Marry Me (5 page)

Raymond wasn’t here for conversation with men. His eye was on someone else. As his sister engaged Mrs. Moore in the pleasantries of the day, Raymond made his way to Millie Moore.

She rose from her chair, her eyes sparkling. “Mr. Wilson, I presume?”

He took her proffered hand. A warmth spread to him from her bare skin. He sighed with the beauty of it.

She clasped his hand and enveloped it in both of hers. “I was hoping I would see you again.”

His heart thumped. She wanted to see him again! But what would she say when his words stumbled over his tongue?

What would she say? Everything he’d seen of her so far had spoken well of her.

This would be the moment. He would confess his biggest flaw and see what she would say. If she turned up her nose at something he could not help, then she would not be the girl for him.

“P-p-please forg-g-ive me. I s-s-s-s-tut-t-er.”

Here it was, the moment of truth. Her hands still held his. Miss Moore blinked a few times, tilted her head and then gave him an accepting smile. “So I shouldn’t be expecting any grand speeches.”

A small laugh of relief escaped him. He shook his head. She hadn’t condemned him.

“So,” she continued, “Is that why you enchant the little conversation hearts to speak for you?”

What? Oh no. “Th-that’s j-just for f-f-fun.”

“You’re good at that.” Her fingers stroked the top of his hand, sending little ripples of delight up his whole arm. “I noticed you earlier with your little paper birds. You had all those children enrapt.”

“M-more f-f-fun.”

“Still, it was kind of you.”

Oh, did she have to gaze at him with those soft brown eyes? He could get lost in those forever.

Only one thing ruined her perfection—that corsage. It reeked of bad magic, poorly executed. Was that Elliott’s game? Raymond was not sorry at all to disappoint his rival. A small smile played about his lips as he touched the ribbon with his finger. Weak spells were easily unravelled.

Miss Moore drew in a deep breath as the spell evaporated. “Oh, thank you. My mother made me wear that hideous thing.” She reached out to him in gratitude and he took her hand in his.

“D-does sh-sh-sh—” he meant to ask if Mrs. Moore supported Elliott’s favor, only to be interrupted by the lady in question.

“Millie dear, we need introductions.”

He felt a ripple of something roll under her skin. She dropped his hand and blushed.

His sister, who had been covering for him while he spoke with Miss Moore, introduced him to Mr. Moore, and, of course, to Miss Moore’s escort for the afternoon—Mr. Elliott. Raymond was forced to shake hands.

Elliott’s eyes were colder than Mr. Moore’s damp hands. Still, he plastered that false smile of his across his face—too many teeth—and observed the social niceties.

Elliot’s grip was too tight. Under his breath he muttered, “Whatcha doing, Wa-Wa-Wilson? This is my girl.” Then out loud for everyone’s benefit, he said, “Pleased to meet you.”

Two could play this game. Raymond’s years of regular exercise had given him a satisfying strength. With a coy smile of his own, he returned Elliott’s too-tight squeeze and then some. “L-l-likew-w-ise.” And to add insult to injury, “I n-n-ever s-s-eee you at-t the clubs. Have y-y-ou consid-d-ered joining?”

Take that, you rotter.

Elliott stiffened. He practically threw away Raymond’s hand.

Charles Chandler had wandered over to join his wife. He spoke to Mr. Moore, their conversation much lighter. Raymond relaxed. Good old Charlie had his back.

Raymond turned back to Miss Moore, but he was too late. Elliott had beaten him to the punch. “It’s too lovely a day to sit for long,” he said to Miss Moore. “How about we go for a stroll?”

It was not her mother she looked to, but Raymond. “I…”

Her mother answered. “Go on. I’m sure Mr. Elliott’s got a lovely picnic basket for you.”

With that, Guy pulled Miss Moore’s arm about his and strode off, but not before he gave Raymond a narrow glare.

So that’s how it was to be, was it?

****

By the time the Junior Regatta had ended, Millie and Mr. Elliott had walked at least five times about the lake. Her corsage was well and truly wilted, as was she.

There had been no picnic basket, nor any afternoon refreshment. Mr. Elliott had neglected these details. Instead, he seemed bound and determined to visit every single person, whether they knew them or not. Millie’s feet hurt. When she got home, her shoes were coming off and her poor, sore feet would be propped up for the rest of the evening. Possibly all week.

All over the park, picnics were packed up. Nannies gathered tired children and families meandered toward Fifth Avenue. Carriages filled the streets as families departed for home. Millie looked about for her family, for her feet would welcome sharing the space with a dripping wet boat and a disappointed brother. Alas, they were nowhere to be found. Amid the din of iron wheels on the street and the incessant whinnying of horses, no way would she be able to be heard if she were to call for them.

It was shank’s pony for her, then.

Mr. Elliott followed the departing families, as a sheep follows the bellwether. He still called out greetings to various people, dragging her hither and thither, but generally, every step she took delivered her homeward.

As they left the park, only then did Mr. Elliott have time to focus on Millie. “There’s something you need to understand,” he began, his plastic smile gone. “You must be seen associating with the right people.” He glanced about. Many people shared the sidewalks with them, but everyone else was so wrapped up with their own company they paid no attention.

Millie blinked at him. Didn’t they just spend the whole day trying to associate with everyone and anyone? Only a few more blocks until home. Then she could stop associating with him for the day.

Seriousness creased his forehead. “It was not the thing for Mrs. Chandler to bring her brother over for introduction.”

Millie’s jaw dropped. “Why?” Surely he wasn’t referring to Mr. Wilson.

“Oh, my poor little dear,” he said with an annoying long-suffering tone. He leaned in as if imparting a terrible secret. “He’s flawed. Seriously flawed. You can’t associate with that sort of person.”

How on earth does one respond to that? “I can’t believe you said that.” Her feet ached.

“I know,” he continued. “Most of the time it is best not to mention these things, especially to a girl. I know the ways of the world. You don’t. Since I know best, you need to listen to me when I tell you you need to stay away from his kind.”

Only a squeak escaped Millie’s lips, to be lost in the city noise. She wanted to call him a boor, a cad, a narrow-minded idiot. She wanted to yank her arm away from his possessive grasp and shout at him. She wanted to break free and run the last block to home.

And why not?

Millie pulled her arm free and pelted down the sidewalk, pushing past promenading couples and dodging lampposts.

Her feet protested loudly. Let them. Let them shout out their sore objections. At least something could be heard.

Millie had to slow as she reached the street corner. To dash out into traffic was a most foolhardy action, even if one was angry.

Mr. Elliott’s hand came down on her arm and spun her around. “What are you doing, you daft thing?” A carriage rumbled by.

“I want to go home.” The ringing of the wheels on the street drowned out her words.

“What?”

“I want to go home!” she shouted, finally being heard.

He shook her by the shoulders. “We are going home,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Again, he tucked her arm into his. “Sometimes I wish girls were as smart as men.”

****

Finally, home! Millie swore she could not take another step. The late afternoon light cast orange rays along the tops of houses. Already the street sat in shadow. Millie marched up the steps, opened the door and said a very firm, “Good evening,” to Mr. Elliott before shutting the door in his face. Very impolite, but she saw no need to invite him in.

She saw no need to see him ever again.

Honestly! How could a man be so rude and not realise what a spectacle he presented to the world?

Before she could ascend the staircase, both parents came out of the parlor where they’d been waiting. Her mother sniffed. “That was uncalled for. You should not be so rude.” Her father hovered behind her. The scent of flowers wafted about them.

Milllie touched the disenchanted ribbon of her corsage. “I have just spent all day with one of the worst men ever.”

And met one of the best.

Her mother frowned. “Mildred,” she warned.

“I don’t know what you see in him. All we did was walk around. He had to talk with everybody.”

“That’s what one does. I will not have you shame us by ignoring our friends.”

“‘Our friends’?” Millie laughed out loud. “If we were chatting with ‘our friends’, I would have enjoyed that very much.” She wanted to tear out her hair. “No, we did not chat with ‘our friends’. Instead, I was dragged across the muddy grass as Mr. Elliott chased down the Dudley-Winthrops. His attempts to engage them in conversation were laughable. I’m so embarrassed.”

Her mother sniffed and applied a handkerchief to the tip of her nose. “Try not to discourage him, Millie. If you reject Mr. Elliott, you might not get another chance.”

“Another chance? I don’t want another chance with him.”

Her mother gritted her teeth. “I meant, another chance with any man.”

What? Did her mother truly believe she was on the shelf? Did she honestly believe that a bad marriage would be better than no marriage? “Better that than being bored to death by that pompous ass—”

“Mildred!” Her father’s face purpled. “You apologize this instant.”

“Why? He’s not here.”

“Oh,” cried her mother. “Please reconsider. He’s been so generous and thoughtful.”

Millie’s stomach rumbled. No lunch. “I don’t care. I’ve had enough.” She turned her back to them. Her feet ached at the thought of climbing the stairs. Her hand descended to the banister.

Her mother drew a sharp breath through her nose. “Mildred, go to your room.”

“I am going to my room,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Not because you’re sending me. I’m not a child. I’m going because I want to.” She mounted the first step. “I shall have a tray in my room. Please tell Cook I will be eating alone.”

That sent her mother sputtering. Millie didn’t care. A plan formed in her head. It was bold, nay, it was shocking. Possibly the most shocking thing a young lady could do. By gum, if she was to end up on the shelf, as her mother feared, it would not be for lack of effort.

****

Raymond had to go to the club. Mary invited him to dinner, but he had too much to get out of his system. Let Thomas enjoy his well-deserved wins without his uncle’s gloom dampening spirits.

He was spoiling for a fight.

Raymond’s club catered to all kinds of diversions for his alma mater’s alumni. A well-stocked library occupied the top floor. Social rooms and two dining clubs—casual and fancy—were always popular at this time of day. Even hotel rooms, should one wish to stay the night.

But what he wanted most was in the basement.

As he descended the steps, the spicy pungency of sweat greeted him. Down here, among the cement and pipes, single shaded bulbs illuminated spots on the floor. In one corner a few fellows lifted free weights and in another several skipped ropes.

That was all well and good for keeping in shape, but Raymond wanted to punch something.

There it was, the boxing ring, raised off the floor and encased by rope. Two men dressed in athletic gear circled each other taking experimental jabs. Another man, Jake Smith, lounged on the ropes, watching them with lazy interest.

After a quick change in the dressing room, Raymond emerged to find his old school chum, Jeremy Quick. He was a large lad, but once you got him in the ring, he lived up to his name. Also, he sported a powerful right hook, as Raymond’s jaw could testify.

He was perfect. “G-go a few rounds?”

Quick grinned. His nose had been broken once and never set straight. “What? With a little shrimp like you?” He straightened and rewrapped his fists before pounding them together.

After wrapping his own wrists, Raymond shoved his hands into boxing gloves.

Oh, this was going to feel good.

He and Quick climbed into the vacated ring. Smith, still leaning on the ropes offered to referee.

“Just in case,” he said.

While Raymond wished he could go freestyle, that was not the gentleman’s way. A bitterness of guilt sat in his throat. This was Quick, not Elliott, he boxed. They were fellows and should treat each other with respect. He bumped gloves with his worthy opponent.

Smith rang the bell. Immediately Quick feinted a left hook then followed with a right. Raymond saw it coming and dodged. He followed up with a one-two-three combination, making light contact.

The whole afternoon Raymond had watched Elliott squire Miss Moore about the park. Should he have been relieved the peacock didn’t bother to bill and coo? Or should he have felt angry on her behalf?

Quick landed a tap on Raymond’s chin, bringing him back to the here and now. Raymond retaliated, perhaps a little harder than warranted.

“Whoa,” Quick cried. “Something on your mind, chum?”

Raymond exhaled. “M-man s-s-s—tealing m-my girl.”

His friend bounced lightly on his toes. “Didn’t know you had one.”

Well, maybe not yet, but after today’s conversation with the sweet Miss Moore, Raymond had every reason to believe his suit would be accepted. Tomorrow he would march over to the Moore residence and declare himself openly.

Elliott might be a cad, but he, Raymond, would play fairly.

He took a few swings at Quick, mostly to suss out his friend’s reactions.

Quick retaliated with a few short jabs, ducked, and delivered a blow to Raymond’s breadbasket. “Who’s the blighter?”

That last hit knocked Raymond’s breath out. “Ell-lliot.”

“What? Guy Elliott? That toad?”