Chapter nine:

In the First-Class smoking room, Cal was lighting a cigar over a fine port, discussing polo ponies and stock deals with Astor and Guggenheim. The room was full of blue smoke as the captains of the industry and finance talked quietly or played cards. It was an all-male preserve the fortress of the elite. White gloved waiters circulated bringing gin tonics and brandies. Jack entered, quickening his pace to take a seat beside Colonel Gracie at the nearby table. It was reminiscent of the gentleman's club which he had sampled once or twice, mainly in London, perhaps that was the intention of the room just without the circulating prostitutes there to indulge the man after they had consumed far too much liquor to even know what or who they were doing. A typically male approach to life when taking leave of the stressful daily life of an upper- class male, but to Jack, it had never really held any substance to entertain him.

In a cloud of smoke, Hockley was already narrowing his gaze but Jack sipped his warm brandy. He was quiet. Reserved. Rested. The talk was low, each man observing the surroundings as though there was a need to keep an eye out for something extraordinary.

''I feel a wager on when we shall arrive in New York,'' Gracie nodded to Hockley. ''Shall we say fifty bucks?''

''When do you suggest we shall be in New York?''

''I should say Tuesday night. Fifty bucks.''

Hockley glanced to Gracie, then to Jack. ''What do you say, Dawson? Hundred bucks on Wednesday morning?''

''I have no interest.'' Jack shook his head, smirking as they came to some arrangement.

''Fine, Wednesday morning and I saw hundred bucks.''

''Very well,'' Gracie nodded, taking the bet as serious as he would stocks. "They tell me your stock is on this very ship." He exhaled a cigar, as he shuffled a deck of cards about in his hands.

"Yes."

"How fortunate."

Hockley called to a circling waiter to take another brandy. His manservant stood glumly at his side. Jack leaned back, resting one hand on the arm of the chair. His attire pulled at him. Unlike the others, who was precisely dressed in tailored clothes and a deftly knotted necktie, Jack wore an open-necked shirt having pulled off his tie on the way down to the smoking room. It should have been a travesty but he was never one to care too much. What's the worst they would do? Escort him from the premises. Hell, no, no such spectacle would ever be caused.

Gracie watched him closely. "What was said between you?"

"Who?" Jack narrowed his gaze until he saw Gracie indicate to Hockley.

"Not much. Never many words."

"And your parents, they died young, what would they make of you now?"

"They pitied any man who leads this kind of life." Jack gestured loosely at their refined surroundings. "Sleeping in a large house. Burdened by possessions. Having a schedule. Carrying a pocket watch. All of it."

All of it had evoked warm childhood memories. And longing. Jack wanted that life, had never stopped wanting it. He had never found anything to replace it. This life was unfulfilling. It wavered on desperation. Madness. Unnaturalistic.

"To my mind there is nothing unnatural about wanting a roof over one's head when it rains," Gracie said. "Or owning and tilling the land, or measuring the progress of the day with the use of a clock. It is man's nature to impose his will on his surroundings. Otherwise, society would disintegrate, and there would be nothing but chaos and war."

"And the Americans, with their clocks and farms and fences—they have no war?"

Gracie frowned. "One can't view these matters so simplistically."

"I do." Jack studied the tips of his shoes. "In Paris I met some Gypsies, they asked me to go with them when they left the city for another place and that was how they went, just place to place and never truly settling down roots, what is the point?" he said almost absently. ''They lived so free, so openly. Without prejudice.''

"You refused, of course." Gracie laughed, stopping when he saw the serious gaze which had settled back.

"I wanted to say yes. If not for my responsibilities in London, and then back in Boston, I would have."

Gracies's face went blank. A speculative pause. "You surprise me."

"Why?"

"You're a man of unusual abilities and intelligence. You have wealth, and the prospect of acquiring much more. There's no logic in letting all that go to waste."

A smile touched Jack's lips. Although Gracie was an open-minded man, he had strong opinions about how people should live. His values—among them honour, industry, and advancement—were not consistent with his own. To Gracie, nature was something to be managed and organised—flowers must be contained in garden beds, animals must be trained or hunted, land must be cleared. And a young man must be steered into productive enterprises, and led to marry a proper woman with whom he would build a solid American family. Wasn't that the ultimate dream? To have a family. The beautiful wife. The wonderful kids. Fulfilling business. Endless supply of cash. What would be hidden beneath that façade? Society would wait for the cracks to show and then swoop down like vultures to tend to the rest until slow, a man would unwind, come undone and then be shunned. The marriage would fail. The children be unloved. Money would dry up. Misery.

Just like Hockley and his damned bride to be. An engagement of absolute misery. That was one walking detail which people failed to notice; was it honestly so difficult for anyone but him to see, or was it true? If Rose did stand and scream, would they fail or notice or was it just that ignorance was very much the bliss. Silence. Brushing everything beneath a very thick carpet and hope that it never sees the light of day.

"Why would it be a waste?"

"A man must raise himself to his fullest potential," came Gracie's unhesitating reply. "You could never do that living as a bohemian. Your basic needs—food and shelter—would barely be met. You would face constant persecution. How in God's name could such a life appeal to you, when you have almost everything a man could possibly want?"

Jack shrugged. "It's freedom."

Gracie shook his head. "If you want land, you have the means to purchase large amounts of it. If you want horses, you can buy a string of Thoroughbreds and hunters. If you want-"

"That's not freedom. How much of your time is spent directing estate affairs, investments, companies, having meetings with agents and brokers, traveling to New York?" Gracie looked affronted.

"Are you telling me in earnest that you are considering giving up your employment, your ambitions, your future . . . in favour of traveling the earth in a vardo?"

"Yes. I'm considering it." Jack watched for the reaction and it was just as he wanted, although not quite horror.

Gracie's coffee-coloured eyes narrowed. "And you think after years of living a productive life in Boston that you would adjust happily to an existence of aimless wondering?"

"It's the life I was meant for. In your world, I'm nothing but a novelty."

"A damned successful novelty. And you have the opportunity to be a representative for your people—"

"God help me." Jack had begun to laugh helplessly. "If it ever comes to that, I should be shot." Gracie picked up the silver letter seal from the corner of the desk, examining the engraved base of it with undue concentration. He used the edge of his thumbnail to remove a hardened droplet of sealing wax that had marred the polished surface. As he watched, Jack necked what was left of his brandy and placed the empty glass upon the table.

''Good to talk with you,'' Jack left the table before Gracie could respond. It wasn't that he disliked the man, but he was simply just lacking the understanding which Jack required in order to speak with. He inclined his head to the rest of the gentleman as a good night. As he went to make his egress, Hockley caught his arm with a slight grasp.

"Leaving so soon?"

Stilling beneath Hockley's grip, he noticed him remove his hand slowly.

"I came for the brandy, not the company."

"One thought you must be in need of company. Travelling alone—no companion or a mistress."

"I need no company." Jack told him. "I have enough to occupy me."

"Well, there is no need for me to worry of your friendship with my fiancée then?" His tone was condescending. As though he was speaking to a child.

"No there is no need to worry—yet."

"What?"

Jack's expression didn't change, the barrier of his smile firmly fixed. "She's a beautiful woman. I'd have to be blind not to notice her. But that's hardly going to change my future plans. I won't be stealing her away from you."

"Yet?" Hockley's eyes turned black, fixating on that one particular word Jack had used to infuriate him on purpose. It was childlike to stir up passions this way, but seeing a man who was usually to calm and composed gain futility over one small word, it was entertaining, just for a second.

"Ever," Jack returned, pausing as he heard the unnecessary intensity of his own voice. He adjusted his tone at once. "You must extend an invite to your wedding. I hear it will be quite the social event of the season."

With that, he walked away with a weird satisfying slur in his stomach but his mind was filled with one thing. The handful of encounters he'd had with Rose DeWitt Bukater were uniquely troubling. Jack couldn't recall when, if ever, he had been so affected by a woman. He was not one to involve himself in other peoples' affairs. He was loath to give advice, and he spent little time considering problems that didn't directly concern him. But he was irresistibly drawn to Rose. She was so deliciously serious-minded, so busy trying to manage everything in her sphere, it was an ungodly temptation to distract her. Make her laugh. Make her play. And he could, if he wished. Knowing that made it all the more difficult to stay away from her. The tenacious connections she had formed with him in comparison to the others in her family appealed to him instinctually. And yet Rose was his opposite in the most essential ways, a creature of domesticity, no doubt, would insist on putting down roots even when she so desires to travel to the ends of the earth. Jack couldn't help but wonder if that's what she truly wanted, or was the just the fantasy to escape her loveless engagement? There was a need in him to find out just how true that part was. Ironic, that he should be so fascinated by someone who represented everything he needed to escape from. She was in her world. One which she belonged to; in beauty and because she desperately deserved to be treated with the respect and to wear the finest silks and jewels. Rose shouldn't be laying beneath bridges or shivering—

That was his life. His choice. Gracie had said that the life Jack chose to live was odd and truth was, it suited him. Perhaps he could be free and keep Dawson Steel. Perhaps he could partner with his cousin in order for a part release. But half measures were an alien metric for him, knowing it was always everything or nothing. Perhaps...

Life was always full of such unknowns and it was that which Jack had to explore. He had come to explore the world. Come to explore the Society of which he so badly despised and found very little pleasure in but now he wished to explore something else. Something...perhaps forbidden. The thought was unsettling, when knowing that all awaited him was a private train to take him directly to Boston. To a solid oak desk. To a very large and empty house. To his uncle's work. To success. To money. To everything which would be handed to him on a plate. It was an exhausting, repetitive notion. Eric Dawson had been spectacular; and if he had been aboard this very ship, he would have charmed the gentleman, the ladies and then left the gold dust sprinkled. He would have swept the cards in the smoking room, danced with the most beautiful socialites at dinner and then taken several brandies and still be able to make the most priceless business deals.

Jack paused mid step. Sleep wouldn't come to him so easily tonight and so, he found himself walking the long corridor on B Deck and made a decision to visit a quieter amenity. His mind would need to be somewhat blank in order for him to even lay his head upon the plush pillow of the bed. It wasn't welcoming to him. Laying within a darkened corner of the earth, with his arm as a pillow and the blazing stars above him were always vastly more appealing. Hockley was wrong; loneliness was never an issue, well, not for very long, although at that very moment, there was a strong need to hear Miss. DeWitt Bukater laugh, just once, in order to clear away the dark edge to his mood.

Pushing into a room, the interior was dark, and for a moment, Jack was blinded by the dearth of illumination of the large chandelier overhead. On B-Deck were the writing room and library. They were situated aft, designed in the style of Louis 16th with extensive use of grey sycamore highlighted with the use of gold leaf and ivory. An ornate skylight centred being the most spectacular feature. A large oak bookcase lined the left wall, full to the ceiling with books. A large white fireplace burned logs in a cosy area surrounded by finely upholstered divan couches in a golden colour with salmon pink and a burgundy red chair littered here and there. As his eyes adjusted to the softer light which spilled in from the fire, he felt how his heart had started to pump just a little harder than usual. The silence was deafening. When Jack could see, he stepped farther into the large, liberally furnished library. The smell of leather and parchment teased his nostrils. The door latch clicked into place and he heard a gasp. Felt a jump. The sounds of laughter and music faded from his perception, leaving him aware only of himself and another and the fact that they were alone together. Fully alone.

Rose appreciated having the light behind which shielded her features in shadow while revealing the whole of his, because the sensations elicited by his proximity stunned her. As her breathing quickened, she felt herself sway away from him, obviously completely startled by his appearance there so soon after walking her to the corridor where her stateroom was allocated and silently had left her there.

"W-what are you doing here?"

Fumbling in her hands, Rose retrieved a heavy silver seal which she had found upon the deck and replaced it there quickly with a thunk. It was as though her hands were quivering, and she pulled them into her stomach as though she was guilty of something completely unimaginable.

"Resorting to forgery, are we?"

"Forgery!" Rose turned pale. "It was simply left upon the deck. I-"

"I was jesting. You must stop been so serious."

Rose tilted her head. "You never answered my question."

"I came here for a book. To find peace with my thoughts."

"Was it not fulfilling to be the master of the universe?"

For a long taut moment, Jack didn't move. Her presence both infuriated him and excited him. There in the middle of a warm, inviting library they were both seeking sanctuary to be alone, probably for very different reasons and yet, had come to find themselves alone—together—again. His annoyance came out in a long exhale.

"I'm not your betrothed, Rose." Her name came off his tongue so easily. "I don't feel the need to surround myself with peers and have my ego massaged repeatedly to feel like a man. I already know who I am."

"Not a gentleman apparently." Rose laughed. "You're just a man who likes to-"

''Likes to what?'' Jack paused her, stepping closer with a long stride. ''I never had you, Miss. DeWitt Bukater, pinned to be such a gossip but it appears you like to listen to it all the same.''

''One cannot help but be informed of your cavorting about with the ladies of Paris.''

''So, if I was?'' Jack raised his brows to her and she held her tongue. ''If I was taking entertainment with the French ladies, multiple times. What would matter, huh?''

Another stride towards her, and she was backed up against the wooden writing desk in a second. Her heart was flapping about in her chest, as though it was in need of slowing but there was no stopping how hard it went.

''It doesn't matter.'' Rose managed, as harsh as she could and failing to understand why that point had been valid to make initially and now wished to curse herself for it.

''Well, then, finish what you started.'' His eyes flashed beneath the glittering chandelier. ''I am what?''

''You're just a man who likes to-''

''Likes to what, huh?''

''Like to-''

Rose was interrupted by the heart-stopping sound of the doorknob turning. In that one instant she was pierced with simultaneous anguish and resignation. It was over. She had been so close, and now she'd been caught, and God knew what the repercussions would be. Caught alone in the library with a man like Jack Dawson. All these thoughts flashed through Jack's mind in one searing mass. But as she stiffened and waited for the axe to fall, Jack came to her in two long strides. And before Rose could move, or think, or even breathe, he had jerked her full length against him, and pulled her head to him, as he pushed her against the wooden slat of a shelf in a darkened corner.

Jack kissed her with an indecent frankness that sent her reeling. His arms were firm around her, keeping her steady while his mouth caught hers at just the right angle. Her hands moved in tentative objection, her palms encountering the tough muscles of his chest, the catch of his shirt buttons. He was the only solid thing in a kaleidoscopic world. She stopped pushing as her body absorbed the arousing details of him, the hard masculine contours, the fresh outdoors scent, the sensuous probing of his mouth. Graceful fingers cupped around her neck and jaw, turning her face upward. The tips of his fingers found the fine skin behind her ears, where it met the silken edge of her hairline. And all the while he continued to fill her with concentrated fire, until the inside of her mouth prickled sweetly and her legs shook beneath her. He used his tongue delicately, exploring without haste, entering her repeatedly while she clung to him in bewildered pleasure. His mouth lifted, his breath a hot caress against her lips. He turned his head as he spoke to whoever had entered the room, but ensured that her face was kept in the shadows and out of sight completely.

"I beg your pardon. We wanted a moment of privacy." The gaze at the doorway had an unfathomable expression and a second later it closed, silently, with the padding of footsteps away from the library sounding. An electric moment passed; Rose dropped her forehead to Jack's shoulder with a groan. She would have pulled away, but she didn't trust her knees to hold but anger surged through her. Pure, repentant anger.

"Why did you do that?"

Jack didn't look at all repentant.

"I had to come up with a reason for both of us to be in here. It seemed the best and he didn't see who you were. Your identity is hidden. My reputation is not at all damaged."

"But mine-" she couldn't even catch her breathe to speak.

"Is intact!"

Jack raised his voice but her eyes met his and she pushed passed him, wiping her mouth as though she had contacted venom. Tasting him, there still upon her lips was dangerous. As though what had transpired between them could be seen by all now.

"For two nights now, you have been utterly careless of me. Of my reputation. Are you that hell bent on ruining me?" She cried, her stomach a riot of everything and nothing.

Jack's lips stretched into a thin line and he came to her. ''You were not in view at all, I am not that much of the Devil.'' He kept his gaze there on her. "Believe me, Rose, if I wished to ruin you, as you so describe, then I should do so without hesitation."

Jack left her there, completely trembling. Not fear of Jack but of herself.