Except for several rather disturbing fantasies, which shamed her no end, increasing the guilt already afflicting her. But in her fantasies, Hart’s face always changed, immediately becoming Neil’s.
What was she doing? And more important, why?
She was flushed now; she could feel the heat in her cheeks. She must not recall those very illicit acts of her imagination now. What would Neil think if he knew that she had dreamed of him touching her in terribly shocking ways?
She knew exactly what he would think. He would think her a whore.
The heat in her cheeks increased. Even when she had been having lunch with Hart, even when they had been flirting grandly, Neil had remained firmly on her mind. There was no escaping him—there was no escaping the betrayal of their marriage. She did not know what to do.
And Neil knew.
He had not said a word, but his behavior that evening, and the way he had acted with Hart, told her that.
Of course, there was no crime in flirtation. Even though Connie knew exactly what Hart wanted from her, it was only a flirtation. Hart had a mesmerizing charm, and it was pleasant and amusing, but nothing more. How could she not enjoy flirting with him? But God, flirting with her own husband before his treachery had been a million times more exciting.
Connie realized that a tear was slipping down her face.
It was hard to breathe. Was this what it was like to be trapped in a small, airless space? Connie suddenly had the gruesome image of being contained in a coffin—of being buried alive in her own coffin.
She shuddered, ill.
She had thought that he and Hart were going to come to blows, right there in Delmonico’s.
What was she doing?
I am punishing him, she heard a little voice inside her answer, and its tone was cold with satisfaction.
Horrified by that voice in her head, Connie gripped the wrought-iron edge of the Tensu chest, staring at her wide-eyed reflection in the mirror. She did not recognize the woman she was looking at. The woman smiling back at her was cold and ugly. Of course she was not punishing him!
The past was over. She had told that to Francesca and had meant it. Mama had even lectured her on letting it go as well. And Mama was always right.
Besides, the past would never be repeated. Neil had promised her that, and she believed him. The one thing he was, was a man of his word.
Then why was there this horrible tension between them?
And if he knew about her lunch, why hadn’t he said anything?
What if he did not know?
What if she was imagining everything?
But she hadn’t imagined his affair with Eliza Burton!
Connie did not know what to think. Her mind felt as if it had become useless, stupid, spinning round and round helplessly, incapable of forming a coherent conclusion from the many parts. She could not even organize her thoughts, so of course she could not organize her life! And if she could not organize her thoughts, or herself, then how could she organize and manage her marriage? Fool! Failure! Oh, what would Mama do?
Mama would do whatever she had to do to make her husband happy. Because Mama always did what was right.
What Mama would not do was flirt with another man.
Never speak back to your husband. Never refute his opinions. Never debate. Always bring him his paper and slippers. Never deny him his rights. Laugh when he tries to be amusing. Frown when he is upset. You are his helpmeet, not just his wife . . . Never betray him. . . .
Connie clapped her hands over her ears.
“Connie?”
Tears were blurring her vision, and the woman standing in the mirror, while beautiful, looked so fragile now that she appeared to be made of porcelain, a lovely painted porcelain doll, which surely must soon break.
“Connie? Are you all right?”
She realized with horror that Neil was standing on the threshold of her dressing room, and she whirled, dropping her hands to her sides. Instantly she pushed her mouth into a smile. “Neil?” What did he want? Why was he there? It was late; they had said good night; he had gone to bed! she thought frantically.
“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly, and there was real concern in his vivid turquoise eyes. He started to her, but she backed up, and he halted in his tracks.
“Nothing.” She beamed brightly, but did not move. The last time he had come to her rooms at such an hour, he had wanted to take her to bed. But that had been a long time ago.
But surely that was not why he was now present. Surely not. They had not made love in months and months, and just recently he had been in Eliza Burton’s bed. Wasn’t that enough for him? She was suddenly dizzy.
“Are you ill? Is it another migraine?” he asked, his expression almost agonized. He had removed his dinner jacket and replaced it with a paisley smoking coat in shades of red, black, and gold. He still wore his black evening trousers, but black velvet slippers, monogrammed in gold with his initials, NMC, the c standing for the baronetcy of Caameron, replaced his shoes. He had removed his white dress shirt, and she could glimpse a swath of hard, bare chest, dusted with dark hair, where the robe gaped slightly open.
She looked away, flushing. She had seen Neil without his shirt several times, and her husband might have been a logger, as he was all huge, thick muscle. “Yes,” she said quickly. Then, “No. I don’t know.” If only he would go! She could not manage this encounter now!
“Come into the sitting room,” he said.
She did not move. What could he possibly want? The answer, unfortunately, was obvious.
She thought about his touch and his kisses. He was not an inhibited or gentle lover; he liked to touch her everywhere, no matter how she might protest, no matter her surprise. Why was she recalling his style of lovemaking now? And her recent fantasies? A tingle began inside of her, but she hated it, and she shoved it away. “I am tired;” she said, and to her surprise, she heard how her tone had changed, becoming odd, flat and hard.
“Come into the sitting room,” he repeated.
Connie stiffened, because it was an order and they both knew it.
Just as they both knew she would never refuse him when he spoke in such a manner. Still, her feet did not move, even though her brain told her to obey. She stood stock-still.
“Connie?” he asked, startled.
Never refute. Never debate. Never disobey . . .
Something was wrong with her, Connie thought, feeling frantic. She nodded and this time, somehow, she started forward. He did not move, watching her. She had to go past him, and she felt his eyes on her back once she did so. Inside of her, she felt angry that he would stare at her so. Was he disapproving of her now? Perhaps he did not like her peignoir!
She was even angrier that she had obeyed him.
He followed her into the next room, which was situated between her lovely pink-and-white bedroom and her dressing room.
A maid had stoked the fire, and all the lights had been turned on when Connie had first come in. Neil had clearly turned off all of the lights except for one. She went to stand in front of the fire, clasping her hands firmly. How could he be thinking of passion now, after the night they had just endured?
Connie’s confusion increased. Anger was not in her nature. And it was her duty to please him. She knew that. In the past, she had enjoyed pleasing him. As a wife, it was her priority to make him happy and comfortable.
The reason he had gone to Eliza—the whore—was because she had failed in her duties entirely.
She was so imperfect.
He paused behind her and she tensed even more. “When are you going to tell me about the lunch you had today?”
She stiffened so much that a real headache began. She did not dare face him. Yesterday, when he had asked her about lunch, she had been entirely evasive, mumbling that she had been with a friend.
“Connie?” His tone was hard. And his hand clamped down on her shoulder.
She shook as he turned her around. She managed to
think, This isn’t about sharing a bed. He will be furious now.
“Look at me,” he ground out.
She obeyed, and realized he was so angry, but trying as hard to control himself.
“Whom did you have lunch with?” he asked.
He knew, so why was he asking? Of course, she would answer him now. She smiled, feeling as if she might snap in two. “If you know the answer, then why ask?” she heard herself say, and it was a different woman speaking—a woman she simply did not know.
His eyes widened and his hand tightened on her shoulder. “What?!”
She inhaled. “You’re hurting me.”
He dropped his hand. “You have lied to me.” He was incredulous.
“No, I haven’t lied.” Why didn’t she beg his forgiveness and be done with it? Connie grew frightened—why couldn’t she control her responses now?
“I asked you who you had lunch with, and you lied.”
“Hart is a friend.” She was more aghast—there could be no denials now.
His smile was menacing. “No, he is not.”
She lifted her chin. “You cannot choose my friends, Neil.” What was she doing?
He trembled. “I know you. I know you better than you know yourself, and I know you would never do to me what I have done to you. So I am at a loss. Is this your way of hurting me? Because if it is, it has worked. I am insanely jealous, and I will not allow you to see him again.”
He was insanely jealous. Connie stared at him, feeling as if she were outside her own body, objectively observing the marital argument below. Shouldn’t she be pleased that he was jealous? She felt so odd now, as if she were floating. “I am a grown woman,” she said calmly, stunned by her detached tone. “I surely can choose my own friends.”
He gripped her by her shoulders. “I will kill Hart if he has touched you.”
“Release me, Neil.”
He stared, and slowly, he dropped his hands. “What are you doing? Wait; I know what you are doing—you are thinking to hurt me, to punish me, for what I have done. But I have never regretted anything more! My guilt and my regrets are punishment enough. I love you, Connie. Did you hear me? I love you and I want our marriage back.”
It was so odd, for she did hear him; but once, when he had said those words before, on their wedding night, she had been thrilled. Now, she felt nothing except confusion. “I love you, too, Neil,” she heard herself say, and it was automatic and said coolly, by rote.
Something was happening here, Connie thought with a fluttering of new panic. And she did not know what it was.
He stared. It was a moment before he spoke. “I don’t think you do,” he said, and he turned abruptly and walked out.
The woman drifting above the room suddenly rushed back inside her body; Connie could almost feel her return, and as Connie saw him disappearing through her doorway, real fear seized her. But she did love Neil! She loved him with all of her heart and all of her soul; she did not want to lose him, and she did not even know what had just happened now! She desperately wanted to call him back, but now, when she had to speak, her mouth would not move; her tongue would not form the words.
Panic consumed her.
It was as if there were another woman inside her, one determined to destroy them all.
His wife was in the country.
She was a mere half-day away by rail.
Francesca could think of little else now that Bragg was driving her home.
“Francesca? You have not said a word since we left the restaurant.”
She slowly turned to face him, somehow smiling. “It is late and I am tired. It was a nice night.” Her smile was carved in stone upon her face. The evening hadn’t been nice at all; it had been fraught with tension, most of it thanks to Hart. But Bartolla’s flirtatious presence hadn’t helped, either. Evan had been too charming around her.
“Why are you dissembling now?” he asked softly. They sat in the two front seats of the Daimler, which purred softly as it idled in front of her house.
Francesca did not know what to say. She tried to smile again. “Bragg, thank you so much for the evening. I lost our little wager, but you took me to the theater anyway. It means so much to me.” She pulled her hand away from his, and the refrain continued in her mind: Leigh Anne was in Boston. Would he see her now?
She was more upset now than ever. And she was frightened. Nor did she understand her own feelings. “I had better go in,” she managed harshly.
“Francesca? Please. You are so upset. I suspect this is about my wife.”
She whirled. “Yes, it is.” Then, “You didn’t tell me!”
“I didn’t tell you what?” He seemed bewildered.
“That she is here—a half a day away!”
His eyes widened. “Her father is ailing. Her mother is a cold, shallow woman, her sister a serious problem, and apparently she has returned to Boston to be with her father. I only learned yesterday that she was nearby, in a letter she sent when disembarking from France.” He kept his tone calm. “Francesca?” He tried to touch her, but she pulled away.
And she felt like crying. In a way, his wife had seemed unreal—or surreal. She was certainly a woman Francesca never wished to meet. Now, she had a horrid feeling that their paths would indeed cross. How could they not? She was a mere few hours away, and Bragg was her lawful husband.
A small voice suddenly piped up inside her head: This is the price one pays for loving a man who is married.
“Francesca?”
She met his amber gaze. Even now, when she was upset, with his unusually high cheekbones, his straight nose, his swarthy skin and golden hair, he stole her breath. Even now, upset and frightened as she was, she only had to glance at his mouth to recall his kiss, and the urge to move closer flared.
“Were you ever going to tell me that Leigh Anne was in Boston?” she asked stiffly.
“It hadn’t even crossed my mind. Frankly, between Katie and Dot and the two Cross Murders, I haven’t spared my wife a thought.” He was genuinely surprised. “What difference does it make where she is?”
“She is a half a day away from here by rail,” Francesca said. “A half a day separates you and her—not an entire ocean!”
He sat up straighter, for she had been shouting.
“I am sorry,” she whispered, feeling frightened and miserable and finding her own behavior inexcusable. “I am truly sorry. Bragg, my feelings haven’t changed. They seem to grow stronger every day. Now, I am miserable.”
He stared. She looked away. Wasn’t he going to say anything?
She glanced at him. “I had better go.”
“Wait. No.” As she reached for her door, he restrained her.
She really didn’t want to go, because they had to somehow resolve this, even though there was, in a way, nothing to resolve but her inexplicable fear. For it felt as if she had just found Bragg, only to lose him now, so soon.
His gaze moved over her face. “Our friendship is a struggle, isn’t it?”
She stiffened. “What?”
“You are being hurt because of it, and frankly, so am I. Every day becomes harder, not easier; I know I am a man of honor, but around you, my thoughts are not honorable or honest at all.”
“No,” she said gripping his arm. “What are you saying?”
“We have begun to spend a lot of time together. And it is testing both of us in our resolve to remain mere friends. I, for one, see my resolve faltering.”
She could hardly breathe. Was he also thinking, as she had so recently done, that a miserable, cruel, and calculating woman stood in the way of their happiness? That Leigh Anne did not need to stand in their way? That they might find happiness in spite of her existence? How quickly her fear vanished; how quickly excitement fluttered in her breast. “But we are friends. And nothing more.” Her tone was strangled with her excitement.
He shook his head, then gripped the wheel with both gloved hands, staring straight ahead. “We are far more than friends and yo
u know it. The tension between us, the tension that never dissipates, is that of a man and a woman, Francesca. It is a struggle being around you when we are alone. It is painful not being able to court you. Worse, it is more than painful knowing that one day you shall blithely move on, to marriage with a man who is worthy of you. Marriage and more. Love.” He turned his head and stared unblinkingly at her.
It was hard to breathe now. “Don’t even begin to say that we must not be friends now! I have treasured our friendship the way I have never treasured anything or anyone before! And I shall not blithely move on! I have never given my love to any man before, Bragg. I am the kind of woman who gives her love only once in a lifetime.” A tear fell down her cheek. But it did not surprise her.
“Now you are frightening me, because you should not love me this way. It is wrong. And our friendship has encouraged it.”
“No!” She grabbed his wrist hard. He was not going to declare that their friendship must end—for that was impossibility. “I am strong enough to manage this; I swear I am, Bragg.”
“I am already hurting you!” he exclaimed. “And it hurts me, being with you like this, with my hands manacled behind my back. Preventing me from acting the way I really want to.”
“You are not the one hurting me. We are friends—and we will always be friends. I know you know that, Bragg. I know this may sound terribly romantic, but it sometimes feels as if we are destined to be together. It is so right. We understand each other so completely. Our souls are in unity, I think.”
For a long moment he simply stared at her, his eyes agonized, but moving over her face. Her heart raced. “Yes, I have felt that, too,” he said after a pause. “You don’t have to be afraid, Francesca. Not of Leigh Anne. She will not come to New York. In fact, because I am here, she will avoid the city at all costs.”
Some of her tension drained away. “See? You knew the reason I am afraid, without my even telling you,” she whispered.
He smiled a little, but the sadness did not leave his eyes. “Even if she came to New York, you need never be frightened of her. You know how I feel about her—and you know how I feel about you.”
She could not look away. She wondered if he could hear her heart now, as it was drumming wildly in her chest. “Bragg?” It was a soft-spoken plea.
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