Abby inhaled the fresh green scent, and took the moment to calm down. After all, it had been her choice to leave him.
The greenhouse was lush with fig trees and ficus, pots of ivy and bulbs scattered about. Along one wall were orchids in various stages of bloom and candelabras were set on tables making it seem as if the fae would appear any moment. "How have you been?" "Miserable." She turned to him and smiled wide and fake, "And
you?" So much for acting like an adult. "Sarcasm does not look good on you." "Well, it feels wonderful." "Unleash your anger on me, I hope it makes you feel better." Now she wanted to beat him with a tree branch. But he was right,
she acted like a petulant child when it was her own doing. She sighed. "Why are you here, Caden, haven't you broken me
enough?" "I missed you. I wanted to see you." He stopped and leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on her lips and her heart leapt, even though she didn't want it to. "I needed to see you."
"I believe I am in front of you." She steeled herself again, at the same time wanting him more than ever. He was here, in front of her and all she had to do was reach out and touch him. Her hand never left her side. Instead the pain in her chest made her take shallow breaths. It was as if she was trying to catch the pieces of an exploding star. And yet she would give everything to lean her head against his chest and have his arms around her.
He put his finger under her chin and tilted her head up to his and she closed her eyes. He stroked her cheek where a tear made its path down her face.
"Come live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield.
There we will sit upon the rocks And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle."
The tears were flowing out the sides of her eyes now and he bent to
kiss them. "If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my
love." His voice cracked out the last few lines. She gathered up the tiny shards of her heart. "Posies are lovely, but I
desire your respect more." She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the hem of her sleeve. She turned and walked out, and when she got to the door Mrs.
Jennings awaited her. "Isn't the greenhouse lovely this time of year? I forced the flowers for the party there. I had to start months ago, but the forsythia branches have only taken a few weeks." Pride of her accomplishment filled the older woman's face.
Abby nodded to Mrs. Jennings, and heard Caden come up behind her.
"Abby, I've seated your mother and sister in the kitchen for dinner," She looked behind Abby and smiled, "Ah, Mr. Dupree! I'm glad to see you saw the greenhouse. Just the man I was looking for." Her brilliant smile made her look a decade younger. "Would you escort me into the dining room for dinner?" Caden stopped short, but recovered. Abby watched him and
blanched, mortified at being laid so low. "Yes, ma'am." He held his elbow out. Abby escaped into the kitchen as they stepped out.
* * * * She had walked out as quietly as she could, but he could feel shame radiating off her in waves. In that moment his failing of Abby became crystal clear. And even still he walked Mrs. Jennings into the dining room because he wasn't sure how to show Abby he understood what he'd done. Or that he was sorry for assuming her life was a sham because he didn't understand it.
And, it occurred to him that after tonight, he might never see her again.
So he walked beside Mrs. Jennings, nodding when appropriate, but running through probable solutions in his mind.
He placed his hostess at the head of the table, scooting her chair in when she sat and as he walked to his place setting, nodded to all of the faces he'd always seen at every party. They were the standard of accepted civility in the city of Boston, and at some point in time he'd lost himself gaining their approval.
He'd prided himself on his lack of compromise so many times he never realized he wasn't watching close enough to how he gradually had become just as insular.
Mrs. Jennings thanked him as he pushed her chair in behind her and he nodded again, still consumed with the pain on Abby's face.
When he found his place card, he was seated next to the older single daughter of the Cranes, what was her name? Apparently he was now the next candidate for her marriage ticket as her parents were casting hopeful glances from the other end of the table. He looked back at her and found that she caught where his gaze had held.
"Excuse them, I believe if I don't make a match soon they'll throw in some land and a horse to go with me. For the value." He smiled, despite himself. "Please forgive me, I've forgotten your name." Her eyes were twilight blue, and her hair dark blonde. But he preferred dark olive skin with wiry black hair. "Sarah." "Yes, we were introduced last fall, no?" "I believe." "Yes, yes, I remember now." "You're off the hook now, I'll cover for you." She smiled but her
eyes were sad. "Excuse me?" "You don't have to worry about me trying to wile my way into your favor. I can see your heart is taken already." She took a sip of wine. "And I saw the conversation at the greenhouse." "Ah. Well, if that isn't embarrassing." "Not really. I would hope one day someone looked at me the way
you did her." Her blatant honesty took him aback. Lots of things seemed to be taking him aback lately. As he snapped open his napkin and laid it on his lap the servant brought out two bowls of steaming soup and placed them down.
"Oh, here's the first course. Fiddlehead soup, of course. Spring and all that."
Her wry wit was refreshing, and he was thankful at not having to make small talk about inane subjects. Apparently she was going to let him brood in peace and try to think up a way to change Abby's mind.
He drank one glass of wine in three gulps, not even tasting it and ran though his options. Doing nothing was always an option. An ugly one, but one none the less. If anything though, he needed to apologize, or he wouldn't be able to look at himself to shave. He could send a note, but that would be crude. There was nothing else to do. He could not let her leave without seeing her. He stood up and nodded to Mrs. Jennings. "If you'll excuse me." He started to walk out. "Is everything alright, Mr. Dupree? The soup is not to your liking? I can have the cook make you something?" Anxiety tinged her voice, and she didn't deserve a scene.
"No, the food is superb. There's a lady in your kitchen to whom I need to apologize and convince to marry me." He got a thrill from the hush that fell over the table. "In the kitchen?" "Yes, Miss Abigail Drummond. You see, I've been asking and she'd refused me quite often thinking that she would never fit in with our set." He looked at each guest, warning them. "I told her that she would never be set down by such a hospitable group. That you were all much more progressive than to hold her lack of finances or her family's trade against her. After all, look how you accepted me."
Power did have its weight, and although he'd never used it in a personal way before, it felt good to brandish it now. They'd commit social suicide to snub him or Abby.
"It's been a long time since I first started at Boston Trust, and if you all remember I couldn't even read that well. Now I negotiate your interest rates. I may not convince her to marry me, but I expect you all to treat her with the utmost respect."
Mrs. Jennings flushed. "I'll have her and her family made settings at the table." "No, no need. I'll go out there." He left amidst a frozen silence and finding the kitchen, swung the butler's doors into the room where he was greeted with a stunned quiet. The floor was tiled in black and white with stoves, ovens and cabinets edging the perimeter, and a huge French country table sat in the middle like a wooden island.
Abby, her mother, and sister looked up simultaneously. It took Abby a second to realize what it meant for him to be standing there, and he could tell when she did because her face became the exact shade of an India rubber ball.
; "Abby." He nodded to her mother sitting next to her. "Mrs. Drummond, Camille."
The butler, who'd been standing watch for course changes came up beside him, "Mr. Dupree, would you like me to retrieve your plate? Or would you like a new one made?"
Caden scanned the plates on the table, noting that none were bowls of pale green soup. "If that's what I can have, I'll take it." The butler looked to the chef who smiled and scurried to make him a heaping plate of roasted chicken and potatoes. Thank God, this may have been the wiser decision for that alone.
It hadn't gotten past him that Mrs. Drummond had been observing him all the while. Caden expected to be insulted by her action, but rather he was happy for it. Things would be out in theopen. "Mr. Dupree, may I see your hand?" Mrs. Drummond asked. He sat down, put the second napkin on his lap for the evening and gave his palm to her. Unlike Abby's readings, her hands were cool and firm and knowing. Like a doctor when he touched you with calm assurance. There was no arcing of sexual energy between them, and that factor alone told him more about him and Abby than anything. "Hmmm." Caden's brows gathered. "Ahhh…" Mrs. Drummond nodded to herself. Caden glanced at Camille and then Abby to see what they thought,
only Abby rolled here eyes at him. "Well, well," she said this time. Caden couldn't take it any longer. "What? What do you see?" Mrs. Drummond met his eyes over their hands, "You will be
marrying soon." Camille squealed, clapping her hands and Abby muttered, "Dear
Lord," under her breath. "Mother, Caden doesn't believe any of this." Mrs. Drummond met his eyes and let Caden take his hand back. "He doesn't have to, he just has to respect that I do. Now are you going to ask her?" "I have been, ma'am. Just short of begging." Abby sniffed. "Abby, did you read that Caden would be marrying soon?" Mrs.
Drummond asked. "Yes, Mother." Caden snapped his head around so fast everything blurred. "What?
You never told me that." Abby shrugged. "How was I to know it would be me? What if it
were someone else?" "There is no one else." Anger smacked him like bucket of cold water to the face, and it just as quickly left when he realized that she was justified in doubting him.
The servants and Camille's eyes were bouncing to the speakers like they were watching a cricket match, with none of them touching their food. He had to press his advantage now, before she regained this stupid notion that their classes were too far apart. "I'll ask you one more time, Abby. Will you marry me?" Now all the attention was focused on Abby, waiting for her answer. "Yes," she said, into her plate. The table cheered, and the wait staff congratulated each other until the butler gathered them all to go out and clear the bowls for the next course. Caden squeezed Abby's hand and started to eat.
Chapter Ten
Caden's hands ran up her ribs and cupped her breasts, lifting them to his mouth, rolling one nipple between his fingers while he sucked the other, then switching. Abby moaned and hung her head back, her hair like a spider's web against the small of her back, feeling like silk against her skin. Every nerve in her body was alive and singing, not only for being with Caden, but the emotion of her love that washed over her like an incoming tide. How her heart hammered, how her senses rushed, firing underneath her skin, her ears and mouth.
He let go of her nipple with a pop and trailed his mouth down her ribs, past her stomach to the hollow of her hip. His breath teased her curls with his fingers following, spreading her open and letting the cool hit her, making her shiver with how naked she was. She tried to stay still on the bed, but the sheets were crushed in her hands as she clenched and unclenched them. He teased and nipped, licking and sucking until she rode an edge of pleasure that was sharp and frantic. As he darted his tongue in and around she lifted her hips to make him fill her more, until he splayed his hands on her keeping her pinned as he pushed her off the edge, her pussy clenching on nothing and wanting more. "Fill me." She meant it to be a request, but it came out a demand. "Tsk, tsk. Say please, and I just might help you." "Horrid man. Fuck me." She tried to pull him up but he was
immoveable. "Please!" "That wasn't so hard, was it?" She nipped him on the shoulder as he slid in and he arched his hips,
lifting her, taunting back. He rocked into her. "Are you happy?" "What kind of question is that?" He pulled out and rocked back in, taking her breath away and wiping the questions out of her mind. His questions, not hers. Hers still thrummed in her ears like a mosquito. Why her? Why did he love her, when he could have had any other woman out there?
His rocking became more steady, even and deep and he gripped her thighs, pulling her towards him and anchoring her there. She knew he was getting close, but he wasn't pulling out like he'd always done before.
Then as the realization dawned on her she looked at him, on his knees on the bed, now with her thighs held up around his hips. His face was set and he stared at her, her breasts bounced with every thrust and she knew he knew the same thing, the intensity of his eyes burning her with the knowledge. She could have said no, but an enormous wave of lust and love crashed over her taking all of her words away.
The tightly sprung coil flew and he was so deep that as he followed she felt the warm shots of liquid fill her with each spasm sending her into anothershattering climax, like stars bursting inside her body.
He eased himself off to her side and wrapped a piece of hair around his finger. "You didn't answer me." She curled into him. "I'm happy." "That sounds more like a question rather than a statement." "I am happy." She kissed his chest, his hair crisp under her lips. She ran her fingers through the hair where her lips had just been and felt his heartbeat. Time seemed to stand still while they lay in the bed, even though shadows crept up the walls and the sun had gone down long ago. Hazy twilight and the down quilt they lay under cocooned them and kept the spring evening chill away. It was drowsy and safe there, lying in his arms and contentment seeped into her bones knowing that this was how every night for the rest of her life would be. She was very happy.
"I love you, you know. I wanted to tell you before, but it sounded trite for some reason."
When she remembered to breathe it was a gasp. The words filled her mouth but didn't leave it. Why, when this was what she wanted could she not just say them? "It's fine if you can't say them back." His words sounded flat to her though, and her heart pounded with having hurt him. It wasn't that she didn't love him, she did. What she couldn't understand was why he loved her.
He stopped playing with her hair and turned her around, pulling her into him.
"Do you think you could love me, eventually?" he said, into her hair.
How did this successful, handsome man think that she didn't love him? She loved him enough to leave him, hoping that he would find someone more suitable. What was remarkable was even with all his friends, and his money, he needed her love for him. Suddenly not saying the words seemed cruel.
"I love you," she said. "I love the way you help people without telling anyone. I love the way you're honest. How you never gave up hope for us. That, I love most of all." He was so quiet she thought he'd fallen asleep. "I love you for demanding that I respect you. I loved you before, but now it's so much more." He kissed the top of her head and pulled her to him. "I grew up very poor, you know." "I read that in your hand. One of the first times I read your palm." "I used to find my dinners in the alley garbage," he said, muffled
into her hair. A spear of pain shot through her, but she knew one thing he'd never
want was her pity. "But you never let that stop you," she whispered. "No. But I still dream about it every now and then. Just in case I
scare you." "You won't scare me. Nothing can scare me, apart from me losing
you." "I yell sometimes when I dream that they're throwing things at me." Her throat swelled and got raw. "How old were you?" "Eight and nine." "Where were your parents?" "My mother just left one day. I think she got tired of trying to feed me when she couldn't even feed herself. One day she just never came home."
She wanted to be angry at his moth
er, but she just felt sick. That a little boy at eight had to grow up so fast. And here she thought that her childhood was hard by being her mother's daughter. At least there was food on the table and two parents who loved her. Being a misfit seemed nothing more than a minor inconvenience. At least she had parents who adored her. She was ashamed of herself for not realizing there were worse ways to suffer, and dwelling on her perceived problems.
Abby could feel the tension running through his muscles, waiting for action. "I understand if it disgusts you. If you want me to leave." She rolled over and took his face in her hands. "That boy who fought to make his way is the man I love. All of that made you. Your relentlessness and hard work. Your ability to see a person's potential and not their station in life." He touched her forehead with his. "You still want to get married?" "Of course I do." She pulled his hand to her and traced the lines on his palm with her fingertip. "You have a long lifeline and a major joining with a woman who loves you more than you understand. She doesn't love you despite your upbringing and flaws, she loves you because of them." She kissed his fingertips and he closed his eyes. "You will have a long marriage and three children." "Four. I want four children." Her heart skipped. "And you will have four children," she said back.
Flesh and Bone Selah March Also by Selah March
Moondance
To Have and Have Not
Chapter One
An artfully lit stage at the back of the club. A tall bench covered in
padded leather. The scent of cologne. Fresh sweat. Old blood. These things never change, no matter how often Leah dreams them. She can feel the edge of the bench digging into her diaphragm, and the restraints around her wrists. The muscles in the backs of her legs strain to keep her balanced on her toes. To keep her shoulders down and her hips high, as she's been instructed. The blood rushes to her head. Pounds in her ears, drowning the murmurs of the gathered audience. She doesn't lift her eyes or turn her head to look at the people assembled to watch the performance. She'll have to face them soon enough. Next time, when it's her turn to handle the crop or the flogger. Them, or people very much like them.
Fortunes Fool Page 14
