An Heiress to Remember (The Gilded Age Girls Club #3) - Maya Rodale Page 0,26

pleasure, and the best hung in the fragrant air between them.

They were not thinking about picnics. Or merchandizing.

Nearby, a woman was buying one of the hampers and making arrangements for it to be wrapped and delivered to her home later that afternoon.

“I find that ladies don’t wish to be encumbered by their purchases, so we offer a delivery service for all packages,” he explained. “I’ve been given the impression that women prefer not to be reminded of their desires and indulgences by carrying their purchases out of the store. They prefer to enjoy them in the privacy of their own homes.”

The words desire and indulgence and secret hung in the air between them.

He remembered sneaking into her bedroom and hiding behind the curtains while the duke was shown to the formal parlor.

Dalton gave Beatrice a tour through the other displays in the store, from housewares to women’s accessories. Everything was a riot of color and a sensational orgy of textures: the soft whisper of cashmere, the heft of a cut crystal goblet, the gleam of a polished silver brush-and-mirror set, the gorgeous array of silks, satins, and tulles, the heady fragrance from the massive bouquets of fresh-cut blooms that were placed throughout the store.

Dalton had already seen it all. But now he got to watch Beatrice, wide-eyed, drinking it all in. Tracing her fingertips along the soft fabrics, breathing deeply when they passed a bouquet of roses and lilies. She was sinking into that trance of awe and wanting and utterly forgetting everything beyond these marble palace walls.

Rule: make women want.

The secret to his success was this: he wasn’t merely selling stuff. One only needed so much and not more. But that was not what fortunes and legends were made of. Only by constantly stoking a customer’s desire, only by constantly offering an ever changing and utterly tantalizing image of what might be if only she bought that necklace, that dress, that pretty china tea set, could a fortune be made.

Dalton knew this.

He was also good at being immune to all this desire and indulgence. Was.

It was in home furnishings that things fell apart.

“What is this?” Her eyes lit up as she saw the dramatic swath of red draperies. God save him from Beatrice’s eyes when they sparkled with wonder and delight. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“This is the Turkish Corner.”

“Ooh, that’s right! I read about this in the newspaper. You have all the young hearts aflutter and all the old staids in uproar. You have inspired the interior decorating craze of the moment.”

“Precisely the reaction I expected when one of my buyers saw it on a recent trip to Turkey and decided to stage a display in the store.”

He’d known it would cause a scandal, which is exactly why he brought it to the store. The Turkish Corner was a tentlike affair, with soft fabrics creating an intimate cocoon that was barely lit by an arabesque brass lantern. The interior was strewn with plush cushions. The warmth of light, the comfort of the cushions, the sensation of privacy all conspired for seduction.

Neither of them ventured any closer to the display, even though they could certainly enter and really experience the seclusion, the moody light, the sense of being shut away from the whole world. Just him and her. A long dormant, long forgotten flare of lust struck him. He didn’t want to feel that way about her.

My name is Wes Dalton. You stole my love and insulted my honor. I have sworn revenge.

Revenge. Right. That hot burning rage that had driven his every waking moment for years. Sweet, sweet vengeance that was practically his.

Never forget.

But Beatrice, God, Beatrice, was apparently oblivious to his anger and his admittedly awful plans to bankrupt her store, buy it for nothing, burn it to the ground. She looked up at him and flashed a grin as if what happened all those years ago hadn’t happened. And then she asked, “Well, shall we?”

Dalton just stared.

No they shall not. It was a terrible idea. They were enemies. Rivals. The last thing they needed to do was ensconce themselves in a den designed for seduction.

“We shall not,” he said. “But you go right ahead.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

And she did. She pushed the drapes aside and disappeared and he wanted to follow her like he would want to breathe air on a sinking ship. He had always known she was impulsive. Unfiltered. Content to flaunt propriety and say yes to temptation. He just thought they