Duchess (3 page)

“Indeed. Breakfasting with Mr. Bennett. And Master Finley—”

“Rosie!”

The voice stopped her in the foyer. Finn strode toward her, looking tall and wide-shouldered, his blue eyes bright, so full of welcome she wanted to crazily burst into tears.

He looked so much like her missing big brother, Jack, it put a fist through her chest. Dark hair, a smile that could turn her to mush.

And her mother, Jinx, had to live with this reminder every day. Rosie had no words as her brother wrapped his arms around her waist. “I can't believe it!”

“Nor I,” said Jinx. Her mother stood behind him, a smile at her lips, her hands clasped before her, so much society in her frame she couldn't break free to embrace her prodigal daughter. She'd aged, wisps of white streaked into her hair, a little more padding around her middle. As Finn untangled himself, Jinx came forward and took Rosie's hands, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I've been worried,” she whispered. Then she leaned away. “Was that you who caused such a consternation last night by Times Square? I was just reading about it in the
Chronicle
.”

So she knew. Rosie drew in a breath. Nodded. Jinx pressed her hand to her cheek. Met her eyes. They glistened. “I am pleased you visited us.”

“Your picture is in the paper!” Finn said. “Are you really in the movies?”

“Just this one, but yes.” Rosie tousled his hair just as Bennett emerged from his office. Sometimes, like now, her stepfather could take her breath away with his likeness to her father, same tall build, same green eyes. His blond hair had darkened also, just like her late father's. But Foster never bore kindness in his eyes like Bennett did when he smiled at her.

“You get lovelier every time I see you,” he said. Someday he might be anything but awkward with her. Maybe it would help if he knew she'd forgiven him.

“Thank you, Bennett.”

“We're having breakfast. I'll instruct Amelia to set you a plate.”

“Not much for me, Mother. I—”

“Even movie stars need to eat.” Jinx caught her hand, the other reaching for Bennett's. Rosie couldn't ignore the look that passed between them.

A quick smile, something that resembled relief.

She should have written.

But surely Lilly had told them the story, betrayed her sins?

The breakfast room, with its creamy white French furniture, overlooked Central Park—the lake, the boathouse, the lush forests. And beyond that, the homes of Fifth Avenue. She searched for Oliver's but, of course, it had burned that night.

Amelia set a poached egg and a piece of toast in front of her, a small bowl of raspberry jam. “Coffee, ma'am?”

“Please.”

“Have you met Rin-Tin-Tin?” Finn pulled up his chair.

“Warner Brother's trained dog?” Rosie laughed. “No.”

“Is Dashielle treating you well?” Bennett said. “I see his father occasionally at the men's club. He tells me that Dashielle runs the studio you work for.”

She salted her eggs, her stomach growling. “He…yes. We have an agreement.” She glanced up, found Bennett's eyes on her. “We're partners.”

Bennett raised an eyebrow and she glanced at Finn, who was watching her with a grin.

“I—I have some stock in the studio. And when the studio grows, so will my salary.” She didn't know why she suddenly felt as if Bennett might track down Dash, maybe pin him to the wall to extract promises.

It all felt very…fatherly.

“Dashielle is my biggest fan,” she said, and tried to mean it.

His room remained untouched this morning. She'd checked. Which meant that he'd stayed with Fletcher, discussing business all night.

Or he'd found another place to catch some shut-eye.

Or…

“I hate to break your heart, but he's got a reputation with the ladies.”

She kept her smile. “These eggs are delicious, Mother.”

“I have a new chef. From France.” Her mother's hand curled around Rosie's wrist, however, stopping her mid-bite. She glanced at her then at the boys. “A moment, gentlemen, with my daughter?”

“C'mon, Finn,” Bennett said. “It's time for classes anyway.”

Finn got up. “Rosie, can I come out and visit you sometime in Hollywood?”

“Absolutely, Finley. Anytime.”

Jinx watched them go, a softness in her eyes, then turned to Rosie. “Are you all right?”

Rosie's throat tightened. “Of course. I mean, you read the paper. They loved me.”

Jinx glanced at the
Chronicle
folded beside Bennett's plate. “That is not what I'm referring to.”

Oh. Rosie stared at her plate. Bit her lip. Drew in a breath. “I dream about him sometimes. And—and Charlie.”

“They call her Coco. I have a picture they sent.” She got up, but Rosie grasped her hand.

“I—I can't look at it, Mother. Please.”

Jinx sank back into the chair.

“You have to understand…it simply hurts too much to be reminded of everything I lost. It's like Finn.”

“I do understand. The older he gets, the more he becomes Jack. The more the ache burns. And yet, Finn is one of my greatest joys.” She pressed her hand to Rosie's face, turned it. “As are you, daughter.”

Rosie looked away, toward the picture window overlooking Central Park. “I have a different life now. I can't look back. I can't—I have to forget Coco.”

Jinx said nothing.

Rosie drew in a breath. “I married Dash.” She looked at her mother.

Jinx had drawn in a breath, her face tight.

“It's a business arrangement.”

“But you love him?”

“I don't have to. It's just business.”

Jinx closed her eyes.

“Dash is good to me. And I love him enough.”

Jinx looked at her, shook her head. “Dash is good to Dash. You've always known that. And it's not enough to tolerate each other.”

“I'm not going to look for love, Mother. It costs too much. Besides, I had it once. That is enough.”

“Is it?”

Rosie nodded, stared at her eggs. “I am going to be a star. I won't need love. In fact, I don't even want it. I'll never replace what I had with Guthrie.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother watching her, her lips a tight line.

The doorman buzzed, and Rosie heard Amelia's steps across the foyer.

She took Jinx's hand, squeezed. “I promise. This is not your marriage to Foster, Mother. I know what I'm doing.”

“So did I, when I married Foster. And he nearly destroyed our lives.”

“You were young and naive. I control my own destiny. I will never let a man steal my future from me, trap me into a life I despise.”
I won't become you, Mother
.

Amelia appeared at the door. “Ma'am. At your pleasure, Dashielle Parks is requesting to see you and is inquiring after Miss Rosie.”

Jinx glanced at Rosie. She nodded.

“Allow him entrance,” she said.

Rosie took a sip of coffee. “He must have realized I'd left our suite.”

“Didn't he offer to accompany you?”

She couldn't meet her mother's eyes. “He didn't come home last night. In fact—” She closed her eyes. “We haven't yet—well, we are husband and wife in name only.”

Jinx's mouth opened. “Rosie—”

“There's my starlet!”

Dash didn't appear exhausted, his tuxedo mussed, a five o'clock shadow. No, he looked rested, shaven, and bright, even as he came over and pressed a kiss to Rosie's check.

The man even smelled good. Clean. Exotic.

She tried not to let that curl a fist inside her.

Her mother had risen. “Dash. I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“Thank you. I always knew Rosie would be a star.”

“I was referring to your marriage into our family.”

Rosie glanced up at Dash just in time to see his face redden. His smile fell, and he frowned at Rosie. “Red?”

“She's my mother. She should know.”

Jinx knew how to hold a man captive with a look, and Dash couldn't escape as he stood there, hat in hand. “I—we—it's not what you think.”

“It sounds like exactly what I think, Dashielle. I hope you're not just using my daughter to further your position.”

Rosie stood. “Mother—”

“Shh. I know this isn't any of my business, so I'll say only this. You hurt my daughter, Dashielle Parks, and you'll live to regret it.”

Rosie put a hand on his arm. But she didn't temper her mother's words.

“Yes, ma'am,” Dash said, and Rosie almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

“I'm afraid we have a train to catch,” he said softly, maybe to Jinx, maybe to Rosie. He glanced at Rosie. “Rosie has to get back for the West Coast premiere. Her public awaits.” He winked at her. “Our car is waiting downstairs.”

Oh. So soon.

She turned to her mother just as Jinx caught her in an embrace. Rosie ducked her head and held on, breathing in her mother's powdery scent. The woman still wore a corset, still bathed in rosewater.

“If you ever need anything, we're right here,” Jinx said softly and then released her.

Her mother offered her hand to Dashielle, who kissed it then nearly fled the apartment.

He turned away from Rosie when she climbed into the limousine.

“We're leaving?”

“I had the valet pack your cases. I'm sorry—I thought I told you we'd have to leave in the morning.”

The streets were already filled with horses and carriages, trucks, and cars logjamming through the city. “Hurry. The train won't wait,” Dash barked.

Now he sounded tired.

“What's wrong, Dash?”

He took off his hat, ran his hand along the brim. Barely looked at her.

“It's nothing. Just studio business.” But the smile he gave her didn't touch his eyes.

“I'm part of the studio business,” she said.

“You
are
the studio business, sweetheart,” he said.

Her stomach began to churn again. She should have eaten more, perhaps. “Dash, don't you dare loan me out. We have an agreement. I work for Palace Studios. Not MGM, not Warner Brothers. I swear, if you make me work for Jack Jr.—”

He took her hand, squeezed. “Shh, darling. I haven't auctioned you off. You're still the property of Palace Studios.”

Property. But he didn't mean it like that. Just studio jargon. Still, his grip stayed on her hand as they drove through the congested streets of New York.

They pulled up to Grand Central Station, and the driver let them out. “Are you sure the valets packed all my things?” Rosie watched as the driver unloaded Dash's traveling case.

“I told them to get it all, even the kitchen sink.” Dash grabbed her elbow and hustled her through the doors, and she couldn't help but shoot a glance at the waiting area.

Five years ago, right there, she'd waited for the man she loved to show up and save her life.

Dash hustled her through the ticket area and flashed his tickets to the gate attendant. The train had already pulled up, and Dash led her to the end, the cars reserved for the studio.

He helped her up and followed her into a private car, shut the door behind him. The red velvet, fringed shades over the window shuttered the light, casting shadows over the green brocade chairs, the desk, the canopied bed.

Dash sank down onto the bed and cradled his head in his hands.

“Dash, you're scaring me.”

He sighed. Then, suddenly, “I'm sorry, Red. I'm so sorry.”

Sorry? For what? It was the defeat in his voice that made her sink to her knees before him. That made her reach for his face, lift it in her hands. “What is it, Dash?”

His eyes met hers, dark and husky, a hint of danger in them, not unlike Grayson's so many times on screen. He caught her hands, drew them from his face. “I should have come back with you last night, Red.” He cupped her chin. “I'm sorry,” he said softly, almost with a catch. Then he kissed her. It started sweetly, as if he might be afraid, but in a moment it changed. It wasn't a movie kiss, nothing chaste or staged about it. He had a darkness in his touch, something almost desperate as he curled his hand around her neck, pulled her closer.

As if he meant everything he put into the kiss.

Sorry
. She hung on to that word and believed it as she kissed him back.

He pulled her up, onto his lap, and then turned her onto the bed, finally lifting his head as the train lurched, starting its movement west. “I—we—” He licked his lips, swallowed, as if not sure how to ask. But she saw it in his eyes, the way his gaze raked over her, as if seeing what he had in his arms for the first time.

And it filled her up, right to the brim. “Dash.” She flattened her hand to his chest then curled it around his tie, pulling him closer, whispering into his ear. “Make me your star.”

“It's show business, Roxy, nothing more. If the studio wants it, the studio gets it.”

Clara Bow lay in a reclining chair as Daisy, her hairdresser, penciled in her perfectly arched brows.

Outside on Sunset Boulevard, the August breeze tickled the towering palm trees. Sunlight draped like a curtain down the street, over the red-and-black awnings of the Hampton boutiques, the whitewashed Westside Market and Mermaid Club Café, and through the picket fence that cordoned the parking lot of the Café Lamaze. Shiny Rolls Royces caught the gleam as they motored by, others parked at the curb, probably to attend services at Blessed Sacrament Church. Maybe someday she'd have a shiny white convertible Rolls Royce to drive to her Sunday appointments at Jim's Beauty Salon.

“The important thing to remember in this business is that it's fickle. And through it all, you gotta keep ahold of your heart, or Hollywood will break it to pieces.”

Rosie glanced at the silent-film star, her dark locks burned and curled to perfection, her face powdered, her lips in a perfect heart-shaped contour. She wore a dressing gown and had toted her own hairdresser with her for today's treatment at Jim's, in preparation for tonight's party at the Coconut Grove.

A party Dash insisted they attend. Rosie could still hear his voice echo through the tiled hallways of their bungalow on Palm Drive. “
You're going to be there. End of discussion
.”

“I just don't understand why tonight's shindig at the Grove is so important.”

She could feel the peroxide bleeding into her scalp. Please don't let her walk away with burns again. Jim had layered cotton around her face to keep the drips from her skin, but last time she'd exited the parlor out the back, hidden under sunglasses and a headscarf to conceal the red chemical splotches.

It took her two days to escape the headache.

Jim leaned her back to attack her brows. Thankfully they hadn't shaved them completely off. Yet.

But any day Fletcher might decide to upgrade her regimen. He already had her on cottage cheese and celery. Just for once, she'd like to eat a full meal.

“It's Louis Mayer's birthday party. MGM expects Hollywood to pay their respects,” Clara said.

“It just seems like we could stay home one night. We've been out every night since the West Coast premiere. I'm exhausted.”

Clara laughed, and Daisy chided her. “Shh. You're making a mess of this.”

Rosie liked Clara. Her New York accent made her seem real, not at all like the larger-than-life It Girl portrayed on the silent screen.

And no one had made Clara a star. She, like Rosie, headed to Hollywood with a dream, armed with nothing but determination, and acting chops.

No one played an on-screen flapper like Clara. The public loved her—hopefully all the way into her next movie, her first “talkie.”

“Just remember, they're all snobs, Rox. You just have to play their game, and then you'll get what you want,” Clara said as Daisy began to work on her lips. “And you know the line, darlin'.” She raised her voice into a singsong. ‘The show must go on.'”

Daisy flipped the chair upright and went to work teasing her hair. “And the studio is just getting started. I saw your name on the billboard coming into town.
Star for a Day
is a hit.”

Maybe. The West Coast premiere doubled the size of the New York opening, and she'd charmed the crowd at home by talking into the radio mic of KFWD radio, while Dash stood on the sidelines, grinning at his creation. She'd worn the pearls, a purple dress, and long, white gloves under a chiffon wrap.

He'd sat with Irene in the darkened room of Grauman's Chinese Theater. Next to her, Grayson wrapped his arm around the redhead, a girl named Sally O'Neil.

And after the premiere, they'd gone to a party at Fletcher's estate. Dash made the rounds with Irving Thalberg and Jack Warner, talking shop. Rosie took the limousine home alone.

Rosie ground her jaw tight, her eyes closing against the pain as Jim tweaked out the wayward brow stubble since her last appointment. Her eyes watered.

“You thought the publicity machine was rolling before the show. Just wait until they have you attending everything from beauty pageants to the Horned Toad Derby at the Ambassador Hotel,” Clara said. “All so that the public won't forget you before you start shooting another movie. And then the studio will leak stills of the new movie until the next publicity run. Forget about your life being yours, sweetie. The best you can do is keep smiling, looking beautiful, and keep a tight hold on your heart. They can't take that from you.”

Rosie winced as Jim finished plucking and grabbed a pencil. A thin man with graying hair and round spectacles, he seemed like a professor rather than an artist as he squinted, applying her paint. She always had the sense that he might suddenly lecture her on the invasion of Bonaparte or ask her to recite her sums.

“You know, Roxy, it could be that Dashielle wants you there because of Rooney Sherwood.”

“Who?”

“The billionaire from Texas. Came to Hollywood to be a big producer. I hear he's going to be there tonight. He's still making that movie about the war heroes,
Angel's Fury
,” Clara said. “They say he's spent a couple million dollars already. He built a huge sound stage inside the lot at Paramount and hired a new screenwriter to add in dialogue. He shot the whole thing as a silent movie, and now he wants to make it a talkie. Can you believe it?”

“Why would Dash want me to meet him?”

She glanced at Rosie and caught her eye. “They say he's looking for a new leading lady.”

“For his film—or his life?”

Clara shrugged. “Maybe both. He's cute, really. Brown eyes, a little danger in them. I never see him without a dame.”

Rosie ached to spit it out, right then.
I'm married to Dashielle Parks. Really married
. But it seemed he'd forgotten that over the past two weeks since the premiere. He'd slept at the studio office more often than not.

She hated that she spent so many evenings waiting for a knock at her door. She shouldn't care. Wouldn't. After all, he'd never really made her promises.

In fact, on the day she married him, she told him not to expect her to love him. He promised the same thing back.

Clearly, he'd meant that vow.

Still. “I'm not looking for a date.”

Jim raised her chair and, indeed, her brows looked cleaner, more pronounced.

“Of course not, silly. Dash may be looking to loan you out. They make a bundle and don't give you a dime,” Clara said as Daisy starched her hair. Not a curl out of place. She puckered into the mirror, angled her head to look at the 'do. Nodded. “And if Rooney is looking to make a talkie, he might be trolling for cheap actresses with star potential.”

“They can't loan me out—”

“Of course they can, Roxy. This is show business and the studio owns you. They can do anything they want.”

“But Dash said he wouldn't loan me out without my say….” She didn't want to work for Rooney, or worse, someone like Jack Junior of Warner Brothers. Besides, she wasn't just another cheap blond bimbo from Central Casting. She was the star of Palace Studios.

So what that she only made a hundred and fifty dollars a week? She was part owner of a studio. On paper, at least.

“He might have said it, but he certainly didn't mean it.” Clara slipped off the chair. “Listen, sweetheart. It's a game. And you gotta play by their rules. But it doesn't mean you can't make your own destiny.” She winked. “You're an actress, aren't you? If you want the world to love you, you gotta give them what they want. Doesn't mean you gotta love them back.” She tied a scarf over her hair. “If Dash wants to loan you out, then make something of it. Find yourself a good leading man, at the very least. It'll help you forget about Dashielle Parks.”

Rosie shot a look at her, and Clara smiled. “It's plain as the gorgeous nose on your face that you're smitten with him. You're just a commodity to Dashielle Parks. Don't forget that. If you give him your heart, he'll own you.”

She slid on her sunglasses. “See you at the Grove.”

“Mr. Parks said he'd meet you at the Ambassador Hotel.”

Rosie stared in the mirror, at the perfection Jim had created. Arched brows, sculpted ruby-painted lips, hair the color of the moon. All of it set against the siren red satin dress that Dash had left hanging in her room. Her costume for their show tonight.

Like a beacon in the middle of the nightclub for someone like Rooney Sherwood to see.

Her housekeeper and lady's maid, Louise, a woman in her late forties who reminded Rosie of her mother, stood behind her, fastening the pearls around her neck. She touched them, turned, and watched them dangle down her back.

“You're beautiful, ma'am.”

She turned, smiled at Louise. “Thank you.”

“Your car is waiting.” Louise handed her a white cape, draping it over her shoulders. Rosie fastened it at the neck and let it drag behind her out of her dressing room.

She loved this house, the long hallway between her and Dash's room, the two-story living room that overlooked the back patio, the lush green lawn that framed the pool then rolled down to a small pond that the studio had stocked with swans for a photo shoot and left behind. The house was unassuming from the street, a two-story Tudor with cypress trees in the front yard.

The studio Rolls waited for her outside, and she gathered her dress, dragging her cloak on the stone steps.

She had a good mind not to go at all.

But if Dash thought he could simply auction her off—or sell her to Rooney Sherwood…

She conjured up too many conversations in her head for her own good as she rode to the Ambassador Hotel.

Her driver parked at the entrance, helped her out. She heard the band even as she walked under the long awning toward the nightclub and then inside, down the corridor, past the shops, now closed for the evening.

Two palm trees loomed over the door, a footman in white gloves holding it open for her.

The place buzzed with conversation, a tropical paradise with arching palm trees, gold-painted ornate columns, and a dance floor surrounded by two hundred round, white-clothed tables, all out in the open for the magazines to photograph the stars with their studio bosses or in the arms of a potential costar. The smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air.

She stood at the entrance, watching the white-gloved waiters, the cigarette girls, the dancers on the floor. And she spotted familiar faces, the ones she'd read about in
Photoplay
: Louise Brooks, Lina Basquette, Charlie Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks, Lionel Barrymore, Mary Pickford. She scanned the room and recognized some newcomers sitting with their studios—Betty Grable, Paul Muni.

Clara spotted her and waved from her table, where she sat with Dorothy Arzner, a director from Paramount. Trust Clara to come without a man on her arm.

Rosie lifted her hand in a quiet wave.

“There she is. Roxy Price.” Dash was coming up the stairs, a smile on his face, as if he hadn't seen her in years and had waited breathlessly for this moment.

“Why didn't you wait for me?” she asked under her breath, smiling as she let him kiss her on the cheek.

“I had business. Shh, you're here now.” He reached for her cape, helped her remove it, and handed it to the hostess. “Please bring me the tag.” Then he took her arm, wove it into his, and led her down the stairs. “I have a table for us near the floor.”

On the front stage, Gus Arnheim and his Ambassadors played the Tiger Rag. A handful of dancers had the floor, but soon it would be too full to do anything but sway.

She smiled at a few faces she remembered from the Palace lot and stopped to kiss Myrna Loy, who'd helped her with a few dance steps while shooting
Star for a Day
.

Dash had a firm grip on her arm, though, and directed her to their table.

Fletcher Harris stood up to greet her, leaving his slimy kiss on her cheek. She extended a hand to Irene—of course the secretary would be here. Irene smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. The young woman looked like she'd gained weight, however, and kept her jacket around her shoulders.

“You look lovely tonight,” Fletcher said as Dash pulled out her chair.

“Thank you.”

“I love your pearls,” Irene said.

Rosie touched her neck. “Dash gave them to me.”

Irene flicked her gaze to Dash and smiled.

“He's very generous with the studio's money,” Fletcher said. “But we thought you deserved it after your performance in
Star for a Day
. They're saying that it might be nominated for best picture at this year's Academy dinner.”

A waiter came by and handed her a menu.

“She'll have cantaloupe,” Dash said and handed back the menu. “And a piece of chicken.”