The Horsemaster's Daughter (81 page)

H
elena Cabot slapped the brass doorknocker of Michael Rowan’s house three times, then barged in before anyone answered her summons. She was in no mood to be kept waiting. She hadn’t even been able to eat her breakfast, fretting about the impending visit, and had worked herself into a state of extreme agitation.

She had a matter of importance to discuss with Michael, but first she sought out Jamie Calhoun. She found him in the downstairs parlor, bent over his work. Papers littered the desk in front of him. No one but Helena could detect the change in his expression. She had an unusual sensitivity to nuance and mood, and she could tell instantly he would have preferred the other Miss Cabot.

“I swear, we have the prettiest neighbors in Georgetown,” he said in a jovial voice, its rich Tidewater accent flowing smoothly through the words.

“You are in a world of trouble, sir,” she said.

“I beg your pardon.”

“That won’t be necessary. But you should be on your knees, begging Abigail’s forgiveness.”

“And for which transgression would that be? There are so many to choose from.”

“You made a fool of her, encouraging her to carry on a courtship with Boyd Butler in my name. You’ve made fools of us all.”

“Love does that. Which is why I avoid it at all costs. But you’re forgetting one thing, Miss Helena.”

“What’s that?”

“Abby’s happy. She’s enjoying this.”

Helena considered her sister’s mood this autumn, and she had to admit he was right. The scoundrel. Since invading Abigail’s life, he had made a difference. Lately she hummed while toiling over her calculations, and her eyes, which had always been beautiful, sparkled with a special light. Once, Helena had even caught her practicing curtsies and dance steps in front of her bedroom mirror when she thought no one was watching. She’d fluttered an invisible fan and laughed into the mirror. Abigail had never been happier. Still, that new happiness was founded on lies and manipulation.

“She’s not happy now.” Helena hesitated. “Lieutenant Barnes—”

“Butler,” he corrected her.

“—is coming to see me, and Papa expects me to marry him. You’ve made a mess of things, and she’ll humiliate herself in front of the man who’s been the dupe in all of this. But I don’t suppose you care one whit about that.”

He corked the inkwell on the desk, leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. All Virginia insolence and privilege, he folded his arms and sent her a slow smile. “Sure I care, my dear. I’ve encouraged Abigail to find a new way to view herself, a healthier way. She’s taken her head out of the stars for once. She faces the world with a smile. How bad is that?”

“Good glory,” she said, peering at him. “You love her.”

Calhoun threw back his head and guffawed, but his mirth didn’t last as she fixed him with a lethal glare. Sobering, he said, “Sorry, but you’re wrong. I don’t love like that. It’s not something I want or need.”

He was clearly lying, even to himself, but like all men, including Michael, he was as dense as an unexplored wilderness.

Yet Helena had no inclination to probe into the secrets of Jamie Calhoun’s heart. It was her sister who concerned her. “Here is what you must do. You will stand with Abigail when she tells the lieutenant that you cooked up this silly romance just to impress Papa. And now
I
shall have to entertain a marriage proposal.”

“That should be entertaining indeed.”

“Mr. Calhoun, you will admit your part in the deception and apologize to them both. And then you will leave this place, never to return.”

He waited calmly through her diatribe, then asked, “Are you finished?”

“For the moment.”

“I can see you care about your sister, but you’re smothering her. Not to mention blinding yourself to her true feelings.”

“But I—”

He held up a hand. “You said you were finished. Look, any fool can see the way it stands for the Cabot women. The smart one and the pretty one. It’s probably been said so often that you and Abigail have come to believe it. Such an oversimplification should be an insult to you both.”

She found herself listening to him as the knowledge tingled through her. The rogue was correct, in this at least. “Go and find my sister, Mr. Calhoun, and we’ll think about forgiving you. I must go find Michael now.”

Michael met her on the landing halfway up the stairs. He said nothing, but pressed her against the wall and kissed her swiftly and hard. Almost against her will, her fists grasped the front of his wrinkled shirt as she drank him in—the heat and lust, the explosion of emotion that flared between them each time they were together.

She was breathless by the time he eased up, and she nearly forgot her purpose. He stared wickedly down at her. “Miss Cabot,” he said with mock formality. “What a surprise. May I offer you a cup of tea? A glass of cider? An hour or two of illicit sexual relations?”

“You are naughty, and I do like that about you.”

“I’m worse than naughty. I’m ruining your reputation.”

“Which I invited you to do.” She slipped from his embrace and continued up the stairs. “But I’ve just remembered something. I’m cross with you.”

She nearly laughed at the flicker of panic in his eyes. Their love was new; they were unsure of each other and he had still not quite assimilated the fact that she wanted him and no other. He considered himself a lowly academic, and an unlikely match for Miss Helena Cabot. That was one of many reasons it was so delicious being his lover.

He buried his face in the curve of her neck. “Good. I’m cross with you, too.”

She yearned to melt into mindless passion with him, to let the world fall away, but this morning that was impossible. The world was closing in.

“I must speak to you,” she said, “about our future.”

The expression on his face caused her heart to speed up in alarm. “If you’d like to visit tonight—”

“I don’t mean tonight. I mean the rest of our lives.”

“Don’t be tedious, Helena.”

She flinched at his mocking tone. “When two people love each other, it’s natural to consider the future.”

He paced like a caged bear. “Helena, you know better than that. You’ve got it wrong. I don’t love you in that way. I never will.”

Her heart sank to the floor, but she didn’t move a muscle. “You don’t mean that.”

“It’s what I’ve told you from the start, my pet. We’re ill suited, mismatched entirely—the penniless scholar and the society belle. You could never be happy, defying your father. His disapproval would sour even the sweetest of romances.”

His perception startled her. Perhaps he wasn’t as absent-minded—or endearing—as she’d thought. Everyone believed she belonged with someone who had the looks and status of a Boyd Butler or a Troy Barnes. But Michael had taught her to seek the soul beneath the surface.

A terrible, wonderful notion had lately occurred to her, and it was time to tell him. “What if I’m with child?”

He froze, and then seemed to thaw himself out with the anger burning in his eyes. “Ah, pet. Don’t try to snare me in that old trap. It won’t work. You wouldn’t want it to, anyway. I’m not cut out to be anyone’s husband, let alone a father. I told you that from the start, too.”

“But—”

“Anyway, you’re not with child.” He spoke with a certainty she wished she could share. “You should be with a man the senator approves of, someone like Senator Barnes—”

“Or Boyd Butler? He’s coming to court me today.” She couldn’t keep the tremor from her voice when she added, “Tell me to reject him and I will. I swear. Just say the word.”

“I should have told you it would end this way, but I thought you knew.” He crossed his arms in a stance that emanated anger.

She didn’t bat an eyelash, though his words struck hard, inflicting an emotional pain that took her breath away. Michael would never marry her, not even now that she’d told him her suspicion about the baby. All her life she’d rebelled against convention, but if a new life truly grew inside her, it changed the path she must walk. Perhaps she would have to accept the lieutenant after all. Perhaps she would have to do the right thing, even if it meant surrendering her soul, sentencing herself to a life of bleak servitude.

“I did know,” she lied.

“That’s good. You have a lot more sense than people give you credit for.” He drew her against him just for a moment. But in that moment she remembered the hours of ecstasy she’d found in his arms, the sense that at long last she’d discovered her place in the world.

“Michael,” she whispered. “I wish—”

“No, you don’t,” he interrupted. “Helena, you and I—we’re only good at one thing.” He pulled back, dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Go pretty yourself up, if that wouldn’t be gilding the lily. Find a man who’ll give you the world.”

“What would I ever do with that?” she asked, moistening her lips to give him a brazen suggestion of what he was giving up. An inner voice screamed in protest, but he would never know. “I’ll see myself out. Oh dear, that would make
two
things I’m good at.”

She found Mr. Calhoun in the foyer downstairs, watching expectantly out the window.

“All settled with the professor?” he asked jovially.

She took a long, deep breath to steady herself. “As far as he’s concerned.”

Outside in the street, a whistle sounded. A delivery van and a hansom cab rolled up to the curb. Blinking back tears, Helena was amazed when she saw who exited the cab.

“That’s Madame Broussard,” she said.

“You recognize her?”

“Everyone on the continent recognizes her. She’s the most famous dressmaker in America. But she told me she couldn’t schedule a fitting for months!”

“This is for your sister.”

“
Abigail?
I’ve been trying for years to interest her in fashion, but she never listens to me.” She turned to him, and understanding dawned. Perhaps he knew Abigail better than anyone at all; perhaps she was doing Abigail a disservice, assuming her sister was content with her observatory and her telescope and her star charts. “You did this, didn’t you?”

“I’m here to serve the people of Virginia.”

“Good glory.” Although she wanted to collapse in pain and confusion, her heartbreak would have to wait. Brushing past him, she hurried outside. “You might just be smarter than I thought.”

Like a candidate awaiting election results, Jamie Calhoun paced the sitting room on the main floor of the Cabot household. Beyond a closed door, Madame Broussard spoke in her bossy voice. He heard the sisters exclaiming, occasionally even giggling. That was a good sign. Maybe this would work out after all.

Helena had almost ruined the plan and forced Jamie to reveal Abigail’s secret admiration for the lieutenant. It had been a near thing, but Jamie convinced her to allow the visit to proceed. In fact, Helena just might be the key to making it work, for her troubled love affair with Rowan made her an unlikely match for anyone—except the professor.

Jamie tried to figure out why the success of Abigail’s romance had become so important to him. Why must he be so relentless in getting Boyd Butler to fall in love with the little wren who’d worshiped him from afar for so many years?

At first, Jamie’s sole purpose had been to ingratiate himself to the most powerful senator in Congress. But as he came to know Abigail, to understand her hopes and dreams, his ambitions had broadened. He wanted to see her happy. He had no idea why.

Good glory, you love her.
Helena had made the pronouncement with naive conviction. It was laughable, and he had laughed. Yet even in the midst of his self-mockery, he’d felt an unexpected stab of yearning. There were empty, windswept places inside him, scoured by distrust and betrayal. When he was young and foolish, he had loved without caution, at a cost he could never, ever repay.

No, his commitment to Abigail Cabot came from a different place inside him. He wanted to help Abigail win her heart’s desire. Success would never fill the emptiness, but Jamie had stopped hoping for that long ago. Redemption was not a piece of legislative business, nor was it a woman’s contentment. But it was all he could expect.

The sounds of women dressing and laughing, perfuming themselves and doing their hair brought back memories of a distant place and time, when a golden haze of happiness had surrounded him, when he’d given his soul to an Arab princess, never thinking of the consequences until it was too late.

The noise in the adjacent room reached a crescendo, and at last the door opened. Every bone, muscle and nerve in his body tensed.

Madame came out first, an officious look on her face, a measuring tape draped around her neck. “She was a challenge,” Madame said in French. “And she tested all my skills, not to mention my patience.” Then she winked at him. “But I prevailed, of course, I always do. We shall see ourselves out.” Accompanied by her assistants, she sent him a regal nod and led the way down the stairs.

Then came Helena, dabbing tears from her flawless cheeks.

Jamie’s heart sank. Apparently Madame’s best efforts weren’t enough.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Helena whispered. “These are tears of happiness, you dolt.”

Then, on a waft of floral perfume, Abigail stepped into the room, and Jamie could have sworn he felt the earth shift.

He’d always suspected her intense, unusual looks had been camouflaged by frowsy hair and weedy garments. He’d hoped Madame’s skill would be like that of the gem cutter’s art with a rough jewel, finding the hidden facets of beauty and fire. But never, not in his wildest flights of fancy, had he anticipated a transformation as dramatic as the one he witnessed now.

Madame Broussard had waved a magic wand and brought all of Abigail’s unseen beauties to the surface, making use of every possible attribute. The careless brown braid was now a shining coronet atop her head. A vibrant wine-colored dress infused her skin with radiance, and Madame had done something to her eyes and mouth, adding lush color to her lips and bringing out the deep midnight glow of her eyes.

My God. She had a neck. And it was a lovely neck, rising from an artful décolletage. She had a waist, too, and shoulders of the sort that made him ache to touch her, to see if she was as velvety soft as she looked.