by Nan Ryan
“I’ve seen photographs of Charmaine Beaumont,” Olivia said. “There’s a resemblance perhaps, but you’re much prettier than she.”
Claire smiled. “You are prejudiced. Besides, if that is true—which I doubt—everyone will suppose that I got better looking as I fully matured. The duchess is thirty-three, an age when most women are at the top of their form, are they not?”
“You don’t look thirty-three, child. More like twenty-three.”
The twenty-seven-year-old Claire smiled again and said, “Well of course I look young. We noble ladies take good care of ourselves.” She laughed then and, impulsively sinking to her knees before the seated Olivia, took the older woman’s frail hands in hers, squeezed them affectionately, and said, “Oh, Olivia, I know what I’m planning to do is wrong, even unforgivable. But I just don’t care. I’ve made up my mind. I am going to be happy! I’m going to have a gay time and enjoy every minute of every day. I’m going to have pretty clothes and do just as I please as if I were the real duchess.”
“But how, Claire? We haven’t the money to—”
“We will have,” Claire again squeezed Olivia’s hands, then released them and shot to her feet. She looked about to make sure Walker was nowhere in sight. Then she grinned impishly as she lifted her skirts and unpinned the purple velvet bag concealed in her petticoats. Sinking again to her knees, she poured out the bag’s contents onto the veranda’s smooth wooden floor.
Olivia rocked forward and her pale gray eyes widened. Flashing and glittering in the fading sunlight were several pieces of valuable jewelry. Claire lifted an exquisite emerald-and-diamond necklace and handed it to the stunned Olivia.
The necklace resting in her palm, Olivia asked, eyebrows raised, “Claire Orwell, the baron’s…?”
“No, I did not steal the jewels. They were my mother’s. I have no idea where they came from, who gave them to her. I do know that my father could never have afforded the jewels and that my mother never once wore any of these exquisite pieces in our presence. I didn’t know she had them until she died. On her deathbed she whispered in my ear, directed me to the purple velvet bag. It was taped beneath her vanity. There was a sweet note to me inside saying she wanted me to have the jewels. I believe they are worth a tidy sum, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course, but you can’t be considering…”
“Ah, but I can. We will pawn the precious stones to finance our little adventure. There’s only one piece that I will not let go.” From the mound of flashing stones Claire carefully untangled a delicate golden chain. Suspended from the chain was a one-inch medallion cut from mother-of-pearl with a gold figure of a woman’s profile embossed on the front. The woman was Claire’s mother. Claire draped the chain around her neck and fastened it. Touching the medallion where it rested warmly between her breasts, she said, “There.”
The older woman was familiar with the unique medallion. Knew something of its prominence. But she kept her mouth shut.
“This piece I will keep,” Claire said. “The rest will provide us with some much-needed cash for our royal venture.”
Olivia’s eyes were now flashing like the jewels that were spread out before her. She said, “If you’ll trust me with some of the proceeds the jewels will bring, I’ll make our stash quickly grow.”
Taking the diamond-and-emerald necklace from Olivia and gathering up the glittering treasures, Claire began to smile knowingly. “Aha, so you’re a gambler?”
“And a good one, Your Grace.”
Both women laughed.
A band was playing an afternoon concert in the gardens behind his cottage when Hank went into the hallway with its row of bells used for summoning the chambermaid, waiter and valet. He rang for the valet, instructed the man to unpack and left.
He didn’t call for a carriage, but walked the short distance to the Saratoga racetrack. He was whistling merrily when he skirted the grandstands and went straight to the rows of stables behind.
The place was alive with activity. Owners, trainers and jockeys were gathered around the many stalls of the prized Thoroughbreds. Hank stopped to shake hands with some of the gentlemen. These men liked racing. They liked to win. They liked the competition. They particularly liked new owners to come to Saratoga and offer a challenge.
Hank was no exception.
“Why, if it isn’t Hank Cassidy, the Silver King,” said Logan B. Bristow, a real estate magnate from New Jersey and a proud Thoroughbred owner. The round-faced, short-of-stature Bristow laughed and teased, “You really think that gray nag of yours has a chance of beating my best three-year-old in the Travers Stakes?” He stepped forward and slapped Hank on the back.
“How you been, L.B.?” Hank smiled easily and shook Bristow’s hand. Before the other man could reply, Hank said, “I sure hate to see you lose your money, but that’s what’s going to happen if you pin your hopes on that badly outclassed plow horse you’re entering.” He inclined his head toward the sleek sorrel stallion in the stall directly behind Bristow.
Bristow laughed loudly as Hank walked on through the alley between the stalls, shaking hands here, exchanging pleasantries there, having a look at the competition.
A slimly built, silver-haired man stepped out of a hay-filled stall near the end of the lane. Seeing Hank, he began to smile broadly.
Hank hurried forward.
He caught the older man up in a bear hug and warmly embraced him. The sixty-two-year-old Fox Connor was more to Hank than simply the most talented horse trainer in America. He was that all right, but he was also a trusted friend and confidant, the man who knew Hank better than anyone else.
Wise, loyal, never judgmental, Fox Connor had been with Hank since the day Hank had bought his first racehorse a decade ago. The two had come to regard each other as family. Fox Connor had no family of his own. He hadn’t married and therefore had no children. Hank was like the son he’d never had. Fox took pride in Hank’s triumphs, found joy in sharing the young man’s life, looked forward eagerly to the day Hank married and had children who would hopefully call him Granddad.
“When did you get in?” Fox asked when Hank released him.
“An hour ago,” Hank said. “How did they make the trip?” he asked, referring to the dozen valuable Thoroughbreds Fox had escorted up from Kentucky.
“Black Satin has a sore muscle, but he should be fine in a couple of days. Red Eye Gravy wouldn’t eat any oats this morning, was listless, but he’s already feeling better. Tempest, Eastern Dancer, and the rest seem to be in excellent shape. All had good workouts this morning.”
“Silver Dollar’s okay?” Hank inquired about the big silver-coated speedster he hoped would take the Travers Stakes.
“He was in fine form for this morning’s exercise,” Fox assured Hank. “Ran the mile in one-fifty.”
Pleased, Hank stepped into the stall where Silver Dollar was stabled. The stallion nickered a greeting. Hank wrapped a long arm around the big Thoroughbred’s sleek neck and patted him affectionately.
“You gonna win the Travers Stakes for me, pal of mine?” he asked and the Thoroughbred pricked his ears and shook its great head. Hank laughed and pressed his cheek to the beast’s left jaw. “Yes, sir, you’re going to make me proud. I know you are.”
After carefully examining the horse, Hank exited the stall and motioned to a groom. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a bill, and handed it to the lad. “Let no one come near this silver stallion.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hank and Fox Connor left the stables together for the short walk back to town. At the hotel, Fox asked, “Any plans for this evening?”
Hank nodded. “A dinner party at Horace Titus’s house. You?”
Fox grinned. “You know me, Hank. I’ll dine at Canfield’s then play a little roulette or faro.”
“Might see you there later in the evening.
“I seriously doubt that. I would imagine there’ll be any number of eligible ladies at the Tituses’ dinner party.” He gave Hank a
knowing look.
Hank said nothing, but the thought occurred that his golden-haired angel might be among tonight’s guests. Lillian Titus had a special talent for attracting the most glamorous and interesting people to her parties.
“See you tomorrow, Fox,” Hank said and hurried toward the cottages.
Looking after him, Fox Connor chuckled, then turned and headed for the main hotel and his top floor suite.
At seven, Claire came down the stairs dressed for the dinner party. Olivia anxiously waited in the foyer.
“What do you think?” Claire asked, reaching the marble-floored foyer and turning slowly around.
Olivia gazed on Claire with a critical eye. Claire’s golden hair was attractively swept atop her head and held in place with invisible pins. The blond tresses blazed in the light of the chandelier overhead. Her cheeks were flushed and her violet eyes glittered with excitement. Her lips were perfectly tinted with a modest touch of rouge. Face and hair were perfect.
But the dress.
The color was right—violet faille that was the exact same hue as Claire’s beautiful eyes. But that was about the only good thing Olivia could say for it.
“Long sleeves in July? A throat-high yoke? A choking collar right up to your chin?” Olivia shook her head. “You look more a schoolmarm than a wealthy duchess.”
Claire sighed heavily. “I know, but this is the best I can do until I go shopping. I have nothing suitable for evening wear.”
“How long before you leave for the dinner party?”
“Mrs. Titus said they’d send a carriage round for me. Eight sharp.”
Olivia glanced at the tall grandfather clock standing in the foyer. “Then I’ve got an hour. You’re in luck, Duchess. I once worked in a gentlemen’s tailor shop on Savile Row. I get a needle in me hand and I can alter just about anything. Take off the dress and I’ll see what I can do.”
She threw herself into her task.
Within the hour, a lovely, lively Claire stood waiting in a shimmering dress of deep lavender faille. The gorgeous gown now had stylish short puff sleeves that appealingly caressed Claire’s ivory shoulders. Gone were the yoke and collar.
The hastily remodeled gown’s bodice was cut so low and Claire’s full breasts were pushed so high by a tight corset, the pale swell of her bosom was generously exposed.
“I believe I hear the carriage coming up the drive, Your Grace,” Olivia announced with a smile.
“How do I look now?” Claire asked, nervously tugging at her low-cut bodice, pulling it higher. “I feel naked.”
Olivia laughed, brushed Claire’s hands away, and urged the bodice back down. “You look beautiful. And remember, you’re not Claire Orwell, you’re the brazen Duchess of Beaumont.”
“That’s true. I’m sure the duchess has no qualms about displaying her décolletage.”
“None, whatsoever.” Olivia’s smile became wicked when she said, “I’ve heard it whispered that since Charmaine Beaumont’s husband—the over-weight, pompous old duke—died five years ago, she has taken any number of handsome lovers. Are you planning to add a few to her list?”
“Only one,” said Claire without hesitation, the image of the dark stranger she’d caught sight of this afternoon flashing into her mind. She stated the unguarded truth, “I would like—just once in my life—to have a grand passion. To know what it’s like to make love with a man who can sweep me off my feet and dazzle me. My late husband was a good, kind man, but ours was never a love match and there was no real ardor.” Claire shrugged bare ivory shoulders, smiled slyly and declared, “I shall do the duchess proud. I assume Her Grace can choose any man she wants. So I fully intend to pick the most sought-after man in Saratoga.” She paused and added, “And then seduce him.”
“Seduce him? How?” asked Olivia.
Claire smiled catlike. “Why, by ignoring him, of course.”
Eight
The most sought-after man in Saratoga was the good-looking, fun-loving Nevadan, Hank Cassidy. The wealthy young Silver King whose mines produced more than ten thousand dollars a day. A man so darkly handsome and blatantly male he awakened intense romantic longings in females from sixteen to sixty.
Hank’s afternoon arrival at the resort had caused as much of a stir as that of the Duchess of Beaumont. News quickly spread that he was back and had checked into one of the coveted cottages at the United States Hotel. Within an hour of his arrival, it was whispered that he had accepted an invitation to Lillian Titus’s dinner party. It was further whispered that the flamboyant duchess would be in attendance, as well.
Those who had not been invited to Lillian’s gathering felt slighted. Competing hostesses were disappointed that Lillian had snagged both the Silver King and the Duchess of Beaumont.
Hank’s intent was to put in a short, obligatory appearance at the dinner party where the stellar guest list would include the likes of Morgans and Vanderbilts and Rockerfellers. And, according to his talkative hotel valet, a beautiful widowed duchess.
He’d paid little attention to the gossip. Titles did not impress him. He wouldn’t have cared if the Old Queen herself showed up at the Springs unless she brought along a string of racehorses. Let the other guests fawn over the visiting duchess, making fools of themselves.
Not him.
It was five minutes of eight when Hank, impeccably dressed in dark tuxedo, snowy white shirt and black tie, arrived at the Tituses’ mansion with a promise to himself that he would stay for one short hour, no more. As soon as dinner was over, he would make his excuses and leave.
“My dear Hank,” Lillian Titus gushed, gazing up at him as a young, impressionable girl might. “Horace and I are delighted that you could join us this evening.”
“Thanks for having me, Mrs. Titus,” Hank replied.
The plump, happy hostess wrapped a possessive arm around Hank’s and maneuvered him about the drawing room, introducing him to those he didn’t know, reuniting him with old acquaintances from summers past.
When finally she released her death grip on his arm, Hank exhaled with relief and milled about. He hardly noticed the longing looks he drew from the ladies. He was used to such frank appraisals. Unfortunately, he saw no one here with whom he’d like to get better acquainted. He hoped dinner would soon be announced.
It was coming up on 8:30. What were they waiting on?
A glass of port in his hand, Hank was standing across the large parlor, his back to the room, when the last guest finally arrived. He paid no attention to the buzz of excitement that swept through the crowd. He was talking to a fellow Thoroughbred owner when Lillian Titus stepped up and interrupted him in midsentence.
“Excuse me, Hank,” Lillian said with a smile. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Hank slowly turned.
And found himself face-to-face with the elusive golden-haired woman he had not been able to get out of his mind. His heart skipped two beats. Then began pounding furiously. She was even lovelier than he had thought. Those luxurious golden locks were dressed appealingly atop her head. Her beautiful, unblemished skin appeared to glow in the soft light.
Her eyes, an incredible violet hue and seductively shaded by long, thick lashes, were large and luminously expressive. Her half-petulant lips looked soft and sweet. He immediately wanted to kiss them along with her beautiful bare shoulders and elegant throat.
She was tall and willowy, at least five-eight or nine, with hips that were lush, feminine and gently rounded. Her violet-hued gown was so tight it thrust her rounded breasts blatantly upward. The pale swell of her bosom made his mouth water and his knees grow weak.
She stood there looking cool, unruffled, totally serene. Yet he would have bet every Thoroughbred he owned that she was fiery, tempestuous and passionate. Without so much as moving or saying a word, she exuded a healthy sexuality and wholesome sense of herself as a desirable woman.
Hank wanted her instantly.
“Hank, dear,” Lillian Titus was saying, “m
ay I present the Duchess of Beaumont. She just arrived this afternoon and will be with us through the season.” She turned to Claire, “Your Grace, Mr. Hank Cassidy of Nevada.”
Claire took one look at Hank and recognized him as the man she’d seen going into the hotel cottages this afternoon. She knew she had found the man she was going to seduce. The mere sight of him caused a fluttering sensation in her stomach and an aching tightness in her breasts.
He was tall, a couple of inches over six feet. He was also tanned, muscular and fit. His hair was coal black, thick and gleaming with blue highlights under the glow of the chandelier. She had the strongest urge to reach up and run her hands through those silky raven locks.
His face was beautiful, but strong. Hooded eyes of striking summer blue were focused on her and deep in their depths flashed unmistakable sensual fire and unspoken challenge. His nose was straight and proud. His mouth was wide, generous, with warm, sensual lips that likely knew the art of kissing.
He was staring at her and Claire caught the slight dilating of his eyes and the little smile that began to play around the corners of his mouth as if he knew something she didn’t. It made her uneasy. It made her curious.
He wore an elegant tuxedo with satin lapels and cummerbund that fitted his tall, lean body perfectly. The whiteness of his pleated shirt was striking against the darkness of his skin. He held a glass of port in his right hand and she noted that his fingers were long and tapered, the nails clean and cut short. She found herself wondering how it would feel to have that tanned hand touching her. Caressing her face. Stroking her shoulders.
Without so much as moving a muscle, his raw sexual power was obvious, almost tangible. There was absolutely no doubt in Claire’s mind that this was the man who could invoke a feverish passion in her.
