Wilde, Jennifer (20 page)

"It'll
soon be one o'clock," he replied. "You slept quite late."

"I
didn't mean to."

"I
saw no reason to awaken you," Hawke said dryly.

"Yesterday
was an exhausting day. You needed the rest. I've ordered a tray of food for
you. It should be brought up shortly."

I
had never seen him so elegantly attired. The dusty boots and shabby work clothes
had been replaced by a superbly tailored navy blue suit and a pale blue satin
waistcoat embroidered with black silk patterns. His white silk stock was
expertly arranged under his chin, his high black boots shined to a glossy
sheen. The rough, sweaty farmer who toiled in the fields with his slaves had
been transformed into an aristocratic dandy who might frequent the finest
drawing rooms in London. His magnificent attire made him seem even more remote.
He looked cool and arrogant and superior, his dark-gray eyes revealing nothing
as they took in my disheveled hair and rumpled, low-cut petticoat.

"You're
going out?" I asked.

"I
have business to attend to." Hawke reached into his pocket and took out
several folded bills, placing them on the dressing table. "I won't be back
until almost six," he continued. "I trust you can keep yourself
occupied with shopping."

"But
I checked all the supplies. We don't really need—"

"You
mentioned last night that you didn't have a decent dress to wear. Buy yourself
one, and whatever else you need to go with it. You'll find a number of shops
nearby that cater to the ladies. Don't go too far afield. Stay in this
immediate area."

"You
intend to just turn me loose?"

"I
hadn't contemplated locking you in your room, if that's what you mean."

"I—I
could run away so easily."

"I
doubt that you will," Hawke replied int hat same dry voice. "First of
all, you know I'd come after you— and I'd find you. You wouldn't like the
consequences, I assure you. Secondly—"

He
hesitated, giving me a long, lingering look.

"Secondly?"
I prompted.

"You
don't want to run away from me," he said.

"No?"

Hawke
did not reply. It was not necessary. I had been wildly foolish to let him see
how I felt about him, but it had been unavoidable. He knew, had just acknowledged
it in his own enigmatic way. How I wished I could demolish this icy, arrogant
male with some scathing comment that would convince him he was mistaken, but no
words would come.

"We'll
dine out tonight," he informed me. "I expect to find you ready and
waiting in your new clothes when I return at six. I've left plenty of money. I
expect you to spend it all."

"You're
very kind," I said quietly.

"No,
Marietta, I'm not kind at all. Never delude yourself into believing that. I'm
quite ruthless."

"And
proud of it?"

"In
this world, it's the only way a man can survive. Men who are kind, men who're
compassionate—" He cut himself short, grimacing. "Get dressed!"
he said sharply. "You look like a trollop in that petticoat. The man will
be up with your tray in a minute or so, and I don't want anyone seeing you like
this!"

He
turned and left the room abruptly, pulling the door shut behind him. That
sudden outburst of anger told me a great deal. He might have shown no reaction,
but Derek Hawke had noticed the way the thin white bodice clung to my body, had
noticed the swelling mounds of my breast straining against the low neckline.
Had he wanted to set them free and fondle them? Had he wanted to tumble me on
the already rumpled bed and make ardent, savage love? Was that why he had
spoken so sharply, left so abruptly?

As
I dressed, I heard him leave his room. A few minutes later there was a knock on
the door, and I opened it to find a grinning male servant with a heavily laden
breakfast tray. I thanked him, took the tray, and set it on the bedside table.
Hawke had been generous indeed in ordering the food. There was enough to feed
two people. How considerate of him to think of it. How thoughtful of him to
leave me money for a new dress. He might see himself as ruthless, but I knew
that wasn't the case, even though he tried his best to act the part. He might
think himself indifferent to me, too, might tell himself that he was immune,
but that wasn't the case, either. Little by little, Derek Hawke was breaking
down, revealing more and more of his true nature.

I
was in an unusually good mood when I finally left the inn, experiencing a sense
of well-being and optimism I hadn't felt in many a day. The sun was dazzling
and the salty air was invigorating. I had all afternoon long at my disposal,
and it was glorious to feel so lighthearted, so carefree, particularly after
those solemn, sleepless hours of misery in my bed in the darkened room. He
did
care. He tried to conceal it, but he couldn't, not quite. In no hurry to
buy my dress, I wandered down to the docks and watched the men unloading the
cargo ships, and then I simply strolled about the streets, soaking up the
atmosphere of the fascinating city.

I
was young, I was beautiful, and I was very much in love. I smiled at passers-by.
I paused to admire a cart full of flowers—orange, gold, red, vivid blue—and I marveled
at the tall, exotic trees and the many shops and realized, suddenly, that I was
happy. This exhilarating sensation that seemed to bubble up inside was one I
hadn't experienced since before my father's death, before my whole world was
turned upside-down. As carts and carriages rumbled down the narrow street, as
the cries of hawkers filled the air and people moved busily up and down the
walks, I paused, reflecting. I had been so miserable last night, and today...
today I felt as though I were filled with lonely, lilting music, and the reason
was obvious. It wasn't merely because I loved Derek Hawke. It was because I was
sure now that he loved me, too.

He
had been fighting himself for some time now, but... the battle was about to be
lost. The feelings that stirred inside of him might be easy enough to repress,
might be concealed by a stern, rigid manner, but there was another, stronger,
emotion not so easily denied. He could combat the love, but the lust—the purely
physical craving that rose in his blood—was too potent to be dismissed with a
scowl and a show of indifference. He didn't want to love me, but he wanted me
physically, and he wasn't going to be able to hold out much longer. Yesterday,
by the side of the road, he had almost given way to that urgent, pulsing need,
and last night, had the barmaid not been so brazenly available... I moved on
down the street, knowing that I was going to win him before much more time passed.

Madame
Clara's was on a side street, not too far from the inn, a small shop with an
unusually attractive display of bonnets in the window. A bell tinkled overhead
as I opened the door. The woman behind the counter put down her fashion
pamphlet and looked at me with one brow arched inquisitively. Wearing a lovely
violet silk dress, she was slightly plump, in her late thirties, I judged, with
hair too blond to be natural. Her shrewd, attractive face was made more so by a
subtle and skillful use of makeup. Jet earrings dangled from her ears, and she
smelled of some exquisite perfume. There was no one else in the shop.

"Hello,
honey," she said, "I'm Clara. You must be new in town. All the girls
come here, but I haven't seen you before." She examined me closely with
dark, worldly blue eyes, taking in my run-down shoes, my patched and faded
dress. "I think you'd better come back later on, honey, after you've
gotten yourself established. My shop is the best in Charles Town, true, but I'm
frightfully expensive."

"I
have quite a lot of money with me," I informed her.

Clara
arched her brow again. "That accent! Lord, honey, I thought you
were—"

"I
know what you thought."

"No
offense, dear. I used to be one of the girls myself—in New Orleans. I was one
of the best, too, one of the most expensive, and a helluva lot smarter than
most. I actually saved my money. When the face and figure began to go, when the
men started looking for someone younger, I had enough money to leave the city
of my sins and open a dress shop here in Charles Town. I'm afraid my reputation
followed me, but my dresses are so elegant even the grand ladies started coming
in. I prefer the girls, if you want to know the truth. At least they pay their
bills on time!"

I
was rather startled by the woman's frankness and effusive manner, but I
couldn't help warming to her. World-weary, disenchanted, she nevertheless had a
friendly air that was immediately engaging. I suspected that Clara saw the
world around her with a wry, humorous outlook that promptly dismissed any kind
of sham or pretention.

"How
much money
do
you have, honey?" she inquired.

I
told her, and that eyebrow shot up once again.

"He
must be generous indeed. I mean—no offense, honey, but when a girl who looks
like you waves a roll of bills like that, there
has
to be a he! What on
earth are you doing wearing those
rags?"

"We—we've
been in the country."

"Well,
honey, all I can say is he's been
wise
to keep you out in the backwoods,
dressed like that. When the men in Charles Town get a good look at you in the
gown I'm going to provide, your man's going to have some very stiff
competition." Clara paused, a deliciously wicked twinkle in her eyes.
"I mean that literally," she added.

I
smiled in spite of myself. Clara stepped from behind the counter, her violet
silk skirts rustling crisply.

"Lord,
if you knew how
bored
I've been today. One single sale this morning—to a
rich matron who looks like she should be out milking cows in some muddy
pasture. What fun it's going to be to outfit someone who'll do justice to my
clothes! There's enough money there for everything, honey, shoes, stockings,
gown, all the trimmings. We're going to have a marvelous time getting you all
done up."

Clara
flitted through the shop, examining dresses, taking down boxes, tossing tissue
paper about, chattering all the while with considerable vivacity. Later on,
after we had selected the gown and were searching for accessories to match, I
found myself telling her all about my relationship with Derek Hawke. Clara
showed no surprise when I said that I was an indentured servant. It was a joy
to be able to talk to someone who was sympathetic. When I finally concluded my
story with a description of my lonely vigil in the bedroom the night before,
Clara sighed heavily and patted her sleek blond hair.

"Men,
they're impossible! Yours seems a particularly tough specimen, but don't
despair, honey. After he sees you all decked out tonight, he's going to forget
all about his noble resolutions."

"I—I
don't know why I told you all that. I'm not usually so—"

"Everyone
needs to talk now and then, honey. It's done you a world of good, and I do
adore a good story. Yours is absolutely fascinating! Tell you what, I'm going
to throw in a few extras, just for the hell of it. Do you have any
makeup?"

I
shook my head, and Clara promptly went behind the counter to fetch a small case
covered in pearl-gray leather.

"Everything
you need's in here," she informed me. "Lip rouge, powder, eye
shadow—even a tiny bottle of my own perfume. It's guaranteed to make any man lose
his senses in ten seconds flat. This kit comes all the way from Paris,
incidentally. The very best coquettes wouldn't be caught without one well in
reach."

"You
must let me pay for it," I protested.

"You
couldn't afford it, honey. The perfume alone costs a small fortune. I want you
to have it—but don't worry, I'll make it up. Next time one of those grand
matrons comes sashaying in for a new bonnet, I'll add the cost of the kit to
the price of the bonnet. They'll love it. The more they pay, the happier they
are."

"You've
been so kind—"

"Nonsense.
I've rarely enjoyed myself so much. What time is it? Four? When's your man
coming back?"

"Around
six."

"Well,
honey, you rush back to the inn and order a bath. They'll bring a tub and
kettles of hot water up to your room. I'll send Clarice over with your
packages, and she'll stay to do your hair. She's my maid, a Creole, been with
me ever since New Orleans. Clarice is a wizard when it comes to styling hair,
and she'll have a fit when she sees yours—that color, that texture—" Clara
shook her head, a wistful look in her eyes. "Honey, if I were ten years
younger, I'd hate your guts."

I
was moved by the woman's kindness and generosity. But when I tried to express
my gratitude, Clara waved her hand airily, smiling a rueful smile.

"Ordinarily
I'm a raging bitch, but I happened to be in a good mood today. My heart's not
golden, honey, it's hard as stone. Your man gave you quite a lot of money,
remember? You're leaving the shop flat broke. Do run along now, and good
luck."

I
gave her a sudden hug, unable to resist the impulse. Clara looked surprised,
then pleased. Her lusty laughter followed me as I hurried out of the shop.