Rising too hastily, Constance dismissed the young maid and then rushed to the pier glass to check her appearance. Although she was a bit pale, the jade silk could not have been more flattering. It had been cut low at the neck and fell slightly off her shoulders. Satisfied with the fit of the dress and the appearance of her auburn curls, she pinched color into her cheeks and then descended the stairs.
She stepped into the drawing room to find Simon wandering about, leisurely smoking his pipe. He swept her with an admiring gaze as he caught sight of her.
"Simon, it is so good to see you." She went over to him, her hand extended graciously.
"Why all the formality, Connie?" He grinned as he ignored her outstretched hand and scooped her into a warm embrace. "You look beautiful." Gently pushing her back from him, he smiled down into her green eyes.
Constance was shaken by the depth of her response to his presence. The past year had dealt too kindly with Simon. His face was as handsome as ever, his body still firm and muscular. There was a touch more gray at his temples, but its effect was dashing rather than aging.
"You're a flatterer, Simon Copeland," she bantered, exhibiting more composure than she felt. "Noelle will be disappointed when she finds she has missed your arrival. In truth, it is my fault. I did not expect you until evening and told her I saw no reason she should stay home from her picnic. The others would have been so disappointed."
Simon's dark brows shot up. "Others? Is it wise for her to go off without you to guide her?"
As she sat in a small gilded chair Constance reminded herself that Simon had not seen Noelle in more than a year. "Noelle does very well."
"Tell me how she is." He settled himself across from her, the slight tension in his upper torso the only evidence of the importance of her response to his question.
"I will let you judge that for yourself, Simon."
Noting the stubborn set to his jaw, she quickly interjected her own question. "What of Quinn? You mentioned nothing about him in your letters. Did you locate him?"
Hard lines etched themselves around Simon's mouth. "My son seems to have disappeared from sight. He's quite good at that, if you remember."
Constance thought of Simon's beautiful wife, whom she had met only once a few short months before her death. "Did you contact his mother's people?"
"He's not with them. Nor with any shipbuilder in America as far as I can determine."
"Simon, what about all of the men he was corresponding with about his hull experiments?"
"I've contacted them, but no one has heard anything." Simon's voice had a final ring to it, as if he were dismissing the subject.
"Did you think to go through his files? Perhaps there are some names you're not aware of."
"I tell you, no one has heard from him. I've been through his files a dozen times, all his notebooks, his letters. No one admits to any knowledge of his whereabouts."
There was a brief silence in the room. As Constance studied Simon's troubled face comprehension began to grow inside her. She made her question casual, as though she were merely offering polite conversation.
"What did you think of Quinn's work?"
"It's inconclusive." Simon was abrupt.
"I believe Quinn said as much himself." Her rebuke was softened by the sympathetic expression on her face.
Simon sighed resignedly. "All right, Connie. I deserve that. His work is good."
"I see."
"No, it's more than good, and I was too hasty in dismissing it."
"You did what you believed was best, Simon."
He slapped his hand vexatiously against the top of his thigh. "It's his damned arrogance. Brings out the worst in me. I thought he was off on a wild goose chase when he should have been attending to business."
Seeing how troubled he was, Constance shifted the conversation to the fire at Cape Crosse that had precipitated Simon's sudden journey last spring. In his correspondence, he had indicated that a warehouse had been destroyed in the blaze, and that Luke Baker, the man they suspected was responsible, had disappeared without a trace. Now he told Constance of the rebuilding of the warehouse and a dock that had been slightly damaged. They talked of the work in progress at Cape Crosse and a merchant ship launched shortly before he left for England.
But Simon found himself curiously distracted, his mind more occupied with Constance herself than with their conversation. Damn! She had always had an unsettling effect on him. She was so delicate and giddy, such a contrast to the earthy creatures he sought out for his pleasure. Those were the women he was comfortable with, not one who looked as though she would break under a man's weight.
He was lying to himself! He seemed to make a practice of deceiving himself about her. For some reason he wanted to believe that she was cold and unimaginative in bed, but he knew it wasn't true. He had known it for years.
Benjamin Peale had always been a lusty man. In the early days of their friendship, long before his marriage to Constance, he had taken the young Simon under his more experienced wing. Together they had sampled most of the better brothels on the eastern seaboard and also a fair share of the more respectable women, married and unmarried. But after he had wed, Benjamin's philandering abruptly stopped, never to be repeated as far as Simon knew. Yet he always had the unmistakable mark of a man well satisfied.
Something of what he was thinking must have shown itself, for Constance paled, then stopped speaking abruptly, her lips moist and slightly parted. The unconscious sensuality of her face stirred an ember deep inside Simon.
Why had he never noticed the distinct shade of green her eyes were? Like polished jade. And the tiny lines at the corners. Instead of aging her face, they gave it a fascinating animation. She was so tiny and elegant, always perfectly coiffed and dressed. He suddenly wanted to see her rumpled; her auburn hair undone and her clothing in disarray.
He knew then that he wanted her; he had wanted her for years but had refused to admit it to himself out of loyalty to Benjamin Peale. He leaned toward her, and she jumped up as if stung.
"Let me get you some brandy."
As she walked unsteadily across the drawing room to a graceful Sheridan table where several crystal decanters were grouped, she could feel Simon's eyes burning into her neck. Fighting for control, she reached for the brandy, splashing several drops as she poured. Conscious that Simon had risen from his chair behind her, she picked up a decanter of sherry and poured a large glass for herself. Her heart raced wildly. She must not make a fool of herself again! Taking a deep breath, she turned toward him, a glass in each hand.
He was standing next to the fireplace, watching her, one elbow resting on the mantelpiece. Their eyes riveted. Glass extended, she walked toward him slowly, almost hypnotically, unable to drop her gaze from his.
He took his glass from her. Instead of sipping from it, he set it untasted on the mantel, then took her own glass and placed it next to his. Wordlessly, he drew her toward him, his hands strong and forceful as they curved around her bare shoulders. She was conscious of his face coming nearer and nearer, and then his lips claimed hers.
She moaned softly and gave herself to him. His mouth was hard and demanding, his kiss experienced. As her arms reached around his back she ached with the relief of finally being able to embrace him.
And then he was kissing her temples, the soft space at the base of her earlobe, her throat. His hair brushed against her lips, and she parted her mouth, tasting it with the tip of her tongue.
A faint chill touched her as his hands slipped one side of her dress down, exposing her small breast to the air. Tenderly he claimed the softness that had been so long starved for a man's touch, and her flesh was instantly warm and secure. Sensation rolled over her. He gently pushed her back until she rested on the carpet.