The Duplicitous Debutante (Cotillion Ball)

by Becky Lower

  How should she approach Mr. Cooper now? She had spent a lovely morning believing her problems were solved, and now they were dashed against the rocks again. The image of a ship being pummeled against a rocky coast made her mind drift. Perhaps she could put a pirate in her latest Harry Hawk story and have his ship run aground in a torrential downpour. Her mind drifted as she tried to devise a story line.

  She shook her head, clearing away the new story idea and her new pirate. She had a dilemma of her own, in real life, to deal with. And only a few more blocks to figure out a plan.

  What to do? Should she behave as her father suggested and plead illness on his behalf? Should she throw her fate to the wind and confess she was the real F.P. Elliott? Should she rush up to Henry before either of them could think and kiss him, thereby rendering him speechless?

  She stopped on the sidewalk. Where had that last thought come from? Kiss Mr. Cooper, indeed. She admitted, if begrudgingly, she was attracted to his dark hair and eyes, and his tanned skin. So unlike the pale, bland features she had expected when she’d discovered he was from Boston’s elite society. And so unlike the old, concave, balding-man image her father had created. But physical attraction alone was not enough on which to base throwing all caution to the wind and kissing the man. And confessing to him she was the author on whom he was waiting.

  Especially when she had no knowledge, at least not yet, of the mettle of the man. Without an understanding of his character, she would never allow herself to get close enough to him to even consider leaning in for a kiss. She flexed her gloved hands as she thought of his dark hair curling around her fingers. No, touching him was not going to happen. What nonsense, what bosh. Why, one would think she were the female character in her Harry Hawk novel, who to date was unnamed and hadn’t uttered a word. Merely whimpered.

  Rosemary took a deep breath as she arrived at the entrance to the publishing house, placing one hand to her stomach to calm herself. Her hand brushed the chatelaine brooch with its timepiece, which was pinned to her waist. She glanced at the watch face. Only ten minutes late. He was here, one flight up. She glanced up at the window before she let herself in the doorway. Ready or not, Mr. Cooper, here I come.

  • • •

  They were already ten minutes late! How dare they! Henry prowled the office, automatically shifting into his fencing stance, right arm in front of him, wrist pronated, weapon down and to the inside, left arm raised behind him for balance. His mind raced in twenty directions at the same time, while his muscle memory led him through the various parry positions. What if Mr. Elliott came alone? What if Miss Wyatt didn’t show at all? Thinking her no-show was an attack, Henry took the parry #1 position. He took a few steps forward, imagining an épée in his hand as it sliced through the air. He could almost hear the swish of the blade. He had no way of contacting her, except the infuriating post office box mailing address that was used for all F.P. Elliott’s correspondence.

  What if Phoebe Wyatt had decided she didn’t want to work with him, and encouraged Mr. Elliott to take his work elsewhere? The author was under contract for only one more story, after which time he’d be free to go his own way if he so wanted. And to take Harry Hawk with him. Henry thought of the cover of Harry on the bison’s back. If F.P. Elliott didn’t wish to continue his tenure with a new owner beyond the final story, Henry would not grace his final novel with such an extravagant cover. What if he had to use it on someone else’s story? What if he never had a chance to see Phoebe again? What if Mr. Elliott came to this meeting alone? Henry attacked with an opposition, controlling his opponent’s blade. His imaginary sparring partner was backed up against the door.

  His eyes narrowed as he prepared to slice open his victim just as the door to his office opened, and Miss Wyatt walked into the room.

  “Oh.” Phoebe’s lovely gray eyes were as round as her mouth. If he’d had an actual sword in his hand, she would have been injured. Or Henry would have dropped his blade. She lit up the room, which suddenly smelled of fresh air and sunshine.

  Henry brought down his hand and came out of his en garde stance.

  “Sorry, Miss Wyatt. I was merely practicing my swordplay while I waited for you.” He elongated the word “waited,” hoping she’d get the message he didn’t appreciate being thrown off schedule.

  “I am only a few minutes late, sir.” He could tell her back was straightening as she spoke. It made him smile, which he sensed would only infuriate her more.

  “And Mr. Elliott? I assume he is still making his way up the stairs, then?”

  Phoebe Wyatt shifted from one foot to the other, her eyes pinned to the floor. “No, sir, he is not.”

  Henry moved from the center of the room to take a seat behind his desk. He had to put some distance between them before he gave in to his impulse to touch her, to rip off that silly straw hat and bury his nose in her beautiful hair. To ravish her plump lips. A desk between them should do. He nodded at her and raised his hand to the seat in front of the desk. She sat, somewhat timidly, he thought, as she wrung her hands together in a true sign of desperation. He should say something to comfort her. To ease her mind.

  Enough. F.P. Elliott and Phoebe Wyatt were no different from any of the other authors under contract with Page Books. Why the hell was he treating her as if she was a fine crystal object? His voice became rough. “I made it clear in my letter, did I not, that the elusive Mr. Elliott was to make an appearance today, otherwise the contract with him would be terminated. What about my message is so hard to understand?”

  She finally raised her eyes, and sparks flew from them as she answered. All traces of timidity evaporated. Beautiful eyes, he noted, not for the first time. He loved the way they tilted up at the outer edge, giving her a slightly exotic appearance.

  “Mr. Elliott was all set to come today, despite his reluctance to be seen in public. But he took ill quite suddenly, and was forced to take to his bed. You know there’s something going around right now, and I believe he caught it. I was going to send a note on his behalf begging off today, but decided to come and tell you in person. The last thing I want is for you to think he’s not serious about his future with your company.”

  “I sincerely hope you are telling me the truth, Miss Wyatt. The Harry Hawk series is among our bestsellers, and I’d appreciate the opportunity to further it along. And I’ll tell Mr. Elliott that very thing when we do finally meet. Where did he get his inspiration for Harry anyway?”

  She wiggled in her seat. “I, uh, I merely transcribe Mr. Elliott’s scribbles into legible copy. I have no idea where he got the idea of a half-breed hero. Or any of his other ideas, for that matter.” She turned her face away from him.

  Hmmm. Something was off here. Something elusive. She was hiding something from him. He got the impression he was suddenly in passe arriere, moving back a step in this discussion.

  “Tell me, what is Mr. Elliott’s first name?”

  Her eyes darted back to him. She didn’t say a word.

  “What I mean is, do you refer to him as Mr. Elliott when you’re working with him? I thought he was your uncle. Don’t you call him Uncle Festus, Fred, Felix, or whatever?”

  She cleared her throat, her hand soothing her neck as she made the sound. “The family calls him, uh, Uncle Frank. Franklin.”

  “Well, then. You may tell Uncle Frank I demand to see him soon. How he ‘caught’ something that’s going around mystifies me, if he never leaves the house. But if he’s still ill next week, I can always come to him, rather than have him be forced into the public eye. Would that better suit?”

  Miss Wyatt’s eyes shot daggers at him. “Fine. I’ll bring him here as soon as he’s better.”

  “As long as we’re clear, Miss Wyatt. F.P. Elliott must stop hiding behind your skirts. That will be all.”

  That’s not all. Not by a mile. His wayward thoughts consumed him as he glanced at her under hooded eyes. He longed to unpin her dark chignon and drape her luxurious hair over her breasts, merely fo
r the pleasure of getting lost in her locks. And to run his hands over said breasts. Henry could feel his manhood harden as his thoughts rioted out of control. A sudden image of the two of them rolling around on the rug beneath his desk, desperate to shed their clothing, raced through his mind. He nearly gasped at the vividness, and sat silently, trying to corral his wayward thoughts.

  “Tell me, Mr. Cooper. Are you an accomplished fencer?”

  His mind ceased its wandering. Ceased to work at all. He merely stared at her.

  She waved a hand through the air. “I mean, I thought your stance, when I walked in, was quite impressive. Do you really fence?”

  Miss Wyatt thought he was impressive. That was the only part of her question he latched on to. His male part became even more erect. He continued to stare.

  She shifted in her seat. “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business. I understand.”

  Still, he could find no words.

  Rising from the chair, she stood in front of the desk and leaned over, her gloved hands resting on its top. “Are you quite all right, Mr. Cooper?”

  She was but inches away from him. If he reached up, he could remove her hat, unfasten her hair, and let it cascade over her breasts, just as he’d imagined. He caught her scent. It was patchouli, as he had surmised the previous time he’d been close enough to her to have her perfume register with him. A classic scent, and one of his favorites. Of course, it would be the perfume she preferred. Strong and significant, yet subtle, just as she was. His head leaned toward her of its own accord. The inches closed as his gaze fastened on her lips. Her plump, luscious lips that were just begging to be kissed. Was it his imagination, or was her head moving toward him as well? Her pink tongue darted out to moisten her lips, breaking his stupor.

  He stood suddenly. So suddenly, she gasped and took a leap backward. He moved fluidly around the desk and grasped her hand, hoping she wouldn’t notice the bulge in his pants. “Thank you, Miss Wyatt. I’m fine. Allow me to see you out.”

  • • •

  Henry closed the door behind Miss Wyatt and laid his forehead up against it. He had the urge to beat his head against the door, but feared Phoebe might still be standing on the other side. What had gotten into him? Ever since his father had turned on him, shortly after his mother’s death, he had become a master at hiding his feelings. His father never would know how much his rejection had hurt Henry. His Uncle Jacques never was aware how much Henry appreciated the time he took to teach a wayward boy fencing. He never told his uncle how much his instruction in the sport helped to harness Henry’s rage against his father. The various women Henry had been with in New Orleans had shown him the meaning of passion, but he never once had told them of his feelings toward them. No words of love had ever crossed his lips, either in English or in French.

  Now, in a few short meetings, a tiny, working-class woman was threatening to topple his well-crafted world. How had he let that happen?

  He turned from the door and punched the air with his fist. Not nearly as satisfying as punching the door would have been. He paced the room as he pondered his situation. He still had no knowledge of this woman’s background. All he could focus on was the fact she was intelligent, had intriguing eyes, and a mouth that begged for kisses. But he didn’t have a clue about the important matters in life. Where she lived, how she came to work for her uncle, where were her parents, if they were even still alive, how old she was. He punched the air again. None of the details really mattered. What mattered was she had wormed her way into his heart, and he was helpless against her. Now, what was he going to do about it?

  His father would not be pleased if he brought home a working-class woman as his bride. Hmmm. Would that go into the “pro” column or the “con”? Henry thought of his mother again. She had been a working-class woman, a hatmaker, when Maxwell Cooper had swept into her life and offered to give her a life of privilege far from the seedy streets of New Orleans. Henry had been young when she died, yet he remembered her touch as she’d tucked him in at night when he had been just a child, how she’d never missed the opportunity to give him a kiss on the cheek and to tell him how much she loved him. He’d thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world, with her dark hair and flawless olive complexion.

  He smiled as he thought of his mother captivating his father. Or had she? Did he regret his decision immediately after he married her? Didn’t he send Henry away once his mother died, so he wouldn’t have to see the resemblance of mother and child on a daily basis? To get rid of any indication of his father’s one mistake? The old saying about apples not falling far from the tree seemed to hold true in this case. Despite his resolve to never emulate his father, here he was, mooning over a girl who was totally inappropriate to his station in life. Just as his father had done. And his father had married the beautiful French woman, Marie DeJarnette, when he could have made her his mistress instead. Should he emulate his father completely and offer to marry Miss Wyatt? After only two meetings with her? Would she be flattered or shocked at the direction his thoughts were headed? Or should he take the path his father hadn’t, and offer to make her his mistress? Henry was fairly certain his father regretted his decision on many occasions, especially because it impacted his stature among his fellow Brahmins.

  However, he would never voluntarily allow himself to follow the path his father had taken and risk ending up the same as his father. His best course of action, other than to be totally outrageous and offer to make Phoebe his mistress, his plaything, was to spend some time within the social circles of New York City. To take the Cabots up on their offer to introduce him to the upper strata of residents in the city. Dinner with some handpicked, single, suitable, ladies, perhaps an evening at the theatre, maybe a ball or two. The city was fascinating to him. Much more intense than New Orleans had been, much less stuffy than Boston. He just needed to get out more, spend less time behind his desk trying to make sense of the publishing business, and he’d meet the right woman sooner or later. Perhaps he should stop trying to meet Mr. Elliott and let F.P.’s dime novels, and Phoebe Wyatt, go to another publisher. Yes, if he did that, she would become a distant memory soon enough.

  Even as he had the thought, his mind was crafting ways to arrange another meeting with her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Rosemary made her way to the street in a sort of daze. Mr. Cooper, Henri, was a swashbuckling hero who had jumped off the pages of her mind and into her real world! His stance as his imagined sword sliced through the air had been magnificent. Such a shame she wasn’t writing about pirates, since he certainly had inspired her to pick up her pen and counter-attack with her weapon of choice.

  She scoffed at the image of her pen and his sword dueling it out. But, in actuality, the image wasn’t far off the mark. She had bought herself time, but still needed to prove F.P. Elliott existed and wasn’t merely a figment of her imagination. She hoped her father recovered soon so they could get the blasted meeting over and done with. Then she could go back to correspondence by mail and never have to lay eyes on Mr. Cooper again.

  As she let herself in the door of the family brownstone, her mother walked out of the parlor, almost as if she had been lying in wait for Rosemary. Removing her hat, Rosemary shook her head at the foolish notion her mind had pictured. Her mother was no stalking lioness. She turned and faced her mother with a smile.

  “Ah, Rosemary, it’s so nice you’re back. We need to discuss your debut on Friday and see what yet needs done. Come into the parlor with me. I’ve started making a list, but I’m certain I’m forgetting things.”

  As her mother moved back into the room, she didn’t even spare a backward glance, fully expecting Rosemary to do her bidding. Maybe the image she’d had in her head of the wild animal wasn’t so far off the mark after all. Rosemary could not do what she wanted and bolt up the stairs while her mother wasn’t paying attention. With a small sigh, she followed her mother and sat down on a padded chair.

  “Your gown is done, but you�
�re in need of one final fitting. Your slippers have been made, and your undergarments are ready. So all we really need to focus on is choosing the jewels you’ll wear, how you’ll style your hair, and what to do with those stained fingers of yours. I’ve been doing some research on what we can use, and I think if we soak your fingers in a mixture of lye and water, it should remove the worst of the stains. But I want you to not pick up a pen again until after the Cotillion.”

  “But, Mother, I have a deadline to meet! I can’t suddenly become a lady of leisure! And won’t lye destroy my skin? What if I just hide my fingers with a beautiful pair of gloves?”

  “If it turns out to be our only course of action, we’ll hide them. But please, heed my bidding and do not stain them further until after the ball. And do at least try the lye. Of course, you’ll wear gloves at the ball, but you may need to take them off at some point during the course of the evening, and you don’t want people to see how stained your fingers are. You are a finely bred young lady, not someone from the working class. But no one would be able to tell who you are from the condition of your fingers.” Charlotte shook her head as she took her daughter’s hands into her own and examined them.

  “All right, Mother. I’ll do as you suggest. Is there anything else? I want to check on Papa and make certain he’s feeling all right.”

  “He’s sleeping now. The doctor just left. He believes it’s merely a case of ague, and sleep is best for a full recovery. He’ll be back to his usual jaunty self in a day or so. I want you to leave your father alone for now. He won’t be saving you from having this discussion about how to fill up your social calendar for the remainder of the season. Let’s get on with it, discuss the topic like the civilized females we are, and see what we can come up with.” Charlotte picked up a pile of invitations from a tray and began to sort through them. Her calendar for the next few months was open and at the ready to pen in the events she chose for her daughter.