Deadly Affairs

by Brenda Joyce

  She stepped closer to him. She had chosen the dress with him in mind—thinking about his reaction when he first glimpsed her. "You don't care for me this way," she spoke as the realization struck her.

  "No, that's not it," he said quickly.

  "I can see it in your eyes." She was stunned, dismayed—shaken.

  He hesitated. "How could I not like you when you are wearing such a dress? Every man in this room has been looking at you—admiring you."

  She understood her mistake now—too well. "You're not jealous." It was not a question.

  "No."

  She began to shake. "You admire the reformer, the bluestocking, even the sleuth."

  He smiled a little. "Francesca, do not misunderstand."

  "I understand you completely," she whispered, shaken to her core because she did. "This is not who I am—and only you and I know it."

  Their gazes locked. "Yes," he finally said, very low. "You are not the lady in red."

  She could only stare. He was so right—she would never be the lady in red, either. And he did not care; he loved her for who she really was. How was it that he knew her so well? How was it that, at times like just then, she could feel his very thoughts, as if she were a mind reader? "It's funny," she finally said slowly. "I accepted this dress pattern, the fabric, the color, everything, while imagining the look in your eyes when you first saw me in it. Yet I never felt comfortable, not when I saw the pattern, not when I put on the dress."

  He said quietly, "The look in my eyes is always the same when it comes to you. You could be in rags, and it would not change."

  Once again, the response he had was not what she had hoped for—not at all. Yet it was so much better, so much more. And she was ashamed, then, terribly so, for even briefly finding Hart alluring. "How has this happened? My world changed overnight, Bragg. I was a reformer and a student, and now, nothing is as it was."

  He smiled. "Life has a way of twisting and turning with very little notice. But Francesca, there is nothing to prevent you from being a reformer and a student—solely—again."

  Her hands found her hips. "On that note, shall we take a walk? I have been trying to reach you all day with a matter I have discovered, one that may or may not be meaningless to our investigation." And this was a safer topic.

  He sighed and rolled his eyes, but he was smiling—and relieved to discuss a less personal matter as well. "Ah, even in red, the woman I am so fond of has returned."

  "She has never left."

  He took her arm, and as they began to cross the room, Francesca was aware of heads turning their way—her way. She ignored the glances and said, "Bragg, this may be nothing at all. But my client Lydia Stuart is a newlywed. And a month after her marriage, her mother-in-law was murdered. As she is buried here, I can only assume she was murdered here, but they were living in Philadelphia, I believe, so on that point I may be wrong."

  He halted and regarded her with wide eyes. "How was she murdered?"

  "It was a simple burglary. She surprised a sneak in the midst of his work, and he stabbed her with a knife. He apparently stole some jewels. No one was ever apprehended."

  "Interesting. I doubt the murder is related; still, most bedchamber sneaks flee without the goods, rather than murder and continue on with their burglary. And the Stuart coach was at the funeral. Lincoln Stuart was in meetings all day, and I have not had the opportunity to speak with him. I did call on Mrs. Stuart, however. She insists she was at home with a migraine and that her husband had the coach." He paused and added, "I saw them arriving a moment ago."

  "They are here?" Francesca asked in surprise.

  "Yes, they are, and Mrs. Stuart is bubbling over with happiness at having been invited. I overheard her."

  "Yes, she was invited this afternoon by Sarah and Bartolla. I did not think she would come. And that is what she told me as well, Bragg." Francesca glanced past him, catching the regard of a good-looking blond gentleman. He smiled at her. She looked away, not smiling in return.

  As she did so, she saw Bartolla surrounded by a group of six men, all of whom were laughing and admiring her. That kind of event, however, was no surprise, and Evan was in the group. Then, however, Francesca saw two of the men smile at her, Francesca, across a goodly distance. She was absolutely stunned.

  Bartolla turned and looked her way, as if to see what was distracting her admirers. She smiled at Francesca too.

  Francesca smiled back and looked at Bragg. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "perhaps that is why everyone is staring. Perhaps everyone knows the real Francesca Cahill would rather have her nose in a book than be at an evening affair." Or have her head in the clouds, she thought, dismayed with that recollection. "Perhaps they are laughing at me for dressing up like a temptress. I am not making a fool of myself, am I?"

  "No." He took her arm and looped it securely in his. "Francesca, how could you ever make a fool of yourself? In fact, the commotion you are causing is twofold. The eligible men here want to know who you are and why they have not discovered you before; the other women are jealous." They left the ballroom and most of the crowd. "Your new friend Bartolla Benevente has her claws out, for one."

  Francesca blinked. She had to glance back. Bartolla remained surrounded by her cadre of admiring men, flirting and carrying on. Francesca could even hear her infectious laughter from across the room. But even as she spoke, the countess was glancing toward Francesca and Bragg. "I hope you are wrong," Francesca said. "I really do. I have come to like her. In some ways, we are very alike. And we are allies now—we both want Sarah and my brother freed from the chains of their engagement to each other."

  "The chains of their engagement? Aren't you exaggerating a bit? Sarah might prove the best thing that ever happened to your brother."

  Feeling more eyes upon her, Francesca glanced over her shoulder one last time before stepping into the library, where a pair of gentlemen were in a quiet and earnest conversation. As she did so, she caught Hart staring at her and Bragg. He was expressionless, and he turned and walked away the moment Francesca realized it was his gaze she had felt so strongly on her back.

  "If Hart ever makes an improper advance toward you, I will break his neck with my own two hands," Bragg said harshly, having seen his brother as well.

  Francesca, who had become rigid, whirled. "Please, don't speak that way! He's your brother."

  "He's my half brother, and he has been nothing but trouble since ..." He stopped very angrily.

  "Since when, Bragg? Since the day he was born?"

  "Don't."

  "I want the two of you to become friends."

  "It will never happen."

  "You did not want to see him tried and convicted for Randall's murder!" she cried.

  He sighed as the gentlemen walked out, smiling briefly at them. "If he had been guilty ..." he began.

  She cut him off. "He wasn't."

  Inside the library, a very large room with several seating areas and one book-lined wall, he faced her. "Why do you always defend him?"

  He had taken her by surprise. She hesitated and then asked, "Are you jealous of him?"

  He also hesitated. "Yes, I am. Because he is free and I am not—where you are concerned."

  She smiled then.

  "And this pleases you?" His tawny brows lifted, but she could see that his inherent good humor was getting the best of him now.

  "Yes, it does." She was tart. "So where were you all day?"

  "I had several official meetings, Francesca. Sleuthing is not a normal part of my day. We did find the letter Lizzie O'Brien wrote to Mary before her death, early this morning. I dispatched Newman to Philadelphia, and if she is still at the address, we may very well hear from him as early as tonight."

  Excitement filled her. "Will he bring her back with him?"

  "Only if there is an urgent reason to do so. He has been instructed to question her thoroughly when he does find her, and he knows where I am."

  Francesca accepted that. As she
thought about what Lizzie might or might not say, Bragg did a double take as someone walked past the door, in the hall. It had been a woman, and he left Francesca standing there by herself, striding to the hall and staring down it.

  Surprise was her very first response, followed by unease. She quickly hurried over to him, as he was turning back to her. The person disappearing down the hall was a very petite woman with hair so dark it was almost blue.

  With the unease came dread. "Bragg? Do you know that woman?"

  He shook his head, but two bright spots of color were apparent, high up on his cheekbones.

  "You seem upset," she whispered, filled with worry. Who was that woman?

  "I am sorry." He smiled at her, but it was strained. "For one moment, I thought it was Leigh Anne. At a glance, they are very similar in appearance."

  She stared at him and said, almost ill, "You only saw her from behind, and for one moment. Are you certain it's not her?"

  He shook his head. "Leigh Anne is even smaller, her skin fairer. And I did see her from a profile. No, it is not her, and besides, she will not come to New York."

  Francesca just stared at him, utterly shaken. In fact, she almost felt devastated. His wife was a single train ride away.

  She was in love with a married man.

  Why did she keep forgetting that? She wet her lips. "What would you have done if it had been her?"

  "I beg your pardon?" He did not seem calm, although he had spoken quite calmly. He seemed distraught—and Francesca could not recall ever seeing him that way.

  "What would you have done if it had been her?" she repeated.

  "I don't understand the point of the question." He was terse.

  His tone of voice was a blow. Stunned and hurt, she froze. He had never spoken to her in such a manner.

  He turned away, running one hand through his thick, sun-streaked hair.

  "Is she still in Boston?"

  He turned back, gave her a long look—one that was not particularly happy—and then walked behind her and closed the door. Francesca did not move.

  He returned and took her hands. "I am sorry. I did not mean to speak to you in such a way. Francesca, forgive me."

  She pulled her hands away. "One would almost think that you still love her." Her tone sounded choked to her own ears.

  "I have never loved her!" he exclaimed.

  "You told me so yourself—you fell madly in love with her the moment you saw her," she said, and to her dismay, she had the worst urge to cry.

  "That was lust," he said tersely. "Nothing more."

  It felt like another blow. "You were not consumed with lust when you first met me," she said bitterly.

  He stared. "How would you know?"

  She stiffened. "You hardly batted an eye—"

  "The moment I saw you, you turned my entire world upside down. I saw you from across the room, before we were ever introduced. You looked absolutely beautiful and even more miserable—clearly, you hated the affair. And when Andrew made the introductions, you started a political debate with me, Francesca." He suddenly smiled. It vanished. "I remember every word. I remember everything. You were wearing the most plain and prim blue dress. It matched your eyes exactly."

  She trembled. "Is that lust?" She knew it was not.

  His jaw clamped down. "No, that's not lust."

  She turned away.

  He seized her arm and whirled her back around. "This is lust, Francesca, God damn it."

  To her shock, his arms went around her in the most uncompromising manner. Before she could even begin to understand what he was doing, his mouth was on hers, forcing her lips open. One of his hands slid up to and held the back of her neck, anchoring her head so she could not move. The kiss somehow, impossibly, deepened. Francesca felt a surge of desire, very much like a bolt of lightning, and it went through her body, inflaming her completely, as he bent her over backward. The back of her thighs came up against an object of furniture. An instant later, she fell back onto a sofa, and Bragg did not release her. He came down on top of her.

  She felt every inch of his arousal against her hip, and somehow the shock and excitement of it caused her to cry out. And she managed to think, Dear God, this is what he is like.

  He wrapped both of his arms around her and leaned his full weight on her and lifted his head. Their gazes locked.

  She inhaled, shaking—his eyes were all heat. Heat and desire.

  "Never tell me what I am feeling," he said roughly. "It is only the vast respect which I have for you which holds me back."

  She nodded, incapable of speech.

  He shifted. There was no mistaking what he was doing and what the movement meant; he was hugely aroused and letting her know it, and somehow it was dangerous. He stared.

  She stared back, incapable of thought, of movement. There was only feeling—there was only wild excitement.

  "There was lust the first moment I looked at you, Francesca, but I am a gentleman and I did not show it."

  She nodded and realized he was going to get up. It was just too soon... Impulsively she managed to get an arm free from between their bodies and she gripped his head. His eyes widened. Francesca strained forward, and this time she was the one to kiss him. Her tongue tasted his lips.

  His breath escaped slowly as she touched his mouth with hers, gently at first, and she tested the seam of his lips and felt him throb with a surge of fresh blood and she moaned and moved her legs, and for one moment, as he settled there, the amount of excitement was simply impossible to resist. She cried out, needing him then and there, absolutely. He gripped the hair by her nape and kissed her, openmouthed, with his tongue thrusting deep.

  Vaguely Francesca heard the door.

  Bragg had his tongue in her throat, his palm cupping her breast through red silk and darker lace, his manhood surging against her hip. She wanted to reach down and find him. She heard a footstep. Alarm began.

  "Bragg." She pushed at him.

  He froze, and leaped off of her as if shot from a cannon.

  Francesca turned her head and saw Bartolla staring at them. The auburn-haired countess smiled and walked out.

  Francesca sat up, her hair falling down over her shoulders like a cape.

  Bragg looked from the door, which Bartolla had kindly closed, to Francesca, his eyes wide, as if astonished at her, at him, at them. Then his eyes widened impossibly as her state of dishevelment registered—or was it what they had just done?

  "Shit," he said.

  It was the worst language she had ever heard him use, and certainly the worst language he could use given the circumstance. Francesca laughed hysterically.

  She did not make it undetected into the powder room. A gentleman and a lady whom Francesca did not know saw her and gaped as she made the mad dash down the hall. Repairs were almost impossible. Her hair had been ruined, she hadn't thought to bring extra hairpins, and worse, her skin was blotchy, perhaps from Bragg's beard. Francesca had had the good sense to find several hairpins before fleeing the library, and with her fingers she managed to comb her hair before twisting it tightly into a chignon. Perhaps, she thought breathlessly, Connie could fix the mess she had made.

  She stopped and stared at herself in the mirror, dropping her arms to her sides. She was unrecognizable now.

  She was no longer in Bragg's arms, but being there was all that she could think about now. She was no longer in his arms, but her heart raced at an impossible speed, and she could not seem to breathe normally. Her skin tingled; her body throbbed. And the woman she stared at in the mirror was clearly and stunningly aroused.

  Francesca thought she looked very much like a harlot now. How ironic it was.

  What were they going to do?

  She had never seen this side of him before. She shivered, but the thrill was a delicious one.

  Francesca adjusted her bodice, but it wasn't quite correct and she could not discern where it was pulling. She gave up. She smoothed down the skirts, and with a deep breath for courag
e, she left the powder room. She had to find Bartolla and beg her for her discretion.

  She was afraid.

  The ballroom was filled to capacity now; in about a half an hour, the guests would be asked to find their seats in the next room, for the supper that would follow. As it was still the cocktail hour, the ladies and gentlemen sipped champagne, nibbled on treats, and conversed in small and large groups with one another. Still, it was easy to find Bartolla. She had surrounded herself with another group of men.

  As Francesca approached, she began to flush. Evan stood beside Bartolla, so closely that surely her hip touched his. He saw her, began to smile; then his eyes popped and disbelief filled them. Francesca steeled herself for a good set-down.

  He left the group. "What the hell happened to you?" he demanded. "You look like you've been tossed in the hay!"

  "Nothing happened," Francesca lied nervously. "Please, Evan, not now!"

  "I am going to kill whoever took liberties with you," he began.

  She seized his hand. "No. You are going to mind your own business, Evan, while accepting that your little sister has grown up."

  He stiffened.

  Francesca added, "Please."

  He hesitated. "Just tell me who it was."

  She ignored him and walked over to Bartolla. "Can we have a word?"

  Bartolla smiled at her, as if she had not seen Francesca in a most compromising position. "Of course." She excused herself and walked away with Francesca from the group of gentlemen.

  "Bartolla, I am begging you not to say anything about what you saw!" Francesca cried anxiously.

  Bartolla smiled. "I am happy you are enjoying yourself, Francesca; truly I am."

  "But are your lips sealed?" Francesca asked.

  "Of course they are. My dear, we are friends now, and I never betray my friends."

  Relief washed over her in huge, engulfing waves. "Thank you."

  Bartolla took her hand and squeezed it. "But I do hope you are ready for what you are doing. A married man is a very dangerous proposition for a young, unwed, and inexperienced woman like you."