Midnight Star (14 page)

How free and unfettered it felt to wear a gown without a corset, Chauncey thought as she tilted her face back to bask in the warm sunlight. This must be what men feel like. She turned her head slightly to look at Delaney seated beside her. Lucas was driving a bay gelding whose name was, ironically enough, Stud.

“Thank you,” she said. “The landau is perfect. I feel utterly spoiled and cosseted.”

“The landau is on loan from the Stevensons,” he said, giving her a wicked grin.

She drew in her breath, then smiled back at him. “I will not allow you to draw me, not today!”

“You are warm enough, Chauncey?”

“If you pile another blanket on me, I shall roast.”

Delaney gave her a long look, thinking he would like to make her roast all right, but with his body, not a damned blanket.

Lucas guided the horse through the maze of
wagons, pedestrians, and vendors down Market Street. “All the new building,” Chauncey said, gasping slightly as a Chinese nearly stumbled into the path of the carriage, weighted down with several heavy boards.

“It never ends. Lucas, let’s drive past the Mission Dolores. When you’re well again, Chauncey, we’ll visit the Russ Gardens. You know about them, don’t you?”

“Oh yes,” she said pertly. “Tony, dear Tony, told me all about them.”

“Touché, witch. This, my dear Chauncey, is the plank road that was built in 1851 to connect the center of San Francisco with the Mission Dolores. We now have a racetrack there. All the comforts of civilization.”

“I’ve never been to a racetrack before,” Chauncey said somewhat wistfully.

“What? Not even Ascot?”

She shook her head, her lips pursing primly. “Father didn’t think it proper.”

“Now that you’re an independent woman, will you deem it proper?”

“Perhaps,” she said, giving him a coy smile, “with the proper escort.”

“I’ll ask Tony if he’s free,” Delancy said blandly.

“You—”

“Did you know that San Francisco got its name only six years ago? Washington Barlett was the
alcalde,
or mayor, then. He ordered the name changed from Yerba Buena to San Francisco in our first newspaper, the
California Star.
”

“Yerba what?”

“Yerba Buena. It means ‘good herb.’ Supposedly because of an aromatic shrub that grew about
the shore. Everyone, you know, wanted to claim California—the Russians, the French, even you British. We Americans, of course, won out in the end. The Spanish ceded California to us in 1848, when we won the war, only five years ago.”

“When was gold discovered?”

“It’s ironic. The treaty was signed early in 1848. Only nine days earlier, Marshall had picked up the first flakes of gold at Sutter’s sawmill. All hell broke loose a few months later.”

“With you as one of the . . . what are you called? The argonauts?”

His expression clouded for just an instant. “That’s right,” he said matter-of-factly. “I traveled overland from Boston. Quite a hazardous journey in those days. In fact, it still is.”

“You came to California because of the gold?”

“As my brother, Alex, is fond of telling anyone who will listen, I was a rebellious sort, not content to follow in my father’s and grandfather’s footsteps. It took the lure of gold and the challenge of making my own way to get me off my butt.”

“It must have been . . . difficult for you,” she said.

“Nary a bit of romance in it, that’s for sure. Rather hard work, really. I was very lucky, unlike most of the men who came here.”

“I imagine it was more hard work, rather,” Chauncey observed dryly. “Is it a rule among men that they make light of grueling experiences? Prove that they’re invincible and all that?”

He laughed. “Would I impress you if I told you about all those bloody mosquitoes that attacked
my poor body? And the discomfort of standing in waist-deep water panning for gold?”

“Oh look,” Chauncey said suddenly. “There’s no one here! Sand dunes everywhere!”

“I can’t get too close, Mr. Saxton,” Lucas said over his shoulder. “The wheels will get stuck in the sand.”

“Stop at the next rise, Luc. I’ll assist Miss Jameson down to the shore.”

The rough path was covered with swirling sand despite the scraggly bushes someone had planted alongside it to keep it clear. The air was cooler, and suddenly Chauncey could smell the ocean.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, waving at the sea gulls hovering overhead. “And no one is here. It is all ours.”

“Yes,” Delaney said, “yes, it is. Right here is fine, Luc.”

Lucas pulled Stud to a halt atop the last rise. Spread in front of them was the Pacific Ocean, sparkling blue, like winking sapphires under the bright midday sun. The sound of the waves breaking toward shore was the only sound, that and the occasional squawk of a sea gull.

“Oh my,” Chauncey said, gazing about her in stunned awe. “I feel like I’m the first person to see it. I wonder if this is what an explorer feels like.”

“I’m glad you can see it now. Who knows? In ten years, even five, perhaps men will be out here building wildly all along this stretch. We’re indeed lucky today. Most often this area is blanketed with fog.”

Chauncey swiveled about to stare at a rugged
tree-covered cliff. “That is where I would build my house,” she said.

“Mighty damp, ma’am. And the fog is no respecter of beautiful views. Shall we go down to the beach?”

Chauncey’s ribs were still sore, but not that sore, she decided. As for walking, she refused to think about it. “Lead on, sir.”

Delaney tossed one of the blankets over his shoulders and walked to her side of the carriage. “Miss Jameson,” he said formally, then winked at her, and gently drew her into his arms.

“Really,” she began, “I am quite all right, Delaney!”

“Hush, my dear. It is my pleasure, I assure you.”

She didn’t mean to, but her hands curled around his shoulders. She felt his taut muscles rippling beneath her fingers. A strange, completely unexpected warmth curled in the pit of her stomach. At least she thought it was her stomach. “I must be hungry,” she muttered, confused.

She felt the rumbling laughter in his chest. “If we have a picnic out here, the sea gulls will bombard us. They have no pride.”

Just for a moment, she told herself, as she relaxed against him, just for a moment. She breathed in the salty air and felt the ocean breeze tear at her hair.

Delaney set her down reluctantly, just a few feet beyond the tide line. He unfolded the blanket and spread it on the sand. “Your sofa, ma’am.”

She glanced at him beneath her lashes, wondering why the odd feelings that were centered well below her waist had calmed somewhat. “I
don’t understand,” she muttered, and carefully eased herself down on the blanket. She arranged her skirts primly about her legs.

Delaney lay on his side next to her, propping himself up on his elbow. “What don’t you understand?” he asked.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” she said, still puzzled.

“Why did you think you were? I recall you stuffed yourself at lunch.”

She gazed out over the water, unaware that he was watching her face closely. She shrugged, then winced at the slight pulling feeling in her ribs. “It’s silly. But when you were carrying me, my stomach felt empty, and rumbly, sort of.”

His eyes glittered. “So sophisticated,” he said.

“What does that mean?” she asked, turning to frown at him.

“Not a thing, Chauncey.” He sat up and began to sift sand between his fingers. “I come here when I want to think things out,” he said, seemingly intent on the piles of sand he was building.

“And are you thinking important things now?”

“I believe so,” he said vaguely, the damned sand holding all his attention. “Things seem to become clearer out here, and more simple.”

He shifted his position slightly, and Chauncey found herself looking at his long legs, outlined snugly in dark brown flannel trousers. His thighs were well-muscled, and her eyes followed their line upward. She shocked herself when she looked blatantly at the taut outline of his groin. She blinked, aware that the silly feeling was back in her stomach again.

“Chauncey,” he said, his voice heavy with
feeling. Her eyes flew to his face and she felt herself grow quite red.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I . . . I don’t know what’s wrong with me! You must think I’m awful.”

Suddenly he lay back on the blanket and spread his arms wide. His gaze held hers and she noticed in the bright sunlight the dancing golden flecks lighting the liquid brown of his eyes. “I have decided,” he announced grandly, “that I have been run aground. Behold a collapsed man. Do with me what you will, Chauncey.”

She ran her tongue nervously over her lower lip, and Delaney wondered frantically if he would embarrass the both of them, for he could feel the nearly painful swelling of his manhood.

“What do you mean?” she asked at last, her eyes, thankfully, still on his face.

“So it is my total surrender you demand?”

He looks as if he wants to consume me, she thought with blurred insight. She was suddenly frightened, and quickly turned her face away from him. Where was her burning hatred of him? Where was that unyielding part of her that had been her anchor for so very long?

“More thrust and parry?” he asked gently, the irony of his tone reaching her.

“I am . . . afraid,” she said, and he couldn’t mistake the honesty in her voice.

“Don’t you remember my telling you last night that I would never harm you? I might be a brash American, my dear, but I am not lost to all honor.”

She felt her breath catch harshly in her throat. She wanted to yell at him that she wasn’t afraid of him. It was herself she feared. Her mind
fastened on his words.
Not lost to honor.
But he was, damn him, he was! Dear God, she wanted to hate him, plunge a dagger into his chest! She realized that she was getting exactly what she wanted. How many weeks had she been set on her single-minded course to bring about this moment? You must take advantage of the situation, she told herself angrily.

She turned back to him and gave him a dazzling smile, trying desperately to exude a wanton promise in her eyes. To her utter chagrin, he laughed softly.

“Oh, Chauncey, you haven’t the . . . experience to play the seductress.”

She stiffened alarmingly, frightened that he seemed to see so easily through her.

“Nor is there any need,” he continued. He sat up, turning gracefully toward her. Gently he cupped her chin in his hand.

“I never before realized how it would feel to let another person become so important, so vital to me.”

“Then why have you been so . . . elusive, as if you were mocking me?”

“I’ve wondered the same thing myself, believe me! It all started the night of the masked ball. You were such fun to tease, never at a loss for a stinging retort. I suppose I wanted to see how outrageous you would become.”

“So outrageous that I nearly killed myself!”

“And what man could ignore such a dramatic gesture? You please me, Chauncey, as no woman has ever done before. You delight the imagination.” He wanted desperately to kiss her, to pull
her down with him on the blanket. He dropped his hand from her chin.

“You become the poet,” she said with forced lightness, but her voice was shaking in spite of herself.

He waved away her words. “I’m twenty-eight years old, Chauncey, not too much older than you. I’m a rich man, and have no need for your money.”

“Penelope?” she whispered.

“That young lady will suffer nothing more than a bout of wounded vanity.”

Chauncey moistened her lips again, not wanting to ask, but compelled to. “Your . . . mistress?”

He frowned. “How do you know about that?”

“Penelope told me. She said you would give her up, once you were married to her.”

Delaney thought about Marie’s giving soft body, her French practicality, her basic kindness. He remembered the brooding anger he had felt at himself that night before, when he had thrust into her body, all his thoughts on Chauncey lying in his bed.

“Penelope shouldn’t have told you anything about her,” he said.

“It is something I really don’t understand. Do all men have need of . . . well, mistresses?”

“Indeed so,” he said gravely, his eyes twinkling as his sense of humor came to the fore. “But it’s not quite the same thing as having a wife.”

“Then I suppose it must be all right. Penelope was being selfish then?”

He howled with laughter, unable to help himself. He held his stomach, gasping for breath.

“I do not see what is so funny!”

“You, Chauncey,” he said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He saw that she was genuinely confused, and said very seriously, “I want you for my wife. I don’t want a mistress. I want you to be furious at the thought of my touching another woman. I want you to be quite selfish. Now, my sophisticated girl, will you please say yes and get me out of my misery?”

“Say yes to what, sir?” she asked pertly, enjoying having the upper hand at last.