Maeve grinned. “I’ll do my best.”
Charles’s hand went to the doorknob again. “One more thing. We must keep our marriage a secret for a little longer. It would be most impolite to steal the spotlight from Stella as she makes her debut here in Boston. To say nothing of how it would anger my mother,” he added. “Beatrice insists on being the first to make the grand announcement.”
Maeve experienced a sour feeling in the pit of her stomach, a wary tightening. “And how shall ye be introducin’ me then?”
He replied cheerfully. “As Maeve O’Malley, of course. The woman who saved my life.”
She nodded. “Oh.”
“Now, is there anything you need? I’ll be away at the office most of the day tomorrow.”
There was something Maeve needed, something she wanted fiercely. She wanted to make Charles stay, to lure him to her bed. But what sort of male would be attracted to a wife wearing a scarlet nightshirt that mopped up the floor behind her?
“And what’ll ye be doin’ at your office?” she asked in a feeble attempt to delay his departure.
“I’ll be convincing my thickheaded cousin that coming out with a monthly magazine in direct competition with our rival is a bad idea.”
“Will ye compete in some other way?”
“Yes. By publishing good, exciting books.”
“I love books.”
“You do?”
“Aye. Pansy Deakins has lent me many a book and I’m a regular at the public library.”
Once again, Charles’s hand fell from the doorknob. “What sort of books do you like to read?”
“My favorites are history books, but I’m fond indeed of the Brontes, Dickens, and Eliot.”
“You’ll find history books and more that might interest you in my study. Feel free to take whatever you like, whenever you like.”
“Thank ye,” she stopped and corrected herself, “Thank you, Charles. You are a good man and I know you’ll be successful in persuadin’ your cousin. I’ll be readin’ any book you care to bring home.”
“Even if they are only manuscripts I’m considering publishing?”
“Aye, I’ll read your market list if ye wish!”
He laughed out loud. It was the first time Maeve had heard Charles give out with more than a chuckle since his memory had been restored. A bubble of pleasure bounced from her heart to the tips of her toes. She had made Charles laugh!
“I’ll bring manuscripts home for you tomorrow, Maeve.” Once again he grasped the doorknob and this time he turned it.
What could she do to make him stay?
“Have ye talked to the police about your stolen sketch?”
“Yes.” His jaw clenched as he opened the door. “They gave me little hope of its recovery. But I will find it. I must. I’ve taken an ad offering a reward.”
“I’ll be askin’ the Lhiannon Sidhe to look out for your sketch, Charles Rycroft.”
“Aaah, thank you, Maeve.”
Charles retreated to his study, feeling strangely edgy. It was a different restlessness than he’d experienced before his visit with Maeve. Pouring himself a brandy, he stretched in the leather wing-back chair by the fireplace.
So she believed in fairy folk and liked books — and men’s nightclothes. Charles smiled to himself. He had never guessed how alluring a woman could be in oversized clothing. If he hadn’t known better, he might have accused her of teasing him. No matter how he attempted to keep his attention on their conversation, his mind kept conjuring tantalizing images of a petite, voluptuous body hidden beneath all that red flannel material. The desire to rip away the concealing nightshirt very nearly overwhelmed Charles.
But a Rycroft always did the right thing.
Didn’t he?
Bloody hell. He felt warm. Hot.
Through pure force of will, Charles turned to less dangerous thoughts. He admired Maeve’s independent mind and spirit. But she also believed in fairies, which put her intelligence, and perhaps her sanity, in question.
On a positive note, earlier in the evening when she had been fully dressed Charles had seen nothing amiss with Maeve’s hips. Softly rounded, they promised sweet haven. The fact that he’d experienced the pleasures of her curvaceous body firsthand and had no memory of it unduly disturbed him. He felt cheated.
He’d made love to an undeniably beautiful woman at a moment in time when he suffered from amnesia. He’d recovered from the amnesia but he could not recall the touch or the taste of Maeve. Gross injustice is what he called it.
If Charles could only remember the events of their wedding night, he might be free of the curiosity that possessed him, the insistent need to know more about her. Once satisfied, Charles felt certain he could banish Maeve from his mind and concentrate on finding his missing sketch.
Of course, such carnal knowledge might also put a stop to the troublesome ache in his loins.
* * * *
Early the next morning, Charles entered the Washington Street building of Rycroft Publishing. Located in the financial and publishing district of Boston, the Rycroft offices had been spared during the great fire of the previous year. Sixty-five acres had been leveled by the fire and thousands were left without jobs.
For some reason he felt more of a sense of purpose today than he had in a long time. Before doing anything else, Charles set aside a few manuscripts to bring home for Maeve. If he kept her busy reading, he hoped she would not feel so confined to her rooms. He had little desire to hold her prisoner.
Martin sauntered into Charles’s office two hours later. Tall and thickly constructed, his cousin ate well and often. Unlike Charles, he had no athletic interests outside of watching an occasional baseball game at the park. The result was a stout body on a young man. Three years younger than Charles, Martin had suffered from chicken pox as a child. A once-attractive countenance had been left scarred. Martin disguised the disfiguring effects with a plethora of fashionable facial hair. He sported a full brown beard, side whiskers, and mustache. But he had a more difficult time masking his resentment of Charles.
“Good morning, Charles.”
“Good morning, Martin.” Whatever Charles did for Martin, it still was never enough to suit his cousin. But he could hardly turn out a family member, especially one who tried so hard to succeed. It would not be right.
Martin dropped down into the sturdy Sheraton chair in front of Charles’s desk. “Have you reconsidered our discussion of yesterday?”
“No, Martin. I feel certain that competing with a monthly will not profit us.”
“It will if we hire the finest writers and illustrators. We could steal Thomas Nast away for the right sum. I am certain the Rycroft treasury holds enough money to ensure his defection as well as the cream of the writing crop.”
“I prefer to create a new market rather than go head-to-head. Rycroft Publishing will succeed by moving away from publishing the usual text and religious books. We’ll concentrate on fiction.”
“Who will buy fiction?” Angered, or simply frustrated, Martin’s arms flailed above his head. He often talked with his hands as well as his mouth. “Would you ruin our reputation with dime novel publications, Charles?”
“Rest assured, we will not be publishing dime novels.’’
“As vice president, do I not have any say?”
“I always listen to you.”
Charles knew Martin intended to be president of Rycroft Publishing one day. His cousin’s ambition made Charles a bit nervous. He could only hope that if something should happen to him, Martin would have learned enough to keep the publishing house solvent.
“Charles, can’t you see? I need to make my own mark on the company. I deserve my own project.”
“Then come up with one that I can approve. A monthly magazine will not win my approval.”
“Monthly magazines are the wave of the future. Why do you suppose the rest of the publishing houses —”
“Magazines will never replace books. Rycroft Publishing will continue to focus on books.”
Martin’s eyes seemed to shrink, growing smaller as he glared at Charles. “You are making a grave mistake.”
“I regret that you believe so.”
Martin pushed himself out of the chair and headed toward the door.
“By the way, how is Sally?” Charles asked.
“Most days she is ill.”
Martin’s wife was expecting their first child. “Give her my best. I hope she will be able to attend Mother’s little gathering tomorrow evening.”
“Not to worry. We shall be there.”
As soon as Martin left his office, Charles wrote a hasty message to Boston’s most renowned private investigator, Herbert Lynch, asking for a meeting at the investigator’s earliest convenience.
* * * *
Mr. Raymond proved more pompous than any blue blood on Beacon Hill. Maeve’s headache started the moment Stuart ushered the tall, lean dance instructor into the drawing room.
Mrs. Rycroft and Stella Hampton had gone out earlier in the day without a word to Maeve. She told herself their snub did not matter. All that mattered was pleasing Charles.
In preparation for her dance lesson the carpet had been rolled back and the piano tuned. Maeve, however, wasn’t entirely certain that she was ready.
The dance teacher wore his curly, sandy-colored hair parted in the middle. His side whiskers boasted curls as well and ended where his mustache began. Impeccably dressed, Mr. Raymond appeared to be bound up tighter than Harriet Deakins’s corset.
He off-handedly introduced the accompanist who would play the piano during Maeve’s lessons. His son, Robert, who resembled Mr. Raymond in stature and coloring, smiled shyly.
When Robert began to play, Mr. Raymond’s starch dissolved in a puddle of liquid grace. In a swift, introductory demonstration, he danced for his skeptical pupil. Each effortless step he took became a lesson in artistry. Maeve had never known a man who possessed such grace.
After successfully dazzling her, the dance instructor announced he would teach Maeve the basic steps of the waltz. Before much time had passed, the dance seemed slow to Maeve and she attempted to increase the pace.
“Please,” her instructor remonstrated. “You cannot lead. A lady does not lead.”
“Aye? Was I leadin’ now?”
“Just relax and follow my lead, Miss O’Malley.”
No one called her Mrs. Rycroft. That was a secret she shared with Charles. A secret she did not care to hold. No matter how gracious he appeared, Maeve realized Charles could not bring himself to think of her as his wife. Somehow, she must change his way of thinking.
Prevailing etiquette mavens specifically instructed wives to defer to their husbands in all matters and never to bring up unpleasant subjects. But Charles must face the truth. Maeve was his wife and deserved to be accorded every respect.
Oh, Saints in Heaven, who did she think she was?
Maeve had no business being Mrs. Charles Rycroft! She did not speak properly, and now to learn that she could not even dance properly. Charles Rycroft’s family and friends would never accept her. She stood out like a brittle stick of straw among smooth strands of silk.
“Must you step on my feet?” Mr. Raymond asked tersely. His patience apparently had run its course.
“Beggin’ yer pardon but I lost my concentration. Aye, an’ I’m not used to dancin’ with a partner.”
“Do you dance alone?”
“In a manner of speakin’.”
Mr. Raymond raised his eyes to heaven, as if requesting help, and then halted the dance abruptly. “My dear woman, we’ve accomplished enough for the first lesson.”
The piano music stopped. The cover thumped down over the keys.
A sense of doom and failure descended on Maeve. “I’ll be doin’ better the next time.”
“I shall return tomorrow and give Mr. Rycroft a full report. I know he has high expectations, but one man can only do so much.”
“Are you thinkin’ I can’t dance?”
“No, no. Not at all. In due time. Anything is possible.”
She pulled him to a chair and pushed him down. “Just you watch!”
Picking up her skirts with both hands so Mr. Raymond could clearly see her feet, Maeve launched into a lively jig. She accompanied herself. “Da da da da, da da. Da da da da da.”
His brows arched in surprise, or it might have been horror. His eyes widened and then his face folded in a thunderstruck frown. Mr. Raymond’s appalled gaze locked on Maeve’s feet.
It took skill not to entangle her new high-button shoes in the thick folds of the lavender silk dress. The Irish jig required intricate, swift steps.
Moments later, Maeve surrendered entirely to her music. She was not even aware the young man at the piano had picked up the melody and accompanied her.
Soon even Mr. Raymond let himself go, clapping his hands in time to the joyous Irish jig. Maeve’s heart beat faster and faster. Her spirits soared as she kicked up her heels and danced round the room to the music. Laughing and lost in memories of merrier times, she did not hear the door open. She did not look up until the music stopped.
“Maeve.”
Out of breath, she managed half a gasp. “Charles!”
“What are you doing?”
“An Irish jig.”
“We had finished for the day. Miss O’Malley was simply demonstrating the steps to me as I requested,” Mr. Raymond explained, winning Maeve’s heart forever. “You see, I have never seen a jig danced before.”
Charles dismissed him curtly. “Thank you, Mr. Raymond.”
“I will return tomorrow with Robert.”
“Yes. Please do. But no more jigs,” Charles warned.
Maeve turned on Charles as soon as the Raymonds left the room. “Is there somethin’ wrong with an Irish jig now? Is Irish dancin’ outlawed in the home of a Beacon Hill aristocrat?”
“Certainly not”
“Are ye certain?” she asked, advancing on him with blood boiling.
Frowning, Charles cleared his throat. “I am certain your ankles were showing. And, you were holding your skirts up for all the world to see.”
“Aye, and do ye think Mr. Raymond and Robert took a shine to me ankles?” she bristled.
“Maeve, do you know anything about propriety?”
“Aye. I know to respect my elders and to be kind to those about me.”
“There are rules of behavior —”
“I don’t believe in rules.”
“That is abundantly clear.”
“And I would like to be introduced as your wife from now on. Mrs. Charles Rycroft is my name now, not Maeve O’Malley.”