The Calhoun Chronicles Bundle: The Charm School

Too pathetic.

But then, his gently questing mouth strayed upward along her throat, and—almost by accident—she dropped her chin a little, and their lips met.

And the night changed color before her ecstatically closed eyes.

Ye powers, but his kiss felt good. He tasted of rum and sweet juice and some other ineffable flavor. His mouth—the beautiful mouth she had been caught staring at so many times—brushed hers and then increased its pressure and she was astonished at the soft texture of it, the lyrical shape and the way it fit perfectly against hers. She was so startled by the sensations flooding her that she let her jaw go slack, and then something even more astonishing occurred. His tongue slipped into her mouth.

She was certain it had to be an accident; surely it was an unnatural sin to do this…but…she liked it.

She would suffer eternal damnation for this; of that she had no doubt. But she liked it. She loved it. The sinuous slide of his tongue, in and then out, then back in when she surged involuntarily against him, needing and wanting more than she had ever dared to need or want before. Certain places on her body flared to life as if a torch had been touched to them—the tips of her breasts, unbound for the first time in her life. Between her legs in a spot whose existence she had trained herself to deny utterly. The pit of her stomach in which was born a fire that raged beyond quenching.

And then, far too quickly, it was over. He moved his hands to cup her shoulders, and drew back to look at her. “There,” he said. “No worse than a firing squad, was it?”

She felt dazed, disoriented, as if she had awakened in a strange place. She blinked. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never faced a firing squad before.”

“Then you’ll have to trust me,” he said with gentle laughter in his voice. “Poor you.”

“Yes,” she whispered, filled with the torpor and wistfulness of an awakening dreamer. “Poor me.”

Seventeen

Oh this is the place to live—a thought of winter would never enter one’s head.

—Diary of Susan Hathorn,

a sea captain’s wife.

(1855)

Isadora awoke with a smile on her face and the knowledge that she had slept indecently late. Judging by the intense dazzle of sunlight on the plaster wall, it was pressing high noon.

The smile lingered. She knew she should feel guilty, for no one on Beacon Hill, or probably in Boston, or the entire United States for that matter, ever slept this late unless they were ill. Yet Isadora had no more viable excuse than the fact that she had been dancing with a man on a rampart at midnight, and soon after that she had kissed him.

A delicious shiver passed through her body, tingling unbearably until she grew restive and flushed with her thoughts. She got up and went to the washstand to bathe in the cool spring water, but the thoughts wouldn’t leave her alone.

Heavens be. She—Isadora Dudley Peabody—had kissed a man last night.

It was not just any man. It was not just any kiss.

Ryan Calhoun. The most interesting, compelling person she had ever met. The only person who had ever tried to be her friend. But was he trying to be more than that?

She denied it instantly, her practical nature restoring itself. He had pursued her last night, had taken her to a private place and danced with her because they had been at a masquerade. A party where nothing was as it seemed.

In a way, the moments with Ryan were even less real than a dream. Last night stood apart from the rest of her life, glistening with the elusive light of promise and teasing her with the possibility of what might have been.

Trying to remember the kiss was like trying to repossess a wonderful dream after blazing wakefulness had intruded. She could recall what happened, but she could not recapture the magic. Each time she came close to reliving the sensation of his soft lips opening over hers, his nimble fingers skimming down her back, she became lost in a fog of embarrassment and desire that left her flushed and confused.

“I mustn’t think of it,” she told herself stoutly, scraping her hair into a pathetic topknot. The short locks wouldn’t stay put, so she stabbed in more pins. She dressed herself in her familiar corset and berry-brown day dress, frowning at the way the usually crisp fabric hung in limp, pathetic folds.

No matter, she told herself. She had never been vain. She’d never had anything to be vain about. Particularly not now, with her inexpertly shorn hair and her face bleary and wan from staying up too late and dreaming too much the night before.

By the time she stepped out of her chamber into the colonnaded walkway, she felt as gauche and uncertain as she ever had at a Boston dancing party.

Ye powers. What on earth would she say to him?

She was spared from the immediate decision by Ryan himself. She had no sooner taken her place at the breakfast table than he came staggering into the sala, his hair badly combed and the contours of his face blurred by a growth of beard.

“Oh,” he mumbled, his voice gravelly. “You’re up.”

She said nothing. He probably thought she was stunned speechless by the brilliance of his observation.

“Charming,” his mother said, coming into the room with Rose at her side. Two servants arrived to pour the coffee and lay out platters of sweet bread and sliced fruit.

Ryan grunted rudely.

Isadora could scarcely believe this was the same man as the dashing gaucho who had romanced her last night. He added several spoonfuls of sugar to his caffe com leche. She preferred hers bitter. He dug into the chunks of fresh fruit and brioches; she picked at hers. The heat and humidity of the tropics had reduced her appetite dramatically. The one happy effect of the climate was that she hadn’t been bothered by her persistent grippe and sneezing in many weeks.

As they ate, Lily kept glancing anxiously at the door. Each time a servant walked in, she froze, then relaxed.

“She’s not coming back, Mother,” Ryan said with quiet assurance.

“Did Fayette go somewhere?” Isadora asked.

Lily pressed her lips together as if keeping in a sob. Rose nodded gravely. “Last night she ran off with Edison Carneros.”

Lily’s chin quivered, but she looked directly at Isadora as she said, “I thought it was a prank, but I fear Fayette claimed her freedom last night.”

“They probably went to settle at one of the quilombos, where fugitives go,” Rose explained. “They’re rough settlements, but that’s generally where runaways hide.”

“It’s not the end of the world as you know it, Mama.” Ryan sipped his coffee, then with more compassion, added, “He’ll be good to her.”

“She’s my maid. She’s always been my maid. Whatever shall I do?”

“You’ll manage, Mama. You always do.”

“I’m worried about Fayette. She has no idea what life is like.”

“She was a slave, Mama. And you were a slave owner. That was what life was like for her. By running off with Edison, she freed you both. Don’t you understand that?”

Lily’s face paled to chalk white. “How dare you?”

“Somebody in this family had better dare. You’ve managed to wander through life without even saying the word slave. Without even thinking it. Servants, you call them. Maids. Field hands. Laundresses. But they were slaves. Property. Chattel. You owned them, body and soul.”

“Ryan, what’s happened to you? When did you become so harsh?”

“What’s harsh, Mother, is the lash of a slave owner’s whip.”

Tears filled her eyes. “My maid has never felt the touch of a whip. I love Fayette.”