Kissing Comfort

by Jo Goodman

  “Frequently.”

  “Well, I’m less likely to do it now that I know your uncle can turn me into a pillar of salt.”

  Comfort flashed him a grin. “Did you see Bode? Is your brother all right?”

  Bram shrugged. “I couldn’t get close. I think Mother intends the servants to bear him upstairs on a chair like he’s the Pharaoh Ramses. I wanted to make certain that you suffered no injury.”

  “Me? No, I’m fine. It was sudden, and I suppose he could have pulled me to the floor if I hadn’t been quick or strong enough to support him, but I was, so that’s that.”

  Bode looked her over, gauging that what she said was true. “He asked you about the engagement, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. He’s curious about the suddenness of it. I told him we hadn’t discussed it before this evening.”

  “True enough. I’ll remember that.”

  “I think he means well,” she said, surprising herself. “He’s accustomed to looking out for you.”

  “Cleaning up after me, you mean.”

  Comfort could have told him that if he didn’t take his position as society’s—and his mother’s—fair-haired bad boy quite so seriously, Bode wouldn’t have to carry a broom and dustpan. She held her tongue. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You don’t have to. I did.” He sighed heavily. “What can he possibly find objectionable about me asking for your hand? You are educated and even-tempered, possess sound judgment, and exert a reasoned influence.”

  “Maybe he thinks I will bore you,” she said dryly. She was all the things Bram said she was, and more than a little bored herself by so much in the way of good sense and moderation.

  “Maybe you would, but I believe he’d be glad of it.” The words were out before he properly heard them. “I’m sorry. I meant no offense. That came out in a ridiculous fashion.”

  “It’s all right,” she said.

  But there had been a hitch in her step, and Bram knew that he’d bungled it. “You don’t bore me,” he said. “You couldn’t.”

  “I could,” she insisted. “If we were married.” She stopped in a pool of torchlight and waited for him to turn to face her. “Eight weeks, Bram. You’ll wish at the end of it that I’d won the negotiation. We’re friends, certainly we are, but we’ve never—what’s the old expression?—oh, yes, we’ve never lived in each other’s pockets.”

  “It’s true that we haven’t, but you’ll see that it doesn’t matter. You’re looking on the wrong side of things, Comfort. Hasn’t it occurred to you that at the end of two months you’ll be the one wishing you’d accepted my original terms? I intend that we should have such a fine time as an engaged couple that you will put aside your reservations about my character and want to accept my proposal in earnest.”

  What Comfort wished was that she could duck into the shadows. It required a great deal of effort to keep her expression guarded and skeptical. “We’ll see,” she said. She took his arm and led him away from the light and toward the stone bench where she’d found Bode. “But I’m doubtful.”

  Alexandra DeLong paced the length of the rug in front of the fireplace in her son’s room. Bode lay on a chaise brought in for him from one of the guest rooms. It was a necessity when it became apparent the bed did not offer enough support or comfort for him. He claimed there was less pain in a partial recline than either standing or lying flat on his back.

  The door had just closed on the retreating servants when she spoke. “This is why you should come home,” she said, gesturing broadly to indicate the length of the damask-covered chaise.

  “I am home,” Bode said reasonably.

  “Do not pretend you are obtuse. You know perfectly well what I mean.”

  “Yes, I do. It’s a familiar argument.”

  “I prefer discussion.”

  “So do I, Mother, but surely we know by now that this will end badly.”

  Alexandra stopped pacing, regarded her son for a long moment, and finally sighed. “You shouldn’t assume I’m surrendering my position just because I’m choosing not to continue this discussion.”

  One corner of Bode’s mouth kicked up. “It never occurred to me.”

  Sweeping her train to one side, Alexandra dropped into the wing chair closest to the chaise. She plucked several rosebuds from her hair and dropped them on a side table. When she saw Bode giving her a look while pointing to his chest, she glanced down at herself and saw a cluster of white petals clinging to her bosom like snowflakes. She carefully collected them and dropped them on the table.

  “The roses were Mrs. Dufré’s idea. She showed me illustrations in one of her pattern books from Paris. I think perhaps it was too much. Rosebuds are for young women, not matrons, and certainly not widows.”

  Bode arched an eyebrow at her. “And not for mothers who are marking their son’s thirty-second birthday.”

  “That’s right.”

  He rubbed his chin, a reserved half smile still playing about his mouth. “I wonder what a proper response might be.”

  “Bram would know.”

  “He certainly would.”

  Alexandra fell quiet, waiting. When Bode didn’t fill the silence, she did. “You could try, you know.”

  “Very well. I don’t think I’ll mention you were skirting dangerously close to self-pity.”

  “No. Don’t mention that.”

  “Then perhaps what I should say is that you are an arbiter of good taste and your tastes influence fashion. You’ve made rosebuds extraordinarily popular this evening, and Mrs. Dufré should thank you for carrying off her design with such confidence.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t say any of that either.”

  He chuckled. “All right. The truth, then. You made the rosebuds want to be the rose.”

  She stared at him. “My God,” she said quietly. “You have his silver tongue.”

  “Bram’s?”

  “No, your father’s.”

  “You’ll understand if I don’t accept that as a compliment.” Alexandra nodded, her expression momentarily sad as she reflected on the past. “I don’t think I meant it as one.” She forced a smile. “Still, it was lovely what you said.”

  Bode returned her smile. The fire crackled beside Alexandra and light flickered in her hair, accenting the deep red color more beautifully than the rosebuds had. His mother deserved to be happy. Wasn’t that what Comfort said to him this evening?

  “Are you happy, Mother?”

  Alexandra did not mask her surprise. “What an odd question. Did you take a blow to the back of your head?”

  “No,” he said. Because she looked as if she might get up and verify his denial for herself, Bode put a hand to the base of his skull and rubbed hard. He managed not to grimace. “I swear it, no.” He watched his mother deflate slightly and ease back into her chair. “It’s not an unreasonable question, you know. Are you happy?”

  “Are you living at home?”

  “No.”

  “There is your answer.”

  He sighed. “Your happiness cannot be dependent on that.”

  “Who says? Show me where it’s written.”

  “Now who is pretending to be obtuse?”

  She returned his stare pointedly.

  “Me?” he said. “You think I don’t understand?”

  “I know you don’t. You’re not a parent.”

  “How does one explain Father? His happiness never depended on the choices his sons made.”

  “Nothing explains your father. He sired you. He was not a parent. And I would challenge your assertion that he was happy.” Diamonds glittered as she waved one hand dismissively. “But all that aside, it remains a truth that raising my sons is my singular achievement. If I want to rest my happiness on their choices, then that is my prerogative.”

  “God, but I wish you’d had half a dozen children. Your happiness is a considerable burden for two sons to shoulder.”

  “Two sons. Four shoulders. It seems adequate, if only you and Bra
m would share it evenly.”

  Groaning softly, Bode closed his good eye and let his head thump against the back of the chaise. The contusion at the base of his skull throbbed. He shouldn’t have rubbed it quite so hard. He picked up the covered icepack Travers left for him and held it over his shiner.

  “Bram seems to be doing his part to help,” he said.

  “You mean his engagement?”

  Bode turned his head a fraction and risked a narrow glance at her. “Has he done something else?”

  “That will always be a question, won’t it?” Her rueful smile said she accepted it. “But, yes, I’m pleased with his announcement and his choice.”

  “His timing?”

  “It was unexpected, I grant you that. I think if you had arrived on time, he would have chosen another venue to make the engagement public, but a celebration had been planned, and he saw an opportunity to give our guests something else to talk about besides your absence.”

  “Then perhaps I should have apologized for showing up at all.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “I was being facetious, Mother.”

  “Oh. I don’t usually miss that. I must be more tired than I thought.” As if to underscore her point, she yawned abruptly. “Well, there you have it. I’m going to bed. I’ll send Travers back to assist you with your nightclothes. Do you mean to sleep on the chaise?”

  “Yes. I think I will.”

  “Whatever is most comfortable,” she said, coming to her feet. She approached the chaise and bent to kiss him. His forehead was cool beneath her lips, and she looked to the icepack as the cause. “Sleep well, but make sure Travers leaves a bell with you so that you can call for help if you need it.”

  “I shall,” he said dutifully.

  Straightening, Alexandra gave Bode one last head-to-toe study. “I cannot understand how the collapse of a stack of boxes and barrels simultaneously injured you at the front and the back.”

  Because it seemed as if she didn’t expect an answer, Bode didn’t supply one. “Good night, Mother.”

  “Good night.”

  After the disquieting events of the previous evening, Comfort embraced the sense of peace she felt when she woke in her own home. Not far off, the sound of church bells could be heard calling people to Sunday services. Realizing the ringing meant she was already too late to attend, she lay back and allowed herself the luxury of a lazy, feline stretch. Her movement disturbed the cat that had been tucked in the warm curve of her knees. Thistle sank his claws into the cotton coverlet and then into Comfort’s flesh. She jerked her legs away and made a grab for him.

  “Come here, bad boy.” She chuckled softly when he didn’t even make a show of resisting her. Turning on her side, she cradled him close and rubbed her chin between his ears. His long gray-and-white hair tickled her. “We missed church, but I’m guessing we weren’t the only ones. Uncle Tuck might be up, but he’ll be having breakfast in his room, and I imagine Uncle Newt is still snoring.”

  She remained in bed a little longer, rising only when she felt she was in danger of drifting back to sleep. She did not want the day to slip away from her, not when she had explanations to make. The carriage ride last night had afforded her the only real opportunity to present the facts to her uncles, and she’d been loath to disturb the quiet calm that was their blanket on the journey home.

  She rang for assistance and asked for a bath to be drawn. Suey Tsin moved about as quietly as the cat, occasionally causing Comfort moments of alarm when she rounded a corner and came upon the girl unexpectedly. While Comfort soaked, Suey Tsin presented day dresses for her to wear. Communicating in truncated English, rapid-fire Chinese, and a flurry of gestures, her maid presented a compelling argument for the ice blue dress being more suitable as evening attire, for a dinner party perhaps, or for the theater, and as a result, Comfort chose the lemon yellow pinstripe.

  By the time she arrived in the breakfast room, Newton was sitting in his usual place at one end of the table and studying the paper folded in thirds beside his plate. Although he rose slightly at Comfort’s entrance, and gestured to her chair, his eyes never left the account he was reading.

  Amused, she kissed the cheek he absently offered and took her seat. She had just unfolded a linen napkin over her lap when Tuck joined them. She looked up in surprise. “I would have wagered that you’d already taken breakfast in your room.”

  “That’s why Newt and I have always cautioned you against making wagers. You don’t have the head for it.” He sat, snapped a napkin open with considerable flourish, and laid it protectively over his chest like a bib. Ignoring Comfort’s mild censure, he leaned forward and sniffed deeply. He immediately ferreted out the covered platter that was hiding the bacon and reached for it. After placing three crisp strips on his plate, he passed it to Comfort and then poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “I make wagers all the time,” she protested. She permitted herself one bacon strip, put four on Newt’s plate, then thought better of it and took one back for herself. “Every time I make an investment for the bank, in fact.”

  “That’s different.”

  “What he means,” Newt said, still staring at his paper, “is that mostly you’re wagering other people’s money. You’re more clearheaded when it’s not your own.”

  Comfort bit off one end of a bacon strip and waggled what remained of it at her uncles. “Are you two ever astonished that you made your fortune in banking?”

  “Always,” said Tuck.

  “It passeth all understanding,” said Newton.

  “Well, as long as you know it.” She took the platter of scrambled eggs from Tuck and spooned a heap onto her plate. She left it to Newt to serve himself. He did not always take eggs if he judged them too dry. Comfort poured coffee, added cream, and spread a dollop of orange marmalade on a triangle of toast. “Are neither of you going to say anything?” she asked, raising her cup to her lips.

  Attention on his paper, Newt merely grunted, but Tuck asked, “About what?”

  “You know very well. Bram’s announcement. Our engagement. Plans for the wedding.”

  “Oh, that. Newt and I decided that it was for you to say.”

  “Say what?”

  “Whatever you like, dear.”

  Newt finally pushed the morning paper away and looked up. “It was unexpected,” he said. “Even Tuck didn’t have an inkling that it was coming. You could speak to that first.” He examined the eggs, decided they were to his liking, and added them to his plate. “If you want to, that is.”

  Comfort tried to recall a time when the pair of them had tiptoed around anything. They’d always been considerate of her feelings, but this was excessive. “I wasn’t expecting Bram to make an announcement either.”

  “I wondered,” said Tuck.

  “There was a moment—just as quick as a finger snap,” said Newt, “when I thought Bram might have steered his ship aground. You saved him, though.”

  “I did. It would have been embarrassing to all of us if I hadn’t.”

  Tuck snapped a bacon strip between his fingers. The sharp crackle of the sudden gesture caught all of them off guard, and Comfort gave a start. Tuck looked at the part of the strip dangling from his fingertips and just shook his head. He muttered an apology because it seemed he should, although he was uncertain what he was apologizing for.

  Newt spoke up. “Tuck and I don’t mind a little embarrassment. It’s more concerning that Bram didn’t speak to us first, and apparently not even to you.”

  “When did he propose?” asked Tuck. “Just last evening, or were you keeping secrets for upwards of a day or so?”

  “I can keep a secret from you for longer than that.” She glanced at Newton. “From both of you.”

  Neither argued. They merely regarded her politely, waiting.

  “He’s never proposed,” she said, giving it all up at once.

  “Hah! I knew it,” said Newt.

  “You did not,” said Tuck. “You were apople
ctic. You kicked a door.”

  “You kicked a door?” Comfort’s dark eyebrows climbed her forehead.

  “He did,” Tuck told her. “We were holed up in Branford’s library deciding what to make of the news, and he kicked a door.”

  Newt bit off a corner of dry toast and made a face, partly because he disliked dry toast, and partly because just now he disliked his partner. “What happened to our decision to support her?”

  “Of course we’ll support her. We always support her. But there’s been no proposal, so we don’t have to support her in that.”

  “But there is an engagement,” Newt said. “In his usual Bram-handed manner, he’s put the cart before the horse.”

  Tuck frowned deeply. His eyebrows made a V above the narrow bridge of his nose. He directed his question to Comfort. “What does it mean exactly that there’s an engagement and no proposal?”

  She slowly released the breath she’d been holding. “In this case, it means that the engagement is a fraud. I told Bram that you would be relieved.”

  Newt and Tuck exchanged glances, and it was Newt who spoke. “Relieved? I don’t know about that. This situation has about as many prickles as a porcupine with her back up.”

  “I’m going to break it off in eight weeks.”

  “Eight weeks?” Newt stopped drizzling honey on his toast. “How was that decided?”

  “We negotiated terms,” she said. “I had to. He wanted to continue the charade for six months.”

  Tuck lifted his eyes heavenward. “Thank you, Lord, for giving us a child with more sense than a bag of hair.”

  “Uncle Tuck!” Comfort quickly raised her napkin to her lips to stifle her laughter.

  “What? I told Newt from the first that you’d be a comfort to us, and you are. I don’t know why he worries.”

  Newt swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “I worry so you don’t have to, and you should thank me for it.” He regarded Comfort with concern. “So you’re willing to pretend to be Bram’s fiancée for the next two months. Did I hear that right?”

  “Yes,” she said, staring at her plate. “It did not sound quite so ridiculous when Bram said it.”