Magnate (17 page)

The stock exchange would open at ten o'clock. While she couldn't be on the trading floor, she would be nearby, monitoring the action from her ticker tape. She had two clients—Emmett and Edith Rutlidge—and she planned on luring several more over the coming weeks.

In addition, traveling to Beaver Street would get her out of the house. Her husband's rooms were deathly quiet; she knew he hadn't come home last night. Again. She tried not to think about where he was spending his evenings—or, more important, with whom. His absence hurt too much, despite the fact she'd been the one to insist on the distance in the first place.

This was for the best. Other than the ridiculous physical attraction, they had nothing. And just because a man could kiss you stupid was no reason to stay with him. The scandal had been weathered, the trouble had passed. No damage would be done, and the two of them could part ways before they made each other miserable.

What a lie.

She was brushing her hair when Pauline came in. “Good morning, madam. You're up early today.”

“I apologize for the hour, but I couldn't sleep. I'm quite anxious to get to my new office today.”

Pauline brought in a lilac day dress and undergarments from the dressing room. “But madam, there's snow on the ground.”

Snow? It had rained yesterday, though the winds had been strong. Lizzie went to the window and looked out onto the gardens behind the mansion. Even in the dim light, a thin blanket of white could be seen, with more snow still falling. “Once it warms up, I'm certain the snow will stop. There were near summer temperatures on Saturday, for heaven's sake.”

“Shall I come along with you?”

Lizzie discarded her wrapper on the bed. “No, that's not necessary. I'll have the coachman take me downtown. Maybe I'll even ride the elevated home tonight.”

Pauline snorted as she helped Lizzie into a clean chemise and drawers. “Good thing your brother isn't around to hear that. I'm thinking he'd have a fit, madam.”

“You are probably right, but I hardly care about his opinion.” Though Will had apologized, she was still angry with him. Blackmailing Emmett, lying to her . . . What sort of man had her brother become?

“I think several petticoats today to keep you warm, madam. I don't like the look of that sky.”

By the time they'd finished with her clothing and hair, the sun had risen. Lizzie ordered the carriage and then made her way down the stairs.

Breakfast in the Cavanaugh mansion rivaled anything Lizzie had ever seen. Each day, food covered nearly every available surface of the breakfast room, with offerings of fruit, breads and rolls of all kinds, eggs prepared three ways, two types of sausage, butter, crepes, blintzes, along with coffee and tea. The chef had been hired away from La Maison Dorée in Paris, and he was most definitely worth whatever exorbitant amount Emmett paid him.

Lizzie asked a footman to have two muffins wrapped for her ride downtown. While she waited, she poured coffee into a delicate porcelain cup.

“Good morning, dear sister-in-law.” Brendan limped in, his hair slightly damp.

“Good morning, handsome brother-in-law,” she said in return. “Are you off on your morning rounds?”

He reached for the coffee urn and shook his head. “No, not today. I'm afraid the snow will keep me home.” He gestured to his leg. “I slip easily in bad weather. What about you? Are you headed downtown?”

“Yes,” she grinned. Brendan knew all about her office. He'd even stopped by last week to see the new furniture. “I cannot wait. My firm is going to trounce all the rest—just you wait.”

“I do not doubt it. Emmett never backs a loser. He'd have never given you the funds if he didn't think you would make him money.”

There was a note in Brendan's voice, something there she couldn't put her finger on. “You don't think that's wise of him?”

Brendan sipped his coffee, replaced the cup in the saucer. “Not everything worthwhile can be measured in terms of dollars. Money is not everything, Lizzie, but I fear my brother often doesn't see the value in anything else.”

Following his line of thinking, she asked, “Like a wife?”

“I'm sorry. Your relationship is none of my business. I just . . . I'm aware Emmett has not been sleeping here.”

“I don't want to discuss your brother. Things are—”

“Complicated, I know.” Brendan sighed, a rueful twist to his lips. “I wish you had seen his face when you first appeared at the end of the aisle. You were focused on the crowd, but I saw my brother's reaction. He didn't take his eyes off you, not for a second. The awe and reverence, Lizzie . . . I've never seen anything like it, not with Emmett. Like he was about to receive a gift he'd waited on his entire life. He cares, Lizzie. People think he doesn't, but he's learned to hide it better than the rest of us.”

Lizzie didn't know what to make of that statement. “He only married me because of the scandal.”
Because my brother threatened your sisters.
“He had no choice in the matter.”

Brendan huffed a laugh. “No one can make my brother do anything against his will, Lizzie. Countless have tried and failed. Trust me, Emmett definitely wanted to marry you.”

* * *

Emmett blinked awake. Damn, morning had already broken. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. Discomfort prevented any rest, however, and he was forced to move and stretch. Working until all hours and then sleeping on a small sofa was hell on a man's back.

Nevertheless, better to remain at the office. No temptations. No distractions. No sounds from his wife's bedchamber that had him fighting the urge to see her or touch her. Taste her. He'd relived that soul-stripping kiss from Newport a hundred times, driving himself nearly mad with lust each time. How far would things have progressed if he hadn't pulled away? Or would she have remembered her precious annulment?

Coerced, his balls. The woman had nearly crawled into his lap at Sherry's, and then she'd ridden his thigh in Newport. Was she so stubborn that she couldn't admit to the attraction? Most marriages were started with a lot less. He sighed and vowed to put her out of his mind.

Sitting up, he rubbed a hand across the stubble covering his jaw. He needed a shave. Since Kelly had insisted on going home last night, Emmett would have to wield the razor himself.

Fortunately, the coal stove in the corner still pumped out sufficient heat. His personal office encompassed almost half of the top floor and had all the modern conveniences, including a water closet with running hot and cold water. There was even a dressing room—a small storage room Kelly had commandeered two weeks ago when it became apparent that Emmett would be here more often than not.

Emmett peeled himself off the sofa and added more coal to the stove. Then he stumbled to the water closet. When he emerged thirty minutes later—washed, shaved, and wearing clean clothes—he felt marginally human again. The overly bright office windows caught his attention, and he noticed white flakes cascading past the panes. How long had it been snowing?

He looked out onto Beaver Street. Hell's bells. Tall mounds had already accumulated, the winds blowing the snow against buildings and wooden poles. Two carriages slowly rolled through, and a few brave souls trudged forward on the walks, hats clutched firmly against the bracing March breeze.

Immediately, he went to his telephone and asked to be connected to the house. Under no circumstances should Kelly or Brendan attempt to come downtown. When Emmett was put through, Brendan was on the line.

Static crackled, and then he heard Brendan say, “I hope you are inside somewhere warm.”

“I'm at the office. Keep everyone home today, will you, on account of the weather?”

“Sure. And you'll keep Lizzie there, with you?”

A sickening feeling blossomed in Emmett's gut. He gripped the edge of the telephone box. “Elizabeth left home?”

“Yes. To come down to her office. She left some time ago, before the roads became impossible to traverse. You haven't seen her?”

Chapter Twelve

Emmett flew down the building's steps, fear piercing his chest like a hot poker. Dark thoughts of Elizabeth stranded and half-frozen in an overturned carriage flitted through his mind. Why had Graham allowed her to leave in a storm such as this? Emmett would be having words with his butler at his very first opportunity.

He yanked open her inner office door and almost fell to his knees in relief. Elizabeth stood in front of the windows, her willowy frame clad in a perfectly styled lilac shirtwaist and matching skirt. She was here. Oh, thank Christ.

She spun around at the sound, hand clutching her throat. “
Emmett
. You scared the life out of me.”

“What in the hell are you doing?” he shouted, anger and annoyance replacing anything else he'd been feeling.

One blond brow rose. “And a good day to you as well, husband.” She returned her gaze to the window, dismissing him, and Emmett exhaled.

He thrust his hands on his hips and tried to get control of his rioting emotions. “I apologize. I did not realize you had gone out in this weather until I spoke with Brendan. I was concerned.”

“As you can see, I am perfectly fine.”

Yes, he had definitely noticed. He walked to the windows, which held the same view as his, only closer to the ground. “Why in God's name would you travel all the way down here on a day like today?”

“Because the snow wasn't nearly this considerable when I set out. I never dreamed it would come down this hard.”

They both watched through the glass as the flakes continued to stream down. It was like nothing Emmett had ever seen.

“What time did you leave ho—the house?” He'd almost said “home,” but it wasn't truly her home. Merely a temporary residence until she walked out.

“A few minutes past dawn. I wonder if the coachman returned safely,” she murmured.

“I can find out, if you wish.” He propped a shoulder against the cold panes. “Why haven't you set a fire?”

“There's no coal. I hadn't thought to have some brought up before now.”

Guilt clogged his throat. He should have seen to that. “Come up to my office, then, to stay warm.”

She flicked him an apprehensive glance. “I'm fine. The radiators are still hot. As soon as it lets up I'm leaving.”

“The hell you are,” he said sharply. “Not with these winds. It's too dangerous. The lines will start coming down soon enough. And what happens if you get stuck somewhere?”

“Well, I cannot stay here. Maybe I'll walk over to the Astor House—”

“Which is where every other pad-shover, trader, and broker will already be camped out. It will be chaotic and unsafe. You are not leaving this building, Elizabeth.”

“You don't have the right to order me about,” she bit out, her shoulders growing tight. “If I want to leave, that's my own choice.”

“I absolutely have the right to order you about—a legal right as well as a moral one. You are not staying in this cold office or leaving the building until this blows over.”

She stared him down, resentment brightening the silver depths of her eyes. “And if I refuse?”

He leaned forward, saying in a deliberately calm, slow manner, “Then I'll throw you over my shoulder and carry you up two flights of stairs.”

Sighing, she faced the windows once more, as if hoping to see the sun burst through the layer of white. “Is anyone else in the building?”

Emmett hadn't thought of anyone other than her, but he would need to ascertain whether the building was empty. Nevertheless, was altruism Elizabeth's concern? Somehow he doubted it. “Afraid to be alone with me?”

She swallowed and chaffed her arms. “Absolutely not.” But her voice rang hollow, and he saw the words for a lie. Did she hate him so much that not even self-preservation could force her to his side? If he hadn't sought her out, would she have stayed here, stubbornly freezing, instead of coming to him?

A familiar bleakness rose up within him, the darkness that stemmed from rejection. Before Elizabeth, he hadn't experienced the feeling in years. But his wife never failed to serve as a reminder of all the ways he was unacceptable.

Drawing on an icy reserve infinitely more bitter than the winds now whipping along Wall Street, Emmett said, “Up to my office, Elizabeth. Now.”

* * *

As they climbed the stairs, Lizzie had finally resigned herself to spending a few hours in Emmett's office when the electric lights cut out. The surroundings plunged into darkness, and a sliver of panic prickled along her neck. Reaching out, she fumbled for his hand, unsure if he'd rebuff her, but desperate for reassurance of some kind.

“Here.” He threaded their fingers together tightly. “Stay with me.” He guided her up the remaining steps and along a short distance, then opened a door. Comforting heat greeted her, while the white sky shone through a long row of windows to illuminate the spacious interior. He quickly let go of her hand.

She drew closer to the coal stove while taking stock of the thoroughly masculine space. There were dark-paneled walls, bookcases, and an oversized wooden desk. One side of the room held a sitting area, complete with a dark brown sofa and plush leather chairs. She could well imagine him here, overseeing his empire.

The heady scent of cigar smoke, gin, and shaving lotion hung in the air, and a tiny thrill worked its way down her spine. The last time she'd inhaled that particular combination had been during that mind-numbing kiss in Newport.

Oh, yes. Most definitely yes.

Her husband disappeared into a small antechamber and returned with three lamps, which he placed on the desk. He lit one and then returned to the other room. When he came out, he'd donned his hat and overcoat, the latter causing his normally wide shoulders to appear even wider.

“Where are you going?” she asked uneasily. “I thought you said it was too dangerous.”

“I need to check the building, to ensure no one freezes inside here during the storm. Then I'll find us some food and more coal.”

“You can't go outside in this. Not right now. At least wait—”

He held up a hand. “There's no way of telling how long this storm will last. What if we are trapped here overnight? Think, Elizabeth. We need to be prepared.”

Overnight? Just the two of them? Panic forced her to her feet. “Then I shall come with you.”

“No.” Grabbing the lamp, he strode to the door. “I'll be back as soon as I am able.”

Even with all the uncertainty between them, she would go mad if she had to wait here alone. She had to do something. “Then I'll check the building. At least allow me to do that.”

She could see the surprise in his opaque gaze, yet he remained unswayed. “No,” he said. “It won't take me long. Your floor is the only one with tenants at present. And if someone is here to seek shelter . . . Desperation can make people aggressive. I know what it's like—” He pressed his lips together and shook his head fiercely. He started for the door.

“You know what it's like to what?”

“Forget it. I need to go, before the storm gets worse.”

What had he been about to say? That he knew what it was like to be stranded during a storm?

She did not appreciate being left behind, so she tried one more time. “Perhaps all this is unnecessary. Do you truly believe we'll be stuck here overnight?”

His brow furrowed as he took in the scene outside. “I have no idea. But I won't risk your well-being by doing something foolish like trying to get back uptown. We'll wait the storm out here.” He strode to the door, his heavy treads continuing down the hall toward the stairs.

Lizzie exhaled, frustrated at both the storm and being unable to help. She glanced about her husband's working space and wondered what to do until he returned. The room was neat, the only clutter some papers strewn about his massive desk. She had a strong urge to peek at his things to see what she could learn about him. She knew next to nothing about Emmett, the mysterious and brooding man she'd married—other than that he'd been blackmailed into marrying her. Perhaps if she did it quickly and carefully . . .

Of course she wouldn't. She had no right to pry into his private affairs, even if he was her husband for a short time.
And knowing him makes it harder to leave him.

She rubbed her temples. No use thinking on that now. They needed to get through this storm first.

In the water closet, she took care of her needs. The luxuriousness of the decor—gleaming gold fixtures, thick marble counters, patterned Italian tile—did not surprise her. Emmett seemed to surround himself with comfort wherever possible. She noted his shaving supplies, which appeared recently used. Had he been here all night? She assumed he'd been sleeping at a mistress's house, or perhaps a hotel. Why would he rather stay here?

Pushing those questions out of her mind, she wandered back to the main room. The powerful storm raged on the other side of the glass, snow pelting the windows with ferocity. It had been sheer folly to think she could travel in this. What would she have done if Emmett hadn't found her? He'd been frantic when he'd come into her office. Had he been worried about her?

No one was outside now, every sane and reasonable person having already sought shelter. But Emmett was out there. What if he became hurt, or trapped in the snow?

Uneasiness forced her away from the windows. He would return. The man was a force of nature in his own right, and she doubted anything could best him, not even this storm. Nevertheless, he would be freezing when he came inside. She stoked the fire and then struggled to drag both of the large armchairs directly in front of the blaze. Next she readied a large glass of brandy from the selection of bottles on the sideboard.

Thirty minutes after she settled in one of the chairs with a book, the door flew open. Emmett, hatless and covered in snow, stepped into the room, his massive chest heaving with exertion. In his right hand were two water buckets packed with snow. His other hand held a brimming coal scuttle. A large satchel was strapped across his chest, two thick woolen blankets wrapped around his neck. Lizzie jumped up from her chair and rushed forward to help him.

“Move back,” he said, and stepped in. Setting all three buckets down, he hung there, bent at the waist, trying to catch his breath.

“Here. Let me have these,” she said, and unwound the blankets from his neck. She tossed them on the floor and then lifted the strap of the satchel up and over his head, past his shoulder. Laden with supplies and wet from the snow, the leather pack was absurdly heavy. She dropped the bag to the floor and turned to him.

A shiver racked his body as he straightened. His teeth chattered, and icy clumps clung to his damp brown hair. Without thinking, she reached for the buttons of his overcoat. “We need to get you out of these wet things or you'll catch your death.” Fingers flying, she opened the garment and then pushed the cloth over his wide shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

Emmett stood perfectly still as she removed his frock coat. She attempted to remain brisk and efficient, and not dwell on the hard strength of him so apparent even through his clothing, but her movements slowed when she went to work on his vest. He loomed over her, blocking out everything else, his chest steadily compressing under her fingertips. Tingles broke out along her skin, a delicious and electric warmth spreading in her belly. She could feel the weight of his stare, but dared not look up at him.

The vest slipped over his shoulders and arms to land atop the other pieces on the carpet. He said nothing as she pushed down his suspenders and unknotted his black necktie. When she plucked out the studs to his shirt collar, he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. The small movement fascinated her. Was he equally affected by her?

Fingers trembling, she started on his shirt, popping the single row of buttons. As each loosened, the crisply starched fabric parted, and she could see the plain white undergarment he wore next to his skin. Lower her hands went, over his breastbone and abdomen, until she ran out of buttons. He bent slightly to help her pull the shirt off, which she let flutter to the floor.

When he straightened, her knees actually wobbled. The tight combination clung to his imposing torso, outlining an impressive bulge of muscles. Many men supposedly wore corsets to pull in their waists, but Emmett obviously didn't need one. There was no extra flesh on him, none that she could see.

Forcing herself to keep going, she reached for the waistband of his striped black trousers—only to have his fingers snatch her wrists. “I'll do the rest,” he said brusquely, before walking away.

* * *

Every time Emmett thought he knew his wife, she surprised him.

Now alone in the makeshift dressing room, he removed his remaining garments and wondered how far Elizabeth would have gone in stripping him. His trousers? His underclothes? Christ, he'd grown hard the instant she'd unbuttoned his coat. The rest had been unimaginable torture.

Though she'd started in a businesslike manner, her movements had soon slowed. Turned seductive. And all he'd been able to think of were her small, delicate hands wrapped around his shaft, stroking him from root to tip. Her fingers tugging and pulling, bringing him off with that fierce determination she so often exhibited . . .

He bit back a groan and willed his erection to soften. What was it about his wife that made her unlike any woman he'd ever met? She was beautiful, yes. But that alone would never tie him up in knots. He wished he could figure out the appeal so that he could ignore it and move beyond this strange attraction to her. A damned nuisance, especially when the woman wanted him about as much as a bout of typhoid fever.