Appetites & Vices

by Felicia Grossman

“Provided we take a long enough break in between. I’m nearly as old as your father, you know?”

  She reached up and cupped his cheek. “You’re closer to my age. Also, you still have a reputation to maintain.”

  That he did. He licked his lips. “Is that a yes, Urs?”

  Golden curls bounced with her nod. “It just might be. Though you’d best not disappoint me, at least until we’re married.” She frowned, those three thinking wrinkles marring her brow.

  Jay’s heart stopped. “You haven’t changed your mind about marriage? Have you?”

  “Not necessarily.” She tapped her chin. “Though, truth be told, depending on your interpretation of Talmudic law, you may already own the house so you wouldn’t need to worry.”

  “What are you talking about?” He squinted at her. “I lost. You had the best hand. Also, what does my property or lack thereof have to do with anything?”

  Urs shooed away the questions with her palm. “I’m not sure if you can be bound since you aren’t a Jew. Nevertheless, if we aren’t married yet, I won’t toss your parents out on the street, but I won’t guarantee the same treatment for you, so you better behave yourself until we make things more official.” She gave him a saucy tilt of her head, which froze his mind for another moment, until her words echoed in his ears.

  “M-m-married?” His head spun. “We can’t be married. I’d remember that.” Wouldn’t he? Blast. Had he done permanent damage to his mind?

  She wagged a finger and her entire bodice jiggled—delightful. “In the future, I’d refrain from signing documents you can’t read. Better yet, never sign anything without me reviewing it first. I’d prefer to leave our children some inheritance.”

  “What did I sign?” He racked his memory. The only document he’d signed since he’d met Ursula was the one in her uncle’s office with the two men—no. Good lord. “Not the ‘betrothal contract’ or whatever your uncle called it?”

  Urs gave him a rueful smile. “Under Jewish law, you can argue, that all you need to do is to sign that, give me a ring and poof...married.”

  “Don’t you people do something in public?” Because his parents would want something in public. Bollocks, he’d want something in public. Something formal.

  She rolled her eyes. “My uncle thought he was saving my reputation, but I’m confident that no Rabbinic court would uphold the marriage if challenged. We’re going to have to do some sort of additional ceremony, especially if you want to keep this house.”

  His pulse galloped. Yes, another ceremony, one that he knew was happening. She could wear whatever expensive and fashionable and brilliant garment she desired with all the jewelry he’d commissioned.

  Unless he wrung Bernard Levy’s neck first.

  He wrinkled his brow. “How did you know you won the hand? Before I told you? Because you knew, didn’t you?”

  Her golden curls pranced along with her pendant, blue eyes sparkling. She giggled so hard she snorted.

  Odd, but adorable.

  “Of course I knew. I know your tells, Jay, and I learned Mr. Middleton’s.”

  Made. For. Him. And he was going to prove it, at least twice a day. He moved his second hand around her back. What did it matter if anyone saw? They were a bunch of provincials anyway. Dull, Delaware dull, hardly anyone’s concern.

  * * *

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  Coming soon from Carina Press and

  Felicia Grossman.

  After refusing to play the hand they dealt each other as teenagers, they’ll have one last chance to put all their cards on the table and win each others’ hearts.

  Read on for a sneak preview of

  Dalliances & Devotion,

  the next book in

  Felicia Grossman’s captivating historical series

  The Truitts.

  Chapter One

  Outside Indianapolis, Indiana

  Summer, 1871

  Her lawyer ought to offer a discount. First divorce: ranting client. Second: sobbing client. Third: exhausted but compliant client.

  Amalia Truitt threw her valise against the seat next to her and kicked her legs up onto the brocade footrest she’d requested for her private train car.

  At least it was finished. Terminated. No more marriage and no more temporary life in Indiana.

  With a moan, she leaned back farther, rubbing against the magenta velvet, reveling in the soothing vibrations from the rumbling wheels below. Probably ruining her ringlets.

  But no one was going to see her hair today. She tossed her hat on the floor and closed her eyes. She’d order her favorite meal. With brandy. And forget about her family’s ultimatum.

  No more marriages, I mean it, Amalia. You’ll bankrupt us. One more and we’ll have you declared incompetent. And put your assets in a trust—save you from yourself.

  Amalia blinked back tears. Her father, the jovial and permissive parent, delivered the threat. Not that he didn’t have a point.

  Twenty-three, two months away from twenty-four years old and a three-time failure. She should become a nun. Or at least find a Jewish version of a convent. With better outfits.

  Amalia’s stomach rumbled. Food. Now. Time to call the porter.

  Before she could rise, a rapping rattled the door. Had the Pennsylvania Railroad Company started anticipating her needs? Perhaps she held some sort of frequent traveler status.

  Still rubbing her aching neck, she swept aside the sliding door and gaped at the two familiar men and a lone, unfamiliar woman who pushed their way into the car. Her car. Swaying on her feet, Amalia clutched at the wall to keep upright.

  Even after six years, she’d recognize her brother’s best friend from V Corps anywhere. Though his bearing was somehow more American, David Zisskind’s flashing coal eyes and tousled brown hair hadn’t changed a lick. All the memories roared back—every kiss, every touch—but most especially her father’s admonition when he caught her sneaking back to her room after a midnight rendezvous.

  Amalia, he’s a rag peddler. What do you think he sees when he looks at you? Ten to one, he doesn’t know the color of your eyes, but he can recite where all the silver is located.

  “What are you doing here?” She managed the question as she gaped, her mind working to reconcile the man before her with the teenage boy she once lusted after. His thin, cheap wool jacket strained over his arms, the seams gaping. The amount of muscle was new, wasn’t it? If only he could remove his shirt and she could compare...no.

  She stomped on her own toe, crushing the leather of her boot, and slipped. In a flash, David’s arms shot out and grabbed her elbows. Warmth zinged down her spine as her back hit his rather solid chest. “Protecting you. From yourself, apparently, as well as outside threats.” The words vibrated into her body from his.

  “Outside threats?” Amalia’s stomach filled with a cold, hard lump. “Has something happened? I thought my mother and President Grant were friends now.” With a jolt, Amalia rocked on her heels, away from David’s body.

  “Your parents are fine.” Will, her brother’s other friend, moved so he stood shoulder to shoulder with David. Was he wearing a porter’s uniform? Amalia rubbed her eyes.

  Perhaps she was out of sorts.

  Perhaps she needed a drink. Or two. Post haste.

  “This isn’t about them, this is about you.” Though he hadn’t lost his accent, David’s voice was louder and his manner much more confident than the last time they’d spoken. “Were you expecting someone?” He brushed past her and peered around the room as if h
e was searching for something. Or someone. His eyes narrowed behind his spectacles.

  “No, well, maybe? I mean, I’ve done this trek a few times so the staff anticipates my needs. I was hungry, so I thought perhaps someone was already bringing me something to eat.” She wound a still bouncing ringlet around her fingers. Why hadn’t he answered her question?

  “You should check before you open the door.” David lifted her bag and opened it, poking his fingers about.

  She marched over and snatched the case back from him. “I have my own car and select staff. They don’t permit strangers back here.” She clutched the leather to her chest as tight as she could. Someone would have to pry it from her now. “And you’ve still explained nothing. You cannot poke through my private necessaries with only a vague explanation about ‘threats.’”

  Her hands sweat beneath her gloves. The secrets the luggage held burned through the material. Her most humiliating indulgence. The letters. His letters. From the war. As teenagers, they’d masked their identities in case the near indecent missives fell into the wrong hands—“Mr. V,” and “Madame A,” a sobriquet she couldn’t help using again for her beauty advice column in the Philadelphia Inquirer, even if it bound her to the past. Why hadn’t she burned them again?

  “Why don’t we settle down and talk about this rationally.” David stepped forward, his legs shoulder-length apart, his hands on either side of his belt buckle. A mistake, because if he used the word “hysterical,” she’d sock him, or better, knee him—best kisses she’d ever had or not. Amalia smacked her hands on her hips.

  He held up his palm and his lips softened into an almost sheepish expression. “Sorry, that was a bit...” He ran a hand through his hair. “Let’s just do this without hostility. We’re hardly strangers. We were once friends, used to enjoy each others’ company. I remember every conversation we had. All the jokes. I actually credit you a little for teaching me to read English.”

  “Do you?” She whipped around as the ghosts of the past swirled about her mind—all the lost innocence, the war that changed them, and the dalliance she’d mistaken for love instead of a way to stave off the sadness. Her rib cage strained against her corset.

  And friends?

  Ha. Friendships didn’t come with physical benefits. His letters were pure manipulation, permitting her to think he wanted her, the real her. And she’d kept them. Like a fool. She’d have the servants light a bonfire when she reached home, summer heat be damned.

  Amalia flipped her hair over her shoulder. “That was a long time ago. We are strangers now and this is my train car, so I think I’m entitled to some answers before you...do whatever you’re doing. You owe me the full story, including how in the world you all got back here.”

  David opened his mouth, but Will placed a hand on his arm, halting him, and answered instead. “We told them the truth. We were hired by your brother to protect you. Thad would’ve come himself, but for the new baby. The Pinkerton Agency’s name carries weight. The line agreed that I could play the role of porter for the rest of the trip so I’d have proper access, but not arouse suspicion.”

  Will’s ever placid voice steered conversation back onto its tracks. “Meg, over there—” he indicated with a graceful wave to the woman looming in the doorway “—will act as your lady’s maid.”

  Amalia’s mind stuttered and churned. David, a Pinkerton? A rag peddler turned soldier turned...detective?

  “We’re protecting you from this person.” David dropped his voice a little and leaned closer, as if shielding her. He pulled a paper from his pocket and slid it into Amalia’s hands. She studied the familiar words, ones she’d read and struggled to ignore for weeks—part of a series mailed to her residence in Indianapolis.

  Jezebel. You should be taken out and stoned. Judgment is coming for you and your wicked ways.

  The handwriting didn’t belong to any of her former mothers-in-law, which made the sentiments a bit concerning. When her brother found them during his last visit he’d promised not to tell anyone. She was going back home, after all. No one in Delaware would dare look sideways at a Truitt.

  You base, vomitous whore.

  Tears prickled the back of Amalia’s eyes. Her brother had promised. No one was supposed to know anyone thought those things about her. Especially not David Zisskind, who probably had quite a few opinions regarding her reputation. Especially considering the conduct they’d engaged in—at her request. Amalia grimaced.

  Against her better judgment, she perused farther, rereading the increasing venom. She swallowed hard, coughing into her hand as the most malicious accusations assaulted her.

  Clutching the paper so tight it crumpled, she turned away from David and instead stared at Meg. A mistake.

  “We know this wasn’t the first, ma’am. Or the last.” The woman sniffed in Amalia’s direction and wrinkled her nose as if she caught a whiff of something foul. As if she could detect the truth of the words by scent or had already judged them meritorious.

  Thad was a damned tattletale. And a traitor. How could he hire minders like she was a child—she clenched her fists. Or worse, an incompetent. The pressure inside her head grew fierce.

  “Is she married to either of you?” The question popped out of Amalia’s mouth of its own accord, leaving her to gape like a flounder ready to be stuffed in its wake. Probably not the most flattering facial expression.

  “What?” David, who’d dropped to his knees to glance under a table for some unknown reason, shot up so fast he nicked his head. He rubbed the spot, his full lips a stern pout.

  Meg didn’t flinch and sashayed further into the room. “No, ma’am. I’m not married to anyone. I’ve never been. Seems like a waste of money and time.”

  Amalia’s cheeks heated. Score one for the female Pinkerton in the worn gray, bustle-less gown.

  “She’s Will’s partner and a friend of your brother’s. A professional. You’re in good hands. They’ve both been Pinkertons for years. I’m the only newcomer.” David stuck his hands in his pockets and cocked his head. Another almost abashed smile played on his lips, tickling her memories once more.

  The good ones. The memories that made her heart ache. If only she could go back and do it all over again. She’d make such different choices. Smarter ones. Ones that didn’t trick her into believing she was pretty or clever or more than ordinary, when her family’s money was the only extraordinary thing about her. Amalia sighed.

  She smoothed her own taffeta skirts and pushed herself back into the present. “Well, is this really necessary? All three of you... I mean...it’s just words, idle threats. And sent to Indianapolis, where I no longer live.”

  Or ever will again. Hopefully.

  “Words sent to you, specifically. Using your real, unmarried name.” Grimness enveloped Will’s tone.

  The letter couldn’t be a real threat. Her family was probably trying to teach her a “lesson,” or find another way to control her. It all had to be part of some elaborate plot. Truitts excelled at those. Still, a slight chill ran down Amalia’s neck making the hairs stand at attention.

  “We aren’t leaving until you’re safe in Centerville. After that, we’ll apprehend whoever sent the letters. Even if he wasn’t paying us, we owe Thad.” David knit his hands, his eyes serious and sad, churning the echoes of their shared past once more.

  “David can describe the progress on that front. He’s coordinating, kind of an audition for him. If we catch our men, he gets to be a Pinkerton.” Will shifted so he was next to Meg once more. “Come along, Meg, we’ll do a sweep of the train, fetch everyone’s dinner, and return for the night.”

  The night? She was going to be stuck with Meg for the night? Well, to be fair, it wasn’t as if she could undo her corset herself, but still the woman made her position on the accuracy of the letters clear...and...oh no. A pounding drummed in Amalia’s skull. “You’re all sleeping her
e?”

  A three-way smirk.

  No.

  Not possible.

  Or proper.

  Ugh, all for a prank. And even if the letters weren’t a prank, how much danger could she really be in? Not enough to need nannies. Especially one she’d kissed—well, more than kissed, before ending the relationship with a lie. Amalia flinched and clutched at her own hands. Or two. And a few unkind words.

  Well, she’d paid her penance for those, and then some.

  David slapped his hand on the doorframe leading to her temporary bedchamber. “You have multiple rooms. Full servants’ quarters and a sitting area. I don’t believe you need that much privacy. A closed door should suffice.”

  Will held up a palm. “You won’t know we’re here. Except Meg. Who’ll be helpful.”

  “Doubtful. Especially without the requisite knowledge of fashion.” Amalia glowered in the face of the other woman’s glare. A pang of guilt rippled in her stomach. Fine, that was a bit much, but after being threatened and needled, she was in no mood to counter discourteousness with civility. Especially as feigned manners were kind of required to play the part of a lady’s maid.

  “It isn’t that hard,” Meg called over her shoulder as she rejoined Will.

  Amalia blinked. What choice did she have? Besides, it’d only be for a few days. What could possibly go wrong? Sinking back into her chair, she filled her lungs as deep as she could in her corset, banishing the nagging fear that the journey with these three would take all her stamina to survive.

  Don’t miss

  Dalliances & Devotion by Felicia Grossman,

  available August 2019 wherever

  Carina Press ebooks are sold.

  www.CarinaPress.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Hannah Singerman

  Author Note

  This is a work of fiction and the characters featured herein are not based on any particular people, living or dead. Many historical details were stretched for entertainment value. For example, Goodyear had been experimenting with the rubber vulcanization process during the late 1830s and 1840s and did eventually use it to manufacture condoms. However, when his prototypes were first available is unknown. Rubber condoms weren’t marketed until the 1850s.