The Firebrand (3 page)

Framed by the French doors, Kathleen tilted her head and smiled at Mr. Kennedy, one of the most eligible bachelors in Chicago. The night sky in the background seemed to glow and pulse with the city lights. As she watched, Lucy felt a tug of wistfulness. They were both so attractive and romantic, so luminous with the sparkling energy that surrounded them. She could not imagine what it would be like to have a man admire her that way.

"Well," she said briskly to Phoebe. "One thing is clear. I have won the wager.

You must donate a hundred dollars to the Women's Suffrage Movement." "There's still time for Kathleen to stick her foot in her mouth." Phoebe sent

Lucy a wry smile. "However, tonight that seems to be your specialty."

Lucy laughed. "Only tonight?"

"I was trying to be polite." She linked arms with Lucy again. "I wish Deborah had come with us this evening."

A frisson of anxiety chased away Lucy's good humor. "She seemed quite ill when we left Miss Boylan's."

"I'm sure she will be fi— Good heavens, it's Lord de Vere." Without a backward glance, Phoebe sailed off to greet the weak-chinned English nobleman, whom she hoped and prayed she might marry one day.

Lucy caught herself thinking about Mr. Higgins, and the way their public disagreement had led to private thoughts. It was a rare thing, to meet a man who made her think. She should not have antagonized him so, but she couldn't help herself. He was provocative, and she was easily provoked.

As more people filed out of the lecture salon, she spotted him moving toward the adjoining room, and felt herself edging toward an admission. An admission, followed by a plan of action, for that was Lucy's way. She saw no point in believing in something without acting on that belief.

What she admitted to herself, what she had come to believe, was that she was wildly attracted to Mr. Randolph Higgins. Until tonight, she'd never met a man who made her feel the lightning sting of attraction. It had to mean something. It had to mean that he was the one.

That was where her plan of action came in. She wanted him for her lover.

When he went over to a long table, laden with punch and hors d'oeuvres, she marched straight across the room to him. He gave no sign that he'd seen her, but when he turned away from the table, he held two cups of lemonade.

"You," he said, handing her a cup, "are the most annoying creature I have ever met."

"Really?" She took a sip of the sweet-tart lemonade. "I take that as a compliment."

"So you are both annoying
and
slow-witted," he said.

"You don't really think that." Watching him over the rim of her cup, she added. "I am complimented because I have made you think."

Lord, but he was a fine specimen of a man. She felt such a surge of triumph that she could not govern the wide grin on her face. She'd found him at last. After a lifetime of believing she would never meet someone who could arouse her passion, share her dreams, bring her joy, she'd finally found him. A man she could admire, perhaps even love.

"Do I amuse you?" he asked, frowning good-naturedly. "Why would you think that?"

"Because you keep smiling at me even though I have just called you annoying and—"

"Slow-witted," she reminded him. "Yes," he said. "Rude of me."

"It was. But I forgive you." She glanced furtively from side to side. "Mr. Higgins, do you suppose we could go somewhere...a little less public?" Before he could answer, she took his hand and pulled him toward the now-empty lecture

room. The dry windstorm that had been swirling through the city all evening battered at the windows. Gaslight sconces glowed on the walls, and orange light flickered mysteriously in the windowpanes. Rows of gilded chairs flanked a central aisle, and just for a moment, as she led him along the crimson carpet runner toward the front of the room, she had the fanciful notion that this was a wedding.

"Miss Hathaway, what is this about?" he asked, taking his hand from hers.

"I wanted to speak to you in private." Her heart raced. This was a simple matter, she told herself. Men and women arranged trysts all the time. She should not get overwrought about it.

"Very well." He propped his hip on the back of a chair, the pose so negligently masculine and evocative that she nearly forgot her purpose. "I'm listening."

"Did you enjoy the lecture tonight, Mr. Higgins?" "Honestly?"

"Honestly."

"It was a crashing bore."

Clearly he didn't share her passion for debate. She pulled in a deep breath. "I see. Well, then—"

"—until a certain young lady began to speak her mind," he added. "Then I found it truly interesting."

"Interesting?" "Yes."

"And... provocative?" "Most definitely."

"Did you think it was...stimulating?"

He laughed aloud. "Now that you mention it."

Her spirits soared. "Oh, I am glad, Mr. Higgins. So glad indeed. May I call you Randolph?"

"Actually my friends call me Rand."

She most definitely wanted to be his friend. "Very well, Rand. And you must call me Lucy."

"This is a very odd conversation, Lucy."

"I agree. And I haven't even made my point yet." "Perhaps you should do so, then."

"Make my point." "Yes."

Ye gods, she was afraid. But she wanted him so much. "Well, it's like this, Mr.—Rand. Earlier when I spoke of passionate feelings, I was referring to you."

His face went dead white. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.

"You see," she rushed on, "I've always wanted to have a lover. I never did encounter a man I wanted to spend my life with, and if I took a lover I would simply have no need of a husband."

"Lucky you." Some of the color, and arrogance, returned to his handsome face.

She could sense suppressed laughter beneath his wry comment. "But I wouldn't want a love affair just for the sake of having one. I've been waiting to meet a man I felt attracted to." She looked him square in the eye. "And I've found you at last."

The humor left his expression. "Lucy." The low timbre of his voice passed over her like a caress.

"Yes?"

"Lucy, my dear, you are a most attractive girl."

She clasped her hands, thoroughly enchanted. "Do you think so?" "Indeed I do."

"That is wonderful. No one has ever thought me attractive before." She was babbling, but couldn't help herself. "My mother says I am too intense, and far too outspoken, and that I—"

"Lucy." He grasped her upper arms.

She nearly melted, but held herself upright, awaiting his kiss. She'd never been kissed by a man before. When she was younger, Cornelius Cotton had kissed her, but she later found out his older brother had paid him to do it, so that didn't count. This was going to be different. Her first hon-est-to-goodness kiss from the handsomest man ever created.

Late at night, she and the other young ladies of Miss Boylan's would stay up after lights-out, whispering of what it was Like to kiss a man, and of the ways a man might touch a woman. One thing she remembered was to close her eyes. It seemed a shame to close them when he was so wonderful to look at, but she wanted to do this right. She shut her eyes.

"Lucy," he said again, an edge of desperation in his voice. "Lucy, look at me."

She readily opened her eyes. What a glorious face he had, so alive with character and robust health and touching sincerity. So filled with sensual promise, the way his lips curved into a smile, the way his eyes were brimming with...pity? Could that be pity she saw in his eyes? Surely not.

"Rand—"

"Hush." Ever so gently, he touched a finger to her lips to silence her. She burned from his caress, but he quickly took his finger away.

"Lucy," he said, "before you say anymore, there's something I must tell you—"

"Randolph!" a voice called from the doorway. "There you are, Randolph. I've

been looking all over for you."

Lucy turned to the back of the salon. There, in the doorway, stood the most stunning woman she'd ever seen. Petite, blond and willowy, she held her lithe body in the shape of a question mark, clad in a beautiful gown bearing the trademark rosettes of Worth's Salon de Lumiere. In a rustle of perfumed silk, she moved toward them, hand outstretched toward Rand.

"I've found you at last," the gorgeous blond woman said, her words an ironic echo of Lucy's.

Rand's pallor quickly changed to dull red as he bowed over her hand. "Miss Lucy Hathaway," he said, straightening up and stepping out of the way, "I'd like you to meet Diana Higgins." He slipped an arm around her slender waist. "My wife."

For a few seconds, only the wailing of the night wind filled the silent void. Something, some bizarre state of nerves in those endless seconds, gave Rand a heightened sensitivity. The pads of his fingers, resting at the small of his wife's back, detected the smooth, taut silk over the armored shell of her corset. From a corner of his eye, he saw Diana's expression change from mild curiosity to keen nosiness. And although she probably did not mean to be audible, he heard Miss Lucy Hathaway breathe the words, "Oh. My."

Just that, coupled with an expression probably shared by Joan of Arc at the moment of her martyrdom. She looked as though she was about to vomit.

Foolish baggage, he thought. This was no less than she deserved for making outrageous proposals to strange men.

"How do you do, Miss Hathaway?" Diana said, unfailingly polite as she always was in social situations.

"Very well, thank you, Mrs. Higgins. It's a distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance." Lucy didn't shrink from Diana's probing gaze.

Despite his opinion of the radical young woman's views, Rand could not deny his interest. She was not only the most annoying creature he'd ever met, she was also the most compelling. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, she had a heart-shaped face. Her pointed chin, high brow and wide eyes gave her an expression of perpetual wonder. The passion and sensual awareness she'd spoken of so boldly seemed to reside in the depths of those velvety dark eyes, and in the fullness of her lips.

Yet as quickly as she'd shocked him with her outrageous proposal, she seemed

to come to heel like a spaniel trained to obedience when thrust into a social situation. She dutifully exchanged pleasantries with Diana, who described their recent move from Philadelphia, and chatted about the unseasonable heat that plagued the city, robbing Chicago of the clear, chill days of autumn.

"Well, I must thank you for keeping my husband entertained," Diana remarked. "He was quite certain this would be a hopelessly dreary evening."

Rand shifted beneath a mixed burden of guilt and irritation. During the argument they'd had prior to his coming to the evening's event, he'd claimed she'd be bored by a bombastic evangelical reading, and that the only reason he was attending was to make the acquaintance of the prominent businessmen of Chicago.

The irony was, he'd really meant it.

Lucy Hathaway clasped her hands demurely in front of her. "I'm afraid I've failed, then," she said. "Your husband doesn't find me at all entertaining. Quite the contrary. I fear I've offended him with my...political opinions."

"You're not offensive, Miss Hathaway," Rand said smoothly. "Merely
wrong."

"Isn't he charming?" Diana laughed. Only Rand, who knew her well, heard the contempt in her voice.

Miss Hathaway moved toward the door. "I really must be going. I don't like the look of the weather tonight." She curtsied in that curious trained-spaniel manner. "It was a pleasure to meet you both, and to welcome you to Chicago. I hope you'll be very happy here." In a swish of skirts and wounded dignity, she walked out of the salon.

"What an odd bird," Diana remarked in an undertone.

What a strangely charming bundle of contradictions, Rand thought. He was intrigued by women like Lucy. But he was also discomfited by a surprising and unwelcome lust for her. He'd engaged her in what he thought was a harmless flirtation, nothing more, but she had taken him seriously.

"How on earth did you get stuck with her?" asked his wife.

He'd seen her sitting alone at the back of the salon, and pure impulse had compelled him to sit down beside her. He thought about the way Lucy had taken his hand later, captured his gaze with her own and confessed her attraction to him. But to his wife, he said, "I have no idea."

"Anyway, you did well," Diana declared. "It's important to impress the right people, and the Hathaways are undoubtedly the right people."

"What are you doing here? Is Christine all right?" he asked.

"The child is fine," Diana said. "And I came because
I
am the one who is sick, not our daughter. I am positively ill with boredom, Randolph. All I've done all day long is sit by the window watching the boats on the river and the traffic going over the bridge to the North Division. I'm so tired of living like a gypsy in a hotel. Shouldn't you have started work on the house by now?"

"You're sure Christine's fine," he said, ignoring her diatribe. Their fifteen-month-old daughter was the bright and shining center of his life. Earlier in the evening she'd been fretful, a little feverish, and he'd convinced Diana to stay at Sterling House rather than leave Christine with the nurse.

"The baby was fast asleep when I left," Diana said. "Becky Damson was in the parlor, knitting. I thought you'd be delighted to see me, and here you are, flirting away with the most famous heiress in Chicago."

"Who? Lucy?"

"And on a first-name basis, no less. The Hathaways are an Old Settler family. Her father is a war hero, and her grandfather made a fortune in grain futures. If you hope to be a successful banker, you're supposed to know these things."

"Ah, but I have you to keep track of them for me."

"Apparently I need someone to keep track of you," she observed.

Already regretting the brief flirtation, he vowed to devote more attention to his increasingly unhappy wife. No matter what he did, it wasn't enough. She'd been dissatisfied with their life back in Philadelphia, so he'd moved her and their baby daughter to Chicago.

He was trying to launch a career in banking while Diana frantically shopped and planned for the grand house they intended to build on the fashionable north shore. But even the prospect of a palatial new residence failed to keep her discontent at bay.