Regret Not a Moment (53 page)

Mason’s scrutiny, his clarity of insight, disturbed her. She pushed the wrought-iron chair backward. The legs made a harsh, scraping sound on the bricks, disturbing the quiet of the afternoon.

Mason sat back in his chair and smiled indulgently. “You always pace when you’re confronted with a problem. Did you know that?”

The affection in Mason’s voice eased some of Devon’s tension. “I guess I’m not very good at hiding my feelings.”

“Depends,” Mason said with a shrug.

“Well, I won’t try to hide them now.” Devon turned and faced Mason squarely. “You deserve better than that.”

Mason looked at Devon, patiently waiting for her to organize her thoughts.

“Mason, I’m very happy with things the way they are. Why do you want to change them?”

“It’s very simple, really. I want to have some claim on you. To ensure that you’ll always be in my life. I love you and I’m afraid that if we don’t marry I’ll lose you one day.”

“But there’s no need for you to worry about that! I’m happy being with you.” And she was! Mason was a cozy fire on a winter night, while John was a pagan bonfire. She was content with Mason. Content to be content. She didn’t need more than that now.

Mason ran one of his huge hands over his chin in a thoughtful manner. “I’m happy, too. But I won’t be if I lose you to someone else.”

Devon went to Mason and stood behind him, leaning over to put her cheek next to his. “That won’t happen,” she whispered in his ear.

The nearness of Devon, the haunting smell of her perfume, aroused a profound yearning in him. He reached up and covered her arms with his hands. “I’d feel more certain of that if you were willing to join our lives permanently,” he remarked.

Devon could see his point. How could he feel certain of her commitment to him if she was unwilling to formalize it?

She straightened, releasing her hold on him. Returning to her chair, she sat down. She stared at the bright aqua of the swimming pool, trying to decide how to respond to Mason. She did not want to lose him. She enjoyed his company, had come to rely on the security and comfort of their relationship. And Francesca adored him. So why was she hesitant to marry him? Was it simply that she was set in her ways? Should she perhaps give serious consideration to his offer? She knew many women would jump at the chance to marry Mason.

But I’m not in love with him, a small voice inside of her whispered. How can I marry a man I’m not in love with? Love may not be the most important ingredient in a successful marriage, she reminded herself. After all, I loved John. For Roland, on the other hand, I didn’t feel the same kind of passion. It was a more gentle kind of love. More mature. Could my feelings for Mason just be one more step along the same road? After all, I
did
love Roland. Maybe if I marry Mason, I’ll grow to feel the same way.

But try as she might to convince herself of this, Devon couldn’t. There was a difference between her love for Roland and the deep affection she felt for Mason.

“You look undecided.” Mason’s voice broke into her reverie, startling her.

“I am,” she admitted.

“That’s somewhat encouraging,” Mason said, trying for a light tone. “At least you aren’t rejecting me out of hand.”

“I’d never do that,” Devon said warmly. “I think, though, that I need a little more time to consider your proposal.”

“I’ve waited seven years, Devon!” Mason protested. “Can’t you at least tell me what you’re thinking?”

“I’m thinking that I don’t want to do without you. At the same time, I’m not sure I want to change my life at this point. And it could be disruptive to Francesca to—”

“Balderdash!” Mason said with an impatient gesture. “If anything, Francesca could use a permanent father figure in her life. She’s always wanted one. That’s why she’s so fond of—”

Mason cut himself off, realizing how self-defeating his next utterance would he. Francesca had bonded with John in a way she had done with no other man in her life, even Willy. Mason was a little hurt by this, as he was very fond of Francesca. He knew that she returned this affection, but that she felt closer to John. Perhaps she could talk to John more freely knowing that he had returned to their lives as
her
friend, rather than Devon’s. Clearly, however, John was Francesca’s idol.

“I suppose it’s ridiculous to worry about disrupting Francesca,” Devon said hastily in an attempt to smooth over Mason’s slip of the tongue. “She’s almost grown. And she’s so fond of you. I’m sure she’d be very pleased if we were to marry.”

“Well, if you’re not going to marry John and you’re not worried about Francesca and you want to continue our relationship, why hesitate?”

Because I’m not in love with you, she repeated silently. And Mason, attuned to Devon’s every emotion, saw her answer written on her face.

Feeling defeated, he averted his eyes, staring sightlessly into the grove of evergreens that marked the boundary of his property. His face hardened into a mask of hopeless resignation. That he could feel such youthful longing at his age! Life had built up a core of toughness in him, and Devon had penetrated that toughness.

For years, though, he had had the strength to hide his weakness. Afraid of losing her, he had maintained a distance between them, assumed an air of contentment with the terms of their relationship. She had offered no more, so he had demanded no more.

Until now. Now he had stripped himself bare before her. He had admitted to her that he would take her whether she loved him or not. How ignoble! He had a sudden feeling of impotence.

Seeing the despair on his face, Devon cried, “Mason, don’t look that way! I’m only asking for more time to think about it.”

Mason turned hollow eyes to her. “Then I have no choice but to wait, do I?” he said with self-mockery. “But I can’t wait forever, Devon. Not that I don’t love you enough to wait, but it would be too much of a torment.” Seeing her stricken expression, he made a halfhearted attempt to lighten the mood. “Oh, I don’t mean to use such melodramatic language. It’s just that there is a certain amount of suspense involved and I feel as though I’ve been in suspense for much too long already.”

“What do you suggest?” she asked softly.

“Well, I’m a newspaperman, so you’ll pardon me if I resort to something as crass as a deadline, but it’s the only thing I can think of,” Devon’s nod of encouragement was a signal for Mason to continue. “What if we say Thanksgiving? You tell me by Thanksgiving what the answer will be.”

“All right,” Devon agreed.

“And if you say yes, it will give a new meaning to the word Thanksgiving,’ I promise you,” Mason said wholeheartedly.

“I’M worried about that French colt Carte Blanche,” Francesca said. She was hot and breathless from her turn around the track with Willowbrook’s finest two-year-old, Roll the Dice. She nodded toward a diminutive white horse as Jesse and Jeremiah followed her gaze.

“Why?” Jesse looked up at her. “He’s not used to dirt tracks, he’s not used to racing counterclockwise, how can you consider him serious competition?” In France, as in the rest of Europe, races were held on grass tracks and were run clockwise.

Francesca studied Willowbrook’s star jockey, Kelly Majors, to gauge his reaction to her warning. He smirked at the girl’s assessment, sure of himself and Roll the Dice.

Francesca shrugged. “There’s something about him. His rider’s holding him back in exercise. The horse wants to run, though. Always wants to run.”

“So does Roll the Dice,” Jesse and Kelly said simultaneously.

Jeremiah, however, was not so complacent. He respected Francesca’s instincts even though this was her first summer as an exercise rider. It was also her first official participation in the Saratoga races, so she was on edge, anxious to prove her worth. And she had. She had an instinct for knowing just how much to push her mounts. It was not smart to run a horse too fast in a pre-race exercise because it threatened to whittle away at his winning edge. On the other hand, a too-slow exercise session did not provide the horse with the needed warm-up and stimulation. A careful balance had to be achieved, and Francesca was gifted at finding that balance. In addition, she followed Jeremiah’s instructions precisely, not taking any liberties as some other ambitious young riders were apt to do. Now Jeremiah watched her handle her prancing mount, soothing him with soft murmurings and a steady hand. She had talent, there was no doubt, Jeremiah thought to himself.

Jeremiah turned to look at the French colt for a few moments, trying to see how the colt ran. He was annoyed at himself for not paying more attention to the French entry. Instead, odds makers had pointed to Gallant Man, to be ridden by Willy Shoemaker, as Roll the Dice’s main competition. Shoemaker was a great jockey who knew how to pick winners, and Jeremiah took the threat seriously. But now he was beginning to wonder if he was making a mistake by focusing too closely on the obvious.

Jeremiah turned to Francesca. “Why don’t you quit for now? Your mother wants you to meet her for breakfast. But be back in an hour,” he instructed.

She nodded and turned her mount back to the stables. She had no need to be told where to meet her mother. Devon breakfasted almost every morning at the track clubhouse, like most of the owners. Laurel and Alice, still energetic participants in many of the racing ceremonies, preferred to spend leisurely mornings in the little Victorian rental house.

Francesca used a ramshackle bathroom near the stables to change into a seersucker skirt and blouse—it would have been unseemly to enter the clubhouse in her work clothes—and emerged just as the sun cleared the horizon. As Francesca made her way past the elaborate grandstand trimmed with white ironwork, she admired the window boxes spilling over with geraniums and petunias. The petunias were just opening their paper-thin petals, their scent drifting over the air on the morning mist.

As Francesca arrived, Gloria Vanderbilt rose from Devon’s table, daintily kissed the air beside Devon’s cheek, then Francesca’s, and bid them farewell.

“Did she eat anything?” Francesca whispered, staring after the sylphlike woman.

“Never does,” Devon said with a shake of her head. It was an old joke between mother and daughter. Gloria Vanderbilt, a nice woman who enjoyed Devon’s company, was rarely seen eating, though she was an avid socializer. She attended the breakfasts, the dinner parties, and the balls, but only rarely put a fork to her mouth. In contrast, Devon continued to enjoy the hearty breakfasts that had been her custom since childhood.

“I wonder how she can stand to sit here and watch you eat waffles while she just drinks black coffee,” Francesca remarked.

“She’s a stronger woman than I.” Devon chuckled.

Francesca picked up a blueberry muffin from the bread basket on the table and began to nibble on it. “You know,” she ventured, “Kelly Majors doesn’t believe me when I say we should worry about Carte Blanche.”

Devon raised her eyebrows, waiting for Francesca to continue.

“I think that colt is a threat.”

“Kelly’s been good for us. He’s won a lot of races over the past year.”

“He’s too sure of himself.”

Devon chuckled. “Occupational hazard!”

Francesca smiled and looked down. “I guess so,” she admitted. “But Jeremiah doesn’t think I’m crazy.”

Devon’s expression grew serious. “Maybe I’d better take another look at Carte Blanche’s stats.”

“Isn’t it too late? The race is tomorrow.”

“It’s never too late to change your strategy. Not until the horses are led to the starting gate.” Devon threw down her napkin and stood up. She was wearing black linen slacks and a black-and-white-striped cotton shirt, suitable enough for the paddock, she decided. She picked up a canvas bag and headed toward the ladies’ room, where she would change from black patent leather sandals to ankle-high riding boots.

Francesca followed her mother, a second blueberry muffin clutched in her hand. “Are you going down there now?” she asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“Uncle John was supposed to meet me here this morning. Don’t you want to wait?”

Devon hesitated for a moment. Then she remembered Mason’s remarks about her obvious feelings for John. She pushed open the door to the ladies lounge and went over to a red-and-white-striped sofa. She changed her shoes, then stood up. “I don’t have time this morning, dear. Besides, John is here to see you, not me.”

Francesca smiled slyly. “Whatever you say, Mom.”

FRANCESCA twirled in front of the quaint cheval glass, reveling in the unfamiliar image before her. Was that really she? Were her cheekbones really so pronounced, her green eyes so exotic and slanting, her skin so glossy and tanned? When had her skinny figure developed this hourglass shape? She was still lean, of course, but she had full breasts and a small, provocatively rounded rear end whose shape was subtly hinted at in the white halter-topped gown she wore. Her lively black curls were swept into a French twist, making her look at least twenty! And she was to attend her very first ball—a real ball, not an afternoon cotillion!

To think she had hated the dress when Laurel had shown it to her! It was deceptively simple on the hanger; its skirt a straight, white sheath of silk moiré with a forest green sash at the waist. It was babyish, she had argued, and unsophisticated. But that wasn’t the case at all, she now realized. The square-cut bodice teasingly revealed a hint of cleavage, while the dark sash emphasized her tiny waist and flat stomach. The dress was slit up the back for ease of movement, exposing a flash of her tanned calf with each step she took. A wave of self-confidence surged through her and she raised her chin slightly. She felt beautiful! She couldn’t wait for her family to see her. John and Mason would be so surprised. And Jesse! Oh, if he could see her now, he would treat her more seriously. He would realize that she had grown up. That she was just as alluring as the ebony-colored beauty she had seen him with in the park the Sunday before—the daughter of the cook of the Gideon Putnam Hotel. Her name was Lacey.

It had disturbed Francesca, the sight of them together. Lacey had been leaning against a tree. Jesse had been facing her, also leaning against the tree, palms facedown on the trunk. She had stood between his arms, looking up at him with a coy expression, her white teeth a flash in her smooth dark complexion. Francesca had turned away immediately at the sight of them, but not before the summer breeze carried to her the sound of the girl’s laughter. In those few lilting notes, Francesca had discerned an adult tone of suggestiveness. Suggestiveness that hinted at embraces in the dark, at bodies fused together in secret acts of intimacy. And the sound of it had stricken Francesca with desire and jealousy.