17
Summer glided into fall and an air of tense expectancy hung over the house and its inhabitants. The harvest was in, and soon the mill would spring alive.
Sophronia moved belligerently through the days, increasingly snappish and difficult to please. Only the fact that Kit wasn’t sharing Cain’s bed brought her any comfort. It wasn’t that she wanted Cain for herself—she’d gratefully relinquished her hold on that idea. Instead, it was a feeling that as long as Kit stayed away from Cain, Sophronia wouldn’t have to face the awful possibility that a decent woman like Kit, a decent woman like herself, could find pleasure lying with a man. Because if that were possible, all her carefully arranged ideas about what was important and what wasn’t would become meaningless.
Sophronia knew she was running out of time. James Spence was pressing her to make up her mind whether or not she’d be his mistress, safe and well protected in the small doll’s house he’d found in Charleston, away from Rutherford’s gossiping tongues. Never one to be idle, Sophronia now found herself staring out the window for long stretches of time, looking in the direction of the overseer’s house.
Magnus waited, too. He sensed that Sophronia was coming to some sort of crisis, and he steeled himself to face it. How much longer, he wondered, could he be patient? And how was he going to live with himself if she left him for James Spence with his fancy red buggy, his phosphate mine, and his skin as white as the underbelly of a fish?
Cain’s problems were different, and yet the same. With the harvest in and the machinery installed in the mill, there was no longer any reason for him to work so hard. But he’d needed the numbing exhaustion of those long workdays to keep his body from realizing the great joke he was playing on it. Not since he was a kid had he been so long without a woman.
Most nights he was back at the house in time for dinner, and he couldn’t decide whether she was deliberately driving him mad or it if was unintentional. Each night she appeared at the table smelling of jasmine, with her hair styled so that it reflected her mood. Sometimes she wore it impishly high on her head with wisps of curl framing her face like soft, inky feathers. Other times she’d arrange it in the severe Spanish style so few women could wear successfully, parted in the center and pulled into a heavy knot at the nape of her neck that just begged for his fingers to undo it. Either way, he had to struggle to take his eyes off her. It was ironic. He who’d never been faithful to a woman was now being faithful to a woman he couldn’t make love with, not until he could put her in the proper place in his life.
Kit was as unhappy as Cain. Her body, once awakened, didn’t want to go back to sleep. Strange, erotic fantasies plagued her. She found the book Cain had give her so long ago, Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. At the time, the poems had confused her. Now they stripped her bare. Never had she read poetry like this, sprawling verse stuffed with images that left her body burning:
Love-thoughts, love-juice, love-odor, love-yielding,
love climbers, and the climbing sap,
Arms and hands of love, lips of love, phallic thumb of
love, bellies press’d and glued together with love. . . .
She ached for his touch. She found herself rushing back to her bedroom in the afternoons for long, soaking baths and then dressing for dinner in her most attractive gowns. Before long, her clothes grew too tame. She cut off a dozen tiny silver buttons from the bodice of her cinnamon silk gown so that the neckline fell open to the middle of her breasts. Then she filled in the space with a string of glass beads the color of juniper berries. She replaced the belt on a pale yellow morning dress with a long swath of vermilion-and-indigo-striped taffeta. She wore bright pink slippers with a tangerine gown, then was unable to resist threading lime-colored ribbons through the sleeves. She was outrageous, enchanted. Sophronia said she was behaving like a peacock spreading its tail to attract a mate.
But Cain didn’t seem to notice.
Veronica Gamble came to call on a rainy Monday afternoon nearly three months after Kit’s wedding. Kit had volunteered to sift through the dusty clutter in the attic for a set of china no one could find, and once again she looked less than her best.
Other than exchanging a few courteous words when they saw each other at church or in town, Kit hadn’t visited with Veronica since the disastrous dinner party. She’d sent her a polite thank-you note for the handsome, calf-bound copy of Madame Bovary that had been Veronica’s wedding present—a most inappropriate gift, Kit had discovered as she was devouring every word. Veronica fascinated her, but she was also threatened by the older woman’s self-assurance and cool beauty.
While Lucy served frosty glasses of lemonade and a plate of cucumber sandwiches, Kit dismally compared Veronica’s well-cut biscuit-colored suit with her own soiled and rumpled cotton frock. Was it any wonder that her husband showed such obvious pleasure in Veronica’s company? Not for the first time, Kit found herself wondering if all their meetings were taking place in public. The idea that they might be seeing each other privately made her ache.
“And how do you find married life?” Veronica asked after they’d exchanged pleasantries and Kit had consumed four cucumber sandwiches to the other woman’s one.
“Compared to what?”
Veronica’s laughter tinkled through the room like glass bells. “You’re without doubt the most refreshing female in this decidedly tedious county.”
“If it’s so tedious, why do you stay here?”
Veronica fingered the cameo brooch at her throat. “I came here to heal my spirit. I’m certain that sounds melodramatic to someone as young as you, but my husband was very dear to me, and his death hasn’t been easy for me to accept. In the end, though, I’m finding boredom almost as great an enemy as grief. When one has become accustomed to the company of a fascinating man, it’s not easy to be alone.”
Kit wasn’t sure how to respond, especially since she sensed a subtle calculation behind the words, an impression that Veronica quickly reinforced.
“Enough! You cannot want to spend your afternoons listening to the maudlin reflections of a lonely widow when your own life is so new and young. Tell me how you’re enjoying being married.”
“I’m adjusting much like any other new bride,” Kit answered carefully.
“What a conventional and proper response. I’m quite disappointed. I’d expected you to tell me with your customary bluntness to mind my own business, although I’m certain you shall do just that before I leave. I came here with the express purpose of prying into the intimacies of this most interesting marriage of yours.”
“Really, Mrs. Gamble,” Kit said weakly. “I’m sure I can’t imagine why you’d care to do that.”
“Because human mysteries make life amusing. And now I find one right in front of me.” Veronica tapped her cheek with one oval fingernail. “Why, I ask myself, does the most attractive couple in South Carolina seem to be at loggerheads?”
“Mrs. Gamble, I—”
“Why do their eyes seldom meet in public? Why do they never touch each other in the casual way lovers do?”
“Really, I don’t—”
“That, of course, is the most interesting question of all, because it makes me wonder if they truly are lovers.”
Kit sucked in her breath, but Veronica waved her silent with a lazy flick of her hand. “Spare me any dramatics until you’ve heard me out. You may discover I’m doing you a favor.”
A small, silent war took place inside Kit, with caution on one side and curiosity on the other. “Go on,” she said as coolly as she could manage.
“There is something not quite right about this couple,” Veronica continued. “The husband has a hungriness about him that is foreign to a well-satisfied man. While the wife. . . . Ah, the wife! She is even more interesting than the husband. She watches him when he isn’t looking, drinking in his body in the most immodest fashion, letting her eyes caress him. It’s most puzzling. The man is virile, the wife sensuous, and yet I am convinced the two are no
t lovers.”
Having had her say, Veronica was now content to wait. Kit felt as if she’d been stripped bare. It was humiliating. And yet . . . “You came here with a purpose, Mrs. Gamble. I’d like to know what it is.”
Veronica looked surprised. “But isn’t it obvious? You can’t be so naive that you don’t realize I’m attracted to your husband.” She tilted her head. “I’m here to give you fair warning. If you don’t intend to make use of him, I certainly do.”
Kit found herself almost calm. “You came here today to warn me that you intend to have a liaison with my husband?”
“Only if you don’t want him, my dear.” Veronica picked up her lemonade and took a delicate sip. “Despite what you may think, I formed an exceptional fondness for you the first time I met you. You remind me so much of myself at your age, although I hid my feelings better. Still, fondness can extend only so far, and in the end it will be better for your marriage if I share your husband’s bed, instead of some scheming hussy who’ll try to come between the two of you permanently.”
Up until that moment, she had been speaking lightly, but now her green eyes bore uncompromisingly into Kit’s like small, polished emeralds. “Believe me when I tell you this, my dear. For some reason that I can’t possibly fathom, you’ve left your husband ripe for the picking, and it’s only a matter of time until someone does just that. I intend that someone to be me.”
Kit knew she should sweep indignantly from the room, but there was something about Veronica Gamble’s utter frankness that triggered the part of her that had so little patience with dissemblance. This woman knew the answers to secrets that Kit could only glimpse.
She managed to keep her face expressionless. “For the sake of conversation, suppose some of what you say is true. Suppose . . . that I have . . . no interest in my husband. Or suppose—again for the sake of conversation—that . . . my husband has no . . . interest in me.” Color flushed her cheeks, but she plunged determinedly on. “How might you suggest I go about . . . getting him interested?”
“Seduce him, of course.”
There was a long, painful silence.
“And how,” Kit asked stonily, “might one do that?”
Veronica considered for a moment. “A woman seduces a man by following her instincts without giving the slightest thought to what she’s heard is proper or improper. Seductive dress, a seductive manner, a willingness to tantalize by giving a glimpse of promises to come. You’re an intelligent woman, Kit. I’m certain if you put your mind to it, you’ll find a way. Just remember this. Pride has no place in the boudoir. It’s a room devoted to giving, not holding back. Do I make myself clear?”
Kit nodded stiffly.
Having accomplished the purpose of her visit, Veronica gathered up her gloves and reticule and stood. “I warn you, my dear, you’d best learn your lessons quickly, for I shan’t give you much time. You’ve had quite enough already.”
She swept from the room.
A few moments later, as she mounted the steps to her carriage, Veronica smiled to herself. How Francis would have enjoyed this afternoon. It wasn’t often that she got the chance to play fairy godmother, but she had to admit that she’d performed splendidly.
As she settled back into the tufted leather seat, her brow knitted ever so slightly. Now she had to make up her mind whether or not she would actually carry out her threat.
Kit finally had the excuse to do what she’d been wanting to for so very long. Dinner was torture, made worse by the fact that Cain seemed to be in the mood to prolong it. He talked about the mill and asked her opinion on what the market for cotton would be like within the year. As always when the subject was cotton, he listened attentively to her response.
Horrible man. He was so achingly handsome that she could barely look away from him, and why did he have to be so charming to Miss Dolly?
She escaped to her room as soon as she could. For a while, she paced. Finally she slipped out of her clothes, donned a faded cotton wrapper, and sat in front of her mirror to take the pins out of her hair. She was brushing it into a soft midnight cloud when she heard Cain climbing the stairs to his bedroom.
Her reflection showed an unnaturally pale face. She pinched her cheeks, then replaced her moonstone eardrops with a small pair of pearl studs. Afterward, she dabbed a touch of jasmine scent to the hollow of her throat.
When she was satisfied, she abandoned her wrapper for the black silk peignoir set that had been a wedding present from Elsbeth. It slid like oil over her naked flesh. The garment was starkly simple, with small capped sleeves and a rounded bodice that dipped so low it barely covered the peaks of her breasts. The skirt clung to her body in long, soft folds that outlined the shape of her hips and legs when she moved. Over the gown she donned the peignoir, made entirely of sheer black lace. With trembling fingers, she fastened the single small button at the throat.
Through the lace, her skin gleamed like winter moonlight, and as she walked, the peignoir fell open, something she was fairly certain Elsbeth hadn’t taken into account when she’d bought the gift. The gown beneath shaped itself like a second skin to her body, outlining her breasts, clinging to the delicate indentation of her navel and, more seductively, to the small mound below.
She walked through the sitting room, her bare feet padding noiselessly on the carpet. When she reached the door to his bedroom, she nearly lost her nerve. Quickly, before that happened, she rapped on the door.
“Come in.”
He was dressed in shirtsleeves and sitting in the wing chair next to the window, a sheaf of papers on the table by his side. He looked up, and when he saw how she was dressed, his eyes darkened to a deep, smoky gray. She walked toward him slowly, head high, shoulders proud, heart hammering.
“What do you want?” The charming man at the dinner table had been left behind. He sounded weary, suspicious, and hostile. Once again she wondered why he’d lost interest in her. Because he didn’t find her appealing? If that was true, she was about to suffer a terrible humiliation.
She could have invented an excuse—a cut finger that needed his attention, a request to borrow a book—but he’d have seen right through it. She lifted her chin and met his gaze. “I want to make love with you.”
She watched uneasily as his mouth curved in a small, mocking twist. “My beautiful wife. So forthright.” His eyes grazed her body, so clearly defined against the thin fabric. “Let me be just as straightforward. Why?”
This wasn’t the way she’d imagined it. She’d expected him to hold out his arms and take over. “We’re—we’re married. It’s not right for us to be sleeping apart.”
“I see.” He tilted his head toward the bed. “It’s a matter of observing the amenities, is that it?”
“Not exactly that.”
“Then what?’
A slight sheen of perspiration gathered between her shoulder blades. “I just want to.” Too late, she realized she couldn’t do this. “Forget it.” She turned toward the door. “Forget I ever said anything. It was a stupid idea.” She reached for the knob just as his hand settled over hers.
“Giving up so easily?”
She wished she’d never started this, and she couldn’t even blame her behavior on Veronica Gamble. She’d wanted to taste him, to touch him, to experience the mystery of lovemaking again. Veronica had merely given her the excuse.
She realized he’d moved away from her, and she looked up to see him leaning against the mantel of the fireplace.
“Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll wait for you to start.”
“Start what?”
“A man can’t perform on command. I’m afraid you’ll have to arouse my interest.”
Had she thought to drop her eyes, she would have seen that his interest was already well aroused, but she was too busy trying to fight down the queer jumble of feelings twisting about inside her. “I don’t know how to do that.”
He rested his shoulders against the mantelpiece and crossed his ankles indolently. ??
?Experiment. I’m all yours.”
She couldn’t bear having him making fun of her. Her throat constricted, and she moved back to the door. “I’ve changed my mind.”
“Coward,” he said softly.
She turned in time to see the mockery fade from his expression and something different take its place, something both seductive and challenging. “I dare you, Kit Weston.”
A wild pounding reverberated deep inside her. Follow your instincts, Veronica had advised. But how would she know what to do?
He lifted a brow in silent acknowledgment of her dilemma, and a rush of courage that defied logic surged through her. Slowly she raised her fingers to the single button that held the peignoir together. The garment slid to the floor in a cascade of black lace.
His eyes drank in her body. “You’ve never been one to refuse a dare, have you?” he said huskily.
Her mouth curved into a smile. She walked toward him slowly, feeling a sudden, unreasonable surge of self-confidence. As she moved, she let her hips sway ever so slightly so that the slim skirt of the gown clung even more revealingly. She stopped in front of him and stared into the smoky depths of his eyes. Without dropping her gaze, she reached up and rested the palms of her hands lightly on his shoulders.
She sensed his tension beneath her fingers, and it gave her a feeling of power she’d never known in his presence. She lifted herself on her toes and pressed her lips to the dancing pulse at the base of his throat.
He groaned softly and buried his face in her hair, but otherwise he kept his arms at his sides. Excitement at his uncharacteristic passivity quivered through her. She parted her lips and flicked at the pulse with the tip of her tongue until its rhythm beat faster and faster.
Greedy for more of him, she tugged at the buttons on his shirt. When it was open, she pushed the fabric out of her way and slipped her hands beneath. She splayed her fingers over the mat of hair on his chest and then touched her lips to the hard, flat nipple that she’d exposed.
With a strangled sound, he caught her in his arms and pulled her body against his. But it was her game now, and she’d make him play by her rules. With the soft, wicked laugh of a vixen, she eased out of his grasp and backed across the room.