by Joanna Shupe
“She is merely nervous,” her mother rushed to say. “Young girls are quite excitable now and then.”
A strange light came into Van Peet’s eyes, one Christina did not understand but disliked all the same. “Well, do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Christina licked her dry lips and tried not to shrink in her seat. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Van Peet.”
“That’s better,” Van Peet said, his lip curling. “And I have just the idea on how you shall make it up to me.”
The hairs on the back of Christina’s neck stood up. “How?”
“Return tomorrow afternoon for another call. Without your mother.” He stood and lumbered to the bellpull.
“Of course,” her mother said eagerly, not giving Christina a chance to refuse. “I am certain she’d be delighted to pay another call.”
“Then you are dismissed. Let the maid come and clean up this mess.”
A knock sounded on Christina’s door that night. She had skipped dinner, preferring to stay in her room instead. Her arm still hurt from where her mother had pinched it on the carriage ride home, after telling Christina what a fool she was for not embracing this opportunity.
Embracing. This opportunity.
The idea of embracing a marriage to Van Peet sickened Christina. She’d rather throw herself in front of a streetcar. If it had not been dark upon their return she would have left to walk the city streets. Or perhaps visit Oliver’s gardens. Instead she had been forced to hide in her room and wallow in her misery.
She opened the door to find Patricia standing there. Her cousin was resplendent in a mauve silk evening gown, the scoop neck trimmed with lace and fringe. Christina felt downright dowdy in comparison, her own simple dress over two years old and already out of fashion. “Hello.”
“May I come in?”
“Please.” She stepped back and her cousin breezed inside.
Patricia searched Christina’s face as she shut the door. “You were not at dinner, so I wanted to check on you. Is everything all right?”
Christina was touched. In the past three weeks, she and her American cousin had grown close. Even though she had many friends, Patricia was always kind to Christina. “I am fine. Merely a small headache, is all.”
Her cousin shook her head. “You are a terrible liar. Tell me everything, Tina.”
A smile tugged at Christina’s mouth. Patricia was the only person who used this familiar, shortened version of Christina’s name. This is your cousin, your family. Perhaps she will understand. Perhaps you finally have a friend in whom to confide. “I’ve had an awful day.”
“I heard you went to pay a call on Mr. Van Peet.” Patricia’s brow furrowed and she moved toward the bed. “Though I cannot imagine why.”
The truth burned on Christina’s tongue, but she was unable to push the words out. They were too humiliating, too unbelievable, and she did not want her cousin to feel sorry for her. “My mother thinks the connection may serve us well here.”
Patricia dropped onto the mattress and rolled her eyes. “I’ve no idea how. No one is able to stand him.” She pointed at the untouched strawberry tart on Christina’s dinner tray. “May I?”
“Of course.” Christina had lost her appetite since leaving Van Peet’s house.
Patricia took a large bite of tart. “Anyway, Van Peet is the nastiest, most vile man in New York. His last wife died under suspicious circumstances. Fell down the stairs they said, but no one believed it. She had lost two babies in a very short period of time.”
Christina’s throat closed and dark spots danced before her eyes. Oh, no. Suspicious circumstances? She wobbled, then reached out to steady herself on one of the bedframe posts.
“Tina!” Patricia came alongside and swept a gentle hand over Christina’s back. “Breathe, cousin. Breathe.”
Christina dragged in a ragged breath, her lungs finally filling. “Oh, God.”
“What is it? What did I say?”
“My parents wish for me to marry him.”
“Your parents want you to marry that . . . ? Him? No, your parents would not be so cruel.”
Straightening, Christina made her way to a chair and sat. “My mother said she was doing me a favor. That Van Peet will soon be dead and I’ll have all that money to myself.”
Patricia’s jaw fell open, horror in her gaze. “A favor? Goodness, he could live for years. And there’s no guarantee you would get all his money upon his death—provided you outlive him.”
That prospect sent a bolt of fear down Christina’s spine. “What am I going to do? My parents need the money. I cannot disobey them.”
Patricia came over and knelt on the floor by Christina’s chair, then wrapped her arms around Christina. “Tina, I am so, so sorry. I hadn’t any idea this was going on. I have been occupied with Felton and my own happiness and I never stopped to wonder about yours. Forgive me, please.”
They’d only known one another for three weeks, so how could anyone blame Patricia? Christina sought to reassure her. “No need for apologies. I did not want to burden you—and there is nothing to be done for it.”
“You are never a burden. Friends share their problems. Friends also rescue one another. I will not allow you to marry that man, no matter the reason.”
Christina never had a friend before. Now, in the span of a few days, she had two. It felt nice. Strange, but nice. “I cannot see a way around it. My parents are destitute. If I do not find a wealthy husband, my father will end up losing everything.”
Patricia straightened and began pacing. With her back straight and snapping blue eyes, she was a warrior preparing for battle. “It all makes sense now. Why your parents arrived unexpectedly in New York, why you never debuted in London . . . and why your mother hovers over you like a hawk.”
And I am the mouse. Did that not just perfectly sum her up?
Patricia stopped and crossed her arms over her chest. “The way I see it, we merely need to find you someone else. New York is brimming with wealthy men. Locate one and your problem is solved.”
“You say that as if it is easily done.” Christina hadn’t any current suitors; she had barely interacted with any of the young men of New York society.
“It is not impossible. You are lovely and charming. From a good family, albeit a bit misguided. Your lack of wealth won’t matter here.”
“There is no time!” Christina blurted. “I am to pay a call to Van Peet again tomorrow . . . alone.”
“Alone?” Patricia’s mouth fell open. “Your mother agreed to an unchaperoned visit? What if he . . .” She snapped her jaw shut. “No, he would not dare. Van Peet shall act gentlemanly, I am certain of it. At least until the vows are recited.”
“Oh, Lord. You are not helping, Patricia.”
“We need a plan. Is there any other man you met here, anyone at all?”
A vision of Oliver popped into Christina’s mind. He had touched her sweetly, so tenderly, the first man to ever do so. If only . . .
“There is someone! I am able to tell by that expression.” Patricia pointed at Christina’s face.
Christina held up her palms to quell her cousin’s enthusiasm. “I do but he would never marry me. We hardly know one another.”
“Am I familiar with this man?” When Christina hesitated, Patricia pushed. “Come now, I have told you my secrets about Mr. Felton. You may trust me. We are family.”
A smile tugged at Christina’s mouth. Her cousin’s generous nature and kindness were impossible to refuse. And really, how could she when Patricia had gone out of her way to help Christina at every turn? “Mr. Hawkes, your neighbor.”
Patricia’s brows shot up. “You have met the reclusive Mr. Hawkes? I am . . . I do not know what to say. I want to know everything. You must tell me all the details!”
“There is not much to say,” Christina said. “I have taken to strolling his gardens each morning and have encountered him a few times.” No need to mention her injury or what a fool she had made of
herself. “He is quite nice.”
“You are amazing. I cannot believe you have been withholding this information from me.”
“It hardly seemed worth sharing.”
“Liar. And you never know about marriage, Tina. Some men merely need a gentle push in the right direction.”
This is my house and I prefer to be left alone. Her stomach sank recalling Oliver’s words. “This man cannot be pushed. No, we must come up with another alternative.”
“If you are certain he won’t do, then we must find another way out of this. I shall help you think of something, I promise.” She patted Christina’s back. “You will not marry anyone unsuitable.”
Chapter Four
Early the next morning, Oliver stood at the greenhouse windows instead of concentrating on his work.
He felt ridiculous. There were many more important things to do than to keep watch for her, so why could he not move? It was as if his feet were rooted here, bolted to the floor.
He did not care for how their last meeting ended—and the fault was entirely his own. He’d touched Christina inappropriately because he had not been able to help himself. Then he had ignored her like a petulant schoolboy until she departed. It seemed the control on which he’d long prided himself vanished in her presence. He had no concentration, no restraint at all when it came to her . . . and he hated it.
So why on earth was he waiting on her at the window?
Because you are scared she may never return after the way you treated her.
And would that be so terrible? He liked the way things were, with the same routine day after day and no one around to bother him, except when Sarah visited. He had no one asking stupid questions about his deafness or shouting at him, thinking the increased volume would somehow get through. No, other than the occasional visit by his idiotic cousin, Oliver had a peaceful, perfect life.
Yet that did not explain why his heart was pounding with anticipation at the moment.
Damn.
He was just about to turn away when she came into view, the same thick hat on her head. Her head was down as she walked, her mouth pulled into a deep frown. Without waiting to see if she would come to him, he opened the door, went outside, and started toward her on the path. Apollo raced forward, tail wagging, and Oliver snapped his fingers and signed for him to sit. The last thing he needed was for the dog to startle Christina again.
Her head came up and she smiled at him. Warmth suffused his entire body, even to the roots of his hair. “Hello,” he signed.
“Hello,” she signed in return. “How are you?”
She’d remembered. “Fine,” he signed. “Come inside.”
She nodded and came toward him. He considered holding out his arm to escort her, but that felt too formal. They were merely friends. He was not looking for a relationship—and certainly not marriage. Those things were not for him.
Better to not encourage her, then.
He was bringing her in to get warm, nothing more.
He gestured for her to lead the way and Apollo bounded along in front of them. The inside of the greenhouse was cozy, with a fresh pot of tea waiting for her. He went to his chair and got to work, twisting copper wire together, leaving her to get settled as she saw fit.
Time stretched as he kept busy. She did not interrupt; instead she sipped tea and read the Mark Twain novel he’d set out. Apollo nestled on the floor by her feet. It was all terribly domestic . . . but he didn’t resent her presence in his space.
Far from it.
Every now and again, he noticed her biting her lip and staring off into the dormant gardens, brow creased in contemplation. When it happened once more, he rapped the counter with his knuckles to attract her attention. “What?” he signed when she glanced over.
“What, what?”
He took out his small ledger and wrote. What is bothering you?
Moisture had gathered in her eyes by the time she finished reading, and he stiffened. Dear God, she was crying. How had he upset her? Talk to me. Please.
She looked up from the ledger. “He wishes me to pay him another call this afternoon. Alone.”
“Who?” He had blurted it, unconcerned about the sound of his voice.
“Van Peet.”
Ah, of course. He remembered their conversation from yesterday. She must have failed in convincing Van Peet to drop his pursuit. What were her parents thinking? He took back the ledger. I cannot believe your parents have agreed to an unchaperoned visit.
They exchanged the pencil. Not only have they agreed, they encouraged it. My mother told me not to complain about anything that may happen, to let Van Peet do as he pleases.
Oliver’s insides went cold reading that, his jaw dropping open. What the hell? Her parents were forcing her to submit to whatever Van Peet had in mind, no matter how depraved. What if the older man raped her? Hurt her? He scratched furiously on the paper. You cannot go.
“I do not have a choice.”
Everyone has a choice. This is your life. What if he injures you?
She bit her lip, looked away, and lifted a shoulder as if to say, so what?
He nearly fell off his stool. Did she not care? Had she given up? If she wanted to marry Van Peet, fine. Oliver would not object. He’d wish her well and go on with his life. But clearly the prospect of the older man as a husband distressed her. So why go along with it?
He would not allow her to stop fighting. He was not foolish enough to believe women, especially young women, were always empowered to make choices for themselves. However, she was not altogether helpless.
Do you know how to fend off an attack by a man?
She frowned after she finished reading, her pretty pink lips turning down at the edges. “As in, hit him?”
Yes, but it is the location of the hit that counts. Has anyone shown you?
When she shook her head, he faced her and planted his feet. Then he beckoned with his hand. “Hit me,” he signed.
She appeared appalled at the request. “No! Why on earth would I do such a thing?”
He reached over to write in the ledger. This is important. I am going to teach you something useful. Now, where would you hit me first?
Understanding dawned in her eyes after reading over his shoulder. Stepping back, she pointed a delicate finger at his face. “There.”
“Wrong,” he signed, also using his voice so he did not need to keep writing. “Guess again.”
“Your stomach?”
“No.”
“Step on your foot?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. God save him from fathers who never bothered to prepare their daughters for the cruelty of men. It was shameful how little women were taught. “No.” He pointed at his crotch. “Here. You hit here.”
Christina’s creamy skin turned crimson. “Oliver!”
He bent over to write. I am not trying to embarrass you, but this is important.
“Striking there”—she closed her eyes and threw out a vague gesture to his middle—“surely would not work.”
Yes, it will, he wrote. Testicles are the most sensitive place on a man.
When she saw the paper, her blush deepened. “Are you certain?”
He could not help it; he laughed. Yes. I am quite certain. A blow to the stones could fell the strongest, biggest man on the planet. It was a pain like none other, a deep hurt inside one’s belly that quickly shifted to debilitating nausea.
“With my hand?” She stared at her hand as if to wonder how that would actually work.
“Your knee,” he signed and said simultaneously.
“Oh.” Understanding dawned but she hardly seemed excited about the prospect, nibbling her lip as she stared the floor.
Taking the paper, he scribbled. Do not hesitate. Get as close as possible and then ram your knee into his groin as hard as you can. Try not to struggle or fight—some men enjoy that even more.
She read over his shoulder, her skirts brushing his legs. The sweet smell of roses and vani
lla stole through him and he drew in a deep breath. He never cared much for perfumes or soaps, but the scent of her made him dizzy. He suddenly longed to turn and take her in his arms, hold her close, and remove all this distress from her life.
He shook himself. She is not yours. She will never be yours. He had to keep reminding himself of that. The girl was here to find a society husband.
Still, the idea of Van Peet and Christina together, the older man fumbling between this woman’s thighs . . . Oliver wanted to punch something every time he pictured it.
A light touch on his shoulder had him turning. Christina gripped her hands together tightly in front of her chest. “Do you think he will try to hurt me?”
He debated his answer carefully. There was no need to scare her unnecessarily, but she deserved honesty. He picked up his pencil. I believe he will attempt something or behave in an inappropriate manner. Why else bring you there alone?
She closed her eyes, as if she’d expected that answer. “I wish I could disappear.”
Her lips barely moved, the words perhaps only a mumble, but he understood perfectly. He would help to hide her, if only he could. You are stronger than you think, he wrote. You will find a way out of this.
“Will you help me practice?”
“Practice?” he asked.
She pointed to her knee and then his groin. His brows shot up. She wanted to practice kneeing him in the balls? Did she believe the deaf were impervious to pain? That is a bad idea, he wrote.
“I won’t hurt you, I promise. I just . . . want to understand how it is done.”
Knee . . . testicles. Honestly it could not be simpler.
The flush on her face deepened and she waved her hand. “Forget I asked. It was silly of me.”
“No, here,” he said and signed. Without stopping to consider what he was doing, he reached for her. “I will show you.” He held tight with both hands on her shoulders, angling his body closer into her space. He could smell her again—vanilla and roses along with something sweet and feminine—and his heart began kicking hard behind his ribs. Her palms landed on his chest, not pushing him away but resting there to touch him. There was such trust in her gaze, a trust he surely did not deserve, and heat wound its way through him, desire snaking along his veins in a slow, steady pulse.
