Veronica Gamble was a Southerner by birth, if not by inclination. Born in Charleston, she had married the portrait painter Francis Gamble when she was barely eighteen. For the next fourteen years, they’d divided their time between Florence, Paris, and Vienna, where Francis had charged outrageous prices for flattering portraits of the wives and children of the aristocracy.
When her husband had died the previous winter, Veronica was left comfortably well off, if not wealthy. On a whim, she’d decided to return to South Carolina and the brick house that her husband had inherited from his parents. It would give her time to assess her life and decide what she wanted to do next.
In her early thirties, she was striking in appearance. Her auburn hair was pulled softly back from her face and fell in lustrous curls over the nape of her neck. Setting off its coppery hues were a pair of slanted eyes, almost as green as her fashionable Zouave jacket. On any other woman her full bottom lip would have been obtrusive, but on her it was sensual.
Although Veronica was considered a great beauty, her thin nose was a bit too long, her features too angular for true beauty. No man, however, seemed to notice. She had wit, intelligence, and the intriguing quality of watching those around her with an amused eye while she waited to see what life had in store.
She eased toward the doors at the back of the church, where the Reverend Cogdell was greeting his flock as they filed out. “Ah, Mrs. Gamble. How pleasant to have you with us this morning. I don’t believe you’ve met Miss Dorthea Calhoun. And this is Mr. Cain of Risen Glory. Where has Katharine Louise gone? I wanted you to meet her, too.”
Veronica Gamble had no interest in either Miss Dorthea Calhoun or anyone named Katharine Louise. But she was very much interested in the dazzling man who stood next to the pastor, and she gracefully inclined her head. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Mr. Cain. Somehow I’d expected horns.”
Rawlins Cogdell winced, but Cain laughed. “I wish I’d been as fortunate to have heard of you.”
Veronica slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. “The matter is easily remedied.”
Kit had heard Cain’s laughter, but she ignored it to focus her attention on Brandon. His regular features were even more attractive than she’d remembered, and the stray lock of straight brown hair that tumbled over his forehead as he talked was endearing.
He couldn’t have been more different from Cain. Brandon was polite where Cain was rude. And she didn’t have to worry about him mocking her. He was every inch a Southern gentleman.
She studied his mouth. What would it feel like to kiss it? Very exciting, she was certain. Much more pleasant than Cain’s assault the day she’d arrived.
An assault she’d done nothing to stop.
“I’ve thought about you quite often since we met in New York,” Brandon said.
“I’m flattered.”
“Would you like to ride with me tomorrow? The bank closes at three. I could be at Risen Glory within the hour.”
Kit gazed up at him through her lashes, an effect she’d practiced to perfection. “I’d enjoy riding with you, Mr. Parsell.”
“Until tomorrow, then.”
With a smile, she turned away to acknowledge several young men who’d been patiently waiting for a chance to speak with her.
As they vied for her attention, she noticed Cain deep in conversation with an attractive auburn-haired woman. Something about the attentive way the woman was gazing up at him grated on Kit. She wished he’d glance in her direction so he could see her so well surrounded by masculine company. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to notice.
Miss Dolly had been engaged in animated conversation with the Reverend Cogdell and his wife, Mary, who was her distant relative and the one who’d recommended her as a chaperone. Kit realized the Cogdells were looking increasingly bewildered. She hastily excused herself and hurried to Miss Dolly’s side.
“Are you ready to leave, Miss Dolly?”
“Why, yes, darlin’. I haven’t seen the Reverend Cogdell and his dear wife, Mary, in years. What a joyous reunion, hampered only by the recent events at Bull Run. Oh, but that’s old folk’s conversation, darlin’. Nothin’ for you to worry your pretty young head about.”
Cain must have sensed disaster, too, for he materialized at Kit’s side. “Miss Calhoun, the carriage is waiting for us.”
“Why, thank you, General—” Miss Dolly gasped and pressed her fingers to her mouth. “I—I mean Major, of course. Silly me.” With her ribbons all aflutter, she scampered toward the carriage.
The Reverend Cogdell and his wife stared after her in open-mouthed astonishment.
“She thinks I’m General Lee living in disguise at Risen Glory,” Cain said bluntly.
Rawlins Cogdell began to wring his pale, thin hands in agitation. “Major Cain, Katharine, I do apologize. When my wife recommended Dolly Calhoun for the post of chaperone, we had no idea— Oh, dear, this will never do.”
Mary Cogdell’s small brown eyes were filled with remorse. “This is all my fault. We’d heard she was nearly destitute, but we had no idea she was feebleminded.”
Kit opened her mouth to protest, but Cain cut her off. “You needn’t worry about Miss Calhoun. She’s settling in comfortably.”
“But Katharine can’t possibly stay at Risen Glory with you under these circumstances,” the minister protested. “Dolly Calhoun is hardly a proper chaperone. Why, she must have spoken to a dozen people today. By this afternoon everyone in the county will know about her. This won’t do. It won’t do at all. The gossip will be dreadful, Mr. Cain. You’re far too young a man—”
“Kit is my ward,” he said.
“Nonetheless, there’s no blood bond between you.”
Mary Cogdell gripped her prayer book. “Katharine, you’re an innocent young woman, so I’m sure it hasn’t occurred to you how this will look to others. You simply can’t stay at Risen Glory.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Kit replied, “but I’ve been away from my home for three years, and I don’t intend to leave again so quickly.”
Mary Cogdell looked at her husband helplessly.
“I assure you that Miss Dolly is a stickler for the proprieties,” Cain surprised her by saying. “You should have seen her fussing over Kit this morning.”
“Still . . .”
Cain inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse us, Reverend Cogdell, Mrs. Cogdell. Please don’t trouble yourself any further.” He took Kit’s arm and led her toward the carriage, where Miss Dolly was already waiting.
Rawlins Cogdell and his wife watched the carriage drive away. “There’s going to be trouble there,” the minister said. “I can feel it in my bones.”
Kit heard the crunch of gravel and knew Brandon had arrived. She rushed to the cheval glass to check her reflection and saw a proper young lady in a riding habit gazing back at her. There were no boy’s clothes for her today, and no Temptation, either. She’d resigned herself to a sidesaddle and poor Lady.
That morning, while the sky was still the pale, soft pink of the underside of a seashell, she’d raced across the fields on Temptation. The wild, exhilarating ride was much different from what she could expect this afternoon.
She had to admit her new riding habit was flattering, no matter how much she disliked the idea of wearing it. Made of crimson broadcloth trimmed in black braid, the jacket fit her snugly in the bodice and accented her waist. The full skirt fell in graceful folds to the hem, which was decorated with a deep border of black braid in a swirling pattern that looked like a chain of script L’s.
She checked to make certain there were no hanging threads or hooks that had escaped her notice. The four black frogs that held together the front of the jacket were all fastened, and her hat was on straight. It was black, a feminine version of a man’s stovepipe, but with a lower, softer crown and a wisp of crimson veiling trailing from the back. She’d fastened her hair in a neat bun at the nape of her neck and even polished her boots.
Satisfied t
hat she looked her best, she snatched up her riding crop and left the room, giving no thought at all to the black kid riding gloves lying in her glove box. When she reached the hallway, she heard voices coming from the piazza. To her consternation, she saw Cain standing in the drive talking to Brandon.
Once again she was struck by the contrast between the two men. Cain was much bigger, but that wasn’t all that set them apart. Brandon was properly dressed in hat, coat, and trousers, with a bottle-green four-in-hand showing above the top of his vest. The clothes were old and no longer of the most fashionable cut, but they were neatly pressed, and he wore them well.
As for, Cain, he was bareheaded and wearing an open-collared shirt rolled at the sleeves and a pair of muddy trousers. He stood in an easy slouch, one hand stuffed into his pocket, a dirty boot propped on the bottom step. Everything about Brandon indicated culture and breeding, while Cain looked like a barbarian.
Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer before she clutched her riding crop more tightly and walked forward. Lady waited patiently next to the mounting block. The old sidesaddle Kit had found in the attic rested on the horse’s back.
Kit gave Cain a cool nod and Brandon a smiling greeting. The admiration in his eyes told her that the efforts she’d taken with her appearance hadn’t been in vain. Cain, however, seemed to be enjoying some private joke, one she quickly realized was at her expense.
“You watch yourself today, Kit. Lady can be a real handful.”
She gritted her teeth. “I’m sure we’ll get along fine.”
Brandon made a motion to help her mount, but Cain was quicker. “Allow me.”
Brandon turned away with obvious displeasure to mount his own horse, and Kit placed her fingers in Cain’s outstretched hand. It felt strong and much too competent. After she’d settled into the sidesaddle, she looked down to see him gazing at her cumbersome skirts.
“Now who’s the hypocrite?” he asked softly.
She gazed over at Brandon and gave him a blinding smile. “Now, Mr. Parsell, don’t you ride too fast for me, y’hear? I’ve been up North for so long, my riding skills are rusty, ’deed they are.”
Cain snorted and walked away, leaving her with the pleasant sensation that she’d had the last word.
Brandon suggested they ride to Holly Grove, his former home. As they trotted down the drive toward the road, Kit watched him covertly studying the planted fields that stretched out on both sides of them. She could only hope he was already making plans.
Holly Grove had been put to the torch by the same soldiers who’d spared Risen Glory. After the war, Brandon had returned to a crumbled ruin and blackened chimneys already overgrown with wild grape vines and blackberry brambles. He hadn’t been able to pay the punishing taxes on the land, and everything had been confiscated. Now it stood idle.
They dismounted near what had once been the smokehouse. Brandon tied the horses, then took Kit’s arm and led her toward the ruins of the house. They’d been chatting pleasantly as they rode, but now he fell silent. Kit’s heart swelled with pity.
“It’s all gone,” he finally said. “Everything the South believed in. Everything we fought for.”
She gazed at the devastation. If Rosemary Weston hadn’t taken that Yankee lieutenant into her bedroom, this would have been the fate of Risen Glory.
“The Yankees laugh at us, you know,” he went on. “They laugh because we believe in chivalry and honor. But look what happens when there’s no chivalry and when honor’s turned into a joke. They take away our land, tax us until we can’t buy bread. Radical Reconstruction is the Almighty’s curse on us.” He shook his head. “What have we done to deserve so much evil?”
Kit stared up at the twin chimneys, like great ghostly fingers. “It was the slaves,” she heard herself saying. “We’re being punished for keeping human beings in slavery.”
“Poppycock! You lived with the Yankees too long, Kit. Slavery is God’s plan. You know what the Bible says.”
She did know. She’d heard it preached often enough from the pulpit of the slave church by white ministers the plantation owners sent to remind their people that God approved of their enslavement. God had even issued instructions regarding a slave’s obligations to his master. Kit remembered Sophronia sitting by her side during these sermons, stiff and pale, unable to reconcile what she was hearing with the loving Jesus she knew.
Brandon took her arm and led her back along the overgrown path, away from the house. Their mounts were peacefully grazing in the clearing near the smokehouse. Kit walked over to a tree that had fallen long ago in a storm and sat on the trunk.
“It was a mistake bringing you here,” Brandon said as he came up beside her.
“Why?”
He stared off toward the blackened chimneys in the distance. “This makes the differences between us all the more apparent.”
“Does it? Neither of us has a home. Remember that Risen Glory’s not mine. Not yet, anyway.”
He gave her a searching look. She plucked at a piece of tree bark. “I only have a month, and then Cain’s going to force me to go back to New York.”
“I can’t tolerate the idea of your living in the same house with that man,” he said, sitting next to her on the tree trunk. “Everybody who came into the bank today was talking about it. They say Miss Calhoun’s not a fit chaperone. You watch yourself with Cain, you hear? He’s not a gentleman. I don’t like him. Don’t like him at all.”
She was warmed by Brandon’s concern. “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
And then she deliberately tilted her face up to him, slightly parting her lips. She couldn’t let this excursion end without kissing him. It was something she had to do so she could erase Cain’s brand on her mouth.
And on your senses, a small voice whispered.
It was true. Cain’s kiss had set fires in her blood, and she needed to prove to herself that Brandon Parsell could spark those same fires.
His eyes were partially shadowed by the brushed beaver brim of his gray hat, but she could see him looking at her mouth. She waited for him to come closer, but he didn’t move. “I want you to kiss me,” she finally said.
He was shocked by her forwardness. She saw it in his frown. His attitude irritated her even as it endeared him to her.
She reached up and gently lifted off his hat, noticing as she laid it aside that there was a small red line across the upper part of his forehead from the band. “Brandon,” she said quietly, “I only have a month. There isn’t time for me to be coy.”
Even a gentleman couldn’t ignore so bold an invitation. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers.
Kit noticed that his lips were fleshier than Cain’s. They were also sweeter, she decided, since they remained politely closed. This was a tender kiss compared with Cain’s. A pleasant kiss. His lips were dry, but his mustache seemed a little rough.
Her mind was wandering, and she brought her attention back to what she was doing by lifting her arms and throwing them enthusiastically around his neck.
Were his shoulders a little narrow? It must be her imagination, because they were very solid. He began trailing kisses across her cheek and the line of her jaw. His mustache scratched the sensitive skin, and she winced.
He pulled back from her. “I’m sorry. Have I frightened you?”
“No, of course not.” She swallowed her disappointment. The kiss hadn’t proved anything. Why couldn’t he set aside his scruples and do the job right?
No sooner had she thought this than she admonished herself. Brandon Parsell was a gentleman, not a Yankee barbarian.
He dropped his head. “Kit, you must know that I wouldn’t hurt you for anything in the world. I apologize for my lack of restraint. Women like you are to be cherished and shielded from the more sordid aspects of life.”
She felt another prickle of irritation. “I’m not made of glass.”
“I know that. But I also want you to know that if anything . . . permanent were to happen
between us, I would never debase you. I’d bother you as little as possible with my own needs.”
This was something she understood. When Mrs. Templeton had spoken about Eve’s Shame, she’d told them there were husbands who were most considerate of their wives, and they should pray to marry such a man.
She was suddenly glad Brandon’s sweet kisses hadn’t stirred a raging fire in her. Her response to Cain had been nothing more than a reaction to the strange emotions of being home again.
Now she was more certain than ever that she wanted to marry Brandon. He was everything a woman could want in a husband.
He made her put on her hat so she wouldn’t get sunburned and gently chastised her for forgetting her gloves. As he fussed over her, she smiled and flirted, playing the Southern belle to perfection.
She reminded herself that he was accustomed to a different sort of woman, one who was quiet and retiring like his mother and his sisters, and she tried to restrain her normally impulsive tongue. Still, she managed to shock him with her opinions about Negro suffrage and the Fifteenth Amendment. As two small furrows etched themselves between his eyes, she knew she had to make him understand.
“Brandon, I’m a well-educated woman. I have opinions and ideas. I’ve also been on my own for a long time. I can’t be what I’m not.”
His smile didn’t quite erase the furrows. “Your independence is one of the things I most admire about you, but it’s going to take a while for me to get used to it. You’re not like the other women I know.”
“And do you know a lot of women?” she teased.
Her question made him laugh. “Kit Weston, you’re a minx.”
Their conversation on the ride back to Risen Glory was a happy combination of gossip and reminiscences. She promised to go on a picnic with him and let him escort her to church on Sunday. As she stood on the porch and waved good-bye, she decided that, all in all, the day had gone well.