Comfort and Joy (12 page)

But Charles refused to take advantage of the situation. Even though Maeve was presently his wife, he’d soon be seeking a divorce.

Unused to being kept waiting and impatient for her appearance, Charles made his way from the parlor. It occurred to him she might have developed a case of cold feet and had barred her door. If necessary, Charles intended to carry her down to the party.

A group had gathered round the piano to sing a lively rendition of We Wish You a Merry Christmas. He stopped for a moment, envying their good spirits. It was, after all, the season of love and joy.

Waving to Martin, who had just arrived without his wife, he turned to the stairs. And stopped. His breathing stopped, his heart may even have stopped. He did not know, could not think. He could only stare.

Maeve stood at the top of the landing. The instant their eyes met she sent him a brilliant smile, a smile that made him feel as if he were the only man in the room. He stood rooted to the spot, stunned by her remarkable beauty, jarring bolts of white heat shot through his veins.

Maeve descended the stairs slowly, a luminous vision in rich green velvet. The gown’s neckline revealed a tantalizing glimpse of creamy cleavage. Her sparkling lapis gaze never left his, even as Charles took in the silky raven curls that brushed her shoulders. He warmed as his gaze drifted to her lips, slightly parted, full and lush, the shade of crimson roses. Lips he knew were soft and moist as the morning dew.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply. He had to get a grip.

Pansy Deakins followed with what appeared to be an annoyingly smug smile on her lips.

Acknowledging Pansy with a dip of his head, Charles clasped Maeve’s hand as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

“You outshine the stars tonight.”

Damn. What made him say that!

Maeve responded with an even more radiant smile. “And ye are looking very handsome, yourself.”

Her saucy gaze swept from his head to his feet.

He quickly led his Irish wife away, heading for a quiet corner of the room.

Unfortunately, Martin intervened. He held an unlit cigar in one hand and slapped Charles on the back with the other.

“My aunt has done it again,” he said, looking about the room filled with beautiful young men and women. Everyone who is anyone is here. ‘Tis another Beatrice Rycroft success. And a fitting way to start the season.”

“Yes, Mother has outdone herself.” Charles quickly scanned the foyer entrance and then the parlor. “Where is your wife? Did Sally not accompany you?”

“Sally’s not well. She suffers from morning sickness morning, noon, and night.” Martin’s gaze fixed on Maeve’s décolletage. “She could not be with me this evening but sends her regrets.”

“Give her my best wishes, and enjoy the evening Martin.” Unreasonably irritated by his cousin’s rude ogling of Maeve, Charles started to lead her away.

“And who is this enchanting woman on your arm?”

“Did I not introduce you? Forgive me. This is...Maeve.”

Maeve inclined her head and smiled sweetly.

Martin appeared enthralled.

Charles decided to finish the introduction quickly and whisk his wife away. He didn’t trust his cousin — never had, really. Just because Martin was married did not mean he would behave honorably toward Maeve — or any woman, for that matter. Martin loved women as a whole. What’s more, he made no secret of the fact that he preferred variety in his life. Charles suspected his cousin kept a mistress.

“Maeve, this is my cousin, Martin Rycroft.”

“Charmed, my dear. Absolutely charmed.”

Maeve blushed.

“Where did you meet?” Martin blurted, turning to Charles. “I have —”

“We met last week...by chance,” Charles said, tugging at Maeve’s hand.

Martin grasped Maeve’s free hand, preventing Charles’s flight. “My dear, you’ve managed what no other woman has been able to do for months. You have captured my cousin’s eye.”

“As he has captured mine.”

“The lady came to my rescue one snowy day,” Charles explained hastily.

“She rescued you?”

“I shall be glad to tell you the whole of it later. But for the present we must not ignore our other guests.”

“No, no. Beatrice would be quite upset.”

Without giving Martin the opportunity to prolong the conversation, Charles pulled Maeve from his cousin’s grasp and strode into the crowded parlor where the games had begun.

A rousing rendition of Hunt the Slipper was followed by a round of Charades. Maeve managed to sit quietly in a corner with Pansy, Charles, and his best friend, Spencer Wellington. Though many inquiring glances were thrown her way, Charles avoided introductions as much as politely possible.

An hour into the party, Maeve had yet to speak a word. With each introduction, she merely bowed her head and smiled. And hoped she would not be sick to her stomach. Her tossing stomach threatened to send her from the party at any moment

Charles looked extraordinarily handsome dressed in formal attire. His dark velvet jacket eloquently defined the broad expanse of his shoulders. Maeve noted the rich fabric of his waistcoat, the precise fold of his tie. He cut a dashing figure, one that could never be overlooked. Towering over the rest of the guests, Charles moved with animal grace, compelling and powerful. He exuded subtle signals of strength and a keen intelligence.

A tumble of warm, prickly needles and pins raced down Maeve’s spine. Her heart leaped like some wild thing locked within her chest. She wanted him. Alone. Now.

Impossible.

Throughout the games an enigmatic smile lurked about his sensuous mouth. The desire to taste Charles’s lips again and warm his cool smile filled Maeve to an aching point.

But she was not the only woman in the room drawn to him. Stella appeared unable to tear her gaze away from Charles. The merry widow flirted openly with Maeve’s husband from beneath pale, hooded eyes.

Maeve concentrated on the games, learning and memorizing so that she might play with abandon at the next party. Even now she still possessed the heart of a child. Perhaps because there had been no time for games in her childhood. Each day had been a new struggle for survival.

“You are about to play Blindman’s Bluff,” Pansy whispered. “It’s time to take part and no skill is required for this game.”

Maeve looked to Charles. “Would it be proper?”

He gave her a smile of encouragement. A true smile. “Yes, of course, Maeve. Join in.”

Her heart skipped several beats and landed with a thud.

“I’ll play, too,” Pansy declared.

“Dear God. I fear my cousin has been chosen as blindman,” Charles remarked drolly.

“Is that bad?” Maeve asked.

“In this game the blindman must identify a person by touch alone. It’s the only game I know Martin to play. Keep your distance,” he warned.

Once Martin was blindfolded and a circle of participants formed, Pansy snatched Maeve’s hand. “We must change our seat, he knows where we are.”

Maeve did not like leaving Charles’s side but giggled as Martin stumbled toward Stella and patted her hair before stepping back.

“A woman with lovely, silk hair...but I do not know who. And I dare not touch again, I fear.”

The room broke out into laughter.

As Martin turned in place like a drunken sailor, Pansy led Maeve to a spot on the other side of the room where they could observe and dodge the blindman if it became necessary.

Martin reached out and patted the shoulders and chest of the young man standing next to Stella. “I don’t believe I know you.” As an afterthought, Charles’s cousin ran his fingers lightly over the man’s face. “No, no, I don’t know you. But I should like to become acquainted!”

Again, the room filled with laughter. When it became quiet again the blindman lurched in the direction of Maeve and Pansy.

Maeve froze in place, barely breathing. Even if Martin touched her, he would never guess who she was. They’d only just met.

With his arms outstretched, the heavily bearded young man moved slowly toward her. Maeve had seen photographs of grizzly bears that were not much more fearsome than he. It was almost as if Charles’s cousin could see exactly where she stood. Maeve’s feet felt rooted to the floor. She could only stare at Martin Rycroft’s approaching bulk.

He stumbled.

She turned just in time. His outstretched palm missed her cleavage and clutched her bare arm. A unified gasp went up.

“You are a bit off the mark, old boy.” Charles appeared at Maeve’s side before she took her next breath. His gray eyes, dark as ash, glinted with anger.

Martin’s hand dropped away.

Maeve straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, but beneath her gown, her knocking knees felt as unsteady and runny as morning mush.

Beatrice rushed into the brink. “Ladies and gentlemen, supper is about to be served. Let us adjourn to the dining room.”

Charles roughly removed Martin’s blindfold.

“My humblest apologies, Maeve... Charles.”

“Accepted,” Charles snapped. He turned to leave the room but Martin refused to stifle his curiosity.

“You know the whole room is abuzz, wondering about the identity of the beauty at your side. I simply sought to break the ice, as the saying goes.”

“Maeve, you and Pansy go into the dining room. I wish to speak with Martin for a moment.”

“It was an accident,” Martin insisted as soon as the ladies were gone.

“I don’t believe you. Your blindfold was placed so that you could see quite well.”

“Have you proof?”

“No.” The anger churning inside Charles was out of proportion to his cousin’s latest misdeed. He knew it, but could not overcome his simmering rage.

“How can I convince you?”

“You cannot.” Charles could never believe Martin. He’d been dishonest since he was a boy, mastering the art of lies and subterfuge from an early age. Yet no one, even within the family, seemed the wiser. A testimony, Charles supposed, to his cousin’s expertise.

“It is just a game,” Martin scoffed. “No need to get so riled.”

“Keep your distance from Maeve. She is an innocent young woman.”

In rapid, agitated movements, Martin jerked at the purple scarf used to blindfold him. “Who are you to tell me?”

“I am the cousin who has kept you out of trouble all these years.”

What flesh that showed behind Martin’s beard, mustache, and side whiskers deepened to a ruddy shade of anger. He spoke quietly and distinctly. “You are a very fortunate man, cousin. You have inherited a publishing empire, you have more money than Midas and more women to choose from than any man I know.”

“But I am burdened with a cousin who resents me.”

“Why shouldn’t I? You give nothing to me!”

“Which does not seem to stop you from taking,” Charles bit out, hardly able to restrain his mounting fury.

Martin narrowed his eyes, his mouth turned down in surly arrogance. “Taking?”

“You have just recited all the things I have. Well, there is something I don’t have that was in my possession a week ago.”

“Are you accusing me—”

Releasing his anger, Charles launched into a verbal attack. Although his mother’s guests had gone up to the dining room, he dared not be overheard. Instead of bellowing at his cousin as he wished to do, Charles ground the words between his teeth. “I didn’t just disappear from the city, from the publishing house. I did not abandon my responsibilities to embark on a sudden holiday. I was robbed, beaten, and left for dead.”

Martin’s mouth dropped in apparent shock. “No!”

“It was a robbery and the sketch taken from me at the time is extremely valuable in more ways than one.”

“You think I had something to do with this?”

“I was left for dead,” Charles repeated. “If I had been killed, you would have inherited Rycroft Publishing.”

Martin stiffened. His lips drew into a thin, tight line before he shook his head slowly and emphatically. “My only crime is envy. I envy you Charles, I always have.” Stepping back, he scanned the richly appointed parlor. “While I have had to struggle for everything I own, you take all of this, your golden life, for granted.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.” Martin made a move to leave the room, but stopped. “Perhaps you will find the men who beat you. You may even recover your missing sketch. But do not insult me further.”

Charles met his cousin’s gaze. “The stolen sketch was of St. Nick...by Barnabas.”

A dark stillness fell over the room. In the silence Charles heard his heart beat in a slow, thudding rhythm.

“You have my condolences,” Martin said at last

“I have hired a private investigator. The sketch will be recovered and my attackers found.”

“Naturally. You have always enjoyed the best of luck, Charles.” Casting his cousin a sardonic smile, Martin turned on his heel and strode from the room without even a nod to the figure he passed.

Maeve stood in the doorway, her curious gaze locked on Charles. He wondered how much she had overheard.

Chapter Seven

“An’ is yer husband doin’ right by ye, me cailin?”

Maeve had returned to her father’s South Boston flat to pay the call she’d promised. Before leaving the Rycroft residence, she’d made a detour through the kitchen where the cook helped her fill a basket with potatoes, cream, flour, bacon, lamb, eggs, oranges, and apples. Shea and her father would feast for days on these simple pleasures.

“Sure’n he is, Da.” Maeve stood at the old iron stove stirring a steaming pot of potato-and-leek soup, her father’s favorite.

Mick sat at the small, chipped, and faded wooden table watching her cook. Shea was at work on the docks, but the elder O’Malley didn’t have to be serving the ale at Rosie’s until late afternoon. Before he left for the saloon today, Maeve meant for her dear dad to have a good, hot meal. Lord only knew what he did for meals now that she wasn’t around to cook.

The flat felt twice as cold as Maeve remembered. Even wearing her new leather high-button shoes and warm stockings, her feet were cold. There were no roaring fireplaces to warm each room as there were at the Rycroft residence. During the winter months the O’Malleys depended on the iron stove to provide heat