Dalliances & Devotion Read online

  David stomped over to the seat across from her and sat, elbows on his knees, his spectacles slipping a bit down his nose. Not staring at her.

  Fine, staring at her. Because even though he should know better than to be bamboozled by her charms, the woman was a distraction.

  Amalia Truitt was beautiful. All shiny cinnamon-colored hair and flushed cheeks and the plumpest scarlet lips ever created. No photograph she’d sent him ever did her justice.

  A prickly heat washed over him. He was shmendrek—an idiot. A hapless idiot. An idiot who should’ve known better then, and needed to be reminded of it now. No dalliances, no Amalia, no anything but work.

  Except, just when his goals were finally in sight, she was back, jeopardizing his destiny. He was supposed to be like Joseph, the star of his favorite story as a boy. The man who traveled to a strange land to become an advisor to the king, and saved his people. The promotion could provide that opportunity.

  If Amalia didn’t ruin it somehow. The way she ruined what little bit of hope he once had of a normal life.

  Ah well. Normal lives were for the boring.

  “You really don’t need to be here.” She stared out the window, nose near touching the glass, her hair obscuring her high lace collar.

  He mumbled something that resembled, “It’s my job,” even as his mind traveled everywhere but the professional place it needed to be.

  I loathe everything my mother’s relatives buy me. How is one supposed to leave a trail of perfume down one’s neck for a man to kiss, if it’s covered?

  Oy. Why did she have to be so descriptive in the damned letters? Potiphar’s wife had nothing on her. He needed to picture Thad and the shade of purple his face turned at the idea anyone dared to disparage, let alone threaten his precious baby sister. He owed the man for, well, everything. Leering at Amalia, instead of being on high alert, was no way to repay that debt.

  Not to mention her other brother.

  Simon.

  David gripped his wrist and squeezed, the bone digging into the crook between his thumb and fingers as he willed those memories back. That day in July. The smoke and the gunfire and the screams and the shallow grave in the woods.

  No. That had no place here. This was a job and he needed to focus.

  “I’m being paid quite well and your family would be livid if I took their money without acting in accordance with my professional expertise.” David shifted in his seat.

  Quite comfortable, actually. Once he got his promotion, he’d have to buy himself a chair equally as grand. Yes, money was the root of all evil, but even the good could use a soft place to rest. Once in a while. Besides, he’d be supporting a craftsman. Or something.

  “Yes, and I’m sure your expertise is quite impressive.” Amalia sniffed, but didn’t turn and face him. “In all seriousness, David, you can leave.”

  “Someone threatened to kill you.” He drew the words out as slow as he could, mimicking his partner, Will, at his most placid and nonchalant.

  “It wasn’t so much of a ‘threat,’ but rather a wish for my death.” She clutched the handle of the large black case so tight her knuckles turned white. He squinted behind his frames as his senses woke, the ones that kept him alive so many times on the battlefield. What was she hiding?

  “I think your interpretation is a tad optimistic.” He angled himself close enough to whisper in her ear. “This isn’t a game or a lesson your brother and I cooked up to scare some sense into you.” Though, judging by her incautious behavior with the door, a bit of schooling in discretion wouldn’t have been the worst idea.

  “Even Thad isn’t that mean.” She stuck out her lower lip and squinted at him. “And I know his handwriting. Yours too for that matter.”

  Did she now? Hot liquid stirred in his veins. He pulled off his spectacles and rubbed his brow. “I would’ve written something more creative. As you well know.”

  A twang nicked at his intestines. He should never have engaged all those years ago. And, moreover, he should’ve burned all her letters, instead of rereading each of them before every dangerous mission the union army—or rather, Major Allen—sent him on.

  After he completed the job, when he gained power he could use to make a real difference, he’d light a celebratory flame, be free of the memories of the shallow and spoiled teenager who saw him as a mere diversion—a plaything to be used.

  David drew closer, invaded her space like he did with suspects. Hints of magnolia and citrus and spice, the same perfume that she’d dabbed into the corners of her letters, welcomed him. A signature scent, or whatever nonsense she called it in the columns that he most certainly never read nor clipped and saved. “No more holding hands with strangers under the table?”

  Amalia pulled back and shook her head so hard her curls bounced. “I was a child and an imbecile, but I learned from my mistakes and grew up. No more teasing innocent boys.”

  “I thought I proved I wasn’t so innocent. Many times.” He pulled back and tutted a little at her. “So no ill-advised flirtations, only marriages?” She flinched and tightened her arms around her midsection. A familiar spark lit in David’s brain. He made a show of retreating inside the chair, but instead of reclining, he leaned forward, chin in his hands, intent on her. “Speaking of which...”

  “Neither of my husbands would’ve done this.” She flipped her hair.

  “Amalia, you divorced them. They had to be angry.” He pushed his spectacles up his nose so he could peer at her better. Who wouldn’t be? To have Amalia Truitt promise to love you for all time and for her to snatch that away...

  “No. Not at all. My divorces were settled prior to filing—civilized negotiation, not passion.” She refused to meet his gaze. “I was always the petitioner so I could claim abandonment and retain my property. Well, the property I didn’t give in exchange for acquiescence.”

  “It’s a good thing your parents are wealthy,” he murmured. And insufferable. And loathed him on sight.

  “Yes. Money may be ‘the root of all evil,’ or whatever you like to say but it can also smooth all ills. And is quite the aphrodisiac.” The smile didn’t reach her eyes nor show her dimple. “But, I promise you, the divorces signify nothing but hard lessons I learned on my way to becoming something better.” Amalia clenched the arms of the chair so hard it was a wonder she didn’t burst the stuffing.

  A million questions sat at the tip of his tongue, but none were polite.

  On impulse he grasped a gloved hand and rubbed it between his palms. “Don’t fret, Amalia. Nothing will happen to you.”

  And nothing would. Not on his watch.

  Because, after all, he was a professional.

  * * *

  At least the line still had smoked kippered herring on the menu, and would serve hers with spinach instead of potatoes. And a half a grapefruit. And French vanilla ice cream. Good god, she needed to fill her stomach. She needed her mind to work. She had a million tasks and no time.

  How did she impress upon her parents that her charity was necessary? That there were women trapped in horrible marriages because they lacked the means for a divorce. Attorneys were expensive. As was living in a divorce-friendly state like Indiana for the requisite period to take advantage of its laws.

  She needed to explain the situation like that—with clear, concise points. And not get flustered. Especially with the threats. From a disgruntled husband no doubt, who’d somehow found out her identity, despite the pains she’d taken to conceal it.

  Not exactly facts in her cause’s favor when she went before her parents. Amalia sighed.

  At least she’d been permitted to take her meal in peace as David’s unseen partners patrolled. Their leader sat on the other side of the room scratching at some report. He’d had fish too. With no ice cream. Which was probably for the better since everything was being charged to her family. Though, odious as the sit
uation was, he was a guest. Sort of.

  Should she offer him a drink? David’s dig about her marriages echoed in her head.

  Perhaps not. He had no idea why she did what she did. Not that she’d enlighten him. Waste of breath. He’d made his feelings about her plain.

  She stuffed down all she’d ordered. And a second ice cream.

  And now her corset bit her ribs. And flesh. Especially up top. Of all the things she could’ve inherited from her mother, why did it have to be her bust line? Her older sister got the golden hair and blue eyes and nimble grace, but all Amalia managed to claim was the feature that required an extra hook and button added to her dresses.

  One of which was in danger of bursting if she didn’t get out of her clothes soon. Amalia licked her spoon one last time and cleared her throat. “I should retire.”

  “Well, don’t stay up on my account. I have work. You can just go into your room and we’ll stand guard.” David thumbed through more papers, not even glancing at her.

  Go to her room? Like a child? Well, at least he made her place clear. She smoothed her hair and adjusted her ribbons. “I can, but I dare say I won’t have the most comfortable sleep dressed like this.”

  “You can’t undress yourself?” David slid off his spectacles and wiped his eyes.

  “No, I can’t undress myself. And before you suggest I’m a spoiled sluggard, I’d ask you to try to put on one of my corsets. The steel has no give whatsoever and to be tight enough not to split my bodice...well, it isn’t a one-person job.” Struggling with the buttons a touch, she managed to pull off her gloves. Nothing was easy. He had no idea how much effort it took to be a well-dressed woman. She should introduce him to her columns.

  “That would be quite a sight.” He turned around to face her. And winked. He stretched his arms above his head, his flimsy white shirt and suspenders leaving very little of his form to the imagination. Not an unattractive view. Not that she cared anymore.

  Especially while he was distracting her. What exactly was he reading anyway?

  “You’d probably lose an eye. These buttons are sharp.” She stretched her fingers over the back of his chair, ready to lean over and just take a small gander—He jumped up so fast that her shoes skittered as she lurched back so his head didn’t collide with her nose.

  “I’ll call Meg.” He ran to the door and stuck his head outside, taking his papers with him.

  Fiddlesticks.

  There was an exchange of deep, intense whispers, which she couldn’t quite make out—not that she was listening. Fruitless, David returned, sticking his nose right back inside the papers, without making eye contact. Again.

  The nerve. Friends. Ha. More like general and private.

  Where was the young man who, mid-meal, nudged her skirts aside beneath the table and snaked his foot up her leg, gliding and teasing until she gasped and they were almost caught? He might be more handsome now but his new, somehow even more pompous, personality was not an improvement.

  A sourness spread through her stomach. Score another point for her father. She’d had no idea who the person she’d seduced was, no clue. She’d been thinking with her...well, not her head.

  Amalia gritted her teeth. Fine. Time to be more direct. She craned her neck. “What are you looking at?”

  He rolled his shoulder, blocking her view. “Nothing.”

  Oh, so he wanted to play games? She could play games. She raised up on her tiptoes. Stupid pinching boots. “Not nothing.”

  Before he could react, she pounced, launching herself over his head and snatching up the pages with enough force they almost ripped.

  David spun around and grabbed for her as she bounded away. “None of your—”

  “Um, that has my name on it, so it is my business.” She climbed atop a chair so she could read.

  “Amalia...”

  “Mercy, is that a copy of my first petition for divorce?” She swallowed. Not the most flattering document, even if she cast herself in the best light possible. She thumbed through the pages. “And wait, you have my father’s will and photographs from my second honeymoon?” Her eyes burned as she seized an old tintype. “I really shouldn’t have tried that hairstyle. Too severe. I don’t see though how this will help you investigate anything.”

  “This dossier is meaningless. Just an aid your brother created to help me protect you. I can put it away if you want.”

  Damn it all. That was pity in his tone. Pity. From him.

  She hugged the pages to her chest. “What do you need to know to do your job?” She ground her jaw. “I’m serious, David. Don’t treat me and my life like it’s some text to analyze and write commentary about. Just ask me. I can tell you what’s important.”

  The corner of his lip tipped. “Is your analysis regarding your choices the majority or minority opinion?”

  And the lump in her throat near cut off all her air, squashing the laugh his joke would’ve received...before. Before all her mistakes and all the condemnation she earned. She dug her heels into the plush carpet as she climbed down. Into the present. “It’s the right one. You can infer quite a bit from the evidence but only I know the real story.”

  “The truth is often in the eye of the beholder, it seems, and different people have different truths. Don’t be so trusting.” David pulled out his chair, turned it around so he faced her, and slumped back, his legs spread wide. He folded his arms across his chest and gave a slow nod, as if he was daring her to contradict him.

  “I’m not.” She marched back over to him and dumped the papers in his lap. He could look at them if he wanted, she had nothing to hide. She wagged a finger in his face. “I’ll tell you that no matter what you think of my sense, I’m not an idiot. I may have made mistakes, but I’m not a...”

  “Not a what?” He took her finger-scolding hand in his and brought it down to her side, not letting go.

  Her heart was an engine out of control. She stared into his deep, dark, luminous eyes. Searching. Judging. Her stomach clenched. Just like everyone else. Vapid, vacuous, and verbose. That’s all she’d ever be.

  She ripped her hand away and turned towards the car’s bedchamber. She needed to leave. Needed to be alone. To sleep. To clear her head. To something.

  “It doesn’t matter. Nothing is my concern. No need to consult me or give me a say. Just pat me on the head and humor me.” She stormed across the room, her hands shaking.

  “Amalia.” His voice softened, his tone almost plaintive, imploring. His right hand twitched. But he said nothing more and didn’t follow her.

  She swallowed again, even as the brass handle blurred before her. “It’s late. Send in Maggie, or May, or whatever when she returns. As I said, I need assistance changing into my nightdress. Which is normal.”

  Chapter Three

  David drummed his fingers on the mahogany table he’d chosen as his makeshift desk. He flipped open his pocket watch. For the past hour, Amalia remained in the larger bedchamber. The one with the single gold and burgundy velvet draped bed and the curtains and vanity—not that he’d been staring at the opulence during his cursory check. Nor had he imagined her long, silky hair spread over the pillow.

  What in the world could possibly take so long? Meg had worked in an asylum and several hospitals, so she could handle a corset and a few buttons.

  “You’re going to go blind.”

  David near jumped out of his skin. Meg was cagier than a cat—an advantage in the field, but less than pleasant when used against him. He heaved a sigh before rising to face her.

  “The light isn’t that bad in here.” He pretended to stretch but slipped the photograph into his pocket. His favorite so far. Amalia alone, in her second wedding gown. 1869. Summertime. Excellent neckline. He rubbed the top of his spine. “Are you finished? Is it all clear in there?” Damn it, his voice cracked, as if he was nervous or imagining their
charge in her nightclothes, which he was certainly not.

  “As far as I could tell, though who knows what’s lurking under all those gowns? Every inch is covered with ’em. She must have at least a dozen pink ones alone. Though they aren’t pink.” Meg pinched her nose, raising her voice up an octave into squeaky range in an obvious attempt to imitate Amalia, in the least flattering manner possible. “They are mauve, and blush, and fuchsia, peony, and salmon, and rose. Very, very, very different. And so important to know. Listening to the ‘Amalia Show’ is just the best.”

  Oy. No love lost there. If only Thad could’ve come. Or sent her parents, but his friend hadn’t wanted to disturb them in Washington. Something about an important meeting with President Grant reminding him he carried the Jewish vote in both elections, despite what happened in 1862. And celebrating the passage of a Third Enforcement Act, designed to kill the Ku Klux Klan.

  At least the family supported real equality, instead of just allowing the Confederacy to recast itself as “misunderstood” to further “reconciliation,” or what have you. A rarity for people who profited from a peaceful, unified country.

  He opened his mouth to make a soothing remark but Meg cut him off. “Little Miss Truitt has certainly made herself comfortable. How I’m going to pack it all up so we can change lines tomorrow in Pittsburgh, I’ll never know.” Meg’s upper lip quirked. “You’d think she created the mess to punish me, especially after I accidentally-on-purpose pulled her hair to make her stop talking for two minutes, but it preceded us.”

  “Have we finally found a task you can’t handle?” David leaned, tenting his hands, readying himself for the “Meg Show.” A rehearsal for Will, the person whose attention and sympathy she actually wanted. The preview was usually pretty amusing. He could use some amusement. It’d been a long day.