Vanquished (8 page)

He swung his gaze back to the platform. Behind the lectern, Caledonia Rivers stood very quiet and very still. Staring out onto the churning crowd, occasionally acknowledging a familiar face with a small nod or wave, she'd set her mouth into a tight smile that never wavered. The smile didn't reach her eyes, which looked uncertain, he thought, and perhaps just a little afraid.

She knows all this fuss and bother is a necessary evil of winning, but she doesn't fancy it, not a jot,
he thought to himself, and the vulnerability he saw in her wary gaze gave him heart that his own victory might be won as well. Caledonia Rivers might be an orator on par with any statesman he'd ever heard. He didn't for a moment doubt she was genuinely, passionately committed to her cause. Clearly she was highly intelligent and highly educated. In all likelihood, she spoke several languages and spoke them fluently. All in all, she exuded the sort of social polish one didn't acquire but rather was born to--along with the silver spoon stuck straight up her ass.

But though Caledonia Rivers might be as cultured as a prize pearl, beneath her armoring of tightly coiffed hair, high-buttoned shirtwaist, and the voluminous umbrella of those very stiff, very starched skirts, she was still a woman with a woman's weaknesses and desires. It was the woman within, and not the leader without, to whom he would appeal, woo, and ultimately win over.

So when the crowd finally began to thin, roughly half heading for the exit doors and the other half queuing up stage-side for the chance to shake the hand of their heroine, Hadrian didn't hesitate. Gaze trained on the pooled electric light hitting like a halo atop his quarry's dark head, he pushed a path toward the stage.

Callie looked up from the genteel older lady on whose program she'd just scribbled her autograph and felt her heart stumble over itself. Striding toward her, looking coolly confident and yes, just a trifle amused, was
him,
the blue-eyed Adonis from the park. Hadrian St. Claire. The photographer she'd thought never to see again, whose handkerchief and business card, even now, lay at the bottom of her dresser drawer. The drawer which, she would dissolve with shame if ever forced to admit, housed her small collection of most cherished mementos.

She sucked in her breath and tried to focus on what the woman before her was saying. Something to do with an invitation to address her ladies' association in Hampshire but beyond that she couldn't be sure. Nonetheless, she made it a point to smile and nod, fobbing off making any immediate commitment by directing her to Harriet, waiting in the wings with appointment book at the ready.

The woman moved on only to have several more file through along with a reporter from the
Times
seeking a quote. By the time she broke away to look about again, the room had cleared considerably. Hadrian St. Claire appeared to have left as well. The depth of disappointment that observation stirred set off a bevy of warning bells. Really, why should she care in the slightest one way or another? The man was nothing to her, a virtual stranger. Yet she did care, she cared a lot or easily too much judging from the hollow feeling overtaking her despite that she stood amidst a room chockfull of supporters. Dear Lord, she must be lonely and desperate indeed to latch onto a stranger and make him the answer to filling the empty place inside her.
Pathetic, Callie, well and truly pathetic.

A hand settling on the blade of her shoulder sent her spinning about, and she found herself face to face with Hadrian St. Claire. The speech papers slipped through her fingers, which suddenly felt as nerveless as her knees.

"Oh dear, I seem to be making a habit of this." She dropped to the stage floor.

Grinning, he followed her down so that they were both squatting, heads bowed and knees brushing. "Yes, we must make a pact to stop meeting this way."

Between them, they managed to gather the papers and after some awkward shuffling, she had them back in hand, a messy stack. He offered her a hand up and personal touch that it was, she felt the heat of him flare up through her fingertips. "How did you get here?"

Stepping back, he cast a sheepish glance back to the set of side stairs leading up to the stage, gold-tipped lashes grazing the high planes of his cheeks. "I've never been terribly good about waiting in queue. Dash it, I've never been any good about waiting at all. Are you put out with me?"

He looked at her then, another of those melting, too-long looks that set her to wondering if he might just have the capacity to see through her clothes, some sort of special radiographic power endemic to photographers, this one at least. Her hands, which had remained steady throughout her speech, were at once trembling and chill. And low in her belly, the shameful liquid warmth she had fought against pulsed and pooled.

She drew a steadying breath and reminded herself that giving way to madness such as this exacted a heavy, heavy toll. The last time she'd given her passions rein to rule, she'd come bloody close to ruining her life. At times such as this, though, with a handsome-as-sin stranger staring at her as though he must know what she looked like beneath her shift, it was all too easy to forget. Easy to forget it was the mind, the
intellect
that must rule the heart and body, not the other way around. Easy to forget that never again must a man, any man, be trusted.

Reaching for the shield of her reserve, she cleared her throat. "On the contrary, I am only surprised to see you here at all. From your remarks the other day, I would not have thought you a proponent of our cause."

"My remarks?" Hadrian felt the heat rising between them, too, although any reciprocity of feeling had no place in his plans. Immersed, he stared at her while he scoured his sex-soaked brain for some recollection of what he might have said to warrant such a starchy response. A great deal had happened in the past twenty-four hours, none of it good, and while he carried with him a clear mental picture of every detail of her from wind-kissed cheeks to broken hat feather, he couldn't recall a single word he'd said.

"I believe it was something to do with spewing rubbish and rot?" She arched one dark half-moon brow, waiting.

Damn but if his mouth hadn't gotten the better of him yet again. When the devil would he learn? "In that case, I hope you'll accept my most sincere apology. It's only that suffrage for females is a new notion for me, I freely admit it." He paused before adding with a slow smile, "And well, if you'll pardon my saying so, you don't fit my mental picture of what a suffragist should look like."

She bristled at that remark just as she'd known she would. "Just what do you imagine a suffragist should look like?"

He glanced toward her secretary, the one with the mannish manner and hawkish gaze, standing at the opposite end of the stage. "Rather I imagine what a suffragist is not. You're altogether too young and too pretty to be spending your evenings in stuffy lecture halls."

"My age and looks are of no consequence." But the blush limning those lovely high cheekbones told him the compliment struck home.

"In point, Miss Rivers, your image is the very thing that brings me here tonight." Feeling the urgency of dwindling time--he caught someone, the secretary, no doubt--hinting they would shortly be locking the doors--he said, "Is there somewhere we can speak in private?"

Nibbling her bottom lip, she hesitated. "Very well, there is a greenroom backstage."

She turned and started off toward the partitioned curtain, leaving him to follow. Backstage, she opened the door to what served as a waiting room for visiting speakers and entertainers, a tray of tea biscuits and a pitcher of water set out on the marble-topped sideboard.

Leaving the door ajar--did she really imagine he meant to pounce upon her--she asked, "What is it you would say to me?"

Amused at her skittishness, he said, "As I may have mentioned the other day, a great deal of my work is portraiture." He reached inside his jacket pocket for the forged letter Dandridge had supplied. "As it happens, my most recent commission is to photograph you."

Her eyes widened, and she gave a fierce shake of her head, the motion knocking the spectacles halfway down her nose. Pushing them back, she said, "That cannot be."

Rather than argue, he handed her the counterfeit letter of introduction, hoping the forger had possessed an able hand. She broke the seal, unfolded the paper, and began to read, spectacles slipping down her nose once more only this time she didn't seem to notice. Even with head bowed, the shock coursing through her was a palpable thing. He could read it on her face, feel it in the sudden stiffening of her stance.

She refolded the letter, very slowly, very carefully, and looked up. A less confident man would have taken her stricken look as a grave injury to his pride. "I cannot credit it," she said at length, looking so forlorn that suddenly, inexplicably, he wanted to reach out and hold her. "She said nothing of this before she left, not a word. This . . . command comes as so contrary to her character, I cannot fathom it."

Thinking quickly, Hadrian said, "If a series of photographs is what is needed to tip the scales of public opinion in your favor, then surely sitting for me is not so great a sacrifice given all the many sacrifices you must have made up until now?" The gentleness in his voice caught him by surprise. What the devil did he care for her so-called sacrifices?

"This letter is dated more than a week ago and yet you made no mention of it the other day when we met." Her keen-eyed gaze settled on his and though he'd been over warm all evening, Hadrian was only now conscious of the sweat soaking his collar.

"Yes, well, if you will recall, there was the small matter of the elements to deal with, in our case the wind, and errant papers to collect. By the time I knew who you were, that dragon of an assistant was ferrying you away as though fearful I meant to debauch you in the public park." He smiled at her then, the same reassuring smile he used to comfort crying children and other portrait subjects edgy at having their picture made.

She smiled back though it occurred to him that her eyes looked wistful, even a trifle sad. "Harriet is my secretary and as dedicated to our Cause as any of us. If she seems a bit protective at times it is only because the press has not always been kind."

Were we in different circumstances, I would be kind to you, Caledonia. Kind indeed.
Startled, he realized he'd let his mind wander. What was she saying now?

"What I don't understand is why she would select you. Given your remarks the other day, you hardly seem a supporter."

Hadrian hesitated. He needed a hook and he needed it badly. The hall tonight, though packed, had shown a striking absence of men. Beyond the handful of photographers, representatives of that less-than-kind press, he'd looked to be the only male in attendance.

"What would you say to our striking a small bargain?"

Behind the glasses, her eyes narrowed. "What sort of bargain?"

"We will divide our session between your sitting for me--your sacrifice, if you will--and my submitting to your instruction on the finer shades of female equality? Should you succeed in winning me to your point, I will not hesitate to spread the word to other males who might be persuaded as well, including a barrister friend of mine who has the ear of those influential in the Fleet Street set." When she didn't answer, he cocked his head to one side, trying to read the thoughts behind those clear, soulful eyes. "You are very quiet suddenly, Miss Rivers, and looking at me rather strangely, I think. Come now, do we have a bargain or do we not?"

She hesitated, biting at her bottom lip in a way that had him hardening. "Yes, Mr. Rivers, I believe we do. I will call on you at your shop at noon tomorrow, if that is acceptable to you."

So she'd kept his card after all. Hadrian hid his smile. The woman had played into his hands entirely. More time in her company meant that much more time to carry out his plan, and if the prelude to seduction meant putting up with her prosing on about her blasted cause, then so be it.

Vanquishing her, it might prove easier than he'd first thought. "I shall spend what remains of this evening counting the hours."

She held out her hand. Amused she meant to seal their agreement with a handshake as a man would, he reached out to take it. Encouraged to find it cold and faintly shaking, he carried their clasped hands to his mouth, brushing a quick kiss atop her smooth white one.

She jerked away as though he'd burned her. "Don't count, Mr. St. Claire, but rather
read.
Barbara Leigh Smith's
A Brief Summary, in Plain Language, of the Most Important Laws Concerning Women
is an excellent starting point as it is both comprehensive and concise. You will derive far greater benefit from reflecting on Mrs. Smith's wise words than conjuring elaborate flatteries. You may see my secretary on your way out, and she will furnish you with a copy." She cast a meaningful glance toward the side door.