Once A Wolf (3 page)

capable of making a mark on not only New York, but the world.

The name Cole MacLean would be remembered. And feared.

"Your carriage has arrived, sir."

Cole tipped the attentive footman with a negligent gesture and led Rowena out to the carriage.

She climbed in with practiced grace, a creature of exquisite proportions and impeccable

lineage, born to the privileges he'd won with patience, talent, and grit.

Her fortune was as good as his. She already relied on his advice, and placed in his hands the

funds she bestowed on her numerous charities. Most of which never reached their intended

recipients, but that was something else of which she remained ignorant. He didn't plan to waste

their money— his money—on the weak. Let her go on believing he shared her devotion to

homeless children and reformed women of the street.

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He settled into the seat beside her and took her gloved hand. "Did you enjoy the party, my

dear?"

"Indeed. All the more because you were able to attend." She smiled at him with well-trained

attentiveness. "I know you must leave tonight—"

"But we shall be together again," he said. He kissed her hand. "Then we'll never be apart. The

next few weeks will move more slowly than molasses in January."

"One of your quaint Texas phrases?"

He was alert to the brief return, however mild, of her old sarcastic wit. "Very quaint," he said

coldly. "I'm delighted to have entertained you."

Her smile faded. "I didn't mean to suggest that anything you say is less than—that is, I—"

It amused him that she never stuttered or lost her sureness of speech except in his presence.

He squeezed her fingers a little harder than necessary. " I know you'd never mock me."

"Of course not." She fell silent. He kept his grip on her hand. She knew better than to try to pull

it free.

"I trust you to keep quietly to the house while I'm gone," he said. "I want you at your best for

our wedding. You needn't lift a finger; I've made all the arrangements."

"Yes, Cole."

"I'd prefer that you have as few visitors as possible. You're hardly young enough to have a

chaperon, and I confess to being a bit jealous."

She said nothing. He trapped her hand between both of his.

"You will do as I ask?"

"Yes." Her face was carved of white marble, nearly expressionless. He relaxed. It wasn't that he

didn't trust her out of his sight, but he enjoyed the testing. Especially when he sensed that her

English lady's mask hid something he thought all but stamped out.

"Well," he said. "Here is your house."

He waited for the coachman to open his door and then helped Rowena out himself. She

stumbled over her skirts, an uncharacteristic awkwardness.

"I've heard that you've given unofficial lessons in deportment to a number of young ladies," he

remarked, leading her to the door. "Perhaps you should take a few yourself."

She flushed. "I am sorry. I was not careful enough."

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He shook his head. "I expect better of you, Rowena. You'll be setting the example for all New

York. Never let down your guard."

Her Irish maid let them in the door. He gave the girl a calculating glance behind Rowena's back.

"It's a pity I can't stay," he said, drawing Rowena into his arms. She remained slightly rigid and

prim, as he'd anticipated. Sometimes he was tempted to keep her off balance by trying a bit of

"inappropriate" behavior. Not that he'd be satisfied with whatever pale shadow of sexual

gratification she could provide; she was a virgin, naturally, and raised to think of sex as a duty

that must be borne in order to produce children.

And though he might take pleasure in teaching her to perform as he wished, he didn't want her

broken enough for the world to suspect less than marital bliss between them. So she'd have her

children, and he'd find plenty of women, willing or otherwise, to appease him. Rowena was the

sort to turn a blind eye to infidelity, as most women of rank did in her country. She wouldn't

even raise the subject.

As long as she stayed just as she was now, he wouldn't have to waste any more effort on her

once they were married.

On impulse he changed his planned chaste kiss on the cheek to one full on her mouth. She held

completely still and let him do as he would. Not the slightest spark of passion marred her

control. He let her go and pushed her away.

"I see I need never doubt your absolute propriety," he said sardonically. "Be on time in

Newport. You know how I hate to wait."

She nodded, fixing her gaze on the floor. The maid rushed ahead of him to open the door as he

strode toward it. He brushed the girl's breasts with his arm and smiled.

"Good-bye, my dear," he said, as much to the maid as Rowena. "I'll see you again before you

have a chance to miss me."

He forgot his fiancée the moment he was out the door.

"There's a gentleman to see you, milady."

Rowena glanced up, distracted, from her letter-writing. Kate stood near the door, the silver

card tray in her hand, looking ill-at-ease.

The clock in Rowena's boudoir showed nearly two a.m. It was well beyond a decent time for

gentlemen to call on ladies—for anyone to call on anyone else, for that matter— and she was

frankly amazed that Kate had answered the door. The girl should be in bed. Just because

Rowena had not been able to sleep since Cole's departure did not mean that she expected her

servants to share her insomnia.

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And Kate had behaved most oddly, unless… She beckoned the girl forward. "Is it an

emergency?" she asked.

"I believe so, milady. It seemed so to me. I'm sorry if I—" She blushed. "I'll tell him you are not

receiving—"

Rowena shook her head and plucked the card from the tray. It bore a name she didn't

recognize: Mr. Thomas A. Randolph. The right end bent down indicated that he had come in

person. Most extraordinary; they had certainly not been introduced.

"Did he say why he had come, Kate?"

"He is a gentleman—from England, I think. He seemed most upset."

A gentleman from England. Instinctively Rowena went on her guard, though her relations with

Braden had been pleasant enough for the past two years. Nevertheless…

"Please tell him mat I shall join him as soon as possible," Rowena said.

"Yes, milady." Kate bobbed a shallow curtsey and left the boudoir. Troubled, Rowena made a

hasty toilette and went downstairs to join her unanticipated guest in the parlor.

She saw at once that Kate was right: He was, indeed, a gentleman, from his flawless bearing to

the shine on his shoes. His handsome face, tanned by the sun, was drawn in grave lines.

"Lady Rowena," he said, bowing slightly, "please do forgive me for seeking your acquaintance in

so abrupt a fashion, and at such an untimely hour. But I have just arrived in New York, and you

see…"

He hesitated, and Rowena studied him further. He wore a neatly trimmed mustache. He was

tall and lithe under the well-tailored suit, with a breadth of shoulder that nearly matched

Cole's. His face was decidedly attractive in a way utterly unlike her fiancés—tanned, angular,

less heavy in its lines. His hair was dark brown, his eyes the same, his voice pitched in a pleasant

baritone. His accent was that of the English upper class; everything in him bespoke character

and breeding.

A series of odd thoughts tumbled through her mind: a sense of recognition, a glimmer of

curiosity, a tingle of personal interest, as if she ought to know him far better than a stranger.

She had been well acquainted with handsome, cultivated men of his kind in the past, and never

thought twice about it. He was different, somehow.

She wasn't even annoyed at his outrageous intrusion. What had Cole made so very clear in the

carriage? He didn't want her to have visitors while he was gone. What would he say to this

man's untoward arrival on her doorstep so late at night?

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Her lips thinned. She knew what he would say. Such an offense against propriety would truly

shock him—in spite of the fact that he had kissed her with a peculiar, almost hostile intensity

just before he left.

That must be her imagination. He'd done nothing wrong, nothing that any fiancé might not

attempt a few weeks before a wedding. She was not so naive. But she had been restless and

vaguely… yes, angry… since she and Cole had returned from the party. Especially when he

constantly reminded her how far she fell below his expectations. She sometimes felt that he

regarded her as no more than a pretty bauble to display for his business and social

acquaintances.

How ridiculous. Such thoughts were proof that she needed his guidance. Still, she felt an odd

relief that he was not here at the moment. And this was, for a few more weeks, her house.

She wasn't yet Mrs. Cole MacLean.

She quickly recalled her guest, and smiled. "Please think nothing of it, Mr. Randolph. I

understand you have come on a matter of some urgency."

"Indeed. Thank you, my lady." He waited for her to sit and then took his own seat opposite,

holding hat and gloves in his hands. "Lady Rowena, I must be frank. I am here on behalf of your

brother, the Honorable Quentin Forster."

"Quentin?" Rowena kept herself firmly in place, though her heart gave a leap. "Is he well?"

Randolph gazed down at his hat. "This is indeed awkward, Lady Rowena. You and I are not

acquainted, but I have known your twin brother well since he came to the States. We became

friends while traveling in the West." He looked up, and his eyes captured hers. "You have not

heard from him in some time?"

"No. No, I have not." She stared at him as if she could force him to speak the news she dreaded.

"Is he… please, tell me—"

"I beg your pardon, Lady Rowena," he said, rising. "He is safe, for the moment. But I have come

to you because I did not know where else to turn. Quentin is in great difficulty. He… has fallen

in with unfortunate acquaintances, and I fear for his life and his health."

I knew. Rowena sat rigid in her chair, subduing any semblance of alarm. I knew something

wasn't right, but I didn't want to admit it. It was that old bond they'd always shared as twins—

coming and going, erratic but always there. Sometimes it spilled from the quiet corners of her

mind into powerful images, emotions too intense to bear… as had happened when Quentin was

in the Indian Army.

But over the past year she'd sensed, without any definite proof, that he was in trouble. His

most recent letters had held a tone of veiled desperation that none but she might have

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recognized. He hadn't responded to her last few missives. And she'd been neglectful and

selfishly preoccupied enough not to pursue her shadowy apprehension.

She sent Kate for refreshments and struggled to maintain her poise.

"I am grateful that you have informed me of this," she said. "Can you tell me more?"

He shook his head. "The situation is complicated, and a lady such as yourself—" He cleared his

throat. "Life is very different in the West. It is difficult to explain—"

"Kindly attempt it, Mr. Randolph."

He paused at her brusque interruption. "Very well. I shall speak bluntly. Your brother has

become very fond of, even dependent upon spirits. He is reckless in pursuit of games of chance,

and has made many enemies. I am afraid that he has lost interest in his own welfare, and is…

forgive me… seeking his own death by any means possible."

Rowena closed her eyes. Ah, Quentin, are you still so trapped in a past you would never share

even with me? Everything Mr. Randolph said reinforced her unacknowledged fears, and she

had absolutely no doubt of his sincerity.

She faced him again. "You've come to me for help."

"Yes, Lady Rowena. Having heard of you from Quentin, I believe you alone may influence him to

give up his current path and return to civilization."

Rowena stood, unable to contain her agitation. Anger welled up in her—at this stranger and his

sudden appearance, at Quentin, at herself for not realizing sooner that he needed her.

And at Cole, for gradually supplanting everything else of meaning in her life.

"Then you are suggesting that I go to my brother," she said.

"Yes. I would not have come so far on such a mission had I not believed it to be the only way to

rescue him." He withdrew a folded paper from his pocket. "Quentin did not know of my reason

for coming to New York, but he did write this."

The paper was a letter, written in Quentin's hand, addressed to Rowena. It assured her, briefly,