She reached the top of the third landing to find Lydia hanging over the banister, watching the guests.
“Did you know there are only a few words that contain all of the vowels in proper order? ‘Arsenious’ is one of them.”
Eleanor smiled, amused. “And what, pray tell, does arsenious mean?”
“It means it contains arsenic,” Lydia explained. “Do you want to know the other words?”
“Of course,” Eleanor answered.
“Facetious and ab…abstemious. That means ‘sober’ and ‘self-restraining.’ Like you.”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t react. It was true. She doubted that there was a more sober soul in New England at the moment. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
Lydia wrinkled her nose. “I wanted to see the gowns. When I grow up, I want to marry a man who can give me all the gowns I want.”
Eleanor ushered her niece to her room. “I have no doubt that you will accomplish anything you wish, dear.” She tucked Lydia into bed, turned the lamp down low, and left.
She was about to enter her own room when she heard the swish of a skirt off to her left, near the linen closet.
“Oh, Dante, just one little kiss, pretty please?”
Eleanor should have hurried into her room and closed the door. She didn’t.
“You shouldn’t have followed me up here, Marguerite. And you’ve been drinking. Your tongue wags uncontrollably when you drink.”
His voice was cold, void of emotion. Eleanor could almost envision his stony features.
“I had to have a sip of sherry before we came,” she pouted. “Otherwise I couldn’t have made it through the evening.”
“A sip is one thing,” the peacock scolded. “You’ve had a glass or two.”
The mistress made an unladylike sputtering sound with her tongue. “Oh, so what? Millard doesn’t even know I’m gone. He won’t look for me until it’s time to go home.”
There was a long, quiet pause. Then the mistress spoke again. “I’ve truly missed you, Dante.”
The blatant invitation in her voice shocked Eleanor. It was shameful to eavesdrop, but she couldn’t drag herself away.
“What you’ve missed is a man between your thighs, Marguerite.”
Even though he sounded bored, his words caused heat to race to the roots of Eleanor’s hair and sink into her scalp. Perspiration beaded between her breasts.
The Banning woman twittered and sighed. “Oh, yes. I’ve missed you in my bed, Dante. That nice, hard part of you.”
Eleanor nearly gasped at the language the woman used, for she could scarcely believe any woman would talk so boldly with a man. Certainly no lady would.
Her curiosity overcoming her caution, Eleanor peered around the corner. The unsubtle woman was unbuttoning the peacock’s shirt. When she’d undone a half-dozen buttons, she rubbed her face against his skin.
“Oh, Dante, I could tame your dragon, if you’d only let me.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes and thought she might be sick.
“Seduce Millard when you get home.” His voice was unkind.
Eleanor leaned so far forward to hear, she stumbled against the door. She cringed, hoping they hadn’t heard.
“But it’s been so long. When can I see you?” the mistress whined.
“I’ve been busy. I’ll call you when I have time.”
“You haven’t sent my clothes over, Dante. Are you sleeping with my drawers, wishing I was in them?”
Eleanor clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle another gasp. The woman had no shame! She closed her eyes and held fast to the doorknob.
“I’ll send them over when I have time,” he answered, his voice terse.
“But, Dante—”
“Get back downstairs before your husband misses you.”
“Oh, all right, but I’ll be waiting for you to call on me. If you make me wait too long, I’ll be tempted to come by when you least expect it,” she threatened.
“You do, and you’ll never be welcome in my home again.”
The mistress whirled past and Eleanor shrank against her door. She would wait for him to leave before she moved.
She waited. And waited. He didn’t leave. Wondering if he was still there, she peeked around the corner. He was leaning against the wall by the linen closet, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Shame, shame, Mrs. Rayburn. You were eavesdropping.”
“I was not.” She hated being caught in a lie; it made her feel and sound like a child.
He laughed and came toward her, his walk easy and menacing. “Did it titillate you?”
She groped for the doorknob behind her. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“I mean, did the prospect of a juicy tidbit of scandal make you want to hear more?” he crooned, his voice seductive, like the hypnotic rise and swell of the ocean on a warm, balmy afternoon.
He approached and she was momentarily unable to speak, for her heart leaped, pounding and pushing against her throat.
“You were waiting for something scandalous to happen, weren’t you?”
He stood in front of her, tall and terrifying, smelling manly and dangerous and wild and wonderful. “No.” She found her voice, but it was not strong.
He reached around her and opened the door to her room. “Ah, but isn’t scandal the spice of life, Mrs. Rayburn?”
“I don’t know anything about scandal, nor do I care to know.” Another lie. She remembered vividly when Willa had told her about the way Dante Templeton’s mistress had left his house, and how she’d been no different than anyone else, hanging on every sordid morsel.
He put his hands on Eleanor’s shoulders, gently shoved her into her room and shut the door.
They were in there together. Alone. In a room with a bed. In a room where all of her private thoughts and desires, her secret fantasies, her personal pains and pleasures threatened to come alive and embarrass her in front of a man who had no right in the world to be there at all.
Startled at her dangerous situation, she felt her first shiver of fear and attempted to twist away from him. “Get out of my bedroom.”
His gaze swept the room, settling on her bed. “So this is where the stiff, straight-laced Widow Rayburn sleeps.”
She pulled away, but he held her fast. “That’s none of your—”
“Do you dream, madam? Are your dreams hot and wet, like kisses from a passionate lover? Do you wake feeling less rested than when you went to sleep?”
She moved to slap him, but he grabbed her wrist and engulfed her hand in his own.
He looked around the room again. “I wonder if you sleep in a nightgown.” He gave her a critical look, moving his gaze from her head to her toes. “Ah, yes. Of course you do. Probably a scratchy, starchy thing that buttons up under your chin.”
“You are a detestable—”
“Do you ever leave it unbuttoned? Do you ever leave the gown loose and gaping over your breasts?”
Eleanor gasped, her nipples tightened beneath her layers of clothing and her face flamed. She raised her foot and kicked his shin with the toe of her shoe. “You brute! You certainly are no gentleman. You’re a crude, barbaric hedonist!”
He laughed and dragged her into his arms. “That I am, madam. Now, let’s create a bit of scandal of our own.” His whisper was mocking and conspiratorial against her ear and she all but trembled at the naughty sensations he raised inside her.
Struggling against him, she shot him with the iciest look she could conjure, working hard to quell her need, her panic, her unforgivable desire. “Take your hands off me.”
Instead, he kissed her hard.
She opened her mouth to protest and his tongue was there, demanding entrance. She inhaled sharply, and he plunged it into her mouth. He tasted of brandy, and for an instant, she thought she might get drunk on his taste alone. Her knees buckled. The room spun. She couldn’t breathe. His clean, male smell weakened her.
Suddenly the kiss softened,
became seductive, and to steady herself she pressed her palm against his chest, recalling too late that his shirt was unbuttoned to the waist. His skin was warm, the flesh beneath it hard, firmly muscled. Her fingertips found odd ridges, but before she had a chance to investigate further, his hands were on her bottom and he lifted her off the floor. She clung to him. She thought briefly, very briefly of pulling away, but she didn’t. He held her tightly and nipped at her lips. Heat expanded inside her.
He broke the kiss and let her down, the sound of her shoes scuffling lightly as they touched the bare floor. His gaze held her captive. Light from her lamp glanced off the sharp angles of his face, creating seductive shadows, illuminating his eyes.
He took her injured left hand and slowly removed the makeshift bandage from her cut. Lifting her finger to his mouth, he kissed it, never once looking anywhere but into her eyes.
When she thought she could stand no more, she felt her finger slide into his mouth. She yanked her hand back, hoping her face was not a window into her heart, where all of her private dreams could be found.
But he watched her like he knew what she felt. It embarrassed and horrified her that she could melt in the arms of a man she should find contemptible. A man who had no right to touch her at all, let alone the way he had.
She finally found her voice. “What do you think you’re doing?”
A sinister smile lifted one corner of his mouth and he stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “If you have to ask, I must be doing it wrong. But the telltale flush on your cheeks tells me I’m not.”
She turned away from his touch, hating the shiver of pleasure it had given her.
“Tell me, madam, what would you like me to do?”
Though her heart was racing, she forced her legs to move and she walked to the door and jerked it open. “I would like you to leave.”
He sauntered over and stopped in front of her, so close she felt his heat. “No, you wouldn’t.”
He turned and left her gripping the doorknob so hard her knuckles were white.
Five
Eleanor stumbled to the bed and fell upon it. She stared into the dimly lit room, the flickering light from her lamp sending macabre shadows dancing against the walls and ceiling. She should have done something to stop him. At the very least she should have had a sharp retort ready, but she’d barely been able to speak at all.
Her heart hammered still. Her lips tingled as did the finger he had slid into his mouth. She waited for the feeling of loathing. The disgust. The putrid aftertaste of a man’s lips on hers. The revulsion of a kiss.
None of those feelings came.
She sat on the edge of the bed, wishing she could crawl under the covers and stay there the remainder of the evening. But Willa undoubtedly searched for her even now.
She rose from the bed and crossed to the dry sink where she peered into the mirror. The lighting was poor, but she saw something different in her face. Her eyes glistened. Her lips were more pronounced. Was it loathing, or something worse: excitement?
Whatever it was, she couldn’t afford to let the peacock see that he had affected her. She had never felt this way before, nor had she ever expected to.
After splashing cold water on her face, she dabbed it with a towel, wrapped her finger in a proper bandage, took a deep breath, and felt ready to face the party again. She just hoped the peacock had decided to leave now that he’d wreaked havoc on her soul.
As she stepped to the door, she noticed something shiny on the floor. She reached down and picked it up, and her heart raced. Somehow, during their tryst, his earring had come loose and fallen onto the floor. She closed her fingers around it. At first it felt cold against her skin, then suddenly she could have sworn it nearly burst into flame. With a tiny gasp, she dropped it into her apron pocket and left her room.
Dante rejoined the party, relieved to find Marguerite and her husband gone and everyone else involved with their own little groups. He stayed in the background, waiting to see if the Widow Rayburn would return.
He had noticed her lurking in the shadows after Marguerite had found him coming out of the washroom. He had considered peeling away Marguerite’s gown and fondling her ample breasts, but the idea didn’t appeal to him. Too bad. It would have given the Widow Rayburn something to watch.
When she had seen him standing there, he had meant only to say something cutting. He hadn’t meant to kiss her, or taunt her, but somehow she almost asked for it.
No, to be fair, that wasn’t true. A woman like that doesn’t ask to be taunted, teased, or kissed. A woman like Eleanor Rayburn prefers to blend into the woodwork where no one will notice her at all. Maybe that’s why he had kissed her. To shock her into feeling something. And he knew he had succeeded at that.
Willa Simmons rushed past him, frowning. At the doorway that led to the stairs, Dante heard her say, “Well, there you are. For heaven’s sake, where have you been?”
“I’m sorry, Willa, I—”
“Butterfly has been running herself ragged and offending everyone. You know how she gets when she thinks she’s working too hard. She has enough to do to keep the trays filled without having to do everything else. Now, please get out there and pick up some of those dirty plates, if you would. Things are piling up.”
Eleanor Rayburn moved into his view, and he backed into the shadows.
“Of course. It won’t happen again, Willa.”
Willa grabbed her arm, stopping her. “I know I initially told you I didn’t want you to help tonight, but Butterfly just isn’t socially acceptable—”
“I apologize for being gone so long.” The widow extricated her arm from her sister-in-law’s grip. “It won’t happen again,” she repeated.
Willa made an exasperated sound. “Oh, everyone will talk about this, I just know it. If I had known you were going to lollygag about upstairs tonight, I wouldn’t have let Mrs. Myers go.
“This party is very important to me. There are women here who can get me into some very influential clubs, which, in turn, will help Calvin. But that won’t happen if they think I can’t even keep decent help.”
“Everything will be fine, Willa. The food is wonderful, the house looks lovely, and you’re a consummate hostess. Don’t worry so much, or you’ll make yourself sick.”
The women left, and when Dante could no longer hear them, he returned to the party and stood near a group of men, pretending to take in their discussion.
It rankled that the Widow Rayburn had sunk to the status of servant. He was to blame for this. Had he allowed her to regain the whaler, she wouldn’t be living with her brother, working as her sister-in-law’s lackey. Even so, he wouldn’t release the whaler to her. He couldn’t.
But in all good faith, he had to find a way to get Eleanor Rayburn out from under the harridan’s thumb. It was the least he could do. The first chance he got he would talk with Sister Mary Frank about hiring her, and if she balked, he would explain to her how Eleanor Rayburn would get paid. It wouldn’t be the first time he had paid someone’s salary at the orphanage in order to keep the place running reasonably smoothly.
For the remainder of the evening, Dante watched her scrape and bow for her sister-in-law’s guests. But when he caught a glimpse of her face, he saw that she was in no way feeling like a servant. Her eyes held determination, composure, and resolve. Until she caught him watching her; then all of that was replaced by what he could only describe as anger. And resentment. And a deep embarrassment that made him feel ashamed.
Later that night, after everything was cleaned up, Eleanor prepared for bed. Though there was barely space for her dressing table in the small bedroom, she had found a way to place the furniture so she could use it. She sat there now, brushing out her hair, his words taunting her.
…probably a starchy, scratchy thing that buttons up to your chin…She glanced at her nightgown. It wasn’t that bad. She’d adored it when she’d received it before she was married. Yes, it was a serviceable cotton, but t
he wide collar with the intricate braiding made it appear softer, more feminine.
She uttered a sound of disgust. Why should she care what he thought of her?
After braiding her hair, she reached across to where her apron hung, retrieved the shiny earring from the pocket, and crawled into bed to examine it.
It winked at her in the candlelight. As she studied it, she realized there was an inscription inside the inner part of the hoop. Drawing the earring closer to the light, she saw that it read, It will always be you. MB.
Eleanor made a face. A gift from Marguerite Banning, no doubt. For some odd reason, she had the urge to toss the thing across the room. Instead, she slipped out of bed and returned it to her apron pocket.
As she climbed back into bed, she heard a faint knock at her bedroom door.
“Come in,” she said softly.
The door squeaked open and Lydia poked her head through. “Can I get in bed with you?” Her voice was thready, frightened.
“Of course, dear.” She scooted over and Lydia crawled in beside her. “Have a bad dream?”
Lydia nodded. “And when I woke up, I saw awful shadows in my room. I hate when that happens.”
Eleanor smiled. “Me, too.” Lydia’s bedroom was nearly as big as her parents’, and filled with every imaginable comfort. She had a four-story dollhouse, completely furnished, a rocking horse, near life-size stuffed animals, and a bed that most adults would find more than sufficient. Eleanor’s room was perhaps a quarter the size, and had at one time probably been used for a nurse or a nanny.
They slid down in the bed together. “You have nightmares, Aunt Ellie?”
“Oh, yes,” Eleanor replied. “Do you want to talk about yours?”
“No. Let’s talk about something happy.”
Eleanor extinguished the candle then allowed Lydia to snuggle against her. “All right. You pick the subject.”
This was a game of theirs. Eleanor had learned early on that Lydia often slept poorly. She had mentioned it to Butterfly, who informed her that until Eleanor came, Lydia had made her way down two flights of stairs into Butterfly’s bed. But Butterfly admitted that there wasn’t room in her bed for the both of them. “Hell,” she’d muttered, “there’s barely room enough for me!”
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