Dorothy Clark - An Unlikely Love

She swallowed the last of her inhibition and nodded. “Yes. I’ll be there.”

“Until then!” He smiled, turned and ran up the dock and onto the steamer.

She stood rooted to the spot, shocked by what she’d done. But when he’d looked at her...

“There you are, Marissa.”

She started, glanced over her shoulder.

Clarice walked up beside her and looked toward the steamer. “Was that Mr. Winston?

“Mr. Boat Man.” She laughed and hastened to change the subject, lest Clarice start taking notes for her story. She’d embarrassed herself enough. Her plunge from the rules of society would remain her guilty secret. “Are you through working for the day?”

“I am. Until I get back to the tent and put my notes in order.” Clarice waved her hand back toward the hill. “Shall we leave the throng?”

“Yes, of course.” She glanced back at the lake. The Colonel Phillips was rounding the point. Grant was gone. Until tomorrow night. Her pulse skipped. Her guilt swelled. She composed herself, lifted her hems and followed Clarice up the hill.

Chapter Three

He’d done it. He’d found Marissa Bradley. Well, truth be told, it wasn’t his efforts that had brought them together tonight. Grant threw his tie over the back of the Windsor chair, sat and yanked off his shoes. His mother would say the Lord had taken a hand. He frowned, shook his head. He was a man of faith, but he was also a man of science, and that was difficult to swallow. Still...

He had given up. The lateness of the hour and the multiple hundreds of people sitting on the grass or milling around listening to the concert had him admitting defeat. But seeing her standing on a deserted portion of the shore was serendipitous, to say the least. His mother would, of a certainty, say it was God.

He crossed to his bed and flopped down onto his back. Marissa was beautiful. His pulse quickened. He laced his hands behind his head and stared up at the plastered ceiling, remembered the way she’d looked with the soft evening light falling on her upturned face, glowing in her blue eyes. Truly beautiful. The delicate cast of her features, the cleanly arched eyebrows over her long-lashed blue eyes, her finely molded nose and cheekbones, soft, full mouth and small, rounded chin were perfection.

He jerked to his feet and walked over to his window, opened it to the warm August night and looked toward the lake. He’d met beautiful young women before. Paid court to a few until he’d lost interest. That was what he had intended to do with Marissa Bradley—see her a few times, satisfy his curiosity about the sadness in her eyes and then say goodbye. But tonight, when he’d looked into her eyes in that first, unguarded moment, something had happened—something beyond the jolt of his heart. There’d been a knowing in him that was irrefutable. A sort of... connection he didn’t understand and couldn’t explain. Whatever it was, it was foolish in the light of reason and knowledge. It was also undeniable. It was still there.

He frowned, looked down at the grapevines silvered by the moonlight, turned and headed for his dressing room. He was a young, healthy man. Miss Bradley was a beautiful young woman. His was a simple physical reaction, easily explained by science. He had no reason, time or inclination to examine his response to her more fully than that. He had a busy day tomorrow with the coming harvest to prepare for. The matter of Miss Marissa Bradley would straighten itself out. The odd feeling was, no doubt, because of the circumstances of their meeting—a chance encounter in highly unlikely circumstances was intriguing. That’s all it was. The attraction of mystery. He was a man who liked to find answers. The feeling would go away after his planned meeting with Marissa tomorrow night.

“Marissa...” He turned on the tap, shrugged out of his shirt and splashed water on his face. The name suited her. It was soft and beautiful and...haunting. He toweled off, tugged on his nightshirt, turned down the wick in the oil lamp and headed for bed, Marissa Bradley’s name and beautiful face lingering in his mind.

* * *

Marissa tugged the quilt up closer around her chin and stared at the sloping canvas roof over her cot.

I took a chance that it was you.

A tingle ran up her spine. Grant had come to walk with her. The other meetings might have been accidental, but tonight, he’d chosen to come and spend time with her. And he wanted to see her tomorrow night. Her pulse quickened, shot energy through her. She turned onto her side, winced at the crackle of the corn husks in the mattress and glanced over at Clarice. Her tent mate was sound asleep in spite of the snores and snorts issuing from the tents around them. Nothing seemed to disturb her.

She edged closer to the side of her cot and slipped her legs out from under the covers, froze at the sound of footsteps outside their tent. She drew her legs back under the covers and waited. Moonlight threw a misshapen shadow on the canvas. She watched it float across the wall and disappear, then quickly climbed out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown and slippers. A quick flick of her wrist freed the mass of long curls she’d secured with a ribbon at the nape of her neck from beneath the collar so she could close and button the quilted gown.

Six steps took her from one side of the tent to the other. She turned, careful not to bump against the small writing desk, and walked back again. It was not very satisfactory pacing, but she couldn’t stay in bed. She had to move . At least with the moonlight shining on the canvas she could see well enough.

Would you do me the honor of addressing me by my given name?

She frowned, fiddled with the top button on her dressing gown. Had she done the right thing when she agreed to Grant’s request? And to meet him at the hotel at dusk tomorrow? Oh, what had she been thinking ! She did not want to demean herself in Grant Winston’s eyes. She wanted him to respect her. To hold her in high regard. To—her breath caught—to be attracted to her as she was to him.

She stopped, clasped her face in her hands and blew out a breath. Had she lost all common sense? She knew nothing about Grant Winston except that he was handsome and charming, polite and thoughtful and kind...And that he lived in Mayville and knew how to swim.

What if he indulged in wine or other strong drink?

The thought wouldn’t be denied. It hung there in her mind. She closed her eyes, wrapped her arms about herself and endured the pain of the memories that swarmed in silence. There was no room in the tent for tears.

The sadness and grief drove her back to her cot. She curled up under the covers and stared at the canvas wall. How could she have allowed herself to become so besotted by the beauty of the warm August night and her foolish, romantic dream—so enraptured by Grant’s sudden appearance and charm that she forgot the promise she’d made herself—that she’d never fall in love, never marry? She knew what could happen. Her father was charming, too. Until he drank wine. And Lincoln—

She curled tighter, pressed her hand over her mouth to hold back the sobs pushing up her throat. She would meet Grant Winston at the hotel tomorrow night as she promised. And she would tell him that her lectures were to begin the following day and she would not have time to see him again. It was better... safer for her that way. And nothing, not even Grant Winston, must be allowed to interfere with her work, to dilute her concentration on her message.

* * *

“Good afternoon, Miss...Bradley, is it?”

Marissa looked up from the paper she held and gave the older woman coming into the small, shaded clearing a polite smile. How did the woman know her name? Her memory clicked. Ah, the teachers meeting. “Yes, Bradley is correct. How may I help you, Mrs. Austin?”