Pure Sin

by Susan Johnson

  “Lucie’s not a speck of trouble, Mr. Serre. She likes my stories about Pa and the animals, but if you decide to return to Montana early, I can’t say I’d be disappointed. I miss my Ben.”

  “That’s her husband, Papa,” Lucie said, interpreting her father’s blank look.

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Richards,” Adam apologized. “I haven’t slept much. The name didn’t register immediately.”

  “Never mind, Mr. Serre. I reckon you got lots more on your mind than remembering everyone’s names. Now, you should be dressed too, Miss Lucie,” she added. “Maybe we could take a walk to that toy store down the block after breakfast, if it’s all right with your father.”

  “Yowiee!” Lucie gleefully cried, jumping from her father’s lap. “Let’s see if they have any fuzzy animal toys. Say yes, Papa,” she added, figeting in her excitement, “and don’t forget to bring me something back.”

  “Yes to both,” Adam said with a smile. “And thank you, Mrs. Richards.”

  As Adam waited for his carriage to be brought up to the entrance of the Clarendon, he debated the next step in his relationship with Flora.

  His marriage, of course, was a dominant roadblock to any permanence. He could arrange a divorce in Montana, but Isolde would ignore it. The Catholic church didn’t recognize divorce, nor did the laws of France.13 And knowing Isolde, she would continue to consider herself his wife.

  He needed an annulment.

  Almost reflexively, he drew in a deep breath at the finality of the word. At the commitment it implied in terms of his attachment to Flora. Despite his wretched marriage, he’d always avoided the ultimate dissolution. Out of inertia, perhaps, or a sense of family duty. Or maybe for selfish reasons—since he and Isolde had lived separate lives, he’d been spared any restrictions on his activities, and his status as a married man had protected him from demanding lovers.

  Was he truly ready for such a serious measure?

  Did he really want to be free of his marriage?

  Would he regret the loss of his liberty—for Flora expected faithfulness. Was he capable of such devotion?

  Smiling at his driver as his carriage rolled up to the hotel, he stepped into the open carriage and said, “Good morning, Monty. At least one of us is fresh and alert, I see.”

  “Some of us use a bed for sleepin’, boss,” the wiry ranch hand said, echoes of the Georgia hill country still in his voice after years in the West.

  “The thought’s beginning to take on a definite appeal, Monty,” Adam replied as he sank into the soft leather upholstery. “Ten Franklin Square this morning.”

  But a block down Broadway, Adam suddenly said, “Stop.”

  “Forget somethin’?” Monty asked, easing the horses over to the side of the street.

  “I just need a minute to think,” Adam murmured.

  Should he wire James to begin the annulment proceedings? Adam mused, indecision rife in his mind, his gaze unfocused on Monty’s straight back. If he intended to go through with an annulment, James should start the legalities; any negotiations with the Vatican were sure to be protracted. Isolde would be obstructive. A certainty there. As was her mercenary family’s greed; they’d sent a phalanx of lawyers to deal with the marriage settlement.

  On the other hand, if the proceedings were to take years, a few days one way or the other scarcely mattered. He needn’t make so momentous a decision this morning.

  Perhaps the afterglow of last night with Flora would fade.

  Perhaps she would annoy him this morning.

  Her untrammeled independence didn’t bode well for obedience in a wife.

  If indeed he wanted that submission.

  If he wanted another wife at all. He sighed; he squinted into the sun; he decided to decide later. “Go on, Monty—Franklin Square,” Adam asserted, visions of his discordant marriage instinctively cooling his ardor. Sliding into a lounging sprawl, he gazed up at the canopy of green leaves and sparkling sunshine overhead, unanswerable questions assailing his mind. Should he or shouldn’t he? Did he wish to lose Flora or keep her? Would he lose her if he did nothing? Swearing under his breath, he longed for a very large cognac.

  They were turning onto the approach street to Franklin Square when Adam suddenly shifted upward on the seat and abruptly said, as if he might change his mind were he to be less impetuous, “Go to the telegraph office first.”

  Bringing the horses to a halt, Monty shifted around, not sure he’d heard correctly, so softly had Adam spoken.

  Adam smiled. “Yes, I’m sober, although I’m not certain I might want an excuse later for doing this. The telegraph office, Monty, before Franklin Square, and you can congratulate me. I’m getting married.”

  “That a fact.” Monty Blair was too polite to mention Adam’s current wife, although no one at the ranch expected her back. And if he was talking marriage, it had to be the redhead from England. After her stay at the ranch, bets were taken by the staff on how soon she’d return.

  “An eventual fact,” Adam replied with a grin. “If Lady Flora will have me. I have to let James know.”

  “Don’t expect he’ll be surprised.” Monty had been driving for Adam for a decade; he’d watched the young count forced into his marriage; he’d seen Isolde’s reaction to Aspen Valley and her husband. And he was aware of all the concessions and adjustments Adam had made for his wife over the years. “Reckon things will be different with Lady Flora,” he laconically said. “Congratulations, boss.”

  “Thanks, Monty,” Adam replied. “I’m in a damned good mood.” His smile shone white in his bronzed face, and then his dark brows rose and fell in swift merriment. “I think.…”

  Flora was sitting on the front steps of Sarah’s house when Adam’s carriage drove up, and by the time his driver had stopped in front, she was standing at the curb looking fresh-faced and girlish in a primrose, sprigged muslin gown, her straw bonnet hanging from her wrist by its grosgrain ribbons.

  Jumping down from the gleaming black victoria, Adam helped Flora in and then settled on the padded seat opposite her.

  “I didn’t want to wake Sarah,” Flora explained as the carriage began moving. “She generally sleeps late in the morning, so—”

  “—you were sitting on the steps like an urchin,” Adam finished with a smile. “A very beautiful urchin, by the way. Could I interest you in a home,” he teased, “to get you off the streets?”

  “I could possibly be tempted,” Flora coquettishly replied, fluttering her eyelashes in mock flattery. “Would the work be hard?”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “It depends …”

  “On?” A flirtatious lift of one brow.

  “On my mood,” he softly said.

  “I’d have to cater to your moods? Ummm … perhaps I should think about it.”

  “You’re not allowed to think about it,” Adam brusquely retorted, and without regard for gossip or scandal, he reached over, lifted Flora into his arms, and pulled her onto his lap. “You’re only allowed to say yes,” he whispered, holding her tight.

  “Are you abducting me against: my will, Mr. Serre?” Flora murmured, the froth of her primrose skirts surrounding her in heaps and piles so she seemed fragile, vulnerable.

  “It’s a thought,” he said with a degree of sincerity, not inclined to let her leave him again. “Kiss me.”

  “They’ll run us out of town, darling,” she warned, quickly glancing around to see if they were observed.

  “You’re too shy,” he murmured, kissing her instead, a light, delicate, restrained kiss. If he’d allowed himself to really kiss her, there’d be scandal indeed. “And I won’t be here much longer should they wish to run me out. I’m going back with you.”

  “When?” Heaven within reach.

  “In a day or two. I have to see my horses readied for travel.”

  “Utter bliss,” she murmured.

  “It gets better,” he said. “Wait until you taste George’s fried trout.”

  George Crum14 had first lear
ned to cook as a guide in the Adirondacks, having been taught the finer aspects of cooking by a Frenchman who employed him. He’d worked at Moon’s Lake House with his sister-in law, and after gaining fame for his culinary expertise, he opened a restaurant of his own on a low hill at the south end of Lake Saratoga. A mixed-blood of mulatto and Stockbridge Indian heritage, he kept his expenses down by having his five Indian wives serve as his waitresses. They were all devoted to him, as were his customers. His tables were so crowded he had no need for reservations, and tycoons, socialites, and celebrities waited their turn with ordinary guests. And despite the rustic quality of his restaurant, no objections were made to his prices, which were as high as New York’s fashionable dining salons. His gifted skills as chef were worth the cost.

  Flora and Adam were greeted on the front porch by George and his wives.

  “I promised Flora your trout,” Adam said as they climbed the few stairs to greet their host. “And thank you for opening early. It’s hard to find privacy in Saratoga.”

  “How much privacy you needin’?” George replied, his bony face creased in a smile. His long, straight black hair attested to his Indian blood. “This your second wife now?”

  “That’s what we’re here to discuss, so give us your table out on the porch by the lake and bring us something sweet right away, because I think she’s going to hit me.”

  “Want some tips on managing your wives?”

  “One is all I can handle at a time, George,” Adam said with a smile, taking Flora’s hand. “I’m not diplomatic like you. And bring champagne too. We’re celebrating.”

  They sat at a small table overlooking the lake, holding hands across the white linen, smiling at each other as if they alone knew the secrets of the universe, the magical beauty of love.

  “Forgive George,” Adam said into the peaceful summer air. “We’ve been friends too long.”

  “Everyone’s forgiven today. I feel unbelievably happy.”

  “I already wired James to begin annulment proceedings. I’ll talk to your father in person when we return to Montana. I need you with me.”

  He spoke quietly, with very little inflection, his fingers tightly clasping hers, and she felt that small restraint in tone, in the fierce pressure of his hands.

  “Do you love me?” she asked.

  “I must,” he carefully said. “I do,” he corrected himself and then with a faint sigh added, “I’m not sure about love; I’ve never been in love before, but I desperately miss you when you’re gone, and I want you to be my wife so you’ll never go away again. And to that purpose I’m willing to try to buy off the Vatican, Isolde, and her family. If not for that daunting prospect, and the vicious scars of my marriage, I’d be more certain. I wonder too at times what you’re doing with me.”

  “I don’t have the vaguest idea,” Flora cheerfully said.

  He grimaced. “Perhaps we have a problem here.”

  She shook her head so her curls swung back and forth on the delicate lace of her collar, her smile carefree, her joy a kind of radiant abandonment, boundless and prodigal. “I may not know precisely and absolutely why I love you, darling, but I know what love is now. It’s everything,” she said, her tone both tender and blissfully happy. Her brows arched in teasing query. “Do I need particular reasons?”

  “No, so long as you’re with me.” His life had been more restricted than Flora’s by family and duty; Isolde too had tempered his belief in happiness. And his clan’s struggle to survive against the enroachments of settlement had made him aware of the stark reality of greed. It had nurtured a possessiveness in him. “I’m impossibly jealous,” he quietly said.

  “As I am,” Flora replied with equal gravity. “I’ve never met Isolde, and yet I despise her for the time she’s spent with you. And all the other women too.”

  “You needn’t be jealous of Isolde. I never touched her after …” He paused, debating how much to say. “After our marriage,” he neutrally finished. “As for the other women … that’s over, and it’s long past time to end the sham of my marriage.”

  “If you can.”

  “Generally large sums of money expedite annulments, but Isolde’s family is influential too.” He sighed. “There’s no certainty.”

  “You needn’t marry me,” Flora gently said, understanding the complications. “I’m content simply to be with you … content like this, holding your hands, knowing you’re near.”

  “But I want to marry you.” He’d never said that before, never thought he’d understand with such clarity what marriage could offer. “I’d like to have more children, too.” He smiled. “If you don’t mind.”

  Flora’s halcyon glimpse into paradise faded away. In all her jubilation she’d forgotten. “Maybe you won’t want to marry me, after all,” she softly murmured, pulling her hands away and clasping them in her lap.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” His voice was circumspectly calm, but he was watching her intently.

  “Because I can’t have children,” Flora whispered, forcing down the lump forming in her throat.

  Only the slightest flicker in his eyes denoted his fleeting shock. “It doesn’t matter,” Adam softly replied, leaving his chair to move around the table. Slipping his hands under her arms, he lifted Flora to her feet and, taking her chair, pulled her down onto his lap. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered, his arms enfolding her. “Truly.”

  “I wish I could give you children.” A tear slid down her cheek.

  “Hush, don’t say that. I don’t care.” He wiped away the wetness with his thumb. “I just want you.”

  She told him then in a rush of tears and broken phrases about her illness in Egypt, how she rarely had menses after that, how the doctors—so many doctors—had told her the high fever and infection had destroyed her capacity to have children. “None of it mattered to me … until now,” she ended on a gulping sob.

  “Please, bia, don’t cry.” He gently rocked her in his arms as if she were a distraught child. “I love you,” he whispered. “I’ll always love you. I’ve loved you from that first night at Judge Parkman’s.” It was the only time he’d ever told a woman he loved her; it was the first time he realized how powerfully Flora had affected him all those months ago in Virginia City. And for a man who had studiously avoided the declaration in all his amorous play, he found the sentiment pleasing on his tongue, satisfying.

  “Maybe you’ll change your mind later,” Flora despondently said. “When you miss having more children.”

  “We have Lucie,” Adam gently said. “She’s more than enough to keep us both on our toes, believe me.”

  “She does like me,” Flora murmured into his shirt front, a small ray of hope entering her gloom.

  “Lucie adores you; I adore you. Come, now, darling, dry your tears. This is a day of celebration, and I’ve a wager for you. Tell me what you think my annulment will cost, and closest estimate to the actual figure wins—what—ten thousand?”

  Flora half raised her tear-streaked face. “You’re just trying to coax me out of my doldrums, but it won’t work; I’m feeling very sad.” Her bottom lip was pouty like a child’s.

  “I’ll say twenty thousand for the prelates,” he thoughtfully murmured, ignoring her reproach because he was intent on distracting her. “Twenty thousand for Isolde, and another twenty thousand for her family’s honor.”

  Flora’s head lifted completely from his chest. “Are you talking about the real world?” she incredulously inquired. “Twenty thousand won’t even get a monsignor to read your application. As for Isolde, while I don’t know her, I gather she moves in very expensive circles. Twenty thousand buys five or six dresses at Worth. You’ve been in Montana too long.”

  “Really,” Adam calmly said. “What sort of numbers are you betting, then?”

  “Damn you.” She’d fallen for his bait.

  “You’re intrigued,” he said with a smile. “Admit it. Humor me, darling, tell me what this is going to cost me.”

  Since F
lora had overseen the expenses of all their expeditions, she had a precise knowledge of prices throughout the world. “I dislike being manipulated,” she remarked, her tone still mildly resentful.

  “Don’t answer, then.” He’d dealt with a pouty Lucie many times.

  “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” But the sadness was gone from her eyes.

  “Fine, don’t give me a figure,” he blandly replied. “We don’t have to wager.”

  “I don’t need your money.”

  “Nor I yours. It’s just for fun.”

  “Maybe we should wager something else,” she tentatively suggested, a gambler at heart.

  “What do you have in mind?” His smile had taken on a roguish cast.

  “Not that, you libertine. Let’s say, breakfast in bed for a month.”

  “You can’t cook.”

  “I could carry it up.”

  “I don’t want breakfast in bed. Everything spills.”

  “My, we’re fussy. You think of something.”

  “Can I be salacious?”

  “No.”

  “We’re not even married yet, and you’re becoming virtuous. Maybe we should rethink this proposal of marriage,” he quipped. “At least with Isolde I was free to indulge my libido with other women.”

  “That’s not allowed in my contract.” Flora’s eyes had taken on a deadly glare.

  “Do you think you could stop me, little one?” Adam teased.

  “A bullet between the eyes would be effective.”

  His eyes widened in mock alarm. “Am I supposed to be faithful, then.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And you must as well,” he quietly said, the humor gone from his voice.

  “My pleasure, Monsieur le Comte. Are we done now with our ultimatums and demands, because I dearly love you above all things. And you select the wager.” She grinned, carefree once more. “I just want a chance at the amounts, because I know I’ll win.”

  “We both won already,” Adam softly said, warmed by the joy in her eyes, his own heart filled with love.

  “I knew that before you did. I knew that when—”