Chapter 8

Eight

Moore

The night dragged on interminably.

I'd lied to Rose about attending a business dinner. I didn't wish to hurt her feelings with the truth, which was that I'd promised to escort my mother to the opera. Seeing another production, another actress instead of Rose, felt wrong somehow. It shouldn't, but it did.

The opera was tedious and boring. I longed for the rousing music and laughter of Rose's performance, the lightness I experienced when watching her. She was a delightful break from these dreary, heavy pieces that were popular with the oyster set.

My mind wandered as the singing droned on. Just as soon as this opera ended, I would drop my mother at home then go to Rose. Rose's town house was a mere thirteen blocks from where I lived. I could walk it, if I wished. No one would ever know, and I couldn't bloody wait.

"Moore," my mother said as the crowd broke out into applause. "We have guests coming. Pour the champagne, will you?"

This wasn't unusual. We had one of the biggest boxes on the tier, and she loved to invite her friends in to visit during the intermissions. "Of course." I helped her to her feet, then led her up the steps and into the salon.

As I was pouring the champagne, guests filtered in from the corridor. Head down, I didn't register the newcomers until my mother said, "Ah, Mr. Whitney-Dunn, Mrs. Cushing. Good evening. And you've brought Gladys, too, I see. How lovely!"

Goddamn it. My fingers clenched around the thick glass bottle. Slowly, I angled to cast a disapproving glare in my mother's direction, only she wasn't focused on me. Instead, she was greeting the group warmly, as if they were her long-lost relatives.

I took my time pouring the champagne, both to temper my anger and prepare for this encounter. I must've dragged it out too long because my mother finally said, "Moore, please come and greet our guests."

Refusing was unacceptable, so I turned and presented them with glasses full of champagne. "Sir, Mrs. Cushing. Nice to see you again."

"Good evening, Mr. Emerson," said Mrs. Cushing, who was also Whitney-Dunn's sister. The matron was clearly acting as the young girl's chaperone for the evening.

"Emerson," Whitney-Dunn said. "May I present my daughter, Miss Whitney-Dunn?"

"Miss," I said with a polite bow. "How do you do?"

"How do you do, Mr. Emerson?" Her tone was as bland as tepid tea, her smile flat.

Interesting. Was the lack of enthusiasm mutual, then?

There was an awkward moment of silence until my mother said, "Moore, why don't you take Miss Whitney-Dunn to see the view from our seats?"

This would put the two of us on display in front of the entire tier. The gossip would spread before the end of intermission.

I smothered a sigh. "It would be my honor. Miss, would you care to join me in the box?"

She accepted my arm politely. "Of course. Thank you."

We walked through the salon and into the box. There wasn't much to see, so we both came to a stop near the rail. I glanced at her, surprised by how young she looked in the gas lighting. Was she eighteen? Twenty? With the dewy debutante skin, I couldn't be certain.

But it was clear that she was too young for me.

Rose is only nineteen.

I winced. I was too old for both of these young women. Yet I was willing to make excuses for Rose. Because I wanted her too badly to care.

"This is a bold, yet obvious ploy, I'm afraid."

Surprised by Miss Whitney-Dunn's comment, I turned to face her. Most young women attempted to play coy with potential suitors. "As a debutante, it can't be the first time you've been subjected to such a ruse, I would imagine."

"Not one quite like this." She studied me. "You have no idea, do you?"

"An idea of what?"

"About my father?" When I didn't say anything, she shook her head. "He is determined for you to marry me."

"It's fortunate, then, that I am of an age when I may make decisions for myself."

"You don't wish to marry me."

Though I couldn't detect a hint of disappointment, I rushed to say, "It is nothing personal. But I have resolved never to remarry, no matter the bride in question."

"I see." She pursed her lips and stared out at the rows of seats. "I must assume your mother is unaware, based on how she discusses you."

"What does she say?"

"That you are ready to settle down and start a family."

I frowned. "She is misguided. A desperate attempt for grandchildren on her part."

Miss Whitney-Dunn gave me a small smile. "You're not worried about my father?"

"Not in the least."

"You'd be the first, then. Every man I meet is terrified of displeasing him."

"I am not every man."

"Yes, I can see." She blew out a breath, her shoulders relaxing. "Please don't tell my parents, but I'm relieved. No offense, but I am hoping to marry someone closer in age."

"No offense taken. I feel quite ancient standing here next to you."

"Ancient might be an exaggeration, Mr. Emerson, considering that early every woman on the tier is ogling you at the moment."

I suspected it had more to do with watching Gladys and me together rather than my looks. "Shall we return to the salon? I daresay we've fulfilled our obligations."

"Of course." We went into the salon together. The older couple was speaking quietly with my mother, making plans, no doubt. All three glanced up at our return, their expectant glances examining us.

Mrs. Cushing made excuses for her and Miss Whitney-Dunn, leaving me and my mother alone with the elder Whitney-Dunn. When my mother excused herself to visit a friend along the tier, I braced myself. It was clear Whitney-Dunn had wished to get me alone, and I suspected the thread of the conversation.

"You and Gladys seem to get on well," he began after finishing his champagne.

"She's a lovely girl." I went to retrieve the cold champagne bottle from the bucket. "You'll have no trouble finding her a match this spring."

"Moore, I'm not one to prevaricate, so let's be frank. I want you and Gladys married before the end of the year."

I returned and filled both our glasses. Too bad there was nothing stronger than champagne on hand. "If we are to be frank, sir, then I will tell you a marriage won't happen. I have no intention of marrying again."

"Yes, I'm told that is the case. The scandal and all that nonsense." He waved his free hand, as if the worst period of my life was nothing but a trivial exaggeration. "However, I plan to change your mind. You need a son to ensure that Emerson Holdings continues to thrive after you're gone. Your father understood this, which is precisely why he spent most of his life preparing you to take over."

The reminder of my father was a sharp pain under my ribs. "There are many qualified employees who are capable of?—"

"That's downright blasphemy and you know it." His bushy white sideburns quivered in his outrage. "You oversee the fortunes of many important families in this city, mine included. Do you think we will allow just anyone to get their hands on them? People want an Emerson in charge, Moore. Someone of our class, someone who understands the implications."

"People, meaning you."

"People, meaning the Emerson Holdings Board of Directors."

My muscles tightened and I strangled the glass in my hand. So Whitney-Dunn was planning to turn the board against me if I didn't do what he wished. "Harold," I said seriously. "I don't appreciate being threatened."

He shook his head as if I were a foolish child. "And you don't seem to understand the gravity of the situation. Your father died eight years ago, Moore. He was fifty-one years old. You're almost forty. The board is growing concerned."

"It's far too soon for panic. I will ensure the business is in good hands before I die."

"No one knows how long they have on this earth. You could die tomorrow and where would that leave us?"

Not grieving for me, obviously . Rather everyone would be worried about their money, which is all this city seemed to care about.

Perhaps I was reading this wrong. Was Whitney-Dunn trying to gain a foothold into the company by making me his son-in-law?

I decided to test my theory. "What if I already have someone in mind, someone I'd like to marry who isn't your daughter?"

His eyes narrowed into tiny slits. "Who is she? I've heard of no one attached to your name."

Still playing along, I said, "It wouldn't be right for me to disclose the lady's name without speaking to her first. In any case, it doesn't matter. If your only concern is my legacy, then you may rest assured I have it in hand."

He stared at me for a long moment, his face inscrutable. But I could tell he was trying to assess whether I was telling the truth or not. Finally, he said, "My daughter will make you an excellent wife. Your father would have approved of this match."

Now I knew this wasn't about my legacy, but rather his. "Except my father's not here, is he?"

Whitney-Dunn's neck turned scarlet, his lips thinning. Just as he opened his mouth, however, my mother reentered the salon. "Oh, Harold. You're still here."

"I was just leaving." After one last angry glare at me, he turned and kissed my mother's cheek. "We'll speak later, Charlotte. Good evening."

After Whitney-Dunn departed my mother picked up her champagne glass. "Well?" she asked when the silence stretched.

I didn't pretend to misunderstand. "I don't appreciate an ambush."

She waved her hand, the diamonds on her fingers and wrist glinting in the soft electric lighting. "Nonsense. You'd never have agreed otherwise."

"That's correct. We discussed this. I don't need your intervention in my personal life."

"There's no need for you to be cross, Moore. I'm only trying to help you. A mother doesn't like to see her son all alone in the world with no one looking after him."

But I wasn't alone. I had Rose. And the sooner this blasted night ended, the sooner I could feast on her delectable body. "I'm perfectly happy, mother. I don't need anyone to look after me."

The lights flickered, and I was eager to put an end to this topic for good. "Let's retake our seats. The second act is about to start."