by Lower, Becky
The way he peered down his finely shaped nose excited her instead of causing her dismay. She had stared into his pale blue eyes, looking for a spark of interest, but he’d kept his feelings for her, if he had any, hidden during their time together. Exactly the type of response she would expect from a member of England’s ruling class. He would not wear his heart on his sleeve, as so many American men did. And French men, for that matter, she thought with a smile, as she remembered the cobbler, Philippe Louboutin’s, advances on her last year. No, she was not pleased with yesterday’s events. She needed another chance to capture Alistair’s elusive attention. And the sooner, the better.
Chapter Four
The next evening, Alistair Wickersham alighted from his horse at the same moment the Fitzpatricks pulled up at the door to the Harper residence. He adjusted his cravat as he waited for George and Charlotte Fitzpatrick to descend from their carriage.
“How nice to see you again.” He bowed low over Charlotte Fitzpatrick’s hand, and then clasped hands with George. “I’m looking forward to this dinner, and becoming better acquainted with more of your friends.”
“Yes, I think Charles Gray will be here this evening. I’m especially keen for you to meet him. He knows good horseflesh when he sees it, so he’d love to come to your home and see what you’ve got in your stable.”
As they talked on the sidewalk, Alistair listened to the conversation with half an ear. The other half picked up more horse’s hooves coming down the street, and he turned to watch as a graceful black carriage pulled up to the front door. A lone woman — the loveliest woman Alistair had come across in New York — climbed down from the conveyance. He was immediately drawn to her beautiful red hair and her porcelain skin. His curiosity was piqued.
“Who is that, Mrs. Fitzpatrick?” He motioned with his head to the woman, who was making her way into the house. The dark brown mantle around her shoulders enabled her burnished locks to take on an even brighter sheen. From what he could see of her dress underneath the mantle, the color was a vivid shade of purple. The hat adorning her head was a confection of deep purple and brown flowers with a jaunty purple feather. He preferred women who weren’t afraid of vivid colors. They usually had bold personalities to match. Alistair was immediately drawn to her.
Charlotte glanced at the woman, and quickly turned to Alistair. “Oh dear, why ever would Mrs. Harper invite Mrs. Smith to her dinner party?”
Alistair’s heart immediately sank. “Mrs. Smith? So the woman is married? Where is her husband, then?”
Charlotte shook her head. “No, not married. She’s a widow. She’d only been married to her husband for six months when he died. So tragic. But she caused a scandal since she didn’t go into mourning for the requisite year. Instead, she livened up the dance floor during the season, stealing the hearts of many a young man. It was as if her signature musk perfume that she gets from France cast a spell over the gents. She’s a lovely young woman, true enough, and I feel sorry for her loss of her husband, but she flaunts the rules of society in our faces. I’m surprised Mrs. Harper would invite her alone to this dinner.”
Alistair breathed a little easier at the pronouncement that the lovely vision who’d just entered the house was a widow. He was eager to get inside and to meet this beauty. And to sniff that musk perfume for himself. “Shall we join the others? I dare say, January temperatures in New York are not to my liking.” He shivered for effect, and shrugged his shoulders.
Together, they walked inside the warm and spacious townhouse. As the men doffed their silk top hats and cloaks, Charlotte unbuttoned her mantle and removed her hat. All were handed off to the servants before Mrs. Harper invited them into the parlor. She flitted around her guests, making certain they all had a drink in their hands.
“Ah, Viscount,” she gushed. “How lovely to see you again. I have someone I’m dying for you to meet. I invited her tonight to be your companion at dinner. Please come with me.” She flicked a smile at Charlotte before she placed her hand on Alistair’s arm and led him to the other side of the room and straight to Lydia Smith.
• • •
As they observed the direction Mrs. Harper was heading with Mr. Wickersham, Charlotte turned to her husband and whispered, “The old busybody! Eloise Harper would just love to be able to gloat that it was she who made a match for the viscount. This does not bode well for Jasmine. She’s in for a royal battle, so to speak.”
“Jasmine, or you, my dear? Has Jasmine even expressed a serious interest in Alistair to you, or are you merely entranced by his title? And isn’t he a bit old for our daughter? Besides, if she has told you she’s interested and you two are orchestrating events to capture his attentions, wouldn’t people accuse you of the same thing you’re accusing Mrs. Harper of?”
“Oh, hush, George. You know I only want the best for my girls. Look how well it worked out with Heather and David.”
George raised an eyebrow. “Need I remind you that Heather spent some time behind bars as a result of that pairing? Admittedly, teaching slaves to read and write in the deep South was rather naïve of her, but it was due to your machinations that she was there in the first place.”
Charlotte turned from him and took a moment to smooth her green silk gown, trimmed in black velvet. She straightened out the fringe that adorned the bodice before she answered. “But now they’re happily married. And that’s what counts. Not the travails they had to wade through to get there. And our eldest daughter Pepper and Michael are so perfectly matched. I only hope for the same for Jasmine. And marrying a titled gentleman from England would do wonders for her standing in society. She’ll be invited to join the best civic organizations, and will rub shoulders with the finest ladies in New York.”
George helped himself to an hors d’oeuvre as the tray of finger food passed by them. He popped the bacon-wrapped wedge of beef into his mouth. “Yum. Has she expressed any interest in him? To get back to my point, he’s considerably older than she is. He’s my age, or nearer to it than he is to Jasmine’s.”
Charlotte stared at the viscount, who was bending down to hear Lydia Smith’s conversation. Any closer, and they would be kissing. Charlotte stomped her foot delicately. “You know Jasmine. She gets excited by most men she meets. And she adores the idea of a title. She’s outgoing and fun, just what a stuffy, titled viscount needs. I think they’ll be a perfect match.”
“Perhaps the ‘viscount’ prefers the idea of having an engaging conversationalist, instead of one whose choice of reading material only includes Godey’s Lady’s Book.” George turned to his wife. “You know I love Jasmine as much as the rest of my children. But I do wish she’d think of something beyond her wardrobe. Lydia Smith is a good fit for Alistair. They’re both widowed, of a similar age, intelligent, and attractive.”
“You find Lydia Smith attractive?”
“Yes, of course I do. Her hair is a lovely shade of red. And she’s a stimulating conversationalist.”
Charlotte turned back to her husband as she sputtered, “How would you know that?”
“She’s a client at the bank. You know her husband left her a considerable fortune, along with an ownership in some major businesses. She refuses to turn the management of those funds over to anyone else, so she frequents the bank several times a month to take care of business. During our meetings when I review her holdings, I find the woman quite delightful.”
“Well, delightful or not, all the mothers with eligible daughters who are trying to find husbands admit that Mrs. Smith’s attendance at these affairs is distracting and despicable. After all, she has already been married, and she didn’t even honor the year of mourning before she delved into the pool of eligible men again, upsetting everyone’s plans.” Charlotte fanned her face to cool her mounting fury at the woman in question. “It’s a wonder any of our daughters found a husband last season. I think she should consider heading to Euro
pe for a few months, so we can get Jasmine married. We’re already a year behind with her. Since you’re such good friends with Lydia, why don’t you suggest a trip the next time she ventures into the bank?”
George took hold of Charlotte’s hand. “Right now, I want you to put all thoughts of matchmaking and Jasmine aside. I want to dine with my wife, and pretend she’s the only other person in the room.”
She batted her eyelashes coyly at him. “You make it sound as if we are newly wed, instead of parents of nine children.”
“To me, darling wife, you will always be a young coquette.”
“Ah, George, you always know the right thing to say.” Charlotte placed her hand on his sleeve as they followed the group in to dinner. She noticed Lydia Smith taking the arm of Alistair Wickersham, and the dream of her daughter marrying a titled English aristocrat began to topple. “But can you see about wrangling an invitation from the viscount to go riding at his home later this week?” Charlotte would be damned if she and Jasmine would lose this opportunity without putting up a good fight.
Chapter Five
Jasmine primped at the mirror in the parlor as the family waited for the arrival of the viscount, who was joining them for dinner. Colleen, their lady’s maid, had worked with Jasmine all week to take one of her dresses from the previous season and add a slight bustle to it, emulating the cutting-edge of French fashion these days. Jasmine had drawn a sketch of what she wanted, and Colleen worked her magic with the needle. And lots of padding.
The result was a luscious, deep burgundy silk gown that was pulled taut across her stomach and fell in pretty folds from either side of the bustle. She decided to forego the cage crinoline from last year’s styles in favor of a few petticoats. If she couldn’t have a new wardrobe this year, she would set her own style by reworking the gowns already in her closet. She had a million ideas on how to create exciting new versions of these dresses, and once other women viewed her designs, they’d throw their cage crinolines away in favor of the styles Jasmine was wearing.
She would not admit it to anyone else, but the challenge of taking her dated attire and making something new and fresh from it was exciting. And there were plenty more dresses in the wardrobe to play with. However, she still longed for new dresses. It would be so much easier. But her father had not backed down from his edict of a week ago. She considered it a setback in her quest to gain the attentions of the viscount, but there were ways around the problem. She made a final survey of herself in the mirror.
“What does one call the wife of a viscount?” Jasmine asked the family as she pinched her cheeks to bring color to them.
“An idiot?” her brother, Valerian, suggested. “Who wants a title? Isn’t that what the Revolutionary War was all about?”
Jasmine sighed in exasperation. After all, Valerian was only fourteen. What did he know?
“Go back to your toys, Val. You know nothing of the ways of men and women.”
“I know enough. And I’m sure I wouldn’t want to have a title following my name. I only want to ride horses, and you don’t need a title to do that.”
Her discussion with her brother was interrupted by a knock at the door. Alistair Wickersham had arrived! Her stomach began doing flip-flops as she checked her appearance in the mirror one final time and straightened an errant lock of hair. This was the biggest night of her life. She was going to charm Alistair Wickersham with everything in her arsenal.
Jasmine turned from the mirror to greet him and was taken by surprise. Not only was Alistair in the room, but he’d brought his stable boy, too! How totally inappropriate. And how unnerving. Ever since they’d been introduced, and Parr O’Shaughnessy had the audacity to wink at her as if she were a common trollop, he’d made her uneasy. She smiled through gritted teeth.
“Lord Wickersham! How delightful to see you.” She lowered herself into a quick curtsy. Then she turned to the stable boy. “And Mr. O’Shaughnessy. What an unexpected surprise. I presume you’ve cleaned off your boots? You smell only faintly of horse dung tonight.”
“Jasmine!” her mother exclaimed as she rushed forward. “Please excuse my daughter’s rude behavior. How nice to see you both. Please come in and share a drink with us before dinner.”
Jasmine glowered at Parr as the two men were drawn to the liquor cabinet. He returned her stare for a long moment from across the room as he waited for his drink. Why did she feel as if he could see through her?
Parr returned to her side, a pint of ale in his hand, while Alistair cornered George to talk business. Parr motioned to her dress with his drink. “’Tis a lovely gown you’re wearing this evening, cailín. The color suits you.”
Despite her misgivings about him, Jasmine preened. “I’m not your ‘cailín,’ whatever that is. But thank you, Mr. O’Shaughnessy, for the compliment. This is my own design.” She turned around to show him the bustle and the fabric swished softly around her. “It’s the newest rage from Paris, you know.”
Parr smiled. “I don’t keep up with the fashions from Europe, but if this is the latest trend, I’d say you’re in luck, because it’s very bonny. It suits you.”
Jasmine couldn’t tell if he was making fun of her or not, and it confused her. He confused her. His eyes were raking over her gown, and her body turned warm. As his eyes lowered to her bosom, she could feel his scorching gaze, almost to the point where she cried out at the sensation of her breasts peaking in excitement, and the deep ache emanating from her core. No, this would never do. She wished Alistair would turn an excited eye her way. Or notice her at all. Then it would matter. She walked away from Parr without another word, intent on breaking up the discussion between Alistair and her father. This was her night after all. The biggest night of her life. And she was not going to let her father hog the man of her dreams.
• • •
Parr had a leprechaun on his shoulder. And the tiny fellow had been perched there ever since he’d had the good fortune to meet Alistair Wickersham, as fair and honest a man as any he had ever come across. The fact that he’d offered to make Parr a partner in his American venture instead of a mere employee was proof enough of that fact.
They had decided, upon setting up their business in the Bronx, to play to their strengths. Which meant Alistair would move within New York’s elite society, and Parr’s responsibility would be the horses — both vital elements to their venture. But once Parr met Jasmine Fitzpatrick, he’d begun to reconsider his role, at least as far as the Fitzpatrick family was concerned. Suddenly, he’d wanted to join Alistair for dinner, especially if it involved having Jasmine sit across the table from him. Fortunately, George Fitzpatrick did not have a problem with extending the invitation to include him. Parr didn’t care what the meal consisted of, despite the delicate scents coming from the kitchen. He merely wanted to feast his eyes on the young miss.
So here he was. For the privilege of sitting down to dinner with her, he was boot-deep in the trappings of society. The cost of the dinnerware alone would feed a large family in Ireland for a year. Glasses clinked as a toast was made. As he puzzled over which fork was the correct one to use with each course the servants brought to the table, he stole another glance at the lovely young lady. Aye, he was liking America more and more. And if he could continue to throw Miss Fitzpatrick off balance, he’d even enjoy the fancy meal.
He listened carefully to the conversation George and Alistair were having about Alistair’s role in shoring up the bank’s financial holdings. George Fitzpatrick was aware of the rumblings of a financial panic looming, and he wanted to be able to honor every request to withdraw funds from his bank, should people so desire. He was not happy about the potential loss of business, but he wanted to honor each customer’s wishes. And he could not do so without the infusion of cash that Alistair was presenting. In exchange, Mr. Fitzpatrick would introduce him to the best of New York’s elite society, so Alistair could
begin to develop a following for their racetrack. All well and good, but not of Parr’s concern. He turned his focus across the table to where Jasmine was sitting. She was his concern, whether she was aware of it yet or not.
Her dark brunette curls gleamed in the candlelight, reminding him of a mink’s fur. He was entranced by the way the curls draped over one shoulder and rested on her swell of bosom. Parr groaned internally as he wished he could be one of those curls. The diamond clips holding her hair in place caught the light every so often, sending out a flash of brilliance. He thought the picture was lovely, as if a fairy was touching her head with a wand.
Yes, fairies and leprechauns. That’s what he brought to the table. Oh, and boots that still carried the stench of horse dung, despite his best efforts to clean them off before they’d arrived tonight. Even though Alistair viewed him as an equal, in Jasmine’s eyes he was nothing more than a common laborer — someone to order about. And, truth be told, that’s exactly what he had been, at least until Alistair had found him. He could not understand why Alistair had plucked him from the many other young men who were trying to make some coin by racing their horses, but he had. And not just made him an employee, but an equal partner in this American venture. ’Twas unheard of, but Parr grabbed on with both hands. He’d live up to Alistair’s expectations with no problem.
Getting Jasmine to view him as something other than a mere worker, however, was something else. She might be willing to try flirting some with him, just to hone her skills for Alistair, whom she had set her cap for already. Nonetheless, Parr was enchanted by her haughty demeanor, and wanted to find more ways to spend time with her. If she was going to make herself part of Alistair’s life, Parr would probably be seeing a lot of her. Fine by him. And she could practice her seductive skills with him all she wanted.
