Prince of Delights

by Renee Roszel

  Staring down at her car's decrepit old engine, Angela stifled a miserable sob. She couldn't get Tarrant's last words from her mind: "Why can't you get the hell out of my life!"

  Determinedly, she reached in to wiggle wires, sweeping rain from her face as best she could. Nothing seemed par­ticularly loose, but she was no expert.

  A hand on her arm surprised her as Tarrant's deep voice growled, "Angela, if your car has broken down, you can't fix it in this weather! Come back inside."'

  Still smarting from his earlier statement, she jerked free of his grasp. "Don't order me around, Mr. Seaton."

  His expression was hard, but held no malice; he seemed more regretful than angry. For the first time she realized he was standing there in his tuxedo, and it was fast be­coming ruined. She faced him squarely, not hiding her in­dignation. "Don't spoil your clothes. Go back to the house," she insisted. "I wouldn't want you to think I was finding puny excuses to be near you!"

  Because of the deafening storm and the darkness, she wasn't sure if she'd seen or merely imagined the raw vul­nerability in his eyes. His perfect hair was drenched and falling in dark curls across his wide brow. With less harshness, he persisted, "Angela, don't be stubborn. If I apologize—"

  "We mustn't have you doing that!" she broke in. "An apology implies a wrongdoing, and everyone knows the Prince of Delights is perfect—especially the Prince him­self!"

  His face was beautiful, even marred by distress. She felt drawn to him again, and grew angry with herself for her weakness. Her stand of defiance was crumbling fast, and she knew she'd better get away from him, or he would read the awful truth in her eyes. Spinning abruptly, she marched off down the circular drive. Her pride forced her to shout back, "I'll walk home. Feel free to charge me for over­night parking!"

  With an unsettling abruptness, the ground was swept from beneath her feet. Crying out, she grabbed for the first solid object she could find. It turned out to be Tarrant's shoulder. He'd lifted her bodily and was carrying her back into the house, shouting over the wind and rain, "You're the most pigheaded woman I've ever had the misfortune to encounter!"

  "You're a fine one to call me names! Let me go this in­stant!" she yelled, undermining her demand by continu­ing to hug his neck.

  "Don't tempt me," he warned near her ear.

  Suddenly the rain was no longer pelting them, and they were enveloped in light. Angela peered about her and re­alized Tarrant had made quick work of the steps and had carted her inside. She glanced over his shoulder to look out at the storm. It was getting worse.

  When her gaze chanced to lift to Tarrant's face, she was again stunned by the rainwashed beauty there. His dark curls shone like black patent leather. Water sparkled on his lashes and dripped freely from the cleft in his chin. He was frowning at her, but not with annoyance; instead, he looked somber and watchful.

  She'd been squirming in his arms the whole way back to shelter, but his expression halted any further desire to fight him. An odd warmth rushed from the pit of her stomach, and for a moment she was barely aware that her clothes were cold and soaked. Weakly she made one last-ditch ef­fort to save herself, whispering, "Tarrant, please put me down. I'll wait by the door until the rain dies away."

  "What about your dead car?"

  How had she managed to forget about her car? She swallowed nervously, wishing her pulse would stop rac­ing. "I'll call a cab."

  He said nothing, and his silent, intent observation was disconcerting. She couldn't tell if he was going to shout at her again or— She shook off a foolish thought. For a crazy instant, she'd thought he wanted to kiss her.

  "Dammit, Angela…" She winced. He was going to shout. But then he said in a low, pained voice, "I'm sorry about treating you so shabbily. I was vindictive and un­fair. Can you forgive me?"

  She could hardly believe her ears. "I—I… Of course. I heard you've been under terrific pressure lately."

  A dark brow arched. "You heard that?"

  She nodded, wishing she weren't so near him. His strong heartbeat felt as though it was beating in her own breast. Trying to concentrate, she explained, "I mean, you've been upset at work, angry. Everybody assumes you've had business pressures…." She allowed the sentence to fade away. She had no idea why she was babbling. Maybe it was to keep her mind from wandering to the fact that Tarrant was holding her in his strong arms, peering at her with such a distracted look in his eyes.

  A parody of a smile flickered across his lips. "So, my black temper has been a topic of gossip at the factory?"

  "Yes. I probably shouldn't have said anything. You…you could put me down now," she tried again, sounding desperate.

  Ignoring her request, he affirmed gravely, "I have been difficult this week." Closing his eyes for a moment, he ut­tered a blasphemy. When their gazes touched again, An­gela was shocked by what she saw. He said nothing, but the truth was there, easy to read. She, Angela Meadows, had been the reason for his anger all week! Passions that he could no longer control burned in his dusky gaze, and she was struck by the fact that he felt the same desire she did. It was clear that he'd been fighting those feelings as strongly as she had, but it seemed they had both lost the battle. Without a word, he began to move with her to­ward the broad, winding staircase.

  Instinctively, she knew where they were going—Tar­rant's bedroom. He was going to make love to her. Against her will, she clung to him, her heart pounding madly against her rib cage. She couldn't voice a single protest, and she wasn't sure she wanted to. All the words were there, crowding her brain. No! Stop this madness right now! Let me go! You 're getting married tomorrow! But she couldn't get the plea past her paralyzed lips. She loved Tarrant Seaton, and though she knew what he intended went wholly against both his life's plan and hers, she was helpless to intercede.

  He swept into his room and lowered her lovingly to his bed. She'd seen the bedroom when she was measuring the closets, but she'd never thought she would feel the soft­ness of his Prussian velvet spread beneath her.

  "Tarrant," she managed in a whisper, "we mustn't—"

  "Shh, darling," he cautioned softly, brushing her wet hair back from her face and kissing her tenderly. "Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?" he asked huskily, as he settled above her on the spread, taking her face be­tween his hands. "That first day in the restaurant, I re­member thinking how lovely you were. Then your mother walked over and told me I was going to marry you—" With a poignant smile, he shook his head at the memory. "I almost welcomed the idea—even sitting there with my fiancée." He kissed first one eyelid and then the other, murmuring, "But my life was settled, and you were sud­denly just another conniving female." When his lips again grazed her mouth, he added, "I was angry with myself for being attracted to your sweet, innocent looks, knowing how deceitful you really were."

  She curled her arms about his neck, protesting weakly, "But I never— "

  He chuckled. It was a gentle sound that thrilled her whole body. "I don't care anymore, Angela. I don't care about motives or designs." His soft kiss sent a tingle of delight up her spine. "I just know I—"

  "Tarrant?" came a woman's trill, cooling their fiery ardor.

  "It's your mother," Angela whispered urgently, strug­gling to sit up.

  "Blast it! I'd forgotten the rehearsal dinner," Tarrant muttered, standing. The emotion glistening in the dark brilliance of his eyes told her he had been deeply moved by what they'd shared. Angela felt a rush of happiness to discover that his feelings had run so much deeper than merely a calculated seduction.

  Striding to the door, he opened it a crack and explained huskily, "My conference call ran longer than I'd planned. I'll meet you at the club." He slanted a somber gaze back toward Angela, and she trembled at the strength of her passion for this man. Yet even as she quivered with want, she could read regret in his eyes. He was telling her that what they had so rashly begun was now finished.

  "Nonsense, dear," Delila rejoined from out in the hall. "Eden's here with me.
She and I will wait for you down­stairs."

  Tarrant closed his eyes in frustration. "I'll be fifteen minutes."

  "I noticed Angela's car out front with the hood up," Delila called again.

  "It broke down. I soaked my tux trying to help her." He frowned, promising, "I'll be as fast as I can."

  "How did she get home?"

  Tarrant eyed the ceiling grimly, obviously hating the fact that he was being forced to lie. "I called her a taxi," he stated flatly, then closed the door.

  Angela knew he'd lied to protect her reputation, and she was grateful for that. The reality of the terrible mistake they'd almost made had begun to sink in, and she shiv­ered, more from reaction than cold. She supposed she should thank Delila and Eden for showing up when they had, but her body rebelled violently, craving Tarrant's ca­resses. She wanted to sob in despair at this final, ultimate rejection, but she bit her lip, trying to sustain a brave fa­cade. She knew Tarrant wasn't marrying Eden for that "nebulous" emotion called love, so she had no argument when he'd left her huddled on his bed, in love and ashamed.

  When he turned to face her, a look of sorrow was etched on his features. Could it be pity she saw there? Hurriedly, she scrambled upright, gathering what remained of her pride. He walked silently toward her, his lean body taut with frustration. Taking her hands in his, he whispered, "This is probably for the best. What I almost did was un­forgivably selfish, Angela. I'm sorry."

  She lowered her eyes to avoid his. "You'd better get changed," she murmured.

  With a soft kiss on her cheek, he said gently, "You're cold. There's a robe in my closet. Put it on."

  Without another word, he disappeared into his bath­room to shower. All Angela could do was cower there, feeling like a criminal in the night, trapped in Tarrant's bedroom with his mother and fiancée standing guard a short distance away.

  By the time he got out of the shower, Angela had taken his advice and put his robe on over her clothes. She felt clammy, but less cold. When he left the bathroom, he, too, was clad in a long terry robe and was drying his hair with a towel.

  She averted her gaze as he went to his closet and pulled out another tuxedo. "Angela," he said, drawing her un­happy eyes. Then he sighed and shook his head contritely. "My first instincts were right. You are a sweet, honest woman, and I'm sorry for doubting you."

  She blinked in surprise, but had no time to answer, for Tarrant had returned to the bathroom to dress.

  A few minutes later, he was back, slipping on another jacket, when a brief knock sounded at his door. Their eyes met, and Tarrant took Angela's hand, pulling her toward the protection of his closet. But before he could conceal her, the door swung open, and in walked Delila, chatter­ing brightly. "Really, Tarrant, you take as long to dress as I…" Her words died in her throat when she saw Angela standing beside her son, clad in a robe. Color drained from the other woman's face, and quickly she closed the door, staring blankly at them both. "What is this?" she asked in a strained whisper. "Heavens, Tarrant. Tonight is your wedding rehearsal."

  He pulled Angela beneath a protective arm. "Mother, this is my fault," he said quietly, "but—no thanks to me— nothing happened."

  "Please, Tarrant," Angela interrupted, "don't protect me." Turning to face Delila, she offered, "Naturally, I won't come back here. I'll find someone else who can fin­ish the remodeling job for you."

  "Angela, no," Tarrant countered gently. "I insist you keep the job. Mother, I won't have you blaming her for my rashness."

  Delila blinked from one of them to the other. Finally she said, "Naturally, I believe you, son. Angela, dear," she assured, "we simply won't mention this… this lapse."

  Angela winced, feeling guilty, but she made no argu­ment. Inwardly she vowed she wouldn't return. She couldn't bear to, no matter how gallantly Tarrant tried to make amends. At the first opportunity, she would find a replacement to finish the remodeling.

  When Tarrant squeezed her shoulders, she snapped back to the present, casting him a distraught gaze. Touching her face lightly, he said, "I've become… fond of you, An­gela, and I'm sorry to have caused you hurt."

  She could only stare into his gleaming eyes as he con­tinued, "I've done a lot of unpleasant things to you, but in my own defense, I must say I never lied. I'm marrying Eden tomorrow as planned, but that doesn't keep me from caring about you and wishing you every happiness." With one last bittersweet kiss, he murmured huskily, "I'd bet­ter go." He started to say something else, but seemed to think better of it; instead, he smoothed away a stray wisp of her hair. A moment later he was gone.

  Angela had forgotten his mother was there until she heard the older woman clear her throat. Jerking her head up, she met Delila's pitying eyes. "I was afraid you felt this way about Tarrant," Delila lamented quietly. "I saw the way you looked at him, and I fear I know that look all too well." She sighed heavily. "I'm so sorry. For both of you."

  Angela shook her head, denying the truth. "There's no reason to be, Mrs. Seaton," she lied, holding her emo­tions in check. "I'm fine, really." Faced with Delila's doubtful expression, Angela rushed on, "And Tarrant has already told me he doesn't believe in love."

  "Yes… I know. I think I've had quite a lot to do with that philosophy of his." Moving to Angela's side, she touched her arm. "Will I see you here the day after to­morrow?"

  Angela returned Delila's gaze squarely. "You know I can't come back."

  Delila said nothing, looking sad.

  Deciding she had little to lose at this point, Angela took Delila's hands in hers. "I've grown to care for you, Mrs. Seaton, and I want you to know…" She paused, gather­ing her courage to go on.

  "Know what, my dear?" Delila asked.

  Angela's eyes darted fitfully away, then back. "Mother told me some things about you and Noah… about Tar­rant's being some sailor's child, and that you married Noah Seaton in order to give Tarrant a name." Angela hesitated, wondering about the wisdom of bringing all this up. Aware of Delila's apprehension, she hurried on, "I know we can't count on the credence of my mother's dreams, but you and I both know that she's a caring, sen­sitive soul. She feels deeply, and she seems able to see be­neath the surface somehow."

  "Yes, I sensed that about her right away, but—"

  Angela interrupted, "Please, let me get this said. Mother believes Noah knew about Tarrant's being another man's son, but he loved you both anyway."

  Delila's brows knit. "How could that be?" she asked, looking doubtful. "I worked so hard to keep it from him."

  "I think you know he knew, Mrs. Seaton. And I think you loved him, but for some reason you've never allowed yourself to believe that. You've been too mired in guilt. Both Mother and I want you to be at peace with Noah's memory, so I hope, by saying what I have, I've helped."

  Delila's eyes were glistening, but before she could speak, the chiming of a clock on Tarrant's dresser caught her at­tention. "Oh, it's eight o'clock. We're terribly late." Fac­ing the tousled younger woman, Delila kissed her cheek. "Thank you, Angela. And thank Minny for me. You're both quite dear to me." Hugging Angela close, she whis­pered brokenly, "I'm so sorry… about everything. But I must go. Alexander will see that you get home safely." With that, she hurried from the room.

  The clock had struck the quarter hour before Angela moved again. Forcing her limbs into action, she slipped out of the robe and walked on leaden feet from Tarrant's room. Empty inside, she trudged down the stairs. Her mind insisted on torturing her with the fact that she was hopelessly in love with Tarrant, and that tomorrow was his wedding day—May twenty-third. Tears blurring her vi­sion, she almost crashed into Alexander.

  "Chauncey will escort you home, miss," he offered quietly, his voice oddly downcast.

  Unable to face him, she muttered something she hoped sounded like a thank-you and dashed out into the drizzle to duck into the back of one of the Seatons' limousines. It was fortunate that both Chauncey and Alexander were gentlemen, she mused unhappily. They would never gos­sip about what a foo
l Angela Meadows had allowed her­self to be. That, at least, was something she could be thankful for.

  Angela had left Richard to handle things in the store while she went upstairs to have lunch. Now, an hour later, she still hadn't eaten. The very thought of food made her queasy. All her demented mind seemed able to do was concentrate on the kitchen clock as the minute hand dragged itself tediously around. One hour from now, Tar­rant and Eden would be married.

  She fingered the piece of bread she'd gotten out when she thought she was going to make herself a sandwich. A few more minutes of idle fiddling turned the slice of bread into a plate of crumbs. Irritated with herself, she pushed up from the table. This foolish clock-watching was doing her no good. She might as well go back downstairs and work. The most she could hope for was a busy day— maybe even a crisis in the store—to keep her mind off—

  The ringing of the phone startled her. Without much interest, she picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

  "Sweetie? Is that you?"

  "Mother?" Angela sat down on a kitchen chair, wor­ried. Minny sounded upset. "Are you okay?"

  "Oh my, no! I've turned my ankle. I can't walk!"

  Angela shot to her feet. "Where are you? I'll be right there." Thank heaven Chauncey had found the difficulty with her car and had delivered it to her in working order early that morning.

  "Pick me up behind Sunny's Tint 'n' Dye Shoppe."

  "I'll be right there." Hanging up the phone, she grabbed her car keys and dashed downstairs, hastily telling Rich­ard where she was going.

  Angela drove to the shop, convincing herself that her mother would be fine, but berating herself for wanting a crisis! She knew she shouldn't feel guilty; she hadn't caused her mother to twist her ankle. And it was becom­ing more and more apparent that even a crisis wouldn't get her mind off Tarrant's impending marriage.

  Worse luck, the back of Sunny's Tint 'n' Dye Shoppe happened to be across the alley from the church where Tarrant and Eden were going to be married. Angela couldn't think of a worse coincidence.