A Stranger's Wife

by Maggie Osborne

  “I didn’t dare risk a word with him in the room.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Our mutual friend has been distraught. You simply vanished after the fire, and Quinn refused all entreaties as to your address. There was nothing I could do for either of you.”

  Frowning, Lily drew back. “Our mutual friend?”

  “Darling, it’s good to be cautious, but no one is listening. Need I mention that our friend is desperate to see you?”

  Helene’s whispered words and her tone of urgency were so singularly peculiar and unexpected that Lily had no idea how to respond. This was the very thing she had feared. A reference to something or someone in Miriam’s life that Quinn and Paul knew nothing about.

  “I’m eager to see our friend, too,” she said slowly, cautiously. “But I haven’t fully regained my strength . . .”

  Helene’s sharp eyes probed her face. “You look the picture of health, my dear. Or are you wearing rouge? Never mind, we don’t have time for that. Shall I tell M that you’ll see him soon?”

  She went still inside, but not before a tiny gasp passed her lips. “Our friend” was a man. And suddenly the mystery of the note she had found in Miriam’s pocket was solved. The message had not been written by Miriam, but to her. Lily’s gaze swung to Quinn as he strode into the room and stopped at the tea wagon for toast and marmalade.

  My God. Lily blinked hard. Surely she must be assigning a mistaken implication to Helene’s words. What sane woman would betray Quinn? No one, she told herself firmly, certainly not shy, sweet, obedient Miriam. She was reading more into Helene’s whisperings than was present. There must be an innocent explanation.

  “Quick,” Helene said in a low voice, her gaze following Quinn’s movements. “What shall I tell our friend? He’ll be in Denver next week, and of course he’s hoping for a message from you.”

  “I . . .” She, too, watched Quinn moving about the room and chatting with the women, some of whom prepared to depart. “Helene, I have a raging headache. I simply cannot think right now.”

  “Then I shall help you as always. Come to me next Thursday. I’ll have a message for you I’m sure. M will be disappointed not to have a note from you, but I’ll tell him contact will be reestablished soon.” Helene’s gaze swept to the clock on the mantel and she rose, pulling Lily to her feet. “It’s been lovely, dear, utterly lovely. I’m so happy to have you back with us and looking well. Do think about everything I’ve said,” she ended, her black eyes piercing with meaning.

  “You may be certain that I will.”

  “So nice to see . . . in a rush, you know . . . perhaps next time . . .” Helene moved through the room like a ship under sail, managing to speak to everyone and no one and pointedly ignore Quinn.

  Lily sank back into her chair, staring at the door. She felt as if she had been run over by a coal wagon. If she felt this way, how must Miriam have felt after a collision with Helene? Miriam would not have stood a chance; Helene would have flattened any resistance as easily as rolling out pie dough.

  “Are you tired, darling?”

  Quinn’s hand on her elbow sent a flood of electricity through her system and jolted her from a deep distraction. The room was empty. She’d smiled and chatted and said good-bye, all without being fully aware, her thoughts picking at the conversation with Helene. Lily darted a glance toward the mantel, surprised to discover it was already five o’clock and Cranston was stacking dishes and cups on the tea wagon.

  “A little,” she murmured, glancing up at Quinn. Concern had deepened the lines in his craggy face. “But I’m fine. Really.”

  “I thought we’d take a short drive before dinner.”

  “I’d like that.” Did he wish to speak privately, or had he remembered her remark about not being out of the house? “Cranston?”

  “I’ll fetch your cloak and muff, madam. Shall I instruct Elizabeth to bring a hat and gloves?”

  “The grey set, please.” The room was still fragrant with the mingled scents of perfume, tea cakes, and tea. “Do you think it was a success?” she asked Quinn, twisting Miriam’s rings around her finger, frowning up at the altered portrait.

  Today she saw Miriam’s sad eyes, not her own, and she experienced a depressing twist of guilt. It should have been Miriam entertaining her friends, not Lily. Miriam presiding over the tea service and accepting the looks of sympathy and words of welcome home.

  Where are you? she thought, staring at the portrait.

  “The afternoon was a rousing success,” Quinn commented near her ear as he took her cloak from Cranston and draped it around her shoulders.

  His warm breath against her ear made her feel dizzy, and she swayed slightly, her eyelids fluttering. Suddenly she felt drained and wished she could rest against him for a moment and let herself fully realize the ordeal was over. No one had denounced her. Disaster had not struck. And next week’s at-home would be easier.

  “I may even learn to enjoy entertaining,” she said after Quinn handed her into the carriage and tucked a thick lap robe over her skirts.

  Quinn laughed and sat beside her. “Is this the same woman who looked as though she might faint before her guests came through the door?”

  She smiled. “I’ve never fainted in my life.”

  Suddenly her spirits soared. By God, she had done it. Lily Dale, ex-convict and woman of a million bad habits, had presided over a real tea service and poured before the critical eyes of real ladies, and she’d done so gracefully and flawlessly.

  “I did it!” she said, her eyes sparkling with triumph. “Quinn, I did it. I’ll tell you who would faint if he knew about today. That bastard Ephram Callihan.” Raising her hands, she pressed her gloves to her cheeks. “I can’t believe it. I did it, I did it! And no one suspected a thing.”

  Grinning, he patted his pockets and withdrew his silver cigar case. “May I?”

  She nodded. “My days of leisure are over. According to Paul I now must pay calls on everyone who attended my at-home. I liked Mrs. Alderson very much. Do you know her? Apparently we belong to the same Ladies Aid Society. She said if I decide to come out of mourning, she’d like me to help the ladies put together holiday baskets for the poor.” Euphoria loosened her tongue and she was babbling, but she wanted to talk about every detail.

  “It’s dark and we’re alone. Would you like a cigar?”

  Glancing out the carriage window, she noticed lamp-lighters climbing ladders propped against the streetlamps. Earlier, fresh snow had collected on the branches of young elms. “Where are we going?”

  “I instructed Morely to drive past my firm and the courthouse. And there’s a row of nearby shops that might interest you. It occurs to me that you haven’t seen the city.” He lit a cigar and handed it to her.

  Lily inhaled the smoke, sighed with pleasure, and thought about leaning back, smoking and relaxing. But somehow a cigar didn’t mesh with her present image of herself as a society hostess. “I’d like a puff of yours,” she said slowly, exercising restraint, “but not one of my own, thank you.”

  As they passed a sputtering streetlamp, she saw his eyebrow rise. “As you wish.”

  She drew on the cigar, tasting him and the sweet flavor of smoke, then she handed the cigar back to him. Leaning to the window, she peered outside. Lights were coming on inside the houses they passed, shining out on snowy lawns and glazed driveways. She heard the muffled clop of horse’s hooves against the snow-packed street. “It’s a lovely night. This was a wonderful idea.”

  “Lily, we need to talk about Helene Van Heusen.”

  In an instant her euphoria vanished. “Helene insisted that I call on her next Thursday,” she said after a minute. Studying his face in the shadows, she struggled with duty versus inclination. She wasn’t sure if she should mention Helene’s comments about M. Intuition said no.

  “I forbid you to call on her.”

  Oh? Her hackles rose, and she stiffened. For one terrible instant she was back in the Yuma prison where men decided what she could o
r could not do and punished infractions with beatings.

  This was Denver; not Yuma. And this was Quinn; not Ephram Callihan. “Is that wise?” she asked when her hands had steadied. “Helene is Miriam’s close friend. And you did invite her to the at-home.”

  “Strictly speaking no one was invited. An announcement was placed in the newspaper that you had returned from Santa Fe and would resume your regular Friday at-homes.” He shrugged slightly, his shoulder rubbing against hers. “I had hoped Helene would not attend. She won’t attend next week if you don’t repay the call.”

  But she wouldn’t learn about M unless she called on Helene.

  Glimpsing Quinn’s stern expression in the glow of a streetlamp, she decided not to mention Miriam’s secret. At least not yet.

  “Frederick Van Heusen is a vital spoke in the opposing party’s wheel, Lily. If my opponent beats me at the polls, he will have Van Heusen to thank.” He studied the ash glowing on the end of his cigar, then looked at her. “Helene began to seek Miriam out shortly after I declared my candidacy last year. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “You believe Helene has an ulterior motive. Her interest in Miriam extends beyond simple friendship.”

  He nodded. “Consider how much you know about my plans for the campaign. Miriam knew more.”

  Her brows lifted. “Quinn, I don’t know anything about politics, and I doubt Miriam did. You’ve said yourself that she disliked political discussion.”

  “Miriam couldn’t avoid political talk any more than you can. She heard it at the supper table, heard it at social gatherings. She heard Paul and me discussing strategy, she presided over a refreshment table when the party leaders met at our home. If you doubt the extent of her knowledge, ask yourself how much you know about my plans. You’ve heard parts of my speeches before I delivered them. You too have listened to Paul and me discuss policies and strategy. You possess more information than you realize.”

  “Are you suggesting that Miriam offered Helene information helpful to the opposing party?” she asked incredulously.

  He was silent long enough that she guessed his suspicions. “I doubt Miriam did so deliberately,” he said finally. “I also doubt Helene would have found it difficult to extract information helpful to Van Heusen’s cause.”

  Lily frowned, trying to understand. “That explains Helene’s interest in Miriam. But it doesn’t explain why Miriam would disregard your objections and pursue the friendship. Did you ask why she was so insistent? To the point of disobedience?” She didn’t say disloyalty, but that’s what she was thinking. And she didn’t point out that disobedience ran against her perception of Miriam Westin’s character.

  “Miriam refused to discuss her attachment to Helene.”

  Lily’s intuition flared and she bit her lip to keep silent. Helene Van Heusen was the conduit to the mysterious M. That was why Miriam had gone against her nature, defied her husband, and refused to give up the association. Whoever M was, he was important to Miriam.

  Gazing out the carriage window as they rolled past the courthouse, she thought about the note she had found in Miriam’s pocket. Same time. Same place. And she remembered Helene taking her hands when they greeted each other. It would have been very easy to pass a tiny wadded slip of paper.

  In fact, it wasn’t unimaginable that Helene had manipulated Miriam into a compromising situation that could drown Quinn in scandal and bring him to grief.

  “Quinn . . .” But no man wanted to hear that his wife was seeing another man. And Lily didn’t know if that was indeed the explanation.

  There could be innocent reasons for the note and for Helene’s secrecy and involvement. Perhaps M was an artist and Miriam had commissioned a new portrait as a gift for Quinn. Same time, same place could refer to a sitting. Perhaps Helene was helping Miriam arrange the sittings. M certainly might be desperate if he were depending on a fee, then Miriam left abruptly for Santa Fe without a word. He would be anxious to see her again and resume work on the painting.

  But this explanation felt far-fetched and unlikely. Nevertheless, the wadded note and Helene’s whisperings could be innocent.

  Lily intended to find out. She owed Miriam better than to leap to a shameful conclusion. She would reserve judgment until she knew the truth.

  There was something else she’d been thinking about almost constantly and wanted to know. Needed to know.

  “Quinn?” Turning to face him in the dark interior of the carriage, she hesitated, then blurted the question.

  “Did you decide to take a mistress?”

  Chapter 12

  Smiling, Quinn handed Lily his cigar and watched her inhale deeply before she reluctantly gave it back to him. He could never anticipate her, enjoyed it that she could surprise him.

  “A wife never asks her husband if he’s taken a mistress,” he said lightly. “The answer is either a lie, or the wife believes it is. You might keep that caution in mind for future reference.”

  “Why?” she asked, tilting her head back, pursing her lips, and exhaling a stream of smoke. “I’m never going to get married.”

  He knew the minute she realized he hadn’t answered her question. She arched an eyebrow, then frowned at the lap robe, pulling at it with gloved fingers.

  “There’s no reason you shouldn’t marry. You’re still young, beautiful, an interesting woman.” He’d watched her today, and she had sparkled even though she tried to mimic Miriam’s sadness and frequent sighs. Next to her, the other women had seemed bland and ordinary, like common ivy surrounding an exotic dahlia.

  It mystified him that Lily could have the same pale coloring and delicate bone structure as Miriam, yet impart such a different impression. Her eyes sparkled and flashed, her rosy mouth smiled, frowned, expressed a dozen different emotions. Vivacious and mercurial, she attracted people and attention without effort. Miriam had preferred to fade into the background and observe, but this woman would never be overlooked.

  “I grew up hearing my Aunt Edna insist that she’d never known a minute’s freedom until my Uncle Ross died. She said marriage was a hopeless trap and advised against it.”

  “That’s a discouraging thing to tell a young girl,” Quinn commented, drawing on his cigar.

  “I figure some marriages are like prison. Trouble is, no woman knows in advance if hers will be like that.” Her head lifted, and she looked at him. “When I heard the prison gates slam shut behind me, I understood about feeling hopeless and trapped, and I don’t want to feel that way again. I’m not going to take the risk that I’ll end up married and trapped. I want to be able to walk away if a man does me wrong.” She smiled. “I guess you wouldn’t understand that, you being a man who lives by the rules.”

  Lily Dale was every man’s fantasy of the perfect mistress. An exciting woman with modest wants and no interest in marriage. “Cy Gardener did you wrong, and you didn’t walk away.”

  She waved a hand and nodded. “I learned a lesson there. I was thinking about leaving him, I just didn’t do it soon enough. Next time I’ll know when to cut and run.”

  The light scent of forget-me-nots filled the carriage, mingled with the woman scents of sachet, lotions, and creams. Her thigh and shoulder rested against his, warm against the cold that turned her cheeks pink and her lips red.

  Jealousy, savage and hot, constricted his chest as he listened to her talk about the man who had led her into harm’s way. He didn’t want another man to look at her, let alone touch her or make love to her. Didn’t want to imagine her gloriously naked, opening her arms to any man who wasn’t him.

  Fevered images swirled through his thoughts. Lily wouldn’t keep her nightgown on, wouldn’t insist on total darkness. She wouldn’t silently endure with her face turned to the side.

  He knew how it would be with her. God knew he’d imagined it often enough. She would bring vibrancy and excitement to a man’s bed. The inhibitions she pretended during daylight hours would vanish in the darkness. Her need to touch and stroke and
discover would drive a man wild.

  Cursing under his breath, he flipped his cigar into the snowy night, then lowered his head and rubbed his eyebrows. He had hoped a week away from her would cool the fever in his blood, but seeing her again had ignited the fire in his stomach and mind.

  “Quinn?”

  When he glanced up, she was watching with a frown between those magnificent eyes that tonight reminded him of violets.

  “Is something wrong?”

  History’s famous courtesans must have had bedroom voices like hers, rich and husky, ripe with image and invitation.

  Like a dam bursting, his restraint shattered, and he reached for her, pulling her roughly against his chest. A low sound rumbled in his throat when he felt the soft heat of her body electric and taut against him. Her eyes flared in surprise and then in understanding, and her gaze dropped to his mouth. Her lips parted, and the air seemed to rush out of her body. She leaned into him and lifted her face.

  His lips covered hers, hard and possessive, and his arousal was instant and powerful. The taste of her inflamed his senses as he explored her mouth with his tongue, finding echoes of tea and cakes, smoke and sweetness. Anger and laughter, passion and appetite. These images flashed through a mind burning with an urgent need to conquer and take. He wanted to tear the clothing from her lush body and bury his lips between her breasts, wanted to taste her skin and inhale the musky scent of desire.

  When he released her, she eased back in his arms, her eyes wide and dazed, her breath ragged. She touched the fingertips of her gloves to her lips, and he felt her trembling. “My God,” she murmured, staring at him.

  Then she clasped his face and lunged forward, and this time she kissed him.

  There was no aphrodisiac on earth as potent to a man as knowing the woman he desired also desired him. Quinn’s mind exploded. Throwing off the lap robe, he roughly pulled her on top of him, pressing her against the length of his body. Mouth locked to hers, he shoved aside the edges of her cloak and found the fullness of her breast.