Dragon Tamer

by Jane Bonander

  That had been the hardest thing to do, pretend she no longer interested him, physically. More than once he had gone so far as to watch her sleep, aching to crawl in beside her and hold her, touch her, move between her creamy thighs and drown in her soft, wet warmth. Listen to her cries of joy when she reached orgasm. Wrap his arms around her and hold her until dawn.

  Those first few nights when he rejected her had been most difficult. She had stood in the doorway, swathed in the sheer gown he’d bought her, her luscious body visible and inviting even from where he sat, behind his desk.

  He had thought that if he stopped bedding her, the urge would go away. It always had before, with the other women in his life. Once they began to bore him, he no longer wanted intimacy. But Eleanor had never bored him.

  He was afraid to touch her, because if he did, he’d want her. And it wouldn’t have to be a touch meant to arouse. In fact, just such a moment had happened the night before, as he guided her into dinner. He lightly touched the small of her back, and quick as a flash, he wanted her naked so he could press his lips there.

  So, he thought, this was marriage. They should have called it something else. Like mental and physical devastation, or extreme chaos, for never had he felt such confusion.

  Eleanor studied herself in the tall, Hepplewhite fret-carved mirror that hung on the wall beside Dante’s wardrobe. She made a face at her reflection. The gown was exquisite. The headdress classic, not overdone. But she was a fraud. She no more belonged in gowns like this than Dante belonged in a hair shirt.

  “Madam?”

  She turned to find Horace at the door. “Yes?”

  “Your husband is waiting. He’s quite anxious to be on his way.”

  She raised an eyebrow, but her stomach dropped. “This is my baptism by fire, Horace.”

  His expression was sympathetic. “I understand, madam. But I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.”

  She pinched her cheeks, intent on gaining some color to her white, apprehensive-laden skin. “Easier said than done. It’s not you who is being sent into that pack of society jackals.”

  “I don’t mean to be forward, madam, but you are head and shoulders above all of them.”

  She tried to smile. “That’s generous of you.”

  “It is not meant as flattery. Many weeks ago, Mr. Dante and I had a conversation about intelligence in women. He believed women were of two kinds: beautiful or intelligent. I corrected him, reminding him that one cannot always tell a book by its cover.”

  Eleanor picked up her dark blue cut-velvet bag with the ornate silver clasp. “Meaning, I suppose, that you think a woman can be both.”

  “I do, madam.”

  She gave Horace a warm smile. “Maybe I should have set my cap for you.”

  He blushed. “You do look beautiful tonight, madam.”

  “Thank you, Horace. That comment will help me get through the evening.” She stepped to the head of the stairs and saw Dante at the bottom, holding a black coat. As usual, he looked perfect, and every nerve in her body agreed, nearly twanging like piano wire.

  Unlike the night she’d seen him at Calvin’s, he was dressed quite conventionally. She liked the look. But then, she liked everything he wore. He had a special flare for always being the best dressed person in a room. Unlike her.

  Suddenly her marriage seemed more of a sham than ever. What madness had prompted him to propose, anyway? They were nothing alike. He was flamboyant; she was drab. He was a peacock; she was the hen. He would never love her, and she loved him with a passion that would soon break her heart, shattering it into thousands of irretrievable pieces.

  He gave her a quick once over, seeming satisfied with her appearance.

  “Am I acceptable?” She kept an edge to her voice.

  He glanced away, fiddling with the coat. “You look very lovely, Eleanor.”

  Ignoring his perfunctory approval, she noticed that the coat he held was not his. “Is that for me?”

  He unfolded it, holding it by the shoulders. The length nearly touched the floor. And it was, she knew, Battenberg lace. The sleeves were full with deep cuffs and the neckline was draped with black macramé silk cord trimmed with jet beads and sequins. Another gift. A possession. He was trying to appease his guilty conscience.

  All she wanted was his love; instead she would have a wardrobe bursting at the latches with exquisite gowns, capes, and coats. Many women would find that a suitable compromise. She did not. “It’s beautiful,” was all she could manage.

  She turned away and slid into the wrap, trying to ignore the foolish sting of tears that threatened. “You don’t have to continue to buy me things, Dante.”

  “You can’t very well go to a party without a wrap,” he groused.

  “The bottle green cape would have been more than ample.”

  “With this gown?” He made a snorting sound. “You have a lot to learn about fashion, Eleanor.”

  Searing humiliation and anger swept through her, and it was all she could do not to turn and retaliate, which was her nature. Instead, she answered tightly, “You’re right. Of all the subjects I am prepared to discuss with brilliance, fashion is not one of them.”

  He turned her toward him and studied her. “Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong? What could be wrong?” she said with almost vicious gaiety. Her new husband had suddenly lost interest in her, rarely spent any time with her, made excuses not to be with her, and he had the audacity to ask her if something was wrong?!

  They rode in silence. As they approached the Taft residence, a beautiful, three-story, free-standing home on Mount Vernon Street, the party appeared to be in full swing. Eleanor was already feeling like the outsider and she hadn’t even stepped into the house.

  Neva Taft, an attractive, although large woman who wore gowns that almost successfully hid her broad back and great butcheress arms, greeted them at the door.

  “Welcome.” She took Eleanor’s hands in hers. “You look absolutely lovely.” Her German accent was negligible. Eleanor knew that Neva took speaking lessons from a professor at Harvard. Heaven forbid that she should reveal her heritage.

  She leaned close to Eleanor and murmured, “I’m sorry we had to stop the twins’ piano lessons. With their schoolwork and the duties we have for them at home, it was not possible to continue.” She patted Eleanor’s hand. “It had nothing to do with you, my dear. Perhaps in the future we can start them up again, yes?”

  Eleanor forced a smile. Now it began. The sanctimonious, pretentious, superficiality of the Boston rich. “Perhaps,” Eleanor answered, determined to be polite.

  At first, Dante stayed close to her side, and for that she was grateful. She knew many of the couples, but obviously had not socialized with them. And more than once she saw women’s heads together, as they no doubt whispered about what she wore, how she looked, and why a man like Dante Templeton had married her in the first place, when he could have had any woman in Boston, bar none.

  Their society faces were pleasant enough until she passed, then she knew they were replaced by sly looks and hushed tones. She was certain that at one point she heard “Nahant” followed by a stifled giggle.

  She was on display, and she hated it. Had she not known this would happen and prepared herself, she might have run from the house and hid in the carriage. But as much as she dreaded the evening, she refused to give a single one of the guests the pleasure of seeing her fall apart before their very eyes.

  Calvin and Willa stopped to greet them, Willa talking nonstop to Dante about Calvin’s successes, virtually ignoring Eleanor.

  “And how is that lovely daughter of yours?” Dante asked at one point, when Willa finally had come up for air.

  Willa stepped back, surprised. “What? You mean Lydia?”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling blandly. “She’s quite brilliant, charming and entertaining. I’ve missed our little verbal duels.”

  Willa appeared baffled. “With Lydia?”

  “Indeed
,” Dante responded. “I would like her to visit us.”

  His invitation made Eleanor turn and look at him. She tried to hide her surprise.

  Willa stood, mouth open briefly. “You…want Lydia to visit?”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  Willa flitted and fluttered like a bird that had fallen from a tree and hadn’t yet caught its stride. “Well, I guess I could bring her by one day.”

  “No,” Dante answered, “that won’t be necessary. I’ll send my footman along with my coach to get her. How’s next Friday? We’d love to have her stay the weekend, wouldn’t we, Eleanor?”

  Eleanor watched Willa flail about and bit the insides of her cheeks to prevent a smile. “I would love it.”

  Calvin gave them a wide grin. “How about the weekend after?”

  Dante shrugged. “That would be fine. We don’t have any other plans, do we, Eleanor?”

  “I know I don’t, but of course I don’t know about you.” She spoke warmly and smiled, but when he looked at her, her eyes spoke of the distance that had come between them, and he quickly glanced away.

  Calvin nodded eagerly. “Wonderful! Willa and I have been asked to take the weekend at Newport. We had thought to bring Lydia with us, but I know she’d rather stay with her Aunt Ellie. That sounds good, doesn’t it, Willa dear?”

  Willa’s mouth worked but nothing came out. Finally she said, “I guess that would be all right,” she answered, as Calvin led her toward the buffet.

  Dante cleared his throat and turned toward Eleanor. “I have to meet with Herschel Taft in his library. I won’t be gone long, I promise.” He gave her a sterile peck on the cheek.

  Eleanor stopped herself from grabbing his arm and begging him not to leave her alone. Foolishly, she wanted someone to cling to, but there wasn’t a soul she could count on for that, obviously not even Dante.

  She watched him leave her; then she strolled to the sideboard and took a glass of hard cider. That this group called for something with a kick was an understatement. She moved to the back of the crowd, unwilling to mingle, preferring to watch, as she always had. A fine gown and a new husband hadn’t changed any of that.

  Once Dante left her side, she was pretty much invisible to the other guests. She scanned the crowd, her gaze finding a woman with brilliant red hair. Immediately Eleanor’s stomach did a little lurch as the woman turned. It was Marguerite Banning, and she looked absolutely stunning. Wound in her vibrant hair was a long string of pearls, similar to those that were sewn on her black silk gown with the chinchilla border. She walked toward Eleanor.

  Eleanor’s first instinct was to slink further into the corner, for the last thing she wanted was another confrontation like the one in Dante’s library.

  But the mistress barely glanced at her, focusing her attention on a couple who had just entered.

  Eleanor gave herself a disparaging smile. Why was she not surprised that Marguerite didn’t recognize her? Actually, it was a relief.

  “Excuse me.”

  Eleanor turned to find a small, tight little woman with a small, tight smile plastered on her thin face standing at her elbow.

  “Yes?”

  “Did you hear about Mr. Banning?” The woman peered up at her, a sly expression on her pinched face.

  “No. What happened?”

  The little bird moved close and announced, “He died.”

  Startled, Eleanor brought her hand to her chest. “Oh, my. How…what happened?”

  The woman leaned into Eleanor again. “They think it was his heart.”

  Eleanor’s first theory was that Marguerite had probably broken it; then she scolded herself for the petty thought. “Well, that’s just awful.”

  The messenger nodded. “Yes, but to see her here so shortly after burying the man, why, it’s just not right.”

  Eleanor kept silent, but she did agree. “When did he die?” The woman told her, and Eleanor realized it was two days after she and Dante were married. Surely Dante knew about this, but he’d said nothing to her.

  Eleanor continued to study the new widow, whose gown was cut low enough to produce an overzealous bosom probably the size of Canada. Well, at least she was wearing black, Eleanor thought dryly.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when the new widow glanced directly at her and let fly a shriek. Eleanor wanted to fade into the woodwork, but that wouldn’t work this time.

  Suddenly the mistress was in front of her, her usually creamy complexion once again mottled with rage. “So, it is you.”

  Eleanor nodded slightly. “I’m sorry to hear about your husband.”

  “You should be,” came the widow’s mysterious answer, her face still etched with fury.

  Puzzled, Eleanor asked, “I beg your pardon?”

  “It won’t matter in the least, you know.”

  Eleanor was completely at sea. “What won’t matter?”

  “All of Boston knows why Dante married you.”

  Although Eleanor’s heart was drumming like a tympani, the rest of the room had become strangely quiet. Every ear was tuned to the confrontation between the mistress and the wife. Any wife’s worst nightmare.

  “Like I said. It won’t matter. He’ll still prefer me over you.”

  Eleanor wondered how the woman could, with any conscience, speak of this with her husband so recently dead. In a soft voice, so as not to be heard, Eleanor murmured, “No doubt you’re in great personal distress, Mrs. Banning, or you wouldn’t be speaking of such things at this time.”

  “My husband was a fine man, but he’s gone and I must live my life,” she spat. “And that life, so help me God, will include your husband.”

  “I rather doubt that,” Eleanor said with far more conviction than she felt. “He all but tossed you from his home, ordering you never to return.”

  Marguerite opened her mouth to speak, but Eleanor stopped her. “And don’t beg to differ, Mrs. Banning. I was there when it happened.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, filling with hate. “We all know what happened with your first so called ‘marriage.’ Don’t expect your second one to be much better, for a marriage out of pity is almost as bad as bigamy.”

  Eleanor couldn’t speak, for humiliation swept over her in nauseating waves.

  “And sooner or later, Dante will come crawling back. To me.” The widow’s eyes glittered with fury and hatred.

  Just then, Dante left the library. Marguerite burst into tears and ran to him. “Oh, Dante, my poor Millard is gone, gone.”

  Much to Eleanor’s dismay, Dante gathered her against him and steered her into the library, closing the door behind them. The humiliation Marguerite Banning initiated only deepened, and Eleanor wanted to disappear through the floor.

  Every eye in the house was on her, waiting for her reaction, and Eleanor knew it. She attempted a smile, then strolled to the buffet table as if examining the food, knowing that if she tried to eat anything, it wouldn’t move past the lump in her throat.

  She had no choice but to stay and wait for Dante. Not that she couldn’t find her own way back to his townhouse, but because to leave now would advertise to everyone that she was exactly what Marguerite Banning had indicated she was—a pity partner.

  She had to show courage. Faith in Dante as a husband. Belief that he would, no matter how it looked, do the right thing by his wife and not humiliate her any more than he already had.

  When Dante finally reappeared, he called for Eleanor’s coat and they left together, neither having said a word to the other.

  Twenty-two

  When they arrived home, Eleanor shed her coat, handing it to a waiting Horace, and started up the stairs.

  “Meet me in the library when you’re ready for bed, Eleanor.”

  She swung around to face him, reigning in her anger. “Is that an order?”

  Emotions too numerous to count marched across his features. “If that’s what it takes to get you there.”

  “Then let’s do it now,” she demanded, striding
past him into his precious private domain.

  He entered and closed the door behind him. “What’s gotten your drawers in a knot?”

  She stared, then exhaled sharply. “Thank you so much for a very successful evening. Although I’m no longer a virgin, why didn’t you simply pick me up and toss me into the volcano? Lord knows, I felt like a human sacrifice.”

  He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “You can’t be that thickheaded,” she countered.

  He poured each of them a drink, but Eleanor shoved hers away.

  “Spit it out, Eleanor.” He sounded tired, patronizing.

  “All right, I will. Why did we go there tonight?”

  He sipped his brandy, studying her over the rim of the snifter. “Because we were invited, and I had business with Herschel Taft.”

  Eleanor wished none of this mattered. If she didn’t love him so much, it probably wouldn’t matter at all. But she did, and because of that, she was unable to act as if nothing was wrong. “You knew I’d be on display, didn’t you?”

  He studied his brandy. “I wasn’t surprised that you were. You looked stunning tonight.”

  Eleanor expelled an exasperated cry. “Oh, that’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

  “You think they were all whispering and snickering behind your back?”

  “Think it? I know they were. I expected it.”

  “Then why are you so upset?” He sat casually in the deep chair, appearing unconcerned with her distress. “Like it or not, you will have to learn to cope with these people, because many of them invest in Whispering Winds and the causes I’ve come to champion.

  “Eventually they will accept you as my wife. You don’t have to like it, and you don’t have to like them. In fact,” he added, “I don’t like many of them myself, but their contributions are important to my cause.”

  She realized he was right, but…“Pretense is very hard for me, Dante.” But she knew she would try, for she would probably walk through fire for him.