In the Shadow of Lakecrest(11)
Matthew spoke quickly, abuzz with nervous energy. “We can have any kind of wedding you want. Here, Ohio—I don’t care. I’d be happy with a judge at the courthouse.”
He might have been joking, but it struck me as the perfect solution to the problem of Ma’s big mouth and unpredictable moods. We’d avoid her until after it was done. When it was too late for Matthew to change his mind.
“I’d like that,” I said. “Just us, no fuss.”
“Tell you what,” Matthew suggested. “Mum’s hosting a party next weekend. What if I surprised her by arriving with my new wife?”
Matthew liked to think of himself as open-minded, but at heart, he believed in rules and order. I didn’t think he was serious. “She’d disown you,” I said.
Matthew laughed, as if such a thing weren’t possible. “She’s been pestering me to get married for years. I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she finds out I’ve finally gone and done it.”
Despite his lighthearted tone, I felt uneasy. Matthew was talking about marriage as if it were a practical joke—or a kind of revenge.
“Wouldn’t it be better to tell her first?” I asked.
Matthew looked unconcerned. “She’d take charge and insist on a formal wedding with hundreds of guests. No.”
“If you’re sure that’s what you want.”
Matthew leaned halfway out of his seat so he could wrap me in his arms.
“The only thing I want is right here.”
I pressed against Matthew in dazed wonder as he kissed me, a kiss that in my memory lasted through the entire first feature and into the second. Knowing we were engaged loosened the hold we’d kept on our physical urges, and the reticence that seemed as much a part of Matthew as his immaculate suits and neatly combed hair disappeared. He reached up my skirt, and I shifted my legs, encouraging him further, moaning softly when his fingers tickled the skin at the top of my stockings. I ran my hands through his hair, tugging gently to pull his kisses deeper, then reached inside his jacket, clutching at the solidness of his back. My quick, heavy breathing matched his as we explored the shape of each other’s bodies, staking our claim by touch. It was the first time I’d been with Matthew and simply did what I wanted rather than second-guessing every move and decision. For once, I felt like the real me.
By the time we emerged into the sticky night air, giggling like guilty children, I believed it would really happen. I would become Mrs. Matthew Lemont.
“This party your mother’s throwing,” I said. “Will it be awfully stuffy?”
“Not at all. It’s a garden fête at Lakecrest. Where I grew up.”
I remembered Aunt Constance telling me that a woman had disappeared at the Lemont estate. Was it just gossip? It didn’t seem like the right time to bring up the story with Matthew, especially when I didn’t trust Aunt Constance’s motive for telling me. There’d be time enough to figure it out later.
“All right,” I said, “I am curious to see your childhood home. But I’m terrified of meeting your mother.”
“Silly girl. She’ll love you.”
He said the words a touch too forcefully, willing them to be true.
Matthew and I got married at city hall and spent our first night as man and wife at his apartment on Goethe Street, walking distance from downtown and the Lemont Industries offices. He apologized for the masculine décor while I protested it was perfect; both of us were on edge, nervous about what we’d done and what was to come.
Matthew pulled a bottle of champagne from the icebox—“To celebrate,” he said, with self-conscious jollity—and a few glasses helped calm our nerves. After kisses on the sofa, Matthew led me to his bedroom, telling me not to be nervous, that he’d be gentle. Before I knew it, I was on my back in nothing but my chemise, Matthew lying on top of me, his head buried in my hair. Everything I’d dreamed of was there in my arms: My rich, handsome husband. My happily ever after. But all I could think of was a different bed, a different man looking down at me, a seduction gone terribly wrong. Would Matthew be able to tell?
I tried to make my mind go blank to erase the past. A few minutes later, Matthew rolled off, flashing me a bashful smile and asking if I was all right. If I was disappointed by my own lack of emotion—by the feeling that we were still little more than strangers, making small talk on the Franconia—that worry was soon eclipsed by relief. Matthew didn’t know. He thought he was my first. And when I whispered that I loved him, he believed me.
The next day, we drove to Lakecrest.
CHAPTER FOUR
Memories can be shifty and unreliable, but I’m convinced the feelings I recall from that first visit haven’t been overshadowed by the knowledge of what came later.
When Matthew’s driver pulled through the front gates, I thought Lakecrest was the ugliest house I’d ever seen. Unruly and disorienting, it was a mishmash of competing elements all fighting for attention. The roofline was so staggered I couldn’t tell if the building had three or four stories, and offshoots sprang out from the central structure with no clear pattern or purpose, one constructed in a half-timbered Tudor style, another with the stone facing and tall, narrow windows of a medieval cathedral. My eyes skimmed from a stone turret to a stained-glass bay window to a pair of gargoyles that seemed to be staring directly at me.