Kissing Comfort Page 4

  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 condolences. 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 alon
g 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?”

  “Nothing. That is, nothing that matters. A stray thought, is all. My mind wanders.”

  “Yes, it does,” she said.

  Bram heard no accusation in her tone, only acceptance. Was that how she did it? he wondered. Did she make a man better by embracing who he was until he expected something more of himself?

  “You’re really very lovely, Comfort,” he said, and realized he meant it.

  “Pretty compliments?” she asked, her indifferent tone at odds with the creeping color in her cheeks. “Save them for someone who will truly have you, Bram. You know I am not that woman.”

  Chapter Two

  Bode stood back from the mirror and regarded his reflection critically. Travers had done what he could to make the evening clothes presentable, but a thorough brushing had not removed all of the mud spatter from the trousers or erased the dark droplets of blood near the collar of his starched linen shirt. Travers had also drawn a hot bath for him, and while the soak and scrubbing helped revive him to a near human state and eased the stiffness in his back, it couldn’t erase the swollen and blackening eye or the scalp wound.

  “Get me one of Bram’s shirts,” he said. “I can’t wear this.” He started to shrug out of his jacket, grimaced, and murmured his thanks when Travers stepped forward to help him. “You don’t think I should join the party, do you?”

  “It’s not for me to say.”

  There was no mistaking that it was a tart reply, and Bode noticed that Bram’s valet was careful to avoid eye contact. That was answer enough. “I imagine I’ll never be forgiven for leaving you behind when I moved out.”

  “No, sir.”

  Chuckling, Bode began unbuttoning his shirt while Travers placed the jacket over the back of a chair. “That’s more like it. I value your opinion, you know.”

  A proper valet might have offered a haughty sniff. Travers snorted. He was a small, wiry man who had once moved through the rigging of the majestic Black Crowne clippers with the agility of a monkey. The collapse of a burning mast had crushed his right leg some fifteen years earlier, and while there were those who said he’d been fortunate not to lose it, he still chafed at the brace that helped support his weight and often wondered if he’d have been better off with a peg. He knew men who still worked the ships with a peg. The brace made him ungainly. Worse, it made him rattle. He remembered what it was like to move with the stealth of fog. Now his comings and goings were announced by creaks and clanks, and no amount of oil to the hinges silenced all that racket at once.

  Bode’s fingers paused on the last button. “You heard Bram’s engaged?”

  “I heard.”

  “What do you think?”

  Travers lifted an eyebrow. “I think you might have left it to too late. That’s what comes of taking care of everyone but yourself.” He pointed to Bode’s swollen eye. “Look at what you have to show for it. Bram’s stealing Comfort and you’re getting none.”

  Bode supposed he deserved the opinion he asked for. “She loves him.”

  “Of course she does. Bram wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Bode shrugged out of his shirt. “She might even be good for him.”

  “No doubt about it. Still, I had it in my mind that you need her more.”

  It wasn’t a new idea to Bode either. He said nothing.

  “And would be better for her, too.” Grinning widely, Travers held out one hand for Bode’s shirt. “This is for the rag bin.” He swung around, dragging his leg slightly.

  “I have a plan, Sam.”

  Samuel
Travers paused and rubbed his bony chin with his knuckles. “Never occurred to me that you didn’t. You always were a real good thinker, Bode.”

  Bode gave him a pointed look and gestured toward the door. “The shirt, Sam.” It wasn’t until Travers was gone that Bode allowed himself the indulgence of a sympathetic smile. He’d known when he left home that he was abandoning the man who had mentored him more than his own father, but leaving Sam behind had been done for a purpose. Bram needed mentoring now, although judging by tonight’s behavior, Bode had good reason to wonder how much his younger brother was open to influence.

  He leaned toward the mirror and examined the cut on his scalp. Ruffling his thick, dark copper hair around the wound, he attempted to hide it. His mother would notice, though perhaps the other guests wouldn’t look past his eye. That was going to be a shiner. He only remembered having had one like it before, and he’d been about twelve on that occasion. At least he’d been proud of that one, earned as it was for defending Bram from a trio of bullies. That was twenty years and three thousand miles ago. Most often the score of years seemed less distant than the geography. He was still looking out for Bram.

  Travers’s return brought Bode out of his reverie. He accepted help slipping into the shirt and put up with Travers fussing about the fit of the jacket until the valet began making soft clucking noises. Stepping away from the mirror’s unforgiving reflection, Bode put out a hand.

  “Enough,” he said. “There’s no more that can be done. Certainly no one’s going to blame you if I’m turned out like a sow’s ear instead of a silk purse.”

  “A lot you know. Your mother will say I shouldn’t have turned you out at all. Send for the doctor, that’s what she’ll want to do.”

  “Well, there are probably three of them downstairs, so it’s more likely I’ll be trampled when they rush forward to do her bidding.”