Harmony (24 page)

Flopped in the chair without her robe, she was an easy target for unraveling. Her corset cover neckline plunged precariously low over the tops of her breasts. The lawn of her drawers was thin enough to reveal certain unmentionable parts of her anatomy.

And he wanted to dance with her again.

Bewilderment jammed up her mind. She couldn't discern his motives. She had to know exactly what he intended. Although he'd proclaimed he'd not reveal her dancing to anyone, she had to be reassured.

“Will you not tell anyone about my dancing? Truly?”

A droplet of sweat fell off his brow and landed on the delicate fabric covering her breast. Practically on the nipple, to be exact. She shivered, the rosy peak going hard in spite of her best efforts to remain unaffected.

A gaze as stormy as that afternoon's skies swept her away. His words were low and deep and brought goose-flesh out on her arms. “I won't tell.”

She tempted fate. “Why not?”

“If I told you, you'd never dance this way with me again.”

On that, he straightened, held out his hand, and waited for her to take it.

Shrugging back, she bit her bottom lip. “But I'm not dressed.”

“Honey, if I was of a mind to try something with you right now, you wouldn't have to be half dressed.” His lean fingers curled around hers, and he pulled her up flush against him. Aching breasts pressed against his shirtfront, and she was on the verge of burying her face in his collar. “In fact, when I feel like kissing you . . . and more, if you say so, I'd rather you were fully dressed to start with. Then I could enjoy untying the ribbons and unfastening all the buttons.” His lips caught the tangle of hair at her temple as he gave her a breathy kiss. “Kind of like opening a present. It's not as much fun when somebody else undoes the wrappings.”

Edwina couldn't move. Breathe. Think.

His raspy voice echoed inside her.
And more, if you say so.

Tom Wolcott did things to her head. Crazy things. If this wasn't her house, she'd have to get out of here, go someplace alone and pull herself together. She didn't recognize this person standing in her place, this woman ready to throw her head back and bare her breasts for a man she hardly knew—much less liked half of the time.

“Put the record on, Ed.” His breath, spent and hot, clung to her forehead and made her woozy. A good woozy. Like the feeling she got from lazing on the window seat with the sunshine pouring in while she indulged in a box of fancy chocolate creams.

The ninny she was, she probably would have stood leaning toward Tom until dawn if he hadn't propelled her toward the Victrola. Methodically, she reset the phonograph and walked to him. If she'd been thinking with her whole mind, she would have put on her wrapper; she merely gave the colorful swath on the carpet a cursory glance before following Tom and clapping to the introduction of the tune.

They went through the routine once more, this time with minor mistakes and missteps. As soon as the song was over, Tom told her to play the “Maple Leaf” again.
They were going to dance it until they got it right. After the fourth try, they ran through the happy-go-lucky, crazy bones, and nippers without a hitch.

Static filled the room while the record circled and circled under the needle; the music finished. Out of breath, Edwina raised a hand and placed her palm on her heart. A faint dew clung to her cleavage, and as her fingers landed slightly above the swell of her breasts, Tom's eyes followed.

It didn't occur to her until now that Tom had seen more of her than Ludlow ever had in the time they'd known each other.

Catching her breath, she grew embarrassed. She should say something, but words failed her.

Tom, who'd rolled up his cuffs for the second try at the rag, now let the fabric down; he didn't button the cuffs. She had the strangest urge to make the offer to do them for him. But the casual way he'd left the cuffs had her mind brimming with racy thoughts to the contrary. Of touching the small pearl buttons down the front of his shirt and slipping them free. Then sliding her hands inside, across his chest . . . that chest she'd seen bare once.

And more, if you say so . . .

Edwina's lungs fought for air.

Tom shook the hair from his eyes, then made his way to the settee and picked up his duster. He flipped its length over his shoulder. “Buy you dinner Saturday night, Ed?”

Without thinking, she replied, “All right.”

“Six o'clock.”

Then he showed himself out the parlor door, and she sank into the chair.

Honey Tiger was sprawled on the lower shelf of the center table and Edwina murmured to the cat, “What have I gotten myself into?”

•  •  •

“Hell, Shay, you'd have asked to buy her dinner, too, if she stood in front of you wearing a hankie.”

Tom leaned toward the smoky mirror above his bureau. All he could see was his collar and the yoke of his new shirt. But it was enough to tell him he was overdressed. With a grunt of disgust, he began to unfasten the cuff buttons.

Shay lounged on the unmade bed. Lying on his side with his ankles crossed and his booted feet hanging halfway over the side, he rested his head on his palm. “If a woman stood in front of me wearing just her whites, I'd be more apt to be thinking about dessert.”

The twilled wool shirt glided off his shoulders, and Tom threw it at the bed. It landed on Shay's face.

“What's wrong with this shirt?” Shay asked, peeling the wool off his nose and pitching the garment on the floor.

“It's too much. I'm not going over there all decked out. I don't want her getting the wrong idea.” Turning, Tom gestured to the other crisply folded shirt on the sheets. “Hand me that.”

Shay tossed it to Tom. “What's the right idea?”

“No ideas. Friendship straight across the board. Cut and dried.”

“Is that so?”

“Damn right.”

Tom finished buttoning the cashmere shirt and objectively stared at his reflection.
And more, if you say so.
What in the hell had he been thinking? That was his trouble. He hadn't been thinking.

And level-headed thinking hadn't yet returned. When he'd told Shay Edwina Huntington had answered her door in her robe and underwear, he shouldn't have felt the weight of guilt crush him afterward. He'd promised only that he wouldn't spill about her dancing to ragtime—not about what she'd
not
been wearing.

In the past, trading information like this with Shay had just been shooting the breeze. It was a man's thing to run off the mouth about—scantily clad women. But that was the problem. He wasn't feeling about Edwina as if she were the kind of woman men talked about. But
Tom did have to credit himself with not discussing her breasts. At least he'd drawn the line at that—
them
—although it hadn't stopped him from picturing the deep cleavage when he was flapping his chops about the underwear. Those breasts . . . full and round, jiggling when she danced. Jesus . . .

He was getting too caught up in her. He'd liked it better when he thought she was an old maid. But he knew different now. An attraction for her was a dead end all the way around. She'd claimed she'd never marry. He wasn't the man to change her mind. He preferred women who were spontaneous, real corkers, carefree types. Unfortunately, he was imagining Edwina. She could fit the bill, especially when she danced to Joplin in her woolies.

Ah, hell. Why had he gone and asked her out to dinner?

Tom frowned at his alternate shirt in the mirror. “It's still too much.”

From the bed, Shay suggested, “Maybe you ought to just go in your union suit. She could relate to that.”

•  •  •

Edwina sat at her dressing table, then stood, then sat back down. She was a bundle of nerves. Absently, she ran her brush through her hair. “Honestly, I don't know why I accepted. I have a hundred things to do before Tuesday.”

Crescencia occupied the window seat with a demure pose. She'd dropped by to return Edwina's Mousquetaire sleeve pattern. Having bought it in Chicago, Edwina was the only one in Harmony who had the stylish pattern that required two extra yards of dimity.

“Don't worry, Miss Edwina. The girls and I finished the bats last night, and this morning, Lucille and Meg are working on the skeletons.”

“I never should have let Mrs. Brooks talk me into hosting the party at my house. Eastern doctors—thirteen of them arriving tomorrow for a hunting excursion.”

When the Halloween party had been proposed by
Mrs. Brooks, Edwina had thought it a grand idea—until none of the other ladies present made a proposal as to who would pay for it all. Thank goodness, Grayce Kennison came to Edwina's rescue and suggested that everyone's next tuition check should compensate for the expenses. There had been reluctant nods, then finally smiles of agreement—as what was a few extra dollars when their daughters could be meeting the men of their dreams at the party?

“What time is Mr. Wolcott coming?”

Crescencia's question had Edwina glancing at the boudoir clock. “Half an hour.”

“I can help you get dressed if you'd like.” Crescencia rose and went to the open armoire. She fingered the green nun's veiling trimmed with black lace appliqué. “This one's lovely.”

Edwina had tried the dress on over an hour ago, and after staring hard at her image in the full-length mirror, she'd told herself she couldn't possibly wear such a thing in front of Tom Wolcott. She'd had it since she turned eighteen, and while it was as beautiful as the day she'd made it, she'd outgrown its style. The green was too light, even though the black toned it down. Colors like mint and spring leaves were meant for younger women, not those who knew better than to pin their hopes on a romance at this late stage.

Of course Edwina was too smart to let herself think of the dinner invitation as anything other than a cordial offering—one business owner to another. Only she wished she never said she'd go. It was pure nonsense to be feeling butterflies in her stomach, as if she truly were young enough to wear the green. . . . For a heartbeat, she dared herself, then quickly thought better of it.

“No, dear,” Edwina said, setting the brush down. “I won't be wearing the green.”

“This one is nice, too,” Crescencia said, skimming her fingertips down the champagne-colored princess dress of batiste.

Edwina put fingertips to her left temple, willing a
headache away. “No, I don't think so. It's too . . . too much. I don't want him to think I'm trying to impress him. All he sees me in are day dresses. If I were to suddenly dress to the nines, he'd get suspicious.”

“Suspicious of what?” Cressie tamed a flame-red curl by tucking it back in the twist on her crown.

“Oh . . . just suspicious is all.”

Shrugging, Crescencia went through the dresses, and Edwina declared them all unfit to wear. The striped lawns, imported rep, linen trimmed in cadet blue—they were unsuitable for the occasion.

With a dismayed sigh, Edwina put her head in her hands. “I don't know why I accepted . . .” Then lifting her chin, she said with a sniff, “Dear, you have to do me a favor. Tell him I've become suddenly ill and won't be able to go.”

•  •  •

“Still too much.” Tom hurled another shirt.

He'd gone through the two new shirts he'd bought at Treber's, then made his way through his better oxfords and duck cloths. Now he was down to flannels, which suited him fine; he was a flannel man. They were worn out at the elbows, but no holes. He was no damn slob.

After buttoning the double-breasted blue-and black-plaid shirt, he tucked the hem into his Levi's. Then he ran a comb through his hair. Glaring at himself, he swore. Who was he trying to kid? He wanted to impress her. Get to know her and find out what made her tick . . .

. . . find out if her skin tasted as sweet as it had looked. . . .

Contrary to what he'd told her, he
had
had a mind to try something that night. And he wasn't altogether sure she'd have turned him down. Any future encounters like the one they'd had, he had to know what he was getting into, who he was messing around with.

Turning, he asked Shay, “How do I look?”

Trickling walnut pieces into his mouth, Shay replied
while chewing, “If I say sweet as saltwater taffy, will you buy me a dinner, too?”

A retort was on the tip of his tongue, then Tom thought better of it. In fact, he had another idea. One that would keep him from doing or saying anything not completely on the up-and-up. This idea he had would keep tonight on the friendly level that he'd sworn to Shay it was.

Snagging one of the shirts from the floor, he sailed it to his partner. “Put that on. You're coming with me.”

Nutshells flew off the bed as Shay sat up. “The hell I am. I'm not gussying myself up for your girl.”

“She's not my girl.” Tom felt his shave-smoothed chin. “In fact, she's more likely yours.”

Eyes narrowed. “What are you telling me here, Tom?”

“She told me she's interested in you.” He neglected to inform Shay that she'd insisted she was inquiring for a friend.

“Interested in me?” Panic flickered in Shay's eyes. “She can't be. Why, my heart's set on Crescencia Stykem. The only reason I haven't called on her yet is I've been gone from town more than I've been in it. I don't need Edwina Huntington to get her mind set on—” Without completing the thought, he began to unbutton his shirt. “Damn. I'll go. Only to set her straight.”

•  •  •

“I most certainly will not, Miss Edwina,” Crescencia said with a firmness Edwina hadn't thought her capable of. “No arguments. You're going. Chances like this don't come around every day for ladies like us. You'll have a wonderful dinner with Mr. Wolcott. And I really think you should wear something stunning.”