Forbidden Love (5 page)

The clamorous confusion of his surroundings drifted away, replaced by wild thoughts and bold passion, a fierce desire to have this woman as his own, to know her feelings matched his. He'd give anything to kiss her sweet lips, crush her to his aching body. But even had she never met
Enright
, what could she see in a steelworker from
Homestead
, a man far beneath her station? The whistle blew, and the fresh crew shuffled in. Owen stayed a few minutes to give the new foreman instructions concerning the day's orders and to explain the desired quality of steel. After a friendly pat on the back, he left the foreman, glad the day was over.

As he walked on, an aching weariness overcame him,
an emptiness
, a yearning for things that could never be. Removing his dark goggles, he took a deep breath. On leaden feet, he made his way to the bosh--a trough of water where tools were left to cool--and stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt. He splashed cold water on his face and hands and wiped them dry with a towel, then headed for his locker. There, he dragged on a clean shirt, trying to smile because he had tomorrow to himself.

But today was Lisa's wedding day. And what do you gain by continually thinking of her? He asked himself as he slipped on his plaid mackinaw. Not a damn thing!

Damn it, he needed the comfort of a woman's arms. Yeah, that was his problem, he thought as he strode toward the exit, chatting to fellow workers along the way.
A woman, sure, plenty of other fish in the sea.
How about that saucy red-haired girl across the river in Braddock? Her laughter, the taste of her lips, would make him forget Lisa. If only she could! Time he paid that girl in Braddock a visit. And forget the wealthy lady from Shadyside.

* * *

The last wedding guest had departed, her wedding gown packed away. In this time to herself, Lisa stood in front of her dresser mirror to remove the pins from her hair and shake the locks, happy to let her hair hang loose, free from the pins' confinement. Her hair cascaded past her waist, its golden tints caught in the lamplight. Brushing her hair, she shivered in her white challis nightgown, grateful for the smoldering embers in the stone fireplace. The sensual drape of her nightgown revealed all too well the curves of her body, but after one glance, she studiously ignored her reflection in the mirror. Mother had always told her a lady should pay no attention to her body, especially when unclothed, for heaven's sake.

Just the same, she couldn't resist a peek at her nicely-rounded breasts and rosy nipples that brushed against the
gown's
thin material. She had nothing to be ashamed of in her flat stomach and her gently curved hips, she assured herself before guiltily turning away from the mirror.

While she set her ivory-backed brush on her dresser, a warm flush spread from her cheeks to her neck as she recalled her mother's "little talk" yesterday . . . .

"Lisa, dear," her mother had begun while nervously plucking at the folds of her skirt, "I think we should have a little talk about the uh, intimate aspects of marriage. I must tell you that men can be very, uh, vigorous in bed, but there's nothing we poor women can do except endure it.
Best just to close your eyes and think about something pleasant.
It will soon be over. . . ."

Lisa told herself that whatever happened between a man and a woman in the marriage bed--and she had little idea what happened, except that there was much kissing--would surely be very nice with William. During their short courtship, he'd been the dearest, sweetest, most wonderful man in the world.

A very fine man, her husband . . . a good man.
Images of a gray-eyed steelworker intruded on her musings, but she pushed those disturbing memories aside, determined to find happiness in her marriage. If she wanted to be honest, she had to admit that she was afraid to examine her feelings about Owen Cardiff too closely for fear of what she might find. She stared at her reflection, a resolution forming. She would–must--forget the rugged laborer from
Homestead
and think only of William and her marriage.

She glanced around her bedroom, admiring William's taste in decor, conscious of her good fortune in having such a considerate husband. He'd insisted she leave her other furniture in the house on
Amberson
Avenue
, but she didn't miss those old pieces one bit.

 
"Trust me," he'd said. "I've furnished the finest bedroom in my house, just for you."

Each piece was much lovelier than in her former home, and she even had a wide closet. A magnificent
Aubusson
carpet in shades of pale green, rose, and cream stretched across the floor, the softest, most luxurious carpet her feet ever sank into. Elegant walnut furniture that included a marble-topped dressing table added a certain charm to the room. She wondered briefly how much William had paid for all the furniture but quickly reassured herself he could afford them. What a dear husband she had, she thought with pride.

The windows were shut tight, yet the green velvet draperies wafted in the freezing draft that seeped through the cracks. She moved to stir up the embers in the fireplace, wondering when her husband would come to her. Perhaps she should get in bed and wait for him there, or maybe he expected her to come to him? Why hadn't Mother told her what to do? Her feet were so cold!

She fiddled with the crystal perfume bottles on her dressing table and rearranged her ivory toilet set of comb, brush, and hand mirror. Her moonstone dog collar and opal necklace had spilled from her silver jewelry box, and she placed these in a neater fashion as she awaited the man who would claim her body.

* * *

In his own bedroom, William leaned against the fireplace mantel and took another swallow of whiskey, uncaring that he'd already drunk too much. He really should go to Lisa, but his mind drifted elsewhere, to the girl he intended to visit next week--Laura, a woman who knew every trick for pleasing a man in bed.

 
But Lisa?
William smiled to himself. A lady such as Lisa should be put on a pedestal, not savored in bed. Besides, every man knew that a well-bred lady could never enjoy the intimacies of marriage. Why, Lisa would think she was doing him a favor just by spreading her legs for him. No, he knew what he wanted, and he wanted a whore, one he could treat as roughly as he desired.

He recalled when he was a lad of six or seven, sitting naked in his child's rocker, studying his cock. His mother had found him and whacked him so hard he couldn't sit down for a week. That very Sunday, she had the minister over for dinner. She acted the perfect lady then, all smiles and gentility. How he'd hated his mother then. He still hated her, even after she'd been dead all these years. Another occasion came to mind. When he was eleven or twelve, he’d asked his mother in all naiveté what a certain four-letter word meant, an innocent question that had garnered him another whipping. So he’d learned his lesson very well. Sex was dirty, something to be indulged in only with low-class women.

What of all the other ladies he could have chosen to marry? There was Agnes
Thornhill
, a lady he’d known since childhood. Her family had money, but she had a face like a horse and a voice to match. Imagine sitting across from her at the dinner table night after night, seeing that same homely face, listening to that ugly voice. Then there was Mary Upton, a flighty girl who giggled at everything and apparently never entertained a serious thought. Why, life was one big joke to her, even introductions being a cause for merriment.
And Jane
Hinshaw
, a loud aggressive socialite who couldn’t say the simplest sentence without shouting.
Hadn’t they taught her anything at that exclusive girls’ school she’d attended?

Well, he needed a wife and hostess, no question about it. And, he thought, Lisa would serve his purpose very well. She was pleasant and soft-spoken, and unlike most ladies, could even make intelligent conversation. So for the sake of his business, he thrust aside his misgivings, convinced he and Lisa could find contentment in a loveless marriage.

Sighing, William drained his whiskey glass and left the room.
Time to perform his marital duty.

* * *

A light tapping at the door startled Lisa,
then
William stepped inside, his handsome face unreadable. Despite her unease, she rushed to him, smiling with shy delight as her heart hammered in her chest. Surely he must see its beating.

Bringing a cold draft of air with him, her husband smelled of tobacco and musk. Much to her alarm, he also smelled of liquor, and she recalled he'd had several drinks after the guests had left the reception. His woolen bathrobe was tied at his waist, his gray nightshirt trailing below it, black leather slippers on his feet. Hands tucked in his
pockets,
he gave her a critical look, his glance sweeping from her gown's high neckline to her bare feet.

A rush of heat enveloped her as she saw the brazen interest in his eyes, prompting her to wonder what would happen next.

"Why aren't you wearing a bathrobe?" he asked, his gaze lingering on her breasts.

"Well . . . I . . ."

"Never mind."
He shrugged, raking his fingers through his blonde hair. All husbandly solicitude, he let his keen glance sweep over the bedroom. "Do you like the way I've furnished your bedroom, dear?" he asked in his nasal voice. "You can have another room, if you want."

"Everything is lovely, William, and I do appreciate what you've done for me--the furniture and everything." She saw how his look slid from her breasts all the way down to her hips, his hands tugging at the collar of his robe, then tightening the sash, his fingers brushing across his forehead. Puzzled by his gestures, she focused on his words. "I love this room, William, truly."

 
"Good. I'm glad you like it." He smiled with satisfaction and nodded toward the bathroom. "I must tell you, your bathroom is the most modern one in the mansion. You even have your own shower.
How about that?"
Licking his lips, he rubbed his hands together.

"Everything is fine," she repeated, at a loss to understand why
he
should be nervous.

"Then that's taken care of." He untied his robe and slipped it off, then tossed it onto a chair. Virginal shyness brought a rush of warmth to her cheeks, but she resolved not to avert her face. My goodness, she'd never seen a man clad only in his nightshirt.

His fingers grazed her cheek, a speculative look on his face. "Lisa . . . now I . . . we . . . since we're married now . . .” He left the sentence unfinished and took her by the arm, leading her to the bed. "Lisa, dear, since you're my wife now, I can take liberties that were denied me during our courtship."

After pushing the woolen afghan back, he eased her onto the bed,
then
lay down next to her. "After all, I'm your husband now," he said with a redundancy that only increased her disquiet. He drew her close and pressed a hard, wet kiss on her mouth, a kiss that did nothing for her, a kiss that left her with no emotion save a nagging anxiety that she should feel something. He squeezed her breast, his fingers rough.

Before her marriage, she'd known that the marriage bed held many secrets, but she'd never imagined this awkward pawing, this painful groping. The scent of musk overwhelmed her, mingling with the smell of tobacco and whiskey on his breath.

With a swift glance from under her lashes, she saw his reddened face. In the room's silence with only the sound of the crackling fire, she heard his panting breaths, as if he struggled to accomplish some difficult physical task. He pinched her nipple, and the pain made her gasp--

"William, you're hurting me!"

He sank back on the pillow. Despite her nervousness, Lisa's heart went out to him. She wished she could say or do something to make him feel better.

She reached a tentative hand toward him. "William . . . I . . .”

He shook his head. "Don't say anything." He paused, a slight twist to his lips. "I . . . I fear I've had too much to eat and drink," he said, touching his stomach. "Feel slightly unwell. Best I leave you alone." Without another word, he rose from the bed and grabbed his bathrobe, then stalked away, leaving the scent of musk behind. He opened the door, another rush of arctic air sweeping into the room. But that was nothing compared to the coldness in her heart.

"Goodnight, dear," he said before he left the room,
then
closed the door behind him.