Prince of Delights

by Renee Roszel

  "Madam, please calm yourself," Alexander implored sedately, while he and Tarrant urged a squirming woman down the stairs. "Mr. Seaton and I don't want you to fall."

  "I won't go!" the redhead howled, and Angela's mouth dropped in astonishment as she realized it was Marty from the candy factory. She was clad in a short pink nightie and a large black raincoat. It was clear that Tarrant had thrown his own coat across her shoulders to help preserve her modesty for her journey home.

  "Marty, you're not thinking clearly," Tarrant was say­ing. "Don't do this. You're a lovely woman, and you shouldn't make a fool of yourself like this."

  "I can't help it," she wailed. "I love you so, Tarrant!"

  Angela had to flatten herself against the banister as Tarrant and Alexander went past, half carrying the woman between them. She was sobbing now, trying her best to grab Tarrant even though each man had a strong grip on her upper arms.

  "You don't love me," Tarrant insisted calmly. "Please don't try anything like that again. It isn't safe to stow away in a laundry truck."

  Angela watched the scene in horrified wonder. She knew Marty had recognized her, for the redhead had turned a hateful countenance on Angela as she'd been hauled past.

  "Madam," Alexander soothed, "a taxi has been sum­moned for you. Chauncey will drive you to the gate and wait with you there. Your fare has been paid."

  "No-o-o-o-o," Marty sobbed. "I won't leave you."

  The door closed without much sound, effectively blocking out Marty's noisy lamentations.

  Tarrant, alone now, turned back toward the stairs be­fore he realized Angela was standing there. He paused, his cool eyes raking her face. "You look surprised," he re­marked, almost too calmly, as if he was holding himself in tight control.

  She swallowed. "I guess this sort of thing really does happen to you all the time."

  A brow arched. "What sort of thing?"

  "You know very well what sort of thing—women hid­ing in the laundry and sneaking into your room."

  "Oh, that?" He thrust his hands into his pockets. "Hardly ever—just weekdays and Sundays."

  Her lips twitched, forming a tiny incredulous smile, and she felt an odd combination of annoyance and compas­sion. "What? No Saturdays?"

  He lifted one shoulder in elegant dismissal, and she was hard put not to notice the play of muscle beneath his knit shirt. "I believe they attend their 'how to catch a man with money' meetings on Saturdays."

  "Oh, they do, do they?" she retorted.

  "Aren't you a card-carrying member of the club?"

  "I won't dignify that with an answer," she told him, her affable mood disintegrating.

  He cocked his head questioningly, giving her a discon­certingly direct look. "Does that mean I should pencil you in for Saturday, then? My bedroom balcony, around six?"

  There had been a taunting, yet seductive quality in his words that sent a wave of something like desire sweeping through her. It was so unexpected and unwanted she grew angry with herself. Forcing iciness into her tone, she in­formed him, "Sure! Pencil me in! And why don't you hold your breath until I show up?" With that, she spun around and dashed up the steps.

  When she reached the master suite, she slammed the door, trying to shut out the memory of those tormenting ebony eyes. It did no good.

  Angela was just ready to leave the Seaton mansion when Delila entered her bedroom. "I understand you were audience to one of my son's, er, romantic adventures this afternoon," she remarked with a smile.

  Angela felt her cheeks go hot. "Yes. It was appalling. How did you know about it?"

  Setting her suede bag down on a Chippendale com­mode, she said, "Alexander's lapel is torn. He explained how it happened." She absently patted her cap of cham­pagne-colored hair, "He goes through more uniforms that way, poor man. We should give him combat pay."

  Delila sat down in an English rosewood chair covered in a deep-wine velvet that echoed one of the rich colors in the needlepoint rug. The same dark red swathed the windows and her ornate Renaissance Revival bed.

  Slipping off her high heels, Delila sighed. "This type of silliness has been happening since Tarrant was sixteen." She smiled dispiritedly, shaking her head. "He is quite good-looking, don't you think?"

  Angela clenched her fists and mumbled, "I suppose."

  Delila laughed. "I'm sorry, my dear. Forgive a moth­er's pride. It's just that his looks coupled with his for­tune… Well, it does make for a few inconveniences from time to time. I'll certainly be thankful when Tarrant mar­ries. Perhaps these irrational women will leave him alone."

  "I would think so," Angela offered unenthusiastically. "Uh, Mrs. Seaton, would you care to see how your closet is coming along?" she asked, struggling to change the subject.

  "Oh, certainly," Delila said. "But first, let me give you something." She stood and went to the commode, where she retrieved a creamy envelope. Returning, she offered it to Angela. "This is an invitation to a ball I'm holding to celebrate Tarrant and Eden's engagement. I want you and Minny to come."

  Angela took the envelope gingerly, as though it held a ticking bomb instead of an engraved invitation. The last place on earth she wanted to be was at a ball celebrating Tarrant's upcoming wedding. "I don't think we can," she began, but grimaced when she realized she didn't know the date yet.

  "Oh? How can you be sure?"

  Caught in her lie, Angela could only ask, "I, uh, when is it?"

  "A week from Saturday. Minny has already assured me that your calendar is clear."

  Trapped, Angela nodded forlornly. "Well, then, I sup­pose… we'd love to come."

  Delila smiled. "That's wonderful. Oh, and it's for­mal." Her expression altered slightly to concern. "Will there be a problem with that?"

  Angela felt a stab of pride, assuring her quickly, "Not at all." But in truth, she had no idea what she would do about a dress.

  Delila was walking toward the huge closet. "I'll tell you what—I'll have my dressmaker drop by your store. She was telling me just the other day that she's unfortunately overbought some buttercup-yellow silk. I imagine she could create a gown for practically nothing. She's been begging me for weeks to have something made from it, but I look ghastly in yellow."

  Angela wasn't buying this. It was charity, pure and simple. "No, thank you, Mrs. Seaton—"

  Delila turned back, interrupting. "The closet looks wonderful. I can't even tell there's a safe in there. Come here, my dear," she beckoned. "Show me how to open it."

  As Angela came forward to do her bidding, Delila com­mented casually, "I think something slim would be nice, don't you?"

  "Slim?"

  "Your dress."

  "Oh, please, I can't let you do it."

  Delila patted her hand. "Don't deny me this. Once, long ago, Noah Seaton was kind to me when I was starting out in business. I'd like to think I was paying back that kind­ness by helping others who are struggling to get started. You'll make wonderful contacts at the party, my dear. Al­low me to help a little with your gown."

  Angela looked away, embarrassed. She didn't know what to do. But finally she managed a compromise. "If you insist. However, I must insist on subtracting the cost from my bill."

  "Done."

  "How will I know how much to deduct?"

  "I'd guess about five… rather, fifty dollars. As I said, she has so much of that buttercup color, she'll be thrilled to be rid of it."

  Angela doubted fifty dollars would even begin to pay for the labor, but she didn't know how to call Delila Seaton a bold-faced liar. After all, she was Delila's employee. At a loss, Angela offered a weak smile. "What can I say? Thank you, Mrs. Seaton."

  Delila beamed, nodding. "Wonderful. I'll have Ma­dame Goida give you a call for consultation and fitting."

  Her emotions bordering on hysteria, Angela couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of it all. A consultation and fitting? Madam Goida? Fifty dollars indeed! "That will be fine," she agreed, mentally deducting five hundred dol­lars from her bill. Th
is simple slim dress didn't sound as though it was going to be any bargain-basement steal for Delila, no matter what she said. Angela hoped the dress would hold up for fifty years, so she could get her mon­ey's worth out of it!

  As she and Delila went into the closet and Angela was explaining the workings of the secret panel where the safe was hidden, her mind drifted traitorously to a vision of Tarrant Seaton, tall and powerfully elegant in a tuxedo, his loving smile trained on sweet, pale Eden. She chewed the inside of her cheek, hoping she and Minny could make a brief appearance, maybe have a cup of punch and then get out of there. Angela had never been to a gala ball in her life, but she had a feeling this ball would not be a memory she would dwell on fondly in her old age.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Angela was mortified when she braked her old car and it made a nightmarish screech, drawing the startled atten­tion of elegantly clad party-goers nearby. A maroon-garbed attendant, one of the dozen or so hired to park cars for the Seaton engagement ball, bounded over to her car. He managed to get her door open after a few minutes of heroic effort. Then he took her arm, assisting her from the car. "I'll park it for you, ma'am."

  When she tried to hand him a tip, he refused, nicking a look at her car. "We're not allowed to accept tips, ma'am," he assured her with a grin, but she had a sinking feeling they'd been ordered not to accept a tip from a cer­tain, destitute-looking pair of women driving a poor ex­cuse for transportation. But she had other, more pressing things on her mind, so she decided to let it go.

  Giving him a parting nod, she joined her mother, who'd been helped out by yet another young attendant.

  Straightening her handmade, tie-dyed gown, Minny ex­claimed, "My, my, what a fancy party. Looks like there must be a hundred cars here."

  Angela scanned the sea of expensive automobiles al­ready parked along the circular drive and in a roped-off area of the grounds. "Maybe they wouldn't notice if we didn't show up at all."

  Minny touched her daughter's arm. "Now, now. Where's your business spunk? You must meet and min­gle, sweetie. This is your big chance to get to know people who can make your shop a household word."

  Angela had to admit her mother was talking sense. With a sigh, she said, "Okay, but watch for my signal. A glass of punch, one turn among the guests, and we're out of here."

  "What's your signal again?" Minny asked.

  "I'll probably just say, 'Let's go, Mother.'"

  Minny pooh-poohed the idea. "Make it more exciting than that. Why don't you hoot like an owl?"

  Angela laughed at the joke, feeling some of the tension leave her body. "You're very funny." Taking Minny's arm, she headed for the brightly lit entry, fighting a growing feeling of dismay. She didn't want to be here. But there had been no way out of it. Once Minny had received the invi­tation, she'd spoken of nothing else. She'd spent all week making the puff-sleeved creation she had on. Besides, Angela was now the proud owner of a strappy, clingy, buttercup-yellow Madame Goida gown. A frugal person, she decided she'd better get at least one wearing out of it.

  Angela had to admit, even if only to herself, that she felt quite elegant in the dress. She'd been surprised by how lovely it was. At first, she'd felt as though she was wear­ing a long, flared slip, but her mother and Madame Goida had raved about how chic she looked. And the color did set off the green in her eyes and her golden skin tone. The fake topaz earrings her mother had bought at a garage sale were a perfect match. With Angela's dark hair swept back be­hind her ears, the costume jewelry was shown off, spar­kling as brightly as the real thing.

  Inside the mansion, Alexander took Angela's butter­cup-yellow wrap and led them through the double doors to the left of the entry hall. Her job hadn't required her to go into the ballroom, so it made an immediate and dramatic impression with its cathedral ceiling and wall of windows, swathed in crimson drapes. The floor was a glowing pol­ished wood, the remaining walls a rich, dark wood and the high white ceiling rimmed with a lavish neoclassical cor­nice. Massive crystal chandeliers sparkled and glinted, and Angela's overall impression was one of grandeur and glit­tering light. The huge room teemed with sleekly perfect people. An orchestra at the far end was playing some­thing she recognized as Russian, from the Romantic pe­riod. The melody was both haunting and enchanting, but it didn't ease her trepidation.

  "Look, sweetie," Minny whispered, tugging on Ange­la's arm. "There's Tarrant, over there beside the yummy-looking refreshment table. Let's go talk to him."

  "No," Angela fairly hissed. "I don't plan to speak to him at all. I came here strictly to make business contacts, and Tarrant is not anyone I care to do business with ever again!"

  Minny shook her head at her daughter. "Well, I'm go­ing. You do what you must. But I swear, I don't know where you get your stubborn streak."

  Before Angela could stop her, Minny was scurrying away, her tin jewelry clanking loudly, her red-and-blue frock billowing in her wake. Angela hesitantly allowed her gaze to trail over Tarrant, so tall, with such impressive shoulders. He was devastating in his white tuxedo as he talked with an admiring group, one arm casually draped about Eden's shoulders.

  She was more beautiful than Angela had ever seen her, with her pale hair pulled up in a smooth twist, entwined artfully with pink roses. Eden's dress was slender, high-necked and fashioned of pink lace. She looked like a Vic­torian princess. Tarrant and Eden were truly the perfect couple.

  Angela averted her eyes. She couldn't bear to see his face when he was accosted by Minny. Nevertheless, she found her glance trained on him seconds later, just as Minny confronted him with an airy greeting.

  Angela watched, immobile, as her mother gestured and postured in animated conversation. Tarrant's attention was focused on Minny, his expression polite if a bit grim. When Minny lifted a hand in Angela's direction, his gaze fol­lowed and he stared for a moment as some dark emotion flitted across his face. Then he abruptly turned away.

  Feeling the sting of his disdain, Angela pivoted in the opposite direction, bent on forcing her mind to the reason she was there—business contacts. Luckily, Delila drifted up, wearing an exquisite champagne-colored gown of an­tique satin. Taking Angela in hand, she presented her to her friends, and Angela did her best to blot out the real­ization that Tarrant clearly hadn't known she and her mother had been invited!

  Tarrant was dancing, holding Eden loosely within his embrace. His face was closed in a thoughtful frown.

  "Tarrant? Did you hear me?" Eden asked.

  Pulled from his thoughts, he smiled down at her. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

  She gave him a concerned look. "You've hardly heard a word I've said all evening. And you seem awfully dis­tracted. What is it? Is something wrong?"

  "It's nothing," he assured her softly. "Mother invited an employee of hers to the party tonight. The woman an­noys me. That's all."

  "What woman?" Eden asked curiously.

  "You met her at dinner a few weeks ago. Angela Mead­ows. Her mother was there, too."

  Eden giggled. "Ah, the woman who put out the straw­berries flambé?"

  Tarrant grunted out a short laugh. "Yes. Her daughter, Angela, is no less maddening."

  "Isn't that her with Ron?" Eden indicated a couple dancing near the windows.

  Tarrant turned to see Angela clasped in the embrace of one of his unmarried friends. "It appears to be," he ob­served dryly.

  "My, she looks lovely, doesn't she?"

  Tarrant flicked a narrowed glance over Angela, but said nothing.

  "Ron seems completely enamored of her," Eden went on, smiling. "She's making quite an impression on Kan­sas's most eligible men."

  "That's a great weight off my mind," he muttered, his lips thinning.

  "Wasn't that her mother who came up to us in the res­taurant and told you you'd marry her daughter?"

  "Yes." Tarrant groaned. "Troublesome women. Un­fortunately, Mother seems to like their company."

  Eden patted his shoulder as they swayed to a sultry Johnny Mathis c
lassic, "Tarrant, I've never known you to react this way to an employee." Her brow puckered. "Usually you have more patience about such things."

  Without comment, Tarrant flashed Angela and her beaming partner one last look, then he swirled Eden away.

  Angela and her mother had been at the party for more than an hour, and for all the good it would've done her in trying to get Minny to leave, Angela might as well have hooted and flapped her arms—maybe even laid a few dozen eggs. Minny was paying no attention.

  Angela didn't have the heart to be too angry with her mother. It was plain that Minny had never enjoyed her­self so much in her life. She'd managed to dance every dance with one portly, tuxedo-clad gentleman or another, and Angela, even in her need to get away, wouldn't be re­sponsible for cutting short her mother's fun.

  Angela had escaped very few dances herself. Now, catching sight of several young men heading in her direc­tion, she hurriedly slipped through a patio door. More to flee Tarrant's glowering presence than the pursuit of the nice bachelors, she decided to wander alone in the shad­owy garden. The guests had spilled out onto the terrace and lingered, laughing and talking, about the glistening pool. Angela retreated past the pool to the area beyond, with its profusion of ornamental fruit trees, rare shrubs and several huge, imported boulders.

  As a whole, the garden exuded a feeling of untamed ro­manticism, well-suited to its prairie existence. She roamed farther from the house, passing another granite monolith, marveling at what it must have cost to haul that one ma­jestic stone, nearly ten feet in height and six feet in width, to this mid-Kansas estate. The towering granite was sur­rounded by a border of perennials, which surged along its rough surface in an intriguing mix of textures and colors. Amid the beauty of nature, Angela found herself sud­denly less agitated, and she took a deep, relaxing breath.

  Beyond the winding flagstone path stood a magnificent oak, its branches spreading out regally, and then arching back almost to earth. Thinking the limbs might serve as a peaceful, private refuge, she headed toward the tree.