by Joanna Shupe
Lizzie jerked as if the words were blows. Blackmailed. Will had . . . blackmailed Emmett into marrying her? By threatening Emmett’s sweet, young half sisters? She pressed a fist to her middle, surprise and shock nearly doubling her over.
He hadn’t wanted to marry me. Will had lied. This was all a lie.
Oh, God. She was such a fool. Will had claimed Emmett wanted to marry her, and Emmett had shown up with the ring, saying this was a real marriage. How could she have believed either of them?
She could not breathe, her corset digging painfully into her ribs. There wasn’t . . . enough air. She put a hand to the wall to keep from falling over.
“You left me no goddamn choice,” Will was saying. “You attacked her in a private dining salon with half of New York society one floor below you.”
Emmett laughed, though the sound came off as cold to Lizzie’s ears. “I attacked her? Is that what you’ve told yourself in order to sleep at night? Your sister practically begged me to kiss her.”
Her mouth fell open in silent horror. Had he truly said . . . To her brother? Humiliation scorched her insides, and bile burned the back of her throat. She had to escape. Pivoting, she had no choice but to return to the ballroom. Where hundreds of people were celebrating a marriage that was a sham. A hoax.
A complete fraud.
The brilliance of the white ballroom nearly blinded her, an atmosphere that had seemed romantic only moments ago. The idea of Emmett’s laboring over every detail, ensuring the day would be perfect for her, had comforted her earlier. Obviously she’d been deluding herself. This had nothing to do with her.
Guests smiled at her as she passed, murmured their congratulations. People she recognized, all familiar faces from the world in which she had lived her entire life. I’ll only marry for love, she’d sworn. Do not marry because you’re forced to, because society expects it.
Failure had never tasted so bitter.
Grabbing a glass of champagne off a passing tray, she downed the sweet bubbly in one swallow. Unfortunately, the bitterness remained. Pressure built behind her eyes, but she fought the tears. No good would come of crying. The deed was done; they were married. She’d wanted the money to open an investment firm, and she had succeeded. Unless . . .
Had Emmett lied about that as well?
No, he hadn’t lied about wanting to marry her, she recalled. I am prepared to marry you, he’d said. Told her he would not go back on his word. It had been Will who had proclaimed that Emmett wanted to marry her, not Emmett. If only she had known of Will’s machinations, the level her brother had lowered himself to, she would have called off the wedding.
Too late, she thought. And New York had the strictest divorce laws in the country. Acquiring one would be impossible. An annulment, however, would be much easier.
And really, why wouldn’t Emmett agree? He hadn’t wanted to marry her. With an annulment, it would be as if the marriage had never taken place. Will certainly couldn’t quibble over that. She would save her reputation, and Emmett’s sisters would be protected. An annulment meant they could both walk away, forgetting the whole thing.
Resolved, she straightened her shoulders. Yes, an annulment was the answer. But would he still back her investment firm? He’d promised, but all would be lost if he reneged. She’d be right back where she had started.
“Lizzie!” Edith Rutlidge arrived with two other girls at her side. “There you are. Come, we want to show your dress to Lucinda Van Cortland. She’s marrying an English duke in the fall, and I told her that your dress had considerable dash, and she had to see it up close.”
Lizzie nodded woodenly as another waiter passed by with a tray of champagne. She stopped him, ready to swap out her empty glass for a fresh one, but the waiter started to pull the tray out of her reach. She was quicker, however, and had a full glass before he could get away. Was there some unwritten rule about how much champagne a bride could imbibe on her wedding day?
If so, Lizzie planned to break that particular one.
* * *
“I know you’re cold, Mrs. Cavanaugh, but please, try and remain still,” her maid said, tediously unfastening the long row of buttons on Lizzie’s wedding gown.
Lizzie was having trouble remaining still, but the reason had nothing to do with her temperature. She was drunk, so drunk that the remaining time at the reception had proved bearable. She’d been able to smile and laugh, as any bride should on her wedding day, despite the hurt and anger inside her chest.
And when her husband had cornered her with instructions to change for their journey, she’d managed to nod instead of shouting at him like a Bowery hot corn girl.
“There,” Pauline said. “Let’s get it off, then.”
“Are you accompanying me on the honeymoon?” she asked her maid as they worked the luxurious gown over Lizzie’s head.
“I am, ma’am. Your husband asked me himself. Newport will be mighty cold this time of year.”
Newport? Strange that he’d informed Pauline of their plans, but not Lizzie. Didn’t he even care to consult with her, to ascertain her wishes on their honeymoon?
But then, why would he, when he’d never wanted to marry her in the first place?
Once she was dressed in a smart traveling ensemble there was no reason to stay behind. Still, she dawdled. “Did you pack the blue gown, the one with the—”
The adjoining door burst open, and her husband strode in. He’d changed into a striped dark blue coat and matching trousers. Lizzie blinked, struck by his handsomeness. Then she remembered his words from the hall: Your sister practically begged me to kiss her.
All the loathing and fury she’d been suppressing rose to the surface, causing her to snap, “Don’t you knock?”
Calm as could be, Emmett turned to Pauline. “That will be all. Go and ready yourself for the journey.”
“Of course, Mr. Cavanaugh.” With a curtsy, she hurried from the room.
Lizzie ignored him, instead busying herself with putting on her gloves. It proved a difficult task, considering the champagne in her system.
Heavy footfalls signaled his approach, and then the tips of his black shoes appeared in her vision. He took her wrist, and long fingers began to slide the tiny pearl buttons of her glove through the matching holes. Her breath picked up, his nearness surrounding her, causing her head to swim. He was gentle, treating her as if she were fragile and precious. She wasn’t fooled. This was still the crude man from the hall who’d discussed bedding her with her brother.
When he finished with both gloves, a large hand lifted her chin. His eyes were hard, glittering with an emotion she couldn’t decipher. “I never need knock, wife. You’ll do well to remember that.”
Champagne and heartache made her brave. She jerked away from his touch. “I am not one of your actresses. I’m your wife, and if you confuse the two, I’ll do more than lock my door.”
His lips twisted in amusement, lines bracketing the sides of his mouth. “If you think I could ever confuse you for one of those women, you’re drunker than I thought.”
“I am not drunk,” she snapped. “And it wasn’t as if you were abstaining at the reception. I saw you down more than one glass of gin.”
“Watching me, were you?”
She gritted her teeth. “Hardly. I think we both know where this ridiculous marriage stands.”
Fury flashed before he could hide it. But the satisfaction didn’t last because his cool, impenetrable mask soon slipped back into place. “Let’s go.” He stalked to the door and yanked it open. “The train’s waiting.”
They descended the pink marble staircase in silence. The guests were still enjoying the reception, the revelry of the ballroom a dull hum throughout the giant house. What was Emmett’s hurry to leave? Not that Lizzie minded. She’d had enough of pretending to be a blushing bride. Moreover, the sooner they arrived in Newport, the sooner she could discuss the annulment with him.
When they reached the front entry, Katie, Claire, and Brenda
n stood at the door, while Graham, the butler, waited with their coats. The girls looked nervous, their fingers twisting in the ribbons on their fancy dresses made especially for the wedding. Brendan leaned down and whispered something to them. Katie stepped forward first and gave a proper curtsy. “Welcome to the family, Elizabeth.”
Claire glanced up at Brendan, who nodded. Emmett’s littlest sister also curtsied. “We are glad you married our brother,” she said in careful, measured words. Brendan had obviously been coaching them.
Lizzie’s throat closed, her heart melting. No matter how she felt about the eldest Cavanaugh, she could not resist these two adorable girls. She went to hug Katie. “Thank you, Katie. I hope we’ll become good friends.” Then she hugged Claire. “Thank you, my dear.”
“May I touch your collar?” Claire asked.
“Of course,” Lizzie answered, and the girl ran her small hand over the fur on Lizzie’s jacket lapel.
“It’s so soft,” Claire marveled. “I have a coat that feels just like that. Emmett bought it for me.”
Emmett stepped forward. “That’s enough. Give Elizabeth room to breathe,” he said gently. “Girls, come here.” He drew his half sisters aside and dropped to one knee. He held their hands and spoke softly to them, too low for Lizzie to overhear.
They nodded and smiled, and he hugged them both, wrapping his big arms around their tiny bodies.
“He does that every time he travels,” Brendan said quietly at her side. “He reassures them that, no matter what, he’ll always come back.”
She didn’t want to care, but curiosity won out. “Why?”
“Because everyone’s always left him.”
While she struggled with that revelation, Brendan took her coat from Graham and held it out for her. Lizzie slid her arms inside, and he drew the garment over her shoulders. “Give him a chance,” Brendan murmured. “He’s not nearly as hard as people assume him to be.”
A host of comments came to mind, mostly all the reasons she did not want to give Emmett a chance. Brendan seemed to sense her reticence, so he leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Welcome to the family, Elizabeth.”
“Please,” she told him, “call me Lizzie.” She liked Brendan. He’d been perfectly polite and charming since she’d met him at the reception today. Decidedly different from the dark and brooding man she’d married.
Brendan grinned. “All right, Lizzie.”
Emmett slid into his heavy woolen coat and then offered his arm to Lizzie. “Shall we, Mrs. Cavanaugh?”
The name shocked her, as it had each time she’d heard it since the wedding. Thankfully, she would not be Mrs. Cavanaugh for long.
Chapter Nine
Husband and wife should remember that they have taken each other “for better or for worse.”
—American Etiquette and Rules of Politeness, 1883
Elizabeth was certainly doing a damn fine job of pretending he didn’t exist, Emmett thought as they waited in his private Pullman car. Was his new wife planning to ignore him for the entire journey to Rhode Island, or merely the beginning?
He tried not to stare at her trim waist or lush curves. Tried and failed. Her traveling costume hugged her frame, and the vision left Emmett simmering in anticipation. He hadn’t looked forward to the wedding, but the wedding night had definitely inspired some creative fantasies over the past weeks.
“Drink?” he asked her, standing at the small bar positioned at one end of the car.
“Yes, please,” she said, continuing her pattern of one-and two-word answers since leaving the house.
He poured a glass of water and brought it to where she sat, her posture perfectly rigid. “Thank you,” she said, and took the glass from his hand. Their fingers, now both gloveless, brushed, and the slight contact made him edgy. Christ, how he desired this woman.
“Water?” she remarked coolly.
Cradling a crystal goblet full of wine in his hand, Emmett lowered himself down next to her. He stretched his arm along the back of the sofa. “I think you’ve had enough champagne, don’t you?”
She reached to set the glass on the side table. Then she folded her hands in her lap and stared out the window.
He waited for her to speak. When she didn’t, he asked, “Are you planning to ignore me for two weeks, then?”
Her head swiveled toward him. “I am not ignoring you. I merely have nothing to say.”
“That is a surprise,” he murmured, and then chuckled at the glare she leveled at him. “You must admit, you are not shy about sharing your opinions.”
“If you are intimating that I am some harpy—”
“Of course not. Though time will tell on that, I suppose. We’ve only been married a few hours.”
She pressed her lips together, tiny creases forming around the edges. “And what sort of husband do you plan to be, Emmett? A faithful one?”
He hadn’t even thought about it, to be honest, but the way she sneered the last question, as if he couldn’t possibly remain faithful, rankled. “Are you saying you’ll satisfy all my needs, Elizabeth?”
Her porcelain cheeks bloomed a pretty pink, and something that felt a lot like longing wound its way through his guts. This incredibly lovely woman—his wife—was more beautiful than he deserved, certainly.
“You know that’s not what I meant. We know absolutely nothing about one another.”
Wrong, he wanted to tell her. He knew of her intelligence, her determination. Her kindness, not only from seeing her with his sisters but from watching her speak to the guests today, ensuring each one felt welcomed. She also had a playful sense of humor and a tendency to bite her lower lip. And he knew how well she kissed.
He also knew that he was dying to have her, to possess her in every way. The thought caused his groin to grow heavy, so he put sleeping with her firmly out of his mind. He did not want their first time together to be on a train.
A door in the rear of the car opened, and Kelly leaned in. “We’re hitched and everything’s loaded. You need anything?”
Emmett shook his head. “No. Thank you, Kelly.”
The door closed, and Emmett noticed Elizabeth staring at it, her brow lowered in confusion. Perhaps this was a good time to address her earlier complaint. “What would you like to know?”
Her gaze flew to his. “About Kelly?”
He lifted a shoulder and took a sip of his wine. “About anything. We have to pass the journey somehow.”
“How do you know him?”
“We grew up together in Five Points. Kelly was . . . an enforcer of sorts in the group we ran with.”
“And what was your role?”
“No. That’s not something I discuss. Ever.”
“But how—”
He held up a hand. “Ask me about anything else, Elizabeth. I won’t answer questions about my childhood.”
She tapped her fingernails on the edge of the sofa. She’d removed her gloves when they first entered the car, revealing her slim, graceful fingers and smooth, white skin. He imagined those hands on him later, teasing and stroking, and he began to harden. Damn it.
The train lurched as the wheels started turning. Elizabeth fell toward him, and he caught her shoulder with his free hand. When she reached out to stabilize herself, her palm landed on his thigh, face dangerously close to his. If he shifted forward a few inches, he could kiss her.
Neither one of them moved, eyes locked, and he waited to see what she would do. The warmth of her hand burned through the fabric covering his leg. Then her fingers shifted ever so slightly on his thigh, as if testing the feel of him, and Emmett stopped breathing as more blood rushed to his groin. He would give everything he owned if she would slide those digits a mere six inches higher.
A few more hours, he told himself.
She suddenly dropped her gaze and retreated, righting herself. “I apologize.”
Emmett took a healthy swallow of wine, glad to have a moment to regain his composure. He hadn’t been this worked up over a woma
n since his first visit to a brothel at the age of twelve.
After a moment, she said, “So I can ask you anything?”
“Yes, as long as it’s nothing to do with Five Points.”
“Do you still plan to back my brokerage firm?”
He frowned. “Why wouldn’t I? You won the wager.” She looked vastly relieved by that statement. Had she thought he would renege on their deal? While he might be many things, most of them unpleasant, he was a man of his word.
“I wasn’t sure you would still . . .”
“Still, what? Live up to my agreements?”
She didn’t answer, and his lip curled in annoyance. Before he could tell her how wrong she was about that, she asked, “Did you send the note to my brother? The one that caused him to discover us at Sherry’s?”
“No,” he bit out, jerking in surprise. “Why in God’s name would I have done that?”
“Well, someone did. And it was convenient, wouldn’t you say, that Will arrived just when things . . . appeared the worst?”
“And you believe I would orchestrate that? Do you honestly think so little of me?”
Her frigid gray gaze met his, her lips compressed into a thin, disapproving line. An answer all unto itself, really. Fuck me. Anger lit him up, like coal shoved into a blast furnace. What did he need to do in order to prove himself to this woman? Would she always presume the worst?
He shot to his feet, determined to get away before he did or said something he regretted.
“Where are you going?”
“Outside,” he snapped, stalking toward the door. “It’s a hell of a lot warmer out there.”
* * *
Founded in the middle of the seventeenth century, Newport, Rhode Island, had been best known for its colonial architecture until William Shepard Wetmore constructed the giant Chateau-sur-Mer cottage on Bellevue Avenue. New York society took notice and swiftly turned the tiny town into the place for the summer.
