Delancey Stewart - Prohibited!

“You’re still in bed? What on Earth?” Mrs. McKenzie rushed to her bedside, a pale hand extended and ready to pat her daughter down for signs of fever.

Evelyn batted the hand away and pulled her quilt higher over her shoulder. “I’m not sick. I’m just tired.”

“Oh, poor dear. Still not sleeping well? Shall I telephone the Whites and tell them we can’t come to tea? You shouldn’t be out in this cold, risking exhaustion and …”

“Mother, stop.” Evelyn’s mother had a tendency to work herself into a frenzy over the smallest shred of evidence that something terrible might happen. Once, when she found a mosquito bite on Evelyn’s arm as a child, she had quarantined the house and alerted everyone in the neighborhood that Evie had smallpox, essentially kidnapping the doctor and practically holding him hostage when he didn’t give her the diagnosis she expected. It took him an hour to convince her that her daughter would be fine, and by then Mrs. McKenzie had worked herself into such a state that she had to take to her own bed for several days afterward. “I’m fine, Mother. I just overslept.”

“Oh…oh dear, well …” Mrs. McKenzie stood up and wrung her hands, her small feet clicking against the hardwood as she paced in circles. She was not a woman who did well when things did not go according to plan.

“Mother,” Evelyn said, rising from her bed and shivering in the morning cold as gooseflesh climbed her limbs. “Give me ten minutes to clean up and dress. We’ll be right on time for tea, and I promise to be pleasant and charming and full of pep. But please, let me be for ten minutes.” She ushered her mother back to the door of her room as she spoke, and shut it behind her, leaving her mother in the hallway.

Evelyn moaned and put a hand to her head. “Oy.” Too much gin. A smile crossed her face at the memory of Jack’s hands on her leg, his mouth on hers. It was worth the headache. She swallowed a headache tablet, kept on her dressing table for just such an occasion, and set about the task of making herself look presentable for her parents’ friends and her future husband—if her father had his way. As promised, she was downstairs, dressed like a demure society daughter in a long blue dress, ten minutes later.

“You look lovely, darling,” her mother said, having recovered from her shock at finding Evie still in bed at 11 a.m. “Shall we go?”

“Of course,” Evelyn said, allowing Buck to help her into her coat as she gave him a quick wink.

“You look well today, Miss Evie,” Buck said, a smile in his voice.

“Thanks, Buckie.” She hoped he’d managed to get some sleep after he’d helped her back into her window the night before.

“I do hope you’ll behave,” Evelyn’s mother said. “Roger will be there.” She left it at that, but offered a raised eyebrow to Evelyn, which translated loosely to “be on your best behavior because I am about to parade you about like a marriageable show dog.”

Ever since her parents had gotten wind that the Whites’ son, Roger, would be graduating Yale at the end of the year, they’d practically forced Evelyn down the throats of his family. Evelyn, for her part, didn’t find Roger unattractive or less-than-compelling even. She kept her distance mostly due to her parents’ complete lack of distance. She’d only ever sat across from him at luncheons, made vague small talk at teas. And yet, their parents together seemed convinced that a ring would be in the offing in a matter of months. To Evelyn’s parents, she was already engaged.

“Very well.” Evelyn sighed. She was tired of being on show. She wasn’t sure she had ever truly been in love, but whatever lay between Jack Taylor and her was close enough for now. But how could she tell her parents that their dreams of marrying her into another wealthy Upper East Side family were about to be shattered by her desire for the proprietor of a gin mill? She leaned heavily into the firm seat of the car, replaying her ride home the night before. She’d swaddled herself in her fur, letting Jack’s scent engulf her as his cologne lingered on her throat, her arms. She wanted to lose herself in that man completely—his rough determination, sheathed in the perfectly tailored suits and elegance of the club. He was like a tiger concealed in fine clothing—she loved the ferocity she sensed just beneath the surface. The idea sent a thrill through her, and she sat up suddenly in the back seat.

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