that Mrs. Darcy was most helpful and certainly a fine example of fashion. Byrch enjoyed Callie’s description of Edward’s reaction to Aggie, laughing when she told him how his fastidious manservant hovered nearby and had to replenish the plate of finger sandwiches three times before the seamstress had had her fill.

  “Callie, it sounds as though you had an enjoyable afternoon. Don’t think for a moment, sweeting, that I expect you to cast off your grief along with those black dresses. I don’t. But suffering the summer heat won’t change the situation, and I simply wanted to do this for you.” If he expected her to express her gratitude, he was mistaken.

  “And because it’s something you think I should have, I’ve added to my debt.” Although it was a statement, there was a sharp edge to her words.

  “All right, consider it part of what you think you owe me.” Byrch raised his voice in exasperation. “You know, Callie, I never said you were indebted to me in any way. That wa
s entirely your idea!”

  “And whose idea was this little arrangement between us, Mr. Kenyon? Perhaps you need to be reminded!” Frustrated, Callie threw down her napkin and stood abruptly, nearly knocking her chair backward.

  Following suit, Byrch did the same, picking up his wine glass and stalking into the parlor. Damn! Why was she so exasperating? Anger swelled in his chest. With a cold, cynical voice he hadn’t known he was capable of, he turned to face her. “Seeing as how you’re so mindful of your obligations, go upstairs. I’ll be joining you shortly.”

  Callie stood frozen in her tracks. It was difficult to believe Byrch could speak in that cold, impersonal tone. He meant to collect on his debt and expected her to live up to the arrangement. Stubborn defiance pushed Callie’s chin upwards, glazing her eyes with bitterness and stiffening her spine with outrage. Slowly, deliberately, she walked through the parlor and to the stairs.

  Her silence and resignation further prompted Byrch’s anger. He had prepared himself for an argument—at least that was some form of communication—and perhaps they would have been able to work out their differences. Perhaps he would have been able to unburden himself and tell her how much she meant to him. But her resentment seemed to crackle through the air, and her bitter resignation was a wound. Dammit! If she wouldn’t invite him into her bed, then he would have to invite himself! At least he would have that much of her. And God alone knew how his arms ached to hold her again. His own vulnerability and hurt prompted the hateful words, “And when I get up there, I don’t want to find you in that miserable black dress. You agreed to be a rich man’s whore, and I expect you to act the part!”

  Callie’s step halted for just a moment before climbing the stairs. She didn’t turn to look at him, but he knew she’d heard. Her back was stiff, her shoulders thrown back and squared. He knew he’d landed a devastating blow to her pride, and he immediately wanted to take back what he’d said. But he wasn’t given the opportunity. Callie continued up the stairs slowly, almost the way Byrch imagined a man would walk to his execution. Hating himself, a part of him even hating Callie, Byrch threw his glass into the cold, empty hearth; the fine crystal glass shattered.

  When Byrch climbed the stairs nearly an hour later, each foot that touched the treads was heavy, leaden. He reached the second floor of his townhouse, passing the long, narrow room he used as a library and the bedroom where Edward kept his quarters, grateful the manservant was playing chess with friends this night. He wouldn’t have wanted anyone, not even Edward, to witness what he’d done or the torment it was causing him—ordering the only woman who had ever meant anything to him to act as his whore, demanding her body when it was her love he wanted.

  Slowly he climbed to the third floor where his and Callie’s bedrooms were almost opposite one another. He should just pass her room, go into his own with the half-bottle of brandy he’d brought with him. Even the two snifters he’d consumed downstairs hadn’t dulled the sharp edges of his conscience. Her door was open, a soft light glowing from within.

  Callie heard Byrch coming up the stairs. With each measured step, her tension increased. She had done as he’d ordered and removed the black dress. She sat cold and shivering in her undergarments, uncertain as to what she should do. He’d told her to act the whore, but what exactly did that mean? How, aside from being a willing partner in bed, did a whore behave?

  He stepped into the room, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders and lean height. She immediately noticed the bottle he carried and frowned. Byrch was a moderate drinker, never becoming sloppy or offensive as Hugh had during those last months. She remembered the sour smell of whiskey that hung about Hugh, recalling his surliness and hostility. Did drink make all men mean?

  Byrch stood looking at her for a long moment before crossing the room. She was relieved to see he walked straight and tall, apparently not suffering the effects of the brandy.

  He stood over her, looking down, seeing her dark cloud of hair hanging softly about her shoulders, and he was tempted to reach out and touch it, feel it slide silkily between his fingers. The whiteness of her lacy camisole and petticoats enchanced the honeyed tones of her skin and revealed the gentle slope of her shoulders and the pretty roundness of her arms. She looked so young sitting there, so vulnerable and lovely, so frightened. The white ring of terror around her mouth brought him a pang of physical pain. To Callie, it was a cruel sneer, and she shrank back against the chair. Seeing her cower from him brought a rush of rage. He wanted to lift her out of that chair and shake her until her teeth rattled; he wanted to soften the grim line of her mouth with his kisses, to evoke a response from her, to have her welcome him, open and unafraid, to remove the terror he read in her eyes and replace it with desire.

  “Callie, come here to me,” he whispered, afraid that the mere sound of his voice would send her running.

  Obediently she stood and advanced two steps to stand before him. Her throat worked convulsively as she choked back her tears. She would not cry; she would not!

  Byrch looked down at her, angered by her fright, hating himself for being the cause of it. “Stop looking at me as though I were about to eat you up!” he scolded.

  “And how is it I’m supposed to look?” she asked. “I’m not exactly experienced in this role. How do whores look, and what do they do?” She challenged him with her eyes to put an end to this charade, to release her from their arrangement, to set her free. And this Byrch could never do. His cat-green eyes narrowed, glittering fiercely in the dim lamplight, the pupils blacker than a midnight sky, the thick fringe of lashes lowering insolently.

  “You’re not all that inexperienced,” he lashed back. “If I remember correctly, the last time you shared my bed you were quite willing and most helpful in securing my services. Now it’s your services I require.” Even before the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. It was almost as though he could see her back arch, her spine stiffen, like a cat’s, ready to spring and defend itself with tooth and claw. Instead she lowered her eyes, not meeting the challenge, reaching forward to undo the buttons on his shirtfront. He stood there, accessible to her hands, holding his breath for her first touch against his skin. She handled the fabric of his shirt delicately, avoiding contact with him while she pulled the tails out of his trousers. Her hands moved to his waist, struggling with the buckle on his belt, incapable of unfastening it. When his hands dropped to help her, she pulled away as though touched by fire. Her movements as she bent to remove his boots and take his shirt after he’d shrugged out of it were servile; she was performing a service for him.

  Unable to tolerate it a moment longer, Byrch seized her by the shoulders, shaking her and then pulling her hard against his solid, naked chest. “Dammit! I don’t you this way! Not this way! I want you greedy, hungry for my loving!”

  Callie’s eyes accused him. “What does a whore know about loving and being loved?”

  “A good whore is also an able actress,” he muttered through clenched teeth, driving his hand through the wealth of long chestnut hair at the back of her head, pulling her forward and upward. “Even if you don’t feel anything for me, pretend!” He choked, too lost in his need for her to consider his pride. He only knew he must have her as he had that first night. Hungrily he brought his mouth down to hers, covering it with his own, determined to evoke a response.

  The response Byrch sought was there, bubbling just beneath her surface—throbbing, pounding, demanding to be set free. While her mind cautioned and clamored, warning her that she was on the brink of disaster, Callie’s womanly needs and wants rose in a counter-cry, thrumming in her pulses, closing her off to everything but the feel of his arms around her and the possession of his mouth on hers. She tried to remember Rory, her past, the pain and loss that was her fate whenever she reached out for something she wanted, whenever happiness was within her grasp. She didn’t want to open herself to that kind of hurt again, that kind of loss. She mustn’t let herself love Byrch, not even secretly, but the p
ressure of his lips had softened, moving over her mouth in a tender seduction that she was helpless to resist. Slowly, cautiously, her arms reached for him, her hands pressing into the hard muscles of his back, her lips parting beneath his in an answering kiss. The groan of need and expectancy that swelled in her own throat was uttered by Byrch as he brought her full length against him, pressing her into himself as though he would make her a part of him. The swell of his desire was hard against her belly, and she drove herself into it, forgetting the fates, defying the future, and knowing only that for this time at least she wanted to belong to this man who could break her heart with a glance and bring her to life with his touch.

  Byrch was shaken by her sudden willingness, by the way her full, soft lips parted beneath his and her anxious fingers probed the flesh of his back. When he found the strength to pull his mouth from hers, his eyes searched her lovely face, chasing the shadows in her eyes, attempting to read her soul. Was this Callie’s answer to his kisses and his passions, or was she acceding to his demands and playing the part of a willing whore? Thick, black lashes closed over her eyes, refusing him admittance.

  She lifted herself on tiptoe to reclaim his mouth, the tip of her tongue sparring with his, and she heard her own breath come in ragged little gasps as she offered herself to him, kissing him deeply, searchingly, reaching for her forbidden happiness, totally lost to him and their shared desire.

  Sensing that she would not turn away from him now, Byrch’s touch became gentle and unhurried. His fingers wound through her hair, along the bone of her cheek to the ridge of her jaw and along her throat where he could feel her pulses beating against the fragile skin. He yearned to tell her how lovely she was, how beautiful to him. He wanted to hear her tell him she must belong to him, that she loved him.