Regret Not a Moment (25 page)

“I’ll open the door for him, Parker,” said Devon. And then I’ll kiss him right here in front of you in the foyer, she added silently with a mischievous grin.

Hurrying toward the door, she threw it open so that the night breeze lifted the gossamer chiffon of her dress in a cloud around her knees.

“What a beautiful sight,” exclaimed her husband.

Devon wrapped her bare arms around his neck and kissed him. John kissed her back until a movement at the corner of his eye alerted him to the presence of Parker. Gently disengaging himself from Devon, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Parker came forward to relieve him of his coat and hat.

“Well, are you ready for a delicious birthday dinner?” Devon asked.

“Let me guess,” he whispered. “Standing rib roast, Yorkshire pudding, and, for dessert, English trifle.”

“Close,” Devon said, laughing, “very close.”

“At least I can always count on some good claret,” John said with a resigned sigh.

“Now behave. Your parents want very much for you to enjoy this evening.”

“Who else have they invited?”

“Well, let’s see, there’s Mrs. Whitney, Mr. Stanhope-Carruthers, Sydney and Bart.”

“Sounds fine so far.”

“There’s Charlie Wittingham, of course.”

“Fine.”

“And…” By now they had reached the double doors that led to the salon. Parker, always nearby, opened them with no more expression on his face than he wore for any other occasion.

“Why aren’t the lights—“ John began, but no sooner did he utter the words than a roar of “Surprise!” went up from the crowd.

John turned to Devon, a look of shock on his face, as his friends crowded around him to wish him happy birthday. Then the guests parted to make room for John’s parents as they came toward their son.

In typical Alexander fashion, John’s father shook his son’s hand warmly, saying, “Many happy returns.”

His mother, her usual placid smile intact, said, “Happy birthday, dear,” and gave him a peck on the cheek.

Devon looked from her in-laws to John. It was odd, she thought, Victoria had shown her, Devon, more emotion about the event than she was now showing her own son.

“Thank you, Mother, Father,” he said in the usual formal tone he used when addressing his parents.

They shyly withdrew, letting his friends move to the forefront. Ladies surrounded John, each kissing him in turn. Suddenly, out of the crowd, Bebe Henley appeared directly in front of John. Pulling him toward her, she kissed him on the lips—a kiss that lasted just a second longer than those of his other female friends.

“How nice to see you again so soon, John,” she murmured with a familiarity missed by no one immediately surrounding them.

John threw Devon a worried glance, then answered in the same formal tone he had used for his parents, “Thank you for coming.”

Devon noted the short dialogue with no change of expression. She would not let this forward young woman create trouble between her and her husband and spoil her evening. She was not going to let her imagination arouse her jealousy.

After all, I trust John completely, she told herself.

At dawn, after Devon and John had danced through the night, after he had opened his multitude of gifts, after they had made love, all thoughts of jealousy or concern were completely eradicated from Devon’s mind.

With John sleepily rubbing her arm where it lay on the crisp linen sheet, Devon’s head on his naked chest, the couple knew one of those moments of complete harmony, ease, and love that occur between happily married couples.

“I’m glad you’re my wife,” John said to Devon, giving her a lingering kiss.

“You certainly proved that to me last night… this morning, I mean,” Devon said with a sly smile. She rolled over so that she lay on his stomach, her breasts pressed into his chest. She squirmed until she found a position that was comfortable, both her legs between his, her head resting on his shoulder.

“Then you must be very, very glad that I’m your husband, you brazen woman,” he teased, running his hands over her buttocks.

Devon moaned. “I’ve missed you so much these past few weeks,” she said, her voice husky.

John rolled over so that Devon was pinioned under him. He lifted her arms above her head, holding them there, then roamed over her breasts with his tongue. Devon arched her back, loving the sensations he was arousing in her. She was moist between the legs from their previous lovemaking, and she needed no further foreplay to prepare for him. She pushed against him until he was once more under her, then she mounted him, her legs on either side of his body. She swayed her hips to and fro lazily, clasping him inside her. He reached for her breasts, teasing her nipples with a light touch. Then he encircled her waist with his hands, moving inside her more urgently. Devon threw her head back and closed her eyes, reveling in the sensuality of their lovemaking. Now she altered her rhythm so that she rose and fell on him, controlling the timing and pressure of his penetration. The wetness inside her dripped onto him as she moved closer to fulfillment. Then spasm after spasm shook her, and she collapsed forward onto John’s torso as a wild tremor vibrated through his body.

They awakened slowly a few hours later, neither able to summon the energy to leave the bed. Devon smiled to herself as she thought of their passionate lovemaking in the gray dawn light. It had felt terribly decadent to make love in the house of her in-laws, slightly drunk, wildly uninhibited, completely blissful. And at just about the moment that the elder Alexanders normally arose to begin their day.

It was usually the time she, too, awakened to visit the stables. But John enjoyed sleeping until at least eight-thirty, usually not arriving at his office until ten. He was a night owl, while Devon was the opposite. She blinked at the bright sunlight that spilled through a crack in the drawn drapes, then closed her eyes again. She put her head on John’s chest and asked sleepily, “Were you surprised by your party? The truth.”

“The truth?” John paused for a moment. “Well… yes, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“I was surprised that my parents hosted it, but I rather suspected something might be afoot.”

“Who gave us away!” Devon demanded in a tone of mock anger, pushing herself up on one elbow so that she could study John’s face.

“I’m not sure I remember…”

“Who?” Devon insisted.

“Someone at a dinner party last week.”

“What did they say?”

“Just ‘See you next week.’”

“Why should that alert you to anything?”

“It was Bebe Henley,” John said in an offhand way, “and I, of course, knew that I had nothing on my schedule that would cause us to see each other this week.” John was not a good liar. And by telling Devon the truth, he felt he proved he had nothing to hide.

There was a moment of silence during which John waited for Devon to erupt in anger. He knew that his wife despised Bebe, and that the knowledge that the secret had been revealed by her would infuriate Devon.

Instead, though, Devon simply replied, “Oh, well, at least you were a little surprised.” She closed her eyes so that he could not read her expression. She refused, absolutely refused, to allow John to think she suffered from petty jealousy. And she was glad that he had told her the truth, rather than lie in order not to mention Bebe’s name. She would let the matter pass without comment.

But with a woman’s true instinct, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Bebe Henley intended to create trouble at Devon’s expense. Or at least to try.

THE light-headed feeling would not leave Devon. She had, as usual, eaten a hearty breakfast. She had drunk an extra cup of the cook’s strong Creole coffee. But still the feeling would not leave her.

“I’ll just ignore it,” Devon told herself firmly, tossing her napkin on the table and heading out to the paddock.

It wasn’t even light yet, but already the chill of the night had dissipated. The blue-black sky was cloudless, the moon still a distinct silvery crescent. It would be a beautiful April morning, as Jeremiah had predicted the day before.

Devon smiled as she thought of her assistant. They worked well together and had become fast friends. Seemed to have the same faith in Firefly, too. Once Jeremiah had become accustomed to Devon’s training methods, he had developed confidence in the ability of both Devon and Firefly to win.

Devon knew that despite herself she had made the racehorse owner’s biggest mistake—she had come to love her horse. Willy had warned her against developing such emotions on the first day she had begun training Firefly.

“I know all you pleasure riders think your horses are pets. These ain’t pets. You don’t run a pet injured. You don’t keep a pet cooped up in a stall all day. Racing is a business, and I aim to see that this one is profitable,” he had declared.

Devon understood, in theory. Racehorses were meant to be moneymaking machines, and like anything driven to its limit, they had a tendency to get hurt, or even die, for their efforts. Most trainers tried their best to avoid developing personal tenderness for animals under their jurisdiction, but there was often one steed that had such heart, such courage, and such a good disposition that it won the love of even the most jaded trainer. And Devon was no jaded trainer. Firefly had all the traits of a winner and something more—a delightful personality, calmer than many of Willowbrook’s horses, yet high-strung enough to guarantee quick reflexes. Firefly had grown to trust Jeremiah and Devon, and the filly displayed toward them the affection of an overgrown puppy, much as Devon’s pleasure horses had done.

Yet Devon was certain that it was not just her love for the horse that made her believe that Firefly could be a major stakes winner. Firefly was impressive, and Devon believed that Willy would have to admit it. The Blue Grass Stakes would be run in two weeks. It was the last major race before the Kentucky Derby. It was used by many odds makers as a gauge to predicting Derby winners. And it was the deadline for Willy’s decision on which horse to run in the Derby.

As Devon drew closer to the paddock, she saw Jeremiah enter the door closest to Firefly’s stall. As usual, they would undo the bandages on the filly’s legs to check for any swelling or other injuries.

“Good morning, Jeremiah,” Devon said as she caught up with him outside Firefly’s stall.

“Miss Devon,” he said with a nod and a smile.

“I think we should take it a little easy with her today. We ran her pretty hard yesterday,” Devon said, bending down to examine the horse’s left front leg. Suddenly, as she was about to rise, the feeling of wooziness caused her to lose her balance. She staggered a bit, leaning against Firefly’s warm side for support. Just as she thought the spinning feeling would stop, she tasted the spicy sausage she had had for breakfast in the back of her throat.

“Oh, my! I think I’m going to be ill.” Devon bent over, holding her stomach. “Help me… help me outside,” she said, reaching out to grab Jeremiah’s arm.

Alarmed, he caught his employer by her tiny waist, eased her weight onto him, and hurried outside with her. The smell of horse manure—a smell Devon normally loved—caused her to gag and, before she could stop herself, she felt her breakfast rise in her throat.

“Leave me!” she cried to Jeremiah as she kneeled in the dirt and emptied the contents of her stomach into one of the large tin buckets used for chores around the stable. After the spasm had subsided, she slumped back into the dirt, her back propped up by the side of the barn, her legs, in their white breeches, stretched out before her.

Jeremiah reappeared around the corner of the barn with a clean, water-soaked rag. He knelt down beside her and pressed the cloth to her forehead.

“Miss Devon…”

“I know!” she groaned, in a voice filled with despair.

“That’s the third time this week. That I know of,” he said with a searching gaze.

She was too weak to do more than nod.

“You’ve got to tell Mr. Alexander. A man’s got a right to know when his baby’s on the way,” Jeremiah said with conviction.

“Then… then, you know?”

“Any fool could guess, ma’am. Anyone who spends every morning with you, like I do.”

“I suppose so,” Devon said in a defeated tone. “Rut… he may want me to stop riding. He may even want me to stop training.” She was in despair at the thought.

Jeremiah reflected on this a moment. White folks were like that, thinking that a pregnant woman was sick. Every woman he’d ever known had worked almost until the moment of childbirth. His own grandmother had been born while her mother had been picking tobacco in a Virginia field.

“You got to do what your husband says, Miss Devon. It’s his baby too.”

“No!” she burst out. “Not with the Blue Grass Stakes so close. And then what if we go to the Derby?”

Jeremiah’s expression told her that he disagreed, but he held his tongue. Still, Devon understood. It’s odd, she thought to herself. Here I am discussing the most intimate matter possible with a seventeen-year-old who works for me. And his opinion matters.

“You’re right.” She sighed with resignation. “I’ll have to say something.”

What she couldn’t tell Jeremiah, of course, was that she wondered whether John would even be happy about the news. At the same time, she was certain he would use the pregnancy as a pretext to insist that she withdraw from the racing operation.

Suddenly, she caught herself. I’m thinking of him as though he were an enemy, she said. Someone that I have a right to deceive. Someone who doesn’t want for me what I want. Why would I think he would try to use the pregnancy as a “pretext” for anything? If he wants me to stop racing, it will be because he’s truly concerned for my health, she insisted to herself. When did I start thinking otherwise? When did it become what he wants versus what I want?

Devon wearily made her way to the main house, looking forward to a hot bath and a cool lemonade before dinner. Her clothes were filthy, not only from her sprawl in the dirt during her morning sickness, but from a fall she had had later in the day when Firefly had been spooked by a blacksnake in the middle of the track. Aside from a sore elbow she was unhurt, but she was bone-weary.