An Heiress to Remember (The Gilded Age Girls Club #3) - Maya Rodale Page 0,89
the stories, it’s the man who proposes,” he pointed out.
“You and your rules,” she sighed. “I think all that matters is we end up together and make our own happy-ever-after. Don’t you?”
Dalton pulled her into his arms and said, “I do.”
His mouth met hers and they kissed, like it was everything he’d ever wanted, like his heart was going to explode with the pleasure of it, like nothing else in the world mattered. Not the bustle of Broadway outside his office window, not the six floors of commerce and desire below them, not all the years they had missed out on.
All that mattered was this moment, here and now, and the promise of forever.
“Wait—” he said as something occurred to him. Dalton stepped back and reached into his desk drawer for a certain blue velvet box. Then he dropped to one knee and opened the box to reveal a diamond ring. He was all in favor of the unconventional if it meant being with Beatrice, but he couldn’t completely shake tradition.
“Shall we, Beatrice?”
“Yes,” she sighed. “Yes, we shall.”
Dalton slipped the ring on her finger. And they kissed, mouths and hearts colliding, losing track of where he ended and she began. They kissed like it was the only thing that mattered.
Epilogue
New York City, 1899
Four years later
Dalton never ceased to be in awe of the sight of Beatrice standing before the windows of her office, formerly his. She had such a commanding presence as she surveyed the city outside—the crush on Broadway and the former construction site across the street where Goodwin’s used to stand.
She cut a fine figure in her deep blue tailored day dress and jacket.
This was the version of Beatrice Dalton-Goodwin that the world got to see. The impressive businesswoman, the fierce advocate for women’s rights, a lady always ready to lend a helping hand to others.
And then there was the version of Beatrice that only he got to know. For instance, he happened to know that underneath she wore the most wicked and wonderful undergarments in that Wild Rose Pink silk. The pink silk, soft skin, quiet whispers and moans version that was for him and him alone.
As if sensing him, she turned and smiled and said, “Oh, hello, Dalton.” It still took his breath away.
She took a long, indulgent look at him in his suit and he grinned. The missus did like the way he looked in a suit; almost as much as she liked how he looked without it.
“Shall we?”
“We shall.”
They linked arms and he proudly escorted her from the office to the sales floor, down the impressive central staircase, past housewares and ladies attire and home furnishings and personal accessories. She’d made some changes to the store and the decor, all to keep up with changing times, all of which ensured that the store—now called Dalton-Goodwin’s—was still the premier shopping destination in Manhattan and thus the world. There was still no name on the building; everyone just knew.
Dalton didn’t miss it and the store was now her domain. He had found his after and he’d never been happier. His days were now kept busy with his philanthropic endeavors. It was hard work spending the third greatest fortune of the age, but he was up to the task. They were off to a launch celebration now for one project that was of particular interest to them both.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Dalton. Mr. Dalton.”
Shopgirls greeted them by name, with smiles as they passed through the main floor, with perfumes, cosmetics, drinks, and other little things. They joined the crush of customers browsing and pursuing as they made their way from the register to the door, carrying their purchases in distinct pink bags. There was no need to print the name of the store on them. Everyone just knew.
“It looks like you have quite the crush,” he said as they could barely get across Broadway, to where Goodwin’s used to stand. A crowd of mostly women had gathered. He recognized Beatrice’s friends, but there were many women who simply must have seen the advertisement in the newspaper about today’s event.
“We should have shut down the street.”
“You might have to yet.”
Something special was happening today.
A christening, of sorts.
A ribbon cutting.
Four years earlier, Goodwin’s had been burned to the ground in an act of arson by an angry man who couldn’t handle losing out to a woman. He had tried to send a message to Beatrice and all the other women like her: shut up and go home. A lesser man or woman might have been scared, but Beatrice and her friends were made of stern stuff.
The rubble had been cleared.
Plans had been drawn up by Marian Morgan, architect. Construction had commenced and gone on and on and on, and now the building was finally done.
The original Goodwin’s could never be replaced. But in its place rose another building, magnificent in its own way. It was a residential building called The Goodwin full of apartment flats, exclusively for single women.
Ten floors of small apartments that were safe, clean, and affordable. The Goodwin would provide a room of one’s own for shopgirls, typists, secretaries, and future lady bosses, or any woman who needed a safe place to lay her head while striking out alone in the world.
Upon arrival, Beatrice and Dalton were swarmed by her friends Harriet, Ava, Adeline, Daisy, and Eunice.
“Should we smash a bottle of champagne against it, like a ship?” Ava asked.
“And waste a bottle of champagne?” Harriet retorted. “Absolutely not.”
“Good point.”
After some speeches and congratulations, Beatrice cut the giant Wild Rose Pink ribbon. The crowd cheered. After, Beatrice pulled him aside with a mischievous gleam in her eye.
“Meet me at the store later?” she whispered. “Let’s say housewares, at closing hour?”
“There’s nowhere I’d rather be than with you,” he murmured. And then Dalton swept her into a kiss that had the crowd cheering and girls pretending to swoon.