An Heiress to Remember (The Gilded Age Girls Club #3) - Maya Rodale Page 0,5
the fast-paced New York life. What did she know about anything? She was just some flighty society girl, some disastrous duchess, some dried-up divorcée.
She was foolish and useless and used up. Or so the duke had said. Roared, really.
She crouched down to tend to the fire.
“Why don’t you find a new husband instead?” Edward asked of her backside. Beatrice took a deep breath and let out a slow exhale and concentrated on the fire and not smacking her brother with the poker.
“One of the Schermerhorn boys is said to be looking for a wife,” mother said, perking up. “Another marriage would help everyone forget about your failure with the duke.”
And just like that Beatrice was eighteen again. Full of hopes and dreams and told to make herself pretty and docile so she could be fobbed off on someone else who would tell her how to style her hair, with whom to associate, and what was appropriate reading material. Someone who would admonish her not to walk too fast or talk so much or laugh so loudly.
Except she wasn’t eighteen any longer. She was a grown woman who had endured years of petty slights and outright commands to shrink her body, silence her tongue, stifle her spirit, and otherwise mold herself into a pretty little vessel called Perfect Lady. No longer.
Against all odds, she had escaped.
Every moment now was her second chance.
Beatrice coaxed a little flame out of that last ember. She blew softly upon it and set her mouth in a satisfied smile as it caught into a full-blown flame. The fire, finally, caught flame. It sparked into something bright, hot, and dangerous.
Just like her.
She stood, brushed her hands off on her skirt, ignored her mother’s gasp of horror at the ruined dress, and said, “Friday, you say?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t matter,” Edward said. “We’re going to sell and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Chapter Three
Dalton’s Department Store
Tenth and Broadway
The next day
“Good morning, Mr. Dalton.”
Wes gave the shopgirl a wink as he passed through her department and onto the next. Like all the others, she was well turned out in her freshly pressed uniform and ready for another busy day to begin.
It was all part of the routine.
At precisely a quarter to nine each morning, he left his office on the top floor and took the long way to the front entrance of the store, passing through every department of his store on his way.
Home furnishings on six, fabrics on five, women’s fashions on four, goods for men on three, accessories and seasonal displays on two. He made observations, gave orders, and ensured that everything was in perfect order. He strolled down the sweeping, dramatic staircase to the center aisle which led past a maze of enticing displays—everything from gloves and diamonds—onward to the distinct revolving door that opened onto Broadway.
At precisely nine o’clock he would unlock it.
This morning, Connor caught up with him on the second floor, in the middle of the newly installed soda fountain, a few minutes shy of the opening hour. They kept walking at a brisk pace down to the main sales floor.
“What’s the news, Connor?”
Sam Connor was his second in command, the one person in the world whom Dalton could rely on. They had come up together from nothing and succeeded despite all odds stacked against them. Dalton had the vision and the daring; Connor knew how to get things done.
They got plenty done.
Creating the most dazzlingly successful department store in Manhattan, for instance.
Because Dalton knew how to create spectacles that sparked desire and longing in the heart of the beholder. He had a skill, honed over years of practice: how to make women want things they never knew they needed. He knew how to lower the defenses between a woman’s better judgment and her purse.
He knew how to spark visions and kindle dreams of the women they could be and the beautiful lives they could have . . . If only she had the right hat or dress or china on her dining room table.
He hadn’t always known how to do this.
A broken heart gave him the motivation to learn and a deal with the devil gave him the opportunity.
Sixteen years later he had earned a fortune from women, specifically the type of society women who had thought nothing of flirting with him but would never consider him for, say, marriage, if they knew who he really was. And so Dalton extracted a fortune from the lot of them, one pair of