How to Please a Lady (21 page)

Once they were announced, she and Charlie made their way toward Mrs. Tattering, who watched their progress with interest.

“Mrs. Tattering, a pleasure.”

“Yes, it is,” she said, smiling like she held some sort of secret, and Rose wondered if, indeed, Mrs. Tattering and Charlie were more than acquaintances.

“You have met Mrs. Cartwright, I believe.”

“I have. It is lovely to see you out of mourning so quickly, Mrs. Cartwright.”

Rose nearly gasped at the insult. “It has been nearly a year and a half since Mr. Cartwright passed. Time does seem to shorten as one ages, I know.” Mrs. Tattering's eyes narrowed and turned instantly cold.
Oh, what have I done?
Rose thought desperately.
How could I insult the one woman Charlie needs to impress most of all?

“You're not that old, Mrs. Cartwright,” Charlie said with a good-natured laugh, and when Mrs. Tattering joined in, Rose relaxed a bit.

And that set the tone for the rest of the evening. Charlie was charming, Rose realized. Both men and women sought his company, and he might have been born into elite society, so effortlessly did he navigate the ballroom. He danced only twice, once with Rose and once with Mrs. Tattering, and held his own both times. Rarely, she would whisper something in his ear to remind him of polite behavior, but for the most part he did well on his own. When he disappeared with some of the gentlemen for a time, she did worry, but when he returned, he was smiling, so she imagined all had gone well.

 

The evening could not have gone better. The only thing that could make this the perfect night was having Rose in his bed, and he knew that could never happen. All evening, even when he was not by her side, he was aware of her. She had that indefinable quality that so many women wished for that set her apart from the ordinary. It wasn't just that she was beautiful, it was the way she was so attentive to everyone she spoke with, whether it was a young debutante or a doddering old man. The doddering old men seemed particularly captivated by her, Charlie noted, hoping they were as doddering as they appeared.

He could not remember being so happy that an evening was over, yet he still felt on edge, as if he should run a mile or go to his gym and pound a bag until he was exhausted. He knew it was partly because he was suffering, being so close to Rose, loving her and wanting her, and not being able to do a thing about it. He wished they were a married couple, that they were headed, happy and tired, to bed to make love before falling asleep together in his large, comfortable bed. Instead, he would bid her good night at her door, perhaps kiss her hand if he were very bold, and walk away, aching from unsated desire.

By the time they arrived home, a fine mist had begun to fall, creating a soft light on their avenue. Everything glistened in the gaslight and it was such an unexpectedly pretty sight, Charlie smiled as he lifted his hand to assist Rose out of his carriage.

“Why are you smiling, Charlie?” Rose asked, taking his hand. He'd removed his gloves in the carriage and he wished she had done the same. Just imagining touching her flesh made him hard.

“This mist reminds me of home,” he said. “I think I don't miss it, and then I see a glimpse of something and I feel it. I wonder sometimes if I'll return for good.” He walked her to her gate and lifted the latch to escort her in. “Why did you not return when Mr. Cartwright died?”

Rose looked up at her home and shook her head. “I don't know. I did think about it; my mother wrote and invited me. She was quite adamant, said she couldn't understand why I would stay here. But that's not my home anymore, and yet this doesn't quite seem like home either. I'm afraid I'm a bit adrift at the moment. I could go anywhere, do anything, but I just don't know what to do and so I stay. Sometimes I picture myself an old lady still trying to decide.” She let out a sad little laugh. They stood at her front door, hidden from the street by the thick hedges, and it seemed as if they were the only two people in New York still awake. The silence was interrupted only by a slow drip from a nearby gutter.

Charlie looked down at Rose, and not for the first time he wished it was in his power to make her happy. The gaslight from the street lit the entry just enough so that Charlie could make out her features. “I should like to kiss you good night,” he said softly, touching the bottom of her chin with his forefinger. He surprised himself with his boldness, but Rose seemed to accept this request easily. She lifted her head, a small smile on her lips, which he took as acceptance. “There is something you never answered, Rose.” He kissed her, softly, briefly, just a touch. “Did Mr. Cartwright never kiss you?”

Rose grew still and looked at him, seeming to hold her breath, and Charlie was afraid his question angered her or would cause her to flee into the house. “No.” So softly, he wasn't even certain he heard the word.

He kissed her again, this time longer, deeper, and when she let out a small sound of pleasure, he pressed his tongue against the seam of her lips and she opened willingly, meeting his tongue with her own. Oh, God, she tasted so good. He felt her hands on his shoulders, kneading, frantic in a way, and he put two hands at her waist and drew her to him, letting out a low moan when she came willingly.

Her soft breasts pressed against his chest, and Charlie couldn't stop himself from bringing one hand up and cupping a breast, moving his thumb unerringly across her nipple. She gasped, so completely responsive, and he brought up his index finger to apply more pressure, squeezing gently.

“Oh,” she said, pressing her head against his collarbone, almost as if the pleasure of him touching her nipple through the layers of her dress and underthings was more than she could bear.

“Did Mr. Cartwright never touch your nipple, Rose?” he breathed, softly squeezing her nipple, then rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

“No,” she gasped, pressing her forehead harder against him. He kissed the top of her head, closing his eyes at the softness of her hair against his lips. In one swift move, he tugged her bodice down, exposing the breast he'd been torturing with his touch.

“Charlie.” She sounded shocked, yes, but she also sounded like a woman who was highly aroused. He touched that same nipple, now hardened from his caresses, and let out a deep sound of male satisfaction. She arched against him, unwittingly pressing her body against his erection, and this time it was Charlie's turn to let out a gasp. As if driven by some force he had no control over, he dipped his head and took her nipple in his mouth, drawing it in, relishing the pure sound of female pleasure that came from her throat. He licked and suckled until she literally melted in his arms, unable to hold herself up any longer. He pushed down the other side of her dress and lavished the same attention on the other nipple, listening to her sounds, knowing she was so close to coming from these simple caresses, he need only touch her a few more minutes and she would shatter.

He stopped, lifted his head, and kissed her mouth again, ignoring her soft sound of protest that he had stopped his ministrations to her breasts.

“Charlie, now I know why those women seemed so . . . happy.”

Charlie laughed, then kissed her deeply, pulling her against his erection, moving in an ancient rhythm, torturing himself. His hands were at her hips, drawing her close, as his mouth ravaged hers. They were unaware of anything but their mouths and hands and the pleasure they were giving one another. A carriage drove by the house, invisible behind the hedge, and Charlie had only the vaguest comprehension that it passed by.

“Rose,” he said, breathing heavily. He placed one hand at the juncture of her legs, and she stiffened slightly. He pressed the heel of his hand where he knew it would give her the most pleasure. “Did Mr. Cartwright ever touch you here?”

Rose's breath caught in her throat and she swallowed. Charlie was making her feel things she'd never felt, sensations she hadn't even known she
could
feel, making her thick and drowsy with sexual need. He kept his hand hard against her, moving only slightly, allowing her to get used to the feel of a man's hand there. He knew. He must know that no one had ever touched her as he was touching her. She shook her head, at first unable to move the word past her throat, and he let out a deep groan and pressed a bit harder and it felt so good. Nothing had ever felt as good as Charlie's hand between her legs. “No.” Now he would know and she didn't care, not with his large, warm hand making her want to press against him to relieve some of the exquisite pressure that was building there.

“I'm not going to ask you why. I'm not, Rose. That's for another time, another night. But right now, I'm going to touch you.” His voice was low and filled with need. Did he mean to make love to her now? Out here on her front stoop? She wasn't worried anyone could see, for her hedges gave them complete privacy, but it did seem rather indecent of her to allow such a thing. She felt the cool night air on her legs as he lifted her skirt, and knew she should stop him just as she knew she would not. She ached for him. It was the strangest thing; no man had ever touched her body the way Charlie was touching her, but it seemed right somehow. Or perhaps he had drugged her with desire.

His hand moved up her thigh, and he kept saying things in her ear, how soft she was, how beautiful, how he would die if he didn't touch her.... And then he did, and Rose tried not to cry out.

“My God, Rose,” he said when he felt how slick she was. She knew what that meant; she wasn't a child, after all. He found her most sensitive spot unerringly, and he let out another guttural sound that she now knew meant he was pleased. Charlie kissed her deeply as he began moving his hand against her, expertly teasing her, making her body sing, as if every nerve in her body were centered there, in that one spot. Her breasts ached, her knees were weak, her mouth swollen from his kisses. Her hips began to move and he made an encouraging sound as she clung to him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Yes, love,” he said, just as she began to pulse, just as a bit of lightning went through her body, making her stiffen and jerk and nearly die from the feelings that coursed through her. She clung to him, fighting for breath, as her body came down from heaven.

And then, as reality returned, she realized, with no small amount of horror, that she was standing on her front steps, her breasts exposed, a man's hands up her skirts.

“Oh,” she said, alarmed as she tried to right her clothes.

“It's all right, love, let me,” Charlie said gently, pushing her shaking hands away. “I'm a cad. I never should have allowed myself to get so carried away. I'm so sorry, Rose.”

“It wasn't as if I was struggling to stop you,” Rose said. “It wasn't like . . . It wasn't, Charlie. It was lovely. I'm rather surprised that I was so completely, utterly, taken with things that I forgot where we were. You are quite talented. As you well know.” It sounded like an accusation, even to Rose's ears, and Charlie stiffened.

“I was not taking advantage of you, if that's what you are implying, Mrs. Cartwright.” He stepped back, swiping a hand through his now mussed hair. When had that happened? Oh, yes, when he'd been
licking
her breasts as she'd held him there, pressed him against her, as if she were afraid he would stop.

“No, no, no, Charlie. That's not it. I don't know what I'm saying. I'm shocked, that's all. Here,” she said, stepping up to him and kissing him softly. “Good night, Charlie. Would you mind calling on me tomorrow? Perhaps for tea?”

He let out a low chuckle. “Of course, my lady,” he said with a little bow, making Rose giggle.

“I did sound rather prim and proper, didn't I?”

“You did. Good night, Rose.”

“Good night, Charlie.”

She slipped through her front door, then leaned against it, letting out a long breath. “I'm afraid you are in very big trouble, Mrs. Cartwright,” she said, then slapped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from laughing. From
laughing
. My God, she hadn't been this happy in years.

“M
rs. Campbell is here to see you, madam,” Brady intoned.

Rose looked up at him through her lashes, her eyes twinkling, for her butler rarely bothered to sound so formal, and when he did it was just a lark. He usually put on his butler air, as Rose liked to think of it, when someone important was already visiting.

“You may see her in, Brady,” she said, just as Genevieve whisked by him.

“You must tell me everything about last night.”

Of course, Rose blushed, which, of course, delighted her friend. “I knew there was something more between you.” Genevieve clapped her hands like a child about to receive a much wanted present.

“It was a very pleasant evening,” Rose said sedately, trying to keep the image of Charlie ravishing her nipple out of her mind. “Truly, it was lovely to see some friends I haven't seen since Daniel's death. Everyone was quite solicitous.”

Genevieve rolled her eyes. Having been brought up in a cabin in the woods, her friend was lacking a certain refinement, which was one of the reasons Rose so adored her. It was good to have someone who could be completely honest without using politeness as an excuse to avoid the truth. “Do not prevaricate, darling. You know why I am here. Our lovely neighbor, Mr. Avery. Was he good company?” She raised one delicate eyebrow.

“He was perfect company,” Rose said cautiously, willing the heat in her cheeks to dissipate. Just hearing his name brought back the moments they'd shared on her front stoop. She still couldn't quite believe she'd allowed him such liberties and then invited him for tea. All day, her stomach had been filled with butterflies, the anticipation of his visit growing with each passing hour. It was now three, and as much as Rose adored Genevieve, she did not want her friend still in her parlor when Charlie arrived. Feeling as she did, she was not sure she would be able to hide her infatuation.

Infatuation? No, this was more and she knew it. She'd loved Charlie when she was a girl, at least she'd thought she might have, and it was likely she still loved him. Over the years, she'd wondered about him, thought to find out where he was, what he was doing, but as the years passed, Charlie slipped further and further away from her consciousness. Until the day he stepped from his carriage and all those feelings came flooding back.

“Is it because he was your servant? You can be such a snob, Rose.”

Rose's mouth opened in shock. “Can I?”

Genevieve shrugged, something Rose noted, and her friend pointed an accusing finger at her. “See? The shrug. You noted it. You cannot help yourself.”

“But I was not being critical. I was simply noticing that you shrugged.” Rose sighed. “You have no idea what it is like to be the daughter of my mother. The only time I ever got to be myself was when I escaped to the stables to be with my horses.”

“And Mr. Avery.”

Rose gave her friend a level look. “Yes, and Mr. Avery. He was my friend. And if I note that you shrug, it is only that you know better but simply choose to ignore society's rules.”

To which Genevieve shrugged a half a dozen times, making Rose laugh. “You are impossible,” Rose said when she could speak. “And to answer your question, it's complicated. At least it was far more complicated in England than it is here. You cannot understand the relationship between master and servant and how very strong the dividing line is. For me even to have considered Charlie my friend was deeply frowned upon.”

“He is no longer a servant, Rose.”

“No, he is not. And I am no longer a young girl.”

Genevieve smiled knowingly. “I knew it.”

A bit of pique entered Rose's tone. “You know nothing, Genevieve.” Despite her words, Rose looked at the mantel clock, noting that it was now half past three. Charlie would arrive for tea at any moment.

Most women would have heard her tone and immediately either apologized, left politely, or changed the subject, but Genevieve was not like most women. “I think you have feelings for him. Are you ashamed of them?”

Was she? No. She was not ashamed of her feelings, she was surprised by them, overwhelmed by them. Frightened even. For she hardly knew Charles Avery, the man who was now a wealthy businessman, the man who entertained women in his home. Was Rose simply another one of those women? Was Charlie a rake now? That thought stopped her still. He certainly acted like one. Did he not seduce her on her doorstep? Had he not entertained two different women in the space of three days? What kind of man would have done such a thing other than a rake?

“Have I hit a nerve?” Genevieve asked worriedly.

Slowly, Rose shook her head. “I do believe Mr. Avery is a bit of a rake, and instead of encouraging a relationship between us, I believe you should be warning me away from him.” She thought back on the previous evening, about the women who had fawned over him and the easy way he'd had of charming them even as he dismissed them. Rose, who had so little experience with men, had fallen for his charms without even the slightest resistance. She let out a small laugh.

“What evidence do you have of such a thing?” Genevieve asked. “It's not a very flattering thing to say.”

“No, it's not,” Rose said, at first not offering an explanation. “Suffice it to say, Genevieve, that your home is separated from his by mine and as such, I am much more privy than you to the activities in Mr. Avery's home.”

Genevieve's eyes widened. “A woman?”

“Women,” Rose said, angry with herself for becoming—or very nearly—one of Charlie's women.

“Oh, my,” Genevieve breathed. “Then we must not encourage him. I had no idea.”

“I'm not saying he's a bad man,” Rose said, quickly coming to his defense for God knew what reason. “It's simply something to be cautious about. If he is a rake.”

Brows furrowed, Genevieve asked, “Was he anything other than a gentleman last night?”

Cursing her flaming cheeks, Rose looked Genevieve straight in the eye, and lied. “Of course not.”

Genevieve stayed a few more minutes and Rose promised to stop by her home the next day. It was nearly four and time for tea, so Rose had only a few moments to consider her revelation about Charlie's state of rakeness. Rakidity? She shook her head, thinking that she was giving the matter far more attention than she should.

Rose took up a book and was pretending to read when her housekeeper entered and asked if she would like tea. It was four fifteen. She was fairly certain Charlie knew what time tea was; he was from England, after all. It would seem odd if she waited, so she nodded, and for the first time wondered if Charlie wasn't coming at all. She knew he worked long hours, but she had invited him and he had agreed.

She took a thoughtful bite of her buttery biscuit. For years, even before Daniel's death, she'd sat in this very spot and had her tea and never felt lonely. Today, she did. Lonely and foolish. Charlie was not coming. Was he embarrassed by his behavior? Disgusted by hers? Horrified that she'd married Daniel? Rose felt her throat burn slightly and shook her head to rid herself of her foolish thoughts. It didn't matter whether Charlie came for tea at all; why was she making such a fuss about it all? Last night had been a mistake, obviously. Last night they'd simply been two adults who'd gotten a bit carried away by the night, the intimacy of the mist, the success of the evening.

Taking a fortifying sip of tea, Rose resolved not to allow herself to become any more infatuated with Charlie. And it
was
infatuation, she decided. Goodness, what a ninny she was. Not a few moments before she'd actually thought she was falling in love with him.

 

Long after he'd left Rose, Charlie lay awake thinking of the real possibility that she was a virgin, that her husband had never touched her. It made no sense, unless the man had been a homosexual or some sort of religious fanatic. Though he'd known Daniel only briefly, neither scenario seemed possible. Clearly, something had prevented an otherwise healthy man from consummating his marriage.

It was likely, Charlie realized, that Rose had been aware there would be no physical aspect to her marriage. It made sense, given what she'd just been through, how young she had been, how desperate to escape. He felt a surge of protectiveness, of possessiveness. It wouldn't have mattered to him had Rose had a normal marriage; he still would have loved her, wanted her. But in some base and carnal way, the fact that Rose was a virgin was quite wonderful. When they made love—and they would someday, he prayed—he would be her first and, God willing, her last.

Charlie welcomed the work he had the next day, losing himself in his locomotive engine design and the factory's operations. For long stretches, he did not think about Rose, about how sensitive her nipples were, about how wet she'd been, about the sounds she made when she reached climax. He'd wanted her before, but now it was a constant ache.

Charlie worked long days, always had. With nothing else in his life but work, and the occasional pretty lady, he'd never minded the long days. For the first time since he'd opened his factory, he was going to leave early and didn't feel even the slightest twinge of guilt. At half past three, Charlie began cleaning his office, knowing that the next day would be a long one. With his foreman out with a broken arm, he had no choice but to do his own job as well as his foreman's. The workers, while a good bunch, would slack off a bit without any supervision, and he needed to make an important order by the end of the week. Thanks to his relationship with J. P. Morgan, he'd been able to get an important contract with George Pullman to outfit his rail cars with C. A. Kitchen Tools. It was a huge order and Charlie wanted to be certain that not only was it fulfilled on time, but the pieces were the best quality possible.

Odd how difficult it was to concentrate on his business of late. Especially this day, when he was still reeling from the prior night's events. He never would forget the beautiful sound of Rose as she found her release for the first time with him. First time. That implied there would be more times and he hoped to God that would be the case. He wasn't certain he'd be able to go the rest of his life without hearing that sound again.

Charlie had meant to send flowers, then thought better of it. Sending her a gift seemed to almost sully what had happened between them. A note, perhaps. No. The last time he'd sent her a note it had been about other women, and that could only dredge up thoughts he'd rather not have her thinking.

He was staring blindly at a drawing of his locomotive engine when one of his workers interrupted him, and he realized at that moment the factory was strangely quiet.

“Sir, there's been an accident. John Sullivan. It's bad, sir.”

He dropped his pencil and immediately followed the man. “What's happened, Peter?”

“His arm. Cut nearly clean off just below his elbow. It's awful, sir.”

They ran to where a crowd of workers had gathered over John Sullivan, one of his finest workers and one who had been with him almost from the start. He was on the ground, writhing in pain, blood splattered everywhere, his arm nearly severed and twisted oddly.

“Ah, Christ, John,” Charlie said, running to his side. Another worker was squeezing his arm above the gruesome injury, but that was doing little to stem the flow of blood. John was pale, and looked like he was about to faint. “Someone give me your braces,” Charlie shouted, and within seconds, the straps were in his hand and he began tying them around John's upper arm as tightly as he could. Almost immediately, the flow of blood lessened, but the amount he'd already lost was staggering.

One of his workers, a young man he'd hired not two weeks ago, was openly weeping. Charlie looked up at him, and bit out, “Get him out of here.” John didn't need that kind of thing when he was no doubt already terrified.

“All right, let's get him to the hospital. I need a cart. Now.” Charlie turned to John, who was still conscious, as Peter ran to find a cart, which would be easier on the man than trying to hoist him into a carriage.

“It's bad,” John said weakly, his eyes filled with terror as he looked down at his arm.

“Don't look, John,” Charlie said. “We're taking you to the hospital and they'll take care of you there. Everyone else, the day's work is over. I'll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early.”

When they lifted John onto the cart, he screamed in pain. Charlie took one side, Peter the other, and the two pushed the cart toward West Fifteenth Street and New York Hospital. Every bump they went over produced more screams, but Charlie knew they had to reach the hospital quickly, or John could die. It was only three blocks, but by the time the two men entered the building, they were both drenched with sweat.

“We've an injured man here,” Charlie shouted, as they pushed the cart into the hospital's lobby. Almost immediately, two orderlies appeared. Heaving to catch their breaths, Charlie and Peter watched as the men picked up a now unconscious John and placed him on a stretcher to bring him deeper into the hospital.

“Holy God,” Charlie said, wiping his forehead on his sleeve, and only then noticing he was covered in blood. “What happened, Peter? Do you know?”

“I can't believe he did it. John is always so careful. He was reaching in to get a piece that had fallen and he knows to stop the machine. But he didn't. He took the chance and that's how it happened. It's so loud on the floor, we didn't even hear him scream right away. Then I saw the blood and ran to get you.”