Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (37 page)

She inhaled, hearing the contained anger in his tone, and she turned slowly, daring to meet his eyes. “Neil?”

“Don’t you ever do such a thing again,” he said, releasing her. “And I mean it.”

She stared at him and was both afraid and angry herself. “What?”

“You disappeared. You took the girls—my daughters—and disappeared. I have been frantic with worry,” he said tightly.

Had he been worried about her as well as his daughters? “Neil, didn’t you see my note?” she asked unsteadily now. Julia’s instructions filled her mind, but she hated lying. It did not feel right to lie to Neil, no matter the circumstances.

“What note?”

“Why, I left you a note telling you where we were off to for the weekend. In fact, I was surprised not to hear from you in return. As I said, Charlotte had a most wonderful time. Beth Anne’s nieces were staying over, on a holiday from Pittsburgh. They are a bit older than Charlotte, and you know how she adores older children.” Connie managed a smile that felt frozen.

“You left me a note telling me that you were going to Beth Anne’s for the weekend?” he asked, at once incredulous and suspicious.

Somehow, she nodded. “I would hardly take the girls and vanish,” she heard herself say.

He stared at her, wetting his lips. Then, “Connie, you frightened me.”

She felt her heart quicken in response to his words. She turned away. She did not want to hear him now.

He seized her arm. “Don’t turn from me, and damn it, don’t smile at me as if I am some fool you are entertaining for supper! I can see past that smile, Connie. I can see how distressed you are. We must talk.”

His hand was large, strong, and oh, so familiar on her arm. God, she had forgotten, briefly, how much she loved his touch—how much she loved him. But she must not allow those feelings now—or must she? Her mind seemed to spin crazily. It was hard to think. “I am tired,” she said. She faced him and smiled another time.

His gaze was searching and agonized. Then, “Your rest can wait.”

She did not like his firm tone. When he was decisive, there was no getting around him. What did he wish to speak about? Surely not his sordid affair? “Very well.” She walked away and he released her. She sat down on the gold-and-white settee in the room’s large sitting area, clasping her hands in her lap.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said slowly. Connie knew she should not speak, but she heard herself say, “Then you should not have taken a lover.” His jaw flexed. “I tried not to.”

What did that mean? Unease assailed her. She truly did not wish to continue in this vein. “I am sure you were seduced. Neil, I am very tired.” She stood, intending to go to bed. She had one dose of laudanum left. She had been intending to save it for after supper, but now she changed her mind. She would dose herself now.

He strode to her and took her arm. “I was not seduced! Lucinda is eight months old, and we have had relations less than half a dozen times since her birth, not to mention the fact that during your pregnancy it was even less! I know you do not like that part of our marriage, Connie. I have tried, repeatedly, not to bother you with my more basic needs.”

Whatever was he speaking about? She blinked at him, beginning to blush. He wished to discuss … the
5
-word? “This is not a seemly subject,” she managed.

“Not seemly? Damn it, I am a man, and I have a beautiful wife, a wife whom I happen to love. A wife who I believe loves me, but who does not care for physical relations. I know how proper you are. I know you are embarrassed now. To hell with that!” he cried.

She was embarrassed. But she was also shocked. It was true that they had not made love that often since the baby had been born, but when they did, it was wonderful. And she had hated him seeing and touching her when her body was grossly fat while carrying the child, because Neil expected her to be beautiful—he would not love her if she was not.

She did like the most intimate aspect of their marriage. She more than liked it, if she dared to be honest with herself. His touch made her tremble, and dear God, he knew how to make her body explode. Surely he knew that? It was just so hard to know when and where to cross the line between proper and indecent behavior. It was hard to be a lady when he was touching her and kissing her. God forbid she might act like a trollop or, worse, a whore.

He stared down at her. He was blushing, too. “Connie, I have known from the beginning of our marriage that you do not like sharing my bed. Unfortunately, I am a very virile man. It has been very hard for me, controlling my needs. I
did not mean to stray.
I have tried to live a very celibate life. In fact, no one has tried harder than I have. But I failed. I failed and I am sorry and it will not happen again. I
never meant to hurt you.”

She stared at him and wanted to tell him that his touch was exquisite and that being joined together into one being was heaven. But she could not speak. She did not dare speak openly about such a subject.

Was this, then, all her fault?

He faced her gravely, both hands fisted on his hips. “However, I made you a promise, one I intend to keep. It will not happen again—even if you lock me out of our bedroom.” And a questioning light appeared in his eyes.

She didn’t know what to say. She could hardly breathe. Somehow, she smiled. “I am not locking you out of our bedroom, Neil.”

Relief filled his gaze. “Thank you.” He studied her and then his gaze slipped past her, to the open doorway of the room they shared. It was dominated by a large canopied bed.

She followed his regard by shifting slightly. She looked at their bed and felt her cheeks warm. What should she say, or do, now?

Julia had instructed her to pretend that nothing was amiss. But something was amiss. He had turned to another woman instead of to her, because she wasn’t perfect after all.

Connie inhaled, stabbed with pain.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I am fine,” she said.

He studied her. “I wish you would tell me the truth. I wish you would shout and scream and even throw something at me.”

He did not mean it; it was impossible. She stared. She would
never
indulge in such behavior.

He sighed heavily. “I will see you at supper,” he said. He glanced again at the doorway of their bedroom.

She sensed what he wanted. But it was only the afternoon, and good God, she had only just returned home! Still, she should do something now. She should somehow invite him in. She should take him to bed, following Julia’s advice. For then they could truly pretend that this had never happened….

But it had.

And Connie did not now have a clue as to how to even begin to approach her husband in such a forward fashion.

Neil walked out.

She closed her eyes, wanting to call out to him. She did not.

Instead, she sat down, dazed, and it was several moments before she felt the tears sliding down her face.

He had been forty-five minutes late to his meeting, but he had sent a message to the gentlemen awaiting him, and that had saved the day. Now their lawyers would haggle over the more minute details of the agreements that had been made, enabling him to gain another shipping contract with China.

Hart did not care.

He was on his way home now after what had been an unusually long day. He was aware of his mood being foul, although not precisely why. He was in his coach, crossing 33d and Broadway. He had a function to attend at eight, and it required a damn tuxedo.

Impulsively he rapped on the partition, alerting his driver. “Raoul, Madam Pinke’s.”

The coach made a right, heading east. Hart leaned back in his seat, an image of Daisy filling his mind, followed by one of Rose. But the tension within him was so vast that those images—and the anticipation—could not make him smile. Then he thought about his damn brother.

He was partially, Hart decided, the reason for his mood. Rick had decided to pull rank on him, but that was merely amusing. His stint with power would be brief enough. Even if he did last an entire year in the job, Hart doubted Lowe would get re-elected, and Rick would move on.

It was a shame that that absurd appointment had brought him back to New York City. Now their paths kept crossing, to everyone’s annoyance. They would cross even more once Rathe and Grace Bragg returned to the city.

It was even more of a shame that Rick was so damn dedicated to his job. Who the hell cared who had murdered Paul Randall?

No one cared, Hart thought somewhat savagely. Not he himself, not Randall’s grieving wife, and not his man-hating daughter or his student son.

No, his mistress cared. She had lost her sugar daddy. Georgette de Labouche cared—and so did Rick.

Hart laughed silently, but that helped nothing. He seemed to have a headache—the same one that had bothered him all day. Randall was dead. So what? He had been murdered three days ago in his mistress’s home. Who cared? He did not care. He was glad the man was dead. He hadn’t lied when he had said he was happy about it. He had truly hated the man.

The man he had spoken with exactly twice.

The man who had also hated him.

The coach halted, but not at 48th Street and Third, for that establishment had been closed down and boarded up. The new premises were five blocks south and one avenue west. Hart watched a well-dressed gentleman enter a nondescript brick house, his pace brisk, a walking stick in hand.

But did he
really
know that Randall had hated him? They had only spoken twice!

He had always been intending to confront Randall one day, far into the future, and maybe even beat the shit out of him, in order to find out the truth.

“Sir?” The big, overweight man who was more of a bodyguard than a driver had slid open the partition. “We are here, Mr. Hart,” Raoul Torelli said.

Hart started, so immersed in his dark thoughts that he hadn’t realized they were at his destination. Grimly he launched himself from the coach. He was not going to think about Randall again.

He bounded across the sidewalk and up the house’s front steps. He was ushered inside the house almost immediately—already it had been painted the sensual salmon color Madam Pinke was famous for, the same color as her old establishment. Madam Pinke greeted him instantly, receiving him in a small office set off of the larger salon, where the gentleman he had noticed upon the street was waiting. “Hart! This is a surprise. Have I made an error? I don’t have you down in my books.” She embraced him and pretended to kiss his cheek.

He didn’t bother to smile. “I would like to see Daisy, and I will be brief.”

Her eyes widened. “Daisy has a six o’clock appointment. I have another girl—”

“I don’t want anyone else,” he said, and he heard how dangerous he sounded. He opened his billfold and handed her several hundred dollars, and then he turned and walked out of the room. He heard her quickly count the money, and then she called after him, “Upstairs, second door on your right. A half hour, Mr. Hart!”

Like hell,
he thought, his black humor increasing. This situation was intolerable. For he was not a patient man in the best of circumstances. He had stumbled across the girls by chance two or three weeks ago. He had espied Daisy at the sale counter of B. Altman’s on a weekend—he had been there with a married woman who wished to pick up some absurd item. It had not taken him long to strike up a conversation, and he had quickly realized the kind of woman Daisy was and the luck he was in. An appointment with her and Rose had immediately followed—within hours of that first meeting.

And he had not been disappointed; to the contrary.

But dealing with Madam Pinke was no longer acceptable. He did not have the patience for it. She was an avaricious fool.

He bounded up the stairs, suddenly hot and explosive. He reminded himself not to rush, as rushing ruined everything for everyone. Trying to control his sudden wild impatience—he was already erect—he knocked.

The door opened and Daisy stood there, the loveliest sight he had ever seen in his entire life.

And he met her sky blue gaze, looked at her breathtaking face, and smiled. “Sweet, sweet Daisy,” he murmured. “You shall be my salvation today.”

“Hart!” She was surprised, but then she smiled, and it was genuine—it reached her gorgeous eyes. “What is this? Has Madam Pinke let you up?” She looked at him coyly, speaking in that soft, breathy manner she had.

His answer was to stroll past her, and she closed the door. She was wearing a short red-and-orange kimono, exquisitely embroidered with black and gold, that barely covered her loins. In fact, her buttocks peeked out from behind, an enchanting sight. She was, without a question, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She had a quality that was ethereal, yet she was one of the earthiest women he knew. “She has,” he said, loosening his tie.

She smiled again. “How lucky I am. Is Rose coming to join us?”

He could not tell if she wished for Rose to be there or not. “I did not ask for her,” he said, removing his tie. Perhaps he should have. Watching two exquisite women in bed together was a delicious prelude to his making love to them both. In fact, it was one of the finer things in life.

“Good,” Daisy said, moving gracefully away to a bar cart where she lifted a decanter. She glanced directly at him over her shoulder. “Then I shall have you all to myself. For
only
the second time.”

He realized she was pleased. And that pleased him. Still, had he only been with her alone once? “Yes, you have me all to yourself. How lucky you are.”

She returned his smile. “My only fear is you will exhaust me for the rest of this evening.”

His smile vanished. “How long have you been with Madam Pinke, Daisy?”

She approached him, handing him a scotch, neat. Both pale brows lifted. “Perhaps two months. I do believe I told you we only just came to town.”

He was an inquisitive man, and he had asked her and Rose several questions, but their reluctance to tell him of their past had made him desist. The only fact he had learned was that they were from another northeastern city and they had arrived in New York together, two months ago. How mysterious it was. “I think it has been two months too long,” he said, taking a long sip of the scotch.