Magnolia (10 page)

Mrs. Whitfield went red. “Well, of course they will. I certainly never meant any offense!”

“Nor I,” Diane said uncomfortably.

Claire's eyes didn't waver. “I have no envy of your position and wealth,” she said. “And I covet nothing of yours,” she added pointedly—and with a smile, despite her anger.

Diane got up from her chair, flushed. “It's rather warm in here, isn't it? I'll have the maid damp down the fire.”

Claire was too polite to smirk, but she felt like it. The venomous serpent, playing up to John as if he belonged to her! At first she'd thought that Diane truly loved John and was devastated at losing him. She no longer believed it. Diane played with John like a cruel cat with a mouse. She flirted and teased, but there was no substance to it. John was handsome and a man of position, but Diane probably did not believe him to be her social equal, so he would never have been a true candidate for matrimony. She was certain now that Diane had only been teasing him with their earlier engagement.

John deserved someone better than Diane as an object for his affections. Claire might not have Diane's beauty or her class, but she loved him. One day, that might be enough.

In the meantime, she was going to walk a straight and narrow path, careful not to push her way into John's privacy
or make him ashamed of her. But that didn't mean she was going to let people like Diane and Mrs. Whitfield push her around just because she didn't have what they considered a proper background.

The conversation was stilted and rather sparse until it was time to rejoin the men. John noticed it at once and glared at Claire. Of course, he wouldn't think it was anyone's fault but her own if there were problems, she thought with resignation.

Ted took her arm and led her to the sofa, stalling what John had been about to ask her. He sat down beside her and engaged her in conversation about her motorcar, which he seemed to find fascinating.

“I understand that you can actually work on the beast,” Ted said, his eyes lighting up. “I have a friend at Princeton who's pounced on Max Planck's new quantum theory—vaporous stuff, quite incomprehensible to any but physics majors—but he has an interest in motorcars. He built an electric one, which he runs around the town. It's something like that quadricycle that Henry Ford was trying to market in Detroit.”

“Henry Ford is a crackpot,” Mrs. Whitfield said irritably, still smarting from Claire's earlier rebuke. “These silly machines are only a fad. They'll die out in a year or so.”

“I believe that may not be the case,” Claire rebutted politely. “They're going to be quite important in the future. They can last longer than horses, and they're impervious to weather and illness.”

“You see?” Ted said. “Why, Ford has a factory in Detroit. And Mr. Olds—”

“I have an Oldsmobile.” Claire interrupted him demurely. “It has a curved dash and it's quite delightful to drive.”

“You must take me for a spin, Claire,” Ted said enthusiastically. “I should love to ride in your motorcar!”

Ted's mother was outraged. So was John. Mr. Calverson looked as if he'd like to toss Claire out on her head.

“So should I,” Mr. Whitfield said surprisingly. “I agree with Claire. Motorcars are the way of the future. I can even foresee machinery that will replace plow horses in the fields. Yes, mechanization is sure to come. Wise men will seek investments that pertain to this trend, and make fortunes at it.”

Mr. Calverson did a hundred-and-eighty-degree about-face. “Just what I've been saying all along,” he agreed, grinning. “I'm sure Claire would love to take you both motoring, wouldn't you, Claire?”

“Next time we're in town, we'll make a point of it,” Mr. Whitfield said, smiling at Claire. “I'm afraid we have to be on our way back to Charleston in the morning. It's a long journey, even by train. It's been quite an experience to meet you, young woman. Unique.” He looked at Calverson evenly. “If this is the sort of executive you employ, then I'll be proud to deposit my funds in your bank when we move our office to Atlanta, Calverson. Your people have amazing foresight. Even their wives,” he added.

Claire had to fight back a smug glance at her husband.
She only smiled, and ignored the icy looks she was getting from Mrs. Whitfield and Diane.

 

“W
ELL
,” J
OHN SAID ON THE
way home, chuckling, “you're full of surprises, aren't you?”

“I like motorcars, and I'm in good company.”

“Such as the madcap Ted?”

She glanced at him over the high collar of her cloak. “Ted is like my uncle Will. He looks ahead.”

His eyes narrowed. He lounged against the door with his arms folded, staring at her. “What did you say in the living room to get Mrs. Whitfield and Diane so ruffled?”

“I reminded them that it doesn't matter how much money you have when you get to heaven,” she said shortly.

“That was hardly politic, in your hostess's home.”

“Was it politic for her to be all over you like honey?” she shot back, red-faced with bad temper. “Or cooing up at you with her husband in the next room?”

His eyebrows lifted. “You were playing up to Ted Whitfield.”

“I was not,” she said, with dignity. “He was playing up to me. I have better taste than to cuckold
my
husband,” she added in a pointed reference to Diane.

“Stop right there,” he said in a dangerously soft tone.

“If she'd wanted you, she'd have married you before Eli Calverson came along,” she continued, unabashed. “But you weren't good enough for her. Now that she's got the golden gander, she can afford to make calf eyes at you behind his back. You're too honorable to take her up on it, after all.”

He averted his face. “Diane is none of your affair.”

“I know that,” she said. “I won't interfere, so long as you remember you're a married man.”

“I hardly need reminding,” he said shortly. He leaned back against the seat. “The bank's Thanksgiving social is a week from tonight,” he added coolly. “I believe the Whitfields are coming down again especially for it.”

“How nice.” She tucked her handkerchief in her purse. “I don't suppose it would be kind to remind you that you and Mr. Calverson were getting nowhere until Ted mentioned my motorcar.”

He glared at her. “No. It wouldn't.”

She smiled. He was miffed because she'd maligned his sweetheart. Well, she wasn't going to back down an inch—and the sooner he knew it, the better.

 

H
E IGNORED HER FOR
the next week. She thought it was out of pique at the things she'd said about Diane. Actually it was his own confusion that kept him away. His jealousy of Ted Whitfield had shocked and puzzled him. He refused to consider why he'd been jealous of his wife, when he was supposedly in love with Diane.

The night of the bank party, Claire had to go downstairs to find John, because he hadn't waited in their sitting room for her. She was swathed in her black velvet cloak with jet embroidery around the collar. The cloak concealed a dress she'd designed for herself—and had been able to finish in the week since Diane's dinner party. She was certain that it was going to shock her husband, and it would serve him
right. She might not have Diane's beauty, but she had a better figure, and this dress was just the thing to show it off. Done in white satin and black organza, it had a tantalizing neckline that rose in swaths of black and white satin to make wide straps across her white shoulders. In her hair she wore a white egret on a black velvet-covered comb. Around her neck she wore a strand of pearls that had been her grandmother's. She looked elegant and sexy, all at once, and the close fit of the gown emphasized her slender young figure. But John hadn't seen it. And he wouldn't, until they were at the party.

He handed her into the carriage with an irritated look. “It isn't a ball,” he murmured.

“Good, because this isn't a ball gown,” she replied coolly. “I do know what to wear to social events, despite my unfortunate background.”

“I haven't said a damned word about your background!”

He was so irritable lately that it was dangerous even to speak to him. Claire clammed up.

 

E
LI
C
ALVERSON MET THEM
at the door of the bank and handed them along to Diane, who raised an eyebrow at the velvet cloak and then dismissed Claire as of no importance whatsoever.

“How lovely you look,” John told Diane, approving of the scarlet gown she wore. It was almost too tight, and made her voluptuous figure look frankly vulgar. The color was wrong, too, although it was the newest sensation for fall
and winter garments for women. Amazing, Claire thought, how some women were so eager to be in the forefront of fashion that they bought clothes for the fashion and the label alone. She recognized the design, because Evelyn had asked her to improvise on it for a morning dress. She wondered if Diane had any idea just how much she did know about fashion. It would probably shock her if she saw any of the things Claire had made for Atlanta matrons far higher on the social scale than Diane could ever aspire to be. True fashion was the art of knowing what looked good on a woman—and wearing it despite current trends.

Maids had been brought over to the bank to help with coats and cloaks. Claire permitted one of the young women to take her cloak and was delighted when she heard the woman's faint gasp as the cloak fell away.

“Oh, ma'am. That's the prettiest dress I ever saw,” the young woman said fervently.

“Thank you,” Claire said, and turned to see wide-eyed shock on Diane's face as she saw the contrast between the purity of Claire's gown and the boisterous nature of her own.

John frowned faintly as he studied his wife. The gown didn't appear to be one she could purchase locally. In fact, it looked like a Paris original, but how would Claire find such a garment?

She lifted her chin proudly and walked toward him, but midway there, she was intercepted by three of the firm's young bachelors, and Ted Whitfield.

“Aren't you a pretty picture.” Ted sighed, making her
a bow. “Milady, you are without doubt the loveliest lady present.”

Diane, who heard the remark, bridled visibly. John, watching, could hardly believe his eyes. His bride had suddenly become the most sought-after woman at the bank social, and he didn't know how to handle the feelings that erupted inside him. Nothing in his life had prepared him for the jealousy that roared through him—nor for the raging desire that the sight of Claire in that exquisite gown set ablaze within him.

CLAIRE HAD NEVER FELT QUITE SO PRETTY, OR
so much in demand. She was drawn from one circle to another, while the women raved about her pretty dress. Everyone wanted to know where she got it. She couldn't tell them that she'd made it herself. She didn't want John to know about her secret career.

She mentioned the name of a boutique whose owner frequently displayed her gowns.

“Yes, dear. But what label is on the dress?” one matron insisted, peering at it hungrily.

“Magnolia,” Claire said, improvising.

“Magnolia. Why, how very appropriate for an Atlanta designer!” the woman said.

“Yes,” Claire said absently. “Isn't it?”

The one woman present who had no curiosity whatsoever about the garment was Diane.

She moved close to John when Eli momentarily left the room with Mr. Whitfield.

“Isn't her gown just a little revealing for a bank social?” she asked John irritably. “And, really! It's hardly the color for a married woman, all that virginal white!”

John had to bite his tongue to keep from confessing that the color was, in fact, quite appropriate for his untouched bride. He sipped his punch and looked around at the room with its spotless Persian rugs and elegant curtains and crystal chandeliers. He thought privately that his wife's elegant gown fit the setting.

“It isn't even fashionable,” she muttered.

John glanced down at her, surprised by the venom in her tone. He'd heard Diane be catty before, of course, but not about Claire. He was surprised to find that he didn't like it. She was glaring at Claire, who was talking with Ted Whitfield and two other young men.

“I don't believe Claire cares much for dictated fashion,” he replied.

“Well, it shows,” she said shortly. She shifted her pretty shoulders and turned, smiling up at him sweetly. “But what does it matter? You look devastating, John—really devastating. I wish we could be alone.”

His heart jumped. Her mouth was soft and sweet, and he wanted it terribly. Abstinence had made him ill just lately, and he was hungry for a woman in his arms. Odd how vividly he remembered the silky softness of Claire's mouth under his.

‘You'd like that, wouldn't you, sweet man?” she teased softly, moving closer.

He snapped back to the present with a vengeance and stiffened. “Diane…”

She let her body brush his suggestively. “Remember how it was, the night we became engaged?” she whispered. “I let you take off my clothes—and if your silly father hadn't come to visit unexpectedly, I'd have let you make love to me completely.”

He scowled. The memory had affected him deeply in the past. Now it was more an annoyance to be reminded of it. “This isn't the time or the place. We're married, Diane—and not to each other.”

“Oh, you and your sense of honor,” she chided, moving away from him. “It's that military upbringing, of course. You should have gone to Harvard in the beginning.”

“I had a better place at Harvard because of my background at the Citadel,” he said abruptly.

“The military is necessary, I suppose, but this is so much nicer, John,” she said, sighing as she looked around. “Look at all this wealth. Money and power are the truly important things. Anyone can be a soldier.”

That wasn't the case at all, but he didn't say so. Diane had never made any secret of her contempt for uniforms. He scowled as he thought how little they really had in common—outside his feverish passion for her body—and that had subsided. She was catty and shrewd, and she liked to play men against each other. She'd sworn that she loved him, but an onlooker would swear that she loved her
husband. She played on the winning side, always. When John had refused to go crawling home to his father to regain his inheritance, it hadn't taken her a month to find Eli Calverson and marry him. He remembered stopping for the dog that had been hit by Wolford's carriage, and how Claire had supported his efforts, how she'd comforted the old lady while John worked. She had such a tender heart, and yet she was as fiery as he was.

“What are you thinking?” Diane asked softly.

He looked down at her. “That men are fools,” he said carelessly.

She hit his arm lightly. “Silly. You're nobody's fool.”

“I wonder.” He looked past her at Claire, who was smiling with pure pleasure as those young men made a fuss over her. It looked bad, because it should have been her new husband doing that. Oh, yes. It should be he, not that damned cad, Ted Whitfield, who looked as if he'd have liked to eat Claire with a spoon!

“Excuse me,” he said abruptly, and went toward his wife with an expression so fierce that Diane actually gasped.

Claire saw that expression as he came toward her. She was surprised that he'd deserted Diane for her. But she hadn't liked his pointed avoidance of her for Diane.

“Lost for conversation?” she asked pointedly. “Or did Mrs. Calverson…upset you?”

He ignored the sarcastic remark and glared at Ted. “There are a number of young single ladies here tonight,” he said politely, and suggestively, as he caught Claire's gloved hand in his. “I'd like to spend some time with my wife.”

“How odd,” Ted said deliberately. “I'd have said that you'd like to spend time with Mrs. Calverson. Of course, I'm an outsider here, so what would I know?” He bowed to Claire quickly, having correctly judged the sudden murderous fury in John Hawthorn's dark eyes. “I'll see you again before we leave, Claire,” he added.

John's hand clasping Claire's became bruising as he watched the other man walk away. “By God, he'll challenge me once too often,” he said shortly.

Despite the pleasure the contact gave her, she jerked her hand out of his grasp. “He took pity on me because I obviously had no escort,” she said furiously. “It hasn't escaped anyone's notice that you've been all over Diane since we arrived, leaving me to the mercy of strangers.”

He sucked in a quick breath, stunned by her quiet fury.

“I don't want your company, and you've made it patently obvious that you don't want mine,” she continued. “Go back to your fancy peahen, and good luck to you if Mr. Calverson stops courting Mr. Whitfield long enough to see the spectacle you two are making of yourselves. If I'm to spend my time alone, then let it extend to social evenings, as well!”

She turned and walked away from him, right back to the two young men she'd been speaking to when John interrupted them.

To say that he was shocked was an understatement. He gaped at her, totally nonplussed. He hadn't thought that he and Diane had been conspicuous. In fact, tonight he'd felt
less drawn to Diane than at any time in the past. He looked around and encountered several pairs of feminine eyes with blatant disapproval in them. He felt vaguely ashamed that he'd embarrassed Claire so publicly. She didn't deserve such treatment from her own husband. But tonight, it really had been Diane making the advances, not himself. Claire, sadly, wouldn't know that.

Diane, also having noticed the looks she and John were getting, cut her losses, went looking for her husband, and stayed by his side.

Claire indulged herself at the punch bowl, especially when Ted Whitfield eased the contents of a flask of straight bourbon whiskey into it to “improve the taste.” It improved the taste so much that he helped himself to a second flask in his other hip pocket and became embarrassingly attentive to Claire.

The small band had tuned up and was playing now, so that the couples who wanted to could dance. Claire was pulled onto the floor with Ted, who would have danced very well indeed if he'd been sober. But the way he waltzed was dangerous as he weaved to-and-fro, and Claire finally stopped in the middle of the crowded floor and eased him into a chair.

“Sorry, Claire,” he said miserably. “Too much to drink.”

“You shouldn't do that,” she said. “It's unhealthy.”

He shook his head. “You don't understand. It's the only way I can stomach what my old man's doing. He looks so honest, doesn't he, Claire? Honest and intelligent… He's a
crook, Claire—and he's raised me to be just like him. But since I've met you, I don't want to be one.” He caught her hand and held it tightly. “Claire, could you care for me?”

“Ted…I'm—I'm married,” she said, flustered.

“He doesn't love you,” he said irritably. “A blind man could see he's besotted with that Calverson woman. She's trouble, you know. Big trouble. She's not at all what she appears to be; she'll do anything for money. I know what I'm talking about—”

“You must stop, Ted,” she said, gently disengaging herself from his grasp. “Let me go now.”

“Yes,” came a soft, dangerous voice from behind her. “Let her go.”

Ted looked up and encountered glittering black eyes. He glared back. “Tore yourself away from the beautiful Diane, did you?” he demanded icily. “You don't want Claire, but you can't stand to see another man appreciate her, is that it?”

“Ted, please don't,” she pleaded, because his voice was carrying.

“Let him talk,” John said coldly. “When he's finished, I'll help him out the front door, headfirst.”

She turned, putting a firm hand on his chest. “No, you will not,” she said shortly, keeping her voice low. “You won't risk the merger for Mr. Calverson because of Ted. He's only had too much to drink.”

“That's no excuse.”

“Think you're some big man because you have a Harvard degree, don't you?” Ted argued.

“One of them is from Harvard,” John said quietly. “The other is from the Citadel.”

Even through an alcoholic haze, Ted knew what the other man was insinuating. No man got through the Citadel and came out of it a cream puff. For the first time, he noticed the other man's erect posture, the steel in his eyes, the hardness of his face. And he knew at once that he wasn't willing to tangle with years of discipline and conditioning that had produced the man before him.

“I'm in no condition to fight,” Ted said, stepping back. “Claire, you won't let him hit me, will you?” he asked in a piteous voice.

“He won't hit you. Will you, John?”

He drew in an angry breath, glaring from the smug, drunken grin on Ted's face to his wife's set features.

“There's your father, Ted,” Claire said, and leaning around John, who hadn't budged, she motioned to Mr. Whitfield. “Ted's had a little too much stimulant,” she whispered confidentially. “I think you might want to get him home.”

Mr. Whitfield nodded. He smiled at Claire. “You're a kind young woman. I'm sorry you're married. You'd have been the making of Ted. Come on, boy,” he said wearily, and bent to help his son with an arm around the waist. “Let's get you home.”

“Aw, Dad. I was having a good time.”

Claire watched them go out. She turned away, but John caught her arm roughly.

“Since it seems to disturb you to see me with Diane, suppose you stay with me for the rest of the evening.”

She looked up into his hard face. “Why? Am I being punished?”

He dropped her arm abruptly. “Suit yourself, madam,” he said, his voice contemptuous.

She glanced to the door. Mr. Whitfield had just returned, minus his son. He nodded toward her and went back to speak with Mr. Calverson.

“Sorry to have spoiled your fun,” she said to John. “I'm sure you'd have enjoyed punching Ted, but it wouldn't have helped the bank's image, would it?”

She turned around and all but fell into the arms of another young man. This one wasn't inebriated and he didn't know that John was her husband.

“Is this man bothering you, Claire?” he demanded, glaring at John. “Because if he is, I'll be delighted to defend you!”

“Please do,” John invited, furious at Claire and still fuming because he hadn't had the opportunity to knock Ted to his knees. This was too tempting. This man was up to his weight, and he wasn't drunk. “Shall we step outside?” he added, without giving the man a chance to learn his identity.

“John!” she said, protesting.

It was too late. The men went quickly to the door. Claire followed and was just in time to watch the younger man throw a punch that was neatly blocked. John hit him so
hard that when he went down, he somersaulted and ended up sitting on the ground.

“Come on,” John invited, hands loose at his sides, his dark eyes blazing. “You wanted to fight. I'll be glad to oblige you.”

The younger man hesitated, and Claire didn't blame him. John looked like a stranger, his legs apart for balance, his head high, his face hard as he waited for the other man to get up and charge him.

“He's my husband!” Claire said sharply as the younger man got to his feet.

“Your husband?” he exclaimed.

“That's right,” John told him. “And you'll be damned lucky if you can walk when I'm through with you.”

He moved toward the other man, who backed away with his hands out. “Now, sir. There's no need for that. I'm very sorry to have interfered. I'll apologize right now.” He touched his sore jaw. “Please excuse me!”

He turned and headed in the direction of the hired carriages.

Claire's head was spinning, as much from the unfamiliar alcohol she'd consumed in the punch as from John's behavior. She couldn't believe that her reluctant husband had been willing to fight over her. She stared at him speechlessly.

“Would you care to start some more trouble, or are you through for the evening?” he asked, with biting sarcasm. “I've had quite enough. Get your wrap. I'm taking you home.”

And he did, despite her arguments. He shepherded her
past the Calversons and out the front door, not stopping until he'd escorted her into their apartment.

“Go to bed,” he said shortly. “You've caused enough trouble for one night.”