Dorothy Clark - Beauty for Ashes

A rush of tears stung her swollen, burning eyes. She blinked them away, pulled on her kid gloves, then hurried to her bedroom door and pressed her ear against the flat center panel, listening for any sound of movement in the hallway beyond. She heard nothing.

Heartened by the silence, Elizabeth leaned down and fitted the key into the lock. The click of the bolt sliding back was loud in the silence. For a long moment she waited, then, grasping the knob firmly she turned it ever so slowly and eased the door open a crack.

There was no one in sight.

The air trapped in her lungs expelled in a burst of relief. She stepped into the hallway, locked her door, then tiptoed along the corridor to the top of the staircase. Footsteps sounded in the entrance hall below.

Elizabeth jolted to a stop. She whirled about and darted to the side of the stairs, pressing her body back against the wall where she would be hidden from view. Whoever it is, don’t let them come upstairs! Please, God, don’t let them come upstairs! Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs as the footsteps began to climb.

“Alice!”

Elizabeth gasped and squeezed more tightly against the wall at the sound of her mother’s voice.

“I want no one upstairs until Mr. Frazier returns! Go tidy the drawing room.”

The maid’s footsteps retreated. Doors closed.

Elizabeth sagged against the wall, then immediately righted herself and moved to the banister to peek down into the room below. It was empty. Thank heaven! If her mother should discover her— She jerked her mind from the debilitating thought, took a firm grip on the handrail and started down the stairs.

There was a loud creak.

Elizabeth’s heart leaped into her throat. She froze in place—waited. No one came to investigate. After a few moments, she tightened her grip on the railing and crept forward, her mouth dry as she tested each step, her long skirts sliding from tread to tread with a sibilant whisper that to her ears sounded like a roar. When she reached the solid floor of the entrance hall her heart was pounding so violently she felt giddy. She inched her way to the front door, eased it open and slid outside. The frigid air stung her face.

Elizabeth pulled her fur-lined hood in place, tucked the drawstring bag out of sight beneath her cloak, then rushed down the marble steps to the sidewalk and hurried away.

“Justin, do sit down! I hate it when you prowl about like a cat. Or should I say a nervous bridegroom?”

Justin Davidson Randolph turned and looked down into his sister’s upturned face—into long, heavily lashed blue eyes so like his own. “If that was an attempt at levity, Laina, it failed miserably. I suggest you save your humor for a more appropriate time.”

“But humor is appropriate at a farce.”

The barb hit its mark. Justin frowned. “Be careful, Laina. You go too far.”

“No, Justin, you go too far. ‘Widower’ and ‘Interested’ indeed! It’s like a child’s game.”

The muscle along his jaw twitched. Justin took a calming breath. “Laina Brighton, marriage hasn’t changed you at all. You can be a most provoking woman. I assure you it’s no game. I called myself ‘Widower’ to protect my identity from the women who answered my Article of Intent.”

“Which proves you know the character of the women you are dealing with! Including ‘Interested.’”

“Laina—” He put a wealth of warning in the growled name.

“I’m sorry, Justin. I don’t want to quarrel with you. But this plan of yours is ludicrous. I know you’ve been hurt. Terribly hurt. And I don’t blame you for feeling bitter. But please don’t do this to yourself. One rotten apple—”

His disgusted snort cut her off. “One?”

“All right, two. But Rebecca and Margaret were selfish, schem—”

“Laina, that’s all past. Please—don’t speak their names ever again!” The muscle at his jaw twitched again. Justin rubbed the spot, trying to ease the tightness away.

“Very well. I’ll not mention them again—except to say they are not worth what you are doing to yourself.”

He shouldn’t have told her. Maybe if he didn’t answer she’d give up. Justin shook his head and moved away to stare down into the fire. It didn’t work. She followed him. His back muscles tensed at the light touch of her hand on his jacket.

“Justin, forget this plan. Give yourself another chance. Give those chil—”

She stopped as he pivoted about to face her. “No more arguments, Laina. Granted, Rebecca and Margaret were less than admirable women. Is that not all the more reason to do what I am doing?” He lifted his lips in a cynical smile. “You can’t deny I’ve not done well choosing with my heart. It seems to have an abominable lack of good taste.”

Tears welled into her eyes at his words. She glared up at him. “I hate this change in you, Justin. You’ve turned into this cold, remote, untouchable stranger. I want you to stop this foolishness! I want my warm, gentle, loving brother back. You’re going to destroy your life.”

“Don’t cry, Lainy.” The old childhood name slipped softly from Justin’s lips. He drew his older sister into his arms and held her close. “I know a marriage of convenience is not ideal. But at least it will be an honest relationship.”

He held up a hand to forestall her comment as she jerked backward out of his arms and drew breath to speak. “Yes, an honest relationship, even if it will be based purely on greed. At least this time the avarice will be out in the open.”

Justin frowned, and turned away to put on his coat. Laina was right, he had changed—his voice sounded as cold and hard as his heart felt. He lifted her wool, fur-trimmed coat off the chair and held it for her. “We’ve talked enough. It’s time to go.”

He straightened the coat’s overcape about her shoulders, handed her the matching coal-scuttle bonnet and opened the drawing room door, stepping back to let her precede him into the entrance hall. “The Haversham Coach House is some distance from here. Surely you’d not have me keep my bride waiting?” His attempt to ease the tension between them with the light remark failed. He winced inwardly as Laina’s eyes flashed with anger. There was an audible snap from the bonnet’s satin chin ribbons as she yanked them into place and tied them.

“She can wait till the stars fall from the sky for all I care! And don’t call her your bride in my presence. I’ll never accept her as such.”

Justin’s heart gave a painful wrench as Laina snatched her fur muff from the seat of the chair and swept past him. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he couldn’t let her dissuade him from the path he had chosen. He had been made a fool of twice. He didn’t intend that it should ever happen again. But he needed a suitable wife—a mother for the children.

Justin set his jaw in grim determination, grabbed his felt top hat from the chair and followed Laina out her front door and down the brick steps to the waiting cabriolet he had hired.

Ora Scraggs gripped the sideboard of the wagon as it made its lumbering, lurching progress down the road toward New York. March 28, 1820—her wedding day. At least it would have been if it weren’t for that addlebrained, dim-witted coach driver. The grip of her hand on the edge of the board seat tightened as she glared down at the long, jagged tear in the skirt of the red wool traveling outfit she had stolen from her mistress. A pox on him! A pox on the driver and his whole family! If he hadn’t been going so fast he might have missed that deep hole, the wheel wouldn’t have broken and—

Oh, what was the use? Why mull it over? The accident had happened. She was beaten. And she had planned so carefully! From the moment she’d overheard her mistress and her friends reading and laughing about that Article of Intent, she’d been figuring her every move. Now, the splendid, genteel entrance she had planned for her arrival at the Haversham Coach House in the hired coach and fancy stolen clothes was ruined. The time of her marriage appointment with “Widower” long past. Now she had to think up a new scheme, find another rich man to diddle. And she would! Her plan to have “Widower’s” money might be denied her by today’s accident, but she was clever. She would think of something. There were a lot of rich gentlemen in New York. And meanwhile…