“Still, I agree with your father-in-law. Mr. Leachman would be an excellent choice for you. He knows the banking business and better yet, he knows you.”
Yes, the problem was, she knew Mossman Leachman, too. All too well. He’d been the banking partner of her father-in-law, Declan Eames, for years. He was almost as old as her father-in-law and as much of a bully. Her brothers might believe their opinions as men outweighed those of a mere woman, but Mr. Leachman struck her as the type who’d be willing to put some muscle behind backing his.
“Have you accepted his proposal yet?” Shane pressed, guiding her back to the ballroom and through the partygoers mulling around the dance floor. Prim watched the dancers whirl by wistfully. Shane possessed a remarkably narrow view of the world. Heaven forbid a widow—all at once marriageable but not permitted to enjoy herself—should partake.
“No, I’ve not accepted his proposal.”
But only because she hadn’t allowed Leachman the opportunity to formally make one. Prim wasn’t looking forward to the backlash that would result from her eventual rejection of his suit. And it would be a rejection, no matter how strongly they all felt.
Any indication or even outright declaration that she didn’t want his suit had been dismissed by her male family members as frivolous. Perhaps some of the blame might have been her own. She hadn’t provided even a token of protest at their last choice. Mature and suave, Fletcher Eames had been one of the most eligible bachelors around when she’d made her debut. Though, eighteen years her senior, he’d dazzled her. A prime catch.
If, as the years of their marriage passed, the gloss of their relationship had dulled to a cloudy sheen, she’d at least been content. With her choice and eventually her life as he came to trust her intellect and opinions in the later years of their marriage.
After he’d passed away, her brothers had taken it upon themselves to “look after her” until she remarried. They considered it their familial duty to make sure the burden she presented—though she was a wealthy and presumably independent widow—was transferred into the hands of a responsible spouse.
One who met their approval, even if not hers.
Shane led her to a quiet alcove to watch the dancing. “It’s been more than a year since Eames died, Prim,” her brother reminded.
“I’m well aware of how long it’s been.”
Not long enough, she thought. That’s how long. Sixteen months was not nearly long enough. Though she didn’t say so aloud.
“If not Mr. Leachman, how about my friend Weston?” Shane suggested. Her clipped responses and stony silence hadn’t deterred him from the topic. “He hasn’t quite the experience in business that Leachman does, but he’s a jolly fellow. And I know you like him.”
Prim rolled her eyes. Yes, she did like Weston Archer, though perhaps not as much as Weston liked her brother. She was surprised he hadn’t noticed after all these years.
“If there isn’t another topic you’d care to expound upon, dear brother, I’ll abandon you for the more congenial company of my home and hearth.”
Shane chuckled as if she were joking, which she was not. His laughter drew the admiring eyes of several ladies nearby. She’d torture him with nagging about his own unwedded state, but Prim didn’t enjoy it as much as he did. Nor did she consider it her place to force him into a commitment he’d be unhappy with. A comparison she’d pointed out several times without success.
The frustration over their blind double standard would have been even worse had her brothers not truly believed they were working in her best interest.
“Prim!”
They turned to find another of her brothers, Dennis, approaching. Though as tall and handsome as Shane, and garnering the same amount of female attention as he passed by, Dennis was thicker in build with blond hair from their late mother. Prim smiled softly and greeted him with a kiss, resisting the urge to ruffle his untamable mane as she did at home. God help her, they might nag like old fisherwomen but she did love her brothers.
“Dennis! When did you get back?”
“Just an hour ago,” he said, sweeping away a lock of his overlong hair with a dramatic flair. “Had to hurry back for a dance with my favorite sister.”
“Since I’m your only sister, I’ll assume that’s me,” she sallied.
“Come then, let me take you for a turn about the floor.”
“That would be wonderful, the conversation has gotten rather stale here.” She arched a brow at Shane, who only notched his up higher.
“I only want to see that you’re taken care of, Prim.”
“Has it ever occurred to you I can take care of myself?”
Dennis joined Shane in open laughter. Heaven help them. And her. They’d never take her seriously. No, that conversation wasn’t done. Nor would it be until she did something about it.
Something to their satisfaction rather than hers.
* * *
It was only from the corner of his eye that James caught that kiss. Straitlaced Mrs. Eames in a secluded corner of the ballroom up on her toes kissing a blond gentleman, too warmly for public viewing in his opinion.
“Mr. MacKintosh? Are you quite all right?”
James looked back down at his partner. “Beg pardon?”
“You missed a step, I believe.” The girl flushed as if embarrassed to be pointing out his faults.
“My apologies, Miss Gould.” Focusing his efforts on the dance, he executed a flourishing turn to make up for his inattention. A giggle escaped the Gould girl.
Aye, that’s all she was. A girl.
“Do you know who Mrs. Eames is partnering with?” The question was made verbal before he even knew he was asking it.
Miss Gould frowned but looked around dutifully. “Are you interested in Mrs. Eames, sir?”
“There’s nothing about Mrs. Eames that interests me.”
Or there hadn’t been. Until out of the tedium of the evening, she’d proven herself quite fascinating.
Clearly, he wasn’t the only one who thought so. The man she’d welcomed so affectionately was laughing now as if she was the most witty woman he’d ever known. James hadn’t yet seen so much as a smirk turn her lips.
Who was he? A friend? Something more?
It would be hypocritical of him to judge. She was a widow. A wealthy one at that. He’d never thought less of Larena for their affair. It would be unfair to think less of Prim Eames for the same.
Except Prim, polite to the point of coldness and usually reserved in conversation to the point of boredom, had never seemed the sort.
Perhaps she had hidden layers.
James snorted derisively. A woman like that? The only layers she had could be counted in petticoats.
Chapter 3
Come, my conservative friend, wipe the dew off your spectacles, and see that the world is moving.
~ Elizabeth Cady Stanton
Two days later
“You’re not ready?”
“Ready for what?” James looked over the top of the financial reports Goelet’s solicitor had sent over that afternoon when Maggie breezed into the room tugging on her long gloves.
“We’re attending that holiday fundraiser at the Metropolitan Museum this evening, remember? They’ve acquired two new paintings by Édouard Manet and are showing them to raise monies for the orphanage.”
“Aye, I recall. I’ll simply write them a banknote, shall I?”
“James, dear...”
“Don’t ‘James dear’ me, madam,” he grumbled, though he still rose to his feet as a gentleman should. “You can turn straight about and go back from whence you came. I refuse to attend another event with you. Do you think I would after the way you left me last time?”
“Don’t be put out with me. I only wanted to provide you opportunity to get to know some of our young ladies better.”
“I know all I could possibly wish to know about them,” he grumbled. “Ravenous wolves.”
“Which ones?” she asked with a smirk
. “The ones in white or a certain feral creature with impossibly red hair? Don’t think I don’t recall you left me alone in my carriage to join Mrs. Braggstead in hers.”
“Mrs. Braggstead did not abandon me to a pack of predatory chits when I specifically asked her not to. In fact, she saved me from them.”
“Seeing as you didn’t join me for breakfast the morning following either, evidently she provided shelter the whole night through.” Her lips twitched a bit. “Not the sort of opportunity I’d had in mind for you to enjoy.”
James forced back the warmth creeping up his cheeks. He hadn’t known Maggie was aware of his occasional affair with the young widow, but he was a man grown and refused to be embarrassed by his clandestine activities.
“Come now,” Maggie continued. “Don’t hold grudges. We must take advantage of the many festivities, balls, and dinners being held this month. After Christmas, most everyone of note will set off for St. Augustine and there will be little to occupy us for the remainder of the winter.”
Personally, James looked forward to the dry spell in her insatiable matchmaking.
“Besides,” she went on, “the company this evening won’t be so young, nor the conversation so frivolous.”
He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because the young lady I plan to introduce you to tonight is Arthur Carlson’s widowed niece visiting from Richmond. She’s considering a move to New York to begin afresh away from sad memories,” she said. “In hopes of encouraging friendships, Mrs. Carlson is seeing to it that a more mature collection of ladies of similar circumstance will be present, as well as gentlemen who might appeal to them all.”
“Gentlemen like me, I assume?” he asked with a grimace. “Thank you but no. As I told you many a time, my ambitions have changed. My experience the other evening only served to solidify my commitment to bachelorhood.”
Maggie sighed, shaking her head. “James, darling, you cannot simply give up!”
“I can and have,” he insisted. “There will be no more putting me up on the auction block like so much meat.”
“Of course not.” She nodded affably. “One hardly ever gets fair value at auction. Even for a charitable cause.”
She left the implication dangling about what, or more specifically, who she thought the charitable cause was.
* * *
“Quite a beautiful work of art, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. MacKintosh?” Sweet femininity laced the words, as if his male opinion counted for far more than hers.
James, however, wasn’t studying the fine oil painting before him. Nor was he considering the equally fine and petite blond clinging to his arm.
No, his eyes had been drawn to Prim Eames as she paced in solitude down the gallery. Her hands clasped behind her back, her gait slow and measured as she gave each painting due consideration. Farther away she strolled, the short train of her dull mauve evening gown twitching from side to side with each step.
He couldn’t quite grasp why he continued to watch her, why his gaze wandered to someone like her...much as his mind had again and again since that evening with the Goulds. Never in his life had James found such a properly behaved woman attractive, much less enticing. He was a man who appreciated outward passion, and the expression thereof arousing. It’s why he’d gotten on so well with Mrs. Ross.
But there was something about Mrs. Eames that drew him. It wasn’t that she’d turned down his invitation to dance or resentment that she’d left him with nothing better to do than dance with all the young debutantes. He wasn’t that contrary.
Nor was it her flair for fashion. Though high in quality if not in style, her bland walking suits and dull ball gowns marked her as the antithesis of a fashion plate.
It certainly wasn’t that she’d captivated him with her beauty. She wasn’t as lovely as the woman by his side—Carlson’s niece Melina Dickson turned out to be quite a fetching piece of art herself—nor was she as striking as the somewhat scandalous Manet painting Déjeuner sur l’Herbe hanging on the wall before him.
Oh, she was packaged pleasantly enough but not beyond the ordinary. He should have been able to glance over her with hardly a pause to blink. Her height neither tall nor petite, her hair a dark brown and wide, doe-like eyes he thought were the same. Her complexion lovely, her bones delicate but for that mulish set of her jaw. Her figure a tidy one with a fair dose of both breast and hip with a nice dip of her waist between, though he’d known and experienced ones far more lush.
Aye, she was pretty enough but hardly his type. He knew exactly what he was looking for and Prim Eames wasn’t it.
No, it was their brief exchange which bemused him. In mere moments, she’d made the monotony of ballroom small talk interesting, shown more cleverness and awareness of the world outside New York society’s staid environs than any other lady he’d yet to come across. That she knew what a Benz was...aye, that flash of intelligence intrigued him.
Beyond her docile demeanor was there more to her than met the eye? Beneath that proper exterior was there something more?
Were there layers beyond the petticoats?
Another couple joined them at the painting and James seized the opportunity to make his escape. “Mrs. Dickson.” He rolled his arm out from his companion’s grasp in a move that was sadly becoming a habit. “Will you excuse me a moment?”
With a studied air of nonchalance, James let his long stride cover the distance between them, even taking a moment to bow and greet another couple along the way. Coming alongside Prim, he waited for an acknowledgment of some sort. She couldn’t possibly have missed his approach or the presence of a man his size so close. Indeed, he was close enough the warm lavender of her scent tickled his nose and he could see strands of gold in her hair made molten from the light of the massive chandeliers above. Still, she made no greeting but merely continued to gaze thoughtfully at the gilded-framed oil painting before them.
“Good evening, Mrs. Eames.”
Her shoulders heaved. Was that a sigh? Of what? Annoyance? Couldn’t be.
“Mr. MacKintosh.” Though she nodded, she barely graced him with a glance.
“Excellent event. They ought to raise plenty of funds for the orphanage.”
“Yes.”
James’s brow tightened and a furrow formed across the bridge of his nose. “Might I get you some refreshment? I saw some bonny late-season strawberries on one of the tables.”
She murmured something under her breath and he bent his head toward her. “Beg pardon?”
“I’m allergic,” she said, only marginally louder.
“Allergic?”
“To strawberries.”
“I see.” James slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers and rocked on his heels. Glancing down at the top of her head, he noted the painfully straight part of her hair, and then looked up at the painting which held her interest so strongly.
She’d proven herself an engaging conversationalist where few others had, endowed with remarkable insight. He’d anticipated another discussion with her would result in the same delight. Yet all he was getting was a cool reception and virtually monosyllabic responses.
He drew a breath. “I understand that beyond Manet’s Impressionist work, he was also once offered the chance to illustrate the French edition of Mr. Poe’s The Raven.”
Her sharp intake of breath and quick peek up at him offered the impression that his comment intrigued her. Her gaze shifted from him, back down the main gallery, and back again. A long exhalation was her only response.
A moment later, she spoke again. “Mr. MacKintosh. I really do not want to be rude, but I have very few moments in my life where I’m utterly alone and they never last long enough or long at all, for that matter. So, it would please me greatly if I could beg your understanding in this instance to allow me to savor the moment.”
In other words, go away.
James gaped at her.
When he didn’t immediately turn away—whe
ther out of shock or obstinacy, he wasn’t certain, as he’d never been so acutely spurned before—she turned her head and looked directly up at him. Her eyes not the bland brown he’d thought them, but an odd blend of gold and a deep hyacinth. Amethyst fire dancing, yes, with annoyance.
“You haven’t children, I know, but do you have siblings, Mr. MacKintosh?”
“Aye, ten of them.”
Her eyes narrowed, a wee wince as if it somehow pained her to hear the number. “Then you’ll understand what I mean.”
James’s fingers curled around the gold locket he always carried with him, stroking the fluted design raised on the front. He might argue that he didn’t understand. He might press her for further conversation, but what was the point? Had he truly thought those modest bodices and lace collars buttoned up to her chin hid something more than just another bland Knickerbocker matron? That a lady passionate with a cause lay beneath her tidy exterior? That intelligence lay simmering just waiting for a challenge?
Clearly he’d been mistaken that there was something more to her. That moment’s conversation about his new Benz had evidently been an anomaly.
All he’d learned was that she lived up to her name.
And she was just the same as the rest, after all.
He’d be damned if he let Maggie rope him into another one of these things. Or even let himself think for a moment that there was something more noteworthy to be discovered among New York’s eligible ladies.
They were all alike. No depth or a layer to be seen.
“Very well, Mrs. Eames, I shall leave you to your savoring.”
* * *
Prim watched Mr. MacKintosh depart with a small pang of regret. For a gentleman to propose any conversational topic beyond the usual niceties, the weather, or gossip was unusual. Certainly at an event like this, one might feel compelled to talk about the art itself, but in an abstract manner. All polite and polished.
A Question Worth Asking Page 3
