Danielle Steel - Passion's Promise

“Thank you, darling.”

She smiled at him mysteriously as she whisked past him out the door. The scent of lily of the valley hung close to her. Dior. She looked simply exquisite. And it was more than just looks. Tonight she seemed more a woman than ever before. The change would have frightened him, had they not been such old friends.

There was a butler waiting for guests in the entrance to the house of Cassie’s aunt. Two parking attendants had been on hand to relieve them of Whit’s car, had he not brought the limousine. Beyond the indomitable butler, Georges, who had once worked for Pétain in Paris in the “good old days,” were two maids in starched black uniforms, waiting expressionlessly to collect wraps and direct ladies to the appropriate bedroom to tend to their faces and hair before making an “appearance.” A second butler intercepted them on their way, to begin the evening with a round of champagne.

Kezia had a white mink jacket to offer the black uniform that approached her, but no need or desire to “fix her face.”

“Darling?” Whit held a glass of champagne out to her, and that was the last time he saw her at close range. For the rest of the evening, he caught glimpses of her, laughing at the center of a circle of friends, dancing with men he hadn’t seen on the circuit in years, whispering into someone’s ear, and once or twice he thought he saw her alone on the terrace, looking out over the autumn night on the East River. But she was elusive tonight. Each time he approached, she floated away. It was damn annoying in fact, that feeling of watching a vision, or simply a dream. And people were talking about her. The men were, at least, and in an odd way that troubled him. It was what he wanted, though, or thought he did—“Consort to The Kezia Saint Martin.” He had planned it all carefully years ago but he didn’t like the taste of it lately, or the sound of her voice, or the remark she had made to him that morning. He thought they had an understanding, unspoken but mutually understood. Or was it that you had to put it to them after all? At least everyone thought he did. Kezia was good about that She didn’t care about that sort of thing anyway. Whit knew that. He was certain … or was it … Edward? Suddenly the idea shot into his mind and wouldn’t be banished. Kezia, sleeping with Edward? And the two of them making a fool of him?

“Good evening, Whit.”

The object of his newly formed suspicions had appeared at his side. “Evening,” he muttered.

“Beautiful party, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Edward, it is. Dear Cassie Sergeant is going out in style.”

“You make her sound like a ship. Though I must say the allusion is not entirely inept” Edward looked virtuous as their gazes fell on the more than slightly rotund form of the soon-to-be bride, poured like cement into pink satin.

“Mrs. FitzMatthew is certainly doing her best.” Edward smiled vaguely at the crowd around them. The dinner had been superb. Bongo Bongo Soup, Nova Scotia salmon, crayfish flown in from the Rockies, Beluga caviar smuggled in from France in appalling quantities (“You know, darling, France doesn’t have those absurd regulations about putting all that nasty salty stuff in it. Such a frightful thing to do to good caviar!”). The fish course had been followed by rack of lamb and an almost depressing number of vegetables, salade d’endives, and soufflé Grand Marnier—after the Brie, an enormous wheel of it from Fraser Morris on Madison, the only place in town to buy it “And only Carla FitzMatthew could possibly have a staff equal to organizing the task of ***souffié for fifty.”

“Hell of a dinner, wasn’t it, Whit?”

Whit nodded grimly. He’d had more than a bit too much to drink, and he didn’t like the new thoughts his mind had turned up.

“Where’s Kezia, by the way?”

“You ought to know.”

“I’m flattered that you think so, Whit. Matter of fact, I haven’t talked to her all evening.”

“Then save it for bed tonight.” Whitney spoke into his drink, but the words were not lost upon Edward.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry … I suppose she’s here somewhere. Flitting about. Looks rather handsome tonight.”

“I’d say you could do better than ‘handsome,’ Whitney.” Edward smiled into the last of his wine, musing about Whit’s comment. He didn’t like the tone of Whit’s voice, and he couldn’t have meant what it sounded like. Besides, he was obviously plastered. “The child looks quite extraordinary. I saw you two come in together.”

“And you won’t see us going out together. How’s that for a surprise?” Whitney was suddenly ugly as he leered a smile at Edward, turned on his heel and then stopped. “Or does that please rather than surprise you?”

“If you’re planning to leave without Kezia, I think you might tell her. Is anything wrong?”

“Is anything right? Good night, sir. I leave her to you. You can bid her good evening for me.”

He was instantly gone in the crowd, depositing his empty glass in Tiffany Benjamin’s hand as he left. She was conveniently standing in his path to the door, and gazed rapturously into the empty glass, waving it instantly for a refill, never noticing that she now had two in her hands.

Edward watched him go, and wondered what Kezia was up to. Whatever it was, it was clear that Whit didn’t like it, though why, he couldn’t imagine. Polite inquiries had confirmed years of suspicion. Whitney Hayworth III was determinedly gay, though not publicly. Bit of a shabby setup for Kezia, even if she did have that boy in the Village, not that that was a comforting thought. But Whitney … why did he have to … you just couldn’t tell with people anymore. Of course those things had gone on in his youth too, especially among the prep school boys. But it was never taken as seriously then. It was a stopgap measure, so to speak; no one thought of it as a way of life. Just a passing stage before everyone settled down, found a wife, and got married. But not anymore … not anymore….

“Hello, love. Why so gloomy?”

“Gloomy? Not gloomy, just thinking.” Edward roused a smile for Kezia’s benefit, and she was easy to smile for.

“And by the way, your escort just left. In his cups.”

“He’s been in a bad mood all day. Practically lost his temper with me on the phone this morning. He’s been in a pout because he hasn’t been able to reach me. He’ll get over it. Probably very quickly.” They both knew that Mrs. FitzMatthews’s home was within a few short blocks of Whit’s lover’s. Edward chose to ignore the suggestion.

“And what have you been up to?”

“Nothing much. Catching up with a few people here. Cassie’s wedding certainly dragged us all out of hiding. There are people here I haven’t seen in ten years. It’s really a beautiful night, and a very nice party.” She swirled around him, patted his arm, and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“I thought you didn’t like these gala events.”

“Once in a great while I do.” He looked at her sternly, and then felt irresistibly pulled into laughter. She was impossible, and so incredibly pretty. No, more than pretty. She was extravagantly beautiful tonight Whitney’s feeble “handsome” had been hopelessly inadequate as praise.

“Kezia…”

“Yes, Edward?” She looked angelic, artlessly keeping her eyes on his, and he tried to resist the urge to smile back.

“Where have you been lately? Whitney’s not the only one who hasn’t been able to reach you. I was a little bit worried.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“The artist? The young man in the Village?”

Poor thing, he actually looked worried. Visions of money fleeing from her frail little hands…. “Not the Village. SoHo. And no, it wasn’t that.”