by Brenna Todd
Oh, Lord, he was gorgeous, and even more so in repose. There was a vulnerability in his features not present during waking hours. It reminded her of what they had talked about after the second time they had made love.
She had wanted to know about him, about his life before J.B. and becoming a tycoon. He'd frowned that disbelieving frown again, but humored her nevertheless. He seemed awkward at first, then he relaxed as he proceeded to tell her of his time at the 101, how he had come to be there, his childhood, and finally, the deaths of his mother and father.
Waite hadn't asked about Erin's past, but she'd told him anyway, even though he'd found it difficult to comprehend much of what she described. He let her go on about the changes that would happen to the world, scowling slightly at things like televisions in every home, men traveling to the moon and computers that would virtually take over the business world and more.
She sighed and tiptoed over to her clothes. Slipping back into the gown, she grabbed up her stockings and garter belt, knowing they couldn't risk being caught by J.B. Waite was still convinced Erin was Della, despite what she had told him. If confronted by his friend, Waite wouldn't defend himself with Erin's explanation. She didn't want to be responsible for a rift in their friendship.
She glanced back over her shoulder at the man who had come to mean so much to her in such a short time. The pain of knowing she would have to leave him cut cruelly into her gut, and she held back a sob as she left the bedroom.
From the front window of the guesthouse, Erin could see that it was still dark outside but knew it wouldn't be long before the sun came up. She moved as quickly as her ankle would permit. In the living room, she nearly tripped over the journal that had fallen with the rest of the books last night. She almost pitched it aside. But something compelled her to open the journal and examine the pretty handwriting.
"This diary belongs to Della Richards," Erin read, "a gift from Jonathan Bartholomew Munro. 1909."
Midway down the page was the first entry in the book.
"I am ten years old today, Diary, and you are my birthday gift from my new mama and papa."
EDITH, THE UPSTAIRS MAID, headed for her room, careful to keep her footsteps silent. She'd be damned if she'd listen to old Simmons, with his snooty, condescending air. All these new rules the butler had come up with were ridiculous, if you asked her. Especially now that he'd said she could no longer come and go as she pleased after hours.
Used to be if she had a hankering for a late snack, she'd just tramp up from the servants' quarters to the kitchen and take what she wanted. No harm there. All that leftover food would've gone to waste anyway.
Tightfisted old bastard. "You're fed well enough," he'd said with his nose in the air when Edith had complained."Be glad for what you get."
Glad for what you get. Ha! Bad enough that she slaved away in this immoral household. She wasn't going to put up with these stupid new rules, too. No sirree.
When she topped the stairs, a noise sent her scurrying into a corner next to a window. For several anxious moments, she strained to hear it again. Must have been her imagination, she thought, and began to move away from the window. But then she spotted something outside, someone sneaking around out there. Edith squinted, noting that he or she was moving toward the mansion from the direction of the guesthouse.
"Well, what do you know about that?" Edith said under her breath when finally she could make out who the person was. "Miss Della, coming from the guesthouse where Waite MacKinnon stays." She grinned broadly when she saw the stockings and garter belt in Della's hands.
"My,my,my. What will Mr. Munro have to say about this?"
She thought for a moment about Simmons and his rule about staying in the servants' quarters after hours. Would Munro let his butler fire Edith, even though she was doing the man a service by telling him about his cheating whore of a wife?
It would be worth it, she decided, to see that no-account floozy get her just deserts. Edith had thought Della Munro would never be allowed back in the house after what happened four years ago. Pregnant by a man other than her husband, and still Mr. Munro had let her come home! He'd only sent her away long enough so nobody would know about it, but she knew. It was scandalous. Disgraceful!
Edith wondered just how forgiving he'd be this time, when the man she was catting around with was his own business partner.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AT THE SOFT KNOCK ON Della's bedroom door, Erin looked up from the journal. "Yes?"
"It's Annie, missus. Mr. Munro told me to fetch you for breakfast."
Erin noticed the sun was lighting the room, not just the bedside lamp. She had been leading nonstop since she'd returned from the guesthouse. Reading and fuming. The thought of facing J.B. after some of the entries in Della's diary made breakfast sound unappetizing, to say the least.
"Annie, tell him I won't be down this morning."
There was silence, then Annie cleared her throat. "Umm.. .missus... ? He was quite insistent, he was. It's Mr. Wyndham's last morning here at the mansion, and Mr. Munro told me not to listen to any... er... excuses."
Erin groaned loudly.
"I'm that sorry, missus."
"No, Annie. It's not you I'm angry with." She narrowed her gaze down at the particularly incriminating entry she'd just finished. "Tell Mr. Munro I'll be down as soon as I'm dressed."
"Yes'm."
Erin hid the diary between the mattresses of Della's bed, then trudged to the closet for a suitable day dress. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror didn't surprise her. Dark circles beneath her angry eyes betrayed the fact that she'd had too little sleep.
Her rage was on Della's behalf. There was only a third or more of the diary to go, but Erin really didn't need to read any more. What she'd learned so far gave her a very good understanding of Della and why she had become the woman she was. The poor girl's story read like a character study in Psychology 101. It was no wonder she acted the way she had.
Erin splashed cool water on her face. Promiscuity had been the least J.B. should have expected after the way he and that wife of his had treated Della. It was a miracle, in Erin's opinion, that Della hadn't murdered J.B. in his sleep years ago.
Pulling Della's brush through her hair, Erin thought of the passages about Waite. She had winced and grimaced through the entire section. It was the only part of the diary where Erin had become angry with Della. Dysfunctional upbringing or not, Della shouldn't have treated the man Erin loved so cruelly. His childhood hadn't been a walk in the park, either. He didn't deserve the pain Della had inflicted.
But then, it was J.B who was responsible. And he deserved every bit of grief Della had given him later in her life. In spades.
"Ah, here she is, gentlemen," J.B. announced from his place at the head of the table. They all stood. "And looking fresh as the morning dew, as usual."
Oh, I pass inspection, do I? Erin thought irritably, gritting her teeth as a servant pulled out her chair. Where were the compliments when Della needed them? When she'd been a little girl, orphaned and new to your fancy world and scared to death she wouldn't please you. Where were your flowery words then?
I wonder, Diary, will I always look like this? I do so hope to outgrow my appearance. Virginia says J.B. complains often to her about my horrid red hair and freckles. I don't want to disappoint him always. I even thought at first that he might someday let me call him "Papa." But what man would want me for a daughter?
Erin sat down at the table next to J.B. and attempted to freeze him with a look. Fresh as the dew— Pu-leez!
"Actually, I look like hell, J.B.," she said, then took a long drink of her orange juice. "Oh, but where are my manners? Thank you, dear, and don't you look handsome as always."
Her sarcasm was met with silence, then uncomfortable looks from J.B., Wyndham and Waite, who raised a brow at her.
Wyndham cleared his throat. "Well, you don't look, uh, bad to me, Mrs. Munro. I was telling J.B. just moments ago what a fine representative
of Oklahoma womanhood you'll make for the businessmen's wives who'll soon be settling in your state."
"Oh, is that so?"
"Yes, Della. Harrison has decided to tell his clients that Oklahoma, Munro in particular, would be an ideal location for expanding their businesses." J.B. gave her a stern shape-up-your-act look. "I foresee garden parties and bridge games for the wives, Harrison. Della plays a mean game of auction bridge, don't you, dear?"
Diary, you're my only confidante. I'm a terrible girl, a complete failure in my wonderful guardian's eyes. Truly, everyone in his town adores him, and so do I. But I have no social graces. No matter how hard I try to live up to the Munro name, I am an embarrassment to the Munros. I overheard J.B. telling Virginia that I'll never make a good hostess... unless the party is held on horseback. It is truly sad that after two whole years with the Munros, I have managed to improve only my riding skills.
"Auction bridge? No, I detest it, J.B." Erin didn't know what the hell it was, but she couldn't let the opportunity to avenge Della in some small way pass her by. "Do the wives ride horses, Mr. Wyndham? I'm good at that."
Waite's brows almost disappeared under a shock of hair this time. J.B. seemed ready to breathe fire. Wyndham merely shrugged and smiled, apparently not noticing her efforts to annoy the hell out of J.B. "Well, I'm certain some of them do, but those who don't will probably be happy to be instructed by you."
J.B. seemed to relax a bit. Still, he eyed Erin over the rim of his cup, sending heated warnings in her direction.
For all the times he'd made a little girl's heart bleed, for all the harsh words that had torn apart her confidence, for his ironfisted, dictatorial control over the young Della, Erin shot a quelling look right back at him. Go ahead, she thought, mess with me some more. I'm just furious enough, just punchy enough, to screw up this business deal for you, but good.
J.B. cleared his throat, turning his attention back to Wyndham in the nick of time. "Oh, yes, my Della is an expert horsewoman. She taught Waite how to ride Thoroughbreds, didn't you, darling?"
"Y-yes," Erin answered, her gaze connecting with Waite's for a long moment. She would have given much to know what was going on in his mind at the moment. He was careful not to let any emotion register on his face, but Erin guessed he was thinking of those riding lessons. J.B. had suggested them, and in the course of her instruction, Waite had fallen in love.
Della had been seventeen at the time, and J.B.'s first wife had been dead for a year. It was apparent from what Erin had learned from Della's diary that the girl was so filled with self-loathing by that time that she was incapable of loving anyone. There were some who turned hatred inward, but Della had been the opposite. She became a veritable hellion. Yet, in her heart of hearts, beneath all the scars J.B. and Virginia had inflicted, she had yearned for J.B.'s attention and approval.
When it finally sank in that his approval would never be won, she still fought for his attention. And Waite was her weapon. She had known J.B. would be incensed when he discovered she had been sleeping with Waite, his "fair-haired" boy.
It finally happened as I've told you it would, Diary. J.B. found out. You never believed he would, did you? You probably even thought that if he did, he would ignore it, as he has all my other "escapades." Not this time! God, how I'd hoped my plan would work. And it did. I've loved him forever, Diary. I wanted him to love me, too. "Virginia is gone now, and J.B. needs a wife by his side. I'll be that wife. Now that I finally have him... you'll see. I'll change. I'll be just what he needs, everything he wants. Waite MacKinnon was the son he never had—I heard him say it. And I knew if I threatened to run away with Waite, J.B. would do anything to stop me. Even this.
"Ah, look at the time," Wyndham said, clicking shut a pocket watch and rising from his chair. "If you'll be so kind as to lend me your driver, J.B., I'll be on my way to the station."
J.B. blotted at his mouth with his napkin and rose, too. "I'll drive you myself, Harrison. There's the matter of my upcoming trip to Boston. We can discuss it on the way."
"Fine, then. If you can have one of your people bring down my bags...
"Mrs. Munro," he said, smiling widely, "it has been a delightful trip. Most enjoyable. Thank you for having me in your home."
Erin nodded, his graciousness softening her hostility and coaxing a smile to her lips. "It... was a pleasure, Mr. Wyndham."
Wyndham left the room, and J.B. made to follow. He turned back in the doorway. "When I get back, you and I are going to have a little talk, Della."
Oh, great. She'd probably pushed him too far. But in a way, she just didn't care anymore.
She watched Waite wipe his mouth with his napkin, then place it carefully beside his plate. He glanced up at Erin, holding up a palm when she opened her mouth to speak.
They heard the sound of the front door closing, and each began to speak.
"We have to talk-"
"I need to talk-"
Erin smiled at him, and at the pleasurable feeling of simply being alone in the room with him. Suddenly her weariness fled... and her anger. Oh, how she wished for the one thing she knew she couldn't have—a future with him. Days and months and years of sitting across from him at a breakfast table. "Yes, we need to talk," she said. "But not here. In the guesthouse. You go now. I'll be there in a few minutes. I have something to show you."
FRANKLIN THOMAS WATCHED from across the boulevard as the Packard left through the main gates of the estate. J. B. Munro, he thought, recognizing the driver. Lord of the manor and all he surveyed. A red mist of fury clouded his vision as he watched the man drive away in his expensive automobile.
It was said Munro could buy and pay for any man in the state, and Franklin had learned from his father not long ago how true that was. His own family had been among the tycoon's victims, hadn't they? Franklin had thought the move to Kansas had been his father's decision, but he'd found out he was wrong. J.B. Munro had wanted the Thomases out of the state. Out of sight, out of mind, out of his town.
Had Franklin's act been one of pure revenge, he would have killed J.B. as well as his wife. But now, apparently, the bitch was alive, after all, and he still wanted justice. Not revenge; simply justice.
He turned his gaze to the mansion, angry that he hadn't finished the job. He calculated ways to gain entrance this time. He had bluffed his way into the house the night of the party by mingling with a large group of latecomers. The servant at the door had been none the wiser. And it hadn't been difficult enticing Della away. All he'd had to do was mention Henry and the child.
But now she knew what he looked like. A direct approach wouldn't work this time.
So he would wait. And watch. Della Munro would leave the mansion sooner or later. When she did, Franklin would be ready. This time, there would be no mistakes.
"WHAT IN GOD'S NAME were you doing at breakfast?"
Erin closed the door behind her, then stepped over the books that still lay on the floor, making her way to the sofa where Waite sat staring stonily at her.
"Well, good morning to you, too," she said with a smile, setting the diary on the table next to him.
"It's not. A good morning, that is."
She leaned close, brushing her lips lightly across his frowning mouth, and waited for him to deepen the kiss. She nearly died of frustration before he finally tilted his head and caught her mouth with his, clasping her hands and pulling her down next to him.
"How can you remain so calm?" he asked, worry evident in the two lines that formed a vee at the bridge of his nose. "How can you smile so easily when you know what we've done?"
She shook her head. "We haven't done anything wrong, Waite. I wish I could convince you of that. Besides, I've become very good at acting in the past few days. I'm not calm, it just looks like I am."
Waite gave her a dry look. "If you were aiming for a cool facade at breakfast, I have to say, Della, you're no Mary Pickford."
Erin's lips twitched. "Or Meryl Streep, for that matter," she added. "An ac
tress in the nineties," she explained when he shot her a questioning look. "And I wasn't acting, then. I was furious at J.B. because I found this." She reached across him to get the journal. "I found it on the floor last night before I left. Della must have stuck it behind other books on the shelf. Here... read the first page."
He eyed her quizzically for a moment, then took the journal, reading as she requested.
"Your diary?" he asked, looking up from the page.
Erin sighed. "Her diary, Waite. And it documents her life from the time she first arrived here as Virginia and J.B.'s ward."
"And...?"
"And that's why I was so... so angry. The way she was treated by them, and him especially... It's all in there! The emotional abuse, the dysfunctional behavior... She couldn't have been expected to turn out any way other than she did and— What? Why are you frowning again?"
He heaved a loud sigh. "Dysfunctional? Emotional abuse? I know the words but I'm not sure I understand."
"Oh. They're nineties terms. Let's see.... You would probably refer to it as 'extremely strict,' or 'mistreatment.' They've discovered a few things about human behavior since Sigmund Freud's time, Waite. And one of the biggest discoveries is that you can't abuse a child emotionally, treat them as if they have no worth, and then expect them to become stable, happy, functioning adults."
"Abuse? J.B. and Virginia took her—"
Erin lifted a brow at his slip.
Waite rolled his eyes. "I mean, you. They took you in when your parents were killed. You were given everything you needed.. .wanted. A home, those beautiful Thoroughbred horses you love so much, expensive clothes to wear—"
"Love?" Erin prompted, then answered her own question. "They didn't come close to giving her what she really needed. And she was desperate for it. It wasn't her fault that she was left an orphan, but they treated her as though she was an albatross around their necks. They tried to mold her into something she wasn't, then blamed her for their dissatisfaction."
