Indigo Sky (3 page)

“You, sir, are not a gentleman. Your hypocrisy is really quite astounding. I will not tolerate this insolence.” She turned on her heel and stormed off.

“Wait! What’s your name?”

She rushed down the stairs and back to the garden.

Rork shook his head, covering his face with his hands. “Capital, Millburn. You effectively chased her away.”

Chapter 4

Running along the veranda, Leila stumbled as her slippers caught in the hem of her gown. She lifted her skirt and raced down the stairs. She wanted to get as far from that man as possible. Perspiration beaded her forehead. Sweat trickled down her spine. She stopped and leaned against a tree trunk, struggling to catch her breath.
What will I accomplish by running
?
This is ridiculous
.
Where can I go? I’ll never be able to avoid him.
She ground her teeth.

Squaring her shoulders, she walked back to the stairs. He was still on the balcony, his back to her. She thought it might be possible to slip by him. After the brazen liberties he’d taken, she didn’t want a repeat performance. She knew she should have been smarter. Her mistake was ignoring him instead of politely thanking him. She held her breath and crept up the stairs on her tiptoes, heading for the French door.

“Ah, there you are. Wait, don’t go.” He staggered toward her.

She shrank back against the wall. Within a few strides, he was close to her. She put her hands up to keep him at bay.

“Wait for what?” She scooted past him into a passage leading to the ladies’ room.
How can I expect civility from a drunk
?
Why did I let him goad me
?
It seems impossible to walk away.

Flapping her fan to cool her heated face, she hurried into the ladies’ room. Heart thudding, she leaned on the marble washstand, trying to catch her breath. Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, she studied her image in a
French framed mirror. “I’m a mess.”
She touched her flushed face.
All fixable
. She removed her gloves, dipped her hands in the washbasin, and splashed water on her face. Instant relief. She tucked errant hairs into place and smoothed her gown.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am. I went out for a minute.”

Leila squeaked and spun to face the attendant. Her eyes fell on a proffered cloth.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle ya, ma’am.”

“I feel a little indisposed.” Leila laughed weakly. “And obviously jumpy.” She took the cloth and dabbed her face.

“Aye, ya do look pale.”

“I do?” She turned and pinched color into her cheeks. “I should go.” She pulled on the damp gloves.

The attendant chuckled. “A pale complexion is fashionable.”

Leila grimaced. “I don’t favor the consumption look.” She walked out and rested a moment against the paneled wall in the passage, her eyes closed. She wondered if she should tell Hank about her knight in shining armor. Her eyes snapped open.
Pah, he’s no knight. The man is a rogue
.
Hank would probably react badly.
Trepidation curled through her.
His moods are unpredictable, and he’s impatient with me, but
I have to tell him
. Shoulders slumped, she pushed herself from the wall.
I’d better join them for dinner.
Even if Hank hadn’t noticed her absence—and he probably hadn’t—her mother certainly would. Leila hurried to the drawing room. She lifted her skirt and increased her pace, the annoying encounter tucked away . . . for now.

Leila paused at the entrance. Gas-lit chandeliers illuminated the gay and fabulously attired throng that milled about the drawing room. Leila pressed a hand to her midriff and sucked in a breath. A soft laugh drew her eyes to a woman beside her.

“The décor is rather plain compared to the ballroom, don’t you think?”

The woman’s brown eyes sparkled, and Leila liked her instantly. “Yes, it is. I wonder if Mr. Herter is responsible for the ballroom,” said Leila.

“He could well be. He designed our home in Connecticut. His work is lovely. Oh, how rude of me, I’m Anna Lockwood.” She canted her head, her blonde ringlets catching the light. “May I ask your name?”

“Leila Ashburn Dempsey.”

She clapped her gloved hands, which made a dull thud. “Oh, is your husband the well-known author?”

Leila nodded.

“Please call me Anna. I believe you’re seated at our dinner table.” She dipped into a brief curtsy. “I must go. It’s been a pleasure. I promised to meet my husband. He’s at the fireplace.” She wrinkled her pert nose. “As usual, he’s probably discussing business.”

Leila automatically returned the curtsy, her eyes scanning the room for Hank. With an expert eye, she briefly studied the prestigious art hanging from crown moldings on ribbon-wrapped wires. Her own collection of landscapes, by local artists, flitted through her head. She mentally lingered on one of her favorites,
Emerald Pool
by Millburn. Sighing, she moved away from the art and continued looking for Hank.

He stood by the hearth, leaning on the mantel, surrounded by men. As usual, he held court, and his audience hung on his every eloquent word. She needed him alone. When Hank expounded on a subject, her intrusion invariably frustrated him.
I must tell him
.
I can’t do it at dinner and risk him losing his temper.

Gathering her courage, she headed for the fireplace. Flames burned brightly in the hearth, warding off the evening chill. She smiled. Her cousin, Billy Ashburn, also basked in Hank’s charismatic aura. Cornelius Vanderbilt stood nearby, with Leila’s new friend, Anna.
The man with his arm around her must be her husband.
Leila prayed that stuffy old Sophia Vanderbilt didn’t see her.

Anna motioned to her.

Leila smiled and waved back.

“Well, what do you know, here comes my fair wife,” Hank slurred. A grin, dripping insincerity, split his face.

They turned. The orange glow from the fire flickered across the profile of a tall man with chestnut hair.

Oh, God, my rescuer.
Leila’s heart stopped.
What do I do? I must talk to Hank, tell him about this morning
. She fingered her pearl necklace. Face burning, she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and approached. She took Hank’s arm and stood on tiptoe, whispering, “I need to speak with you.” She slid a glance at her rescuer.

Color drained from his face, and his eyes bored into her.

Her belly fluttered. Beardless, Rork’s fine face was smooth and strong. Aristocratic came to her mind. He closed his eyes and downed his whiskey. For some obscure reason, guilt assailed her. She averted her gaze and leaned against her husband. “Please, Hank, it’s important,” she whispered.

“Leila, darlin’”—Hank captured one of her delicate hands—“why don’t you sit with the women? I’ll be over in a moment.” Although sounding affectionate, Hank’s eyes were dismissive. He dropped her hand and waved her away. “Off you go, darlin.’”

Leila wanted to evaporate. She stared into his cold eyes, her courage quickly failing. She smiled brightly at the men surrounding him. “Pardon me for the interruption, gentlemen, but I’m eager to speak with my husband.”

“I said later,” he hissed.

Leila twisted her hands. Her eyes darted between the men and returned to her husband. “Hank, please.”

“Shortly, darlin’. I’m in the middle of a conversation.” Hank turned his back on her and amused Vanderbilt with another tale.

Gripping his arm again, she whispered, “Hank, I really must speak with you.”

His jaw tightened, and he peeled off her fingers. “Leila, meet my new acquaintance, Mr. Rork Millburn.”

Her mind performed somersaults.
The artist Millburn
? Leila kept her eyes downcast and smoothed her gown with trembling fingers. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.” She glanced at Hank. “Please give me a moment,” she said softly.

Hank sighed and shrugged. “Gentlemen, apparently my wife is in immediate need of my services.” He sniggered. “Please excuse me while I attend her needs.”

She slid a glance at her cousin Billy. His eyes were alive with interest. Her heart sank. He was a gossip, worse than his wife, Eleanor. Once more, heat flooded Leila’s cheeks. She could also feel Millburn’s eyes on her but didn’t dare look up.

“Come along then.” Hank marched past her.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and followed him dutifully to the veranda. The soft glow of the moon stroked the mountains, and a breeze added a sharp sting to the night. She wrapped her arms around her waist, forming a meager barrier against her husband. Her stomach swirled in a raucous mix of emotions and uncertainty.

Hank rounded on her. “Are you daft, woman?” His voice grated on the cool evening air.

“Forgive me for my rude interruption, but I’m desperate to speak with you.” Leila’s voice was short of a whisper.

Hank slammed his hand on the railing. “Good Lord, Leila. Desperate? What could be so damn important? Do you know what you interrupted?”

“No.”

“Business with Cornelius Vanderbilt. You know him, don’t you? He founded the railroad.”

“Was it important?”

“Of course it was important. Money is always damn important.”

Leila flinched as his alcohol-laden breath blasted her. She shook her head. Early in her marriage, she learned it was best to shut up when Hank was in his cups and his temper roused.

He dragged a hand through his brown hair. “The conversation you so rudely interrupted was not only with Vanderbilt, but also Curtis, the editor from New York. We were about to finalize a deal.” He scowled. “Have you forgotten that he gave me my first opportunity to publish? You’re out of place, woman.” Spittle went flying. “It’s thanks to him and my publications, including my articles in
Harper’s Weekly
, that I enjoy the success I presently have. Which, by the way, brings in a brilliant income.” He flicked the fan hovering near her mouth. “An income that buys all these expensive baubles you enjoy.”

Leila kept her eyes downcast, her lips compressed behind the fan.

“Now.” Hank’s voice rose steadily. “Pray tell, what could not wait that you had to interrupt me?”

Her lip quivered.

“So what is it, Leila? What do you have to tell me?” He poked her shoulder. “Well? You have my attention, so speak up.”

She took a step back, desperate to take flight. This day had been a catastrophe, like a herd of horses had slammed into her.
I’m a coward
. She opened her mouth to tell Hank about her rescuer, but the words clogged her throat. She took a deep breath and gathered her thoughts. In his current mood, her story would only serve to enrage him further. He might have been amused at her accident, but Leila doubted he would find it amusing to know his partner had found her in a state of undress. Hank would call her wanton, and she couldn’t bear him berating her in public again. Her thin veneer of control would never withstand the onslaught. Tales of marital strife would run rampant through the elite patrons of Mountain House.

“Well?” Hank tapped his foot, the sound assaulting her ears.

A shiver washed over Leila.
Perhaps it would better to wait until a more opportune time. He is certainly more reasonable sober.
Hank, however, was rarely sober. She stiffened her spine and smiled sweetly. In their year of marriage, she’d discovered at least one of his soft spots. “I’m sorry, dearest. I didn’t realize I was interrupting something so important. I feel like such a dunce.” Leila caught her bottom lip between her teeth to stop them quivering and took a tentative step closer. She looked up at him through her lashes. “Do you forgive me, Hank?”

Anger slipped from his face. He reached for her and wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her close. “I know it’s hard for you. Women aren’t well schooled and don’t understand how business is conducted.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead.

A protest rose to her lips.
How dare he throw gender inferiority at me?
She knew, though, that any objection at this point would only provoke his anger again. Instead, she lifted her head and met his glazed eyes. Rising to her toes, she touched her lips to his.
What happened to us, to the love I had for him, to having babies? Will we ever be a family, have a home?
She lingered on their first meeting, when she’d fallen in love with him.
I was so young
.

When she was on vacation from the academy boarding school, they met at the Catskill Mountain House. The twinkle in his eyes had initially fascinated her. He was bold, debonair, and quick to smile, while Leila struggled to make conversation. He’d enchanted her with his easy manner and gift of weaving stories.

She now studied the planes of his handsome face. Although in his mid-twenties, Hank still possessed a youthful quality, despite the ravages of alcohol. His lips smashed down on hers. She closed her eyes and, for the first time, felt nothing but ice in her veins. All she could see was Rork Millburn’s face, the way he’d looked at her, consumed her with his desire.

She squirmed away, unable to kiss Hank while picturing the stranger. Nausea turned her stomach. It crept up and stuck in her throat.
How can I kiss my husband with these unimaginable thoughts of another man? What type of person am I?

Hank pulled her tighter against his body. She tasted whiskey on his mouth, again. His hand crept up to her bosom. She pushed at his chest. They were on the veranda, a public thoroughfare.
What in the world is he thinking?

A growl emanated from his throat, and he turned her, pressing her against the rail. All pretense of affection or tenderness ended—as always. This was nothing more than another attempt to satisfy his primal need, enhanced by whiskey.

She fought harder, her panic rising. A sob rose in her constricted throat. To her relief, his erection disappeared—but that was nothing new.

Breathless, he retreated from her. “I don’t want you—never did.”

“We should get back.” Leila kept her voice even. As always, his reaction left a bitter taste.

He nodded. She sighed with relief and stiffened as he ran a finger over her breast.

“Fear not, darlin’. One of my problems is that I don’t find you wildly exciting.”

His words stuck like a knife. Even though her love for him had faded, his rejection still hurt.

He spun and walked away, his steps erratic.

“No, Hank, ‘tis not I,” she whispered as he disappeared through the door. “You’ve killed my love with your excesses.” Blowing out a long breath, Leila smoothed her silk dress, affected repairs to her hair, and walked to the dining room, praying for strength to make it through the night.