Diane Whiteside
ISBN 978-0758207951
Mass Market
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Their passion was beyond control…
Hal Lindsay is a decorated Union Navy hero and a riverboat captain who has built an empire around his Missouri River steamboats. Yet deep inside him lurks the pain of a dark, vicious past—one that has him determined to live alone, finding carnal comfort in the arms of women who will do anything as long as the price is right—like the sensual innocent currently masquerading as an experienced gambler aboard his boat. For once, Hal finds himself wanting more—much more…and that is a very dangerous thing…
Rosalind Schuyler is appalled to be unmasked by Hal—and frightened as well. The prominent New York railroad heiress is on the run to escape marriage to a man who would kill to gain her fortune. Now it seems she’s in danger of a different kind. For Hal Lindsay is like no man she’s met before. One minute, he’s kind as a brother, hiding her from those searching night and day for her. The next, he’s a pure masculine animal, taking her to his bed and beyond what she thought were the limits of her desire. Everything he does, she wants more of, but what she wants most, she knows he can never give…
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Prologue
New York, December 1871
Rosalind Schuyler limped off the dance floor on her fiancé’s arm, her flounce trailing after them, half ripped from her Worth ball gown. Mercifully, David was somewhat more adept at carnal temptations than the Virginia reel.
The conductor glanced at the hostess, then led the string orchestra into a slow waltz. Three dances after the midnight supper, most of the early departures had already occurred. Voices rumbled from the card rooms, while other guests levered themselves out of their seats to step onto the dance floor.
“My dear,” David purred into her ear, his dulcet tones well trained for his planned career as a politician and orator.
Rosalind came alert, wondering what he would do next. Try to seduce her? Heaven knows she enjoyed being cuddled and treated as a woman by someone taller than herself.
“I’m sorry, my dear, but I must take my leave now.”
Hazy visions of rapture in David’s arms vanished quickly.
“I’ve promised,” he continued, “to go riding with Nick Lennox before breakfast at the Pericles Club.”
“Really? Well, of course, you must be awake then, if you are to spend time with a banker,” she teased gently. Something about Nicholas Lennox always made her skin crawl, possibly his never-ending pursuit of the right friends.
“You may see him solely as that, because he’s a junior partner at your father’s bank, but I know him as a friend. Will you see me to the door? I’m sure your father will take you home after the last dance.”
“Of course.”
David smiled down at her and gently tweaked one of her curls.
They strolled down the opulent brown and gold ballroom to bid farewell to their hosts, Juliet and Walter Townsend. Rosalind tried not to envy the society leader’s self-confidence or her very low-cut velvet gown, that exactly matched a magnificent sapphire necklace. She herself was more at ease in a frock coat and trousers than an expensive Worth ball gown.
Townsend nodded absently at Rosalind before turning to David and launching into speech. “I understand you plan to run for the legislature next year. Will you take your wife with you to Albany or—”
Rosalind gritted her teeth, but her polite smile never faltered. She was far too accustomed to being treated like a piece of wood, just because she was a woman, to openly show irritation. But the thought of a lifetime of similar slights, thanks to becoming a politician’s wife, was enough to make her skin crawl.
If David hadn’t been so very good with children and the only man in New York uninterested in her father’s money, she would have given him no more than the courtesy due to a wartime companion of her late brother. As it was, she sometimes had to remind herself that his advantages also included being polite and respectful to women in public, in order to stop herself from breaking their engagement.
After that irritation it was almost a relief to find the magnificent marble entrance hall on the ground floor nearly deserted. Tapestries hung on every wall between the heavily carved doorways and under an equally ornate ceiling, all designed to emulate a Renaissance king’s chateau. Silver bowls and vases full of hothouse roses and matching candlesticks wreathed with evergreens adorned the tables scattered between uncomfortable sofas. Gas lighting hissed and glowed from an immense chandelier, turning the rich tones of the Brussels carpet into a shimmering ocean of color. Maroon-clad footmen stood by the front door and the cloakroom, ready to assist guests.
“My dear Portia, you must always remember what is expected of you as a lady and act accordingly.” Across the room, Desdemona Lindsay, diamonds in her graying hair and her curves set off by a very snug ice blue gown, spoke earnestly to a ten-year-old girl. The child must be Juliet Townsend’s eldest, given the strong similarities in coloring and cameo-pure features. “It is not seemly to leave the children’s wing and spy upon your mother’s ball.”
“Yes, Grandmother Lindsay,” Portia Townsend said politely, her eyes sliding toward the front door. She looked far more repentant, in her simple blue gown with her blond hair neatly braided into pigtails, than she sounded. Rosalind’s mouth quirked as she remembered all the times she, too, had crept down to watch one of her parents’ balls, while her mother was still alive.
Just then, a footman sprang forward and swung open the great door, admitting a new guest in a burst of cold air and swirling snow.
He seemed the embodiment of a barbarian leader, barely tolerating the trappings of civilization, as he entered the over decorated room. His face had the hard-edged strength of a medieval sculpture, with those level dark blue eyes, lightly crooked nose, and narrow scar slicing his strong jaw. A naval commander’s magnificent dark blue uniform, with gold buttons and braid and a gilded sword at his hip, showcased a body fit for one of Arthur’s knights. His golden hair and goatee glinted in the lamplight, where he towered a head taller than either of Townsend’s handpicked footmen.
Rosalind bit back a groan of pure feminine appreciation.
Desdemona and Portia glanced up, Portia’s face blazing in undisguised hero worship. David stiffened to alertness beside Rosalind.
“Uncle Hal!” Portia exclaimed and raced across the room.
A smile broke out across the big man’s countenance as he caught the child up in his arms. “Hello, princess! Did you wait up for me?”
“I promised I would, didn’t I?” Portia retorted and the big man laughed.
“Look, it’s Hal Lindsay,” David hissed. “He must have just come from Admiral Porter’s banquet at the Brooklyn Navy Yard.”
Rosalind nodded, unable to say a word. Of course, the stranger had to be one of the famous Lindsays. Golden in coloring and wealth, the men always made very successful careers in the Navy or business.
“Have you met him? He’s rarely in New York. Can you tolerate meeting another veteran?” David teased gently.
Rosalind chuckled at the familiar joke and shook her head. He patted her hand indulgently.
“Come along, I’ll introduce you.”
Lindsay’s hooded gaze swept over Rosalind, then went to David, as they came up. He frowned slightly, then his face cleared. He set his niece down carefully. “Rutherford?”
“Indeed. Good to see you again, Lindsay.” David pumped Lindsay’s hand enthusiastically.
Rosalind wished, a bit wistfully, that Lindsay had looked longer at her. Or perhaps not. She could feel her heart pounding like a trip-hammer and strongly suspected her cheeks were flushed from excitement, a most unusual reaction to a man. She usually calculated every new acquaintance’s degree of interest in her father’s money, not a man’s physical desire for her.
What would she have done if he’d stared at her? Have a fainting spell? Impossible and yet . . .
“Rosalind, my dear, this is Commander Hal Lindsay, late of the Mississippi Squadron. Lindsay, my fiancée, Rosalind Schuyler.”
“Miss Schuyler.” His voice was a deep bass that could melt a woman’s bones. He bowed over her hand, his big, callused hand warm against her bare skin.
A most proper and precise movement, exactly what any other man of breeding would perform. Yet her throat tightened until she was barely able to murmur a polite response.
“He brought a gunboat to our relief at Shiloh,” David enthused. “And he was one of the brave captains who led the squadron past the great Confederate forts at Vicksburg.”
He gestured broadly, as if marking the size of those defeated forts, and smacked a tall, narrow Chinese vase. It tottered and started to fall. Lindsay took a step toward it, but she grabbed it first, just as water splashed her dress.
David didn’t notice, of course, but simply carried on with his oration. “Then Lindsay—”
“Rutherford.”
The single word cut David off like a knife.
Rosalind spun around. Nicholas Lennox crossed the entrance hall toward them, wearing the black armband of full mourning and carrying an elegant swordstick. He stood a few inches taller than Rosalind’s unladylike height and was built along racehorse lines, with dark brown hair and luxuriant mutton chop whiskers. His dark brown eyes were as keen as those of a three-card monte player looking for a pigeon to pluck.
His family was old, if not a match for the Schuylers or Lindsays. They’d fallen on hard times in the last generation, and Lennox’s older brother had died seeking his fortune out West.
But why would David obey Nicholas Lennox and fall silent?
Lindsay’s voice filled the brief silence. “Lennox. My condolences on your brother’s death.” He extended his hand to Lennox.
Lennox sneered at Lindsay’s gesture. He clasped his hands behind his back and straightened to his full height. “My brother’s murder, you mean? After all, Lindsay, we have only your word and Donovan’s for how he died.”
Lindsay stiffened, and the footmen froze. Rosalind choked. Lennox had just given Lindsay a mortal insult. Years ago, the next step would have been a duel and one man left lying in a grave.
“How dare you say that about my uncle!” Portia Townsend demanded.
Lindsay’s eyes narrowed. “Portia, honey, go sit with your grandmother.”
Portia glared at Lennox before slowly, very slowly, walking away, all the while eyeing him like a mongoose facing a cobra.
Hal waited until the child reached safety before he spoke again, his voice coldly disciplined. “Your brother died in a flash flood. Or do you have some knowledge denied to those of us who were there?”
Lennox fairly vibrated with rage, surprising in a man famed for his polished manners.
Rosalind’s blood ran cold. She’d visited many gambling hells with her father and her brothers before their deaths. But she’d rarely seen an atmosphere so edged with violence.
“Perhaps we should speak of your sister, the slut, instead?” Lennox gibed.
“Oh, dear,” David muttered.
Lindsay’s hand clenched on his sword hilt, then released it slowly. “Excuse me?”
Lennox smiled, not kindly. Rosalind’s hand reached instinctively for her pocket Navy Colts before remembering she was wearing women’s clothing.
