Kissing Comfort (5 page)

Disquieted by his steady, frank regard, Comfort felt her smile fading. For the second time in the course of the evening, she wished herself anywhere but where she was. Giving him the faintest of nods, she turned away to slip into the kitchen, where the activity remained loud and furious. She hadn't taken a step when she felt Bode's fingertips brush her elbow. She wanted to ignore him. Instead, she looked back.

“Does my brother know that you're in love with him?”

Of all the things he might have said, this question was easily the least expected. Comfort knew what it was to have the blood drain from her face, and she felt it again now. A chill crept under her skin, and beneath the smooth crown of her ebony hair, her scalp prickled.

“Yes,” she said. She spoke quickly, too quickly, and it made her wonder how he would interpret it. She swallowed, all but choking on the lie, and was unnaturally pleased that she could meet his gaze directly. On the heels of that hubris, she realized that it was truer that she couldn't look away. She did what was left to her and made her features expressionless. “That is, I should hope so. He announced our engagement this evening.”

Bode's expression merely became thoughtful. “Did he?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have my con”—an infinitesimal pause—“gratulations.”

Comfort felt certain he'd wanted to say con
dolences
. That tiny pause had been deliberate, pregnant with meaning, and she should have bristled in defense of Bram, or at least in defense of herself. What she did, though, was incline her head and accept his words at face value. “Thank you.”

“That remains to be seen.”

Comfort's nostrils flared slightly, but she made no reply.

“I saw you,” he said simply. “On the portico. I told you that.”

Comfort understood then that she had no better evidence that Bode hadn't overheard any part of her conversation with his brother. His eyes told him a story his ears wouldn't have.

“I saw
both
of you.”

Now Comfort had his full meaning. “I've been told to expect more directness from you, Mr. DeLong. Say it. Say all of it.”

“Bram doesn't love you, Miss Kennedy.”

Having it put before her so bluntly, even though she'd demanded that he do so, still had the power to make her heart falter. “I believe your brother will disagree with you.”

“I'm sure he will. He frequently does. It doesn't mean I'm wrong.” He leaned his shoulder against the inside wall, not casually, but for support, a small concession to his injuries. “Don't misunderstand. I'm aware you and Bram have been friends for years. He probably cares more for you than he does for anyone else of his acquaintance, and he could well mistake that circumstance for love, but you should know that it's not.”

“Perhaps what it is,” she said, “is enough.”

He was quiet for a moment before he conceded, “I hadn't considered you might take that view.”

“Now you know.” She spoke with a certain directness that effectively ended their conversation. Careful not to give Bode any indication that she was in full and hasty retreat, Comfort swung her skirts to the side and left the entry alcove for the relative calm of the kitchen.

 

 

Newton Prescott slipped a finger between his stiff shirt collar and his Adam's apple and tugged. He'd probably been more uncomfortable in his life, but just now no specific memory was coming to him. The salon was warm, and for some reason that defied good sense, the doors to the outside remained closed. He had always suspected that Alexandra DeLong's blood ran cold, and here was proof. Lord, but he could think of no greater pleasure right now than sitting in his own home with his slippers on and feet up.

He surveyed the gathering as best he could without finding a box to stand on. Mrs. Rodham's smooth, white shoulder kept getting in the way. In any other circumstance, it would have been a pleasure to look at, but right now it was a distraction and an obstacle. Although Newt was not engaged in conversation with his present company, he nevertheless excused himself from their circle and maneuvered sideways to reach the inner perimeter of the dance floor.

Across the room, he saw Tucker engaged in a similar scan of their surroundings. Tuck had the advantage of height, and he was able to make his survey from deeper in the crowd. Newt noticed that Michael Winter was yammering in Tuck's ear, oblivious to Tuck's attention being elsewhere. Newt caught Tuck's eye when that dark gaze came around to him. Their communication would have been imperceptible to anyone looking in their direction, but the exchange of nods and glances had them moving simultaneously toward the overflow of guests in the hallway, and then to the front parlor, and finally to the relative quiet of what had been Branford DeLong's sanctuary within the house when he was alive: the library. It was also the place where Branford regularly cornered and groped the prettiest of his house servants, willing or not. Newt had once overheard Branford confide that the walls of books deadened the sound of so much sweet moaning. Having it from the horse's mouth, Newt never questioned the gossip about Branford DeLong's interest in women outside of his marriage, an interest that necessarily came to an end when Branford was killed running a Union blockade near Hampton Roads, Virginia.

At the time of his death, it was rumored that Alexandra Crowne DeLong made peace with her husband's affairs and indiscretions, but that she would never,
ever
forgive him for taking up the Confederate cause. Newt reckoned it was true. Alexandra's family probably built the
Mayflower
before they boarded it.

Newt leaned against the library door to keep other guests out. Tuck was already hitching a hip on the edge of Branford's massive mahogany desk.

“Where d'you suppose she's gone?” asked Newt. “I haven't seen her for the better part of an hour.”

“Bram disappeared for a while. Did you notice?”

Newt nodded. “I thought he'd come back with her.”

“Our little girl has a mind of her own.”

Their little girl was a woman full grown, twenty-five on her last birthday, but Newt didn't remind Tuck of what he already knew. “Six proposals of marriage,” he said instead. “Six. And
this
is the one she accepts. That must be the very definition of a mind of one's own.”

“Must be.”

Newt frowned. “Is it our fault?” he asked suddenly, rubbing his broad brow. “Something we did?”

Tuck folded his arms across his chest. “Something we did that made her stubborn? Or something we did that made her stupid?”

“Oh, I know she gets her cussedness from us.”

“Then I expect we also have to take some responsibility for stupid.”

Newt accepted that Tuck was right, but he wasn't happy about it. His broad brow remained furrowed. “Remind me, what was it about that McCain boy we didn't like?”

“Shifty.”

“And Fred Winslow's oldest son?”

“Shiftless.”

“Theodore Dobbins?”

“Full of shift.”

Chuckling, Newt felt the tightness in his chest ease. “Who does that leave?”

“Jonathan Pitt.”

“Over my dead body.”

“And Richard Westerly.”

“Over your dead body.”

Tuck nodded. “There you have it. We've come to Abraham DeLong.”

“She didn't ask us what we thought.”

“Could be she didn't want to know, or could be she knows and didn't want to hear.” He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “You harbor any doubts that she loves him?”

Newt tugged at his shirt collar again. “There's a couple or three ways to look at that, so hell yes, I have doubts. We agree our girl has a mind of her own, but that doesn't mean she knows her own mind. I can't figure if she loves him or just thinks she does.”

“Does it matter?”

“Maybe not. I can't find a way to make anything good come of it, and when it's all said and done, and her heart's brittle and breaking, she'll blame herself.”

“That's her way,” said Tuck. “Always has been. Remember how she was when we found her, all hollowed out, nothing but empty black eyes and a shell of body that looked like it would shatter if she sucked in enough air to catch her breath?”

“I remember.”

“And all those years going by while she carried around that little red-and-white tin like it was something real special, when what she was doing was reminding herself that it was her fault for what happened to those pilgrims.”

“I recollect that, too.”

“That's her nature,” Tuck said. “We can't undo her nature, so I suppose what we can do is take her in when it all goes to hell in a handcart.”

“I reckon that's right.” Newton's cheeks puffed as he blew out a breath. “Did you suspicion things were going to take a turn tonight?”

“I had a feeling.”

“You should have told me.”

“I thought it was indigestion. I had the clams.”

Newt made a sound at the back of his throat that communicated his displeasure. “Seems like there's no choice but to go along with this engagement.”

“Seems like.”

Newt kicked the door hard enough to make it shudder. “Damn it, Tuck. Bram DeLong should have asked us for Comfort's hand. The way he did it, it was disrespectful.”

Tucker put out a hand. “Easy. We don't need company on account of you causing a ruckus.” He waited for Newton's shoulders to go from hunched to brooding. “Bram's spoiled.”

“I'm not arguing that.”

“Comes from having a face like an angel, I expect.”

Newt stared at Tucker. “He has a face like an angel?”

Tucker shrugged. “I've heard women say that. He looks regular to me.”

Newt just grunted.

Tucker pushed himself away from the desk and stood. “We'd better go back. If Comfort's not with Bram by now, you look for her outside. I'll look around upstairs. Maybe Alexandra's cornered her and they're planning the wedding.”

And because Newt looked as if he wanted to kick the door again, Tucker hurried over and opened it.

 

 

Bram went to Comfort's side the moment he saw her on the threshold of the salon. Before anyone close to her could remark on her absence, he captured her wrists and held them out on either side of her. Smiling warmly, he cocked his head and made a thorough study of her.

“Your gown has been repaired beautifully. Didn't I tell you that Mary Morgan was extraordinarily talented with a needle and thread?”

So that was the explanation he'd given for her disappearance. It was rather uninspired as excuses went but thoroughly serviceable. “Indeed,” she said, turning slightly to show off the sixty-five-inch train that was de rigueur for a proper ball gown. “I defy you to find the rend.”

Bram chuckled. “You know I cannot.” He released one of her wrists and drew the other forward until he had her arm secured in his. With a brief apologetic smile to the guests closest to them, Bram led Comfort onto the floor and swept her into the waltz with a grace that made it seem effortless.

Comfort smiled up at him. “I am always a better dancer when you're my partner.”

“I know. And I'm a better partner when I'm dancing with you.”

Her smile reached her dark, coffee-colored eyes. “Have you always known the right thing to say?”

“I think so, yes.”

She laughed.

The sweet sound of it washed over Bram like a cool, cleansing spring rain. For reasons he did not entirely understand, it sobered him. “I'm sorry, Comfort. I mean it.”

She could have said that he always meant it. Underscoring that point seemed petty. “I know,” she said. “We'll manage. It is only for six weeks, after all.”

“Eight,” he said. “That was the hard bargain you struck.”

“I was merely confirming that you remembered.”

Bram regarded her in a way he hadn't done before. His last study had been for the benefit of his guests, and he realized he'd barely seen her. This he did for himself, taking in the upsweep of her thick black hair and the exposed vulnerability of the nape of her neck. Comfort did not meet any standard of beauty. Her mouth, especially her bottom lip, was too generously proportioned; her eyes, a fraction too widely spaced and a bit too large for her face. Her nose was unremarkable, neither turned up prettily nor refined in the manner of the blue bloods. Tall and slender, she had no curves to speak of except those that were compliments of the construction of her evening gown. Beneath the red-and-white-striped silk dress, a pannier crinoline exaggerated the definition of her hips and derriere, while the formfitting cuirass and décolletage gave the impression of fuller breasts than she'd been endowed with by nature.

And yet, he thought, while no single feature would inspire the poets to put pen to paper, Comfort Kennedy could inspire a man to be better than he was. Newton Prescott and Tucker Jones believed that. They credited her with all their success. Looking at her now, with her darkly solemn eyes and slim, reserved smile, Bram realized he believed it as well.

Who would he be, Bram wondered, if he were a man better than himself?

And the answer came to him: Bode.

It was like a blow, and Bram's breath hitched. His timing off, he made a misstep and could not catch himself quickly enough to steer Comfort clear of the same mistake. She stumbled. He corrected their course by lifting her slightly and then steadying her on the downbeat.

Comfort regarded him curiously. “What is it?”