Paxton Pride (2 page)

Karen sighed. The evening was definitely, irrevocably off to a bad start. She would be forced to take sides again, no matter how noncommittal she tried to be. And once committed, flaring tempers and harsh, unkind words would intensify the loathing for her parents, the two people in the world she should most love. She was determined not to live a life of bickering, open argument and divisiveness. She would not be a captive to a marriage of convenience, as her parents were, but rather a slave to love and passion, a happy, passionate, giving wife of a loving, understanding husband. Such dreams were interrupted by the arrival of the lamb and, once again, the cat-footed Ross.

If there were only some distraction, even a dull party to which she might take herself. This would be one of the few evenings, though, that the Hamptons would not be entertaining. Nor was anyone entertaining them. They would pass the evening together at home, pleasantly, delicately and elegantly carving each other into ribbons recognizable only to themselves, then taking themselves off to bed to count points won and points lost, and dreaming of brilliant ripostes and deft parries, intricate conceits and eloquent replies, drift off to a troubled, conniving sleep. Karen wished otherwise. She had hoped to draw her father into a levelheaded, calm, serene discussion concerning her growing disenchantment with the idea of becoming Mrs. Alfred Randol Whitaker II, but all hope for such a conversation was lost, at least for this night.

To make matters worse, the lamb, although daintily prepared, was overdone.

Vance Paxton avoided the mirror. He felt terrible enough without going out of his way to look at what he knew he'd see. Bleary blue eyes against a sea of crimson. Pouched eyelids. Puffy lower lip and right cheek. The very picture of debauchery. “Christ,” he said to the floor, “you'd think I'd know better.”

The water pitcher was before him and he reached for it, his hand knocking the empty bottle in front of it from the bureau onto the chair. He caught it before it rolled off and smashed to the floor, then steadied himself against the bureau. Rather than look at the mirror, so close to him now, he stared into the vast emptiness of the bottle. The heady, stale bourbon aroma swelled into his face and he gagged and dropped the bottle anyway. It didn't break.

He made his way across the bedroom and sat heavily on the bed. “Reckon I gave Texas a bad name last night,” he groaned, the groan fading into a low chuckle as he looked down at his bruised knuckles.

There were two of them, two large-boned young dandies who swaggered into Robin's Tavern as if they owned the place. Robin's was the one nightspot Vance had discovered where he could get away from it all and escape the continual political conversations springing from every corner of Washington. Unaware of a brewing storm, he was drinking heavily and immersed in self-pity, trying to forget the fact he might be stuck in this damned city for another month before he would be free to pack his bags, get on a boat and return to the spacious freedom of Texas and his beloved ranch.

The two dandies, already half drunk, posed in front of the fireplace. Casting about for some excitement, one remarked about Vance's less than proper dress, mimicked his Texas drawl and called him Rebel trash. But it wasn't until they began to make insinuations about his forebears that he lost his temper.

He had sprung from sturdy stock. Pirates, pioneers and trail blazers. Determined folk who fought the British at Kings Mountain and won again at New Orleans, saving the newly-born nation its pride at the close of the War of 1812. The first Paxtons had emigrated to the Mexican Territory of Texas in 1834. A Paxton had died with Travis, Bowie and Crockett on the sun and blood-drenched walls of the beleaguered Alamo. Vance's own father had charged to glory with Sam Houston at San Jacinto and lived to carve a hundred square miles of raw wilderness into one of the largest ranches in the new state. And Vance, like his resolute and freedom-minded forefathers, had taken a stand in the War between the States and captained a troop of Texas Volunteers at the battles of Galveston and Sabine Pass.

The Paxton pride ran deep indeed. The Washingtonian ne'er-do-well had barely begun his own version of Vance's cherished lineage when he found himself lying on his back, spitting up teeth and wondering how the rustic could possibly have struck him from twelve feet away. When his eyes cleared, he saw how. The Texan toward over him, his eyes tight, his face white with rage.

His partner made a better showing, having studied fisticuffs at Harvard. He danced about the room, bloodying Vance's face with an assortment of left and right jabs until Vance tired of the game. A steel-like hand grabbed one fist in the middle of a jab, held and spun the brawler about on tip-toe. The dandy, squalling in protest, felt himself picked up by the seat of his pants and the back of his jacket and ignominiously hurled through the window to the horror of the other gentlemen and ladies present.

Vance laughed aloud, his voice hollow in the quiet bedroom, then cursed as the gesture sent stinging currents of pain through his cheeks and into his head. Good God, nothing was that funny.

A soft knock sounded on the door to his room. He groaned and pushed himself from the bed, issuing a weak “Just a minute' as he shakily crossed the room. He leaned against the wall for a moment, forcing himself to breathe deeply in an attempt to clear the fog from his head. Slowly, he opened the door. The light from the hall was blinding and he winced, jerking back from it and closing the door abruptly, leaving but a crack through which he could talk but not see.

He could smell the perfume. And recognize it from the night before. One of the spectators had come to call. Who was she? Ah, yes. Leighton's wife, the one he'd turned down, with too much whiskey as an excuse. But not bad for a hangover, he thought. Just what the doctor ordered. Shielding his eyes, he let her in and closed the door quickly behind her.

She was dressed in white, a wide-brimmed hat cocked to the side in the latest fashion. Long ringlets of black curls against pale skin brushed his shoulder as she entered. A full, womanly figure, pressing taut the clothes she wore. And only in the right places, Vance mused.

“I knocked earlier. You didn't answer.”

“I wasn't able to.”

She sat on the bed and removed her hat, dropping it languidly to the floor. The black hair draped about her shoulders and shimmered in the full light. “It's stuffy in here.”

“I'll open the window.” Vance crossed to the windows, a trifle more sure of himself and his feet now.

The woman watched as he walked past her, clad only in trousers. Her eyes roved over his powerful back, the naked muscles bunching under his shoulders and cording down his back. Her voice was soft, beckoning. “Don't bother, Vance. I wouldn't want you to catch a chill.”

Vance halted. He hated middle-age coquettes. But Angie Leighton exuded a rich aura of passion and her full, ripe figure and smoldering eyes promised an obvious knowledge of the art of exciting men. He found himself aroused in spite of the coquetry. His hangover forgotten, he turned back from the window.

“What of Mr. Leighton this morning?”

“The House is hard at work today. He is otherwise occupied.” A small smile played about her face, inviting him to her. When the man in front of her made no move, the smile disappeared and her eyes brightened in anticipation. Vance Paxton was not to be led about like a mere boy. He had forced her to make the first move. That she had done and had come to him gladly. Now he was forcing her to make the second as well. Few men could get away with so playing with Angie Leighton's favors. But this Texan …

Slowly, languidly, she ran her hands through her hair, shaking it out. The action accentuated the ripeness of her full breasts, giving the impression they sought rather the touch of hands than the impersonal restraint of fabric. Her hands, as if in answer to the unspoken desire, moved to the buttons of her blouse and casually opened the top two, revealing the beginning curve of the swelling orbs.

“You are a hard man, Mr. Paxton.” The voice was lazy, full of promise.

“Which is why you are here, Mrs. Leighton.”

She held out a hand and he walked toward her, stopping only when the open palm touched his thigh, then advancing again when the hand, as though burned, withdrew. His strong, calloused fingers played along her lips and the line of her jaw to her ear, then dropped to bestow a tantalizing caress on her shoulder and weave in and out of the rich, luxuriant hair. Angie's eyes filled with desire, gazed up at him, then faltered and lowered. She caught her breath at the sight of his mounting desire, so close to her now, as it strained to be free, strained, too, for the touch of flesh. Trembling, she lay back on the bed as his lips sought the rising mounds of her breasts and his tongue explored the deep crevice between them. His fingers deftly undid the rest of her blouse and pulled it aside, then unlaced the chemise under it, freeing the glorious, pouting aureoles. His tongue, fire now, caressed them to greater rigidity, then suddenly left as he stood.

Her eyes glazed, she rolled to her side as he stepped out of his trousers. She gasped at the lean hard lines of his body, the white scars deep in his brown flesh. And then she could see but one thing, and her hand reached out to stroke the quivering, tumescent flesh, close gently on it and draw it to her lips.

Somehow she lost the rest of her clothes then, and lay open to the lean body kneeling on the bed next to her. Her body was rigid with desire, aching for fulfillment. “Come to me,” she moaned, “Come to me, Vance.…”

“You're a whore, Angie Leighton.”

“Don't say that. Just come.…”

Suddenly he was on her, his manhood seeking her, driving deep within her, filling her, drawing her higher and higher with him.

“You're a sweet-voiced, lovely, hot-blooded, high-browed whore. Good as gold, but a whore just the same.”

She hated him for saying it, but not enough.

CHAPTER II

Spring came to Washington in early April. By May the winding banks of Rock Creek near Georgetown were dyed a lush green. Foliage thick with birds shot forth tender runners in all directions. Tiny irregular fronds poked tremulously through moist, dark soil, eager to be born into summer. Wisteria and azaleas splashed great dabs of white, pink, red and purple across the landscape. The flowing creek, ruffled by puffs of spring wind, bubbled and chuckled softly in pleasant anticipation of its imminent mating with the Potomac. A moist spring breeze captured floating seed pods and drove them along, spinning and swirling in unchoreographed acrobatics, bobbing and dancing in an ancient ritual of rebirth until they settled on fertile soil or in the racing shallows themselves. One such wayward seed puff narrowly skipped a watery death, flirted with smooth stones, skimmed over the low bank and alighted softly on a delicate silken-skinned foot. Karen gave a soft, delighted laugh as crystal clear and tinkling as the water itself before lying back and kicking her foot high overhead. The puff flew into the air once again and drifted off among the trees as if too shy to linger so near the delicate curve of ankle and sheen of glowing skin.

Karen sat up to watch the floating seed dart among tall reeds. A gust of air swept it along and dramatically whirled it out of sight among the budding drapery of a nearby willow. Karen sighed softly to herself, lay back down and yawned lazily and most unladylike, stretching lithe arms toward the patch of blue overhead. Her long unbraided hair splayed out like random sunbeams to cover the clover and rain-sweet grass with softly curling tresses, bright gold in the thousand dancing shadows breaking the afternoon sun.

A cardinal fluttered among the branches directly overhead and crimson feathers flashed against a backdrop of blue sky, golden sun, brown wood and soft green leaves completing spring's palette. The male was joined by a female of the species, dull brown with a spot of vibrant orange on its beak only. The two chirrupped and scolded each other as lovers will, then bolted upward in a tightening spiral to a high branch, there to remain chattering side by side, lord and lady of their immediate domain. Karen closed her eyes and pretended she was a fairy princess. A crown of violets and lilies-of-the-valley adorned her head. A multitude of birds filled the air about her with sweet music and her ministers, the squirrels, bustled about chattering of state affairs. A chipmunk, her jester, appeared for a moment on the gnarled root of a fallen elm. His eyes, bright with laughter, twinkled their own little joke. His tail flicked once, twice, and he was gone again, as silently as he had come. A pleasant way to spend an afternoon, she thought, a bit surprised at how glad she was to have been so rudely inconvenienced earlier on.

The day had begun as usual. Karen awoke early and lay in the giant maple bed, half drowned in sleep and the fluffy feather quilt. Only the occasional rustle of sheets destroyed the still silence of the house. Half dreaming, she heard the splash of water from the next room. Her bath would be ready soon, steaming hot and with fragrantly perfumed towels piled nearby. It was a matter of custom in the Hampton household that Karen rose long before Barrett and Iantha and attended to her toilet in the early morning calm.

Karen looked on the day with a certain amount of dread. She was to meet Alfred at noon and lunch with him. Alfred would undoubtedly discuss at great length the morning's politics; the debates, the compromises and deals, shady and otherwise, the decisions made and the others left for a long line of indeterminate tomorrows. He would go on and on about how cleverly he had manipulated X, convinced Y and seen through the diabolical machinations of Z. Karen was expected to ooh and ahh in the right places at the right times, no matter how bored she might be. It wasn't that she hated politics, Karen reflected as she rose from the bed and walked sleepily to the next room, but rather the way Alfred played at them. Like a kitten with a newly-found ball of yarn. Alfred a kitten? Oh, dear.

She dropped the subject with her robe and sank into the hot reaches of the giant ceramic tub. The water would relax her, soothe the troubled thoughts away. Morning baths were the most delicious, she thought, running the rough sponge filled with perfumed soap over her legs. They got a day off to a decent start. The water was just deep enough to support her breasts. She sighed and lay back, running the sponge under and around those twin badges of femininity, proud of their fullness, intensely aware of the emotions they could rouse in men. She dozed, surrounded by the warm depths of her bath.