Illusion. Emily French
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thoughts spun round in her head like windmills as she carefully wiped the nib of her pen, closed the journal and slipped both into a drawer. Perhaps Mr. Tyson had sent someone? He had seemed quite certain after their little talk two days ago that he would be able to find a suitable prospect.
Since then, she had discovered several flaws in her plan. She touched her lip with the tip of her tongue. Perhaps it was not too late to back out of her hastily conceived strategy?
Needing a moment to consider how she could squash her rash scheme, Sophy unlatched the French window, and stepped outside. Droplets clung to the ironwork balustrade. The view below was flat and uninspiring. A dark canyon of street, and stark black elms outlined against the dull gray sky. Sophy grimaced. Winter was early this year. A wind slanted the rain, blowing a mist into the room.
It reminded her of the gray mist in Mr. Tyson’s banking chambers two days earlier. He had sat there, the smoke from his cigar veiling his eyes, and listened to her. She was sure his brown eyes had been alight with mischief when she had carefully explained what she wanted. But he had been very polite.
Of course, while she had not told any direct lies, she had not been exactly truthful either. She had just let Mr. Tyson assume she was fulfilling her father’s wish that she wed a man who needed her. Where was the line between lie and truth?
It was a little late to issue warnings to herself. Fastening the window latch, Sophy straightened her back, tilted her head proudly and headed for the parlor.
Only nine-twenty! Staring into the face of an ornate ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, Seth Weston asked himself for the hundredth time why he had allowed his ungovernable temper to trap him into traveling all the way to Yonkers.
For what? Dismissal? Ridicule? He’d heard Sophy van Houten had rejected so many suitors her father had laughingly declared she would die an old maid..
Within weeks of Lincoln’s assassination, her father, returning home on the Sultana after arranging the return of Union soldiers from Southern prisons, had been killed when the steamer exploded on the Mississippi. Now she was left quite alone, the old maid her father had predicted, before she was twenty. Also a very wealthy one.
Seth shivered, bent and poked the ashes in the grate with the silver tip of his walking stick. No warmth there. Cold. Cold as last year’s love. Probably as cold and frigid as the van Houten woman. Another shiver ran through him. Hell, it was chilly even for October. He should leave now, before he made a fool of himself.
Instead, he removed his hat and gloves, drew the collar of his jacket higher about his neck, straightened his shoulders and faced the door to await his nemesis.
Small sounds indicated her arrival, light footsteps crossing the hall, a soft musical voice requesting coffee, the rustle of fabric. Dark against the open doorway appeared the shape of a woman dressed in black. She was small. He doubted she reached five feet.
She stood there, perfectly still, a dark shape around whose head the lamplight fashioned a halo of flashing daggers that pierced him with unease. Seth heard her soft exclamation. For a moment she stood there, hand gripping the doorknob as though it were a iifeline. Then, with another exclamation, she swept toward him.
Entering the parlor, Sophy gave an involuntary gasp of surprise and stopped in confusion. Here was a new type, someone she had never seen before. Her heart was in her throat, pounding.
The lean, darkly powerful man who stood aggressively across the room from her was handsome, but there was an uncompromising severity about his dark eyebrows and the hard, controlled line of his mouth. A long, straight nose and firm chin added strength to his features.
Some interesting lines marked his finely chiseled face, giving it an elegant maturity. It was the face of a man who had stood at the doors of hell. Sophy looked at the tall length of him, the splendid breadth of his shoulders, the stiff-legged stance and ebony walking stick.
Stunned, her hand tightened on the doorknob to prevent it from going out to him. Eyes of brilliant blue met hers with some indefinable expression in their depths. Hard. Calculating.
A ruthless man, Sophy decided, and a relentless one. He would go where he wished to go, do what he wanted to do, with implacable will and drive. Her stomach lurched, and for a moment a strange, unfamiliar sense of dizziness almost overwhelmed her.
Sophy was looking for something in life; she did not know what. All the men she had met she could rule. None of her would-be husbands had made her feel as this one did!
She tore her eyes from his assessing gaze with a distinct effort, directing them toward the empty grate. For a moment, she battled with an odd uncertainty. Then she began to breathe again and coherent thought replaced the drumbeat in her head.
Sophy strode forward, hand outstretched. Her slender body moved quickly, and she walked with a purposefulness that few women possessed.
“Good morning. I’m Sophy van Houten. What can I do for you?”
The words were no more than a whisper, and seemed to come out in an exasperated rush. Her heart was pounding so hard, she could scarcely breathe. She looked up at him, but not as far as his eyes. She avoided his eyes. Instead she looked at the slant of his jaw, the wide, uncompromisingly masculine mouth, the curve of his upper lip.
Hell, she couldn’t even look him in the face! All he could see was a swirl of black hair, shiny as a raven’s wing, concealing most of her face. Seth wondered why he felt a vague sense of disappointment. His mouth tightened. Surely she had been aware of his disability when she put forward her audacious proposal to Matt Tyson? Or was this some trick?
His suspicion was a weakness, momentary and unwelcome. But he could not stop the thoughts that buzzed round in his head as he accepted the hand waving vaguely in his direction.
The instant pressure, warm and firm, was like a bolt of electricity to his system. Her head jerked up. Around its edge glowed a shimmering halo. Seth jerked, released himself and fumbled with the collar of his jacket, which, for some reason, suddenly seemed too tight. Even his voice sounded hoarse, as though he had a sore throat.
“Seth Weston. I called to... that is, I was at the bank yesterday going over my affairs with...”
Sophy’s eyes widened at the deep, well-modulated voice, which clipped the words with the precision of an executioner. It was a voice that carried the authority and menace of a master. It would seldom need to be raised.
She rubbed her hand against her skirt to rid it of the nerve-tingling sensation his cold flesh had generated. The tingle grew, radiating out to encompass her entire body.
Face aflame, Sophy feared she looked ridiculous. Breathing raggedly, a strange knot deep in her throat, she blurted, “You’re freezing! Come upstairs. I have a fire going in my drawing room. We can talk there.”
Seth Weston just stood there for a moment, as though he didn’t understand the language she spoke. Sophy knew she was gabbling, but she had to do something to dispel the tension. She shrugged, trying to appear calm and disdainfully unconcerned.
Doubt crossed Seth’s face, but only for a moment. In a strange kind of elfin way, she seemed timid and embarrassed, yet he knew she was playing a game. A dangerous game.
Not only was she flirting with her looks, she was dangling her money as bait. She was even breaking conventions and inviting him to her private drawing room. He thought he saw her game. It was incredible what a wealthy woman would do for amusement.
He quickly weighed his chances of backing out and laughing the whole mess off as a joke, yet something stopped him. Looking down at her, he realized Sophy van Houten interested him. His probing gaze burned into her tense features.
She had a little pointed face and her eyes were huge with some carefully concealed emotion, as if it took an astonishing amount of nerve to confront him. For the first time in months, genuine amusement flared in his blue eyes.
Sophy took a step forward, about to take his hat and gloves, just as Seth shifted his weight to one hip. In her