by Becky Lower
Harry smiled as the pirate lunged and retreated, turning and twirling his blade, as if this was some kind of dance. Harry shook his head at the foolishness. Then he dropped the sword and, in a swift action, removed his gun from its holster and shot the pirate.
Between eye and patch.
With no small amount of trepidation, Rosemary climbed the stairs to Henry’s office the following day. She had her next novel ready to show him, and she was as nervous about the upcoming meeting as she had been the first day she’d come to this office, posing as Phoebe Wyatt. She hadn’t been Phoebe in over a month, but Henry still didn’t truly know who she was yet. Today was the day. The book she was about to deliver was the last one she had a contract for, and being not at all certain how the meeting would go, her stomach was doing flip-flops.
Even though he’d offered to include F.P. Elliott in his new magazine endeavor, he didn’t realize he would be including her in it. Rosemary’s grandiose idea for a tale about the gold and silver fields in Colorado or Utah may never see the light of day. Or the pirate who sailed the high seas and resembled Henry himself. She reached the landing on the second floor and took a moment to control the hitch in her breathing. Then she straightened her pink satin skirt, walked down the hall and knocked lightly on the office door before she let herself in.
Marguerite was in the room with Henry. Their heads were bowed over a huge ledger, and Henry was running his finger down a row of numbers as they talked in low voices. Both glanced up when Rosemary entered, and their smiles matched each other’s. They might be as different in appearance as night is from day, but from the way they smiled, she could tell they were related.
“Hello, Miss Fitzpatrick.” Henry walked to her side and lifted her hand to kiss her fingers.
“Hello, Mr. Cooper, Marguerite,” Rosemary replied, a bit flustered. She had expected to find Henry alone. She had serious matters to discuss.
As if reading her mind, Marguerite stood and closed the ledger before she picked it up. “I’ll take these financial records to my office so I can study them further and leave the two of you alone to talk business.”
She quickly departed to the next room, discreetly closing the door, leaving Rosemary and Henry standing close together. Rosemary’s tongue darted out, and she moistened her lips before she began the speech she’d been rehearsing all morning.
“I’ve brought the last book in the series to you today. F.P. finally finished it.”
Henry took the manuscript folder from her eagerly. “Excellent. I can’t wait to read it. How is Uncle Frank, anyway?”
Rosemary reached out to still his hand from opening the folder. “Before you read the story, there’s something I must tell you.”
He raised his eyes to her. “Yes? What is it, Miss Fitzpatrick?”
Rosemary took a deep breath. “I’ve been hiding a very large secret from you. And before you bought the company, I’d been hiding it from Mr. Page. There is no Uncle Frank. I am the author of all the novels over the past four years. I am F.P. Elliott. And, before you say anything, I want you to remember that row of numbers you were just perusing with Marguerite. F.P. Elliott’s books make up a considerable portion of your company’s profits.”
Henry stared at her, and his shoulders moved under his shirt. He said not a word.
Rosemary hastened on, filling the awkward silence. “I know that doesn’t excuse the lie I’ve been perpetuating the entire time I’ve known you, and I wouldn’t blame you at all if you don’t extend a new contract to me. But, don’t you see, I had to know first what kind of man you were before I could reveal myself. Mr. Page never asked. He merely assumed stories about the Wild West, full of guns, Indians, and horses, not to mention wild animals, must have been written by a man.”
Henry made no reply. Quick tears came to Rosemary’s eyes, and she turned away. Perhaps she had misjudged him.
He finally cleared his throat and asked, “What kind of man do you think I am, Rosemary?”
She once again faced him. “I know, now. You’re the kind of man who allows his sister to exercise control over her own life by bringing her to New York instead of keeping her in Boston. But surely you can understand why I needed to keep my true identity a secret until now, don’t you?”
Henry almost smiled. “The arrival of Marguerite is all it took to get you to admit to me what I’ve known for almost a month?”
It was Rosemary’s turn to stare. “You … you’ve known for a month? Why haven’t you said something?”
He took her hand. “I figured whatever was keeping you from revealing yourself had to be important, so I waited for you to feel comfortable enough to tell me yourself. It was just as important to me for you to be the one to tell me your secret, not me confront you. And I enjoyed peeling off your many layers. You are an extremely complex woman, Miss Fitzpatrick.” He squeezed her hand gently, and pulled her toward him as he set the folder on the desk. One arm encircled her waist while his other hand traced a line down her cheek and jaw as he dipped his head to kiss her. She relaxed in his embrace, inhaling his scent of shaving cream and musk.
“Did anyone ever tell you your family is terrible at keeping secrets?”
Rosemary smiled up at him. Her heart was threatening to jump out of the cage she’d put it in. “They are awful about it, aren’t they?”
“Has your father told you anything about the reason I’ve been visiting him at the bank?” He helped himself to another kiss while she thought.
“No, he hasn’t, other than to say you were there. I assumed it was business.”
“So he can keep some secrets, then. I was worried.” Henry leaned back, still holding her in his arms. “In a manner of speaking, yes, it was a business discussion.” He stole another kiss before he released her and fell to one knee. “Rosemary, it would be my honor if you’d consent to be my wife. I’ve loved you since the moment you walked into my office posing as Phoebe Wyatt, and I love you even more now that you’re Rosemary Fitzpatrick and F.P. Elliott. Your father has given me his blessing, but it’s ultimately up to you. Will you marry me?”
Rosemary stood in stunned silence.
“Say something, please. It’s getting bloody uncomfortable down here.” He smiled up at her.
She reached out her hand to pull him up from his kneeling position and wrapped both arms around him. “Will you extend my contract now that you know I’m the mastermind behind the novels of F.P. Elliott?”
Henry smiled. “I should have guessed you would not have a simple ‘Yes, Henry’ kind of answer. Of course I’ll extend the contract. That goes without saying. I want you to be a vital part of this business. I want our children to someday join our publishing empire. We’ll change the name from Cooper and Son to encompass all our children, regardless of their sex.”
Rosemary undid the strip of leather holding his queue in place and ran her fingers through his hair as she pulled his face to hers and kissed him. “Good, because I’ve been in love with you from almost the first moment I met you, as well. Now that I know your stand on women in the workplace, my love is even stronger. I want myself, and all our children, to be part of your new magazine. Yes, Henry, I’ll marry you.”
At the moment, she didn’t want to think about anything other than how soft his lips were. She tried to ignore the sharp pain that immediately took up residence between her eyes, and let herself lean into his hard body. Her relationship with Henry was right. She could sense it. Yet she couldn’t ignore the feeling something about it was so wrong. She was about to become a weapon in the constant battle of wills between Henry and his father. She wondered if her relationship with Henry would survive and rise above the fray.
• • •
Henry couldn’t help himself. Now that he’d made his intentions known, and, wonder of wonders, Rosemary had agreed to marry him, he was no longer content with chaste little kisses. As she wove her fingers into his hair, he did the same through hers. Pins scattered to the floor as her curls were released from their
confines. He ran a hand down one glorious dark ringlet that fell to her waist as his lips found hers again. His tongue sought entry, and, as Rosemary moaned softly, he found his opening. He explored her mouth with his tongue, and sucked lightly on hers. Her moan grew a bit louder as he plundered her mouth with a kiss of possession. She swayed in his arms, and he backed her against a corner of the wall. His kisses grew even bolder, and his body pressed up against her. She tore her mouth from his and panted for breath. Her neck, her lovely neck, was open to his touch and he scorched a path down to the neckline of her dress. Her breathing grew more labored, matching his. He was emboldened by her reaction.
His hand traced a path from her cheek down her column of neck and wrapped around a breast. He could feel the peak of desire under his hand as her nipple hardened to a point with his touch. He ran his thumb over it, and Rosemary shuddered in response. “I said I enjoyed peeling your layers, Miss Fitzpatrick. Now, I’d love to peel off your layers of clothing.”
“Henry,” was all she said as she brought his lips back to hers. The acknowledgment of her desire was almost his undoing. For the two months they had known each other, he never had been certain of her feelings. Yes, when he had kissed her before, she hadn’t backed away, but he’d thought she had been playing with him. Now since she’d agreed to marry him, he wanted to lay her over the desk and take her right here, in his office. He had to exercise some control, since his sister was in the next room, but he also needed more of Rosemary. He unbuttoned her dress a bit at a time, eager to expose her breast. Rosemary’s moans intensified as he kissed each exposed inch of skin. He could feel her opening herself to him, not just with her body, but with her heart. He had almost reached his goal of freeing her breast from its confines. Just a few more layers to push away …
The scrape of a chair against the wood floor destroyed the torrid moment. Henry and Rosemary broke apart with a gasp as Marguerite came bustling through the door, waving a telegram. If she noticed their dishevelment, she had the good grace not to say anything. For the moment.
“This just came from Father, Henry. We need to open it together.” Marguerite halted as she came further into the room and glanced from Henry to Rosemary. Perhaps he had been too hasty. A smile lit up her face as their untidy hair and Rosemary’s attempts to pull her blouse back together gave away what she had interrupted. “Do you two have something to tell me?”
Henry ran a hand through his hair, frantically searching the floor for the strap of leather he used to hold his queue in place. He finally gave up, and wrapped an arm around Rosemary’s waist. “Yes, I guess we do. Rosemary has agreed to marry me.”
“So we’ll be sisters? How delightful.” Marguerite came forward and gave Rosemary a hug. “It’s about time Henry settled down, and I’m so thrilled he chose you.”
She handed the envelope to Henry. “I think, then, this telegram will be of concern to all of us.”
Henry ripped open the envelope and scanned its brief contents. His gaze flickered to Rosemary. “Father’s received the letter from Marguerite outlining her plans about staying here.” He then glanced at Marguerite. “He’ll be arriving later today, probably hoping to talk some sense into you.”
“It could be good news, right, Henry? It means Father is taking an interest in the company.”
Henry grimaced. “I do love the way you prefer to see the best of things, Marguerite, but in this case, I don’t think Father’s coming to town to share in the joy that his two children will be working with him.”
Rosemary placed her arm around Henry’s waist. He appreciated having her near, to prop him up when he was going under.
“What do you think will happen?”
“I think he’ll get mad and bellow. Then he’ll put the business up for sale.”
“So it will impact all of us then, just as Marguerite said.”
Henry glanced at Rosemary. “I think you need to tell Marguerite your secret.”
Rosemary stepped out of Henry’s comforting arms, and faced his sister. “Beyond just accepting Henry’s proposal of marriage, there’s another giant reason why your news will affect me. I just told Henry the real F.P. Elliott isn’t my uncle, who locks himself away in a corner of our home and uses me to transact his business. There is no uncle at all. I am F.P. Elliott. Mr. Page never had knowledge of the author’s true identity, nor did Henry, until today.”
Henry took her hand and raised her fingers to his lips. “But you neglected to say I’ve known for nearly a month you wrote those books. If nothing else, your use of the term ‘bosh’ in your everyday speech made me question who the true author was. That, and the constant excuses I received over the whereabouts of the elusive Mr. Elliott. It really wasn’t so hard to figure out.”
“So if your father comes in here and decides to sell the company, in an effort to keep his children in line, you can purchase the company, can’t you? I’m certain my father’s bank would be willing to help you.”
“There’s no guarantee Father would take our offer, especially if he knows who’s behind it. Hence the need for my many conversations with your father. It will have to be done anonymously and could get very tricky. Knowing my father, he’ll probably offer the business to James Lowell up in Boston just to spite me. Your father and I came up with a plan, and our offer has to be not only discreet, but so attractive that my father will not be able to say no.”
Henry ran his hand through his unfettered hair and growled. “Rosemary, I hate to do this to you, but until I can sort out our business problem, I have no right to ask for your hand. I feel I must renege on my offer.”
“No, Henry, you mustn’t.” Marguerite gasped as Rosemary fought back tears. “Even if Father doesn’t agree to sell the company to you, you’re a fine businessman. Any publishing house in New York will hire you.”
“Possibly so, Marguerite, but then what will happen to you? After all, you’re a part of this business as well, and if Father removes us from the company, I’ll need to find you an occupation as well as myself. I can’t just leave you to twist in the wind, since it was my brilliant idea to move you here and face the ire of our father. And Rosemary will need to find a new publisher. There’s so much that can go wrong, and until it all gets sorted out, I think Rosemary and I should put our plans to wed on hold.”
Rosemary took a gulp of air and laid her hand on Henry’s arm. “I don’t care about money, Henry. I’ve been paying my own way for years now and will continue, even if it’s not with this publishing house. I can support both of us until you find another job.”
Henry’s heart swelled at the sight of Rosemary attempting to put on an accommodating face even as her tears spilled over. He lifted her hand from his arm and kissed her fingers.
“You know it’s not that simple, Rosemary. Until I get this sorted out, I can’t hold you to your promise to marry me.”
She turned away. “Of course, Henry. I understand.”
Henry could not abide her tears, and once again, took her into his arms, the scent of patchouli offering little comfort. What should have been one of the most memorable days in her life had just turned into her worst. And, once again, his father could take the blame.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Henry snapped the folder shut that contained Rosemary’s latest effort. Harry Hawk involved in swordplay with a pirate, indeed. Henry ran his hand over his chin. She’d taken the moves he taught her during their fencing lessons and applied them to her book. He had to applaud her efforts. This was her best work to date.
It was time to meet his father at the train station. Even though Marguerite had told Henry her version for his banishment from Boston he wasn’t so sure.
But regardless of the reason, the fact his father had sent a young boy into the vast unknown without another thought was a better measure of the man—and he came up woefully short, in Henry’s opinion. He hoped his father was irritated enough by Henry’s behavior to sell the company. Then Henry could purchase it out from under him, as planned
with Mr. Fitzpatrick, and run it the way he deemed fit. He was ready for this latest skirmish, certain it would put all their previous encounters to shame. “En garde, Father,” he whispered as he tucked Rosemary’s story into his top desk drawer and went to the next room to fetch his sister.
At the station, Henry stood back as Marguerite embraced their father, then he stepped forward and shook his father’s hand. Little was said as they got their father to a hotel, and his room was assigned. When they returned to the publishing house and to Henry’s office, Henry realized his father was ready to explode in anger. Henry already held the advantage, if his father wasn’t able to control himself. By the way his father had struck the match to light his cheroot, he’d given himself away.
He took a long draw on his cigar before he turned his rage to Henry. “Just what do you think you’re trying to pull, son?”
Henry grimaced at the tone in his father’s voice. The man was not open to reason. His mind was already made up. What was the purpose in trying to be civil? Prêt. He inhaled the scent of tobacco, which usually calmed him, but now he found offensive. Perhaps it was the man smoking, and not the cigar, he found offensive. Allez.
“Please sit, Father and Marguerite. There’s no reason we can’t discuss this as the mature adults I hope we are. What I’m trying to pull, as you call it, is to employ the best people possible and bring the company into this decade. Mr. Page had antiquated methods for his accounting, and I need a sharp mind with a head for figures to straighten things out and implement newer, more streamlined ways to handle the business side. Marguerite is the perfect choice.”
Henry sat still while waiting for his father’s next move, even though his muscles were jumping under his clothing. He locked eyes with his father and was surprised to see his father blink first. Maxwell Cooper slid his glance to his daughter.
“Marguerite needs to forget this foolishness, come home, and behave as the proper lady she is. Arthur Putnam came calling a few days ago. He has decided to ask for Marguerite’s hand, after all this time.” His father moved and took his daughter’s hand. “I guess your absence has made him realize he is in love with you. He is a good friend and a fellow Brahmin.”
