Chapter 2

Two

Moore

Exhaustion weighed me down as I climbed the polished marble steps to my front door.

I will see you again. Mark my words.

I shouldn't have gone there tonight. Instead, I should've stayed far away from Fourteenth Street. Yet I'd craved another glimpse of Rose like a hop head seeking a hit of opium. Everything about her drew me in, from the ample curves I longed to explore, to her wide, lush mouth that promised wicked delights. This was no tightly corseted debutante who tried to blend into the wallpaper rather than be noticed. No, Rose O'Donahue bloomed under an audience's attention until you couldn't possibly look away.

And meeting her had tripled my fascination. She was witty and clever and far too bold. I liked it. A lot.

No wonder she was so popular.

None of this mattered, however. She was far too young, and I wouldn't sully the Emerson name again with a second scandal. One was enough to last a lifetime.

Distracted by thoughts of green eyes and red hair, I didn't notice my mother lurking in the hallway when I stepped inside.

"Goodness, there you are," a feminine voice said. "I've been worried about you."

I passed my coat and hat to Peters, our butler, with my thanks. Then I smoothed my hair and went over to greet my mother.

After my divorce I sold the home I'd purchased for my former wife and moved back to Fifth Avenue. God knew my mother had enough space, and living here meant that I could look after her. The scandal from the end of my marriage had caused my father's untimely death, and the shame and guilt haunted me daily. At least here I could ensure my mother's continued health while atoning for my mistakes.

"Good evening, mother." I kissed her cheek. "I didn't expect to find you up at this late hour."

"I was waiting to speak with you. Come into the library."

I was bone-tired, but denying her would appear churlish after she'd waited up for me. In the library, I poured myself a drink as she settled on the leather sofa. The room, with its scents of heavy leather-bound books and lemon polish, reminded me of my father. The two of us spent quite a lot of time here when I was young.

He'd prepared me well to take over Emerson Holdings, a business that has been in my family since the days of Hamilton and Madison. Every day I swam in numbers—the market, the gold standard, the price of commodities. I studied, invested, and managed to turn money into more money. I was good at it, though it often felt as if the responsibility consumed my life. As if happiness were a luxury afforded to everyone but me.

My former wife's parting words as I put her on a cross-continental were to call me the coldest man she'd ever met. No matter how hard I tried, I could not make my first marriage work. My wife's profound unhappiness could not be breached, and no amount of attention from me had ever brought about a common understanding between us.

I lowered myself into an armchair. "You seem agitated. I trust you are feeling well?"

"I'm perfectly fine. I keep telling you, stop worrying about me."

As if such a thing were possible. My father would be here holding her hand and kissing her cheek, if not for me. "Is something amiss, then?"

"Mr. Whitney-Dunn has paid a visit today."

A longtime friend of my father's, Whitney-Dunn was patriarch of a prominent Society family and had lost his wife a few years ago in a tragic boating accident. He also sat on the board of Emerson Holdings. "Oh? And what did he want?"

"To discuss the possibility of a marriage."

I choked on a mouthful of whiskey. The two of them? Married? I couldn't begin to comprehend it. "You can't be serious."

She arranged her skirts, avoiding my eyes. "Well, I was surprised, as well. I knew Gladys had debuted, of course, but I didn't think she had designs on our family."

I paused in the process of blotting drops of whiskey off my silk vest. "Wait, who is Gladys?"

My mother stared at me as if I were cracked. "The daughter. Whitney-Dunn's youngest. You remember her, don't you?"

"Can't place her. I'm double her age, if I recall."

"Not quite, but nearly. And you know those things don't matter as much as people think."

"Except to the bride, who'd no doubt prefer to marry someone not so ancient."

She waved her hand as if brushing my comments aside. "Let's not stray off topic. Whitney-Dunn would like for you to marry Gladys."

"No."

She pursed her lips together, the closest my mother ever got to a frown. "You don't even wish to consider it?"

I finished my drink and set the empty glass on the side table. "Hardly requires any serious consideration, as far as I'm concerned. Subject firmly closed." I edged forward in my chair, intending to rise. "Now, I'm exceedingly tired. May I escort you upstairs?"

"Wait a moment." She raised her palm. "I'm not finished. You were at the theater again tonight."

I held still, not liking the sudden change in this conversation. "Yes. What of it?"

"Off-Broadway is . . . seedy, Moore. It's unseemly of you to be downtown in those places, especially when we have a perfectly acceptable box at the Metropolitan Opera House."

But Rose wasn't at the opera house—not that I would ever see her again. I sipped my drink and tried to wash the bitterness from my mouth. "You sound snobbish."

"Call me a snob if you like, but I don't like you associating with those types of people."

"I enjoy the productions downtown," I lied. "And there is nothing seedy or unseemly about it."

"I'm told you attended alone."

Christ, the gossips in this town. Could a man not obsess these days without it being discussed over cucumber sandwiches up and down the avenue? "I still fail to see how this is a problem."

"Moore." She toyed with the three-strand pearl necklace hanging low around her neck. "We both know of your past. Your proclivities. Which is why I wish for you to marry again. It's time. Past time, really."

Proclivities .

All because I'd hired a chorus girl to lie in my divorce proceedings about an affair that never happened. While the tale had been the most expeditious path to granting Eugenia her freedom in New York, I sorely underestimated the city's appetite for gossip, the zeal with which the press would relish an Emerson's downfall. And the unholy scandal that followed had damaged my father's heart and sent him to an early grave.

I vowed then to live quietly, respectably. To dedicate myself to the family business and never give reason for anyone to malign the Emerson name again. And if I found the existence miserable, I had no one but myself to blame.

A promise I'd kept until recently, the night I spotted Rose O'Donahue.

Inhaling, I let it out slowly. "Mother, I am not marrying again."

She continued as if I hadn't spoken. "Miss Whitney-Dunn is the perfect choice. Good family, pretty enough. And you know how these things work. If you marry, then you may quietly carry on with whomever you like."

Carry on with an affair. Because that was what the city expected of me, an immoral adulterer.

I could feel an ache settling between my temples. My mother meant well, but this was a conversation I was unwilling to entertain. "My answer remains no." I rose and started for the door. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I am headed to bed."

"You must listen to reason, darling," she said as I crossed the room. "You've been dragging your feet, which is understandable, but the only way to repair the damage from the unpleasantness with Eugenia is to marry again."

Except there was no repairing the mess I'd caused. Marrying a second time wouldn't bring back my father. It wouldn't take away the reports of the trial, the newspaper headlines. The looks and whispers that followed me for the past eight years.

No, there was no taking any of it away.

As I reached the door, I said sternly, "I don't want to hear another word about marriage. Good night."

"Am I allowed to mention grandchildren, then? Because I would really like one or two of those before I'm gone. And I'd much prefer they were legitimate."

"If that is an attempt at humor, I'm not amused." Speculation of a baby had run rampant during the divorce proceedings, with every newspaperman on the East Coast wondering if the chorus girl was increasing with my child.

"Moore," my mother said with a sigh. "You're too serious. A wife would bring you joy, not to mention look after you. I'm concerned you are too stuck in the past. What happens after I'm no longer here?"

A cold sense of dread seeped into my veins. Was this about her health? I turned and studied her carefully, but there were no outward signs of illness. "That's twice you've mentioned your death. What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing." She waved her hand. "I'm perfectly well. And it is a parent's role to worry over their offspring, not the other way around."

Except when said offspring was me. I would never stop worrying about her. It was my burden, my penance. If I'd insisted Eugenia travel to Reno, ignoring her aversion to long train rides, to obtain a quiet divorce, the scandal would've died down after a week or two. My father might've lived. He would be here to coddle and protect my mother, as he'd done throughout their marriage.

"There's no cause for worry," I told her. "And let us both agree not to raise the subject of marriage or grandchildren, legitimate or otherwise, ever again."

She frowned, but didn't argue. Eager to put this conversation behind me, I left to climb the stairs, hating myself with every step. I was a fool. Why had I attended Rose's show night after night? Deep down I knew my repeated appearance there would draw unwanted attention and dredge up comments from the past. Except I hadn't been able to stop myself.

I don't sleep with a man more than once.

God help me, that statement had been like waving a red flag in front of a bull. The all-consuming need to disprove it, to sink into her wet heat for as long as I desired, to give her orgasms under every phase of the blasted moon, had nearly choked me in the carriage.

Little wonder my mother was worried.

It was times like this when I hated being an Emerson, hated living in this city. Watched everywhere I went, my whereabouts reported on as if I were a lad instead of thirty-eight years of age.

But there was no help for it, which was why I needed to stay away from Rose. She was too young, the risk too great.

The problem was that I almost wanted her badly enough not to care.