Kitabı oku: «Society Wives: Secret Lives: The Rags-To-Riches Wife»
Some scandals even money can’t hide; so these men had marriage on their minds!
Society Wives: Secret Lives
Three heart-warming romances from three
favourite Mills & Boon authors!
Society Wives: Secret Lives
The Rags-To-Riches Wife
Metsy Hingle
The Soon-To-Be-Disinherited Wife
Jennifer Greene
The One-Week Wife
Patricia Kay
The Rags-To-Riches Wife
Metsy Hingle
About the Author
METSY HINGLE is the award-winning, bestselling author of series and single-title romantic suspense novels. Known for creating powerful and passionate stories, Metsy’s own life reads like the plot of a romance novel—from her early years in a New Orleans orphanage and foster care, to her long, happy marriage to her husband, Jim, and the rearing of their four children. She recently traded in her business suits and fast-paced life in the hotel and public-relations arena to pursue writing full-time. Metsy loves hearing from readers. For a free bookmark, write to Metsy at PO Box 3224, Covington, LA 70433, USA, or visit her website at www.metsyhingle.com.
For Melissa “MJ” Jeglinski.
A very special lady, an even more special friend.
Prologue
Coming tonight had been a mistake. She didn’t belong here, Lily Miller told herself as she stood at the door of the ballroom and stared at the elegantly dressed men and women. From the looks of the crowd and the amount of diamonds on display, every member of Eastwick, Connecticut society had turned out for the black-and-white ball. And she certainly didn’t belong with them.
She should leave now before she started crying and made a fool of herself. But she couldn’t leave yet—not without telling Bunny Baldwin. After all, it had been Bunny who had insisted Lily attend the masquerade ball in the first place. Bunny had even gone to the trouble of providing her with a proper gown to wear to the fund-raising event.
Remembering the gown, Lily smoothed the skirt with her gloved fingertips. The strapless black confection with the tulle petticoat was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. It was a dress for a princess. Only she wasn’t a princess. She was no one—not even someone’s daughter. Fighting back tears, Lily tried not to think of the detective’s phone call an hour ago, informing her that he’d hit another dead end in the search for her mother.
Face it, Lily. If the woman had wanted you, she never would have left you in that church all those years ago. It’s time to stop wasting time and money searching for someone who doesn’t want you, who never wanted you.
“Dance with me.”
Lily blinked, then found herself staring up into the blue eyes of a tall, dark-haired stranger. He was dressed in a tuxedo and wearing a black mask, and for a moment she wondered whether he was real or if she had imagined him. “Pardon?”
“Come dance with me,” he said and extended his hand.
“Thank you, but I’m not—“
“How can you say no when they’re playing our song?”
“Our song?” Lily repeated and recognized the first chords of “Music of the Night” from Phantom of the Opera. “How can we have a song when we don’t even know one another?”
“Why don’t we change that?” he said and, taking her hand, he led her to the dance floor.
Lily didn’t resist. And the moment he took her into his arms, it was as though a magical web engulfed her. All the pain seemed to dissolve. All she could see were those unwavering blue eyes, looking at her as though she were the only person in the world. All she could feel was the warmth of his body pressed against hers, the heat of his breath on her neck. There was something exciting yet safe about the masks. With the mask, she wasn’t unwanted, unloved Lily Miller. With the mask, she was a woman who was desired, a woman for whom there was no past, no future, only now.
One dance spun into another and another and another still. And when he led her outdoors onto the terrace and kissed her, she didn’t feel the chill in the air. All she felt was the strength of his arms, the hunger in his kiss.
“It’s almost midnight. The ball will be over soon,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“I don’t want the night to end.”
“Neither do I,” she admitted and he kissed her again. He tasted of champagne. He tasted of desire and every nerve in her body sang beneath the feel of his mouth.
“Then don’t let it,” he told her. Reaching into his pocket, he removed a hotel key card. “I’m staying in the hotel tonight. Room 503. Meet me.”
Nervous, Lily reached for the gold locket at her throat, the disc bearing the initial L, that she’d been wearing when the nun had found her in the church. Only the locket wasn’t there. She’d taken it off after the detective’s call, she remembered. And for the first time in her life she didn’t have her locket to hold on to, to remind her that she was reliable, sensible Lily Miller.
“Will you come?” he asked.
Taking the key card, she said, “Yes.”
One
Her secret was safe, Lily Miller reminded herself again as she stared past the sea of mourners to the casket. A crack of thunder sounded overhead and clouds darkened the Eastwick skyline, causing the mid-May temperatures to dip below the fifty-degree mark.
“Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust,” the minister began.
Tears welled in Lily’s eyes and she reached into her coat pocket to retrieve a tissue. Dabbing at her eyes, she thought of the woman she had come to mourn—Lucinda “Bunny” Baldwin, the darling of Eastwick, Connecticut, society, the editor of the titillating Eastwick Social Diary and the woman who, oddly enough, had been her friend. How was it possible that she was dead, the victim of a heart attack at age fifty-two?
Lily thought back to the last time she had seen Bunny—only two days ago. She had been so vibrant, all excited about some juicy new tidbit of gossip that, no doubt, would have appeared in one of her upcoming issues of the Diary.
“We commend the soul of our sister, Lucinda, to You, Lord,” the minister continued.
Guilt tugged at Lily as she remembered Bunny’s knowing looks during the past few months. It had been because of those knowing looks that Lily had tried to avoid crossing paths with the other woman for weeks now. But two days ago her luck had run out. Bunny had arrived early for the Eastwick Cares board meeting and she had been unable to avoid her any longer. When Bunny had started to question her about the night of the black-and-white ball, she’d realized that Bunny had figured out the truth, that she knew her secret. Lily had even feared that it was her secret that Bunny planned to expose in the pages of the Diary. She had been prepared to beg Bunny not to say or print anything, only she’d never gotten the chance. The other board members of Eastwick Cares had begun to arrive and she’d been forced to leave or risk being seen by Jack Cartwright. Yet, as she’d hurried away, she had wished for some way to ensure Bunny’s silence—at least until she could decide what to do.
Be careful what you wish for.
The old adage popped into Lily’s head. She had gotten her wish. She had wanted Bunny’s silence and now she had it. Her secret was safe. But at what cost? Overwhelmed by feelings of guilt, Lily squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.
“May she live on in Your presence, O Lord,” the minister prayed.
Opening her eyes, Lily focused her attention once again on the minister and the service being conducted at the front of the gravesite. “In Your mercy and love, forgive whatever sins she may have committed …”
Lily shifted her gaze to the woman standing to the minister’s right, quietly crying into her handkerchief. She recognized her immediately—Abby Talbot, Bunny’s daughter. She noted the tall, intense-looking man with his arm around Abby and assumed it was Abby’s husband, Luke. She had never met the man, but according to Bunny he traveled a great deal, something that had bothered Bunny. Lily studied Abby. Though she had met her only once, she had liked the other woman. In truth, she had been taken aback by the pretty blond socialite’s warmth. She hadn’t expected someone of Abby Talbot’s social standing to be so welcoming to someone who lacked not only money and a pedigree, but any family whatsoever. Yet, Abby had treated her as an equal. A wave of compassion engulfed Lily as she witnessed the young woman’s grief. She’d known from Bunny’s comments that the two of them had been close. She couldn’t even begin to imagine Abby’s pain at losing her mother so suddenly.
Thinking of Abby’s loss brought home her own. She had lost a friend. While she and Bunny might not have been bosom buddies, and while she had never understood the older woman’s penchant for gossip, the two of them had been friends. And that friendship had been born out of their shared desire to help the underprivileged. Bunny had been fervent in her support of Eastwick Cares with both her time and her money.
But she hadn’t limited her generosity to those who fell under the umbrella of the non-profit agency on whose board she served. No, Bunny had extended that generosity to Lily. She had treated her with kindness, and not just as an employee of Eastwick Cares. In many ways, she’d treated her almost like a daughter or, at the very least, a special friend. No one else had ever come closer to making Lily feel like a fairytale princess. Certainly not when she’d been a child shuffling in and out of the foster-care system. Then again, she hadn’t exactly believed in fairy tales, Santa Claus or the tooth fairy. By the age of six, she had learned that life wasn’t anything like the fairy tales. And while most of the families who took her in were kind, she wasn’t a part of their family. She didn’t belong. She never had. It was a lesson she’d learned quickly. As a result, she had never expected things like fancy clothes or party dresses. Those were for dreamers and silly young girls. She had never been either of those things.
But for some inexplicable reason Bunny Baldwin had been determined to have the grown-up Lily Miller experience the fantasy she’d never known as a girl—attending a party all dressed up in a beautiful gown and feeling as though she belonged. Bunny hadn’t chosen just any party. She’d chosen Eastwick Cares’ major fund-raiser—the black-and-white ball.
As if it had been only yesterday, Lily’s thoughts drifted back to that day last December when Bunny had marched into her office and proclaimed that she had to attend the ball. All Lily’s protests had fallen on deaf ears. Bunny had insisted that her employment as a counselor for the agency required she be there to assist at the event. That had obviously been one of Bunny’s white lies—as Lily had discovered within ten minutes of her arrival at the ball. For some reason, Bunny Baldwin had cast herself in the role of fairy godmother to Lily’s Cinderella. It was the only explanation for the society doyenne tricking her into attending the event and even presenting her with an elegant gown to wear. Oh, Bunny had claimed the dress was something that she’d found in the back of her closet. But she had recognized the quality of the beautiful black gown, Lily admitted, though it wasn’t until she was in the powder room the evening of the ball that she had learned from one of the other women that the gown she was wearing was a vintage Dior.
Another bellow of thunder sounded overhead, jarring Lily from her memories. As the weather continued to deteriorate, Lily huddled in her coat and instinctively placed a hand on her stomach. She should leave now, she told herself. She had already taken a risk just by going to the church, she reasoned. Why push her luck? Every member of Eastwick society had turned out to pay their respects. And the Cartwright family certainly ranked among the city’s elite. No doubt Jack Cartwright had been there among the hundreds of mourners who had filled the church. For all she knew, he was among the small throng who had gathered at the cemetery for the burial. So far, she had managed to avoid him. But what if he saw her? What if Jack recognized her as the mystery woman he had slept with the night of the ball?
Even now, more than five months after the masked ball, she couldn’t believe her behavior had been so out of character. But then, she had hardly been herself that evening, Lily reminded herself. Just thinking about that day and how great her expectations had been when she’d awakened that morning sent another pang of disappointment through her.
She should have known better than to get her hopes up. If she had learned nothing else in her twenty-seven years it was never to expect something simply because she wanted it. Doing so had proven time and again to be a surefire path to disappointment. Yet, she had done just that. She had been so sure that this time it would be different. The detective she’d hired finally had a solid lead. She had believed that at long last she would have the answers she’d been searching for most of her life—who she was, where had she come from, why had she been left at the church all those years ago. Most importantly, she had believed she would finally know the identity of the woman whose soft voice and gentle hands were the only memories she had of her origins.
Only the lead hadn’t panned out. She hadn’t learned anything more about who she was or why she had been abandoned in the church with only a note saying her name was Lily and a gold locket around her neck. Lily reached for the locket that, once more, was on a chain around her neck. She closed her fingers around it and felt the familiar sting of disappointment. She had been more than disappointed that night. She had been devastated. Hitting another dead end when she’d believed she was so close had left her reeling.
She should never had gone to the ball that night—not in the emotional state she’d been in, Lily realized with the wisdom that comes with hindsight. But she hadn’t wanted to disappoint Bunny after she had gone to the trouble of providing her with the gown. Nor had Lily wanted to jeopardize her job by failing to show up. So she had gone—only to discover she wasn’t needed after all. Then, just when she had been about to leave, he was standing in front of her—the tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed stranger—asking her to dance. She had needed something, anything to block out the ache that consumed her. And once she was in his arms, all the pain, all the anguish of disappointment had faded.
There had been only him. The strength of his arms. The warmth of his smile. The feel of his mouth on hers. For one night, she had ceased to be sensible, dependable, predictable Lily Miller who had never done anything remotely reckless in her life. For one night, she had allowed herself to experience passion instead of just reading about it. For one night, she had followed her heart instead of her head. And because she had, she was pregnant and expecting Jack Cartwright’s child.
“Grant her eternal rest, O Lord …”
Shaking off the memory, Lily took a breath, then released it. She scanned the faces of those gathered. Not surprisingly, many of them were familiar—members of Eastwick society, local dignitaries and politicians. Quite a few of them she’d met through her position at Eastwick Cares. Others she knew from the news or social columns. Then she saw him—the tall, dark-haired man standing two rows back from the minister. Her pulse quickened. Even without seeing his face, she knew from the set of his broad shoulders and the conservative cut of his hair that it was Jack Cartwright.
Of course, she hadn’t known it was him at the ball. If she had known that the dashing man with the Tom Cruise smile behind the mask was the newest nominee to the Eastwick Cares board, she might have refused his request to dance. She certainly never would have accepted the key to his hotel room. But she hadn’t known it was him. Or maybe she hadn’t wanted to know. She’d wanted to believe that wearing masks and not exchanging names meant that she could steal those hours of happiness without consequences.
She had been wrong.
Yet, she didn’t regret what had happened, Lily admitted. How could she when the result was that she was going to have a baby? Smoothing a hand over her stomach, she felt a flutter of excitement as she realized that in just under four months, she would be able to hold her baby in her arms. She wanted this child, had from the moment she’d discovered she was pregnant. After being alone all these years, she was finally going to have a family.
You are loved, my baby. You are wanted. You will always be loved. You will always belong.
Silently, she repeated the vows she had made to her unborn child the moment she had learned the baby was growing inside her. And as much as she already loved her child, she struggled once again with her decision to remain silent.
Was she doing the right thing by not telling Jack he was going to be a father? she wondered. But how was she supposed to tell one of Eastwick’s wealthiest and most sought-after bachelors that the stranger he’d spent one night with was pregnant with his child? The answer eluded her—just as it had for nearly five months now.
Or was she simply avoiding the answer rather than risk rejection? She could handle rejection, Lily told herself. But her baby … her baby was another story. She didn’t want her child, even at this stage in his or her life, to be unwanted.
As though sensing her gaze, Jack turned and looked in her direction. He scanned the crowd of mourners as though searching for someone and then his eyes met hers. For the space of a heartbeat, she couldn’t move. She simply stared into those blue eyes. Suddenly his eyes darkened, narrowed, and she realized he had recognized her.
“May her soul and the souls of all the faithfully departed rest in peace…. “
Lily didn’t wait for the minister to finish, she simply turned and fled.
Jack Cartwright stared in disbelief. There she was—the mystery woman from the ball. He’d begun to think he’d dreamed that night, that there had been no beautiful redhead, that there had been no passionate hours spent in his hotel room, that there had been no woman with ghost-blue eyes and skin as soft as silk. But she hadn’t been a dream. She was real. And she was getting away.
“Jack, where are you going?” his mother demanded in hushed tones as she clutched the sleeve of his jacket. “The reverend’s not finished the service.”
Beneath the net veil of Sandra Cartwright’s hat, Jack noted the disapproval in his mother’s eyes. It couldn’t be helped, he told himself as he spied the redhead in the dark coat walking briskly toward the cemetery gates. “I’m sorry. I have to go. There’s someone I have to see.”
“But, Jack—“
Ignoring his mother’s protest and the questioning look his father cast his way, Jack began to maneuver his way toward the rear of the crowd. “Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me,” he repeated in a low voice as he shouldered his way past friends, business associates and acquaintances.
“… and may perpetual light shine upon them.”
Moments later, a chorus of “Amen” rang out and then the crowd began to surge forward while he continued in the opposite direction. “Sorry. Pardon me,” he said as he bumped elbows and dodged hat brims. After he’d finally made his way to the edge of the moving throng, he rushed down a grassy slope toward the cemetery’s entrance where she had exited. When he reached the wrought-iron gates at the entrance, he searched the street in both directions. But he was too late. She was gone, vanished—just as she had vanished from his bed that winter night while he had slept.
Dammit.
He jammed his fingers through his hair. She’d gotten away—again. And he still didn’t even know her name, let alone how to find her.
“Jack? Jack Cartwright, is that you?”
Jack recognized the husky purr of Delia Forrester behind him. Gritting his teeth, he turned to face Frank Forrester’s trophy wife. He didn’t like the woman, hadn’t liked her from the moment the seventy-year-old Frank had shown up at the Eastwick Country Club and introduced the statuesque blonde as his new bride. He considered himself broad-minded enough not to prejudge Delia because of the thirty-year age difference between her and Frank, Jack admitted. After all, he’d witnessed the success of Stuart and Vanessa Thorpe’s May-December marriage during the last years of Stuart’s life. Nor did he pay heed to the rumors about Delia spending Frank’s money as though it was water. What he did hold against Delia was the fact that the woman had come on to him—and she’d done it practically under her husband’s nose. He didn’t trust Delia and, for the life of him, he didn’t understand why Frank did. “Hello, Delia,” he said and cast another glance down the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of his mystery woman again.
“I thought that was you I saw leaving the service in such a hurry.” She looked down the street in the direction where his attention was focused. “Looking for someone?”
“I thought I saw someone I knew and I was hoping I’d be able to catch her.”
“What’s her name?” she asked and placed a hand on her hip, drawing attention to the way the shiny black all-weather coat had been cinched at the waist. He couldn’t help wondering how the woman walked in the killer heels she had on. She tossed her platinum-blond hair back in a way he suspected was supposed to draw his interest, and stared at him out of brown eyes that were dry and clear, not a bit of smudged mascara in sight. She licked her lips, making the blood-red lipstick glisten. “Maybe I know her.”
Jack considered that for a moment and couldn’t help noting the marked contrasts between his mystery redhead and Delia. The chances of Delia knowing his mystery woman were slim to none. “I doubt it. She doesn’t move in your circles.”
“Well, I’m sure she’ll be sorry to have missed you. I know I would.”
Choosing to ignore the overture, Jack asked, “Where’s Frank?”
She sighed. “He’s waiting in the car. You know how weak he’s been since his heart attack and since it looked like it might rain, I didn’t think it would be a good idea for him to be out in this damp air.”
“How considerate of you.”
“I was trying to be,” she said, a wounded look in her eyes.
Regretting his sharp tone, Jack told himself he wasn’t being fair. Maybe he had misjudged the woman, he reasoned. After all, from all accounts Delia had seemed to pay considerable attention to Frank since his heart attack. “You were right to have Frank wait in the car. The damp air probably isn’t good for him.”
“That’s what I told Frank. Unfortunately, being an invalid isn’t easy for him. It’s not easy for me either.” She lowered her gaze a moment, then looked back up at him. “Frank’s not the man he was before his heart attack. There’s so many things that he can’t do now.”
“Then I guess he’s lucky to have you to help him,” Jack told her and decided he hadn’t misjudged Delia after all.
“That’s what Frank says, too. And I don’t mind. Really, I don’t. But every now and then it feels so overwhelming,” she continued and took a step closer. “It makes me wish I had someone that I could lean on, someone who would take care of my needs for a change.”
“Maybe you should get a nurse to help you with Frank,” Jack suggested, ignoring the obvious invitation. He took a step back. “I’m sure Frank’s doctor could recommend someone.”
Temper flashed in Delia’s eyes, but it was gone so quickly Jack wondered if he’d imagined it. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly trust Frank’s care to anyone else—not after that close call he had. Why, I don’t know what I’d do if something happened and I lost my Frank.”
“Somehow I think you’d manage. But hopefully you won’t have to because Frank will be with us for a long, long time.”
“Of course he will,” she said. “But enough talk about Frank and my problems. What I want to know is if the rumors are true? Are you really planning to run for the state senate?”
Jack frowned. “Where did you hear that?”
“Never mind where I heard it. Is it true?”
He supposed it had been foolish of him to think that word wouldn’t get out, Jack told himself. He had been approached by a group of business leaders and asked to run for the soon-to-be-vacated seat. As yet, he hadn’t made up his mind. He still wasn’t sure he was ready to take on the demanding task of a campaign and life in the public eye—which was why he hadn’t wanted the news to get out. “I haven’t decided whether to run or not,” he answered honestly. “But I am considering it.”
Delia brought her hands together. “Oh, but you have to run, Jack. You’d make such a wonderful senator. Everyone thinks so,” she said with a smile. “And of course you know you can count on my support.”
“Thanks,” he told her.
“You must let me host a party for you.”
“I appreciate that, but, as I said, I haven’t decided to run yet,” he told her just as thunder boomed overhead. Grateful for the interruption, he noted the crowd beginning to disperse as the sky darkened and rain scented the air. “I should go pay my respects to Abby and Luke before the rain hits. Give my best to Frank.”
Delia turned up the collar of her coat and glanced at the threatening skies. “You might want to wait until you get to Abby’s.” She paused. “You are going to Abby’s house, aren’t you?”
“For what?”
“The after-service reception. At a time like this, Abby needs the support of all of her friends. I’m bringing a layer cake.”
“I see,” he said, surprised. He wouldn’t have pegged Delia as a friend of Abby’s. After all, everyone in Eastwick knew that Abby was part of the Debs Club—the name the members of the country club had given the group of women who met regularly for lunch at the club. As far as he knew, Delia wasn’t a part of that circle.
As though reading his thoughts, Delia said, “Just because I’m not part of the Debs Club doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad for Abby. I do. After all, I know what it’s like to lose a parent. I lost both of mine when I was a teenager.”
“I’m sorry,” he said when he saw tears filling her eyes. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s all right,” she said and dabbed at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “I don’t like to talk about it.” She sniffed and shoved the handkerchief into the pocket of her coat. “I’d better go. Frank’s waiting for me. But you should go to the Talbots. Maybe your lady friend will be there.”
She wasn’t there, Jack decided after spending the better part of an hour moving from room to room in Abby and Luke Talbot’s home. She wasn’t there, but practically everyone else was. Half the members of the Eastwick Country Club were there. So were most of the politicians, the newspaper editor and the entire board of Eastwick Cares. As he scanned the room in search of his mystery woman, he noted Luke Talbot excusing himself from a group and disappearing down the hall. He couldn’t help but note the way Abby’s eyes followed her husband.
A hand came down on his shoulder. “Jack, my boy, I’ve been looking for you.”
Turning, Jack stared at his father. At sixty-eight, John was the picture of health. He kept his six-foot frame just under two hundred pounds. The tan he’d acquired from his weekly round of golf at the country club accented his silver hair and gray eyes. He suspected his father’s recent retirement from the law firm accounted for his relaxed demeanor. “Hey, Dad.”
“You looked like you were in a bit of a hurry when you left the funeral service. Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.”
His father eyed him skeptically. “You sure there’s no problem at the office? Because if there is, you know I’ll be happy to help out.”
“Relax, Dad,” Jack told him, knowing that his father had not found it easy to turn over the reins of the law firm he’d founded, even though he had wanted the freedom of retirement. “Everything at the office is fine. I just saw a friend at the service that I’d been trying to reach for a while.”
His father arched his eyebrow. “Did you catch up with her?”
“I never said it was a woman. But no, I missed her.” Not wanting to give his father the chance to question him further about who she was, he said, “You said you were looking for me. Did you need something?”
“Your mother wanted me to tell you that she brought a spinach quiche. It’s one of her new recipes and she wants you to be sure to try it. It’s in the dining room.”
Jack grimaced. His mother was a lousy cook. When he’d been growing up, the lady had managed to burn, undercook and virtually ruin more meals than his stomach cared to remember. Unfortunately, she loved to cook and neither he nor his two sisters nor his father had ever had the heart to tell her how truly awful she was at it. Thankfully, their housekeeper Alice did most of the cooking. But his mother continued to astound them with new recipes. “Is it as bad as her liver mousse?”
“Nothing’s as bad as her liver mousse,” his father said dryly. “Come on, she’s looking this way.”
Jack followed his father into the dining room and was directed toward the quiche. Reluctantly he placed a serving on his plate. Looking up at his father, he asked, “Aren’t you having any?”
His father smiled. “I had some last night. Now it’s your turn.”
“I hope my stomach will forgive me,” Jack muttered and shoveled a bite of the quiche into his mouth. The egg-and-spinach mixture seem to expand inside his mouth and he forced himself to swallow it.
“Here,” his father said and handed him a glass of water.
Jack washed it down, then shuddered. While his father chuckled, Jack took the remainder of the serving and dumped it in the trash. After wiping his mouth with a napkin, he told his father, “You’re a better man than I am. I don’t know how you do it.”
