Forbidden Love (8 page)

* * *

Lisa hurried along the sidewalk on her way to the literary club, looking forward to the meeting, as she did every week. Of course, she enjoyed reading, but it would take more than that simple pleasure to explain her excitement when the hour for the meeting arrived. And yes, she liked to spend time with the other members, but that still didn't explain this feeling, since they were all much older than she . . . all except one, the steelworker from
Homestead
. Owen.

She repeated his name, liking the sound of it. She could see him as if he were with her now, his smile, his every facial expression. Reality slowly dawned. Could this newfound emotion be love? Had her mind refused to accept what her heart had tried to tell her long ago? But there could never be any happiness between them. Suppose--oh, just suppose!--they could marry, surely in time he'd come to resent her well-to-do background, and she'd come to hate life in a dirty steel town.

She mounted the steps to the mansion, and within a few minutes, she entered the library, resolved not to meet
Owen's
eyes or to wonder what went through his mind when she saw him.

Despite her resolution, Lisa met his gaze, certain she saw happiness in his look, and perhaps something more,
its
meaning out of reach. With a quick reminder to be more circumspect, she smiled a greeting for the other members. She settled herself into a chair near the fireplace, across the room from Owen Cardiff . . . across from temptation. She exchanged small talk with others but missed what they said, aware only that he remained silent, a look of intensity on his face. After the usual pleasantries, the meeting commenced.

While Mrs. Rowe read Andrew Marvell's,
To
A
Coy Mistress
, Lisa glanced up to see Owen again, her gaze locking with his. She could scarcely concentrate on the words of the poem, her every thought on him.

She saw herself in its lyrics, but the recitation disappointed her. Such a beautiful poem, but Mrs. Rowe read it like a shopping list.

Had we but world enough and time . . .

She caught
Owen's
eyes on her again before he quickly turned away. Did she see a deep longing on his face, as if he wanted her as much as she wanted him? Aware she'd gain nothing by daydreaming, she tried to dismiss her fantasies. Tried, and failed Did Owen care for her? The very idea made her catch her breath, her heart beat faster. But wait, what made her think he cared for her, just because he looked her way a couple of times? Now she was letting her imagination run away with her.

She wrenched her attention back to the poem. World enough and time! Would there ever be time for her happiness?
And with a steelworker from a mill town?

 
But at my back I always hear

 
Time's
winged chariot hurrying near . . .

She must forget Owen, dismiss these foolish dreams. What did she accomplish by dwelling on someone unobtainable? Even if he felt the same as she, she saw no hope for them. She had a husband . . . William, hers to love--love!--honor, and obey for the rest of their lives. . . .

With a pretense of listening, Owen stared at the flames in the fireplace while he pondered the indefinable expression on Lisa's face. What did that look imply?
Sadness?
No, a newly-married lady as lovely as she would never be unhappy, for surely her husband loved her very much. For reasons he wished he could deny, he wanted to rush over to Lisa, comfort her, make everything right for her.

A knife twisted inside him, and he knew with sudden clarity the truth he'd tried to reject for so long. He loved her, as simple as that. No use questioning the why or wherefore. His heart recognized the feeling, and this was no mere lust as he'd known for other women. No, this was something sweeter, something deeper,
something
. . . futile. Lisa was an upper class lady, married to a wealthy man, a man who had the right to hold her close and kiss her, take her to bed, make fervent love to her. . . .
a
man who could give her everything her heart desired. Dear God, how it hurt.

More than anything in this world, he wished he could take her in his arms and hold her next to his heart, press his hungry lips to hers, absorb the warmth of her body. If dreams alone could send this rush of heat through his body, what would actual lovemaking do?

The knife twisted deeper as he questioned life's ironies. With all the women in the world he could love, why should he choose another man's
wife,
and a lady so far out of his class? What she must think of him--a rough steelworker from
Homestead
! Still, he knew this desire, this love, was no passing thing. This yearning would stay with him for the rest of his life.

Emerging from his painful reflections, he tried to focus on the reading . . . tried and failed.

 
The grave's a fine and private place

 
But none, I think, do there embrace . . .

Conflicting emotions churned inside Lisa. She wanted to be by herself, to bask in this beautiful sensation blossoming inside her. At the same time, she longed to be with Owen, to look in his eyes and know, without a doubt, that he felt the same as she. Guilt swamped her for feeling this way about another man, but when had emotion ever listened to reason?

"My dear, are you all right?"

"My goodness!"
Lisa glanced up to see Mrs. Rowe beside her, she of the monotonous voice. Light chatter and the shuffling of feet told Lisa the meeting was breaking up.

"Oh, yes, I'm fine," she replied as she rose from the chair. "Just daydreaming, I suppose."

The woman flashed
her a
cheerful smile. "Well, don't we all do that at
times.
" She patted Lisa's arm. "I hope to see you next week. Remember, my house."

"Yes, I'll remember. Goodnight, Mrs. Rowe." Amid friendly farewells, the others left the library. Lisa managed to answer them calmly, wishing her heart would stop pounding. After their host excused himself to see the others to the front door, Lisa found herself alone with Owen.

Owen stood motionless beside his chair, his gaze on her face. "Mrs.
Enright
. . ."

"Please call me Lisa," she murmured. "I think we know each other well enough for first names, don't you?" She licked dry lips. "After all these weeks . . ."

"Yes, of course . . . Lisa. And please call me Owen."

"Owen." They stared at each other, a heavy silence between them.

"Well . . ." At a loss for words, she smiled again, reminding him she'd see him next week. "Time to go home now," she finally managed to say. “Goodnight, Owen.” She'd act
calm,
never let him know that the very sight of him drove every coherent thought from her mind. As wild speculations flitted through her brain, she imagined his arms around her, his lips on hers. What would that feel like, to be enclosed in his embrace? Heat blazed a path from her cheeks to her stomach. With a mental reprimand for her foolish thoughts, she headed for the door, her shoulders thrown back.

Owen hurried ahead to open the door, then stopped. "Just a minute, please," he murmured, stepping over to an end table. "You forgot your gloves." He returned, handing her the gloves. Their fingers touched, a flame erupting between them.

"Lisa!" Owen reached his hand toward her,
then
dropped his arm to his side. He shook his head and turned away, an unreadable expression on his face.

The library door opened and their host returned, breaking the spell between them. With a supreme effort, Lisa acted normal as she bade her host good-night. Yet her life had changed forever. After
Owen's
touch this evening, she'd never be the same.

* * *

In the long, dark hours of the night, Lisa lay in her loveless bed, aching with loneliness. Memories of Owen tortured her, and she whispered his name, savoring the sound. Visions rampaged through her head as she recalled his every feature--the dark locks of hair that fell across his forehead; his steady gray eyes that seemed to see through her; that rugged face with its smile that meant so much because he smiled so seldom. She thought of his hands, strong and workmanlike, and she wanted those hands on her body, touching her, caressing her.

Tears trickled down her cheeks as cold reality struck her like a physical blow. Turning onto her side, she tried to think of other things, determined to chase him from her mind. She'd gain nothing by thinking of him, wanting him, and yes, loving him.

She could no more drive him from her thoughts than she could stop the sun from rising in the east. Had she only imagined the emotion in his dear voice as he whispered her name? Even if he felt the same as she--and dear God, surely he did!--she knew their love was hopeless. Only unhappiness awaited her if she dwelt on Owen, if she didn't forget him. She had a husband, hers to live with for the rest of her life, and nothing would ever change that except divorce. She repeated the word.
Divorce, a disgrace that would grieve her mother and ruin the family name.

And what made her think Owen cared for her?

Her eyes burned from sleeplessness as she tossed and turned throughout the long night, waiting for the dawn. When finally the first pink streaks colored the sky, she was no closer to solving her dilemma. My God, she whispered as she watched the play of shadows on the wall, what am I going to do?
What in the world am I going to do?

Chapter
Six

On a frosty evening in late winter, the
Enright
carriage stopped on the sweeping driveway of Clayton, Henry Clay Frick's palatial residence in
Homewood
. Now there's a mansion as grand as its reputation, Lisa thought as she alighted from the carriage and walked along the sweeping driveway. Smiling, she entered the magnificent reception room on William's arm to greet Henry Frick and his pretty wife,
Adelaide
. They made light talk for several minutes while other voices swelled in the background. She tried not to gawk at all the choice paintings crowding the walls, the pieces of fine porcelain,
the
tapestry hangings.

As they moved on, she gently nudged William's arm. "Did you ever see so much wealth in one room?" she whispered.

He shrugged his shoulders, speaking under his breath. "This is how society lives, my dear. We've been in other fine homes." He gave her an indulgent smile. "We've entertained many important people, too, and that didn't seem to bother you."

"No, of course not," she replied with absolute confidence. "It's been a pleasure." While her father was alive, her parents had entertained often, but never on such an imposing scale as this. Since her marriage, Lisa had enjoyed having company at their mansion on
Ellsworth Avenue
, whether or not the people who came to visit were "those who mattered," as William always said.

Within the past few weeks, Lisa had found, if not happiness, at least a sense of purpose, losing much of her shyness and gaining considerable poise. She knew she looked her best tonight in her emerald green silk gown, its black
Alencon
lace embellishing the bodice and bordering the hem, black velvet butterflies trailing down the front. The décolletage revealed only a hint of the valley between her breasts, modest but in style. She smoothed her hand down the side of the gown, loving its silky texture, aware she'd never before owned such a luxurious gown.

If only William had told her how nice she looked, his compliment would have made her evening complete, but of course, she expected too much. Dismissing that thought, she moved along on William's arm and mingled with the other guests, the cream of
Pittsburgh
society.

"Excuse me," William murmured, leaving her so he could join a group of prominent businessmen who stood in a far corner of the room, engaged in earnest discussion.

Her gaze covering William and the other men, she accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter who hovered at the edge of the crowd. She chafed at the restrictions placed on her sex as she stopped to chat with the ladies, wishing she could join the men. If given the chance, she could add something worthwhile to the male conversation. How shocked those gentlemen would be if she joined them! She smiled and nodded at the people she knew and tried not to look bored while one of the ladies regaled the others with her tale of a recent shopping trip to
Paris
.