by Tara Cowan
Marie took a breath and pressed her lips together. After a moment, she said, “The gentlemen—our fathers and Frederick—are talking about settlements, and dowries, and wills… It seems so very…uncomfortable and…”
“Distasteful?” Shannon suggested. She pretended that she had known this meeting was taking place today, pretended it did not wound her that she felt herself to be left out of family business more and more each day. “But there is money involved, my dear cousin—a great deal of it. It must always have been the case had you married any man of wealth—or any man at all, considering your own family’s fortune.”
“Well, you will feel it should all be foregone someday, Shannon, when it serves only to make your betrothed feel trapped.”
Shannon glanced up at Matilde at Marie’s sharp tone. She was studiously surveying her wax, not looking up. “I rather doubt Frederick has said as much,” Shannon said quietly, almost tartly.
Marie’s eyes flew to hers. “No, of course he has not. But it is very treacherous, Shannon, such an arrangement. One feels as though one is balancing on a rope, and…” She glanced at Matilde, flushing a little when she realized her openness. She closed her lips.
Feeling a rush of sympathy, Shannon pressed Marie’s hand on the table, giving her a look of compassion and commiseration. Marie smiled gratefully, returning the pressure. “He doesn’t feel that way, Marie.” She pressed her hand again, holding her eyes. “I promise you. I am his sister. I would know it if he did.”
Marie held her eyes for a moment and then glanced up at Matilde. She again closed her lips. Shannon, following this, said, “Matilde, take these to Mr. Turnbull, if you will, for posting. We are already far too late in doing so.”
“Yes, Miss Shannon,” she said, glancing between the two girls, obviously knowing precisely why she was being dismissed. She had not chased them out of trees and away from a set dining table for naught.
As soon as she left, Shannon said, “Come, what is it?”
Marie sighed. “Have you ever thought that Frederick and I are very different, Shannon? He has led an exciting life, has that certain dash…”
“Dearest, do stop,” Shannon said earnestly. “You are worrying yourself into high fidgets and must believe that Frederick is perfectly content until he gives you reason to believe otherwise.”
Shannon thought of it now, as she stood watching them dance. They seemed to be perfectly comfortable, with even an easiness between them. She rather thought that was always the case when they were together, and that Marie started imagining things perhaps in the dark of night as she lay in her bed, far away from Frederick.
In any event, Shannon knew she needed to return to the ballroom. Her father was standing with Seymour Christian and his father, attempting to catch her eye. She had been summoned.
“She is pensive,” Shannon’s dance partner said, “and yet so pretty.”
Shannon glanced up at Mr. Christian with his dark, dangerous eyes, and rakish smirk. “Oh, Seymour, not tonight,” she said, using his given name since they had been children together, he slightly older, albeit, but close enough in age to have once given her braid a firm yank she hadn’t forgotten.
“You disappoint me,” he said.
“I was given to understand that I couldn’t?”
He smiled. He did have a rather attractive smile, although not just to her taste. It was the kind of smile to enslave a girl, and then leave her in a wasteland of misery. “Naturally, but where shall I be without your sparring? You know I came only for your sake.”
Her eyes flitted up to his. “I know that we could make our families very happy, Seymour. But I am not certain that we should suit. Or that I should like your keeping a mistress.”
His eyes widened. “You little shrew. Do you call yourself a lady and say such things to a man in the middle of your father’s ballroom?” He was, perhaps, justifiably angry, but his hand was digging into her dress, gripping the fabric at her back.
“That’s enough, Mr. Christian,” she said sharply, and his grip loosened. “Now, I am sorry, but you cannot pretend it would be otherwise.”
“It could be,” he said, the tension draining out of him. “If I happened to love someone able to keep my attention.”
“Thank you, but that sounds a rather exhausting proposition, sir.”
“I might make you another proposition,” he responded, a dancing demon in his eyes.
She ought to have been outraged, but instead she choked on a laugh. “Dear God, and to think they allow you in decent society.”
His eyes scanned her face, more serious now. “I must have you, Shannon. And I will one day.”
Her lips parted. She might have interpreted that in several ways, but her brain heard the undertone in his voice. And she was eager for the dance to end.
Shannon escaped the ballroom, lifting her wide skirts slightly, surreptitiously opening one of the glass doors which gave onto the balcony. She had danced with enough gentlemen to appease her mother, beginning with the sainted son of Ridgecrest, and talked endlessly with the select of South Carolina. The air was thick with heat, the smell of perfumes, and talk of politics.
But on the balcony, the night was cool, and the stars were clear overhead. She placed her wrap around her arms, picking up where her short lace sleeves came to a point and ended. The pins and the weight of her hair were beginning to cause a headache.
Her mood was somber, and she tracked it easily enough to the changes within her family, to a few weeks in which she had not been perfectly happy. He is leaving in three days.
She swallowed, her eyes almost blinded with moisture. She pulled her wrap tight, crossing her arms.
The door opened, creaking, and she looked quickly over her shoulder, her heart dropping when she recognized that elegant stature. Strange how Seymour Christian fell abysmally flat in comparison. She had always thought her tastes ran to dark men. She had been mistaken.
She met his eyes, and he merely studied her, that expression in his eyes. There was a sweetness in him, not noticeable at first, that his eyes occasionally gave away. And there was trouble there and, she thought, worry, which made her knees rather weak. Frederick’s friend was not to be troubled with his sister’s emotions. “Are you well?”
She forced a smile as he stopped before her. “Indeed, I am, Mr. Haley. I do not believe we have danced tonight, though I saw you were the second to whom Marie gave her hand.”
He smiled briefly, placing his hand along the rail. He had removed his gloves and discarded them somewhere, it seemed. He looked extremely elegant in formal dress wear. “Your cousin is charming,” he said. “Frederick is very lucky.”
“Yes, indeed, he is. I have other cousins, from my mother’s family. But Marie has always been my favorite.” She studied him, with curiosity. “What do you think of Frederick’s Charleston friends?”
He lifted a shoulder. “They have been friendly enough.”
“And our neighbor, Seymour Christian?” He could not see the fiend in her eye, but it was there nonetheless.
He stiffened, almost imperceptibly, turning his face away. “I saw you dancing with him.”
Shannon looked at his profile, assessing. Her heart began pounding rapidly, her headache dissipating on a heady wave of—something. “My father is rather keen for me to marry him.” She watched him closely.
His jaw hardened. And heavens, what a jaw. “I noticed,” he said.
She let a heartbeat of silence pass and then said, “Do you think I ought to marry him, Mr. Haley?”
“No.” The word was firm and unhesitating. His blue eyes, which could laugh beautifully but were just now steadily holding hers, as though taking her measure, or soaking her in, were dark with desire. He swallowed, and her mouth went entirely dry. Good heavens, one would think swallowing a simple enough performance. “He would not make you happy,” he said, barel
y above a whisper.
She managed to swallow, her throat feeling raw. “How do you know what would make me happy, Mr. Haley?” she asked, tilting her chin up.
“I don’t know,” he said softly. “But I know you have not been these past weeks.” There was a long pause. He soaked in her features. “And that you deserve to be, Miss Ravenel.”
A tear rolled down her cheek. His lips parted. “Do not cry,” he said, lifting his hand and then hesitating, his other hand clenching.
She met his eyes, biting her lip as another tear tracked down her cheek. And then his hands were on her waist, tugging her gently against him. She slowly lifted her eyes to his, content to rest there, her gaze searching, but not hurriedly. His body against hers made her feel so weak and feminine. His lips brushed hers, sweetly at first, and then, after the first taste, hungrily. Her eyes slipped closed, and she had to clutch his sleeves.
It was not long before they were moving in rhythm with one another, want and need which had been carefully restrained for weeks spilling over. Frederick’s friend, this man who was supposed to make a pleasant visit with them and then walk as casually out of their lives. Only there was nothing casual about him. Her fingers touched his face, finally exploring his interesting jawline, feeling the very slight stubble as they progressed. His fingers were pressing her back, pulling her closer, closer, and their lips worked in perfect harmony.
Just when she started to realize that they needed to cease, that it was dangerous to tread any further, he broke the kiss, looking at her as though she had just performed a miracle, or perhaps witchcraft, startled and shaken, his breaths coming heavily, the desire, if anything, only heightened in his eyes. He was still holding her waist. His thumbs stroked up and down, absently, slowly, in a particularly delicious way. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered, looking remorseful. “To use you in such a manner…” His jaw clenched and unclenched. She had thought self-loathing would set in fairly soon. “I’m not even courting you.”
She studied his face, his bodily movements at odds with his words. He had removed one hand from her waist and was touching her bare arm, his thumb again stroking. It was a tender gesture, almost protective, and one that told her more than words could have. “Only because you have not asked, Mr. Haley,” she said, her lips lifting in a slight, shy smile.
“Do you want me to?” he asked, eyes never wavering from hers, looking entirely stunned.
She laughed, eyes glittering. “What you must think of me. I promise you, I do not kiss every gentleman I happen to encounter on a balcony in such a manner.”
His hand tightened on her arm. “No, of course n– I thought it was impossible,” he said, making a rapid survey of her face.
She squeezed the arm that was near her waist. “We may learn one another better, if you like, before truly courting.”
“No, I do not like,” he said firmly.
“Are you perfectly sure you wish to entangle yourself with a Southern girl?”
His lips lifted as he exhaled. “I think, and have been thinking for some time, that a Southern girl is all that will do for me.”
Her lips parted. She said shakily, “Very well, talk to Papa in the morning.”
His smile faded. “Yes, I will…” His brows were troubled. “But he isn’t going to allow it!”
“You don’t know that,” she responded. “Your family is well-respected in Massachusetts, is it not?” At his single, distracted nod, she said, “Well, then. What more can he want? He has been attempting to arrange my marriage since I was seven years old.”
He smiled briefly, but again looked distracted. “He will want a Southerner for you. From an old planting family. I have heard him say as much.”
“Oh, what is that, but a mere added nicety?” she asked. “Jane Bell married a man from New York last year, and you would have thought he was the heir to some throne.” Her pale cheeks flooded crimson. She bit her lip.
He finally gave his one-sided smile, which she felt to her toes, and there was such a twinkling look in his eyes that a bubble of laughter escaped her. Releasing her unwillingly, as though he knew he must not touch her again tonight, he said, “I will speak with him in the morning.” She thought he almost took a step toward her, but he refrained. He stood away from her, dragging a hand through his hair as though attempting to gather his wits. With a few feet between them, she felt shy. He was suddenly the handsome friend who had walked in with Frederick the first day, unknown to her and terribly enticing. She felt wholly unlike herself, weak and vulnerable and dependent. But though he had caused it, she could not bring herself in that moment to blame him.
Charleston, South Carolina
Chapter Eleven
There were a hundred freaking sea islands off the coast of South Carolina. Adeline had found that out before she ever drove toward Fort Sumter. She was going to have to decide whether looking for Santarella was a waste of time, or if it was worth it to learn about the family history.
In point of fact, she wasn’t precisely driving to Fort Sumter. She was riding with Harris in his little Infiniti, which he explained by way of student debt. She laughed, liking his sense of humor, and said, “Don’t I know it. I’ll be paying until I’m sixty.”
“Adrian’s a lucky devil,” he said with masculine envy. “Full ride to med school.”
She lifted her brows. “Is he that smart?”
“He’s a freakin’ wizard. Jude’s just like him. The kid was reading at three. Which was lucky, since the Thomases are all kind of ditzy. I roomed with Jude’s uncle in college. No common sense—just money.”
Adeline was silent for a moment. “He…told me what happened. It was an awful thing.”
He looked at her, lifting a brow. She kind of wished he’d look at the road, but no biggie. There was another silence. “Adrian talked to you about that?” he said finally.
“He told me his wife had died in a car wreck,” she affirmed.
“He doesn’t talk with anybody about that. Not with me, and I was there, for crying out loud. How long have you known him?” he demanded.
“About a week,” she said, wishing she hadn’t said anything. If Harris said something to him, it would sound like she had been gossiping. “Jude was terrified in the storm, and I think he thought he should explain. That’s literally all he said, though: My wife was killed in a car wreck, and he was in the car.”
“Hmm.” He left the topic, and they were soon talking about Santarella and the possibilities. He turned into the parking lot next to the departure point, and paid the fee. They walked toward the wharf where the large white boat was waiting to take them. There was a nice warm breeze, and seagulls stood here and there on posts. She liked living by the sea.
They were nearly to the boardwalk when they heard, “Uncle Harris!” and saw the little boy running toward them. Adeline saw Dr. Ravenel leaning against the boardwalk. He had been looking at his phone but at that looked up. His eyes narrowed.
Harris laughed when Jude caught up to them, catching him and tossing him in the air once before putting him on his hip. “Let’s go see your daddy,” he said.
When they made it to him, he was still leaning casually, arms crossed, eyes still narrowed. “Harris,” he said. “Miss Miller.” He seemed to be confused and a little suspicious.
“You knew we were meeting today to talk about the house,” his brother said pleasantly.
“No,” he said, looking at Adeline. “I didn’t.”
“Well, we did,” Harris said, obviously carefully concealing his exasperation. “And I commanded her to come. Thought we could use the company of a lady, eh Jude?”
Jude smiled shyly at Adeline. She had never seen him as exuberant as he had been upon seeing his uncle. He looked impossibly cute in his little bowtie and Sperries.
There was an ominous silence from the dock. “Oh. Well, we had better board.”
/> Harris half rolled his eyes and then said, “Sure. Lead on, Nephew!” Jude did, dragging Harris behind him. Adeline fell into step beside Dr. Ravenel, which was awkward.
Several seconds of silence passed as she walked on the boardwalk, wondering if she had worn the right shoes. Surely they wouldn’t get wet on a historical tour. The flats were kind of rubbing, though.
“Did you learn anything about the house?” he finally said.
“We think it may have been—Santarella, I mean—in the Sea Islands. I’m not sure how far I’m going to pursue that. It could take months to figure out where it is…or used to be.”
He seemed to be thinking. “I think it’s worth pursuing,” he said finally. “Even if it puts us a little off schedule.”
Well, that was easy. “I think it’s a good decision. The Charleston families had so much flair. I could make it time-period-appropriate easily. But I’d far prefer to know how it was when they lived here.”
“What were you wanting the precise date to be?” he said. He seemed to be thinking about it. He wasn’t a true history-lover, but at least he cared.
“Well, that’s up to you, but I was thinking 1860. It’ll pay tribute to Sumter, just across the way, and it should’ve been at the height of your family’s wealth.” The boardwalk sort of popped beneath her. It sounded a little ominous, but hundreds of people had to pass over it every day.
“I assume it was my family. We could’ve been cousins and the entire thing was blown out of proportion, you know,” he said.
“Is there any chance you know whether you are descended from Frederick Ravenel?”
He looked at her, expression arrested. “Yes. That was my grandfather’s name. He was named after his…great-grandfather, I think.”
“Then you’re it. The original Ravenels,” she said, smiling. “I have a friend who’s a title searcher. We ran it back to when it was built.”
“What is his wife’s name, my many-times grandmother?” he asked, brushing a fly off his temple. “I knew that once, I think.”
