Copyright © 1984 by Erin St. Claire
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review,
Hachette Book Group, USA
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New York, NY 10017
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First eBook Edition: January 2000
ISBN: 978-0-446-54533-4
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
A preview of "Seduction by Design"
Sandra Brown leaves you breathless!
PRAISE FOR THE #1 NEW YORK TIMES
BESTSELLING AUTHOR
SANDRA BROWN
“Sandra Brown has continued to grow with every novel.”
—Dallas Morning News
“Brown’s forte is devising plots spiced with sexuality that keep her readers guessing.”
—Library Journal
“Brown’s storytelling gift is surprisingly rare, even among crowd pleasers.”
—Toronto Sun
“Plotting and pacing are Brown’s considerable strengths.”
—San Jose Mercury News
“She knows how to keep the tension high and the plot twisting and turning.”
—Fresno Bee
“A master storyteller.”
—Newport News Daily Press
Books by Sandra Brown
The Alibi
Another Dawn
Best Kept Secrets
Bittersweet Rain
Breath of Scandal
Charade
Eloquent Silence
Exclusive
Fat Tuesday
French Silk
Hidden Fires
Love Beyond Reason
Love’s Encore
Mirror Image
Prime Time
Shadows of Yesterday
The Silken Web
Slow Heat in Heaven
Standoff
Sunset Embrace
Sweet Anger
The Switch
Tempest in Eden
Temptation’s Kiss
A Treasure Worm Seeking
Unspeakable
Where There’s Smoke
The Witness
Dear Reader,
For years before I began writing general fiction, I wrote genre romances under several pseudonyms. Bittersweet Rain was originally published more than fifteen years ago.
This story reflects the trends and attitudes that were popular at that time, but its themes are eternal and universal. As in all romance fiction, the plot revolves around star-crossed lovers. There are moments of passion, anguish, and tenderness—all integral facets of falling in love.
I very much enjoyed writing romances. They’re optimistic in orientation and have a charm unique to any other form of fiction. If this is your first taste of it, please enjoy.
—Sandra Brown
Chapter 1
You’re certain?”
The doctor nodded bleakly. His operating room greens were still fresh. He hadn’t been in surgery long enough to sweat them. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Lancaster. It’s extensive and rampant.”
“There’s nothing you can do?”
“Beyond keeping him comfortable and as free of pain as possible, no.” He touched her arm and glanced meaningfully at the man standing by her side. “He doesn’t have too long. A few weeks at the most.”
“I see.” She blotted her eyes with a crumpled, damp tissue.
The doctor’s heart went out to her. When family members reacted to bad news with hysteria, he felt competent to handle them. This valorous acceptance from a woman so feminine and frail-looking left him feeling callow and awkward. “If he had come in for a checkup sooner, maybe …”
She smiled a sad, wistful smile. “But he wouldn’t. I begged him to see you when his stomach kept bothering him. He insisted it was nothing more than indigestion.”
“We all know how stubborn Roscoe can be,” the man with her said. Gently Granger Hopkins folded Caroline Lancaster’s fingers around his arm. “Can she see him?”
“In a few hours,” the doctor replied. “He’ll be under anesthetic until this afternoon. Why don’t you go home for a while and get some rest?”
Caroline nodded and let Granger, an attorney and friend, lead her toward the elevator. They waited for it in glum silence. She was dazed but not surprised. Never had her life been rosy and without complication. Why had she idealistically clung to the hope that Roscoe’s exploratory surgery would prove that he had nothing more than a treatable ulcer?
“Are you all right?” Granger asked softly when the elevator doors closed behind them and they were free from prying eyes.
She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “As all right as a woman can be when she finds out her husband is going to die. Soon.”
“I’m sorry.”
She looked up at him and smiled. Granger’s heart melted. Her smiles, which were often sweetly apologetic for some invisible deficiency, had a way of touching both men and women. “I know you are, Granger. I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you as a friend.”
They crossed the lobby of the newly refurbished hospital. Personnel and visitors glanced at Caroline and then quickly away. The averted faces were curious but deferential. Everyone already knew. When a leading citizen in a town the size of Winstonville was dying, the news spread like wildfire.
Granger escorted Caroline to her car and opened the door for her. She got inside but didn’t turn on the ignition. She sat, staring dejectedly ahead, lost in thought, in worry, in grief. So many things to see to. Where would she start?
“Rink will have to be notified.”
The name went through her like an ice pick, cold, needle-sharp and piercing. It punctured all her vital organs. His name thundered through her head. The pain of hearing it paralyzed her.
“Caroline, did you hear me? I said—”
“Yes, I heard you.”
“Before he went into surgery, Roscoe made me promise to contact Rink if the prognosis was bad.”
Eyes the elusive color of woodsmoke sought the lawyer’s. “He asked you to contact Rink?”
“Yes. He was most emphatic about it.”
“I’m surprised. I thought the quarrel between them was irreconcilable.”
“Roscoe is dying, Caroline. I think he knew when he went into the hospital that he’d never leave it. He wants to see his son before he dies.”
“They haven’t seen or spoken to each other in twelve years, Granger. I don’t know if Rink will come back.”
“He will when he knows the circumstances.”
Would he? Oh, God, would he? Would she see him again? How would she feel when she did? What would he look like? It had happened so long ago. Twelve years ago. Her hands gripped the padded steering wheel of her Lincoln. Her palms were damp. She went damp all over.
“Don’t worry about it,” Granger said, sensing her distress. “Since you don’t know Rink, I’ll call and tell him.”
Caroline didn’t correct his assumption that she didn’t know Rink. That they had known each other had been a well-kept secret for twelve years. She didn’t intend now to start revealing it. Instead she laid her hand over Granger’s where it rested on the windo
wsill of the car door. “Thank you for everything.”
His face was plain and lumpy and as long and drooping as a basset hound’s. His cheeks hung like empty leather pouches on either side of his jaw. Incongruously, when she touched him, he blushed hike a schoolboy. He was rumpled and stooped, slow-moving, soft-spoken and kind, but his demeanor had fooled many. Behind that caricature of a face operated a shrewd, though scrupulously honest, mind. “I’m glad to be of any help I can. Is there anything else?”
She shook her head. It was a relief that he had volunteered to call Rink. How would she ever have brought herself to do that? “I have to tell Laura Jane.” The gray eyes filled with tears. “That won’t be easy.”
“You’ll handle it better than anyone else could.” He patted her hand and backed away. ‘I’ll call you this afternoon and if you like, I’ll drive you back to the hospital whenever you want to return.”
She nodded, started the car and engaged the gears. The town was bustling as she drove through it. Roscoe’s surgery had been scheduled early that morning. By now the workday’s business was in full swing. People were going about their daily routines, unaware that Caroline Dawson Lancaster’s world had once again been turned upside down.
The man she had looked to, first as an employer, then as a husband, was going to die. Her future, which for a; short while had seemed secure, was once more precarious. Not only would Roscoe’s death mean the loss of someone important to her, it would mean the loss of her new station in life as well.
She drove past the Lancaster Gin. They were gearing up for a heavy cotton crop this year. The foremen would have to be told about Roscoe’s condition soon. That would be left up to her, since she had been tending to the gin’s business for several months, ever since Roscoe’s health had prevented him from handling it himself. The foremen would pass on the word to the workers. Before long everyone in town would know that Roscoe Lancaster was dying.
It had been a hot gossip item when Caroline Dawson married Roscoe Lancaster, who was more than thirty years her senior. Folks had said that that trashy Dawson girl had bettered herself all right, living at The Retreat and driving a shiny new Lincoln, always dressed fit to kill no matter what the occasion. Shoot! Who did she think she was? Everybody could remember when she wore patched clothes and worked at Woolworth’s after school. Now that she was Mrs. Roscoe Lancaster, married to the richest man in the county, she put on airs.
Actually, Caroline avoided the townsfolk because she couldn’t stand their speculative glances, glances that told her they were wondering just what kind of witchcraft she had practiced on ol’ Roscoe to get him to marry her after being a widower for so many years.
Soon those same people would be coming to her to pay their respects. She closed her eyes briefly and shuddered at the thought. Only the sight of The Retreat could lift her despondency. Until the day she died, a mere glimpse of the house would thrill her. From the first time she had seen it as a little girl, creeping through the woods and peering through the trees at the mansion, it had enchanted her.
It was encircled by stately live oaks. Their massive branches, dripping curly gray moss, spread over it protectively like embracing arms. The house sat like a Southern coquette with her wide hooped skirts ballooned around her. The brick was kept painted a pristine white. A file of Corinthian columns adorned the front, three on each side of the front door. They supported the second-story balcony over the wide veranda that surrounded the house. White wicker furniture dotted the porch. It was brought in only during the cold, wet winter months. White wrought iron, as lacy as a petticoat, bordered the balcony. Forest-green shutters flanked tall windows that gleamed like mirrors in the sunlight.
Summer insects buzzed crazily, ecstatically, around the profusion of blooming flowers, their colors so brilliant and rich they hurt the eyes. No place on earth had greener grass than that which spread like a carpet around The Retreat.
An aura of serenity hovered over the house like the magic mist that surrounded the castle in a fairy tale. For almost as long as she could remember, the house had represented all that was desirable in the world. Now she lived in it. After today, she knew her residence would be temporary.
She brought the car to a stop on the gravel drive that arced in front of the house. For a moment, she collected her thoughts and built up the resources from which she would have to draw strength for the next few hours. It wouldn’t be a pleasant afternoon. The entrance hall was dim after the blinding sunshine outside. The Retreat was a typically designed plantation house of the antebellum period. A wide central foyer ran from the front door to the back. Opening off one side of it were the formal dining room and the library, the room Roscoe used as his office. On the other side were the formal and informal parlors, divided from the foyer and from each other by enormous sliding doors which disappeared into the walls. To Caroline’s recollection the doors had never been used. A sweeping curved staircase rose majestically to the second floor and its four bedroom suites.
The house was cool, a haven against the summer humidity. Caroline peeled off her suit jacket hung it on the coatrack and plucked at the silk blouse that was damply sticking to her back.
“Well? What’s the news?”
The housekeeper, Mrs. Haney, who had been at The Retreat since Marlena Winston had married Roscoe Lancaster, stood in the arched doorway that led into the dining room. Having come from the kitchen beyond, she was drying her large, rough, capable hands, which matched the rest of her, on a muslin cup towel.
Caroline went to her slowly and embraced her. The housekeeper’s stout arms closed around the slender woman. “Bad, then?” she asked softly, stroking Caroline’s back.
“The worst. Cancer. He won’t be coming home.”
Haney’s enormous bosom heaved on a sob that she didn’t let go of. Together the two women leaned into each other, offering and accepting solace. Haney wasn’t all that fond of Roscoe, though she had tolerated him for over thirty-five years. Her grief was mostly for the ones he would leave behind, including his young widow.
Haney had at first been suspicious and resentful of the new mistress of The Retreat. But when she saw that Caroline wasn’t going to change anything in the house, that she intended to leave it as Marlena had wanted it to be, she began to be won over. Of course, the girl couldn’t help coming from trash. Haney wouldn’t be so prejudiced as to judge her by her folks. Caroline treated Laura Jane affectionately and kindly. That was reason enough for sainthood in Haney’s book.
“Haney? Caroline? What’s the matter?” They turned to see Laura Jane standing on the bottom stair. At twenty-two, Roscoe’s daughter looked little more than an adolescent. Her soft brown hair hung straight from a center part. It framed a face whose features were so delicate they looked ethereal. Her complexion was as translucent as porcelain. Her waiflike eyes were large and soulful and velvety brown, surrounded by long lashes. Her figure had matured only as far as her mind. She was like an exquisite bud not quite in full flower. All the curves of womanhood were there, but they would never ripen. Just as her mind had stopped developing, so had her body. She would forever remain untouched by time.
“Is Daddy’s operation over? Is he coming home?”
“Good morning, Laura Jane,” Caroline said, going to her stepdaughter, who was only five years younger than herself if one measured in years alone. She looped the girl’s arm through hers. “Will you walk with me outside? It’s a beautiful day.”
“All right. But why is Haney crying?” Haney was dabbing her eyes on the cup towel.
“She’s sad.”
“Why?”
Caroline propelled the young woman through the front door and out onto the veranda. “Because of Roscoe. He’s very sick, Laura Jane.”
“I know. His stomach hurts all the time.”
“The doctor said it’s not going to get any better.”
They strolled over the well-manicured lawn. A team of workmen came twice a week to keep the grounds at The Retreat in immaculate
condition, no matter the season. Laura Jane plucked a daisy from a clump growing near the lichen-covered brick path. “Has Daddy got cancer?”
Sometimes her astuteness surprised them. “Yes, he does,” Caroline replied. She wouldn’t shelter Laura Jane from the severity of her father’s illness. That would be cruel.
“I’ve heard a lot about cancer on television.” She stopped and faced Caroline. The two women were about the same height and their eyes were on a level. “Daddy could die with cancer.”
Caroline nodded. “He is going to die, Laura Jane. The doctor said he could die in a week or so.”
The deep brown eyes remained tearless. Laura Jane raised the daisy to her nose as she pondered the news. Finally she looked up at Caroline again. “He’ll go to Heaven, won’t he?”
“I guess so. … Yes, yes, of course he will.”
“Then Daddy’ll be with Mama again. She’s been there a long time. She’ll be glad to see him. And I’ll still have you and Haney and Steve.” She glanced toward the stables. “And Rink. Rink writes to me every week. He says he’ll always love me and take care of me. Do you think he will, Caroline?”
“Of course he will.” Caroline clamped her lips together to keep from crying. Would Rink ever keep a promise? Even to his sister?
“Then why doesn’t he live with us?’ Laura Jane demanded logically.
“Maybe he’ll come home soon.” She wasn’t going to tell the girl that Rink would be there until she knew for certain that he would be.
Laura Jane’s mind was at peace. “Steve’s waiting for me. The mare had her foal last night Come see it.”
Taking Caroline’s hand, she dragged her toward the stable. Caroline envied Laura Jane’s resilience and wished she could approach Roscoe’s death with the simple faith in the future that his daughter had.
The air in the large stable was warm and thick and smelled pleasantly of horseflesh, leather and hay. “Steve,” Laura Jane called out merrily.
“Here,” the low voice responded.
Steve Bishop was manager of the Lancaster stables. Raising thoroughbreds was an avocation of Roscoe’s, though he bothered little with the actual care of the horses. Bishop stepped out into the center aisle from one of the stalls. He wasn’t very tall but was powerfully built. His features were heavy and coarse, but somehow their expression softened the bluntness of his face. He wore his hair long, usually with a bandana sweat band around his head or, as now, with a straw cowboy hat on it His jeans were old and frayed, his boots dusty, his shirt sweat-stained. But his face was alight with a smile as Laura Jane skipped toward him. Only his eyes never lost their look of sadness and disillusionment even when he smiled. They seemed much older than his thirty-seven years.
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