Page 12 of Just Imagine

The next few weeks brought a steady stream of callers. In better times the women would have dressed in their prettiest gowns and arrived at Risen Glory in fine carriages. Now they came in wagons drawn by plow horses, or they sat on the front seats of broken-down buggies. Their gowns were shabby and their bonnets rusty with age, but they carried themselves as proudly as ever.

Self-conscious about the extravagance of her wardrobe, Kit dressed plainly for her first callers. But she soon discovered that the women were disappointed by her simple gowns. They made pointed references to the pretty lilac frock she’d worn to church, and had her hat been trimmed in taffeta or satin? They’d heard the gossip about her clothes passed from maid to cook to the grizzled old woman who sold she-crab from a tub off the back of a pushcart. Kit Weston’s wardrobe was rumored to contain beautiful gowns of every color and description. The women were starved for beauty, and they wanted to see them all.

Once Kit understood, she didn’t have the heart to disappoint them further. She dutifully wore a different dress every day and, with several of the younger women, abandoned subterfuge altogether and invited them to her bedroom so they could see for themselves.

It saddened her to realize that the clothes meant more to her visitors than they did to her. The dresses were pretty, but they were such a bother with their hooks, laces, and overskirts that always caught on furniture. She wished she could give the green muslin to the pretty young widow who’d lost her husband at Gettysburg, and the periwinkle silk to Prudence Wade, who’d been left scarred by smallpox. But the women were as proud as they were poor, and she knew better than to offer.

Not all her callers were women. A dozen men of various ages made their way to her door in as many days. They invited her on buggy rides and picnics, surrounded her after church, and nearly got into a fight over who was to accompany her to a Chautauqua lecture on phrenology. She managed to turn them down without hurting their feelings by telling them she’d already promised to attend with Mr. Parsell and his sisters.

Brandon was increasingly attentive, even though she frequently shocked him. Still, he remained at her side, and she was certain he intended to ask her to marry him soon. Half of her month was over, and she suspected he wouldn’t wait much longer.

She’d seen little of Cain, even at meals, since the night of their disquieting conversation about Reconstruction. The machinery for the mill had arrived, and they were busy storing it under tarps in the barn and sheds until they were ready to install it. Whenever he was nearby, she was uncomfortably conscious of him. She flirted outrageously with her male admirers if she thought he was watching. Sometimes he seemed amused, but at other times a darker emotion flickered across his features that she found disquieting.

Gossip traveled quickly, and it wasn’t long before Kit learned that Cain had been seen in the company of the beautiful Veronica Gamble. Veronica was a source of mystery and speculation to the local women. Even though she was Carolina-born, her exotic lifestyle after her marriage made her a foreigner. There was a rumor that her husband had painted a picture of her lying stark naked on a couch, and that it was hanging on her bedroom wall as bold as brass.

One evening Kit came downstairs for supper and found Cain in the sitting room reading a newspaper. It had been nearly a week since he’d appeared for a meal, so she was surprised to see him. She was even more surprised to find him dressed in formal black and white, since she’d never known him to wear anything but casual dress in the dining room.

“Are you going out?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m eating in this evening.”

He put down his paper.

“We have a guest for dinner.”

“A guest?”

Kit looked down at her muddy gown and ink-stained fingers in dismay.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It didn’t occur to me.”

Kit’s whole day had gone badly. Sophronia had been cranky that morning, and they’d quarreled about nothing. Then Reverend Cogdell and his wife had come calling. They’d recounted all the gossip that Kit’s stay at Risen Glory without a proper chaperone was producing and urged her to live with them until someone more suitable could be found. Kit had been doing her best to reassure them that Miss Dolly was up to the task when her companion had fluttered into the room and insisted they roll bandages for the Confederate wounded. When they’d left, Kit had helped Sophronia clean the Chinese wallpaper in the dining room with bread crusts. Then she’d spilled a bottle of ink while she was writing to Elsbeth. Afterward, she’d gone for a walk.

There’d been no time to change for dinner, but since she wasn’t expecting anyone except Miss Dolly at the table, she hadn’t been concerned about the condition of her plain muslin dress. Miss Dolly would scold her, but she scolded her about her appearance even when Kit was dressed up. Again she glanced at the ink stains on her fingers and the mud on her skirt from kneeling to free a baby field sparrow caught in a tangle of brambles.

“I’ll need to change,”

she said just as Lucy appeared at the door.

“Miz Gamble’s here.”

Veronica Gamble swept into the room.

“Hello, Baron.”

He smiled.

“Veronica, it’s good to see you again.”

She wore a stylish jade-green evening gown with an underskirt of bronze-and-black striped satin. A border of overlapping black lace trimmed the décolletage and set off the pale, opalescent skin of a natural redhead. Her hair was swept up into a sophisticated arrangement of curls and braids caught in a crescent of bronze silk laurel leaves. The difference in their appearances couldn’t have been more apparent, and Kit self-consciously smoothed her skirt, which did nothing to improve it.

She realized Cain was watching her. There was something oddly satisfied in his expression. He almost seemed to be enjoying comparing her unkempt appearance with Veronica’s perfection.

Miss Dolly swept into the room.

“Why, I didn’t know we were having company tonight.”

Cain performed the introductions. Veronica replied graciously, but that didn’t ease Kit’s resentment. Not only was the other woman elegant and sophisticated, but she radiated an inner self-confidence Kit didn’t think she’d ever possess. Next to her, Kit felt callow, awkward, and unattractive.

Veronica, in the meantime, was engaging Cain in conversation about the newspaper he’d been reading.

“. . . that my late husband and I were great supporters of Horace Greeley.”

“The abolitionist?”

Miss Dolly began to quiver.

“Abolitionist and newspaper editor,”

Veronica replied.

“Even in Europe, Mr. Greeley’s editorials supporting the Union cause were much admired.”

“But, my dear Mrs. Gamble . . .”

Miss Dolly gasped like a guppy.

“Surely you don’t mean— I understood you were born in Charleston.”

“That’s true, Miss Calhoun, but I somehow managed to rise above it.”

“Oh, my, my . . .”

Miss Dolly pressed her fingertips to her temples.

“I do believe I’ve developed a headache. I’m sure I won’t be able to eat a bite of dinner. I think I’ll just go to my room and rest.”

Kit watched in dismay as she fled from the room. Now she was alone with them. Why hadn’t Sophronia told her that Mrs. Gamble was expected so Kit could have taken a tray in her room? It was outrageous for Cain to expect her to dine with his mistress.

The thought made her chest hurt.

She told herself it was outraged propriety.

Veronica sat on the settee while Cain took his place in a green-and-ivory-upholstered chair next to her. He should have looked ridiculous on such a delicate piece of furniture, but he seemed as comfortable as if he were astride Vandal or perched on the roof of his cotton mill.

Veronica told Cain a story about a comic mishap at a balloon ascension. He tossed back his head and laughed, showing even, white teeth. The two of them might have been alone for all the notice they were taking of Kit.

She rose, unwilling to watch them together any longer.

“I’ll see if dinner’s ready.”

“Just a minute, Kit.”

Cain uncoiled from his chair and walked toward her. Something calculated in his expression made her wary.

His eyes roamed over her crumpled frock. Then he reached for her. She started to back away, only to have him catch a lock of hair in his fingers near one of her silver combs. When his hand came away, he was holding a piece of twig.

“Climbing trees again?”

She flushed. He was treating her as if she were nine years old and deliberately embarrassing her in front of their sophisticated guest.

“Go ask Sophronia to hold dinner until you’ve had time to change out of that dirty frock.”

With a dismissive look, he turned to Veronica.

“You’ll have to forgive my ward. She’s only recently graduated from finishing school. I’m afraid all her lessons haven’t yet sunk in.”

Kit’s cheeks burned with mortification, and angry words bubbled inside her. Why was he doing this? He didn’t care about soiled frocks and tangled hair. She knew that about him. He loved the outdoors like she did and had little patience for formality.

She fought to hold onto her temper.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me from dinner this evening, Mrs. Gamble. I, too, seem to have developed a headache.”

“A veritable epidemic.”

Veronica’s voice was softly mocking.

Cain’s jaw set stubbornly.

“We have a guest. Headache or not, I’ll expect you back downstairs in ten minutes.”

Kit choked on her rage.

“Then I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

“Don’t try to defy me.”

“Don’t issue orders you can’t enforce.”

Somehow she summoned the self-control not to run from the room, but once she reached the hallway, she picked up her skirts and fled. As she approached the top of the stairs, she fancied she could hear the sound of Veronica Gamble’s laughter coming from behind her.

But Veronica wasn’t laughing. Instead, she was studying Cain with great interest and a small measure of sadness. So that was the way it was. Ah, well . . .

She’d hoped their relationship would move beyond friendship into intimacy. But now she saw it wasn’t meant to be, at least in the foreseeable future. She should have known. He was too magnificent a man not to be difficult.

She felt a flash of pity for his ward. For all her extravagant beauty, the young woman didn’t yet know her own mind, and she certainly didn’t know his. Kit was much too inexperienced to understand why he’d deliberately embarrassed her. But Veronica understood. Cain was attracted to the girl, and he didn’t like it. He was fighting his attraction by bringing Veronica here tonight, hoping that seeing the two women side by side would convince him he was drawn to Veronica instead of to Kit. But it wasn’t to be.

Cain had won this round. The young woman had barely managed to hold onto her temper. Still, Kit Weston was nobody’s fool, and Veronica had a feeling the game was far from over.

She tapped her fingernail on the upholstered arm of the settee and wondered if she should permit Cain to use her as a pawn in the struggle he was waging with himself. It was a foolish question, and it made her smile. Of course she’d permit it.

Life was dull here, and it wasn’t in her nature to be jealous of another woman over something as natural as sex. Besides, it was all so deliciously amusing.

“Your ward is high-spirited,”

she said, just to stir the pot.

“My ward needs to learn submission.”

He poured a glass of sherry for her and, with an apology, excused himself.

She heard him taking the stairs two a time. The sound excited her. It reminded her of the glorious arguments she and Francis used to have, arguments they sometimes fought with deliciously angry sex. If only she could see what was about to happen in the room upstairs . . .

She sipped at her sherry, more than prepared to wait them out.

Cain knew he was behaving badly, but he didn’t care. For weeks he’d been keeping himself away from her. As far as he could tell, he was the only single man in the community who wasn’t jumping to her tune. Now it was time they had a reckoning. He was just sorry Veronica had to be subjected to Kit’s rudeness.

And to his own.

But he wouldn’t dwell on that.

“Open this door.”

Even as he rapped the panels with his knuckles, he knew he was making a mistake by coming up here after her. But if he let her defy him now, he’d lose any chance he had of keeping her under control.

He told himself this was for her own good. She was willful and stubborn, a danger to herself. Whether he liked it or not, he was her guardian, which meant he had a responsibility to guide her.

But he didn’t feel like a guardian. He felt like a man who was losing a struggle with himself.

“Go away!”

He twisted the knob and let himself in.

She stood by the window, the last of the sunlight casting her exquisite face into shadow. She was a wild, beautiful creature, and she tempted him beyond bearing.

As she turned, he froze in place. She’d been unbuttoning her dress, and the sleeves had fallen down on her shoulders so he could see the soft rounds of her breasts visible above her chemise. His mouth went dry.

She didn’t try to clutch the bodice together as a modest young woman should. Instead, she gave him glare for glare.

“Get out of my room. You have no right to come charging in here.”

He remembered Hamilton Woodward’s letter accusing her of seducing his business partner. When Cain had received it, he had no reason not to believe it, but now he knew better. Kit’s claim that she’d punched the bastard was undoubtedly true. If only he were as certain that she was turning aside Parsell’s advances.

He tore his eyes away.

“I’m not going to be disobeyed.”

“Then you’d better bark out your orders to someone else.”

“Watch it, Kit. I tanned that rump of yours once before, and it won’t bother me to do it again.”

Instead of backing away, she had the gall to take a step toward him. His hand itched, and he found himself imagining exactly how that backside would feel, bare beneath his palm. Then he imagined sliding his hand around that sweet curve—not to hurt, but to please.

“If you want to see what a knife feels like in your belly, just go ahead and try it, Yankee.”

He almost laughed. He outweighed her by nearly a hundred pounds, but the little wildcat still thought she could challenge him.

“You’ve forgotten something,”

he said.

“You’re my ward. I make the decisions and you do as I say. Is that understood?”

“Oh, it’s understood, all right, Yankee. It’s understood that you’re an arrogant ass! Now get out of my room.”

As she jabbed her finger toward the door, the strap of her chemise fell over her opposite shoulder. The thin fabric caught at the crest of her breast, clung to that sweet peak for a moment, and then dropped, exposing the dark coral tip.

Kit saw him lower his gaze a moment before she felt the currents of cool air tickling her flesh. She looked down and drew in her breath. She snatched the front of her chemise and pulled it back up.

Cain’s eyes turned from slate to pale smoke, and his voice was husky.

“I liked it better the other way.”

As quickly as that, the battle between them shifted to new ground.

Her fingers grew clumsy on the fabric of her chemise as he came closer. All her survival instincts urged her to run from the room, but the most she could manage was to turn away.

He came up behind her and traced the curve of her neck with his thumb.

“You’re so damned beautiful,”

he whispered. He gathered her curls into his hands and gently untangled them from the strap of her chemise.

Her skin prickled.

“You shouldn’t . . .”

“I know.”

He leaned down and pushed her hair away. His breath feathered the skin at her collarbone.

“I don’t—I don’t want you to . . .”

He gently bit the soft flesh at the side of her neck. “Liar,”

he whispered.

She closed her eyes and let her back rest against his chest. She felt the cool, wet spot on her neck where his tongue had touched her flesh.

His hands moved up over her ribs and then, incredibly, over her breasts. Her skin turned hot and cold at once. She shuddered as he caressed her through her chemise, shuddered at how good it felt and at her insanity in submitting to such an intimacy.

“I’ve wanted to do this ever since you got back,”

he whispered.

She made a soft, helpless sound when he slipped his hands inside her dress, inside her chemise . . . and touched her.

Nothing had ever felt as good as those callused palms on her breasts. She arched against him. He brushed the tips and she moaned.

A knock sounded at the door.

She sucked in her breath and jerked away, scrambling to pull up her bodice.

“Who is it?”

Cain barked out impatiently.

The door flew back on its hinges.

Sophronia stood on the other side, two pale smudges of alarm over her cheekbones.

“What are you doing in her room?”

Cain’s eyebrow slashed upward.

“That’s between Kit and me.”

Sophronia’s amber eyes took in Kit’s disheveled state, and her hands knotted into fists in the skirt of her dress. She bit into her bottom lip as if she were trying to hold back all the words she didn’t dare say in front of him.

“Mr. Parsell is downstairs,”

she finally managed. The fabric of her skirt crumpled in her fists.

“He has a book to lend you. I put him in the sitting room with Mrs. Gamble.”

Kit’s own fingers were stiff from the tight grip she had on her bodice. Slowly she relaxed them and nodded to Sophronia. Then she addressed Cain with as much composure as she could muster.

“Would you invite Mr. Parsell to join us for dinner? Sophronia can help me finish dressing. I’ll be downstairs in a few minutes.”

Their eyes locked, stormy violet clashing with the gray of winter sleet. Who was the winner and who the loser in the battle that had just been fought between them? Neither of them knew. There was no resolution, no healing catharsis. Instead, their antagonism crackled even more powerfully than it had before.

Cain left without a word, but his expression clearly indicated it wasn’t over between them.

“Don’t say a word!”

Kit began peeling off her dress, tearing a seam in her clumsiness. How could she have let him touch her like that? Why hadn’t she pushed him away.

“I need the gown in the back of my wardrobe. It’s covered in muslin.”

Sophronia didn’t move, so Kit pulled it from the wardrobe herself and tossed it on the bed.

“What’s happened to you?”

Sophronia hissed.

“The Kit Weston I used to know wouldn’t lock herself in a bedroom with a man who’s not her husband.”

Kit turned on her.

“I didn’t invite him!”

“I’ll bet you didn’t tell him to leave, either.”

“You’re wrong. He was angry with me because he wanted me to have dinner downstairs with Mrs. Gamble, and I refused.”

Sophronia jabbed her finger toward the gown on the bed.

“Then why do you want that?”

“Brandon’s here, so I’ve changed my mind.”

“Is that why you’re getting dressed up? For Mr. Parsell?”

Sophronia’s question took her aback. Whom was she getting dressed up for.

“Of course it’s for Brandon. And for Mrs. Gamble. I don’t want to look like a country bumpkin in front of her.”

Sophronia stiff features softened almost imperceptibly.

“You can lie to me, Kit Weston, but just don’t lie to yourself. You’d better make certain you’re not doing this for the major.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Leave him to Mrs. Gamble, honey.”

Sophronia walked over to the bed and pulled the muslin off the gown. At the same time, she repeated the words Magnus had said to her only a few weeks earlier.

“He’s a hard man with women. There’s something as cold as ice inside him. Any woman who tries to get past that ice will only end up with a bad case of frostbite.”

She settled the gown over Kit’s head.

“You don’t need to tell me all this.”

“When the major looks at a beautiful woman, all he sees is a body to bring him pleasure. If a woman understands that about him, like I expect Mrs. Gamble does, she can enjoy herself and there won’t be any hard feelings afterward. But any woman who’s fool enough to fall in love with him is only going to end up with a broken heart.”

“This has nothing to do with me.”

“Doesn’t it?”

Sophronia did up the fastenings.

“The reason the two of you fight so much is because you’re just alike.”

“I’m not anything like him! You know better than anyone how much I hate him. He’s standing in the way of everything I want from life. Risen Glory’s mine. It’s where I belong. I’ll die before I let him keep it. I’m going to marry Brandon Parsell, Sophronia. And as soon as I can, I’m buying this plantation back.”

Sophronia took a brush to her tangles.

“And what makes you think the major will sell it to you?”

“Oh, he’ll sell, all right. It’s just a matter of time.”

Sophronia began to draw her hair into a neat knot, but Kit shook her head. She’d wear it free tonight, with only the silver combs. Everything about her must be as different from Veronica Gamble as possible.

“You got no way of knowing he’ll sell,”

Sophronia said.

Kit wasn’t about to confess her late-night forages through the plantation’s calf-bound ledgers, adding and subtracting her way through pages of boldly entered figures. It hadn’t taken her long to discover that Cain had overextended himself. He was hanging onto Risen Glory and his spinning mill by the most fragile of threads. The smallest disaster could send him under.

Kit didn’t know much about spinning mills, but she did know about cotton. She knew about unexpected hailstorms, about hurricanes and droughts, about insects that fed off the tender bolls until nothing was left. Where cotton was concerned, disaster was bound to strike sooner or later, and when it did, she’d be ready. She’d buy the plantation right out from under him. And she’d buy it at her own price.

Sophronia was staring at her and shaking her head.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you really wearing that dress downstairs for dinner?”

“Isn’t it wonderful?”

“It’s made for a ball, not for dinner at home.”

Kit smiled. “I know.”

The gown had been so outrageously expensive that Elsbeth had protested. She’d argued that Kit could put her clothing allowance to better use buying several more modest gowns. Besides, it was too conspicuous, she’d said, so extravagantly beautiful that, even on the most demure female—which Kit certainly was not—it would draw more attention than, perhaps, a well-brought-up young lady should wish to attract.

Such subtleties were lost on Kit. She only knew that it was glorious and she had to have it.

The overskirt of the dress was a billowing cloud of silver organdy caught up over gleaming white satin shot with silver thread. Crystal bugle beads covered the tight-fitting bodice, sparkling like night snow under a starry winter sky. More beads spangled the skirt all the way to the hem.

The neckline was low, falling well off her shoulders. She glanced down and saw that the tops of her exposed breasts were still faintly rosy from Cain’s hands. She quickly looked away and put on the necklace that went with the gown, a choker of crystal bugle beads drizzling onto her skin like melting ice chips.

The very air around her seemed to crackle as she moved. She slipped on satin slippers with spool-shaped heels, the ones she’d worn at the Templeton ball. They were eggshell instead of the stark white of the gown, but she didn’t care.

“Don’t worry, Sophronia. Everything’s going to be fine.”

She gave Sophronia a quick peck on the cheek and made her way downstairs, the gown shimmering around her in a crystalline cloud of ice and snow.

Veronica Gamble’s smooth forehead betrayed nothing of her thoughts as Kit swept into the sitting room. So the little kitten had decided to fight. She wasn’t surprised.

The gown was outrageously inappropriate for the occasion and quite wonderful. Its remote ice-maiden perfection served as a perfect foil for the girl’s vivid beauty. Mr. Parsell, who’d so blatantly wrangled a dinner invitation, seemed stunned by her appearance. Baron looked like a thundercloud.

The poor man. He would have done better to have left her in that dirty dress.

Veronica wondered what had happened between the two of them in the room upstairs. Kit’s face was flushed, and Veronica’s observant eyes caught a small red mark on her neck. They hadn’t made love, that was certain. Cain was still as tightly coiled as a jungle beast about to spring.

Veronica sat on Cain’s right during dinner, with Kit at the foot of the table and Brandon next to her. The meal was delicious: fragrant jambalaya accompanied by oyster patties smothered in a cucumber-curry sauce, green peas flavored with mint, beaten biscuits, and, for dessert, rich slabs of cherry pie. Veronica was certain she was the only one who noticed the food.

She was excessively attentive to Baron throughout the meal. She leaned close to him and told him her most amusing stories. She laid her fingers lightly on his sleeve and occasionally squeezed his hard-muscled arm with deliberate intimacy.

He gave her his total attention. If she hadn’t known better, she would have believed he didn’t notice the subdued laughter coming from the other end of the table.

After dinner, Cain suggested the men take their brandy in the sitting room with the women instead of remaining at the dinner table. Brandon agreed with more eagerness than was polite. Throughout the meal, Cain had barely been able to conceal his boredom with Brandon’s stuffiness, while Brandon couldn’t quite hide his contempt for Cain.

In the sitting room, Veronica deliberately took a place on the settee next to Kit, even though she knew the girl had taken a dislike to her. Yet Kit was courteous and thoroughly entertaining once they began to talk. She was exceptionally well read for a young woman, and when Veronica suggested that Kit borrow her copy of a scandalous new book by Gustave Flaubert that she’d just finished reading, Brandon sent her a thunderous look of disapproval.

“You don’t approve of Kit reading Madame Bovary, Mr. Parsell? Then perhaps we’d better leave it on my shelf for the time being.”

Cain regarded Brandon with amusement.

“I’m sure Mr. Parsell isn’t so stodgy as to object to an intelligent young woman improving her mind. Or are you, Parsell?”

“Of course he’s not,”

Kit said too quickly.

“Mr. Parsell is one of the most progressive men I know.”

Veronica smiled. A most entertaining evening, indeed.

Cain crossed the hall and let himself into the library. Without bothering to light the lamp on his desk, he pulled off his coat and opened the window. The guests had left some time ago, and Kit had excused herself immediately afterward. Cain had to get up at dawn tomorrow, and he knew he should go to bed, but too many old memories had come back to nag at him tonight.

He gazed out into the darkness with unseeing eyes. Gradually the nighttime rasp of crickets and the soft, wheezy cry of a distant barn owl became less real than the bitter voices of the past.

His father, Nathaniel Cain, was the only son of a wealthy Philadelphia merchant. He lived in the same brownstone mansion in which he’d been born and was a competent, if unexceptional, businessman. He was nearly thirty-five when he married sixteen-year-old Rosemary Simpson. She was too young, but her parents had been anxious to rid themselves of their troublesome daughter, especially to such a well-heeled bachelor.

From the beginning, it was a marriage made in hell. She hated her pregnancy, had no interest in the son who was born exactly nine months after her wedding night, and grew to regard her adoring husband with contempt. Over the years she embarrassed him in public and cuckolded him in private, but he never stopped loving her.

He blamed himself for her restlessness. If only he hadn’t forced a child on her so soon, she might have been more content. As time passed, however, he ceased blaming himself for her misdeeds and blamed only the child.

It took her nearly ten years to run through his fortune. She left him for a man who had been one of his employees.

Baron had observed it all, a bewildered, lonely child. In the months after his mother’s departure, he stood by helplessly, watching his father being consumed by his unhealthy obsession for his faithless wife. Filthy, unshaven, drowning in alcohol, Nathaniel Cain sealed himself inside the lonely, decaying mansion and constructed elaborate fantasies of everything his wife had not been.

Only once had the boy rebelled. In a fit of anger, he’d spewed out all his resentment against the mother who’d abandoned them both. Nathaniel Cain had beaten him until his nose streamed with blood and his eyes had swollen shut. Afterward, he didn’t seem to remember what had happened.

The lesson Cain had learned from his parents had been a hard one, and he’d never forgotten it. He’d learned that love was a weakness that twists and perverts.

Hard-earned lessons were the best-remembered. He gave away books when he finished them, traded horses before he could grow too fond of them, and stood by the window of the library at Risen Glory staring out at the hot, still night thinking about his father, his mother . . . and Kit Weston.

He found little comfort in the fact that so many of the emotions she aroused in him were angry ones. It bothered him that she made him feel anything at all. But since the afternoon she’d invaded his house, veiled, mysterious, and wildly beautiful, he hadn’t been able to get her off his mind. And today, when he’d touched her breasts, he’d known there’d never been a woman he’d wanted more.

He glanced over at his desk. His papers didn’t seem to have been disturbed tonight, so she hadn’t slipped in when he’d gone out to the stable to check on the horses. He probably should have locked up the ledgers and bankbooks after he’d found evidence of her snooping, but he’d felt a perverse sense of satisfaction in witnessing her dishonesty.

Her month was almost up. If tonight was any indication, she’d be marrying that idiot Parsell soon. Before that happened, he had to find a way to free himself from the mysterious hold she had on him.

If only he knew how.

He heard a soft sound in the hallway. She was roaming again, and tonight he was in no mood for it. He stalked across the carpet and twisted the doorknob.

Kit spun around as the library door crashed open. Cain stood on the other side. He looked rough, elegant, and thoroughly untamed.

She wore only a thin nightdress. It covered her from neck to toe, but after what had passed between them in her bedroom earlier, she felt too exposed.

“Insomnia?”

he drawled.

Her bare feet and unbound hair made her feel like a hoyden, especially after spending the evening with Veronica Gamble. She wished she’d at least put on her slippers before she’d come downstair.

“I—I didn’t eat much at dinner. I was hungry, and I wanted to see if there was any cherry pie left.”

“I wouldn’t mind a piece myself. We’ll look together.”

Even though he spoke casually, she sensed something calculating in his expression, and she wished she could keep him from following her to the kitchen. She should have stayed in her room, but she’d barely eaten anything for dinner, and she’d hoped a late-night snack would fill her stomach enough so she could sleep.

Patsy, the cook, had left the pie under a towel on the table. Kit cut a small piece she no longer wanted for herself, then handed Cain the pie plate. He grabbed a fork and carried everything over to the kitchen door. As she sat at the table, he opened it to let in the night air, then leaned against the doorframe to eat.

After only a few bites, he set aside the pie.

“Why are you wasting your time with Parsell, Kit? He’s a stiff.”

“I knew you’d say something unpleasant about him.”

She jabbed her fork at the crust.

“You were barely civil all evening.”

“While you, of course, were a model of courtesy to Mrs. Gamble.”

Kit didn’t want to talk about Veronica Gamble. The woman confused her. Kit disliked her, yet she was also drawn to her. Veronica had traveled everywhere, read everything, and met fascinating people. Kit could have talked to her for hours.

She felt the same kind of confusion when she was with Cain.

She toyed with one of the cherries.

“I’ve known Mr. Parsell since I was a child. He’s a fine man.”

“Too fine for you. And I mean that as a compliment, so pull in your claws.”

“Must be one of those Yankee compliments.”

He moved away from the door, and the walls of the kitchen seemed as if they were closing in on her.

“Do you really think that man would ever let you ride a horse in britches? Or trounce through the woods in your skirts? Do you think he’ll let you curl up on the sofa with Sophronia’s head in your lap, or show Samuel how to shoot marbles, or flirt with every man you see?”

“Once I marry Brandon, I won’t flirt with anyone.”

“Flirting’s in your nature, Kit. Sometimes I don’t even think you know you’re doing it. I’ve been told that Southern women acquire the knack in the womb, and you don’t seem to be any exception.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment. You need to look elsewhere for a husband.”

“Strange. I don’t remember asking your opinion.”

“No, but your future bridegroom will have to ask for my permission—that is, if you want to see the money in your trust.”

Kit’s heart skipped a beat. The stubborn set of Cain’s jaw frightened her.

“That’s only a formality. You’ll give your permission to whomever I choose.”

“Will I?”

The pie clotted in Kit’s stomach.

“Don’t toy with me about this. When Mr. Parsell asks permission to marry me, you’ll grant it.”

“I can’t fulfill my responsibility as your guardian if I believe you’re making a mistake.”

She shot to her feet.

“Were you fulfilling your responsibility this evening in my room when you . . . when you touched me?”

A sizzle of electricity coursed between them.

He looked down, then slowly shook his head.

“No. No, I wasn’t.”

The memory of his hands on her breasts was too recent, and she wished she hadn’t brought it up. She turned away.

“Where Brandon’s concerned, I know my mind.”

“He doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t even like you very much.”

“You’re wrong.”

“He desires you, but he doesn’t approve of you. Ready cash is hard to come by in the South. What he wants is your trust fund.”

“That’s not true.”

She knew Cain was right, but she denied it. She had to make certain he wouldn’t stand in the way of her marriage.

“Marrying that stiff-necked bastard would be the biggest mistake of your life,”

he said finally.

“and I’m not going to be part of it.”

“Don’t say that!”

But as she stared at that implacable face, she felt Risen Glory slipping away from her. The panic that had been nibbling at her all evening clamped down hard. Her plan . . . her dreams. Everything was slipping away. She couldn’t let him do this.

“You have to let him marry me. You don’t have any choice.”

“I sure as hell do.”

She heard her voice coming from far away, almost as if it didn’t belong to her.

“I didn’t want to tell you this, but . . .”

She licked her dry lips.

“The relationship between Mr. Parsell and myself has progressed . . . too far. There must be a wedding.”

Everything went still between them. She watched as he took in her meaning. The planes of his face grew hard and unrelenting.

“You’ve given him your virginity.”

Kit managed a slow, unsteady nod.

Cain heard a noise roaring inside his head. A great internal howl of outrage. It echoed in his brain, clawed at his skin. At that moment he hated her. Hated her for not being what he’d believed—wild and pure. Pure for him.

The nearly forgotten echo of his mother’s scathing laughter rattled in his head as he fled the stifling confines of the kitchen and stormed outside.