Forbidden Love (18 page)

"It's . . . it's nice of you to say that," she murmured.

"I mean it, every word." After a long moment of silent communication, his hands grazed her upper arms. "Why are we standing?" He slipped off his coat and spread it on the dry grass. "Here, sit down."

After easing herself down onto his coat, Lisa arranged her linen skirt to cover her ankles, questioning her modesty. With only the slightest encouragement, she'd tear off all her clothes or even better, let him strip everything from her. With a self-conscious glance at him from under her lashes, she wondered if he could read her mind. Conscious of where her brazen thoughts might lead, she looked upward to study the cottony clouds that floated above them.

Owen lay back with his hands locked behind his head, his legs drawn up,
trousers
pulled taut across his thighs. He turned toward her, his look warm and tender, yet so much more, as if he could thrust every obstacle from their path,
move mountains
, scatter gold and diamonds at her feet!

Wild, unbridled thoughts rampaged through her mind as she played with the sun-warmed blades of grass, thankful for the towering elm and bushes that gave them ample privacy.

Hesitantly, she leaned forward to run her hand across his broad chest,
then
slowly began to unbutton his vest. She gloried in his warm skin, his hard chest. She could scarcely think for happiness--to touch his body, to know this intimacy that was more wonderful than anything she had ever imagined. Her most secret woman's part ached with a longing that couldn't be denied.

Gently, he drew her down onto the ground. "I can't fight my love for you any longer."

"Then don't try." Easing ever closer, she wrapped her arms around his neck to draw him close, feathering kisses on his neck, his cheek, moving her body persuasively against his.

"I love you so much,” he whispered in her ear.

"Owen, my only love!"

Lying across her, he kissed her with a passion that sent wave after wave of hunger coursing through her veins. Frustrated with the hard corset that impeded his touch, she wanted to tear it off, let his hands roam where they would. When his hands moved along her thigh and found her womanhood, she cried out as her fingers dug into his back.

"Owen! I can't take this!"

"You're driving me crazy!" He raised himself and began to unbutton his vest, his fingers fumbling with the buttons.

Cold reality jerked her back. She must stop this madness. Even if William didn't treat her as a true wife, she must still honor her wedding vows.

"Ah, no!"
Desolation froze her insides. "Please, we
can't . . . can't
do this." Heartsick, she sat up and adjusted her skirt. She looked at him and saw all the pain and despair on his face that surely her own must reveal. "I'm so sorry, but we . . . we mustn't become intimate." She lowered her head, fighting the tears that threatened to spill.

His hands stilled, and she saw pure anguish in his eyes, the stern set of his mouth. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, you're right." He sighed.
"So easy to forget."

 
Dark leaden clouds gathered in the west, driven by a squally wind. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The temperature dropped sharply, and the wind increased, the branches of the maples and elms swaying.

With an abruptness that caught her by surprise, Owen sprang to his feet. "Come on, darling." He held his hand out to her. "I don't want you to get caught in the rain."

Chapter Twelve

Days and weeks passed, a heartbreaking time when Lisa tried to drive Owen out of her mind.
Might as well stop breathing.
How could she forget someone who was a part of her, as much as her heart or lungs, every breath she took? She remembered his touch, every gesture and word. And oh!
his
kisses, his caresses. She knew she shouldn't think of these things, these memories that could drive her mad with longing.

Everything reminded her of him--the blue sky above, the swaying of the trees, even the rumble of thunder. She could look out her parlor window to see the roses in bloom, their heady scent borne on the breeze, and wish that Owen were there to share the moment with her. Often, she'd read an interesting article in the newspaper and wonder if he'd read the same. More than once, she saw a man walk down the street, his dark suit, his quick stride reminding her of Owen, and for one glorious moment, she'd think it really was her loved one. But of course, it never was.

Despite her heartache, she resolved to keep busy, giving herself no time to sit around and mope. She'd live each day to the fullest and never, ever, let him intrude on her thoughts.

Yes, and while you’re at it, try to stop the sun from rising in the east.

Perversely, she often wondered if miracles still occurred, for only a miracle would bring him back to her, only a divorce. And that would never happen.

Lisa sipped tea at the breakfast table, observing her husband as he read the Wall Street Journal across from her. "William, since today is Sunday, I intend to visit the children at the Home for Orphans. Poor little ones, they don't get much love or attention."

He looked up from the newspaper, frowning at the distraction. "How will you get to the orphanage when the servants have the day off? You won't have anyone to drive you in the carriage."

"It's easy enough to get the
Fifth Avenue
trolley and then just a short walk across the bridge to Allegheny. If the weather stays pleasant--and it looks as if it will--I should have no problem.
Might even enjoy the walk."
She regarded her husband pensively. "With me away and the servants gone, it should be a quiet time for you. You can catch up with reading the back issues of the Wall Street Journal or work on your stock business."

"I may do just that. In any event, I won't be bored." A secretive smile touched the corners of his mouth, prompting a question in her mind. "There are many things I can do." He drained his coffee cup and brushed his forefinger across his mustache, appearing deep in thought. "For some reason, that reminds me. I have some, uh, friends . . . a man and his wife whom I met through my business, who have expressed an interest in your mother's house. They like to entertain and consider your mother's house perfect for their uh, needs. In short, they'd like to buy the house."

Her heart thudded, her face warming. She shot him an angry glance. "William, I told you, let's
leave
the house empty for now. I have a cousin who may want to buy the house, but it's taking him time to settle his affairs in
Philadelphia
. He's given me the impression that he definitely wants to move to
Pittsburgh
."

"The house has been empty for too long!"

"Then a few more months won't matter."

He sighed with exasperation. "Let's forget about it for now. We'll talk about this later." He smiled then, as if the matter were of little consequence.

A twinge of uneasiness nagged her, but she dismissed her misgivings and ascribed her foreboding to an overactive imagination. Setting her napkin down, she eased her chair back and rose from the table, resolved to set her anger aside.

"Best I leave soon," she said, gathering the breakfast dishes. "I probably won't be home until early evening or even later. Sometimes the staff at the orphanage invites me to stay for the evening meal." Her voice assumed a note of concern. "Can you manage lunch by yourself?"

He drew his matches from the bathrobe pocket, a reassuring smile on his face. "Oh, I believe I can handle things."

After she'd cleared the table and washed the dishes, Lisa left for the orphanage, looking forward to seeing the children again.

* * *

The children sat clustered around Lisa, eager to hear the end of the fairy tale. "'The next morning when the maid came to clear the ashes, she found the tin of the soldier in the shape of a heart. But all that was left . . .'"

She stifled a sigh of relief as she snapped the book shut. Pressing a hand to her throbbing head, she wondered how in the world she'd tell the boys and girls she'd have to leave early. They'd be so disappointed, but it couldn't be helped. She, who'd scarcely been sick a day in her life, now had a blinding headache, and why, she had no
idea
. Worry, no doubt. It had come upon her shortly after her arrival here and had gotten worse throughout the long morning. Playing games and telling stories, she'd tried to ignore the pain, but she could no longer disregard this agony. Nausea rose inside her; a hammer striking relentlessly against her forehead.

"Please read us another story, Mrs.
Enright
," a little boy
begged,
his eyes wide with appeal while the others nodded with enthusiasm. "Yes," they chorused, "another story."

Lisa folded her hands in her lap, heartsick at failing the children but aware she had no choice. She spoke quietly, for every sound was one more nail pounding into her head.

"Children, I fear I must leave you early today." Hearing their moans, she winced. "But I am feeling unwell." She placed a light hand on her stomach. "You remember how you feel when you've a tummy ache?" Somberly, the children nodded. "And a headache?" she asked, her fingers touching her forehead. "Well, that's how I feel now, and I'm sorrier than I can say that I must leave you so soon. But I shall come again next week and make up for my early departure today." As she looked out over the sea of faces, she hoped her assurances would satisfy them.

"Promise?" a little boy piped up, the others joining in.

Lisa crossed her heart.
"Promise."
She rose on unsteady legs,
then
went to explain her plight to the supervisor. A few minutes later, she left the orphanage, stepping out into the blinding sunlight, nearly swooning with the pain. She took deep breaths as she rested against the brick wall,
then
finally made her slow way to the trolley stop on
Fifth Avenue
. All she could think about was getting home.

 
After an endless ride on the trolley and a long walk from
Fifth Avenue
, Lisa opened her front door and stumbled into the entrance hall, wishing only to go upstairs and lie down. She stopped, hearing voices from the library, men and women giggling. What in the world?

On shaky legs, she trudged through the hall and past the parlor,
then
stopped outside the library, where the sliding door remained slightly ajar. Curious, she held her breath as she peered through the opening. What she saw and heard sickened her beyond words.

She beheld four naked bodies on the library floor, William among them, doing the very thing that he refused to do with her, his wife! Sighs and moans of ecstasy reached her as arms, legs, and buttocks moved in frantic passion. Lisa pressed her knuckles to her mouth. She had to escape this nightmare. Trembling, she squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered. Her legs quivered, nausea churning in her stomach.

Her ears rang. A wave of dizziness washed over her. Swallowing convulsively, she pressed against the wall, fearful of movement, praying her weakness would soon pass. She didn't dare faint here, because if she did, well, it didn't bear thinking about. Hands clenched at her sides, she struggled for control.

She clamped her hand to her mouth, slipping past the library and hustling up the stairs. Her long skirt wrapped around her legs, almost tripping her. She yanked her skirt in her hand and rushed up to her room. Banging the door back, she didn't care how much noise she made. No one would hear her, anyway.

Feeling as if she'd aged a hundred years within the past hour, she slumped into a chair and covered her face with her hands, her mind reeling with hurt and anger. Afraid she’d vomit, she unbuttoned her silk blouse and reached under her corset cover to loosen her corset and ease her sickness.

Murderous fury roiled inside her. She wanted to strike out and hurt William, get even with him for this shameful abuse of their marriage, their house. At the same time, she felt sorrow for what their marriage might have been, for the happiness that could have been theirs . . . if William had tried to be a true husband, and if she had never known Owen. He made all the difference in the world, and only thoughts of him sustained her now, gave her the courage to think clearly.

Why couldn't she have seen what kind of husband she had? Why, why, why? William wouldn't take her as a true wife . . . oh, no. Yet, he could indulge in this . . . this orgy. She held her throbbing head in her hands, asking herself again and again how she could have known what kind of husband she had. She had become a woman, garbed in childlike innocence, with no knowledge of the true meaning of marriage.