Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

“Yes,” he said finally, “I suppose that I do—in a way.”

“Well, my dear, you knocked the conceit out of Celeste’s sails, let me tell you.”

“What the hell do you mean, Maggie?” He felt shaken. He didn’t like it one bit.

Maggie made a show of shaking out her black silk skirts. “You called out ‘Byrony’ when you, ah, took your pleasure.”

“Shit,” Brent said.

“I gather,” Maggie said, watching him intently, “that you do know someone named Byrony.”

“I knew her for less time than it takes to smoke a cigar.”

“Then you, my dear Mr. Hammond, have a problem. Your cigar probably does too. Now, what do you think of the wallpaper? You don’t think it’s too flamboyant, do you?”

FOUR

If was not the first time Byrony had felt nervous on this, her wedding day. But now her nervousness had become terror. It was night now, the evening meal at a close, and they were aboard the Flying Sun. She stared hard toward the few receding flickering lights of San Diego. Over and over she asked herself why she had married this man. As always, the reason was obvious enough: she’d had no choice, none at all. Remaining in his house, had she refused, would have meant utter misery for both her and her mother.

“I am glad the ocean is calm and the sky clear,” Ira said.

“Yes,” Byrony said. “The stars look like bright gems. I should like to stay on deck for a while, to admire everything.” She didn’t look at her new husband; she couldn’t. She had no desire to see the cabin belowdeck, no desire to see the bed she would have to share with him.

“I should too,” Ira said, and moved to stand beside her. “Like to stay on deck and admire everything, that is. Our fellow passengers aren’t as hardy as we are. At least it’s quiet and peaceful now.” He made no move to touch her.

Her mother’s hesitant words of a few hours before flashed through her mind, and her terror grew. “Byrony, love, Ira is a good man. He won’t be rough with you. Just close your eyes and lie very still. Let him do as he wishes. It will be over soon enough.”

She’d wanted to yell at her mother, “If I don’t lie still, will he beat me?” But she’d said nothing. He was her husband, and he owned her. She wasn’t stupid; it was the way of the world where women were concerned. Only Aunt Ida hadn’t been owned because she’d had enough money to keep her independence, until her death. She hadn’t needed a man to support her. Did everything have to revolve around money? Silly question. In her case, Madison DeWitt’s lust for money had determined the course of her life.

She remembered her father’s words, ugly, obscene words, spoken to her in a low, leering voice before she’d left his home forever.

“If you have any sense at all, girl,” he’d said, “you’ll pretend to virginity. Cry out a bit when he takes you. I don’t want you thrown back to me like a discarded piece of garbage. Praise the saints you’re not carrying that greaser’s bastard.”

She stared at him a long moment, hatred welling up in her. “You are a filthy-minded old man,” she said coldly.

He raised his hand, glanced quickly around, and reluctantly lowered it.

“No,” she told him, drawing herself up very straight, “you’ll never strike me again.”

“Watch your mouth, girl,” he said, “or—”

“Or you’ll what? How about admitting the truth? Announce to the world that you sold me? That since you’re incapable of earning an honest dollar, you must have another man support you?”

“You worthless little slut!”

She threw back her head and laughed. “Worthless? Come, what an uncharitable and untrue thing to say.”

“You just make sure you keep your new husband happy, girl.”

“Or he’ll stop sending you money? Now, there’s a thought.” She struck

what she hoped was an insolent pose. His heavy jowls quivered with rage, but Ira was coming toward them and he could say nothing more.

She thought now that she shouldn’t have enraged him. He might take it out on her mother. But no, he’d already drunk so much by the time she and Ira had left, he would be snoring now, sodden with whiskey. And he now had money.

“Our wedding was just as I wished it to be—no fuss and no gawking people. Private and simple.”

“The parson, Mr. Elks, hates my father. He only conducted the ceremony because of my mother.”