Kissing Comfort (15 page)

“He? Are you so certain it was a man who painted it?”

Comfort tilted her head a little to the side as she studied the painting again. “No,” she said. “I don't suppose that I am.” Her head came up sharply, and she stared at him, faintly openmouthed. “Your mother is the artist, isn't she?”

“No,” he said, smiling slightly. “My mother is not as wildly romantic as that painting would suggest, but I think she would be flattered if you thought so. Your assumption that a man painted it was correct. The artist was my father.”

Now Comfort's eyebrows lifted. “I never heard anyone describe your father as an artist.” Nor a romantic, she thought, but she didn't say so.

“Well, no.” His thin smile didn't falter. “That isn't what anyone talked about. He gave them other things to discuss.” Bode chose the chair opposite the overstuffed sofa where Comfort sat. He leaned back and slid his long legs forward, crossing them casually at the ankle. “Many other things.”

Comfort didn't think she was expected to respond to that. She was familiar with the gossip that accompanied Branford DeLong wherever he went and always suspected there was more than was ever repeated within her hearing. Except for a stray comment now and again, Bram remained largely silent about his father. Alexandra was equally reserved in discussing her late husband. Their reluctance to talk about him, even to appreciate his talents, made it stranger yet that Branford's striking oil painting was displayed prominently in their home. It was of the romantic style with its vivid colors and bold, sweeping brushstrokes, but perhaps it wasn't the artist they were admiring, but the subject, the seductiveness of the sea and the Black Crowne ship that could bring that temptress to heel.

“This isn't the first time you're seeing the painting, is it?” asked Bode.

“No. I've had tea with your mother in this parlor several times. If she noticed me staring at it, she never inquired after my thoughts.”

“And Bram? Did he never ask?”

Amused by the idea, she said, “Your brother doesn't discuss art unless the subject is . . .”

“Naked and female?” he ventured when she fell silent.

Comfort nodded. She could have said exactly that to Bram, but his brother caused her to be strangely tongue-tied. She couldn't put her finger on why that would be the case, but she suspected it might have something to do with his impenetrable blue-violet stare. That did not stop her, though, from adding another salient feature of the only art that Bram was likely to discuss. “And plump,” she said. “He waxes poetic if she's plump.”

Bode's lips didn't so much as twitch. Instead, a small crease appeared above the bridge of his nose. He absently fingered the top edge of the silk eye patch. “What
do
you and my brother find to talk about? Or for that matter, what did you find to write about for so many years?”

“When you ask that question, I can never tell if it's your brother you mean to insult, or me.”

“Bram cannot be insulted.”

She pressed the lip of her glass against her smile before she sipped. “It cannot have escaped your notice that Bram has adventures. I don't. That's what he wrote about, what he talks about. And he does it with a great deal of wit. It is a rare moment that he fails to entertain. That is something to be appreciated, I think.”

“You value him as your court jester, then.”

She felt her hackles rise sharply. It required considerable effort not to place a hand to the back of her neck and smooth them over. She wondered if she should point out that
she
could be insulted. “I value Bram's friendship for what he brings to it that is out of the ordinary.”

“I see. And what would he say he values about you?”

Comfort considered that for a long moment before she answered. “Perhaps that I don't judge him.”

Bode studied her and then nodded slowly. “I think you're probably right.” He finished his whiskey, set the tumbler aside, and pointed to the clock. “I'm surprised one of your uncles hasn't sent a carriage for you.”

She blinked. “That can't be the right time. I thought the clock must have wound down.”

“I'm afraid not.”

“But it's twenty minutes after eleven.” Comfort jumped to her feet. A cashmere shawl pooled around the hem of her dress. She stared at it. “Where did that come from?”

“Most recently it's been in your lap. Before that, it covered you while you slept. And before that, it was folded across the back of this chair.”

She stooped and picked it up, closed the short distance between them, and handed over her glass and the shawl. “I have to go. Where is my jacket? My hat?”

“A moment,” he said. “And a few deep breaths.” It was good advice for himself as well. He put her glass beside his tumbler and tossed the shawl behind him. “Let me ring for Hitchens. He will make everything right. He frequently does.” He stood and crossed the room to summon the butler.

Comfort's hand flew to her mouth. “I didn't even ask about Bram.”

“You asked about him every other time I came in here,” he said, pulling the cord. “One oversight does not make you careless.”

“You're not telling me anything.”

Bode managed not to sigh. “His condition is exactly the same,” he said patiently. “He's sleeping. He's comfortable. He's drugged.”

“I wish you would have awakened me right away,” she said. “Perhaps I could have visited him one more time before I left.”

“You were obviously exhausted. Vigils are wearing.”

He was right about that. “Your mother's still with him?”

“Yes.”

“You'll relieve her, though, won't you? She won't leave his side otherwise.”

She won't leave his side regardless
. He did not voice what went through his mind. The words would have tasted bitter on his tongue.

 

 

Rigoletto
was a disappointment, but she could hardly blame her uncles for that. They'd succeeded in surprising her with tickets to the performance, and knowing how deeply they loathed opera, she was touched by their gesture and unable to refuse it. They were aware of Bram's invitation, of course, and equally aware that after his accident the DeLong family box would be empty. That wasn't quite how it turned out, however, and every time Comfort's eyes strayed from the stage, she saw Beauregard DeLong looking back at her.

Most disconcertingly, he didn't try to pretend he wasn't watching her. He wore the eye patch, and while she heard the explanation that he'd given at the party bandied about, no one seemed to think he was a charlatan for affecting the raffish, slightly dangerous look even though he'd only earned it by running afoul of a mother cat and her kittens. It was just as well, she thought. If the truth got about that he'd tangled with the Rangers and a band of ruffians and lived to tell the tale, there would be swooning.

She had run into him several times in the week since Bram's accident. It was inevitable, she supposed, that she would see him coming or going from Bram's bedside. He was invariably polite, though perhaps a little distant. It was hard to account for the feeling she had that he was there for her, not his brother, and she found herself thinking about him at odd moments, remembering a snippet of conversation, or more disturbing, the feel of his tautly muscled back under her feet. He never once mentioned that he would be at the opera tonight, and she wondered if she would be here if she'd known.

At the break, Newt and Tucker escorted Comfort to the lobby for refreshments. They had beer. She drank lemonade.

“Are you feeling well?” Tucker asked as they retreated to a stand of dwarf potted palms with their drinks. He hoped he could duck under the fronds and stay hidden there during the third act. “There's not much color in your cheeks.”

“Isn't there? I don't know why that would be.”

“I think she looks flushed,” Newt said. “I noticed it while we were still in there. The Duke was singing. Gilda was singing. Rigoletto was singing. I was wishing they would just talk like regular folks, and I noticed Comfort looked flushed.”

“Would you like to leave?” she asked, getting to the heart of so much concern for her looks and health.

“Oh, no,” said Newt. “Promised myself that I'd stay to the end, bitter though it might be.”

“Might be?” asked Tuck, scratching his chin. “They always end bitterly. I think the Italians must be the most dyspeptic people on earth.”

Newt nodded sagely. “Probably comes from ruling the world once upon a time and then losing it all at the gambling table. That's enough to make a whole race of people disagreeable.”

Comfort nearly choked on her lemonade. “What are you talking about, Uncle Newt?”

“That Caesar fellow. He put his empire on the table and rolled the dice.”

Tucker winked at Comfort. “
The die is cast
.”

She laughed, and her enjoyment of the moment put genuine color in her cheeks. It lasted until Bode joined them.

He nodded to Newton, then Tucker, before addressing Comfort. “Miss Kennedy.”

“Good evening, Mr. DeLong. I didn't realize you would be here this evening.”

“A decision at the last minute when I learned that my mother was not going to attend.”

“How is your brother?” asked Newt.

“Miserable.”

Newt sighed heavily. “I'm more than passing familiar with that state.”

Bode chuckled. “I noticed that you did not seem to be enjoying yourself before the break.”

“Did you catch me napping?”

“No. I didn't see that.”

“Then you're right. I wasn't enjoying myself.”

“Uncle Newton.” Comfort tried to him give a cross look, but his expression was so comically forlorn that she couldn't manage it. “He dislikes opera,” she told Bode. “So does Uncle Tucker. They're here for me.”

“Ah. I see.” He inclined his head toward Newton. “Then what would you say to joining me in my box? All of you, I mean. I can have another chair carried in. There's plenty of room to add one. Mr. Jones, you can sit with Mr. Prescott at the rear. I know for a fact that you can sleep there undisturbed by anything except the sound of your own snoring.”

Comfort saw immediately that her uncles were tempted by Bode's offer, and that she was at the root of their hesitation. Tuck witnessed what she'd done when Bode annoyed her at the party, and she had every reason to expect that he'd told Newt. They were probably as concerned for Bode as they were worried about what she would do if it happened again.

“It's a generous offer,” she said. “I know my uncles would be delighted to join you.”

“And you, Miss Kennedy?”

“Of course I'm coming.” She accepted his arm as warmly as if she'd had a real choice, and then confided, “I don't like to let them out of my sight.”

Tucker and Newton fell into step behind them. “I heard that,” Newton said. “So did Tuck.”

“But I'm not grumbling about it, am I?” Tucker said.

Comfort allowed Bode to maneuver them through the crowded lobby. Ruby stickpins and diamond-encrusted hair combs glittered in the gaslight. Silk and satin rustled noisily as evening gowns and crinolines were reshaped in the press of so many bodies. There was chatter and talk, but it seemed that no one was discussing the opera. Comfort understood that for most of the patrons, the performance was an excuse to gather, to see and be seen, and that didn't diminish her enjoyment.

She noticed that while Bode was polite to everyone who spoke to him, he did not pause to engage in intimate conversation. It would have been different if she'd been on Bram's arm. In contrast to Bode, Bram had an uncanny ability to greet everyone familiarly and make each person feel important in his life, and then never give them another thought until their paths crossed again. She rather admired Bode for the way he did it. There was no element of performance, no staging, no asides.

He was merely genuine, and it was relaxing.

Comfort paused at Bode's side as the couple in front of them began to negotiate the stairs to the upper level. The woman's train was so long, the flounces so elaborately detailed, that she required her escort's help to keep from stepping on her own skirt.

The gentleman fumbled with something in his hand as he lifted his companion's train. He could not close his fingers over the object and lend assistance at the same time. It fell out of his palm.

Comfort bent more quickly than Bode and scooped it up. “Here, sir. You dropped this.” She held it out before she had a proper look at it, and when she saw what it was, tiny sparks darted up the length of her arm. They danced on her shoulder and her fingertips went numb.

Bode caught the red-and-white tin before it fell more than a few inches. “Here you go, sir. Almost dropped twice.”

The gentleman smiled. His mustache lifted at the edges. “Thank you. I assure you, everyone sitting around me will be glad I didn't lose this. I am cursed with an annoying tickle in my throat the moment the soprano begins her aria.”

Comfort didn't hear what he said as much as feel his words. His voice scratched her skin, making it prickle, and darkness closed in from all sides.

The time that Comfort was unconscious of her surroundings could be measured in seconds, not minutes; therefore she was doubly distressed to find herself already being carried toward the outer lobby doors when she woke. Because drawing more attention was not what she wanted, she remained quiet in Bode's arms and allowed him to transport her from the heavily perfumed and cloying confines of the theater into the brisk evening air.