Authors: Forever Wild
“But, Nat…”
His voice was a little less gentle. “I intend to keep my promise, Willough. But don’t make it any more difficult for me!"
She floated up to her room in a cloud and undressed in the dark, still feeling his hands on her naked flesh. When she crawled into bed, she lay for a long time, stroking her own breasts and wondering why it felt especially exciting only when Nat touched her.
In the morning the cloud was dispelled. In the clear light of dawn, her behavior shocked her. She stared at a patch of sunlight on the ceiling above her bed. Self-abuse, she thought, feeling her face burning with shame. That’s what it was. Touching her own body that way. Every proper mother lived in horror of such depravity in her children. She remembered a childhood scene—of Isobel slapping her hand, her governess giving her a frightening lecture on the evils that would befall her—because they’d found her touching a part of her body that was forbidden.
And Nat. Every time she was with him, she seemed to lose ground. He took advantage of her willingness to wrest concessions from her. The shameful kisses, the libertine hands that touched her all over. And now last night. He had practically undressed her! And she had let him! She could never forbid him again. She groaned in misery and rolled over in her bed. And the worst of it was…she had enjoyed it. Every kiss, every caress.
Only wicked women enjoy a man’s coarse attentions
, Isobel always said.
She sat up angrily and swung her legs out of bed. If I’m wicked, she thought, it’s because he's making me so! She frowned. What was that? On the table next to her bed was a rolled-up piece of birch bark. She uncurled it and stared at the words in Nat’s handwriting.
“I love you, my sweet birthday present,” it said.
That’s all he can think of, she thought sulkily. Our wedding night and his own lustful pleasures. She dressed quickly and went down to breakfast. Daddy wasn’t there yet.
Nat rose from the table and grinned at her. “Did you get my note?”
A sudden thought struck her. “How did it get to my room?”
“I put it there. This morning.”
“While I was asleep?”
He smiled again. “Sleeping like a fairy princess. I nearly kissed you.”
She frowned at him. “Have you no sense of propriety? Coming into my bedroom like that? What will people say?”
“Oh, hang propriety,” he growled. “Unless I assaulted you in your bed, there’s nothing the matter with it!”
“Is that the next step? The kisses, and the…the…undressing me…And now my bedroom is no longer to be inviolate?”
“Dammit!” he said. “What the hell’s gotten into you? I thought we’d conquered those inhibitions by now. I’m sorry about last night. I thought you wanted me to do that. I thought that’s why you took off your corsets.”
She felt the blush burning her cheeks. “l don’t know what I wanted,” she whispered. “I’m so filled with confusion.”
He tipped her chin up with one finger. His eyes were warm with love and tenderness. “My poor, sweet Willough. It will all be set right when we’re married. I promise you.” He brushed his lips against hers in a sweet and innocent kiss.
There was a loud cough behind them. “If I can disturb you two lovebirds…” Brian’s rumbling voice.
Nat winked at Willough and turned about. “Sir?”
Brian waved a piece of paper at them. “I’ve just heard from Arthur. He seems to have guessed from your behavior that something’s in the wind. His reception is to be held on Sunday. He thought, since Willough will be there, that you ought to be invited as well, Nat. He’s asked me to tender his invitation and to urge you to come.”
Nat shook his head. “I don’t see how I can. I usually visit my grandfather on Sundays. He depends on me.”
“Can’t you arrange for someone to look after him?”
“It can be done, but Gramps wouldn’t like it.”
Willough smiled hopefully. “Oh, Nat. I’d love to show you off at Arthur’s party.”
He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I’m surprised Arthur would invite me to begin with.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” growled Brian.
“We’re not overly fond of one another, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir.”
“Dammit, I
do
mind! If you’re to be my son-in-law, I want you to get along with all my business acquaintances. As a matter of fact, this would be a good opportunity to introduce you around in the city. You can spend two or three weeks, meet the right people. I might even announce your engagement at Arthur’s party. Make quite a splash, eh, lass? What do you say?”
Nat turned to Willough. “What do you think?”
“You’ll have to meet my mother sooner or later.”
“Christ,” he muttered. “I don’t even own a dress suit.”
Brian clapped him on the back. “You’ll get it in Saratoga. Have them send me the bill. There’ll be time to get a good custom-tailored one before the wedding. You’ll have a few days here to arrange for someone to look after your grandfather while you’re away. We’ll leave here on Thursday. Give Isobel a chance to look you over before Arthur’s party.”
Nat shook his head. His eyes were dark with uneasiness. “Why does that sound like running the gauntlet?”
Willough laughed. “Don’t be silly, Nat. It’ll be fine.”
“I hope to God you’re right, Willough. I hope to God you’re right.”
Chapter Eight
“We ought to be going in now. I’m sure they’re waiting for us.” Willough brushed a leaf from her lap and stood up, looking across Gramercy Park to her mother’s house.
Beside her, Nat reluctantly rose to his feet. “Let’s hope your mother can make it through luncheon today. I’m rather tired of her scenes five minutes after we sit down to table.”
“Oh, Nat, that’s unkind! She can’t help it if she’s been feeling poorly every day since we arrived. I’m sure Drew’s going away has been a terrible strain on her constitution. We’re fortunate to enjoy better health.”
He shook his head. “I’m surprised you’d defend her. Since her fainting fits—quite conveniently—seem to be brought on by something that you say to her.”
She pursed her lips in annoyance. “Mother and I don’t get along, true enough. But it’s cruel to suggest that her vapors are of her own making.”
“Her ‘vapors,’ as you so delicately put it, are helped along by her addiction to that tonic she takes.”
“Nat! What a thing to say!”
He frowned. “You’d better get used to my plain speaking. I don’t intend to curb my tongue. That tonic of hers must be half opium. And then if she takes laudanum at night to help her sleep…”
“Oh, Nat. She’s been very kind to you. I wouldn’t have expected it, knowing how she feels toward me.”
“We haven’t exchanged five words since I arrived. I wonder what she
really
thinks of me?”
Isobel seemed in good spirits when they sat down to the table. Willough felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for her. The news of Drew’s marriage had been a devastating blow. Willough was pleased, of course, that Drew had managed to escape Isobel’s clutches; still, she couldn’t help but pity her mother, who had made it clear that her son was now dead to her.
Yes, thought Willow, Isobel was in fine form, showing the Carruth breeding that still won the admiration of New York society. Gracious to Brian, civil to Willough, and positively lavish in her attentions to Nat. And after the unkind things he had said about her!
Even the luncheon table reflected her good taste. She had spared nothing. The best silver, the finest china. And Grandma Carruth’s delicate crystal goblets, perched fragilely on the Battenberg lace cloth. She smiled warmly and indicated the place of honor to her right. “Mr. Stanton, if you please.” She waited until they had all been seated and Parkman had poured the wine; then she lifted her goblet. “I understand, Willough dear, that your father will be announcing your engagement tonight at Arthur’s party. May I take this opportunity to wish you both well? And to welcome you into the bosom of the family, Nat. I may call you Nat, mayn’t I?”
“Of course, Mrs. Bradford.”
“Oh, but you must call me Mother.”
One golden eyebrow shot up in surprise. “Isn’t it a bit presumptuous before the wedding?”
She smiled sweetly. “My mother used to say that people of taste may presume anything they wish. But if it will make you more comfortable, you may wait till after the wedding. Which can’t happen too soon for my daughter, I should guess. She’s positively glowing.” She chatted amiably with Brian while the soup was served, a cold jellied consommé. The caramel-colored aspic shimmered and trembled in its delicate china bowls.
Willough frowned across at Nat, watching the expression on his face as he struggled with the jelly and lifted a quivering spoonful to his mouth. She thought, He might at least
pretend
to enjoy it!
Isobel was perfection itself. The moment Nat put down his spoon and gave up in disgust, she signaled to Parkman to remove the soup plates. She sipped delicately at her glass of water. “Do you like artichokes, Nat?”
He smiled in relief. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
No! thought Willough, but it was too late. Parkman had already placed before him a whole artichoke, swimming in a shallow bowl of hot, buttery broth. Nat stared at it in consternation as the others were served, then looked up to catch Willough’s eye. There was something close to panic in his glance. He had obviously remembered the pie; the green globe before him bore no resemblance to it. As nonchalantly as possible, Willough broke off an outer leaf of her artichoke, dipped it into the broth, and scraped the inner surface against the edge of her lower teeth, extracting the delicate gray-green flesh. She discarded the inedible portion of the leaf in the empty bowl that had been placed at her elbow. She smiled encouragingly at Nat. He hesitated, then imitated her action, biting off too much of the leaf. She watched in dismay as he chewed in vain on the coarse leaf, unable to swallow it. At last, with a murderous glance at Isobel, he pulled the piece out of his mouth and tossed it into his discard bowl. Heartened by the sight of Brian, who had already worked his way through half of his own artichoke, Nat tried again. He managed to deal with about three more leaves, but it was clear that his temper was on the edge.
Willough smiled uneasily. “It’s as good as the pie that Martha made, isn’t it, Nat?”
“Yes,” he said tightly, and pulled off the next leaf with such ferocity that the artichoke sloshed through its buttery broth and leaped out of the shallow bowl, knocking over the delicate crystal water goblet. There was the sickening crack of breaking glass. Willough sucked in her breath.
“Damn it to hell,” muttered Nat.
“Nat! Your language!”
“Don’t be a fool, Willough,” snapped Isobel. “Nat had a perfect right to be angry. Parkman!”
“Ma’am?”
“Remove this course at once and clear away the broken glass! I will not have this sort of thing! What’s to be the next course?”
“Ortolan, ma’am.”
“Merciful heaven! Who planned this menu? Aspic, and artichoke that’s impossible to eat! And now songbirds? Take it away, and tell Cook not to send out anything else like this!” Isobel was warming to her indignation. “I want food on this table that a
man
can eat! A man with simple tastes! Plain roast beef. Even if Cook must serve it cold.” She smiled at Nat. “Will that be agreeable to you, Nat?”
“Very agreeable,” he said through clenched teeth.
Willough thought, Why is he angry at Mother? She’s doing everything she can to make him feel comfortable.
“Oh, dear.” Isobel leaned forward and placed a delicate hand on Nat’s sleeve.
“What is it now, Mrs. Bradford?”
She smiled apologetically. “It’s only that the artichoke seems to have splashed rather badly on your frock coat. Well, it could have been worse. If you put on another coat this afternoon when you go for a stroll with Brian, Parkman will see that this coat is cleaned.”
Nat stared at her steadily. “Except for my dress clothes, this is the only frock coat I own.”
“Oh, dear. How thoughtless of me. Well, we’ll see if we can find something for you to wear out of Drewry’s wardrobe. A nice coat. And a few shirts also. I’m sure you can use them.”
Nat grunted in anger, ignoring her, and bent to the roast beef that had been placed on his plate. What’s gotten into him? thought Willough. Mother was being unusually gracious and kind. Could there be such a difference in their backgrounds that he failed to see how rude his behavior was? She ate in troubled silence through the rest of the meal.
Isobel tried once more to engage Nat in conversation, then gave up, contenting herself with discussing Arthur’s party with Brian. When the plates had been cleared and ice cream put before them, she tried again. “Are you related to the Boston Stantons, Nat?”
He put down his spoon. “I doubt it very much. I’m sure the Boston Stantons are a fine old family. However,
we
were the
Troy
Stantons. And before that the
Ingles
Stantons. And before that…God only knows. Though I’m sure there must have been a bastard or two in there.” He slapped down his napkin. “If you’ll excuse me…” He rose from his chair and stormed out of the dining room.
Isobel looked concerned. “I seem to have upset him. Go after him, Willough dear. Take him into the parlor. We’ll have coffee there in a few minutes.”