Dalliances & Devotion Page 7

  And it was indeed of impressive size.

  Chapter Seven

  The sun was too high in the sky to call for a carriage to transport them back to the train station. With no other plans, David permitted Amalia to lead him south, towards the Allegheny, into a tree-lined expanse.

  Bees buzzed and darted from shrub to shrub as the scent of flowers and greens and fresh water beat back the city. And the memories of the rather charming, but arrogant snot she’d married—actually married. Instead of him. Not that he’d asked, but she’d never given him the chance, or really a chance at all.

  If ever there was a sign marriage was worthless... David clenched his fists so hard his nails dented his skin. It didn’t matter. Ethan was clearly not sending her threats so whatever they were whispering about was not his concern. Not at all.

  “Allegheny Commons.” Amalia nodded to no one as they strolled past ornamental flowerbeds brimming with yellow and orange, interrupting his thoughts. “It’s supposed to be a ‘breathing place.’ Same designer as both Central and Fairmount Parks. Pittsburgh is moving up in the world. I wrote my mother about it, said she should make sure our banks made their presence known here. Plenty of customers. For once, the woman actually listened to me. And bought me this as a ‘thank you.’”

  She dipped her fingers down and stroked a gold heart-shaped pendant, just above the dark pink and white edging of her dress. The jewelry caught the sunlight and a rainbow of stones shimmered. However, he couldn’t focus on separating them when imagines of her dipping her fingers lower filled his mind.

  He grunted something that resembled appreciation and strolled along beside her.

  Mushuggenah.

  He truly was mad. At least when it came to Amalia. Shallow and spoiled and ready to use him and toss him aside without a second thought if he gave her the chance. After all, as the adage said: the best predication of future behavior was past behavior. He needed to remember that. Repeat it to himself.

  Because the way she demonstrated grace and strength and well, humor, despite the circumstances...the way that she hinted that there was more than just the wealthy woman veneer. More than the spoiled teenager who’d broken his heart. He didn’t need that knowledge. It was irrelevant to his task.

  And he could banish the memories—the image of her sneaking into his bed and straddling his body, keeping the promise she’d made to him after those stolen kisses in the moonlight.

  Lord, the little minx had teased so perfectly. Just a few words from her and he’d forget to be serious, to be studious, to be hardworking, and everything he was supposed to be. A damned distraction of the highest order.

  Oy, he needed to stop—save himself from disaster. That castration comment wasn’t an exaggeration. He’d been lucky her father hadn’t slit his throat the time he caught them together, alone, in the ballroom. At least they were clothed. She’d been so bold, so uninhibited.

  Not that he’d needed any encouragement. He’d been very willing. Enthusiastic even. Who wouldn’t be? When someone like her noticed him, welcomed him even. Made him feel wanted.

  And it’d been mutual. Until it wasn’t.

  No, it didn’t matter. Potiphar’s wife, not Asenat. Or more, now, seven cows or ears of corn. Ears of corn; being compared to a cow would make her mad. But they were the same, a means to an end—an opportunity.

  The momentary flight of fancy he’d had in the past, that they could be more, that she saw him as more, was a mere delusion. After she played her part, she’d have no more use in his story.

  Which was for the best.

  Amalia glided down the path and chattered about types of roses before pointing to a stone bench. They made their way over and he dusted off the top so she could sit with him beside her. The seat was so small that the outer ruffles of her skirt blanketed his legs.

  A long-legged bird waded in the shallows of a reed-fringed lake in front of them. Splashes from water beetles and the glug of fish in search of prey near the surface danced on the breeze.

  “That’s Lake Elizabeth.” Amalia tipped her chin. “Man-made.”

  “Pretty.” And in the late afternoon, without a soul around, it was as if they were in their own private garden, in the countryside, or part of the grounds of a castle, like he’d read about as a child.

  Amalia nodded, her eyes on the scene in front of her, not him. “Very. This whole place is. I always liked Pittsburgh. It isn’t Philadelphia, but it has charm.” She wound a lock of hair around her finger so tightly the tip was probably white beneath her gloves. “Not that I’ve been there in a while.”

  She bit her lip. “Honestly, I’ve spent more time in a house in Indianapolis than anywhere else these past six years, save a train car. You need to live apart a certain amount of time to be ‘abandoned’ for divorce purposes.”

  “That’s a great deal of time without your family. Were you lonely? In Indiana and traveling by yourself?” He leaned a little closer, so he’d catch her eye. Because it must have been difficult. Her family doted on her, a fact that always made him a little jealous. Of her and her brothers. According to Thad, until she married, she’d never been away from home.

  She favored him with a sideways glance and a small hint at her dimple that made his heart skip for inexplicable reasons. “A touch. I kept busy. I hosted teas. Made some friends. Other travelers, other people obtaining divorces in Indiana. It gave me time to think, figure out what I wanted, where my place in the world was if I wasn’t someone’s wife.”

  “What?” The damned prickles in the back of his neck which helped him recognize an important line of commentary and pay attention, or spot a decent piece of fabric to resell, or sense the direction of cannon fire and duck would not leave him be. She needed to answer him.

  “You’ll think it’s silly and frivolous.” Hair tugging again. With that brittle edge in her voice, the one that stirred the long-buried guilt to the surface, whether or not anything was actually his fault.

  His blood pumped harder.

  Amalia twisted a button on her glove, before raising mossy gray-green eyes to him. “Well, I mentioned it in passing, and you heard part of it with Ethan. During my second divorce, when I’d become Delaware and Philadelphia’s favorite source of gossip, I started writing some musings, which later became a little column for the Philadelphia Inquirer. Just some thoughts and tips on clothes and hair and cosmetics. I use a sobriquet—the ‘Madame A’ one I used to use in my letters. Though everyone knows it’s me.” Her cheeks tinged a deep rose.

  “I always enjoyed that name.” The words, the truth, popped out of his mouth before he could think, strategize.

  “Did you now?” She turned to him fully, her eyes wide, but her lip began to curl, just a touch, like it did before she’d suggest something particularly naughty. Something that made all the recklessness and rashness he worked so hard to contain bubble to the surface.

  Oy. He was sweating. Not attractive and his thoughts were nowhere proper or prudent.

  “So you have a job? I mean, they pay you?” David winced, but his brain couldn’t hit upon better questions fast enough, at least not ones that wouldn’t reveal how much he knew about said column.

  “Yes, a little bit. Not as much as my allowance, but it’s something. I’m not particularly liquid at the moment. My parents went to a great deal of trouble protecting our assets so I need their permission if I want more funds than I’m normally allotted. And that invites questions.” She opened her mouth as if she was going to say more, but instead closed it, her lips a tight line, her eyes at the water.

  Now that was intriguing. What would she want to purchase that she needed to hide from her parents? Perhaps that was the issue with her finances from the file. Well, if there was ever a perfect time to inquire without being rude... He took a breath, and just as he was about to ask, she started speaking again.

  “And disapproval. And lectu
res. About waste. Something they clearly think I am.” She threaded her fingers in a rather prim way that somehow made him ache.

  She couldn’t possibly believe her parents thought that about her, could she? Yes, they could be a bit much, but anyone who spent one second with the Truitts could tell how much they loved each other.

  Amalia drew in a rather loud breath through her nose. “Anyway, the column. I have an eye. Everyone always said so. At least they used to, though there have been some complaints as of late. And some criticisms.”

  That made his spine prickle. “Around the time you began receiving the threats?” Not that it was his area, but if there was information the agents in Indianapolis should know...

  “A little before?” She shrugged. “They haven’t stopped, just increased. More and more people deciding I’m not good enough. Or realizing it.”

  Or one particular person, just intensifying his campaign. He wet his lips. Not dispositive, but something to look into. “Do you have any of them with you?”

  She slipped her hand into her purse and handed him an envelope. “Please don’t read it. I know I should’ve told you or Thad or the other agents earlier, but it’s humiliating and it can’t actually be important.”

  Worse than the threats? He didn’t ask the question though, just slipped it into his pocket. He’d mail it to Philadelphia from the station that evening.

  “You know I’m sensitive about being...well, about not inheriting my family’s intellect.” Amalia ducked her head.

  My last tutor said college would be a complete waste. Simon was brilliant, rivaling Thad. He was supposed to attend Yale. My parents have no idea what to do with me.

  They’d been lying in the grass, just off the terrace, behind the Truitt house, staring at the moon. At the time he’d rubbed her hand, before kissing her nose, her neck, and...not an exercise he could repeat.

  “Anyway, though I might not be able to add, I can write. Sort of. And despite what a few readers say, people do find it enjoyable and I do have the knowledge.” She inclined her head towards him. “And, I figured that when you have a rather wicked reputation, you’re permitted to take risks.” She drew out the s of the last word before flashing him a dimple.

  “Really?” He had to bite his own tongue so not to lick his lips as he recalled one of his few good memories from the war. How late one night, in their tents, a drunk Simon Truitt waved the tintype in his face and asked for his opinion on it and his younger sister’s letter.

  Don’t laugh too hard. Enclosed is a photograph I had taken at the Philadelphia house. Our parents won’t even permit me to wear this ball gown outside my bedroom. But fashion is all about risks. That’s what makes it enjoyable and don’t we need some enjoyment? You’ll talk to them, won’t you? I really want to wear it. Please?

  “Oh yes.” Her smile broadened to a real one. Bright and sunny like the summer air and the life her letters promised him—but on a mature woman, who was a great deal cleverer than anyone, including him, suspected.

  “That’s why I adore accessories so much. Unique embroidered gloves or chain purse or even a little something only you can see, like—” she glanced around and lowered her voice “—scarlet underthings. Something little and secret and just for you can make all the difference. People think women dress to attract...” She frowned.

  “What?” His heart beat in his throat. Her eyes were so focused and intent on him, searching as if she saw him, really saw him and was about to give him a glimpse of the full her. He waited, not breathing, and the sparkle behind the lashes dimmed.

  “Nothing. You must think I’m a spendthrift.” Her clipped tone nearly hid the note of hurt at the end—nearly.

  “You’re no spendthrift. I’d know. Your brother gave me your accounting statements.” He blanched as she gasped and blinked.

  Schlemiel, schlemiel, schlemiel. Why was he so bad with words? And more, why did he have to be working instead of just speaking to her? Especially when she became so, well, passionate. The way she could discuss her own expertise, how her eyes flashed and her color rose and all the confidence—she was breathtaking. And despite all the past hurt, when she was like that, he was a moth to flame, hanging on every word, no matter the subject, enjoying her.

  “Right.” She rolled her eyes at him. “Though you clearly haven’t studied the file so well since I’m sure he included information on the column.”

  David pressed down on his knees, hard, to keep from arguing back. Not that she would listen if he let the knowledge slip. She was busy talking herself back into being annoyed with him. “So, what else is in the dossier? More evidence of my failures?”

  He opened his mouth and closed it. Tight, so nothing hurtful could escape his lips. Despite what she’d said to him in the past and how good a bit of turnabout would feel, she didn’t need that from him, not now. Right now she needed something else. Something like a friend.

  A flash of heat at the unfairness of it, the stupidity, the waste, coursed through him.

  Before his good sense could reel him in, he leaned forward and cupped her chin in his hands. The black silk ribbon of her hat smooth against his rough palms, he took her mouth in his. And her raspberry red lips parted for him like they’d done so many times before.

  And it was the same, yet somehow better than the past. Sweeter than gooseberries and pears and those American oranges. And more delicious. He pulled her closer and near drank her in. Tart citrus danced on his tongue as every fiber stood in rapt enthrallment.

  He closed his eyes and everything and anything was possible. His entire body grew taut with desire. More. He’d give her anything for more—blood, limbs, pieces of his soul—anything.

  His arms drifted down her back, underneath the silly bustle, so he could lift her beautiful, soft frame closer to his body. She wrapped her arms around his neck, crushing her breasts against his chest, her grip just as fierce as his, claiming his mouth right back. She moaned in his arms and he nearly came undone. From a kiss alone.

  David closed his eyes and explored, willing himself to memorize every sensation, every last second of the kiss. Because for one glorious moment time stood still and they fit together. She was magnificent and he was lost and she was...

  A terrible idea. He pulled back, breaking the connection, heart in his throat.

  And even if she wanted him again—even if his life’s work, his goals would permit an entanglement—he could never forget the end of 1864, when the only thing propelling him through the war, the last bit of faith that someone understood him, died. He’d been a body to use, and nothing more. No feelings, except maybe revulsion at being seen with him. At being connected to him.

  Another reminder that he’d never be good enough.

  He glanced at Amalia, all powders and ruffles and curls and brandy. She had to have known how much she hurt him. How could she not? After months of questions and answers, all the letters, increasing in frequency after what they did on Rosh Hashanah.

  Maybe if he’d talked less, listened more, read between the lines. He’d dared to hope that she’d let him in her world, and she’d want to be part of his and their stories could’ve melded.

  Instead, he waited, praying that in person he could summon the courage to ask her, formally, to let him be more to her than a mere dalliance. To marry him, despite all his qualms with the institution.

  And on the American New Year’s, after she avoided him for hours, he finally was brave enough, or at least drunk enough, to attempt a real, honest conversation with her, and what did she do? What did she say?

  That she was getting married—to someone else. Not just any someone else, someone who was the exact opposite of him. You didn’t need to be brilliant to understand her meaning.

  In the moment he’d wished she’d have shot him. It would’ve been less painful.

  And he’d hated her. Cursed her name a dozen times inside
his head. Muttered angrily about her under his breath during every march, every battle.

  By day. But at night he’d dreamed of her from the moment he laid eyes on her, that what he’d believed they’d had would have somehow been real—no matter how foolish, no matter how much of a distraction, no matter how far away from his plans she led him, even if she’d probably forgotten his name up until they were face-to-face on the train—that it was at least real.

  And now...after that damned kiss... Adam knew nothing of temptation. With the little bit of the sanity he had left, he moved his hands to her shoulders, and gentled her back on the bench, away from his body.

  “I apologize. I don’t know what came over me. That was very unprofessional.” He rubbed his knuckles with his thumb and stared at the circles he made.

  “No.” She placed a gloved hand above his bare one and squeezed so he stopped. Tri-colored eyes, gray-green-brown, met his. “I liked it. I liked it very much and welcomed it and I dare say I’ve wanted it, with you, again. I know the idea of having a lover—”

  “No. You don’t.” He gritted his teeth. “And you didn’t. Not really. You’re confused. Your life is in danger. Emotions are very high. You don’t know what you want. Like you said to Ethan, you don’t have ‘lovers.’ Your father and Thad would not be pleased.”

  Besides, if “lover” was what she wanted to call what he’d been to her, he’d been a rather limited one, a mostly-over-her-clothing one. A shame really, if one considered it. Not that he would consider it, or anything of the sort, it’d just been that she was the one who added the word to the conversation. Oy, he needed to make his mind stop.

  “I see.” She folded her hands in her lap, her neck straight, but her eyes blazing high and hot. Except her voice was calm. Too calm. “You know my mind better than I do? And my future? And my plans? You want me to mind my family, like a child?”