Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author DIANA PALMER

“Palmer’s talent for character development and ability to fuse heartwarming romance with nail-biting suspense shine in Outsider.”

—Booklist

“A gentle escape mixed with real-life menace for fans of Palmer’s more than 100 novels.”

—Publishers Weekly on Night Fever

“The ever popular and prolific Palmer has penned another sure hit.”

—Booklist on Before Sunrise

“Nobody does it better.”

—New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard

“Palmer knows how to make the sparks fly…heartwarming.”

—Publishers Weekly on Renegade

“Sensual and suspenseful.”

—Booklist on Lawless

“Diana Palmer is a mesmerizing storyteller who captures the essence of what a romance should be.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“Nobody tops Diana Palmer when it comes to delivering pure, undiluted romance. I love her stories.”

—New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

Magnolia
Diana Palmer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Russ and Carole McIntire with love

Magnolia

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

1

1900

THE STREETS OF ATLANTA WERE MUDDY FROM the recent rain, and the poor carriage horses seemed lacking in spirit as they strained to pull their burdens along Peachtree Street. Claire Lang watched them, wishing she had the money to hire a ride back to her home, a good five miles away. The stupid buggy had hit a rock and broken an axle, adding to the financial worries that had plagued her for months. Will Lang had been so impatient for the motorcar part he’d ordered from Detroit that Claire had taken the buggy up to Atlanta to get the small part for her uncle from the railway agent. The buggy was old and in bad shape, but, instead of watching the road, she’d been looking for early signs of autumn in the gorgeous maple and poplar trees.

She’d have to get to her friend Kenny’s clothing store the best way she could—and then hope that he could spare the time to drive her down to Colbyville, where her uncle lived. She looked at the caked mud on her high-topped shoes and the filthy hem of her skirts and grimaced. The dress, navy blue with a lacy white bodice and collar, was brand-new. Her cloak and parasol had protected the rest of her from the rain, and her hat had shielded her brown hair in its bun, but no amount of lifting had spared her skirts. She could imagine what Gertie would say about that! She was always untidy, anyway, puttering around in her uncle’s shed, helping him keep his new motorcar running. Nobody else in Colbyville had one of the exotic modern inventions. In fact, only a handful of people anywhere in the country owned motorcars, and most of theirs were electric or steam. Uncle Will’s device was fueled by gasoline, which he purchased from the local drugstore.

Motorcars were so rare that when one went past, people would run out onto their porches to watch. They were objects of both fascination and fear, because the loud noise they made spooked horses. But most people looked at the motorcar as a fad that would quickly die out. Claire didn’t. She saw it as the future form of transportation, and she was thrilled to be her uncle’s mechanic.

She smiled wistfully. How fortunate her life had been since she’d come here to live with her uncle. Her parents had died of cholera ten years past, leaving their only child without a relative in the world except Uncle Will. He was a bachelor, too, with only his African housekeeper, Gertie, and a handyman, Gertie’s husband, Harry, to help run the big house where he lived. Since she’d grown up, Claire had done her share of cooking and housework, but her greatest joy was helping to work on that automobile! It was a spanking new Oldsmobile with a curved dash, and just looking at it gave her goose bumps. At the end of last year Uncle Will had ordered it in Michigan; it had been shipped by rail to Colbyville as soon as it was built. Like most motorcars, it occasionally choked and coughed and smoked and rattled, and from time to time its thin rubber tires went flat on the rough, deeply rutted dirt roads that circled Colbyville.

The townspeople had prayed for deliverance from what they said had to be an invention of the devil, and horses took to the fields as if driven by ghosts. The town council had paid a visit to her uncle the day after his motorcar arrived: Uncle Will had smiled tolerantly and promised to keep the elegant little vehicle out of the way of the carriage trade. He loved his toy, which had all but bankrupted him, and he spent all his spare time working on it. Claire shared his fascination. He’d finally given in and stopped chasing her out of the garage so that bit by bit, she’d learned about boilers and gears and bearings and spark plugs and pistons. Now she knew almost as much as he. Her hands were slender and dexterous and she wasn’t afraid of the occasional “bite” she got when she touched the wrong part of the small combustion engine. The one real drawback was the grease. In order to work properly, the bearings had to be continually bathed in grease, which got on everything—including Claire.

Suddenly a carriage appeared on the street and Claire watched it draw near. When it was in front of her, it went through a puddle—splattering mud all over her skirts. She let out a groan and looked so forlorn that the driver stopped.

The carriage door opened and impatient dark eyes glared out at her. “For God’s sake! Get in before you’re even more soaked than you already are, you silly child!”

The voice, deep and familiar, had the power to turn her heart over. Not that he knew. Claire was careful to keep her feelings for her uncle’s banker very close to her heart.

“Thank you, Mr. Hawthorn,” she replied politely, smiling. She tried to make a ladylike entrance into his nice clean carriage as she folded the parasol and hiked up her skirts to the top of her shoes. But she tripped over the wet hem and landed in a heap on the seat, flushing because John Hawthorn made her so nervous.

Very dignified in his dark-vested city suit, he moved over to give her plenty of room, then rapped on the top of the carriage with his cane, signaling his driver to go ahead. “Honest to Pete, Claire! You attract mud like oats attract a horse!” He looked mildly exasperated as he surveyed the damage. “I have to get to the bank by opening time, but I’ll have my driver take you down to Colbyville,” he said, his dark eyes narrowing in his lean, handsome face. He had an innate fastidiousness, almost a coldness, with most women, as if he knew he was attractive to them and to maintain his distance. It had been the first thing that drew Claire’s attention to him, a challenge to a woman’s ego. But he wasn’t cold with her. He alternately teased and indulged her, the way he would a very young girl. It hadn’t bothered her so much two years ago. Now it did.

She’d first become acquainted with him when he took a job at the bank owned by Eli Calverson. He’d already worked his way up to being a loan officer the year before the Spanish-American War broke out, and John, with an educated guess as to where Cuban-American relations were going, had left the bank in 1897 to serve briefly in the army. Because his early education had been at the Citadel, a military college in South Carolina, he was able to go in with an officer’s commission.

Wounded in Cuba in ’98 and discharged, John returned to the bank, and Claire really got to know him. They’d been acquainted for some years because of her uncle, who had made several small investments through John and had secured loans on the strength of them to buy land. As she got to know him, her attraction grew, but she realized that it would take more than her pleasant face, pale gray eyes, and slender young body to interest a man like John.

He wasn’t merely handsome, he was intelligent. After graduating from the prestigious Citadel he went on to get a master’s degree in business from Harvard. He was vice president of the Peachtree City Bank now, and rumor had it that the bank’s president, Eli Calverson, since he had no children, had handpicked John as his successor. Certainly John’s rise in the bank had been a rapid one.

But gossip had run rampant lately about the elusive John Hawthorn and the beautiful Diane, the new young wife of the bank’s middle-aged president. At thirty-one, John was in his prime and a physical specimen other men envied. Eli Calverson was in his fifties and not particularly attractive.

Mrs. Diane Calverson was petite, blonde, and blue-eyed, with a complexion like cream. She was cultured, well bred, and said to be related to most of the royal houses in Europe. In short, she was any man’s dream. She and John had a lot more than the bank and their connection to Calverson in common. Two years before, they had been engaged.

“You’re a gentleman, Mr. Hawthorn,” Claire said, with reserved politeness, although her eyes twinkled at him.

The corner of his mouth turned upward. Obviously, he was amused.

Her eyes went to the cane he carried strictly for ornamentation. He was fit and athletic, a tennis player, and she knew from the few dances her uncle had escorted her to that John could dance better than most men. He smelled of some exotic cologne. It drifted into Claire’s nostrils and made her heart race. If only he’d notice her. If only…!

She straightened out her wet skirts, frowned at the mud caked on them. Her laced-up shoes were full of it, too; it would take hours with a scrub brush to get them clean again. Oh, dear—and Gertie had only just stopped fussing about the grease on Claire’s white shirtwaist!

“You look very untidy,” John remarked gently.

She flushed, but her chin lifted. “If you’d walked three blocks in the rain in long skirts, I suppose you’d look untidy, too.”

He chuckled. “God forbid. It was grease last time, wasn’t it?”

She cleared her throat. “Uncle and I were changing the oil in his Oldsmobile.”

“I’ve said it before, Claire…that’s not fit work for a woman.”

“Why not?”

He sighed. “Your uncle should speak to you,” he said. “You’re twenty years old. You need proper grounding in etiquette and social life so that you can behave like a proper lady.”

“Like Mrs. Calverson, perhaps?”

His face was impassive. “Her manners certainly leave nothing to be desired.”

“Indeed they do not,” she agreed readily. “I’m sure Mr. Calverson is very proud of his wife.” She studied her hands. “And probably very jealous of her.”

His head turned. “I don’t like insinuations,” he said in a dangerously soft tone. “Are you presuming to lecture me?”

She arched her brows. “Why, sir, nothing was further from my mind. I mean, if you wish to become the subject of vile gossip and risk your position at the bank, who am I to interfere?”

His scowl was intimidating. Imagining he’d once looked at his troops in just that way, she wouldn’t have blamed a single one of his solders for deserting. His voice was still soft, and more chilling for it, when he asked, “What gossip?”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken,” she said, giving him a nervous smile. “You can let me out here, if you please. I have no desire to be strangled on the way home.”

He did look angry, but he never seemed to lose his temper, especially not with Claire. “I haven’t given anyone reason to gossip,” he said.

“You don’t consider a candlelight supper, alone with a married woman, scandalous?”

He looked surprised. “We were hardly alone. It was at her sister’s house, and her sister was present.”

“Her sister was upstairs asleep. The servants knew it and told everyone else’s servants everything they saw,” she told him flatly. “It’s all over town, John. And if her husband hasn’t heard it yet, it’s only a matter of time until he does.”

He made a rough sound under his breath. He’d been careless in his obsessive desire to be alone again—just once—with Diane. Her marriage to Calverson had been an act of vengeance—when he’d refused to ask his people for a large advance on his inheritance for an elegant wedding and an expensive honeymoon. He’d joined the army by then and was certain that he would see action. She’d promised to wait…but, within two months of his having been in Cuba, Diane apparently had found Calverson too handy, too rich, and too old not to drag to the altar.

John came from old money in Savannah, and he stood to inherit millions. But he refused to ask for a penny of it, preferring to make his own living. He was doing that now, thanks to his salary and some small investments. Calverson’s support had given him an edge, although he knew his family background and his Harvard business degree had helped influence the man in his favor. Losing Diane had changed John, had made him cold. Now her marriage of less than two years seemed to be in trouble. She’d beseeched John to come to her sister’s house for a meal so that she could ask him for help. How could he have refused, even with the risk of scandal? But the urgency of the situation seemed lessened upon his arrival, because whatever her motives had been in inviting him, she’d told him nothing. Least of all did she ask for any sort of help. She had only said that she regretted her marriage and that she still had a tenderness for him. But now they’d caused this terrible gossip that would threaten her good name, as well as his.

“Are you listening to me?” Claire persisted, dragging him back to the present. “It isn’t just your reputation you’re risking, it’s Mr. Calverson’s and hers—and even the bank’s.”

He gave her a hard look. “I’m not risking anyone’s reputation. But I can’t think how this problem, if it is a problem, has anything to do with you, Claire,” he remarked coolly.

“That’s true,” she had to admit. “But you’re my uncle’s friend as well as his banker. In a way, you’re my friend, too. I would hate to see your reputation compromised.”

“Would you, really? Why?”

She flushed and averted her face.

He leaned back, watching her with faint affection and touched by her concern. “Do you have a secret regard for me, Claire? A tendresse?” He teased her softly. “How very exciting!”

The flush grew much worse. She watched feverishly as the familiar Gothic lines of the bank came closer. He would get out of the carriage—and she would be alone with her embarrassment. Why, oh, why, had she opened her mouth?

He saw her gripping her purse with both hands. While he disliked her intrusion into his privacy, she was just a sweet child whose observations shouldn’t upset him. He indulged her more than any woman he’d ever known. He’d have thrown a man out of his carriage for less than what she’d just said to him. But she had a kind heart and she cared about him. It was difficult to be angry about that. She kindled protective feelings in him, too.

If it hadn’t been for Diane, he could well have cherished this child. He leaned closer as the carriage began to slow down. “Well, Claire,” he persisted in a deep drawl, “are you besieged with tender feelings for me?”

“The only feeling I have right now is a consuming desire to lay an iron pipe across your skull,” she said under her breath.

“Miss Lang!” he said with mock outrage, and made it worse by chuckling.

She turned and glared at him, her gray eyes sparkling with temper. “Ridicule me, then. You make me ashamed that I was ever worried for you,” she said flatly. “Ruin your life, sir. I will never concern myself with it again.”

She banged against the ceiling with the handle of her parasol and was out of the carriage before he could do anything more than call her name.

She fumbled the parasol open and got onto the wooden sidewalk, which was a relief from the mud, at least. In front of the bank, which was about to open, she spotted Kenny Blake, a friend of hers from school days, and ran to greet him.

“Oh, Kenny! Thank goodness I found you! Can you give me a ride home? Our buggy’s axle broke.”

“You’re not hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Just a little shaken, that’s all.” She laughed. “Fortunately, it was very near the blacksmith’s shop and the livery stable. I was able to get help, but they were so crowded that nobody could spare the time to drive me home.”

“You could have hired a coach.”

She shook her head with a rueful smile. “I haven’t any money,” she said honestly. “Uncle spent the last little bit we had on new spark plugs for the motorcar, and until his pension comes, we have to be very careful.”

“I can make you a loan,” he offered. And he could have, because Kenny had a very good job managing a men’s clothing shop in town.

“No, you can’t. Just give me a ride.”

He grinned, and his plain face lit up. He was medium height, blond, blue-eyed, and very shy. But he and Claire got along well, and he wasn’t shy with her. She brought out all the best in him.

“Wait until I finish my business in here, and I certainly shall,” he assured her.

She let go of his arm, feeling cold eyes on her back. She glanced around at John Hawthorn in his expensive suit and bowler hat, his silver-headed cane in one hand as he leaned elegantly on its length and waited for Mr. Calverson to unlock the door from the inside. Calverson trusted no one except himself with that key. He was very possessive about things he owned—something that John would have done well to have remembered, Claire thought.

At the stroke of nine, Mr. Calverson opened the huge oak doors and stood aside to let the others enter. His eyes were on his gold pocket watch, which was suspended from a thick gold-link chain. He nodded as he closed the case and stuck it back in the watch pocket of his vest. He looked rather comical to Claire, the short, stout little man with his flowing blond-and-silver mustache and his bald head. She really couldn’t imagine any woman finding him attractive, much less a beauty like Diane. But then, only John thought she’d married old man Calverson for love. Everyone else in Atlanta knew that Diane had expensive tastes—and that her family’s ruined fortunes had left her, at the age of twenty-two, with no tangible assets save her beauty. She had to marry well to keep her sisters and her mother in fancy clothes and insure that the elegant mansion on Ponce de León kept running smoothly. But Mr. Calverson had more money than she could ever spend. So why was she risking it all for a fling with her old flame John?

“The bank isn’t in trouble, is it?” she asked when she and Kenny were in his buggy on the way to Claire’s home.

“What? Why, certainly not,” he said, shocked. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged. “No reason. I just wondered if it was solvent, that’s all.”

“Mr. Calverson has managed it quite well since he came here a few years past,” he reminded her. “He’s prosperous…anyone can see that.”

So he seemed to be. But it was a little strange that a man who came from farming stock should amass such a fortune in so short a time. Of course, he did have access to investment advice, and he foreclosed on land and houses and such.

“Our Mr. Hawthorn was glaring at you,” Kenny remarked.

“He gave me a ride and insulted me.”

His hands jerked on the reins and the horse protested loudly. “I shall speak to him!”

“No, Kenny, dear. Not that sort of insult. Mr. Hawthorn wouldn’t soil his hands by putting them on me. I meant that we had a sort of disagreement, that’s all.”

“About what?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss it,” she said stiffly.

“Well, it’s not hard to guess about what,” he remarked. “Everyone knows he’s panting after the bank president’s wife. You’d think the man would have more pride.”

“People in love seem to lose it rather easily, and she was engaged to him before she married Mr. Calverson.”

“If she’s risking her little nest to see John behind her husband’s back, maybe there is some worry about money,” he remarked. “That young woman doesn’t miss a step.”

“If John loves her…”

“A scandal would ruin him in Atlanta. Not to mention her good name. Her people were always mercenary, but there was never a breath of scandal about them.”

She remembered John coming home wounded to find Diane comfortably married. John had been in a terrible state at the time, stoic and unapproachable in his recovery. Claire had gone with Uncle Will to see him in the hospital, having heard the gossip about his badly broken engagement. At eighteen, Claire had felt the first stirrings of love for the wounded soldier who bore his pain with such courage and had even won a medal for bravery.

“It must be terrible to lose someone you love that much,” she remarked, and thought of herself, because she’d loved John for almost two years…

“There’s a circus coming to town very soon,” Kenny said. “Would you care to go with me to see it on Saturday?”

She smiled. “I should like that very much, Kenny.”

“I’ll ask your uncle for his permission,” he said, beaming.

She didn’t tell him that her uncle was much too modern for such things, or that she didn’t feel that she needed permission to do what she liked. Kenny was nice and uncomplicated, and he took her mind off John. Anything that could accomplish that made the day worthwhile.

UNCLE WILL JUST HAD finished fixing a leaky radiator. Kenny said his piece and left while Claire was changing into a clean skirt and blouse and shoes. Grimacing, she gave the dress to Gertie.

Gertie sighed. “Miss Claire, you have a gift for soiling clothes,” she remarked, a twinkle in her eyes.

“I do try to stay clean,” she told the older woman. “It’s simply that fate is after me with a broom.”

Gertie chuckled. “It seems so. I’ll do what I can with this. Oh, and I won’t be here on Sunday. I’m going to meet my father at the station and go with him to a family reunion.”

“How is he?” Gordon Mills Jackson was a famous African trial attorney in Chicago and very well respected.

“He’s as wicked and devious as ever,” Gertie said, laughing. “And my brother and I are very, very proud of him. He faced down a lynch mob a few months ago and rescued a farm laborer from a rope. The man was innocent, and Daddy defended him successfully.”

“He’ll be a Supreme Court judge one day,” Claire predicted.

“We hope so. Can you manage by yourself on Sunday or would you like me to see if I can find someone to cook for you that day?”

“I’ll do it myself. You taught me how to make chicken and dumplings, after all, and I’m not so squeamish that I can’t kill the chicken.”

Gertie looked dubious. “Suppose you let your uncle do that part for you. He’s much faster than you are.”

“Well, I have to ease up to doing it,” she said, defending her procrastination.

“He doesn’t. You’ll spend enough time dressing it fit to cook.”

“You’re right, I suppose.”

“I’ll have something on the table in a couple of hours for lunch. No guests?”

Claire shook her head. “Kenny had to get to work. It will only be Uncle and me.”

As Claire walked toward the workshop, she called, “I’m back. Need any help?”

Her uncle leaned out from under the front of the car. “Hallelujah! You’re just in time! I had to fix a leak in the radiator. Hand me a wrench and those hoses, and then bring me those new spark plugs!”

IT TOOK ABOUT TWO HOURS to get the new part in place, the plugs in, the gaps set, and the timing just right. Her uncle had to take one of them out and worry with it until it fit properly, but just before lunchtime the engine was running prettily.

“It works! You’ve got it going!” she exclaimed.

He stood up, his white hair darkened with grease from his big hands, a huge smile under his thick silver mustache. “By golly, I sure have! Thanks to you, girl! It was a great day for me when you came to stay. I had no idea what a mechanic I’d make of you.”

She curtsied, ignoring the grease spots on her formerly pristine blouse and her face. “Thank you.”

“Don’t let your head get too big, though. You didn’t replace the last screw in the boiler when you put it back.”

She groaned. “I got interrupted by Gertie.”

“That’s right,” Gertie called from the porch. “Blame it on me.”

“Don’t eavesdrop,” Claire called back.

“Stop talking about me and I won’t. Lunch is ready.”

Gertie went back into the house, and Claire shook her head. “Uncanny, isn’t it—how she always knows when I’m blaming her for some—”

Her uncle broke in. “Let’s go for a spin.”

“It’s pouring rain. Besides, Gertie’s got food on the table.”

He sighed angrily. “Just my luck, darn it! When I’ve got it running right! Why don’t they make tops for motorcars?”

AFTER THEY ATE, THE TWO OF THEM sat in the parlor while the rain beat down outside.

“Why did Kenny bring you home?” he asked suddenly. “Where’s the buggy?”

She drew in a long breath. “The horse took it over a rock I didn’t see and busted the axle. Now, now. It won’t cost so much to have it replaced…”

Her uncle’s husky shoulders slumped. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear, dear,” he murmured. “And I’ve spent the last money we had to buy that new motorcar part, haven’t I?” He looked up. “Why, Claire! I have a thought—we can sell the horse and buggy now,” he exclaimed. “We have a horseless carriage that runs!”

She grinned. “So we do.”

He let out a sigh. “Gasoline is very cheap at the druggist’s, so it won’t be expensive to run it. And the extra money will pay off the last big mortgage I’ve had to take out on the house.” His face assumed a blissful expression. “Our troubles are over, my dear. They’re quite—” He stopped. His face seemed an odd gray color and he clutched his left arm. He laughed shortly. “Why, how very odd this feels. My arm has gone numb, and I have a very hard pain in my—in my—in my throa…”

He looked at her as if he was seeing right through her and suddenly pitched forward, right onto the rug.

Claire ran to him, her hands trembling, her eyes huge and tragic. She realized at once that this was something more than a faint. He was lying so still, not breathing, and his skin had gone a ghastly gray color. But worst of all, his eyes were open and the pupils were fixed and dilated. Claire, who had watched pet dogs and cats and chickens die over the years, knew too well what that meant…

2

IN THE SPACE OF TWO HOURS, CLAIRE’S LIFE changed forever. Her uncle never regained consciousness. Her frantic telephone call from a neighbor’s house to the doctor brought the family physician within minutes.

“I’m very sorry, Claire,” Dr. Houston said softly, with a paternal arm around her shoulder. “But at least it was quick. He never knew a thing.”

Claire stared at him with dull eyes.

“Gertie, bring a sheet, please, and cover him,” he asked the housekeeper, who was quiet and solemn.

She nodded and went away, returning quickly with a spotless white sheet. Fighting tears, she put it lovingly over Will.

That made it all final somehow, and Claire felt her eyes welling with tears. She brushed at them as she began to sob. “But he was so healthy,” she whispered. “There was never anything wrong with him. He never even had a cold.”

“Sometimes it happens like this,” the doctor said. “Child, do you have family? Is there anyone we can get to come and help you sort out the estate?”

She looked at him blankly. “We only had each—each other,” she said, faltering. “He never married, and he was my father’s only living sibling. My mother’s people are all dead, as well.”

He glanced at Gertie. “You and Harry will be here, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Gertie said, coming forward to put her arms around Claire. “We’ll look after her.”

“I know you will.”

He filled out the death certificate, and, by the time he finished, the coroner came and a horse-drawn ambulance took the body to the mortuary. It was only then that Claire realized her position. The doctor and the funeral home would have to be paid. The sale of the buggy and horse would barely cover it. The house was mortgaged; the bank would surely foreclose.

She sat down heavily on the love seat and clenched a handkerchief in her hand. Her beloved only relative was gone; she was soon to be penniless—and homeless. What could she do? She tried to calm herself; after all, she had two skills—sewing clothes and repairing motorcars. She designed and made gowns for rich society matrons in Atlanta. That she could do, but there wasn’t a motorcar in nearby Atlanta, so working on them was no solution.

A renewed wave of panic left her momentarily in tears. But they soon were dried by Gertie, who reminded her that she had few equals with a needle and thread and the fine Singer treadle sewing machine in the bedroom. Claire made all her own clothes, designs of her own creation that most people thought were store-bought because they were so richly and lavishly embroidered and laced.

“Miss Claire, you could work as a seamstress anytime,” Gertie assured her. “Why, Mrs. Banning down on Peachtree Street can’t make clothes fast enough to meet the demand. I bet she’d hire you in a second to work for her. Said she thought your pretty blue suit was a Paris fashion, she did! And she knows you sew for Mrs. Evelyn Paine.”

That made Claire feel a little bit better. But, still, the prospect of a job and an income was only that—a prospect. She was afraid of the future, and trying hard not to let it show.

Barely an hour later, people who knew and loved Uncle Will began filling the house. Claire’s pride and self-control were sorely tested with condolence after condolence. Women brought platters of food and desserts, and jugs of iced tea, and urns of coffee. Everything was taken care of in the kitchen, with Gertie’s supervision. Kenny Blake came early and would have stayed, but Claire knew his business depended on the personal service he gave his customers. He needed to keep his shop open for long hours, too. She promised she would be all right and sent him back to work. They came all day and into the evening, until at last a familiar but unwelcome face showed itself at the door.

Claire’s eyes were red with tears as she let the bank president, Mr. Eli Calverson, and his beautifully dressed and coiffed blonde wife into the house.

“We’re so sorry, my dear,” Diane Calverson said in her cultured voice, extending a graceful hand in a spotless white glove. “What a terrible tragedy for you, and how unexpected. We came the moment we heard.”

“Don’t worry about a thing, young lady,” Mr. Calverson added, pressing her hands in his. “We’ll make sure the house is sold for the highest possible price, so that there will be a little something left over for you.”

Claire wasn’t even thinking properly as she stared at the old man, who had the coldest eyes she’d ever seen.

“And he did have that infernal motorcar, as well,” the banker continued. “Maybe we could find some buyer for it…”

“I won’t sell it,” she said at once. “The buggy and the horse are at the livery stable and they can be sold, but I won’t part with Uncle’s horseless carriage.”

“It’s early days yet, my dear,” Mr. Calverson said smugly. “You’ll change your mind. Diane, have a chat with Miss Lang while I speak to Sanders over there. I believe he’s had his eye on this property for quite some time.”

“Now just one moment—” Claire began, but the banker had already walked away.

“Don’t worry your head about it, dear,” Diane said languidly. “Leave business to the men. We women were never meant for such complicated things as that.” She looked around. “You poor thing. What a dreary place. And you haven’t even a decent dress to wear, have you?” she asked gently.

Claire had been too upset to change the old dress she’d worn to work with Uncle in the garage. Still, she bristled at the woman’s remark. She had dresses upstairs that would have made Mrs. Calverson’s Paris import look tacky by comparison. “My uncle had just died, Mrs. Calverson. Clothes were not much on my mind,” Claire said.

Diane shook her head. “Nothing is more important to me than to be correctly dressed, whatever the occasion. Really, Claire. You should go and change before other people come.”

Claire gaped at her. “My uncle died only hours ago,” she repeated, loud enough for her voice to carry. “I hardly think my clothes matter just now.”

Diane actually blushed as heads turned toward her. She made an awkward little gesture and laughed nervously. “Why, Claire. You misunderstood me. I never meant to demean your ensemble. And certainly not on such a sad occasion.”

“Of course you didn’t,” John said quietly, joining Diane at Claire’s side. Claire hadn’t even noticed his arrival and her heart jolted at the sight of him, even through her grief.

He took Diane’s arm, staring down with concern at Claire. “I’m very sorry about your uncle, Claire,” he said gently. “I’m sure that Diane is, too. She was only concerned for you.”

Claire searched his lean, hard face and wished desperately that he would defend her so valiantly. If only she could lay her head on his shoulder and cry out her pain. But his comfort seemed reserved for Diane. One more thing to add to her burdened spirit.

“I haven’t misunderstood one single word, Mr. Hawthorn,” she said. Her eyes went to his hand on Diane’s arm. “Nor one single action.”

They both looked uncomfortable. He moved quickly away from Diane, but not before Mr. Calverson had seen and noted the byplay. He came back to join them, taking his wife’s arm with a look that spoke volumes.

“Come over here, my dear, and meet a new client of the bank. You’ll excuse us, I trust?” he asked John coldly, then turned and led his wife away.

“You’d better be careful, hadn’t you?” Claire whispered. “He isn’t blind.”

John’s eyes darkened with distaste. “Be careful. I’m not the same tame breed as your pet clothing-store manager.”

She lifted her chin, angry at his pointed reference to Kenny, who was a darling but hardly a man of action. “Do you want to snap at me, too? Well, go ahead,” she invited. “Diane’s had a ripping go at me already about my clothes, and her husband is busy trying to sell the roof over my head so that your bank doesn’t lose a penny on the loans you made to Uncle Will. Don’t you have anything hurtful to say to me? It would be a shame to waste this opportunity. You should always kick people when they’re down!”

The mettle in her words contrasted painfully with the wobble in her voice and the sheen of tears in her gray eyes.

“Excuse me. I don’t feel well,” she said in a husky tone, and went quickly out of the room, into the hall. She leaned, resting her forehead against the cool wall, while sickness rushed over her. It had been such a long, terrible day.

She heard the door behind her open, then shut. The voices in the parlor receded as footsteps sounded. She felt the pull of a steely hand on her upper arm, turning her, and then she was pressed against scratchy fabric. Strong, warm arms held her. Under her ear, a steady, comforting heartbeat soothed her. She breathed in the exotic cologne and gave in to the need for comfort. It had been a very long time since her uncle had held her like this when her parents had died. In all the years of her life, comfort had been rare.

“My poor baby,” John said softly at her temple. His hand smoothed over her nape, calming her. “That’s right. Just cry until it stops hurting so much. Come close to me.” His arms contracted, riveting her to him.

She’d never heard his voice so tender. It was comforting and exciting all at once. She pressed closer, giving free rein to the tears as she cried away the grief and fear and loneliness in the arms of the man she loved. Even if it was only pity driving him, how sweet it was to be held so closely by him.

A handkerchief was held to her eyes. She took it and wiped them and blew her nose. He made her feel small and fragile, and she liked the way his tall, muscular body felt against hers.

She pulled slowly away from him, without raising her head. “Thank you,” she said, with a watery sniff. “May I ask what provoked you to offer comfort to the enemy?”

“Guilt,” he replied, with a faint smile. “And I’m not the enemy. I shouldn’t have spoken to you as I did. You’ve had enough for one day.”

She looked up at him. “I most certainly have,” she said angrily.

John searched her fierce eyes and wan face. “You’re tired,” he said. “Let the doctor give you some laudanum to make you sleep.”

“I don’t need advice from you. I doubt anyone close to you has ever died,” she said miserably.

His eyes flared darkly as he remembered his younger brothers, the frantic search of the cold waters for bodies, the anguish of having to tell their father that they were dead. “Then you would be wrong,” he said abruptly, dismissing the painful memories. “But loss is part and parcel of life. One learns to bear it.”

She wrung the handkerchief in her hands. “He was all I had,” she said, lifting her gaze to his. “And if it hadn’t been for him, I should have ended up in an orphanage, a state home.” She drew her shoulders up. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him, it was that quick.” The tears came again, hot and stinging.

He tilted her chin up. “Death isn’t an end. It’s a beginning. Don’t torture yourself. You have a future to contend with.”

“Grief takes a little time,” she reminded him.

“Of course it does.” He pushed back a strand of unruly hair from her forehead. As he moved it, he noticed a smudge of grease. Taking the handkerchief from her hand, he wiped away the smear. “Grease smears and dirty skirts. Claire, you need a keeper.”

“Don’t you start on me,” she muttered, snatching the handkerchief away.

His lips curved in a semblance of a smile. He shook his head. “You haven’t grown up at all. Instead of teaching you to work on motorcar engines, Will should have been introducing you to young men and parties. You’ll end up an old maid covered in grease.”

“Better than ending up some man’s slave!” she shot right back. “I have no ambition to marry.”

John cocked his eyebrow in amusement. “Not even to marry me?” he chided outrageously, grinning at her scarlet blush.

“No,” she replied tightly. “I don’t want to marry you. You’re much too conceited and I’m much too good for you,” she added, with a twinge of her old impish nature.

He chuckled softly. “That tongue cuts like a knife, doesn’t it?” He took a slow breath and tapped her gently on the cheek. “You’ll survive, Claire. You were never a shrinking violet. But if you need help, I hope you’ll come to me. Will was my friend. So are you. I don’t like to think of you being alone and friendless, especially when the house is sold.”

She looked vaguely panicked, and John understood why at once.

“I won’t own anything, really, will I?” she asked suddenly. “Uncle Will mentioned that he’d just taken out another loan…”

“So he did. The bank will have to foreclose on the house and sell it. You’ll get anything over the amount necessary to pay off your uncle’s debts, but frankly I doubt there’ll be much left. The motorcar will have to go, too.”

“I won’t sell it,” she said through her teeth.

“And I say you will.”

“You have no right to tell me anything. You’re neither my banker nor my friend!”

He only smiled. “I’m your friend, Claire—whether you like to admit it or not. Mr. Calverson won’t act in your interest.”

“And you will? Against your employer?”

“Of course, if it becomes necessary,” he said surprisingly.

She dropped her gaze to his expensive tie. He sounded very protective. He’d always been protective of her. She’d never quite understood why. “I won’t sell the motorcar, all the same.”

“What will you do with it?”

“Drive it, of course,” she said. Her eyes lit up. She lifted them to his. “John, I shan’t have to sell it! I can hire it out to businessmen, with myself as the driver! I will start a business!”

He looked as if she’d hit him in the head. “You’re a woman,” he pointed out.

“Yes.”

He took an exasperated breath. “You can hardly expect me to condone such a harebrained scheme.”

She drew herself up to her full height. It didn’t do any good. He still towered over her. “I’ll do as I please,” she informed him. “I have to make a living for myself. I have no means of support.”

He studied her curiously. Several things were becoming clear to him, foremost among them that he was about to land himself in one hell of a scandal because of Diane. Her husband was very suspicious—and if what Claire had told him was accurate, he was being gossiped about. He couldn’t afford to let one blemish attach itself to Diane’s good name.

His eyes narrowed. Claire wasn’t at all bad to look at. She was spunky, and she had a devilish sense of humor. She had a kind heart, and even passable manners, and most of the time she delighted him. He had a soft spot for her that he’d never had for any other woman. Besides all that, she worshiped him. “You could marry me,” he suggested wickedly. “Then you’d have a husband to look after your interests as well as a roof over your head.”

She felt the ground go out from under her feet. It was the oddest sensation, as if she weren’t touching the floor at all. “Why should you want to marry me?”

“It would solve both our problems, wouldn’t it?” he drawled mockingly. “You get the husband of your dreams,” he said, smiling at her blush, “and I get a respite from gossip that could ruin Diane’s good name.”

Diane’s good name, she noticed, not his own. He was still putting the woman above his own reputation. And the unkind remark about her infatuation for him hurt. She hated having him know how she felt.

“Marry you?” she replied haughtily. “I’d sooner eat an arsenic casserole with deadly nightshade sauce!”

He only smiled. “The offer stands. But I’ll let you come to me when you’ve discovered that it’s the best solution to your problem.”

“I’ll drive the car and make my living!” she said belligerently. She knew she wasn’t facing reality, and she almost added that she could support herself equally well if not better by becoming a seamstress. However, since he knew nothing of that particular talent, she thought it best to keep it to herself for the time being.

He shrugged. “Drive the car, by all means,” he said, turning to leave, “but, just remember, no self-respecting businessman is going to permit himself to be driven through the streets of Atlanta by a woman.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you, Claire. When your situation is desperate enough, come and see me.”

“I’ll never do that!” she said to his retreating back.

It was all bravado. She didn’t know how badly she might end up, or what measures she might be forced to take. But how dare he make her such an offer of marriage—so cold and calculating that she got chills down her back just thinking of it! He couldn’t believe she’d accept such a proposal—without even the pretense of warmth or affection! He could believe it because he cared so much for Diane. She didn’t have to hear him say that to know the truth of it. He loved the woman more than anything, so to save her the vicious gossip of society dames, he would sacrifice himself on the altar of marriage to another woman. It was rather noble and heroic, except that Claire would also be making a sacrifice to marry a man who didn’t love her. She knew how he felt about Diane. That wouldn’t change. She would be a fool to link her life to his.

But what if she could make him love her? asked a tiny voice deep inside her mind. What if by living with her, sharing things with her, being around her constantly, he could learn to love her? There might even be a child, she thought with a scarlet blush, and surely he would feel something for the mother of his son?

She put the thought away as quickly as she entertained it. He might be able to make love to her, as men were known to be capable of it with any woman. But he would be thinking of Diane, wanting Diane. How could she bear his kisses and his embraces when she knew he wanted someone else, even if the someone else didn’t want him back?

The answer was, of course, that she couldn’t. She had to pick up the pieces of her shattered life and become independent. There would surely be a way. If her uncle’s beloved motorcar wasn’t the answer she would think of something else. Then let Mr. High-and-Mighty Hawthorn come calling with his infamous proposals!

FOR TWO WEEKS AFTER the funeral Claire only went through the motions of living. Kenny came once and offered to do anything she needed done, including trimming the hedges. She didn’t take him up on his offer, because she didn’t want to raise his hopes. He had a mild crush on her, but she had no love for him, only friendship.

She missed her uncle terribly. Money was already a problem. She’d had to let Gertie and Harry go, a blow to all three of them, and not done without a tearful parting and promises to keep in touch. They easily found work, because locally they were known as hard workers. That, at least, took some of the burden from her conscience. The house was sold; Mr. Calverson had sent word that he had a buyer who wanted to move in within the month.

Claire would receive two hundred dollars as her part of the sale, but that would quickly be gone, because the funeral expenses had to be paid out of it.

She had tried to find clientele for her motorcar enterprise, but as John Hawthorn had predicted, businessmen didn’t flock to her door to become clients. In fact, she was brushed off unceremoniously. She did back the motorcar out of the drive and run it around the block, dressed in the long white driving coat and goggles and cap her uncle had always worn. Young boys threw rocks at her, and she frightened a horse into jumping a hedge. Afterward she parked the motorcar in the garage and locked it away.

She had briefly considered work as a seamstress in a local fabric and notions shop, but the woman Gertie had suggested as a potential employer had just taken on a new seamstress and had no need of help. The only alternative was to sell her designs door-to-door or find a shop owner who would let her do alterations. Kenny came to mind, but she had no wish to sew men’s fashions, much less do alterations on them.

Sewing at home was a good possibility, except that the house would soon be gone. The chickens were hers, and the eggs they laid, but where would she take them to live in order to keep getting her egg money from her regular customers?

John had predicted that she’d have to come to him for help, and she was almost to that point. Only pride held her back. Pride was very expensive, though, and she was running out of money fast.

SHE’D ONLY JUST PUT UP HER CLOAK and hat when there was a knock on the front door. She went to open it and found John on the doorstep.

Her heart skipped, but anger overrode attraction. “Women run brothels and boardinghouses!” she raged, shaking her finger at him. “If they can run one sort of business, certainly they can run others!”

“Are you planning to open a brothel?” he asked, with faint amusement. “I shouldn’t advise it—not in Colbyville.” He leaned down. “However, if you do, I promise to be your first customer,” he whispered.

She flushed to her neckline. “You know very well that I had no idea of doing any such thing! I was merely making a point,” she added, while the thought of being in John’s arms in bed made her knees weak. He was only joking, of course. “What do you want?”

He smiled gently. “I wanted to see how you were,” he replied. He searched her eyes. “I’ve been keeping up with you through your neighbors. You seem less than prosperous at the moment.”

She folded her hands over her waist. “I can find a job when I’m ready.”

“The house has to be vacated by the end of the month. Surely you were informed of this?”

“Yes,” she admitted reluctantly.

He’d expected her to fold up after her uncle’s death. In fact, he’d had every reason to believe that she’d approach him for help. She hadn’t. In fact, she hadn’t approached anyone with her hand out. The extent of her pride surprised him, when very few things did anymore. Past experience had made him far too cynical about human nature. He remembered the very moment in Cuba when all his illusions vanished forever. The sight of human beings rounded up like cattle in the Spanish general’s concentration camps had sickened every man in his company. A large number of those prisoners had died before American troops invaded the island.

But even worse than the sight of those wretched men was the horror of the USS Maine going down in Havana Harbor only two months before his unit was shipped to Cuba. His two younger brothers had been on board that ship. It was he who had influenced them to join, he with his officer’s commission and his medals. Now Rob and Andrew were dead. At the boys’ funeral, his father had cursed him until literally running out of breath. He’d had to have permission from his commanding officer to return to Savannah from Tampa, where he was temporarily stationed, to attend it. Soon after that, his unit was sent back to Cuba to fight when the war against Spain was declared.

He could hear his mother weeping, see the pitying looks in the eyes of his young remaining brother and sister. He could feel the cold, hateful eyes of his father and hear the vicious admonition that he would never again be welcome at their Savannah home. Even later, after he was wounded and shipped to New York to muster out of the military, it was to an Atlanta area hospital that he eventually was sent, by his own request. And his father had not permitted his mother to come and visit him, even to correspond with him during his convalescence. He still hated the man for that alone. Claire had come often to see him then, he recalled, his gaze moving to her face. He’d lost everything he loved, even Diane, and Claire’s gentle presence had meant so much. He’d never even told her that.

“Why do you look like that?” Claire asked unexpectedly.

He blinked. “How do I look?”

“As if you had nothing of hope left in you,” she said, with keen perception.

He laughed without humor. “Did you think me fanciful?” he taunted.

“I thought…well, it hardly matters, does it? I suppose losing the one thing in life you love would harden any man. I’m sorry for the things I said about Diane,” she said, surprising him. “I know you can’t help the way you feel about her.”

He moved as if she’d stung him. “You see too much.”

“I always have,” she said, with a sad smile. “I don’t have close friends because people like to keep secrets.”

“I can imagine that it’s hard to keep them around you.”

She sighed. “Sometimes.” She looked around the barren room. “Do you think the new owners might need someone to keep house for them?” she asked absently.

“No, they have their own servants. What sort of work do you want to do?”

“All I know how to do is cook and clean,” she replied. “Oh, and work on motorcars, of course. And I sew a little,” she added, with a secret smile.

He glanced at her. “Every woman sews a little. And working on automobiles is hardly a viable skill when there are so few of them around. In fact, I seem to recall that your uncle had the only gasoline-powered one in these parts.”

“One day there will be many.”

“No doubt. But your need is more immediate.”

She let out an angry sigh. “What a world we live in, where women have to fight to be allowed any sort of work save washing, typing, sewing, or waiting on customers in shops.”

He sighed to himself, remembering Diane saying languidly that she had no interest in being anything except a loving wife. Why had she married Calverson? Now she knew what a mistake she’d made and it was too late. Too late! It hurt most of all to remember that he’d introduced her to Calverson, when he went to work at the bank for the first time, fresh out of Harvard.

He glanced around. Most of the furniture was already gone, sold to pay bills. “Do you have anyplace to go, Claire?”

Her spine stiffened. “I’ll find someplace before I have to leave here.”

He saw the fear behind the pride. She wasn’t going to admit defeat, regardless of what it cost her. He admired that independent spirit.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and sighed. “Marry me,” he said, with sudden seriousness. “It will put an end to all your troubles and most of mine.”

Her heart jumped with pained pleasure, but she refused to give way to it. She glared at him. “I said no before and I’ll say it again. You only want me to be a blind, a camouflage, so you can carry on with your married woman!”

His black eyes narrowed. “You don’t know me at all, do you? Turn it around, then. Would you marry me and cheat on me with some other man?”

She stiffened. “It would never occur to me to do anything so dishonest.”

“Nor would it occur to me.” He stared into her pale gray eyes and saw that nothing short of the truth would sway her. “Let’s have it out in the open, then. Yes, I love Diane,” he said, taking his hands out of his pockets and moving a step closer. “Some part of me will always love her. But she’s married and I can’t have her honorably. Anything less than that would destroy her reputation and mine. The only sensible thing to do is make a new life for myself. You and I aren’t strangers. We’ve known each other, casually at least, for several years, and quite well for the past two. You have qualities I admire. We might not have the most passionate marriage of all time, but I think we can deal very well together. Right now, both of us are extra people in the world.”

She hadn’t expected him to say that. She expected coaxing and even a display of passion to make her fall in with his plans. His honesty left her without a defense.

He looked at her slowly, deliberately, until she blushed. One eyebrow lifted slightly. “You might enjoy being married, Claire.”

“If I marry you, it will be—it will be just as friends,” she stammered. “I won’t— That is, I can’t…”

“You can’t share my bed,” he said for her, and the smile grew larger. “All right. We’ll leave it like that. For a while, at least.”

“Forever!” she exclaimed, embarrassed.

“Why, Claire. How red you look!”

“You stop teasing me!” She shifted nervously. “And you must promise.”

He put his hand over his heart. “I promise, most sincerely, that I won’t ask you to do anything that makes you feel compromised. Will that suffice?”

She unbent a little. After all, he was doing her a tremendous favor to offer her the protection of his name and the security of a home.

“I don’t want to be her stand-in, you see,” she mumbled, under her breath.

“I can understand that,” he told her. “I hope that you’ll always be so honest with me. In return, I’ll promise never to lie to you.” His dark eyes were very intent. “I think we’ll get along.”

She sighed wearily. “It seems an unlikely sort of business.”

“Given time, it may prove a blessing for us both. What sort of ring would you like?” he added, with a smile. “And suppose we shock Atlanta by getting married at the end of the month?”

She almost gasped. “The end of the month? It will cause a scandal!”

“Probably, but a nice one.”

“I have no one to give me away.” She nibbled her lower lip and looked up at him, not realizing that she was capitulating. “You have family, surely. Will they want to come?”

“My family lives far away,” he said stiffly, not wanting to tell her why he couldn’t invite them to his wedding. “They won’t be able to come.”

“Oh. I see.” She sighed. “I shall have to walk down the aisle alone.”

He smiled. “You’ll be a lovely bride, Claire. And I promise, it will be a very small wedding. Only the necessary people.”

She didn’t give that another thought, for the moment. Oddly, it never occurred to her just who the necessary people would be…until it was too late.

3

BECAUSE CLAIRE HAD BEEN SO DEVOTED TO HER uncle, and so involved in helping him, she hadn’t tried to make friends of the few other single women in the community. She felt that lack keenly as she was helped to get ready for the wedding ceremony by an excited Gertie. At least she had someone who was “family” at the most exciting event of her young life.

“I wish your uncle could see you now, Miss Claire.” Gertie sighed. “You look pretty as a picture.”

“Of course I do—the veil covers my face!” Claire teased, smiling. She didn’t have a traditional wedding gown. She wore an elaborate white silk-and-lace dress that she’d made for a debutante’s coming out. The debutante had decided at the last minute that she didn’t want it. It was Claire’s size, so she’d kept it for herself. She was glad now that she had. With the addition of a huge white hat with a concealing veil, and the small bouquet of autumn flowers that Gertie had picked for her and threaded with a silver ribbon and white lace, Claire looked the picture of a modern bride.

“That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it,” Gertie scolded. She straightened a fold of the long flaring skirt. “There. You look perfect. Mr. John will be ever so proud.”

“Mr. John” hadn’t looked as if he felt very proud of her when he’d glimpsed her briefly at the front door, Claire thought miserably. For the past three weeks he’d been very attentive and courteous, taking her out to poetry recitals and musical concerts every night. He’d been a charming companion. His affection for her was as evident as it had ever been…but that was all. There was simply nothing more. There had been no kisses, no effort to make their relationship anything more than friendship. And today, when the ceremony was to take place, he suddenly looked haunted. Claire had a sudden fear that he might have second thoughts at the altar—a picture of herself being left there forming in her mind.

“Why, your hands are trembling!” Gertie exclaimed, taking both of them in hers to warm them. “Now, child, don’t get overwrought. Honestly, marriage is very nice. Harry and I have been together for thirty years, and we’ve been so happy. You’ll be happy, too.”

Claire met the gentle, laughing dark eyes evenly. “Yes, but Harry loves you.”

Gertie gnawed on her full lower lip. “Sometimes love comes later.”

“Or not at all,” Claire added, remembering that John had invited his employer—and wife—to the wedding. John might be worried that the gossip about Diane and himself brought some of these people to the wedding out of sheer curiosity. Surely that was what made him look so concerned—not regret for having asked her to marry him! She had to think that he was glad to be marrying her or she’d go mad.

In fact, John was trying not to see Diane, so beautiful in her glorious white-and-black-patterned dress, so elegant. She was smiling, but she looked worn, and her husband wasn’t smiling at all. John had worried about her since the day of Claire’s uncle’s funeral. Eli had been quite brisk with her, and hostile toward him, as if he’d heard the gossip about them and was angry. John had wanted to talk to Diane badly, to find out if she was being mistreated by her husband because of the wild rumors. But he hadn’t dared approach her for fear of making the whole situation worse. But today, she’d detained him at the back of the church while they were momentarily alone. There had been tears in her eyes.

She tugged at his sleeve and coaxed him into an empty room. “I never dreamed you’d actually go through with it. Oh, don’t! Don’t!” she pleaded, clinging to his arms. “John, you simply can’t go through with it! I was wrong. I made a terrible mistake. I admit it freely. I married only to spite you. But what if my marriage were suddenly dissolved and you were tied to Claire? You have to stop the wedding!”

“What are you talking about, Diane?” he asked, holding her tight by both upper arms. “You’re still my friend…”

The fire in his eyes thrilled her. She leaned into his body, giving him all her weight, and lifted her face. “It isn’t friendship I want. I love you!”

His breath caught in his throat. “You said…”

“I lied! I was trying to make the whole terrible situation easier for you, but now I must speak. I must. John, you mustn’t go through with this. I’ll promise anything, anything…if you’ll walk out of the church. Anything, my darling,” she whispered boldly.

He thought he might scream. Her eyes promised heaven, her lips… He bent toward them, pulled by invisible strings. And then he suddenly realized who he was—and who she was—and where they were. He drew away, slowly, reluctantly. Perspiration beaded above his upper lip. “It’s too late,” he bit off.

“No!” she said. “You could walk out!”

“How?” he demanded through his teeth, tormented by the anguish on her lovely face. She loved him. She still loved him! And he was about to be married! “Diane, half of Atlanta is out there. I cannot!”

She looked at him through tears. “I was a fool! Only recently have I realized how much I love you. But there’s no reason for you to ruin your life, as well. John, you don’t love her. You love me!”

“I know.” He groaned, holding her hands tight. His black eyes adored her. “I love you more than my life!”

She pressed closer to him. “My marriage may not last much longer,” she whispered urgently. “I can say no more, but I may be free sooner than you realize. John, you have to stop the wedding. There cannot be two spouses between us. There’s something I simply must tell you about Eli—” She caught sight of her husband coming along the hall and sprang away from John. She was laughing by the time Calverson joined them. She recovered so quickly, John thought—much more quickly than he could.

“Oh, John. What a story!” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “You simply must tell Eli!”

Her husband relaxed when he saw the tears of laughter on her face. “Later, my dear, later,” he said, nodding toward John. “This fellow has some marrying to do.” With that, he took her arm and drew her across the threshold.

She looked over her shoulder at John, her eyes wild and desperate and pleading.

John was distraught. Diane hadn’t said a word to him in weeks. Now, at his wedding, she was declaring her love, begging him to forgo this marriage, promising a future for them, insinuating…what? And he, who loved her, and now knew for certain she loved him, was on the verge of marrying another woman. Instead of one barrier between them—her own marriage—he was creating two.

Was he mad to marry Claire, when he didn’t love her? His eyes sought Diane’s across the room and his pained expression brought a sad but reassuring smile to her lips. He turned away, miserable. Diane…his love, his life! He was losing her forever, because of his need to stem foul gossip about her and his pity for Claire. Why hadn’t he realized in time how deeply he was committing himself with this marriage? He hadn’t thought there was a chance of Diane’s marriage ending. Now there was the possibility—now, when it was almost too late! There could be no easy divorce, no quick annulment of his marriage to Claire even if Diane should suddenly become free, because that would create twice the gossip. Of course, they could go away…

There was still time, he told himself. He could stop this, right now. He could go to Claire, tell her that he hadn’t been thinking straight, that despite his compassion for her situation, he didn’t love her and couldn’t marry her. He could do that!

He even made the attempt. He joined her as she entered the church sanctuary, his feelings in turmoil.

She gave him a clear, uncomplicated look, something akin to worship in her soft eyes as she stared up at him, flushed with delight.

His lips parted to speak the words that would end the farce. But somehow, looking into those soft gray eyes through the thin white veil, he couldn’t find the words. He just stood there, speechless. She looked so pure, so untouched, so innocent. So much in love, he thought bitterly. And suddenly, the thought of hurting her was insupportable.

“Is…something wrong with my dress?” she asked worriedly.

“No,” he replied curtly. He glanced back at the full church and made a rough sound. “Wait for the music, Claire,” he said stiffly, and turned to go back down the aisle to the altar, where the minister waited to marry them. He was disgusted with himself. Pity was no excuse for marriage. His heart was forever Diane’s, now more than ever.

Good Lord, would he ever forget what Diane had just confessed to him? Would he ever forget the torment in those beautiful eyes? How could he have thought to marry Claire when a simple loan of money would have done equally well? But sanity had come far too late to save him. He could hardly walk out of the church now, with half of Atlanta’s most prominent citizens watching. The scandal would ruin him…and Claire. He had to go through with it.

Claire heard the music start and she walked down the aisle, all alone. There was no one to give her away; there were no bridesmaids, no attendants. It was a church wedding, but more funereal in tone than joyous. John had looked angry, unhappy. She glimpsed Diane through her veil and saw the woman looking straight at John with a curious, drawn expression. She still wanted him, it seemed. And a split second later, she saw John’s head turn helplessly toward Diane, saw his tormented gaze rest on the other woman.

As she stopped by his side and the minister began speaking, Claire’s heart raced. John was in love with Diane, and, judging by the way she was looking at him, it was reciprocated. Diane loved him, too! Claire felt trapped. John was as helpless in his emotions as she was in her own.

She loved him, but it wasn’t going to be enough, ever. He’d live with her, someday he might even make love to her and they might have children. But he’d be dreaming of Diane, loving Diane, wanting Diane, every minute of every day—just as she wanted him. It was going to be an empty triumph and a hollow, heartless marriage. And she’d realized it too late, overwhelmed as she had been with grief for her uncle and hopeless love for John.

The minister asked John if he took Claire to be his wife; he replied “Yes,” in a terse, forced tone.

The same question was put to Claire. She hesitated. At that instant, she felt John’s hand grasp hers, hard. She said the word without conscious volition, flushing. He put the ring on her finger, and the minister concluded the service, adding that the groom could kiss the bride.

He did, to give him credit, lift the veil from her face and look at her, but his expression was troubled. He bent and barely brushed his cool, firm lips against her own, in a kiss so very different from the one she’d hoped for, dreamed of, wanted with every thread of her being.

He took her arm and they walked down the aisle to the standing congratulations and happy cries of the audience. Only Diane didn’t cheer them on. John glanced at her miserable face once and felt his heart go cold. He looked away. He walked out the door without a single glance backward.

THEY ARRIVED AT JOHN’S apartment late, after the boisterous reception. It might have been fun, except that Diane looked like a grieving widow, and John’s forced smiles wore on Claire’s nerves. By the time it was over, Claire felt as if she’d been shaken to pieces.

The apartment was nice. It was on Peachtree Street, in a very pleasant neighborhood, with trees lining the road out front and plenty of them around the yard. Claire wished it were light enough so that she could see more. Tomorrow, she’d look at that shed John had told her about. She could keep Uncle’s motorcar there.

She hesitated in the doorway of the upstairs floor of the sprawling, late-Victorian house where John lived. There were fancy sofas and chairs in the parlor and curtains at the windows. There was a large ashtray, with a half-smoked cigar in it, and a fireplace in which a fire burned briskly, because some September evenings were cool even this far south.

“This will be your room,” John announced in a subdued tone, twisting the crystal doorknob of a door that led off the parlor.

She walked into it. It was small, but neat, with an iron bedstead painted white and a damask coverlet on it. There was a washstand with a pitcher of water and a large bowl on top of it, along with a mirrored dresser and a chifforobe. All anyone could want, she thought hysterically, except for a husband.

“Thank you for not insisting that we share a room,” she said discreetly, and without looking at him.

“It isn’t a hardship, since we don’t have a normal sort of marriage.” Angry, guilty, he knocked his hand against the dresser, welcoming the pain. “I must have been out of my mind!” He looked at her fully then, with eyes so bitter and full of agony that she felt his emotions bite into her body.

Her fingers clutched the lace curtain. “I didn’t trap you,” she reminded him curtly. “You convinced me that it would be for both our sakes.”

“Yes, I did,” he replied honestly, getting his feelings under tenuous control. “It was an act that we can both spend our lives regretting!”

She didn’t know what to say. He looked destroyed.

He closed his eyes and opened them again. He felt as if he’d aged twenty years. “Well, it’s done. We must make the best of it. There’s no need for us to be much together. You can keep the apartment tidy and I’ll go out to work each day. I often work late into the evening, even on Saturdays. We have church on Sundays. Occasionally I go to my club to play tennis.”

Apparently she wasn’t to accompany him. “I should like to have my uncle’s motorcar moved here,” she said proudly.

He sighed and made an odd gesture with a lean hand. “If we must.” He had no heart for argument. Diane’s lovely tear-filled eyes haunted him.

“We must,” she replied firmly. “Furthermore, I want my wheel.”

His eyebrows lifted. “You ride a bicycle?”

“Certainly I do. Most young ladies have wheels these days. It’s wonderful exercise. There is a bicycle club in the city.”

“It’s dangerous,” he said, concerned for her daredevil schemes. First a motorcar, now this. “A woman racer fell off her wheel and was injured. And I understand that in at least one city it has become illegal to ride a wheel at night unless it is properly lighted, so that it won’t frighten carriage horses.”

“I know all that,” she replied. “I’ll certainly obey all the rules. In any case, I don’t ride at night.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets and studied her carefully. He really didn’t know her at all. She was his friend. But she was also a stranger who would now share his life, even though it was only a partial sharing. He wasn’t sure how he was going to like this.

Neither was Claire, despite her hunger for his love. She grimaced. “Is there indoor plumbing?” she asked.

“Of course. Down the hall,” he replied. “And you have access to the kitchen, but Mrs. Dobbs supplies all meals. You may check with her about the schedule and ask for any particular dishes that you like. She’s quite accommodating.”

“I’ll do that.”

She took off her hat, replacing the big pearl-tipped hairpin through the fabric. Without it, she looked fragile, and very young.

She wounded him, looking like that. None of this was her fault. He scowled as he thought how disappointing a day it must have been for her. He hadn’t done anything to make it easier. In fact, he’d been openly hostile most of the time, because of what Diane had said to him, because of that stricken look on Diane’s face. He could hardly bear the pain.

“I’m sorry,” she said unexpectedly, lifting her wan face to his eyes. “I knew that you wanted to back out of the wedding today, and it was too late. You didn’t think this far ahead, did you?”

There was no use lying to her. He could see that at once. His chin lifted and he sighed heavily. “What I thought no longer matters. We must make the best of what we have.”

She wanted to laugh hysterically. It wouldn’t help. Her gaze slid over his lean, handsome face with wistful regret. It would be a barren sort of life, without love or the hope of anything more than resentment and tolerance on his part. She must have been as crazy as he to have agreed to such a sterile arrangement.

“Why did you marry me when you still love her?” she heard herself ask.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “As you said, Claire, I never thought very far ahead. I felt sorry for you; perhaps for myself as well. And what difference do our feelings really make now?” He shrugged in resignation. “She’s married, and so am I. Neither of us is low enough to forget those vows, made before God.” He looked worn, weary, almost defeated as he spoke. He turned away. “I plan to have an early night. It might benefit you to do the same.”

“Yes, it might. Good night.”

He felt so guilty that he couldn’t look at her as he closed the door.

Alone in the dark later, Claire gave way to tears. She’d had such great expectations about her marriage, only to find that her husband was full of regrets and bitterness. If only Diane hadn’t come to the wedding! But now she was bound to John in a marriage that he didn’t want, and it was far too late to do anything about it. Just the thought of divorce made her ill. It was a stigma that no woman would want to have to live with. But a loveless, sterile marriage would be so much worse. There would be no kisses, no shared pleasure, not even the consolation of a child. She put her fist to her mouth to stem another burst of tears. Really, she had to stop crying. Broken dreams happened to everyone. But lately it seemed that her entire life had become one long trail of them…

FRIDAY CAME, AND CLAIRE’S spirits had lifted a bit, because she’d cleaned out the shed behind the apartment house for the motorcar. Mrs. Dobbs, the landlady, had agreed only after much coaxing. Like many people, she was a bit afraid of the modern inventions, especially those that moved by themselves.

Claire had John’s driver take her down to Colbyville to drop her off at the house her uncle had owned. She dusted off the motorcar and climbed aboard. A kind neighbor had helped her tie her wheel onto the back with ropes. She donned her goggles and waved goodbye.

It was like being freed from bondage. She zipped along the rutted streets toward Atlanta, grinning as she sat high in the seat in her long white riding coat and goggles, and the cap that went with her uncle’s regalia. The clothing might be too big for her, but she was quite capable of driving the car. Horses grew nervous at the unfamiliar noise, so she slowed down when she spotted a carriage. She didn’t want to spook anyone’s horse. Many people were killed in runaway buggies, not only because of automobiles, but also because they unknowingly purchased horses unsuited to the task of drawing a carriage behind it. There was some skill involved in picking a proper horse for such duties.

The wind in her face made Claire laugh with sheer joy for the first time during the single week of her marriage. John pretended that she wasn’t there, except at breakfast and supper, when he was obliged to acknowledge her as they shared a table with the elderly Mrs. Dobbs. Unaware of the true nature of their marriage, she was forever teasing them and making broad hints about additions to the family.

The good-natured teasing didn’t seem to bother John. She wondered if he even heard it, so preoccupied did he seem. But it disturbed Claire. It was stifling to pretend all the time.

Here, though, in the motorcar, whizzing down the rough dirt road at almost twenty miles per hour, she didn’t have to worry about appearances. She was so well covered in the driving gear that she wouldn’t have been recognizable to people who knew her. She felt free, powerful, invincible. The road was clear of other vehicles, so she let out a whoop and coaxed even more speed from the motorcar.

It had a natty curved dash, spoked wheels, and a long rod with a knob that came up from the box between the front tires, which was how the driver steered it. The engine was mounted between the rear tires, with the gearbox under the small seat. It now zipped along the rough roads smartly, although it had had no end of problems, which Claire and her uncle had needed to deal with on a daily basis. For one thing, the boiler tended to overheat, and in fact, Claire still had to stop every mile and let it cool down. The transmission band snapped with irritating regularity. Oil that had to be splashed over bearings to prevent their overheating constantly leaked past the piston rings and fouled the spark plugs. Brake problems abounded. But despite all those minor headaches, the little engine chugged merrily along for short spells, and Claire felt on top of the world when she drove.

She loved driving in Atlanta, past the elaborate traps and carriages. It was a city of such history, and she herself had been part of two fairly recent celebrations in 1898. The first had been the United Confederate Veterans reunion in July, to which some five thousand visitors had flocked to see the grand old gentlemen parade down Peachtree Street in their uniforms. She recalled old General Gordon sitting astride his grand black horse in the rain as the parade passed by him on the thirty-fourth anniversary of the Battle of Atlanta. The moment, so poignant, had brought tears to her eyes. The Northern newspapers had been disparaging about the event, as if Southerners had no right to show respect for ordinary men who had died defending their homes in a war many felt had been caused by rich planters who were too greedy to give up their slaves.

But controversy dimmed in December of the same year, when another rally was held. Called the Atlanta Peace Jubilee, it was to celebrate the victory of America in the Spanish-American War. President William McKinley was there, and Claire actually got to see him. John had been in the hospital at the time, and Claire had gone to tell him all about the excitement of seeing Confederate and Union war veterans celebrating side by side.

In fact, just this past July, Claire and Uncle Will had joined John at the Aragon Hotel at a reunion attended by veterans from both Union and Confederate forces. There, she thought, was a truly touching event as old enemies reminisced together and tried to bury the past.

In what seemed a very short time, Claire was home, maneuvering the little vehicle past Mrs. Dobbs’s towering white Victorian house. She guided it carefully into the shed and disengaged the engine, wrinkling her nose at the fumes from the gasoline. The burning oil was equally obnoxious to the nostrils. She fanned at the air, keenly aware of the stains on her uncle’s long driving coat and on her face, as well.

She climbed out and patted the open seat lovingly. “There, now, Chester,” she cooed, using her own pet name for the mechanical creature she loved with all her heart, “you’re home at last. I’ll be out to clean your plugs later.” She grimaced as she noted the knots that secured the wheel on the back. “And I guess I’ll have to bring a knife, to free that,” she murmured to herself. It was unlikely that she was going to be able to enlist John to untie the complicated sailor’s knots that Uncle Will’s neighbor had used to tie on the bicycle. He had so little time to spend with her, even in the evenings. Especially in the evenings.

She closed the shed up, twisted the wooden knob that secured it, and went toward the back of the house, stripping off the car coat and goggles on her way. She walked down the hall, intent on reaching the upstairs apartment without being seen in her deplorable condition, her once pristine skirt and blouse splotched with dust and dirt and oil, her face grimy, her hair disheveled from the goggles and driving cap.

Just as she gained the hall, she unexpectedly came face-to-face with her husband and two men in business suits.

John looked at her as if he didn’t recognize her—worse, as if he didn’t want to recognize her! His dark eyes grew darker and he took a visible breath.

“Claire, come and meet Edgar Hall and Michael Corbin, two of my colleagues. Gentlemen, my wife, Claire.”

“How do you do,” she said, with a smile, extending a grimy hand—which they both shook without apparent distaste. “You’ll have to excuse the way I look; I’ve just been driving my uncle’s motorcar up here from Colbyville. It took most of the morning.”

“You drive a motorcar, Mrs. Hawthorn?” one of the men asked in surprise.

“Yes,” she replied proudly. “My uncle taught me.”

He gave John a speaking glance. “How…er…interesting and unusual.”

“Isn’t it?” she replied. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go and get cleaned up.”

“You do that,” John said, looking as if he were dying to say more.

She made her escape, painfully aware of the shocked and disturbed glances she was getting.

“…not wise to let your wife be driving that contraption around,” one of the men, the older one, said as she reached the top of the staircase. “What will people say?”

She didn’t wait for John’s reaction. Men! she thought angrily. If a woman took off her apron and did anything intelligent, it shocked them speechless. Well, they were due for a few more shocks, if she had her way. And that included her reluctant husband!

But her bravado lasted only until John came into their apartment. The very sharp and deliberate way he closed the door was disturbing.

“I won’t have you driving that contraption around the city,” he said shortly.

“Because it isn’t ladylike and your friends don’t approve?” she taunted, eyes sparkling with bad temper.

“Because the damned thing is dangerous,” he returned. “Don’t drive it alone again.”

“Don’t you puff up at me like a rooster with ruffled feathers,” she shot back. “I’ll do what I please. I’m not your slave…or your property.”

The scowl grew darker. “You’re my wife, for my sins. I’m responsible for you. That thing is a death trap!”

“No more dangerous than a horse,” she informed him. “And the opinion of your colleagues matters not one whit to me!”

“Nor to me,” he said irritably. “My concern is for you, not public opinion.”

Her heart jumped. “Truly?”

“Truly. And I don’t want you talked about,” he added quietly, searching her eyes. “Some measure of decorum is called for. Your social status is higher now than it was when you lived with your uncle. You will have to conform, just a little.”

She felt sick inside. The old freedom-loving days of her youth seemed to have died with her uncle. Now she had to conform to fit in with polite society. How in the world would she manage that dull sort of life, after the wonderful days with Madcap Will?

She caught hold of the back of a graceful wing chair and held on to it for support. “I see,” she replied, staring at John as the full impact of the shift in her life hit her—and the difference in her husband. He wouldn’t have been overbearing like this with Diane. If she’d wanted to ride naked down the streets of Atlanta in a motorcar, he’d probably have said nothing about it. But then, he loved Diane. And while he was concerned for Claire, it was for her reputation. God forbid that more gossip should be added to fan the already blazing fires.

John let out a long sigh. Claire’s sudden pallor enhanced his guilt. “Certain sacrifices have to be expected in a marriage like ours.”

“My sacrifices, of course,” she said, nodding curtly. “You’ll go on as before, working fifteen-hour days and mooning over Diane.”

The attack caught him off-guard. “Damn you!” he snapped.

He seemed to implode, Claire thought. His eyes blazed at her, his stance threatened.

She lifted her chin and moved toward him, utterly fearless. “Would you like to hit me? Go ahead. I’m not afraid of you. Do your worst. I’ve lost my uncle and my home and my independence. But I haven’t lost my pride and my self-respect, and nothing you can do will take those away.”

“I don’t hit women,” he said icily. “But I won’t have you driving around in that motorcar alone. Try it again and I’ll cut the tires off the damned thing.”

“John!” she burst out, shocked at hearing him curse not once but twice in less than a minute.

He smiled coldly. “Do you think that because I work in a bank I don’t react like a normal man to things that anger me? I wore a uniform for several years, Claire, between graduating from the Citadel and going to Harvard. I was working in Atlanta when I reenlisted—long enough to fight in Cuba—but at one time, I never envisioned a life outside the military. I learned to conform to civilian life, because I had to. You’ll learn to conform to high society, because you have to. There’s been more than enough gossip about us already.”

He hadn’t spoken to her like this before—and now he was making himself a stranger to her. She cleared her throat.

“I had to get Chester here, didn’t I?”

“Chester?” he asked, scowling.

She made an awkward motion with her hand. “My motorcar.”

His eyes twinkled. She was an odd woman, he mused, full of spice and vinegar, but she gave a pet name to a piece of machinery.

“I won’t drive it.” She finally agreed, although it was like giving up a part of herself. Apparently the cost of her support was going to be the suppression of her personality. “I can ride my wheel when I need exercise, I suppose.”

“You needn’t sound so tragic. I only wish you to act like the wife of the vice president of one of the most prestigious banks in the South,” he said, “instead of a little girl playing with dangerous toys.”

Her gray eyes glittered. “A motorcar is hardly a toy.”

“For you, it is. Why don’t you spend some of this abundant free time you seem to have making friends or visiting or buying yourself some new clothes?” he asked irritably. “You’re living in the city now, not feeding your chickens and washing clothes like a countrywoman.”

In other words, she had to behave as if she were good enough to be married to a bank officer with a Harvard degree. She felt pure dislike for him.

“I shall try to give good value, sir,” she said haughtily, and curtsied.

He looked as if he might like to give way to a string of curses, but before he could utter them, Claire beat an orderly retreat to her room and slammed the door behind her.

A minute later, she opened it again, red-faced and furious. “Just to set the record straight, I was driving Chester up from Colbyville with my wheel tied on to save you the freight charges. And also for the record let me tell you that I have no intention of terrorizing Atlanta or shocking your friends with Chester. I shall ride the trolley!”

And she slammed the door again.

John stared at the closed door with mingled reactions, the strongest of which was amusement. Claire was spirited, all right. It was a pity his heart was Diane’s, because in many ways, Claire was his match.

He didn’t really mind her playing around with the car, but only when he was with her, to protect her from her reckless nature. Besides, she had to learn to conform to his lifestyle. It wouldn’t hurt her to be tamed, he thought, just a little. But all the same, he had to fight the very strong impulse to follow her into her bedroom and continue the argument. He found her stimulating in a temper. He wondered if the passion in her could be physical as well as verbal. Perhaps one day he’d be driven to find out.

4

AFTER A SLEEPLESS NIGHT, CLAIRE FINALLY DECIDED that if her husband wanted her to become a social butterfly, it might be to her advantage to accommodate him.

She’d never been a social climber, but she did have acquaintances among Atlanta’s elite. The foremost of these was Mrs. Evelyn Paine, the wife of local railroad magnate Bruce Paine. She called upon her early one morning, cards in hand. But since Evelyn was in, there was no need to present her maid with the requisite two cards from a married woman, one for Evelyn, and one for her husband. Cards were only presented if the host or hostess was unavailable. And most cards carried an “at home” legend, stating when the holder would receive guests. Today was Evelyn’s “at home” day.

She was received in the small parlor and given coffee and delicate little cakes while Mrs. Paine sprawled on her satin-covered divan in an expensive and beautiful silk-and-lace wrapper. She and Claire had met through Claire’s uncle and found that they had quite a lot in common. Under other circumstances, they would probably have been close friends; Claire hadn’t sought friendship because of Evelyn’s higher social status. But Claire’s skill with a needle had caught Evelyn’s eye, and Claire had made any number of original gowns for her—and never used her relationship with Evelyn in any way to open doors for her. Now, however, she felt obliged to approach anyone who could help her make the best of her new place in society as the wife of a bank executive. John might not want her as a true wife, but she was going to show him that she was no shrinking Nellie, just the same. She was as good as any of his haughty friends, including the adored Diane!

“My dear, it’s such an unexpected pleasure to see you,” Evelyn drawled, smiling lazily. “I was about to call on you and see if you could design something very special for me for the Christmas ball at the governor’s mansion. You see how much time I’m giving you to create it; it’s almost three months away.”

“I daresay I can do something very special with so much time,” Claire promised.

“Then what can I do for you?”

Claire clutched her purse. “I want to join some societies,” she said at once. “I’ll work hard, and I’m not afraid to approach strangers for contributions. I’ll bake cakes and pies, man stalls at bazaars, do anything I’m asked within reason.”

Evelyn raised up on her elbow. “My dear, you sound positively frantic. May I ask the reason for this sudden flurry of ambition?”

“I want my husband to be proud of me,” she said simply.

“Well, that is a laudable goal!” Evelyn sat up, stretching. “I do know several people on committees, and they always need volunteers.” She smiled mischievously. “Count on me. I’ll make sure you get the proper introductions—and to the very best people.”

“Thank you.”

Evelyn waved a languid hand. “No need for that. We women have to stick together.”

CLAIRE VERY QUICKLY found herself in demand. Her days were full from morning until late afternoon, baking for cake sales, sorting clothes and whatnots for the fall bazaars, and wrapping bandages with her church group to send to the military in the Philippines and China for Christmas. She kept the apartment spotlessly clean, as well, and even found time to help Mrs. Dobbs bake. She felt obliged to do that, since she was having to borrow her landlady’s woodstove to make her contributions to her various societies.

Mrs. Dobbs was impressed by the sort of women who began to call on Claire for tea. The names read like the roster of Atlanta society. The landlady began to dress more formally—and even to help Claire set up the tea tray, using her own best silver.

“I must say, Claire,” Mrs. Dobbs told her one afternoon, “I’m very impressed with the company you’ve been keeping. Imagine! Mrs. Bruce Paine right here in my house! Why, her family and her husband’s were founding families of Atlanta, and they keep company with people like the Astors and the Vanderbilts!”

“I’ve known Evelyn for several years,” Claire confided. “She’s a fine person, but for obvious reasons, I never tried to become a close friend.”

“Well, that’s all changed with your marriage, since Mr. Hawthorn is well-to-do and holds the position he does at the Peachtree City Bank.”

Claire didn’t exactly know that John was well-to-do, although he never seemed to lack money. He didn’t discuss finances with her. She did know that his position at the bank was an important one. “Yes, I know. That’s why I’ve tried so hard to find my way into the right social circles, so that I wouldn’t make him ashamed of me.”

“My dear,” Mrs. Dobbs said gently, “no one would be ashamed of such a hardworking, kind young woman.”

Claire flushed. Mrs. Dobbs always made her feel better. It was just as well that the starchy woman had been out of the house the day John and his business colleagues came home to find Claire in such a disreputable condition. “You’re the kind one, Mrs. Dobbs—to give me such freedom in your house.”

“It’s been my pleasure. I must tell you, I’ve enjoyed the little savories left over from your efforts. Where did you learn to cook so well?”

“From my uncle’s housekeeper,” she recalled. “She was a wonderful cook—of the ‘pinch of this and dab of that’ variety.”

“Now, I’m just the opposite. I can’t cook without my measures.” There was a knock at the door. “Ah, that will be your callers, Claire. I’ll let them in.”

Claire greeted Evelyn and her friends, Jane Corley and Emma Hawks, and introduced them to the flustered, beaming Mrs. Dobbs.

It made the landlady’s day. She went off to bring in the tea tray in an absolute delirium of pleasure.

Later, after tea and cakes, Evelyn brought out a sketch from the leather writing case she carried.

“I’m no artist, but this is what I thought I’d like you to make me for the ball, Claire,” she said, and handed the rough sketch to the younger woman. “What do you think?”

“Why, it’s lovely,” Claire said, nodding as she considered fabric and trim. “But this line, just here, won’t do. A peplum is going to make you look chubby around the hips, which you certainly are not,” she added with a grin.

Evelyn’s eyes widened. “Why, you’re right. I never noticed.”

Claire took a pencil from the small porcelain bowl on the occasional table and erased the line. “And if we just add one flounce to the skirt, here…” She made another few strokes with the pencil, while Evelyn watched, amazed.

“There,” she said, finished, and handed the sketch back. “What do you think? In black, of course—with silver trim and black jet beads on the bodice, just here?”

Evelyn was wordless. “Exquisite,” she said finally. “Just exquisite.”

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” Emma Hawkes exclaimed. “I buy all my clothes in Paris, but this is—this is extraordinary. How very talented you are, Claire!”

“Thank you,” Claire replied demurely.

“Yes, I want this,” Evelyn said immediately. “And I don’t care about the cost.”

“You will.” Claire winked. “It’s going to be quite expensive.”

“Anything worth wearing to the governor’s ball should be,” came the reply.

Emma nibbled on her lower lip and glanced at Claire. “I suppose it will take all your time to make Evelyn’s gown…?”

“Not at all.”

Emma brightened. “Then could you do one for me as well?”

“And one for me?” Jane added.

“Not of this design!” Evelyn cried, aghast.

“Certainly not,” Claire said. “Each gown will be individual, and suited to its wearer. I’ll work on the sketches and you can come Friday to approve them. How will that do?” she asked Jane and Emma.

“Wonderful,” they said in unison, beaming.

CLAIRE HAD VERY LITTLE free time after that. If she wasn’t baking or helping with some worthy charity, she was buried upstairs in her room with the sewing machine and what seemed like acres of fabric, sewing madly to meet her deadlines.

Of John, she saw little. That suited her very well, given their last conversation. She was still bristling from his disapproval. He seemed to avoid her afterward, but he chanced to come home early one Friday, and, since Claire’s bedroom door was open, he went to speak to her.

The sight that met his eyes was a surprise. “What in God’s name are you doing?” he asked curtly.

She’d been sewing an underskirt for Evelyn’s gown, and thank God she had the rest of the project safely hidden in the closet. She didn’t want John to know that she had a separate income from the household money he gave her. Her independence was sacred, and she wasn’t sharing the news with the enemy.

“I’m making myself a dress,” she said calmly.

His eyes narrowed. “You aren’t living with your uncle now, Claire,” he said. “You don’t have to manage with homemade clothes. Go down to Rich’s and buy yourself some clothes. I have an account there.”

“I like to sew my own things.”

His gaze went over the plain blue dress she was wearing, which was one of her older ones. It was faded, but very comfortable to work in. “So I see,” he replied mockingly. “But that’s hardly the sort of thing you need to wear in town.”

Her chest rose and fell angrily. She’d make herself a gown for the governor’s ball, too—and then he’d see something!

“Where in town did you have in mind?” she asked coolly. “You haven’t take me out of the house since we married over a month ago.”

He scowled. “Has it been so long?”

“It seems like much longer,” she returned quietly. She pushed back a loose strand of brown hair. “If you don’t mind, I’m quite busy. I’m sure you have some exalted function to attend, or a dinner with colleagues.”

He leaned against the doorjamb and studied her. It hadn’t seemed like a month. Claire had been conspicuously missing from their apartment—and his life—every time he looked for her lately. He’d supposed that she spent her time shopping, but she seemed to have nothing to show for it. There was the fabric she was working on, but it seemed an odd choice for a day dress…or for any kind of dress. It looked more like a slip.

His eyes darted around her room and found it neat and clean, but with very few obvious signs of occupation—save for the brush and hand mirror on her dresser, and the small porcelain powder and jewelry boxes.

“I hardly see you,” he said absently.

“A blessing, I should think, considering the opinion you have of me and my wardrobe,” she murmured as she continued to apply pressure to the treadle under her feet to move the needle along the seam.

He stuck his hands deep in his pockets, drawing the fabric taut against the powerful muscles of his thighs. “Well, one or two people have remarked upon the fact that we aren’t seen at social functions. I suppose we should be more outgoing.”

“Why?” she asked, lifting clear gray eyes to his. “Does someone think you’ve murdered me and buried my body in the garden?”

His mouth twitched. “I don’t know. Perhaps I should ask.”

She took the fabric from under the needle and cut the thread with her small pair of scissors, holding the seam up for critical inspection. “I’m quite content with my life as it is,” she said, not looking at him. It made her heart skip to see the long, powerful lines of his body in that unconsciously elegant pose. He was so handsome. It took her breath away to look at him at all, but she couldn’t let him see. She’d had quite enough taunts from him about her helpless attraction to him.

“Don’t you miss pretty clothes and parties, Claire?” he asked.

“I’ve never had either, so why should I want them?”

He considered that for a minute. It was true. She’d never had much in the way of material things. Now she had access to them through him. So why wasn’t she taking advantage of it? Diane would have. She’d gone on a shopping spree immediately after her marriage to Eli Calverson that still had tongues wagging today.

“Buy a new gown,” he said abruptly. “There’s a party at the Calversons’ next Saturday evening, and we’ve been invited. Apparently Eli thinks you’ve had long enough to grieve for your uncle and become accustomed to marriage with me. He wants to introduce us both to a new investor. A very important one.”

“Why us?”

“Because I’m vice president of the bank, Claire, and investors keep us solvent. This gentleman is the head of an investment firm, and he’s very thick with Eli. Apparently, he’s rich as Croesus.”

“How nice for him. But I don’t want to go to the Calversons’.”

He took an impatient breath. “I’ve told you that I have no back-door dealings with Diane!”

She looked at him steadily. “So I should go with you and spend the evening watching you eat your heart out over the sight of her? No, thank you.”

His eyes flashed angrily. “It would be far better than to spend the evening here, watching you eat your heart out over me,” he countered icily.

She threw the underskirt down on the floor and got to her feet, her gray eyes like lead bullets as she went right up to him.

“I am not eating my heart out over you! I hardly see you, in any case. I have no secret hankering for such a conceited, overbearing—”

Suddenly he reached for her and pulled her against him. In his leaning position, she found herself pressed intimately to his long legs—in between them, in fact—with his arms wrapped tightly around her. The look on her face amused him, taking the heat out of his anger.

“Don’t stop there,” he invited, with a smile. “Do go on.”

She wanted to, but her heart was beating too rapidly to allow speech. The whalebone corset she was wearing constricted her breath enough, without the added pressure of his embrace. She could barely breathe at all.

Her hands pushed weakly at his chest. “Let go,” she said faintly. “I can’t…breathe.”

“Relax, then.”

“It’s the corset,” she whispered, pushing as hard as she could.

He loosened his arms. She felt his hands tracing the bones, his thumbs brushing up under her breasts in the muslin chemise that contained them above the edge of the corset. The light, teasing pressure made her stiffen with unexpected pleasure.

He was looking intently at her, watching her reactions as his lean hands teased her body.

His thumbs slipped higher with each movement. “Is this better?” he asked, and his voice was suddenly deeper, huskier.

She realized she was shaking. Her hands were clutching at his hard arms through his suit coat, and she couldn’t even manage speech. The feel of him so close, the touch of his hands, made her knees weak. She loved him so much that even the lightest caress was heaven. She hadn’t the will to pull away, despite the shame her easy capitulation caused. She wanted his touch too much to protest.

His lips brushed her forehead. He could sense her struggle. “I’m your husband. It’s all right to give in to me, Claire,” he murmured deeply. “God knows, I’ve given you little enough since we married. It’s no hardship to pleasure you. I won’t do anything to frighten or hurt you. Relax, now.”

Her hands trembled where they clung to his arms. She wanted to deny that he was pleasing her, to tell him to let her go, but she couldn’t. She had no pride. She moaned in anguish, drowning in the need to be touched by him, held by him, wanted by him.

He understood. He was as helpless in his passion for Diane as Claire was in her need of him. In that one way, they were very much alike. It hurt him in an odd, new way, to see her suffer for his touch. He felt her need and ached to fill it.

His lips hovered at her eyelids, closing them tenderly. His hands moved to the tips of her breasts and found the nipples hard and warm.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.