Tempest(12)

Jules trailed after her toward the stairway and Cathy and Adam went into the foyer, stopping near the front door to wait for privacy. When the elder Parrishes had gone up the stairs, Adam looked down at his fiancée and felt a flash of the old panic run through his veins. He bent, intending to kiss her cheek and escape into the night, but then Hermione’s voice came echoing from the shadowed landing.

“You will live to regret this night, Catherine Beasley Parrish!”

Once again he rose to Mrs. Parrish’s challenge. One taunt from her could destroy a multitude of his doubts. “Don’t worry, Cathy,” he soothed, and gathered her into his arms.

She melted. Her knees wouldn’t support her but his shoulders were hard beneath her soft forearms, and he lifted her as if she were weightless. She was thrilled to feel his male body against hers and drank in the new experience.

“Shh,” came his breath on her ear. “You’re safe now.”

Happy to discover what he wanted from her, Cathy closed her eyes and felt his arms tighten around her back and waist before his mouth came down to cover her own. His lips were warm, firm, and demanding; so utterly and wildly male that she forgot how to breathe.

Adam, meanwhile, couldn’t believe that she could be so unschooled. She clung to him stiffly, and her lips were pressed together in response to his kiss. Without Hermione there to horrify, he came back to earth, and Cathy’s arms around his neck felt rather like a noose.

How could he have agreed to marry this awkward virgin?

Gently, he set her on her feet and saw her hold onto a chair-back for support. “I’m sorry. I’ve gone too far.”

She tried to speak, but couldn’t. Something in his eyes filled her throat with tears.

“I’d better let you get some rest.” He smiled politely. “Byron and I have a lot of packing to do before we leave for Dakota. He’s taking me to visit his family in Deadwood, you know.”

“Don’t forget to come back for our wedding,” she managed to say.

“Let me assure you,” Adam replied drily, “that our impending nuptials will be ever at the forefront of my thoughts...”





PART TWO





Chapter 8




New York City

November, 1903

“The high and mighty Viscount Raveneau accepted Catherine’s dowry after all,” Hermione Parrish said in disparaging tones as she looked around the sitting room that adjoined her daughter’s bedroom. “Of course, I knew he would.”

The women friends and relatives who had assembled to wish Catherine well on the morning of her wedding fell silent, and the air grew thick with their thoughts. Elysia VanGanburgh leaned toward Cathy to whisper, “He’d be foolish not to take it.”

The bride-to-be drew her friend into her nearby dressing room. “You know what they are longing to say? That Adam wouldn’t be marrying me this afternoon without the dowry.”

“It’s a reasonable assumption,” Elysia admitted. “You don’t know him very well, do you?”

“That’s an odd question for my maid of honor to ask!” She began to finger the priceless, lace-trimmed undergarments that Isobel had laid out for her to wear under her Worth-designed wedding gown. “You know how I feel about Adam. I’m absolutely mad for him.”

“Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean you’ve passed the acquaintance stage. Have you spoken to him since he arrived in New York?”

“Yes, I saw him last evening. He had a wonderful time in South Dakota.”

“How nice.” Elysia watched her friend’s face. “You may think that Lord Raveneau is divine, and I would agree, but aren’t you frightened in the least?”

“Frightened of what? My wedding night?” Cathy looked up then, meeting her gaze unflinchingly. “I do wish that we knew each other better, but I dream of how it will be once we are married. And I am overjoyed to escape my mother’s plans to marry me off to the Duke of Sunderford. Any kind of marriage to Adam must be preferable to that!”

“I hope you’re right.” Embracing her, Elysia sighed. “Barbados is even farther away than England, and it sounds so... exotic!”



None of Adam’s relatives from England were coming to the wedding. This created quite a stir among New York society, even though his cousins from Essex, Connecticut were attending. In the view of Hermione and her friends, American cousins were a poor substitute for additional English aristocrats.

The guests who were attracting the most attention were related to Byron Matthews. His sister, Shelby, had been a performer with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, and she had made headlines by marrying the handsome Duke of Aylesbury only a few months before. The newlyweds had been traveling in America that autumn and had decided to stop in New York to attend the wedding of Byron’s best friend, Adam Raveneau.

When the women who had crowded her sitting room were finally sent off to the church, Catherine let Isobel help her into her underclothes, and then donned a robe and went to sit by the window.

“Isobel, would you allow me a few minutes privacy? I would like to a few moments to gather my thoughts. We don’t have to leave for the church for an hour, do we?”

“No, miss.” She bobbed her head. “I’ll wait outside.”

Alone, Cathy looked around her bedroom, waiting for a wave of nostalgia to wash over her. Shouldn’t she feel misty-eyed on her wedding day? She had been raised in the most luxurious surrounding, showered with advantages. Yet, although the four homes owned by her parents, in New York, Newport, Long Island, and London, were sumptuous, they were also impersonal. Cathy had read Little Women repeatedly since age ten and yearned for that sense of loving family and the camaraderie of a cozy home. She had longed for close, constant friends who liked her for herself, but her mother had kept other children at arm’s length and it seemed that each time Cathy made a new friend, Hermione took her off to Europe or to one of their other homes. At least then she’d had Stephen to share her complaints and dreams with, but now she was alone.

Outside, an omnibus crept along Fifth Avenue amid countless hansoms. Then a particularly fine carriage paused partway up the next block, and Cathy watched her father alight. Why had he stopped so far from their residence? Still, it was lovely to see him. He spent nearly every waking moment downtown, working to support their lifestyle, and she couldn’t help feeling a pang at the realization that she would be moving away to Barbados without ever getting as close to him as she wished.

Jules Parrish lingered outside the carriage, leaning in, laughing. When he stepped back and made a little bow to an unseen occupant, a pretty young woman with golden hair peeped out and extended her hand to him. To Cathy’s utter shock, her father stepped forward again and suddenly took the woman in his arms.

“Papa! What in heaven’s name—” she whispered in confusion.

He kissed his companion full on the mouth and then seemed to remember himself and set her back inside, out of sight. Glancing left and right, he bowed to her again, then turned toward their mansion and crossed the street.

Cathy’s face was hot with disbelief. What could it mean? Had she misjudged him all her life? Was her darling papa a cad?

“Catherine?” Hermione’s shrill voice carried easily from the far edge of the sitting room. “Your flowers have come. Do dress now, dear, so that we can go to the church. Your father is due any moment.” As she advanced toward the bathroom, searching out her daughter, she continued, “Isobel has finished packing your trunks. Aren’t you grateful now that I chose your trousseau? Surely you must agree that my taste is superior and the selections I made are perfect in every way?”

When Cathy met her mother in the doorway of the bathroom, she felt faint and her smile trembled. “Of course, Mother.”

“Heavens, but you are so pale, my dear!” She lifted her pince-nez and looked her up and down. “Whatever is the matter? Have you a case of nerves?

“Perhaps... a little. One isn’t married every day, after all.”

Hermione’s mouth puckered as she considered this. “You’re thinking about your wedding night, aren’t you? Don’t be shy, you can confide in your mother, you know. Sit down, Catherine, and listen carefully.” She drew her down onto a low stool before the dressing table, then began to pace.

Wildly uncomfortable, Cathy sought a distraction. “Papa is coming. I saw him through the window.”

“Feeling shy, hmm? Well, I would be remiss as your mother if I failed to explain a crucial fact of marriage to you.” The pearls at her throat gleamed in the sunlight filtering in through the lace curtains. “The... physical aspect is, as you must be aware, the means by which two married people have children. However, there is no way around saying this: it’s an ugly business. It’s degrading, but no matter how humiliated you may be, you must submit without protest. Do you understand?”

Cathy stared in shock. She had no idea at all what her mother was talking about. “Degrading? Ugly?”

“For the woman, you see. Men enjoy every repulsive moment, I believe.” Her penciled brows went up for emphasis. “No doubt that stallion you’ve insisted upon marrying will be worse than most, but that’s the price you’ll pay for your headstrong judgment.” She came closer and stared into her daughter’s stricken eyes. “You must yield to him, Catherine, and not cry out— no matter what! The wedding night is the most traumatic of all; not only painful, but bloody as well.”