Finally, I’d like to thank my editor, Demetria Lucas,
for her patience and wisdom in helping me transform
an unwieldy epic into a love story.
Prologue
Long Island, New York
June 16, 1911
The wind struck without warning out of a calm summer sky. Sharp gusts buffeted the wings of the fragile biplane, causing the craft to pitch and heel like a stricken dragonfly.
Rafe Garrick cursed as he fought to stabilize his lurching aeroplane. His right hand clutched the lever that raised and lowered the ailerons. His feet shifted frantically on the rudder bar as he wrestled for control of his precious machine.
Blast! He’d checked the weather reports carefully before taking off from the aerodrome at Hempstead Plains. This was to be the last test of his engine prior to next week’s big air meet—he was counting on that event to make all the difference. The sky had been flawless, the day pleasantly warm. There’d been no sign of wind. Not this kind of devil wind, at least.
Two hundred feet below, the waters of Long Island Sound rose and curled. White-winged sailboats rode the cresting waves off Matinecock Point, their wakes trailing foam. Rafe would have to get the aeroplane down at once. But for that he needed solid ground beneath the wheels. The field at Hempstead was too far to fly in this accursed wind. He would have no choice except to head straight for the nearest landfall and pray for a long, smooth stretch of beach.
On his right, the north shore of Long Island extended along the horizon. He should have known better than to fly so far out over water. But the sky had been a deep crystalline blue, the summer breeze a perfumed siren, luring him onward and upward. Drunk on sunlight, he’d surrendered to the call. Now it was time to pay.
Easing down on the rudder bar he banked the craft sharply to the right and swung it in a wide arc toward the land. Wind clawed at the canvas-covered wings, threatening to rip the varnished fabric from its light-weight wooden frame. The engine coughed, sputtered, died for a breathless instant, then roared to life as Rafe jerked the throttle full out.
Blast! What was wrong with the damned thing? Was it the wind or some vital weakness his inspection had missed?
He had no more time to ponder the question as another gust struck from behind, catching the rear elevator and sending the nose of the aeroplane plummeting toward the waves. Rafe wrenched the stick backward, launching the craft into a steep climb. Easy…easy now, he warned himself as he leveled out. The beach was only a couple of miles. If he kept a cool head he’d be fine.
He’d be bloody fine…
He was whistling “Annie Laurie” between his teeth when the engine started to sputter again.
Chapter One
The champagne had gone flat. Alexandra Bromley took a sip, grimaced and sighed. She dreaded these lavish summer parties her parents gave for their wealthy friends. She hated the pretense, the show, the banality of small talk. And she resented that she had to be here when she’d rather be galloping her horse along the beach or sneaking out to test the speed limits of her father’s new Pierce-Arrow on Glen Cove Road.
As she stood on the terrace, her face fixed in a rigid smile, she felt the appraising eyes of people who passed. Alex squirmed inwardly, even though she was long accustomed to stares. She was tall to the point of stateliness. Her face, framed by clouds of gold-brown hair, was the sort that could have graced one of Charles Dana Gibson’s famous magazine covers. But she had one glaring flaw. Hours of walking on the beach and riding in the sun without a hat had burnished her skin to a most unfashionable brown. She was as tawny as the Indians whose lodges had stood here on the north shore of Long Island before Europeans came.
After soaking her in lemons to no avail, Alex’s mother had come up with a gown calculated to hide the defect. It was of ruffled lavender voile, with long sleeves and a collar of Cluny lace that came all the way up to Alex’s chin. An elaborate tulle hat sat atop her upswept hair like a huge dollop of whipped cream.
Never one to pay much mind to fashion, Alex hadn’t argued with her mother’s choice. It was not until minutes before the party, after she’d been bathed, perfumed, combed, laced, pinned and dressed, that she’d stood in front of the big hall mirror and faced the truth. Lavender was definitely not her color. And the style of the dress was much too old for her. She looked like a gangly child playing dress-up in her grandmother’s clothes.
For a moment she held the champagne glass to her mouth. Her tongue slid thoughtfully along the bladethin crystal rim as she surveyed the party from the terrace of her parents’ twenty-eight-room Edwardian house. Long tables, spread with linen, had been set up on the vast emerald lawn. Men in white summer gabardines and women in butterfly hues of organdy and silk georgette flocked around the tables, helping themselves to Smith Island oysters, fresh clams and Lobster Newberg, wild-rice croquettes and dainty Swiss crackers spread with Astrakhan caviar and pâté de foie gras. An elaborate glass dolphin spouted pink champagne; a matching one on another table flowed red with rum-laced Roman punch. In the distance, beyond everything, the waters of Long Island Sound glittered in the afternoon sunlight.
Idly she watched her parents’ guests stuffing themselves like pedigreed cattle milling around the feeding trough. The men were big, bellowing bulls flaunting their money and power. Their wives were placid heifers with ropes of pearls around their necks.
Were these women happy? Did they care about anything beyond money, status and the broods of children they produced? Heaven forbid, there had to be more to life than that! In this day and age, females were doing things that Alex had only dreamed of—climbing mountains, working as journalists, marching in the streets, exploring the world! Why couldn’t she be one of those women? Why did she have to be a prisoner of her family’s expectations?
With ruthless detachment, she appraised her own situation. At twenty, she was of an age when young women were expected to marry. The fact that she was her father’s only child and heir to the fortune he’d made in the firearms business made this an imperative. That’s why she was being trotted out on display this summer, for sale to the most promising bidder.
Maybe it was time to pack a suitcase and run away.
Alex handed the champagne glass to a passing servant. At least Mama would have some things to be pleased about. For a summer party the turnout wasn’t bad, and the guests represented some of New York’s better families. Papa, on the other hand, was growing impatient with these soirees. All Buck Bromley wanted was to see his daughter married to a man he deemed suitable.
Alex picked out her father’s hulking shoulders among the crowd. She knew what he wanted. He wanted the son he never had—another Buck Bromley, with money and connections, who’d take her in hand and sire a pack of bullheaded grandsons to take over the company one day. He wanted to forge her life like one of his custom-made hunting rifles. Well, she had news for him. She wanted a life of her own.
“Alex, for heaven’s sake!” It was her mother, approaching with swift, nervous footsteps. Maude Bromley was a thin, plain woman, as pale as wallpaper. Her hands fluttered like dry leaves as she spoke. “How can you stand there when you should be mingling with our guests? This is your party, too, you know.”
She took her daughter’s hand and led her down off the terrace onto the lawn. There the guests, plates teetering with food, were seating themselves around umbrella-shaded tables.
“My dear, I’m so delighted to see you!” Alex found herself smothered against the ample bosom of a woman whose name eluded her. Most likely she was a Whitney or a Vanderbilt, or a member of some other clan whose founders had come to the Colonies and made their fortunes