"Evans?" Richard asked, puzzled about how the shipping magnate fit into all of these plans.
"Yes, Evans. He belongs to that Photographic Society. I want to get his opinion on these pictures."
Josh undressed slowly, being very careful not to look over at the bed, where Felicity already lay. Oddly enough, he hadn't given much thought to how difficult it was going to be sharing a bed with her after so long a period of abstinence. Unfortunately, it was absolutely necessary that he do so. He did not dare ask for separate rooms and let Maxwell know what a sham their marriage was.
The old man had already drawn the battle lines, making it very clear that the two of them were in competition for Felicity. Maxwell would use the same cunning to win her that he had used to amass his considerable fortune. The thought made Josh's blood run cold. And then there was Winthrop. Where he fit into all of this was anybody's guess, but the little weasel had definitely intended to kiss Felicity this afternoon at the train station. If he didn't have designs on her, too, he was the only one around here who didn't. Josh would have his hands full protecting her from both of them.
Sighing wearily, Josh hung his trousers in the intricately carved rosewood wardrobe and began, from habit, to unbutton his underdrawers, but his hands hesitated on the buttons. What was he doing? The last thing he should do was climb into that bed naked. After refastening the buttons, he moved over to the shiny brass light fixture hanging on the wall and turned off the gaslight, grateful that his own experience had been broad enough to include gaslights. There were already far too many things about life in Philadelphia that were a mystery to him.
Felicity sighed in the darkness. He was going to wear his drawers to bed, as if he needed some protection from her. She waited, lying stiffly beneath the silky sheets, until she felt the bed sag under his weight. His movements were careful as he adjusted the bedclothes over him. Not even so much as an elbow brushed against her. She sighed again.
After they had lain there in complete silence for a long time, Felicity spoke. "What do you think of my grandfather?"
Josh knew she wouldn't want to hear his true opinion, so he said, "He seems like a nice enough fellow."
"I guess Blanche was right about him being rich," she remarked.
Josh only grunted.
"I kept thinking all day what a shame it was that Blanche wasn't here," Felicity continued. "She's the one who could really appreciate all this."
"She would have jumped at the chance to have a rich man buy her clothes, too," Josh said, testing her.
But Felicity did not consider the clothes very important, so she only laughed. "Yes, she would. Blanche would take him for all he's worth, too. She'll be so jealous when she finds out."
Felicity waited, but he made no response. Only the sound of his breathing broke the unnatural silence of the room. The warmth from his body seemed to draw her like a magnet, but she dared not move toward him, not when he still lay as stiff as a poker. Not when he still had given no indication he even wanted her. She heard him inhale deeply, and she listened, expecting to hear him sigh into relaxation. Instead, his breath rasped, sounding almost like a moan.
"Joshua?" she asked into the darkness.
"What?"
She sensed his wariness. "Will you… It's been so long… Will you hold me? Just hold me?" she asked, hating the way her voice sounded, like a little girl pleading for a favor.
But he didn't seem to notice. Muttering something that sounded of relief, he turned and wrapped his arms around her in one fluid motion. For a second the nearness of him almost overwhelmed her as desire burst brightly inside of her. The satin smoothness of his heated flesh, the musky maleness of his scent, the tender caress of his roughened hands stirred blessedly familiar sensations to life.
But, she reminded herself, she had only asked him to hold her. To ask more was to betray her promise to him. Even though she had made that promise under duress, she still must keep it. And so she controlled her clamoring desires by sheer force of will and lay motionless in his arms.
Josh cradled her softness to him, enduring the sweetest of torments as visions of the pleasures they had previously known danced provocatively before his mind's eye. He could feel the tension in her slight body and hear the raggedness of her breathing. He knew her desires matched his own, but he also knew she would make no demands. Not now. Not until she had consulted with her doctors, at least. After that, when she knew the truth about the empty years ahead, her demands would be different.
Pulling her closer, he buried his face in the cloud of her hair. "Go to sleep, honey," he urged, hoping that he could do the same.
The dressmaker came early. Felicity and her aunt spent the morning poring over designs and fabric swatches until Felicity's head was spinning and she no longer had a clear idea of exactly how many dresses she was having made. Too many; of that she was certain.
When the dressmaker had finally gone, Felicity found Joshua reading a newspaper downstairs in one of the parlors.
He glanced up and frowned at the somewhat dazed expression on her face. "Is something wrong?"
Felicity shook her head. "I don't think so," she said, and then smiled at her own uncertainty. "It's just that I never did anything like that before. Mademoselle Fabian had so many beautiful designs to choose from that I'm afraid I went a little crazy. Aunt Isabel insisted, though. She even made me order some evening dresses," Felicity reported, wide-eyed. "She said that Richard would be taking us out to the theater and places like that. You can't imagine how formally people here dress."
Josh's frown deepened as he considered this. So Richard was going to take her to the theater, was he?
"Excuse me," Bellwood said from the doorway. "Luncheon is served."
Josh rose to follow Felicity out into the hall, but he paused as he passed Bellwood, letting Felicity go on ahead. "Tell me, Bellwood, what does a gentleman wear to the theater in Philadelphia?"
Bellwood's inscrutable expression wavered just a bit. "Why, evening clothes, Mr. Logan."
Josh chewed on this a moment.
"Excuse me, sir," Bellwood said, lowering his voice. "I couldn't help but notice your wardrobe does not include evening attire. I could perhaps recommend a tailor."
"Perhaps you'd better," Josh allowed wryly.
"If you wish, I can call for the carriage this afternoon to take you to Mr. Maxwell's personal tailor," Bellwood offered.
But Josh shook his head. He didn't need clothes that fancy. "Just any average tailor will do," he said.
"Excuse me, sir," Bellwood contradicted. "If you want to go to the theater with Mr. Winthrop and your wife, you had best go to Mr. Maxwell's tailor and tell them you are his grandson-in-law. That is the only way your clothes will be ready on time."
Josh frowned, hating the very idea of trading on Henry Maxwell's name for a favor.
Bellwood seemed to sense his reluctance. He sweetened the pot a little. "I believe you'll find that Mr. Maxwell's tailor is also the most reasonable in town as regards to price. That is why Mr. Maxwell selected him. It is one of the character traits that has made Mr. Maxwell so wealthy a man," he added with a twinkle.
Josh shook his head in wonder at the butler. "All right, Bellwood. Call up the carriage after lunch."
Henry Maxwell fidgeted uncharacteristically with the bedclothes as he waited for his visitor's opinion. "Well, what do you think, Alex?" he demanded after several minutes.
Alexander Evans, a man who had made a fortune in the shipping business, took his time answering. He examined the photograph in his hands a while longer, his gray head bent close, and then he picked up another picture and compared the two. "They're remarkable, Henry," he decreed at last.