That was all? Just a kiss on the forehead? "Next time, I'll make an appointment!" She bounded from the room and rushed down the hall. She'd played her last card . . . and lost.
* * *
At the bar of an old hotel on Diamond Street, William nursed his glass of whiskey, drumming his fingers on the dusty table. He wiped his hands on a napkin in disgust, his gaze flitting about the room as he searched for the person he'd come to meet, the woman who could give him such pleasure in bed.
For the hundredth time, he asked himself why he didn't take Lisa to bed, yet he knew the answer. She was a lady, gentle and well-bred, who served him well as his hostess. He knew plenty of the other kind, so why waste his efforts on his wife? He took another swallow of whiskey. Besides, he reminded himself, he had tried making love to his wife . . . and failed miserably.
Sighing, he wished he could see his watch, but the light in the room was too dim, no doubt to hide the dirt, he thought with another wave of disgust. Peering through the grimy window, he saw a light snowfall dust the squalid streets of Pittsburgh. He'd wait a few more minutes. He had better things to do than waste his time in some dreary bar. Besides, he'd told Lisa he'd be home by twelve. He smiled at her wifely solicitude, aware she'd worry if he arrived home much later. His smile widened at his deceit, since he'd told her he was meeting a client.
William tried to ignore the laughter of the few other patrons and the smell of cheap cigars, wanting only to get the hell out of the damned place.
The heady scent of patchouli and a light hand on his shoulder announced the arrival of the person William had come to meet. He turned around, throwing her a glance of relief, overshadowed by indignation that she should be late. No one ever kept William Enright waiting. Let her know how angry she'd made him. Hell, yes! Might even make their coupling more satisfying.
"You're late!"
"Only a few minutes."
"More than a few minutes. Don't ever be late again, if you know what's good for you."
She bent close, revealing a plunging neckline and voluptuous breasts. "Come upstairs to the room I've reserved for us," she purred. "I'll make your waiting worth the while."
William's pants tightened around his crotch. Thankful for the dim light, he scraped his chair back and rose. Home by twelve, he reminded himself. He wouldn't want Lisa to worry.
Chapter Five
William studied the suits in his closet, pondering what he should wear tomorrow night. He had to dress appropriately, to impress a woman he'd met last week, one he hoped would become his new mistress. He'd met her at a cheap hotel near Polish Hill, and what a beauty! If her charms in the bedroom matched her looks, she'd be a real prize, one any man would desire.
He could hardly wait for tomorrow. He knew her kind, knew it wouldn't take him long to get her alone, get her clothes off. After all, he'd had enough experience. Searching his mental directory, he tried to recall her name. Sarah? Sally? Oh, yes, Sadie. He chuckled. With a mistress in Baltimore and another in Boston and God knew where else, wouldn't it be hilarious if he called one of them by the wrong name? Worse, what if he called Lisa by one of their names?
Lisa, his wife. Unbuttoning his shirt, William tried to envision taking her to bed but quickly told himself it didn't matter. A man couldn't enjoy his wife in a sexual way--certainly not a respectable woman like Lisa--and he wasn't about to try coupling with her again. Besides, with several mistresses scattered around the country, he had all the women he could manage for now.
Beginning to chafe in his marriage, he acknowledged that a man in his position needed a wife as a hostess, someone to give him respectability. Just the same, memories of his bachelorhood often taunted him. He yearned for the days before his marriage, when he didn't have to juggle his time between his home life and the nights with his mistresses, or worry about his wife discovering his infidelity.
He paused, pulling his nightshirt over his head. Best he tell Lisa he wouldn't be home for dinner tomorrow night. He tied his bathrobe around his waist and slipped into his bedroom slippers, then went to see his wife.
* * *
Lisa shivered inside her blue velour robe as she sat at her toilet table and reached for her hairbrush. She brushed her hair one-hundred strokes like her mother had taught her, listening to the crackle of electricity as she ran the brush through the thick locks. Outside, an icy wind howled through the trees and rattled the windows, a sure sign that winter would be with them for a long time.
A light tapping sounded at the door, then William stepped inside. A faint smile touched his lips, the usual scents of tobacco and musk clinging to him.
She stood and leaned against the table, her heart beating wildly. William's bold stare told her he was going to make love to her now, she just knew it! Resolved to conceal her trembling, she set her brush on the table and greeted him with a smile.
“William.”
His gaze swept over her, his expression warm and assessing as he approached her. He reached out to touch her hair, wrapping a lock around his finger. "Why don't you wear your hair like this all the time, long and flowing past your waist? Why must you always pin it up on top of your head?"
"Surely you know a lady doesn't wear her hair loose in polite society. It wouldn't be proper."
"Yes, I know, but why not? Who makes these rules?"
She shrugged. "They're just rules and always have been. Only a . . . a . . . low-class woman would wear her hair as you suggest." She smiled winsomely. "Now at home in the evening, for my husband . . ."
"But not all the time?"
"No, of course not."
"Why don't you try it? You might start a new style."
She laughed. "Yes, and I might be ostracized, put down as a um, lady of the night."
"Would that be so bad?"
"William!" Would she ever understand him? Only a few nights ago, he'd shamed her for acting like an easy woman.
He lifted his shoulders. "Just a suggestion, dear," he said with an unconvincing smile. "You mustn't take everything I say seriously." He turned to leave, then faced her again. "Oh, I almost forgot what I came to tell you. I'll have dinner at the Duquesne Club tomorrow evening, so I won't be home until late." With an enigmatic smile, he turned away.
Despair and resentment had been building inside her, waiting to burst free. Before she could analyze her actions, she gripped his arm. "William, please tell me what's wrong between us."
"Wrong?" He raised his eyebrows. "Did I say anything was wrong? Have I complained?" He eased from her hold, a guilty look on his face, quickly changing to one of defiance. "Tell me what you mean."
"You know what I mean. Ours is not a true marriage." She swallowed. "We don't even share . . . share a bed. How about the other night, when I put my arms around you and asked you."
"Don't remind me of that! My wife, acting like a hussy! And I hardly think this is the time or place to discuss such a personal matter," he said with his usual frozen calm. "But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised." His mouth pursed in distaste, he turned away from her.
She grasped his arm again, forcing him to face her. "Hardly the time or place! If not here and now, then when or where?" Releasing him, Lisa glared at him, red spots dancing in front of her eyes.
"You're upset, and I don't want to talk about it." Shoulders set back in insulted pride, he stalked from the room and closed the door with calm deliberation.
She shook all over. Her eyes darted around the room, finally settling on a bottle of Venetian glass that graced her toilet table. She seized the glass in trembling hands and hurled it across the room, grimacing in bitter satisfaction as it smashed against a far wall and broke into dozens of pieces.
The next morning, Lisa picked the pieces of glass from the floor and dropped them into a wastebasket. "I've had enough!" It'll be a cold day in June when I try to lure William into my bed again, she vowed, wincing as she cut her finger on a sliver of glass.
She'd never resign herself to an empty marriage, but at the same time,
she realized she'd gain nothing by confrontation. So for the sake of her pride and the family name, she'd continue as his hostess, pretend everything was fine between them. Bide her time, hope they would some day learn to love each other. Everyone thought they were the ideal couple. Hadn't so many friends told her that? Mustn’t disillusion them.
Rising from the floor, she brushed her hand over her velour robe, and with a frank look in the mirror, saw all the hurt and heartache she'd tried so hard to conceal. An inexplicable yearning clutched at her heart, a desire that went beyond William and her marriage. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she attempted to deny her longing, the image of a gray-eyed steelworker refused to leave her mind. She laughed without mirth. A steelworker! Even if she were free to marry him, what made her think he cared for her, and what could they possibly have in common?
* * *
Lisa hurried along the sidewalk on her way to the literary club, looking forward to the meeting, as she did every week. Of course, she enjoyed reading, but it would take more than that simple pleasure to explain her excitement when the hour for the meeting arrived. And yes, she liked to spend time with the other members, but that still didn't explain this feeling, since they were all much older than she . . . all except one, the steelworker from Homestead. Owen.
She repeated his name, liking the sound of it. She could see him as if he were with her now, his smile, his every facial expression. Reality slowly dawned. Could this newfound emotion be love? Had her mind refused to accept what her heart had tried to tell her long ago? But there could never be any happiness between them. Suppose--oh, just suppose!--they could marry, surely in time he'd come to resent her well-to-do background, and she'd come to hate life in a dirty steel town.
She mounted the steps to the mansion, and within a few minutes, she entered the library, resolved not to meet Owen's eyes or to wonder what went through his mind when she saw him.
Despite her resolution, Lisa met his gaze, certain she saw happiness in his look, and perhaps something more, its meaning out of reach. With a quick reminder to be more circumspect, she smiled a greeting for the other members. She settled herself into a chair near the fireplace, across the room from Owen Cardiff . . . across from temptation. She exchanged small talk with others but missed what they said, aware only that he remained silent, a look of intensity on his face. After the usual pleasantries, the meeting commenced.
While Mrs. Rowe read Andrew Marvell's, To A Coy Mistress, Lisa glanced up to see Owen again, her gaze locking with his. She could scarcely concentrate on the words of the poem, her every thought on him.
She saw herself in its lyrics, but the recitation disappointed her. Such a beautiful poem, but Mrs. Rowe read it like a shopping list.
Had we but world enough and time . . .
She caught Owen's eyes on her again before he quickly turned away. Did she see a deep longing on his face, as if he wanted her as much as she wanted him? Aware she'd gain nothing by daydreaming, she tried to dismiss her fantasies. Tried, and failed Did Owen care for her? The very idea made her catch her breath, her heart beat faster. But wait, what made her think he cared for her, just because he looked her way a couple of times? Now she was letting her imagination run away with her.
She wrenched her attention back to the poem. World enough and time! Would there ever be time for her happiness? And with a steelworker from a mill town?
But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near . . .
She must forget Owen, dismiss these foolish dreams. What did she accomplish by dwelling on someone unobtainable? Even if he felt the same as she, she saw no hope for them. She had a husband . . . William, hers to love--love!--honor, and obey for the rest of their lives. . . .
With a pretense of listening, Owen stared at the flames in the fireplace while he pondered the indefinable expression on Lisa's face. What did that look imply? Sadness? No, a newly-married lady as lovely as she would never be unhappy, for surely her husband loved her very much. For reasons he wished he could deny, he wanted to rush over to Lisa, comfort her, make everything right for her.
A knife twisted inside him, and he knew with sudden clarity the truth he'd tried to reject for so long. He loved her, as simple as that. No use questioning the why or wherefore. His heart recognized the feeling, and this was no mere lust as he'd known for other women. No, this was something sweeter, something deeper, something . . . futile. Lisa was an upper class lady, married to a wealthy man, a man who had the right to hold her close and kiss her, take her to bed, make fervent love to her. . . . a man who could give her everything her heart desired. Dear God, how it hurt.
More than anything in this world, he wished he could take her in his arms and hold her next to his heart, press his hungry lips to hers, absorb the warmth of her body. If dreams alone could send this rush of heat through his body, what would actual lovemaking do?
The knife twisted deeper as he questioned life's ironies. With all the women in the world he could love, why should he choose another man's wife, and a lady so far out of his class? What she must think of him--a rough steelworker from Homestead! Still, he knew this desire, this love, was no passing thing. This yearning would stay with him for the rest of his life.
Emerging from his painful reflections, he tried to focus on the reading . . . tried and failed.
The grave's a fine and private place
But none, I think, do there embrace . . .
Conflicting emotions churned inside Lisa. She wanted to be by herself, to bask in this beautiful sensation blossoming inside her. At the same time, she longed to be with Owen, to look in his eyes and know, without a doubt, that he felt the same as she. Guilt swamped her for feeling this way about another man, but when had emotion ever listened to reason?
"My dear, are you all right?"
"My goodness!" Lisa glanced up to see Mrs. Rowe beside her, she of the monotonous voice. Light chatter and the shuffling of feet told Lisa the meeting was breaking up.
"Oh, yes, I'm fine," she replied as she rose from the chair. "Just daydreaming, I suppose."
The woman flashed her a cheerful smile. "Well, don't we all do that at times." She patted Lisa's arm. "I hope to see you next week. Remember, my house."
"Yes, I'll remember. Goodnight, Mrs. Rowe." Amid friendly farewells, the others left the library. Lisa managed to answer them calmly, wishing her heart would stop pounding. After their host excused himself to see the others to the front door, Lisa found herself alone with Owen.
Owen stood motionless beside his chair, his gaze on her face. "Mrs. Enright . . ."
"Please call me Lisa," she murmured. "I think we know each other well enough for first names, don't you?" She licked dry lips. "After all these weeks . . ."
"Yes, of course . . . Lisa. And please call me Owen."
"Owen." They stared at each other, a heavy silence between them.
"Well . . ." At a loss for words, she smiled again, reminding him she'd see him next week. "Time to go home now," she finally managed to say. “Goodnight, Owen.” She'd act calm, never let him know that the very sight of him drove every coherent thought from her mind. As wild speculations flitted through her brain, she imagined his arms around her, his lips on hers. What would that feel like, to be enclosed in his embrace? Heat blazed a path from her cheeks to her stomach. With a mental reprimand for her foolish thoughts, she headed for the door, her shoulders thrown back.
Owen hurried ahead to open the door, then stopped. "Just a minute, please," he murmured, stepping over to an end table. "You forgot your gloves." He returned, handing her the gloves. Their fingers touched, a flame erupting between them.
"Lisa!" Owen reached his hand toward her, then dropped his arm to his side. He shook his head and turned away, an unreadable expression on his face.
The library door opened and their host returned, breaking the spell between them. With a supreme effort, Lisa acted normal as she bade her host good-night. Yet her life had changed forever.
After Owen's touch this evening, she'd never be the same.
* * *
In the long, dark hours of the night, Lisa lay in her loveless bed, aching with loneliness. Memories of Owen tortured her, and she whispered his name, savoring the sound. Visions rampaged through her head as she recalled his every feature--the dark locks of hair that fell across his forehead; his steady gray eyes that seemed to see through her; that rugged face with its smile that meant so much because he smiled so seldom. She thought of his hands, strong and workmanlike, and she wanted those hands on her body, touching her, caressing her.
Tears trickled down her cheeks as cold reality struck her like a physical blow. Turning onto her side, she tried to think of other things, determined to chase him from her mind. She'd gain nothing by thinking of him, wanting him, and yes, loving him.
She could no more drive him from her thoughts than she could stop the sun from rising in the east. Had she only imagined the emotion in his dear voice as he whispered her name? Even if he felt the same as she--and dear God, surely he did!--she knew their love was hopeless. Only unhappiness awaited her if she dwelt on Owen, if she didn't forget him. She had a husband, hers to live with for the rest of her life, and nothing would ever change that except divorce. She repeated the word. Divorce, a disgrace that would grieve her mother and ruin the family name.
And what made her think Owen cared for her?
Her eyes burned from sleeplessness as she tossed and turned throughout the long night, waiting for the dawn. When finally the first pink streaks colored the sky, she was no closer to solving her dilemma. My God, she whispered as she watched the play of shadows on the wall, what am I going to do? What in the world am I going to do?
Forbidden Love Page 5
