Kissed; Christian (37 page)

“But we have guests!” Jessie protested.

“Aye, well, devil hang them both!” her husband proclaimed, and even as he ascended the stairwell, he managed to kiss her soundly, silencing any further protests.

The sight of them brought a hearty chuckle from the pair below.

“Have you ever seen the like!” Ben exclaimed, shaking his head in wonder as he watched the two disappear from the landing above.

“
Mais oui
,” Jean Paul said softly. “But of course.” And his look was wistful and distant as he stared up at the empty landing above. Voices could be heard faintly from the corridor, giggles, and then a door slammed shut in the distance, echoing throughout the grand house.

There was a deep hush and an air of profound contentment in its wake.

Tears filled Jean Paul’s eyes, but he seemed unaware of them until one slid conspicuously down his weathered old cheek. He swiped at it quickly and turned to see that Ben was staring. “Pardonnez-moi,” he said, his voice catching strangely, “but I am an old man, and sometimes I find myself weakened by paltry emotions.”

His dark eyes twinkling, Ben assured, “I saw nothing, my friend.”

Jean Paul nodded. “And so you’ve not,” he agreed. He placed a hand to Ben’s shoulder. “So you’ve not.”

If you enjoyed Christian's story, keep reading to meet Jack MacAuley...

Boston, 1899

The evidence seemed undeniable.

It was, in fact, her fiancé’s penmanship, but just to be certain Sophie withdrew her most recent letter from Harlan from her private desk, meticulously comparing the handwriting. She studied both letters side by side, trying to find some difference in the script.

Behind her, Jonathon Preston opened the drapes a bit wider, letting in every last ray of afternoon sun, giving her ample light to see by. “I would never have brought it to you,” he claimed, somewhat more eagerly now that she had begun to take the matter seriously. He stood at her side, peering over her shoulder, and his razor-sharp scrutiny of her while she read the letter made her cheeks bum with both anger and humiliation.

She swallowed uncomfortably.

No matter how much she wished to find the letter a forgery, the penmanship was the same; identical long-tailed y’s looping purposely about to cross simple t’s... precisely dotted i’s and j’s. Harlan rarely capitalized the names of his acquaintances... nor did he ever capitalize hers, though his invariably was—something that plagued her acutely.

“Although Harlan has always been a friend to me, it seemed somehow unconscionable,” Jonathon continued, “that you should be treated with so little regard!”

Sophie doubted Jonathon’s intentions were at all honorable. He might have sold his soul to the devil for her father’s favor. Still, she was not the sort who preferred not to know. If her fiancé was making her out to be a fool, then she certainly did wish to know about it—no matter what Jonathon’s motives for relaying the information.

And, damnation, it seemed Harlan was, indeed, making a fool of her!

Her entire future suddenly crumpled before her like an old castle in some forgotten fairy tale, all of her carefully laid plans reduced to rubble and her dreams blown away like so much dust.

What a fool she had been.

She peered up at Jonathon to find him still staring at her, as though he expected her to burst into heart-wrenching sobs any instant. Sophie frowned. No doubt he would enjoy that. Well, she wasn’t about to give in to hysterics! Anyway, she shuddered to think of Jonathon comforting her.

Strange how before today she had not thought him quite so nefarious, but the boy she remembered from her youth was gone, and in his place stood a gleaming-eyed, calculating man. No, she had no doubt of Jonathon’s intentions, and less of his motivations. Her father was a powerful and beneficent man—witnessed by the generosity and support he had bestowed on Harlan. From the day Harlan had departed Boston, his best friend had set out to woo not her, but her father.

Drat men and their love for money!

Her eyes stung as she scanned the letter Jonathon had brought her, this time allowing herself full comprehension of the words scribbled so neatly before her.

God help her, she refused to weep—and certainly not before Jonathon Preston.

She examined the envelope again. It was postmarked April 20, 1899. Two months ago—ironic that he should have written this letter on the third anniversary of their engagement. She wondered if Harlan even realized.

My good friend,
the letter began.

Sophie glanced up at Jonathon, wondering implausibly how he could betray his
good
friend so easily. Her emotions were in tumult. She didn’t know whether to be grateful or angry at the man standing so gleefully at her side. And yet, how could she, even now, think to championing Harlan? Why should she even care that Jonathon had played his Judas?

She read the letter carefully.

You really must join me here directly! Give no more objections, jon! It is a wondrous world that not merely allows us the opportunity to experience life’s most bountiful pleasures, but in fact grants us to do so! Every man should have such an understanding fiancée, eh? And a father-in-law willing to support his cause. I count myself fortunate, indeed—yes, indeed—to have won the heart of sophia vanderwahl, but do not think me unappreciative if I do not rush home to the encumbrances of matrimony.

His choice of words stung.

Encumbrance.

So that’s what he thought of her?

She took a deep breath and continued.

At any rate, dear friend, I hardly think you can say sophia is wasting away. She is young enough still that she might bear my children were I to delay the nuptials five, even six more years. And neither are her spirits low; her letters are buoyant and full with interest in my studies. She’s a peach to affect such an interest in matters that would only bore her to the grave. Women have not the patience or capacity for such ruminations, jon. But do not concern yourself with sophia, my good friend. She is most loyal, to be sure, and will await me with the grace she was raised to show. Indeed, I could not have chosen better.

Sophie grit her teeth, resisting the urge to crumple the letter.

Loyal
, was she?

A peach
, was she?

Anger surged through her.

Her interest had hardly been feigned! Her questions had been born of legitimate interest—and how dare Harlan assume she would wait
five, even six more years
until he deigned to return to her! And yet it was hardly that particular narrative that incensed her most. Her eyes skimmed the pages until she came to the paragraph in which he began to tempt Jon...

... and the women here are the most lovely... skin so velvet brown and eyes so deep a black a man may sigh to see his own reflection in their depths. And hair... Christ, I have never had the joy of touching hair so rich it flows through one’s hands like the mane of a fine riding horse. (And they love to be ridden, jon... I know this firsthand.)

Sophie was not such a moron that she did not understand his meaning, even if she did not know exactly what that meant. Her cheeks burned with both anger and mortification.

“Forgive me, Sophia, I did not wish to mask even the worst of it,” Jonathon interjected, interpreting correctly the flush on her cheeks. “You had a right to know.”

Sophie nodded, too shaken for words, even after reading the letter for the third time.

She forced herself to continue.

... never have I known women so earthy in nature. If you experience the carnal joy of one woman’s bosom, you must not think her the exception because the next will make you yearn to feel her native soil between your toes forever and run like a savage through the jungles of her birth. You will nearly forget you are a civilized man and never again wish to languish in the misery that is Boston. Not for all the vanderwahl money would I be dragged so soon from this paradise!

Sophie winced at the not so subtle reminder that it was her father’s money, not her, that would most likely bring him back—and not even her father’s money was enough! He was enjoying himself far too well at Vanderwahl expense!

And she couldn’t help but notice that he couldn’t even be bothered to capitalize her surname.

Sorrow was at once replaced with cold fury, and armed with anger, she reread the last passages.

Even here in the wilds I have received word of jack macauley’s reckless venture... his purchase of that deuced old ship... the miss deed, is it? In any case, he must be ready to set sail soon. Entreat upon him, if you will, to give you passage. He would make room for you, I’m certain. His pockets have grown quite shallow. In the meantime, I shall hand choose the most luscious native girl, and let no man sample her but you. Join me, jon, and you will hardly wonder why I must convince sophia’s father to purchase me more time. Between the two of us we could surely convince him of our potential here. He is eager for grandchildren and alone I will not prevail.

Come, my good friend. Your presence is the one thing I find I sorely miss.

Your loyal friend and associate, Harlan Horatio Penn III

Jon’s company was the
one
thing he sorely missed, was it? Not hers?

How could she not have realized sooner how little interest he held in her? Just the other night Sophie had viciously defended him to her friend Maggie when Maggie dared imply his interest had waned. Why had it taken a letter from him to Jonathon for her to realize what was apparently quite obvious to everybody else?

She slumped over the letter. She tried so hard to be everything everyone wanted her to be—the best daughter, the best girlfriend—she shouldn’t wear her décolletage too high, or too low. She wasn’t supposed to weep, nor was she supposed to laugh too loudly.

She set down her own letter from Harlan, with all its sweet lies, on the desktop, and kept the other in hand, unwilling to relinquish the damning evidence, forgetting just for an instant to keep her shoulders even—a lady never slumped, you see, not even in the most distressing of situations.

“Is everything quite all right, Miss Sophia?”

Sophie straightened and looked reassuringly at their longtime butler, Harold, who stood in the doorway. In her parents’ eternal absence, Sophie was the lady of the manor. She had been groomed well by her mother, and she managed the household meticulously, but it was only in that very instant, as Harold looked in upon her, that she suddenly wondered who exactly was looking after whom.

“Everything is fine, Harold,” she assured. “I’m fine,” she lied.

He cocked his head at her as though he didn’t quite believe her. “Are you quite certain, Miss Sophia?”

Sophie waved him away, choking on a wave of grief. “Quite. It’s nothing I can’t manage.”

The older man smiled affectionately at her. “As always, Miss Sophia.” He cast a suspicious glance at Jonathon and left, assuring her, “I shall be right here in the hall should you require my presence.”

Sophie smiled to herself. Harold was, as ever, her guardian angel. If she knew him well—and, indeed, she did—he would, in fact, remain just outside the door, dusting the same picture frame over and over until Jonathon Preston left the premises. In fact, were it up to Harold, he would have never have allowed Jonathon entrance at all. Harold was far more protective of her than even her own father. But then her father and mother always expected her to do the right thing. They never doubted for an instant that Sophie would always adhere to her good breeding.

“Sophia,” Jonathon prompted.

Sophie looked up at him. He seemed suddenly to take up far too much of her breathing space.

All at once everything seemed far too confining—her father’s house, her predictable manners, even her dress.

She had every right to be angry!