Fate's Intervention

by Barbara Woster

  She’d chosen a low-cut turquoise gown that barely contained her well-endowed breasts. The diamond and turquoise pendant that hung around her neck rested lightly between the ample mounds making it impossible for anyone to admire the beautifully set stones without receiving an eyeful of peachy flesh as well. Her maid piled her hair loosely atop her head, leaving tendrils of the chestnut curls to escape down the back and sides, caressing her bare neck.

  Both men were swallowing hard and the girls were staring down dejectedly at their own meager offerings, barely visible above the lace of their own less flattering gowns.

  “Good evening, Father,” she said, her eyes glittering full of mischief. She walked over and placed a light kiss on his cheek. Peter nodded and cleared his throat, afraid to open his mouth and speak for fear that laughter would escape instead.

  “Mr. Blackwarth,” she cooed, moving forward with her hand extended. Peter noticed with a wry grin that when Charles grasped her hand and brought it to his lips that his eyes were bulging out of their sockets. It was as if the man had never encountered the bosom of a lady before. “How very delightful to see you again,” she continued. “It’s been so long since you’ve graced our home with your presence.”

  Peter rolled his eyes, but continued his silence.

  “Mr. Stanharbor,” she said, moving away from an obviously disappointed Charles, “I admit that I didn’t expect to see you again so soon after our falling out, but you are a dear man if you can put aside our differences and call on my father as you have.”

  “Yes, well,” Stanharbor muttered, his face flushed and his eyes flitting nervously around the room, “As you say, child.”

  Marcelle knew he wouldn’t look at her breasts when she was watching him. Not after she’d convinced him that she was a danger to those who overindulged their gazes on her body. It took a great deal of control not to laugh, but she had plenty of practice setting people on their toes.

  Her father, however, was having a good deal of difficulty controlling his mirth. He clasped his hand to his mouth and lowered his head, but couldn’t stop his shoulders shaking spasmodically. To anyone else, it looked as if he was having a coughing fit, but Marcelle knew better.

  “Would you like some water, Father?” She asked solicitously, but wasn’t surprised when he shook his head. Marcelle smiled and turned her attention to the two girls sitting on the sofa. Elizabeth’s posture appeared as if someone had replaced her spine with a metal rod and her gaze was shooting daggers at Marcelle. Carol Ann smiled at Marcelle, but Marcelle’s mode of dress left her speechless and a little more than disappointed in her own lack-luster attire, if her fallen countenance was any indication.

  “What a delight to see you two young ladies again. Would you like some milk before dinner?” Marcelle couldn’t be certain, but she thought she heard one of them issue a growl low in her throat. No doubt, it came from Elizabeth, she thought. Carol Ann wasn’t the growling kind. In fact, it appeared that the insult hadn’t affected Carol Ann at all.

  “Sherry, if you have some,” Elizabeth said, nearly snarling the request. Adding injury to the previous insult, Marcelle glanced toward their fathers. “Is it all right for them to partake of something as strong as sherry?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Stanharbor said uninterestedly.

  “Very well, and what would you gentleman like to drink?” She asked politely.

  “Bourbon,” Charles answered.

  “The same,” Stanharbor said.

  “And you father, would you like a glass of port?”

  “No, dearest,” he said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, “I’ll have bourbon as well.”

  Marcelle moved toward the liquor cabinet just as a knock resounded throughout the room.

  “That will be Mark Daragh, I believe,” Peter said, standing to answer the door personally. His mirth faded and he glanced over at his daughter, suddenly concerned that her mode of dress may cause an unneeded and unwise distraction. He knew why she’d dressed so provocatively, but he didn’t really think that the younger Daragh would make an appearance this evening, and she wanted to get even with the snobs that had the audacity to show their faces in their home, simply because a Daragh was residing there.

  Marcelle’s heart rate increased and she winced nervously. She hadn’t really expected Mark to get over his anger in time for supper. Now, thanks to her mode of attire, he would probably notice very little of the other two girls. She thought she could have a little fun this evening and then mention Elizabeth and Carol Ann to Mark on the morrow, when he’d recovered from his brother’s insult. Even suggest he pay the two young ladies a call, but it wasn’t working out the way she’d hoped, or planned.

  She moved further into the shadows, hoping he wouldn’t take notice of her, but when he moved into the room and his eyes fell on her, she knew that she would have a hard time convincing him that Elizabeth or Carol Ann would make a much better candidate for his attentions.

  “Miss Weatherman,” he purred sweetly after greeting her father, “what a breathtaking sight you are to these tired eyes.” He clasped her hand and kissed it lightly, his eyes feasting on the creamy flesh showing above the cut of her gown. “And may I inquire as to where you purchased such a lovely bauble?” His hand reached out and lifted the necklace from its resting place, his fingers deliberately caressing her skin.

  Marcelle flinched visibly. “It was my mother’s,” she said, prying it from his fingers. “Would you care for a drink before dinner, sir?” She asked formally.

  “What is everyone else having?”

  “Bourbon.”

  “Sounds delightful. I’ll have the same,” he said and then turned his attention toward the other guests in the room – none of whom seemed pleased with him now. The looks of anger disappeared seconds later when he deigned to give them his full attention.

  “How do you do, sir?” He said, approaching Stanharbor. “My name is Mark Daragh, and who might you be?”

  “My name is Clifford Stanharbor, and this is my daughter, Elizabeth.” Stanharbor shook the proffered hand and then motioned to his daughter. Mark turned his attention toward the two ladies seated on the couch and sized them up instantaneously. The young lady introduced as Elizabeth, appeared much older than her apparent years, and would probably provide him decent sport while he was in town. He’d have to call on her tomorrow.

  The other seemed younger and too easily addlepated, but she also seemed eager to please. Yes, he’d have to call on her as well. His gaze lifted to meet Marcelle’s gaze. Now there was a woman that could heat his blood. Too bad the other two didn’t have her full figure.

  He wondered whether his brother had managed to bypass her cold exterior and get a taste of that succulent flesh. He most certainly wanted to, but she didn’t seem to care for him particularly. He wondered if she was still pure like the other two girls. Probably not, he thought. Not at her age.

  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir,” Elizabeth cooed, lifting her hand. Mark took the petite appendage and placed his lips on the back, allowing his tongue to flick out and tickle the skin ever so slightly. He looked up and saw her eyes widen, and a delightful blush tint her cheeks. She smiled shyly and lowered her eyes, but when she lifted them a moment later, he saw a definite invitation in their depths.

  Mmm, he thought, a willing virgin. He winked at her and then turned toward Carol Ann, who looked as if she was about to keel over from embarrassment. He lifted her hand and placed a light kiss on it as well, but kept his tongue in his mouth. If he read her correctly, any overt display on his part and she’d probably collapse in a heap at his feet. He’d have to woo her a little more than the other, but something told him the chase would be worth the reward when he finally got her in his bed.

  Marcelle passed around the drinks and rolled her eyes when Mark deliberately caressed her fingers while accepting his. She was glad to see him seated between Elizabeth and Carol Ann, obviously pleased to be receiving the adoring atten
tion. It appeared to her that his taste varied widely enough that she needn’t be overly concerned that he would monopolize her time.

  When Nancy called them into dinner, Mark raised his elbows to escort Elizabeth and Carol Ann in to the dining room. The men motioned for Marcelle to precede them from the room, but her father pulled her up short, “We’ll be along in a moment,” he said, and practically slammed the door in their faces.

  “They’re not here for Matthew,” he said immediately. “They’ve already got their sights set on Mark. They knew about him before they got here tonight.”

  “Ah, the gossip train worked quickly. So much for our theories.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you something – that man worries me.”

  “I knew he annoyed you, but what are you worried about?”

  “First, when you showed up dressed in this, I wasn’t concerned . . . ,”

  “. . . because you didn’t think he’d show for dinner,” Marcelle said, completing her father’s thought. “Same here.”

  “However, he did, and the way he was drooling all over you . . . ,”

  “. . . had me worried as well, I must confess.”

  “Then . . . ,”

  “. . . he turned his attentions toward Elizabeth and Carol Ann. . . ,”

  “. . . and you seem to fade from his memory for a moment. Truth be told, I didn’t think the other two stood a chance at snaring him, but it would appear that the man will take women wherever he can get them.”

  Something in his tone caused Marcelle to pause, “I noticed that as well, but why would that concern you overly much? After all, if his focus shifts away from me, even momentarily, I’ll be extremely relieved.”

  “The problem is, Marcelle, it won’t stay diverted. He’s only increased his potential targets to three instead of one.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you, Father.”

  “When that man leaves, I fear there will be two less virgins in Riverton and two new broken hearts, and as determined as he appears to be to win your affections, I worry he may try and increase his list of conquests to include you as well.”

  “Surely you don’t think he’d be that crass.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Shouldn’t we tell Charles and Clifford about your suspicions?”

  “My observations aren’t proof positive, dear. Besides, right now, his money and societal standing appear to have blinded our guests, and they wouldn’t believe us. Who knows? He may not have to take their daughters’ virginities secretly. As eager as their fathers are for one of them to wed Mark, they may offer those poor girls up themselves on silver platters.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Marcelle rubbed her temples, trying to ward off the ache that threatened to consume her entire head. She closed the front door and glanced at the mantle clock – one in the morning. Good Lord! She should have been in bed hours ago, but father’s illness made it necessary for her to continue to entertain the guests so that he could retire early.

  The men, minus her father, had retired to her father’s study after dinner to drink more bourbon and discuss whatever men discuss, which forced her to endure hours of whiny banter between Elizabeth and Carol Ann who all but ignored her for the duration. In all fairness to Carol Ann, she’d attempted to draw Marcelle into the conversation, but Elizabeth continually warded off every attempt. Marcelle smiled at Carol Ann to show her appreciation and then retrieved a book to read.

  She hadn’t really minded so much, preferring to read than force herself into conversation with two girls who found every little thing something to giggle over or complain about. By eleven, she was so absorbed in her book that she’d all but tuned out their annoying dialogue.

  As the hour crept closer to one, however, she found it more difficult to keep her heavy eyelids from drooping. A quick glance at Elizabeth and Carol Ann told her they were having the same problem, so when she heard the men’s voices in the foyer, she eagerly tossed her book aside and leapt from her chair with alacrity.

  Now, the guests were gone and a quick glance around told her that Mark had apparently retired while she was seeing them off. Good, she thought. She retrieved the book she’d cast aside from the parlor and headed for her father’s study to return it to the shelf. The hours she’d sat to entertain presented her the opportunity to finish, and she was eager to being another book.

  Using the light that filtered in from the foyer and feeling along the bookshelf, she found the empty space and slid the book back in place, and then ran her fingers along the leather-bound spines of the others tucked there, silently reading off the titles in her mind. She couldn’t see the wording in the dim light, but she’d read them all at least five times and the location of each one was as familiar to her as the scent of leather and oil that permeated the area near the shelving. She’d just finished rereading Jane Austin’s Sense and Sensibility, so was in the mood to reread Pride and Prejudice. She stopped when she was certain she’d reached the preferred volume and slid it from its place.

  The light from the foyer suddenly vanished with the sound of a door closing.

  Marcelle jumped, startled. She dropped the book, but didn’t readily retrieve it in her confusion. How had it happened? It had certainly never done that before. She shut her eyes against the blackness and took several calming breaths. The dark wasn’t her favorite place to be. When she opened them again, she allowed herself a moment to adjust to the near blackness, and then slowly maneuvered along the wall toward the draperies. It was a closer walk than the door or attempting to locate the wall sconce. In her mind, she reasoned that if she could pull open the drapes and allow the moonlight to filter in, she’d have a better chance of making it across a darkened room to the study door without panicking.

  Lord, but she hated the dark. Her father had taught her since she was a child, that nothing good ever happened after dark. She believed him. She believed him so much, in fact, that she refused to go outside once the sun set unless he escorted her.

  Her hand reached for the drapery, but another noise reached her hearing halting her in mid-reach. She strained toward the sound, craning her head, trying to locate the source, but nothing else sounded in the growing silence, except the loud pounding of her heart.

  She turned again and reached up. Grabbing a handful of the heavy material, she pulled it open with a viciousness that would have startled an observer. She breathed deeply as the moonlight penetrated the darkness, and then laid a hand on her breastbone and felt the rapid beating of her heart. She closed her eyes and laid her forehead against the cool pane of glass, thankful that the fearful moment had passed.

  “Had I known you were so afraid of the dark,” a voice whispered close to her ear, and she gasped, “I would not have closed the door on you. I could hear your gasping breath from across the room.”

  Marcelle’s breathing increased again and she dared not move. If she turned now, she would find herself in Mark’s embrace and she didn’t want to be there.

  “Mmm, you are so beautiful,” he murmured, his hot breath caressing her neck.

  “And you smell drunk,” she said haughtily.

  “I probably am,” he admitted, “but not so drunk that I can’t enjoy your womanly charms.”

  “All you’re going to receive is my wrath if you don’t step away from me this instant,” Marcelle said, more courageously than she felt as he pressed his body closer to her. His hands, spread on either side of her waist, effectively pinned her to the French door.

  “Don’t tell me, my lovely,” he whispered, placing a kiss on her bare shoulder and grinding his arousal against her skirt, “that at your age, you’ve never known the pleasure of a man.”

  “What I have or have not done,” Marcelle snapped, trying to move closer to the glass, “is of no concern to you. Now move away from me or you will rue the day you walked into my house!”

  He stiffened slightly and she felt him move back a little. She sighed in relief, but that relief was short-lived. A moment later
, he yanked her about and into the very embrace she so wanted to avoid. He grasped her upper arms in a vice grip that belied his slender frame, “you tempt a man to distraction with those enormous breasts of yours and then when he wants to collect on the promise they offer, you turn him away? You are a tease, aren’t you? Tell me, Marcelle, did you turn my brother away, or did you willingly lift up your skirts for him? No matter. If you want to tease a man, I’ll show you what you get for it.”

  Without allowing a response, he brought his mouth crashing down on hers. Marcelle struggled and tried to pry her mouth away, but he pressed her head against the glass and gripped both sides with his hands.

  Memories of another kiss flitted through her mind. Matthew had accused her of teasing him and had responded in much the same way, but she had teased him and welcomed his response. She’d never knowingly tempted Mark thus far from deserved – or desired – his attentions.

  If he continued this bruising kiss for too much longer, she grimaced, her lips would start to bleed. She had to do something! Her hands were useless, pinioned between their two bodies, but her feet were unobstructed. An idea blossomed in her head and she only hoped she could exert enough power to make him release her.

  She lifted her slippered foot and brought the heel crashing down on his stockinged toes. He yelped, releasing her to grab at his foot. So ludicrous was the sight of him hopping around with his injured foot in his hand that Marcelle stood gaping at him and almost missed the opportunity to flee. She mentally shook herself, then sidled past him and made a dash for the door. She thought she was going to make it, but Mark dove at her and grabbed her ankle, sending her flying headlong onto the Oriental carpet. Marcelle’s scream was short lived when her head collided painfully with the floor.