Gifts of Love (10 page)
KAY HOOPER
is the award-winning author of
Hunting Fear, Chill of Fear, Touching Evil, Whisper of Evil, Sense of Evil, Once a Thief, Always a Thief
, the
Shadows trilogy
, and other novels. She lives in North Carolina, where she is at work on her next book.
To Patsy Kluck with love
Prologue
December 1875
Boston
“C
ome on in,” Hale said, throwing open the front door with a flourish. He gestured for Jason to precede him into the house.
Jason followed him into the entrance hall, appreciating the house’s splendidly dark interior and quietly luxurious atmosphere. He raised his eyebrows and whistled silently.
“I’m glad to see you’re properly impressed,” Hale remarked with a grin. A dour-faced butler approached them, and Hale greeted him casually. “Hello, Higgins. I’ve brought a friend from college to stay for the holidays. Jason Moran, a fine fellow. Higgins, take our coats and tell me where my sister Laura—no, don’t bother, I hear her singing in the parlor. C’mon, Moran.” Hale strode past the staircase toward a room off the hallway. Jason followed obligingly, hearing a thin, girlish voice crooning “Deck the Halls.”
A tall Christmas tree laden with ornaments and tiny wax tapers trembled in the center of the room. A slim adolescent girl in a blue velvet dress stood on a chair that was close to toppling over. She clutched an angel with glass wings in her small hand, rising on her toes in an effort to place it atop the tree. Jason started forward, but Hale was already there, snatching the girl by the waist and whirling her off the chair. “Here’s my girl!”
“Hale!” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck and peppering his cheek with enthusiastic kisses. “Hale, you’re home at last!”
“What were you doing up on that chair?”
“Putting the angel on the tree.”
Hale held Laura’s fragile body aloft as if she were a rag doll and inspected her thoroughly. “You’re prettier than she is. I think we’ll put
you
up there instead.”
She laughed and handed him the angel. “Here, you do it. And don’t break her wings.”
Instead of lowering Laura to the floor. Hale transferred her to Jason, who took her in a startled but automatic reaction. Afraid she might be dropped, she gasped with surprise and threw her arms around his neck. For a moment they stared at each other while Hale bounded onto the chair.
Jason found himself looking into a pair of soft green eyes fringed with dark lashes. He could have drowned in those eyes. Regretfully he saw that he was too old for her. He had just turned twenty, while she couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen. Her body was as light as a bird’s, her breasts and hips not yet developed. But she was an exquisitely feminine creature with long chestnut hair that fell in curls down her back, and skin that looked as soft as rose petals.
“Who are you?” she asked, and Jason set her down with great care. He was strangely reluctant to let go of her.
“Ah, yes,” Hale called down, in the midst of fastening the angel to the prickly spruce branch, “introductions are in order. Miss Laura Prescott, may I present Mr. Jason Moran.”
Jason took her hand, holding it as if he were afraid it might break. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Prescott.”
Laura smiled up at the tall, handsome man. He was making an obvious effort to speak carefully, but he couldn’t hide the touch of a lilting brogue in his voice, the kind that housemaids and street peddlers and chimney sweeps had. His clothes were nice, and his black hair was thick and windswept. He was big and lean and healthy-looking, and his black eyes snapped with liveliness. “Are you from Harvard?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m in your brother’s class.” Realizing he was still holding her hand, Jason dropped it immediately.
“Moran is an Irish name, isn’t it?” As Laura waited for an answer, she sensed his sudden wariness.
“Yes,” Hale answered for him in a loud whisper. “He’s Irish through and through.”
Laura’s smiled at her brother. “Does Mother know?” she whispered back.
“No, I thought we would let her discover it for herself.”
Anticipating her narrow-minded mother’s expression when she saw their Irish guest, Laura giggled softly and glanced at Jason. She saw that his black eyes had turned cool and unfathomable. Disconcerted, for she had not meant to give offense, she hastened to soothe him. “Mr. Moran,” she said, “do forgive our teasing.” She smiled, timidly placing her hand on his arm. “We always tease our friends.”
For her it was a bold gesture, touching a man even in so impersonal a way. Jason could not know just how untoward it was. All he knew was that she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Even in his ambitious dreams of being wealthy and having a fine home and a well-bred wife, he had not been able to imagine anything like her.
She was an aristocrat by birth, while he would never amount to more than a peasant in the Prescotts’ estimation. For someone like him it was the highest honor just to be allowed to sit at their table. No matter how rich or important he became, he would never have a chance of marrying a Boston Brahmin. But he had beaten impossible odds many times before. Silently he vowed that he would do it again. When it came time to marry, Laura Prescott was exactly what he wanted.
It would take time and careful planning. Jason never counted on luck, which had always been in short supply in the Moran family. To hell with luck—all he had ever needed were his own resources. He did not return Laura’s smile. In no way would he betray the thought that seared across his brain…that someday she was going to be his.
One
November 1880
Boston
T
he last thing Jason Moran expected when he opened the door of his library was the sight of his wife being kissed by another man. Perhaps someone else’s wife would resort to clandestine meetings, but not his. There were no secrets to Laura…or so he had thought. His black eyes narrowed while the unfamiliar sensation of jealousy froze the pit of his stomach.
The pair sprang apart as soon as the door opened. The light Strauss music from the party drifted in, dispelling any illusion of privacy the two might have had. Laura raised her hands to her cheeks in surprise, but that did not conceal the fact that she had been crying.
Jason broke the silence in a mocking voice. “You’re not being an attentive hostess, darling. Some of the guests have been asking for you.”
Laura smoothed her chestnut-brown hair and composed herself with miraculous speed, assuming her usual emotionless mask. “Don’t look so anxious, Perry,” she said to the other man, who had flushed scarlet. “Jason understands a kiss between friends.” Her green eyes flickered in her husband’s direction. “Don’t you, Jason?”
“Oh, I understand all about…friends,” Jason replied, leaning his shoulder against the doorway. He had never looked as dangerous as he did in that moment, his black eyes as hard and bright as diamonds. “Perhaps your friend will be kind enough to allow us some privacy, Laura.”
That was all the prompting Perry Whitton needed to make his escape. Mumbling something apologetic, he skittered through the doorway, pulling at his high starched collar as if to relieve the rush of blood to his face.
“Whitton,” Jason mused, closing the door behind the retreating figure. “Not the most obvious choice for a romantic liaison, is he?”
Perry Whitton was a shy, middle-aged bachelor, a friend of some of the most influential women in Boston society. He had innumerable female acquaintances, but never showed a romantic interest in any of them. Whitton’s looks were pleasant but unthreatening, his manner engaging but not flirtatious. Any husband would feel completely secure in leaving his wife in Whitton’s company.
“You know it was not like that,” Laura said in a low voice.
Perry had been an acquaintance of the Prescotts for years—the kiss had been a gesture of sympathy not passion. As Laura had welcomed him to the party, Perry had seen the strain on her face and the unhappiness beneath her social pleasantries.
“You are as lovely as always,” Perry had said kindly, “but I would presume to say that something is troubling you.”
It was indeed. Laura had no intention of confiding in him about her problems with Jason, but to her horror she realized she was about to cry. She would rather have died than make an emotional scene. Understanding her dilemma, Perry had taken her to a private place. And before she could say a word, he had kissed her.
“Jason, surely you can’t think there are romantic feelings between Perry and me,” she said in guarded tones.
She quivered with unease as her husband approached her and seized her upper arms. “I own you,” he said hoarsely. “Every inch of you.” His eyes raked over the satin evening gown she wore. “Your face, your body, your every thought. The fact that I don’t choose to partake of your favors does
not
mean I’ll allow you to bestow them on any other man. You are mine, and mine alone.”
Laura’s astonished green eyes met his. “You are hurting me. Jason, you know the kiss meant nothing.”
“No, I don’t know that.” He glanced down at her body in that insulting way again, his cruel gaze seeming to strip off her garments. “You’re a beautiful woman, beautiful enough to make even Perry Whitton want you. He may have made the mistake of thinking he could find some warmth in that slender little body. Perhaps he isn’t aware that you’re as lovely and cold as a marble statue.”
Laura flinched and turned her face away. Jason could see a moist patch on her cheek where her tears had not yet dried. He had never seen her cry, not in all the time they had known each other. “What were you crying about?” he demanded, his voice as rough as the blade of a saw.
Laura was silent, staring at him uncomprehendingly. In her family there had never been displays of anger or violence. Hale’s boyish antics had provided the only excitement in the Prescotts’ placid world. During the last years when her brother had been away at school, her life had been as quiet as a nun’s. As Jason glared at her, demanding that she explain herself, she was too overwhelmed to speak.
Cursing savagely, Jason yanked her against him. Her racing heartbeat pounded against his, and her skirts flowed around his feet. His dark head bent, and his mouth crushed hers. She whimpered and tried to pull her head back, but he caught her jaw in his fingers and held her still. His lips were hard and bruising, his kiss infused with raw anger. She gasped and went rigid, enduring the brutal onslaught.
Jason let go of her so swiftly that she stumbled back a few steps. “I can feel how my touch disgusts you,” he jeered. “It must be humiliating for the daughter of Cyril Prescott to be fondled by a grocer’s son. You were meant to marry a Boston Brahmin, but instead you became the wife of a workingman, a shanty mick. I bought you, paid for you with money so new the ink was barely dry. I know how your friends pity you. God knows you have reason to pity yourself.”
Laura’s face turned white, the marks of his fingers showing on her jaw. They stared at each other in the brittle silence. When it became clear he was going to say no more, she turned and fled the room as if the devil were at her heels.
Jason dropped his black head and rubbed the back of his neck wearily. He was filled with self-hatred. He had promised himself he would never hurt her, and once again he had broken that vow. He had spent his entire life trying to overcome his heritage and hide his rough edges. Most of all he had devoted himself to making money, for he had realized in his youth that being rich was the only way to compensate for the lack of a proper name and bloodlines.
In the past two months of marriage, Laura had organized his life and provided for his comforts with an efficiency he would never take for granted. Managing the household, entertaining their friends and guests, and accompanying him to social events were things she did with ease. Her taste was flawless, and he didn’t question her opinions even when it came to his own clothes. Subtly she influenced him in matters of style and discrimination, and he valued her advice.
Jason knew how other men envied him for his wife, and he took pride in her accomplishments. Laura co-sponsored charitable functions for the benefit of the poor and was a member of the Ladies’ Christian Association. Her leisure pursuits were all proper and respectable: attending lectures, going to the theater, and encouraging the arts in Boston. Everyone agreed she was a quiet but charming woman, a model of self-restraint. Not for a minute did Jason regret marrying her. But that did not make her contempt for him any easier to bear.
He remembered the day he had approached Cyril Prescott for Laura’s hand in marriage. In spite of their distinguished name, the Prescotts’ fortune was dwindling. Such “first families” sometimes found it necessary to sacrifice one of their daughters to the vulgar newly monied class. Marrying Laura had not been as difficult as Jason had expected. It had boiled down to a matter of money, and he had been easily able to meet Cyril Prescott’s asking price. “I would not consent to this,” Cyril had said, looking both indignant and shamefaced, “if I thought you would prove to be an unworthy husband to my daughter. But you appear to hold her in high regard. And there is obviously no question that you will provide well for her.”
“She’ll have everything she wants,” Jason replied smoothly, concealing his triumph at finally obtaining the woman he had wanted for so many years. Afterward he had proposed to Laura in a businesslike manner, informing her of the decision that had already been made between him and her father. They never had a courtship—Jason had felt it would be unwise to give her an opportunity to spurn him, which she most certainly would have done. Instead he had maneuvered the situation so that she had no choice but to accept him as her husband. He knew there was no other way he could have had her. She was desired by every eligible man in Boston. Had it not been for him, she would have become the wife of a gentleman with blood as blue as her own.
In time, Jason had thought, she would learn to accept him…and then perhaps he could begin to reveal his feelings for her. Unfortunately he had not anticipated how repelled she would be by his touch. She had such obvious disgust for her socially inferior husband that, God help him, he—who had always been so self-contained—couldn’t seem to stop himself from losing his temper around her.
Keeping her head down, Laura strode rapidly along the hallway, her only thought being to escape. A short distance away was the large music room, which also doubled as a ballroom. The crowd of guests indulged in light conversation and danced to the buoyant waltz being played by the orchestra. Oblivious to the music and laughter, Laura made her way through the entrance hall to the front door and slipped outside. The November air was damp as it bit through her brocaded satin gown. She shuddered in misery and wrapped her arms around her middle, staring out at the dimly lit street where lacquered broughams and liveried drivers waited for the guests to depart.
Drawing herself into the porch shadows of the fashionable six-story Beacon Street home, Laura wondered what she was going to do. It was obvious that Jason hated her. She could not face him anymore. She was a failure as a wife, as a woman. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she willed herself not to cry. Good Lord, what if someone saw her out here, weeping on the steps of her own home?
Suddenly she heard a cheerful whistle on the street. Anxiously she stared into the darkness. “H-hale?” she cried. “Hale, is that you?”
Her brother’s gentle laugh drifted to her. “Hmmm…why, yes, I believe it is. Have I crossed the line between fashionably late and too, too late?”
Laura gave a watery chuckle. “As always.”
“Ah, you’ll forgive me,” Hale said, and leaped up the stairs with his customary vigor. “Have you been waiting for me? Damn, you’re out here in that thin dress! How long—” He broke off as he took her face in his gloved hands and tilted it up.
Tears spilled from Laura’s eyes, and she gripped his wrists tightly. “I’m glad you’re here, Hale,” she choked out.
“Laura, sweetheart.” Alarmed, Hale pulled her head against the front of his wool coat. “My God, what’s the matter?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Oh, you can and you will. But not here.” He ruffled her hair, carelessly disarranging her coiled chignon. “We’ll go inside and have a talk.”
Laura shook her head. “People…people will see—”
“We’ll walk around the house and come in through the kitchen.” Hale shrugged out of his coat and draped it over her narrow shoulders. “It has something to do with Jason, doesn’t it?”
Her throat closed painfully, and she nodded. Without another word Hale put his arm around her waist and guided her down the steps, shielding her from the view of the drivers and passersby. By the time they reached the kitchen, which opened onto the backyard, Laura was shivering violently. The heat and light of the kitchen engulfed her, but they did not take away her numbness.
“Why, Mrs. Moran,” she heard the housekeeper’s voice exclaim.
Hale favored the older woman with an appealing smile. He had matured into a handsome and solidly built man with green eyes, rich brown hair, and a thick slash of a mustache. His openhearted manner charmed all women. “Mrs. Ramsey, I’m afraid my sister has the vapors,” he said. “Could you find a way to inform Mr. Moran—discreetly, mind you—that she has retired for the evening?”
“Certainly, Mr. Prescott.”
The vapors, Laura thought wryly. Well, it would work. The excuse was always accepted with quiet understanding. Because of the spoonbill corsets and heavy haircloth bustles worn under their gowns, women often experienced dizziness and fainting spells. In fact, such episodes were considered proof of a lady’s refinement.
“Oh,” Hale added as he guided Laura out of the kitchen toward the stairs, “and would you have two toddies brought to the upstairs sitting room, Mrs. Ramsey?”
“Yes, Mr. Prescott.”
Laura handed the coat back to Hale, and they began to climb the three flights of stairs to the sitting room. “You probably don’t even know what the vapors are,” she said with a sniffle.
He laughed. “No, and I really have no desire to find out.”
They reached the sitting room. It was Laura’s private place. No one intruded, not even Jason, unless she invited them. Like the other rooms in the house, it was comfortable and elegant, with a flowered Persian rug, velvet drapes, plush chairs, tiny polished tables covered with lace and ornaments, and a marble fireplace. Laura had chosen the carefully blended styles of furnishings for the entire house, all matters of taste being left to her discretion. Jason preferred it that way.
“Now,” Hale said, sinking to his haunches in front of the fireplace, “tell me everything while I stir up the fire.”
Laura gathered up the fringed train of her evening dress and sat in a nearby chair. Morosely she kicked off her damp satin slippers with their two-inch heels and tiny diamond buckles. It pleased Jason for his wife to be dressed in the finest of garments. “I don’t know what to tell you,” she said. “Jason would be furious if he knew—”
“Tell me everything,” Hale repeated patiently, glancing at her over his shoulder. “Remember, I was Jason’s closest friend until you married.”
“Yes, I remember.” Laura’s mind turned back to all the holidays Jason had spent with her family. Although he and Hale had been in the same class at Harvard, Jason was two years older. He had never made pretensions about his background. His father had been a grocer, and his mother had peddled a fish cart.
It was highly unusual for someone of Jason’s humble beginnings to have climbed as high as he already had. But Jason was intelligent, hardworking, and ruthlessly charming when he wished to be. Something in his voice and the way he moved proclaimed he was a man who knew exactly what he wanted—and what he wanted, he would get. And when he smiled, he was the most handsome man on earth.
