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The Mistaken Widow
Cheryl St.John
10th ANNIVERSARYI'm Not Who You Think I Am!Sarah Thorton wanted to shout, but revealing her true identity could only bring disaster on herself and her infant son. Still, sorrowful circumstance had turned a mistake into a miracle. She suddenly had a home, a family - and Nicholas Halliday, a man as dangerous to her as he was desirable… !His newly widowed sister-in-law wore mystery as elegantly as an evening wrap, rousing more than suspicions in Nicholas Halliday - for this beautiful stranger had a claim not only to the family fortune, but also to his heart and soul… !



Table of Contents
Cover Page (#uc7380da9-11b0-5b99-95c6-e525d64fff95)
Praise (#u8afdcb1b-e070-518a-9f0e-226d3e93585e)
Title Page (#u1f7dee6f-a660-5659-8313-9186bfac6dc8)
Dedication (#u827670f2-a6b0-5503-9ced-a17c364ab301)
Excerpt (#u0efb1682-eaa0-5b03-b852-2346c862969c)
Prologue (#uef130971-6ea6-5c73-b93b-23d876030fb2)
Chapter One (#ua0b06c1e-2f65-5c30-94cd-654c1bb3cdb9)
Chapter Two (#ue93501aa-1b79-5238-8b7a-6a515e622c15)
Chapter Three (#u15eb99a7-ad91-52ef-a1bc-7805b0a3a8b0)
Chapter Four (#uac2062d8-93e0-51a6-a52a-8e8a35474d59)
Chapter Five (#u8f8a722f-78c2-544f-857e-f0283aafbfb8)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
About The Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)



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The Mistaken Widow
Cheryl St. John




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is lovingly dedicated to:
Dad, for being the best PR man a gal could want,
and to Jay,
for telling me I’m beautiful—even as deadline
grows near…

I know what I have done is unforgivable…
All I ask is that you do not hate me. I planned to tell you the truth from the very minute I awoke in the hospital. But when I saw your grief, Nicholas, and when you offered protection and shelter for my son, I could not bring myself to speak the words.

I am not Claire Halliday. I was never married to your brother Stephen. I only met him that night of the train wreck. He took me in out of the rain, and he and Claire gave me food and dry clothing and shared their berth with me.

If they had been in that compartment that night, they might still be alive. So you see, I am responsible for their deaths. That is something I will live with for the rest of my life…

Prologue (#ulink_c1c2ea9d-3647-58d7-8591-70be725f952c)
Lower New York State
April 1869
Wet and weary travelers, eager to return to their seats in the passenger cars, crowded together in the moonlight on the small wooden platform beside the station. Each time the train stopped for coal and water, Sarah Thornton feared she wouldn’t have time to find the primitive facilities, wait in a line and return before the train left without her. She hadn’t eaten since the day before.
Cold rain drizzled beneath the red-fox collar of her double-breasted wool coat that had been the height of Boston fashion just last winter. Right now the fur looked and smelled more like a drowned animal slung around her neck than the most stunning feature of the coat, which had kept her warm on outings in the Boston Common, trips to the theater and the most exclusive social events of the season. Now the garment wouldn’t close over the girth of her burgeoning belly.
She gritted her teeth against the pulsing pain in her lower back and bent to retrieve the bulging leather satchel she’d toted at each stopover for fear of losing her last few precious belongings. Her hand met nothing, and she glanced down at her feet where the bag had been only minutes before.
“My bag!” Panic raced through her shivering body, and she stared at the wet boards, unable to see more than the dark cluster of feet and trouser legs.
“All abo-oard!” The conductor began admitting passengers, and the crowd thinned. She searched the platform in desperation, seeing only a few soggy papers and the sizzling stub of a cigar.
It had to be here! It had to! A sob lodged in her throat. A few straggling passengers clambered past and boarded the train.
“Comin’, ma’am?”
Sarah ran awkwardly toward the black-uniformed conductor, who wore his billed cap pulled low against the rain. “My bag is gone!”
“Sorry, ma’am. You’ll have to report it to the stationmaster.”
Up ahead the whistle screamed and Sarah wanted to echo the broken cry. “I won’t have time! The train’s leaving.”
“Make up your mind. Get on or stay.”
Torn, she considered her last few pieces of jewelry, her journal and personal items. She still had a trunk of clothing in the baggage car and a silver and emerald bracelet sewn into the lining of the reticule she held. She stepped onto the platform.
“Ticket, please,” the conductor intoned.
Sarah stared at him blankly, her mind whirling. The ticket had been in her bag. “I don’t have it.”
“Then I’m sorry, you can’t come aboard.”
“But—”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“I have to get on this train! My other luggage is on it, and I have nowhere else to go!”
“Rules is rules. You got a ticket, you get on. You got no ticket, you don’t.”
“But, sir, you don’t understand—”
“Lady, I’ve heard ’em all. How many freeloaders you think we get a day, trying to hitch a ride?”
“I am no freeloader.” Her Boston accent came across sharply as she straightened her aching back and squinted at him through her dripping hair and the falling rain. “I have a ticket!”
“Off,” he said, taking her firmly by the shoulder and urging her toward the portable steps.
She caught her balance by grabbing the cold metal rail. “Wait—!”
“Off, lady.”
“Is there a problem here?” a masculine voice asked from behind Sarah.
She turned and looked up into the handsome face of a tall stranger.
“This lady don’t have a ticket, and she’s holding the train up.” The rude man tried once again to move Sarah from the metal platform.
“I do so—”
The stranger wrapped his hand around her coat sleeve, helping her keep her balance, and in surprise she blinked up into his warm brown eyes. “Honey, you’ve forgotten,” he said kindly. “I have the ticket.” He reached into his pocket while she stared at him. “My wife will catch her death of cold standing out here. You shouldn’t have detained her in this weather. She’s just a little forgetful lately.” He showed the conductor a ticket that must have satisfied him, for he moved aside, a contrite expression on his rain-streaked face.
“My apologies, ma’am,” he said, with a brief touch to his cap.
Shivering, Sarah allowed the gallant man to escort her into the car and along the aisles, until they’d passed through into another car. This stranger had saved her from the rain and from being stranded, but she didn’t know him from Adam, and she would not accompany him into one the compartments defined by rows of narrow doors, which he led her toward. She stopped abruptly and pulled back from his steady hold on her wet coat sleeve.
He gave Sarah a conspiratorial grin and raised his hand to rap on a door. It opened immediately.
A tall red-haired woman appeared in the opening, her look of pleasure at seeing the man turning to a question, and then concern when she saw Sarah. “Who’s this?”
“She was having a bit of a problem with the conductor.”
“Come in, darling,” the young woman said kindly, and Sarah realized the endearment was meant for her, not the man. Immediately, the woman helped Sarah out of her wet coat.
The compartment was tiny. Two narrow berths folded down from the walls for sitting or sleeping.
“I’m Claire.”
Sarah noticed the woman was younger than she’d first thought. It wasn’t her coppery hair or the rouge and lip color on her freckled face that made her appear older, but something more, something indefinable about her eyes and mouth. And as she moved around the tiny cubicle, Sarah noticed she was every bit as pregnant as she herself.
“I’m Sarah,” she said, relaxing a bit.
“Well, Sarah,” the man said with a warm smile. “I’m Stephen Halliday and this is my wife, Claire.”
“I don’t know how to repay you…for helping me out back there. Someone must have stolen my satchel with my ticket.”
“No need to repay me. We all need a little help once in a while. Just do a good turn for someone else in a fix,” he replied.
“Well…thank you.”
“You’re most welcome. Claire, love, why don’t you find our guest some dry clothing and make her comfortable? I’ll go order us a late dinner and come back for you. We’ll eat in the dining car and Sarah can rest here alone for a while.”
Claire nodded and cast her husband a loving smile. The adoring looks on their faces touched an aching spot within Sarah’s heart. They were in love. Claire’s baby would have a loving father and a stable life. She blinked away the sting of tears and stiffened her back against another gnawing spasm.
Stephen Halliday left them alone in the compartment, and Claire chattered to Sarah as she found her a long satin gown and wrapper. “Isn’t he a dear? Some days I wake up and marvel that being his wife isn’t just a dream. He’s a playwright, a talented one, too.” She pulled a pair of man’s socks from a valise and dangled them in the air. “Sorry, my slippers are all packed. These will have to do. We’ve just returned from a honeymoon in Europe, and I had no idea how to plan for the trip.”
“These are fine.” Sarah took the socks.
Claire helped Sarah out of her dress and shoes, then turned her back when Sarah hesitated to remove her damp underclothing. Quickly, Sarah changed into the nightclothes and struggled with pulling the wool socks on her cold feet.
“Isn’t he somethin’? I met him in New York when I was designing costumes for a play he wrote. He’s taking me to meet his family in Ohio. I doubt they’re going to like me, though.” Claire turned back and took Sarah’s wet clothing.
“Why wouldn’t they like you?”
“Let’s just say I’m not cut from the same cloth as the Hallidays. They’re rich. Stephen’s father started an iron foundry years ago, and now they send stoves and such all over the country—even to Europe.”
Halliday Iron? Sarah remembered seeing that imprint on the cast-iron stove the cook used in her father’s Boston home.
“My daddy was a factory worker in New York before he died when I was little. My mama and I hung on any old way we could. Not exactly blue bloods, you know.”
“I’m sure they’ll like you anyway,” Sarah said, placing more hope than certitude into the thought. She knew exactly what the upper crust thought of those they considered lower class. She knew how important social strictures and appearances were to well-to-do men and women like her father. Stephen, however, didn’t seem like Morris Thornton or his snobbish acquaintances.
Claire rambled on, and Sarah fought to keep her eyelids from drooping. Finally Stephen returned, bringing Sarah a tray of steaming meat and vegetables and a cold glass of milk. Her stomach rumbled at the smell, and she was so grateful she could have cried.
“We’ll be in the dining car,” he said. “You eat and rest. I’ll bring Claire back later, then I’ll find a game of cards to keep me occupied the rest of the night.”
His generosity at giving up his berth for the night warmed Sarah more than Claire’s wrapper and his wool socks. Her thanks were inadequate, but all she had to give. She ate the delicious food, better than anything she’d tasted since leaving home several months ago and, ruminating her stroke of luck, made herself as comfortable as possible on the narrow bunk.
Thankfully, neither Stephen nor Claire had mentioned the fact that Sarah was quite obviously pregnant, nor had they asked any prying questions or expected an explanation. That was why she’d begun this dreadful journey in the first place. Rumor said people were less strict the farther west one traveled. In the newly developing country of cattle ranches and mines and railroads, people weren’t asked nosy questions about their backgrounds.
She had no idea how far she would have to travel before she found work and a place to stay, but she had no choice.
Every week the Boston Daily printed dozens of announcements for women wanted. Western men needed wives; Sarah knew how to plan a dinner party and set a formal table, but her experiences with men hadn’t given her a great desire to marry one and suffer his temperament.
Establishments needed cooks and waitresses, but her skill involved planning a menu and instructing servants. Teachers were in short supply, though, and she’d been to school. She prayed she’d find a place where she and her baby would fit in. Perhaps Indiana or Illinois would be far enough. Sarah squeezed her eyes closed and tried not to cry over the pain in her back and the fear of being alone and solely responsible for another life.
Sarah placed her hand over her extended abdomen and fought tears. Yes, she was a foolish girl, just as her father had accused. Yes, she’d been rebellious and gone against his wishes, ignoring the young men he’d chosen for her, and accepting an offer from one less appropriate.
Gaylen Carlisle, without intentions of marriage or fidelity, had seduced her, then abruptly left for the Continent when she’d voiced her fear of pregnancy.
Sarah had waited until she could no longer hide her condition before she confessed her transgression to her father. Outraged, he had immediately tossed her out of his home before she could cause him further embarrassment.
She’d found a room over a butcher’s shop until last week, when her funds ran frighteningly low. Due to her father’s intervention, no one in Boston had been willing to give her a job or take her in. She’d sold a necklace, one of the pieces of her mother’s jewelry that she’d inherited, and tried to make her way toward a new life. One thing after another had waylaid her, until this last, and worst, predicament.
The nagging pain in Sarah’s back snaked around to her abdomen, and she nearly groaned aloud. But the rhythmic rocking of the train as it chugged its way westward combined with the soothing warmth of the dry clothing and bedcovers as well as the contentment of having food in her stomach. Exhaustion overcame discomfort, and she drifted into a sound sleep.
A sudden jarring movement and the deafening sound of scraping metal woke her. Disoriented, Sarah had no way of knowing how much time had passed, but the compartment remained dark. A sense of vertigo overtook her, and the motion of the railcar was all wrong. She clamped her teeth together, and with a scream, she was flung from the bunk toward the opposite wall.
The last coherent thought that crossed her mind was fear for her baby.

Chapter One (#ulink_bd1923ed-3f9a-524d-be9a-54bd7343d9a6)
Sarah’s leg throbbed with an intensity that overrode the pain in her back and told her she was still alive. The coppery smell of blood was strong, and overhead, incessant rain pounded against metal. Her pulse throbbed violently in her head and leg. She wanted to cry, but she wouldn’t. She wanted to pray, but she couldn’t Gratefully, she succumbed to the pain and blackness.
Sometime later the stringent smells of antiseptic and starch burned her nostrils. Her leg still hurt, but it wasn’t the same torment as before. Now she could feel her head, too, and it pounded with every beat of her heart. She cracked open an eye and peered at the painfully bright sunlight streaming through the small window into the drab green room. She opened her mouth, and a dry croak came out.
“Lie still, dear. You’ve taken a nasty bump. Doctor says you mustn’t move.”
“Whe-where am—”
“Shush now. Don’t fret yourself. Rest your eyes.”
Sarah closed her eyes as the woman instructed. A nurse. She was in a hospital. A crisp sheet covered her, cool fabric draped her skin. Her leg wouldn’t move. She tested her hands, opening and closing, and lifted one arm at a time, barely off the mattress.
She opened her eyes again, and her right hand moved instinctively, protectively, to her belly.
Her flat belly!
“Oh, my—.” Sarah tried to raise her head from the pillow.
“No, no, lie back,” the nurse soothed.
“My baby! Where’s my baby?” The motion and those words sucked all her energy and, dizzy, she collapsed back against the hard bed.
“Your baby’s just fine,” the woman said.
The woman’s face swam in a flesh-toned blur that blended into the ceiling. Fine? Her baby was fine?
“Whe-ere?” she managed.
“We’re taking good care of him until you feel better. Rest now, so you’ll heal and can take care of him yourself.”
Sarah closed her eyes against the acute pain throbbing in her head. He? She had a baby boy? A single tear slipped from beneath her lashes and trickled across her temple.
The next time Sarah wakened, it took her a few minutes to remember where she was and what had happened. She’d been on a train. Something awful had happened, and now she lay in the hospital. She had a son.
She struggled to a sitting position, and pulled the covers away to reveal her swollen and bandaged left leg. Grimacing, she ran her fingertips over the bandage on her head.
“What are you doing? You shouldn’t be sitting up!” The admonishment came from the doorway, and a uniformed nurse rushed in to press her back against the pillows.
“I want to see my baby,” she demanded.
“I’ll get the doctor.” She shook her finger under Sarah’s nose, punctuating her next words. “Don’t you move again.”
A few minutes later, a short, wiry doctor appeared, two starched nurses flanking him. One held a tiny bundle of flannel.
“Oh!” Sarah pressed her palm to her chest and waited as the woman carried the baby forward. “Can I hold him?”
The nurse looked to the doctor who nodded his permission, then placed the infant in Sarah’s arms.
The red-faced baby blinked at his surroundings, much as she had upon awakening. He had fair hair and a ruddy complexion. The eyes he tried to focus were a deep, deep blue, with a look of wisdom more fitting an old man than a baby. He frowned and when he did, he looked just like Sarah’s father.
“He’s a handsome one,” the nurse said. “He’s the biggest, sturdiest boy we’ve had in a long time.”
Sarah sighed her relief. Her baby really was fine. Better than fine. Big and sturdy.
“We’d better take him back to the nursery now, so you can rest, Mrs. Halliday.”
Reluctant to let him go, the woman’s words didn’t register for a moment. When they did, she blinked at the nurse. “What?”
The doctor came forward then, and the nurse took the baby from her arms. “I’m afraid we have some disturbing news for you.”
Sarah blinked. Wasn’t all this disturbing enough?
“Your husband was killed in the accident.”
Sarah tried to sit forward again.
The doctor urged her back.
“But, I—” Sarah began.
“You’ve taken quite a blow to the head, Mrs. Halliday. You shouldn’t move around any more than necessary for a few more days.” The other nurse had moved up beside Sarah with a glass of water.
Sarah drank obediently and lay back. She needed to straighten something out with these people. The room tilted crazily and she lost consciousness.

This time she would get some answers. She ran her tongue over her teeth, grimaced at the horrible taste in her mouth, and struggled to remember. “Your husband was killed in the accident…Mrs. Halliday.” Sarah thought of the kind, red-haired woman and her handsome husband who had so generously taken her in and shared their room and brought her food.
They thought she was Claire Halliday.
How on earth could she explain what had happened? Every time she tried to talk to the doctor or nurses, they treated her as though she were feeble in the head and dosed her with laudanum.
They allowed her to sit up and eat some bland oatmeal and drink a cup of tea. Later, a nurse she hadn’t seen before brought the baby and instructed her to nurse him. Sarah did the best she could, naively, painfully, and watched in wonder as her tiny son instinctively knew what to do when she didn’t. She touched his downy soft head, his tiny fingers, and opened the flannel wrapping to look at his wrinkled pink skin and marvel at his toes.
He was so tiny…so helpless…and—tears welled in her throat and stung her eyes—so completely and totally dependent on her. Her! How on earth was she going to care for this child all by herself? She had no money, no place to live and no prospects. The realization terrified her. Never in all her life had anyone ever needed Sarah before. And now that someone did, she was unprepared for the responsibility. She couldn’t bear to let him down.
The nurse returned for the baby later, and Sarah napped briefly. When she woke, the doctor stood beside her bed.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Halliday. You’ve made great progress today.” He removed the bandage and examined her forehead. “It’s safe to move you now, I believe. You still can’t walk on that leg for some time. Not if you want it to knit so you can use it like you used to. It was a nice clean break, however, and you’re young and healthy. It will heal quickly.”
Where was he planning to move her to? she wondered.
“Mr. Halliday, your husband’s brother, that is, arrived yesterday. He’s waiting for my approval to take you home. I think it’s safe, as long as you follow my directions. You may leave with him in the morning. I will give him instructions for your care.”
Sarah bit her lip. She was afraid to object for fear they would sedate her again. She pretended calm, nodded and laid her head back against the pillow. The doctor left.
She could find her baby and leave on her own before morning. Sarah glanced at the bulky outline of her leg beneath the covers. And what? Become a cripple? She really doubted she could put any weight on it, anyway. And what would she do if she ran off? Where would she go? She would be unable to work for weeks—months maybe, let alone care for herself or her baby.
She thought of her father and her comfortable childhood home, and squeezed her eyes shut. It hurt unbearably to know she hadn’t meant enough to him for him to forgive her. He hated her now. She had to wonder if he’d ever really loved her, or if she’d merely been a convenience as long as she kept the house running and entertained his clients. Going back was out of the question.
When this Halliday fellow showed up, she would explain to him what had happened. He would be easier to reason with than the doctors and nurses had been.
Sarah spent a fitful night, waking often, dreaming of twisting metal, cold dark alleyways and crying, hungry babies. Finally, morning arrived, and with it, nurses to assist her. One washed her hair and helped her bathe while the other laid out unfamiliar black clothing.
“I tried to find something—appropriate—for your trip, Mrs. Halliday,” the nurse said hesitantly. “Your trunks were sent ahead, and Mr. Halliday asked us to shop for you.” Not her trunks, Sarah thought. She’d only had one. Apparently Claire’s trunks had been sent ahead. Obviously, the Halliday name carried much weight, and they were treating Sarah as though she were one of them.
She looked at the black wool skirt, handkerchief linen blouse and short velvet jacket with eyelet embroidery, all purchased with Mr. Halliday’s money.
The nurse gave her a hesitant look. “Don’t you like the suit? Buying it ready-made, I didn’t have much to choose from.”
“It’s lovely—it’s not that, it’s just that…”
“What, dear?”
She could hardly leave in the cotton hospital robe she had been wearing. She would have to accept this traveling suit and somehow repay Mr. Halliday. “Nothing. Thank you.”
The nurses helped her dress, then situated her awkwardly in a wooden chair with wheels and brought the baby to her. He’d been outfitted as well, and was accompanied by an enormous valise. Sarah stared at the flannels and changes of clothing with a growing sense of unease. “Where did all this come from?”
“Mr. Halliday had them sent for the baby, ma’am.” The nurse opened a round box and presented Sarah with a smart hat made of the same velvet as the skirt and jacket. One side of the brim curled upward, trimmed with black silk ribbon and ostrich feathers. “Do you like it?”
Sarah stared at the hat, apprehension roiling in her stomach. Where was the man? He’d gone to all this expense without even laying eyes on her, without giving her a chance to explain!
“You don’t like it.” The nurse’s voice held disappointment.
“I’ve never worn anything so—mature.” She was, in their opinion, a married woman with a child, she remembered, and she wished she hadn’t said anything.
“You are in mourning,” the nurse reminded her.
“Of course.” She accepted the hat and turned to the mirror the nurse held. She would throw herself on the man’s mercy when he arrived.
Sarah sensed the atmosphere in the room change. Slowly, she turned and found a tall, elegantly dressed man just inside the doorway. Eyes as dark as black coffee, full of questions and uncertainty, swept the length of her skirt and jacket, touched on her fair hair beneath the hat she held in place with one hand, and then met her gaze. She recognized his pain at once. Grief had etched lines beside his firm mouth and shadows beneath his unsmiling eyes.
“I’m Stephen’s brother, Nicholas.” His voice was low and resonant, a rumbling sound a woman heard in her soul as well as with her ears. He was darkly handsome, like Stephen, with the same chin and hairline, but there the resemblance ended. Where Stephen’s face had been open and candid, with just a touch of laughter behind his eyes, this man’s was closed and unfriendly, without a sign of humor.
But then, he’d been handling painful details. He’d undoubtedly had to identify his brother’s body. Had he buried him? Sent his body home? Stephen had been a charming and generous man, cut down in the prime of his life. Grief wedged its way into Sarah’s chest.
And Claire. The lovely young woman had not deserved her fate. She’d had her entire life ahead of her, a life with her husband and baby. Sarah blinked back stinging tears.
And what of Claire’s body? If they thought Sarah was Claire, what had happened to the real Claire? Dread pooled in her queasy stomach. Guilt swept over her in a torrent: She’d been spared and his family had died! She couldn’t manage to voice a coherent thought. The words she needed to say lodged in her throat.
His intent gaze slid to her baby on the bed, and he moved to stand over him. A protective instinct rose in her chest, and then abated when he turned back.
“Mother wants me to tell you she’s eagerly anticipating the arrival of you and your son, and to assure you that you will have a home with us for as long as you want to stay.”
Sarah tried to coax words from her throat.
“I’ve taken care of the debt and purchased this chair for you.”
“The debt?”
“The hospital and doctor’s fees. Are you prepared?”
He’d paid her bill already? Of course. The man was efficient, as well as decisive. She should have looked into it herself. “H-how much?”
“You needn’t worry over that. It’s taken care of.”
A panicky little sob rose in her throat, and she clenched her teeth against the desire to rail at her heartless father. If only she could have wired him, could have had someone to come to her aid. Alone. She’d never been so alone.
“I asked, are you prepared? I have a driver waiting. It will take a couple of days to get there, and I’ve business waiting for me.”
There was no talking to this man. Sarah realized that with a cold, hard certainty. He would never understand. What would happen to her son if Nicholas Halliday demanded she repay him then and there or be thrown in jail?
“Yes. I’m ready.” She turned back to the mirror and stabbed the long pin through fabric and hair until the hat was secured. She would have to take her chances with him until she could talk to his mother. Surely a woman would be more understanding and responsive. She would understand and let Sarah settle up with them when she was able.
The nurse moved Sarah’s chair closer to the man.
“I claimed your things,” he said. “They’ve been sent ahead.” He paused, and with no small amount of dismay Sarah discovered she’d been watching his mobile lips as he spoke.
She raised her attention to his dark eyes.
“I didn’t want to go through your personal belongings without your permission,” he said, by way of explanation. “I asked the nurses to shop for enough clothing and personal items to get you home.”
“Thank you,” she replied simply. How did he plan to travel, and—she swallowed hard—where were they going? She raised a questioning gaze.
As though reading her trepidation, he said, “I’ve brought my carriage and driver. I thought you’d prefer that.”
Thank God he hadn’t chosen a train! She sighed in silent relief.
The nurse placed the baby in her arms, and moved behind her to wheel the chair. Nicholas Halliday stepped around Sarah’s extended leg, picked up her bags and followed. The chair rolled her down a corridor, toward a door that led to the outdoors and an uncertain journey.
Heart hammering, Sarah carried her son close. Whatever the future held, her own welfare was not the concern. Her baby was all that mattered now. And she would do what she had to do to take care of him. Unlike her father, she meant to take her responsibility seriously and love her child, no matter what.
Even if that meant pretending to go along with this man for a little while longer. His mother had to be easier to talk to than he was. Had to be! After all, Stephen had been a kind, warm individual.
Sarah prayed he’d taken after his mother.

Chapter Two (#ulink_3fad3071-3fde-58c0-8ac2-57a08e41312a)
Nicholas experienced a measure of guilt for thinking that Claire wasn’t predictably like Stephen’s previous acquaintances. The girl was obviously under a great deal of stress and physical discomfort and could hardly be expected to keep up a steady flow of chatter. Her withdrawn manner and silence since they’d left the hospital that morning didn’t necessarily reflect her personality. Or…perhaps she wanted him to believe she was grieving over Stephen’s death.
He cast her another sidelong glance. After the noon meal they’d settled themselves in for the long ride, and she’d removed the hat. Good Lord. Her hair, precariously gathered up and invisibly secured on her head, caught his attention immediately. The tresses radiated a fascinating blend of wheat tones, some dark like honey, some as light as corn silk, some nearly white, with brassy threads of gold woven into the springy curls. One coil hung against the translucent skin of her temple, and another graced the column of her neck. The spirals looked as though he could tug them and watch them spring back.
He decided immediately that it was not a wise idea to look at her hair and have such absurd notions, so he watched the spring countryside blend into the freshly plowed farmlands of Pennsylvania. From time to time, as she closed her eyelids and rested, he studied the sweep of her golden lashes against her fair cheek, the interesting fullness of her upper lip and the tiny lines beside her mouth that showed she had smiled. He wondered at whom. Stephen?
Even her ears appeared delicate, with a single pearl dangling from each lobe. Her eyebrows were the same color as the dark undertones in her hair, narrow slashes above eyes that he’d noticed right off were a pale, somber shade of blue. Everything about her was somber, from her expressions, to her voice, to the way she focused her vigilant attention on the infant in the basket beside her.
He just couldn’t ignore the gnawing fact that she didn’t fit the picture of the woman Stephen had written them about. Stephen hadn’t gone into any detail, except about her wit and charm and vivacious personality. The material facts had come after Nicholas had investigated her background.
Her gaze lifted and she caught him studying her.
“Are you feeling all right?” he asked.
She nodded and her earbobs swayed.
“You’re getting tired. We’ll stop for dinner and the night. He’ll be waking again soon, no doubt.”
A blush tinged her neck and pale cheeks. He hadn’t imagined her a woman easily embarrassed by feeding her child or the calls of nature. If he didn’t know better, he’d think her a gently bred young lady. Each time the baby woke, he’d had the driver halt the carriage, and he’d waited outside. Once they had stopped to use the facilities at a way station, and he’d been glad he’d purchased a pair of crutches, because she had insisted on being left alone.
The baby made tiny mewling sounds, and she leaned over the basket.
“There’s a town just ahead.” He unlatched the leather shade and called instructions to his driver, Gruver.
Claire once again placed her hat over her hair, worked the pin through and picked up her gloves.
“Where’s your wedding ring?” he asked, noting the absence of that particular piece of jewelry.
Her clear blue gaze rose to his face, and quickly, she averted her eyes. “My fingers were swollen,” she said softly, and pulled the gloves over her slender fingers. The perfect lady.
Or a hell of a good actress. Time would tell.
The carriage slowed and stopped before a two-story wooden structure with Hotel painted in black letters on a weathered sign that swung in the breeze. He raised the shade and studied the building. “Doesn’t look like much. We can go on.”
Her earnest gaze dismissed the building and turned back to him. “I’m sure the accommodations will do fine, Mr. Halliday.”
“Call me Nicholas. After all, we’re family.”
Immediately, her gaze dropped to her gloved hands.
The door opened and Gruver, his dark-haired driver, a man in his early thirties, lowered the step. Nicholas stepped out of the carriage and strode to the rear where he unstrapped the wooden wheelchair, wiped the road dust from it himself and rolled it to the bottom of the steps. As she had when they’d stopped earlier, Claire accepted his hand hesitantly and lowered herself into the chair.
He placed the basket containing the now fussing baby on her lap and pushed her forward. It took both him and Gruver to lift the chair up several wooden stairs to the broad boardwalk, and the driver went back for their luggage.
Nicholas signed the register and received room keys. “Up the stairs and to the right for twenty-four,” the desk clerk said. “Twenty-seven’s a little farther and to the left and twenty-eight’s across from it.”
“Don’t you have something on this floor? Mrs. Halliday can’t walk.”
“Nope. Kitchen, dining room, and private quarters only on this floor.” The man scratched his pencil-thin nose and blinked at them.
Nicholas turned to Claire. Her complexion had grown paler and dark smudges had appeared under her eyes. He couldn’t ask her to go any farther tonight. This would have to do. “Very well, then. I’ll be right back.”
He took the baby, basket and all, from her lap, climbed the stairs and located the first room. He left the now wailing infant on the bed and thundered back down the stairs.
Claire wore a wide-eyed look of surprise as he approached her. Gruver had entered the tiny lobby with their luggage. Nicholas motioned him over and handed him a key. “Carry Mrs. Halliday’s chair, please.”
Nicholas bent toward her. “Lean forward.”
Her eyes widened, but she did as he asked. He slid one arm behind her back, the other beneath her knees, somehow managing her voluminous skirts in the process, and raised her effortlessly, being careful of her injured leg. She didn’t weigh much, but she was an armful, nonetheless. His head bumped her hat, sending it askew, and she caught it before it fell. Her hair tumbled, the soft springy curls grazing his neck and chin, the sweet fragrance touching him somewhere more elemental.
She grasped him around the neck, her hat bouncing off his back, her full breasts pressed against his jacket. He cursed his immediate and unexpected physical reaction, but reined in his distressing response and concentrated on the stairs, one at a time, until they reached the top.
The baby’s cries carried down the corridor, and Claire sucked in a breath, which Nicholas felt to the tips of his toes.
Sarah’s heart beat so swiftly, he must have felt it through their layers of clothing. Against her breast his chest was broad and hard, as hard as the arms banding her back and secured behind her knees. She could smell the starch in his shirt, and the faint smell of shaving soap that lingered about his chin and jaw, masculine features that were close enough to scrape her cheek should she be foolish enough to turn her head.
Her son’s plaintive wails had released a tingling in her breasts, accompanied by a seeping wetness she feared would soak through her clothing to Nicholas’s.
He carried her into the room and paused. Her heart raced as his driver maneuvered her chair through the doorway. The man placed her hat on the seat of a rocker and excused himself.
Gently, Nicholas lowered her into the chair. “May I help you with your jacket?” he asked above the baby’s cries.
“No!” She glanced down, relieved to see her jacket still dry and covering her. “I mean, no thank you. I can see to myself now.”
He straightened and cast a helpless look at the basket “Can I send a servant to help you?”
She nodded gratefully. “Thank you.”
He backed up a step, then turned and left, pulling the door shut. Sarah struggled with the jacket, an awkward situation because of the chair arms, but she finally removed it and unbuttoned her blouse.
The baby rooted for a there second before latching on to her breast and suckling noisily. She had to laugh softly. “You don’t care where we are or what’s happening, do you?”
He’d finished eating by the time a young girl with a dark coronet of braids wrapped around her head brought water and towels. “The gentleman paid me handsomely to help you with the baby, ma’am. I have five brothers and sisters, and I’ve taken care of all of them. Can I bathe him for you? Rock him maybe, so you can rest?”
Nicholas’s thoughtfulness touched Sarah. Gratefully, she allowed the girl, who told her her name was Minna, to change and wash the baby while she raised her throbbing leg on a pillow and leaned back into the mattress.
“He’s a pretty one, Miz Halliday. What’s his name?”
Sarah had been dozing, her thoughts drifting from the stern-faced Nicholas to their mysterious destination, and she opened her eyes, an odd feeling of shame curling in her chest. How could she have overlooked something as basic as giving her baby a name? “Why, I—I haven’t thought of a name for him yet.”
Minna looked at her curiously, but turned back to her task.
“I was in an accident and just came around a few days ago,” she said, by way of explaining her lack of thought.
“Oh. That’s what happened to your leg?”
Sarah nodded.
“Your husband takes fine care of you. I’m sure you’ll be better in no time.”
“Mr. Halliday is not my husband.”
The girl didn’t turn around, but Sarah knew what she must be thinking, and cursed herself for opening her mouth on the subject. “He’s—my brother-in-law,” she said, using the first and easiest explanation that had come to mind. She cringed inwardly and waited for a lightning bolt or the rumble of an earthquake, but the only sound was the gentle lapping of water as Minna rinsed the baby.
A knock sounded at the door. Minna glanced toward it, but her hands were occupied.
“Who’s there?” Sarah called.
“Nicholas.”
“Come in.”
He appeared in the doorway, wearing a fresh shirt beneath his dark jacket. He glanced from Sarah to the girl and back. “Would you care to join me downstairs for dinner, or shall I have something sent up?”
“I’ll stay here with the baby,” Minna offered immediately.
Sarah imagined him carrying her down those stairs and back up again, and thought it would be a whole lot safer to eat in her room. “My head hurts terribly,” she said in excuse. “May I just stay here?”
“Of course. I’ll see that you get a powder for your headache.”
“You’re very kind.”
He gave her a brief nod and closed the door.
“Is Mr. Halliday married?” Minna asked.
Sarah stared at the door, a speculative question forming in her own mind now that the girl had brought it up. She knew nothing of this man or his family. “I don’t know.”
Minna placed the towel-wrapped infant on the bed and dried his flailing arms and legs.
Sarah captured her son’s tiny hand in hers, and watched as the girl skillfully diapered and dressed him. Her own attempts at changing him had been slow and clumsy. Surely she would gain more confidence soon. Thank goodness Nicholas had provided help immediately.
I will learn, little one, she intoned silently. I will be the best mother a little boy ever had.
“He’s a nice man,” the girl went on. “Handsome, too.”
Nicholas Halliday did seem like an admirable man. A man who deserved better than deceit. She hadn’t asked for luxuries, however, hadn’t expected the man to provide elegant new clothing and servants to help her. She looked at the new luggage beside the door, at all the items it took to care for the baby, even at the clothes she wore, and knew at this rate it would take a long while to repay him.
She had no more means to make it on her own today than she had the day her father had turned her out. By leaving with Nicholas, she’d made a decision. Now she had to be Claire Halliday until they reached their destination.
The morning dawned as clear and crisp as winter, though it was early April. The scent of spring floated on the air: freshly turned earth and garden flowers. Nicholas admonished himself to enjoy the scenery and not to regret the working hours he’d lost by not taking the train. He could count on Milos Switzer to handle anything that came up in his absence. The work would be there when he returned.
Relief surged through him that Claire looked a little better today, her face not as pale or as drawn. The long stopover the night before must have done her good. She wore a freshly pressed blouse beneath her traveling suit. And her hat—he noticed when a stiff breeze caught them as they’d stopped for the noon meal—had been safely secured.
He’d paid the proprietor of the eatery to allow Claire to use their private quarters to see to her and the baby’s needs.
They would need to stop one more night before they reached Mahoning Valley. The stamina of the horses was no concern, and Gruver had driven nonstop day and night many a time. No, Claire was the one giving him concern. She was far more delicate than he’d imagined, more refined, and obviously not accustomed to long travel or hardship. She said nothing, neither in complaint nor observation, and he wished he had access to the thoughts in her curly blond head.
“Stephen said you met last fall,” he said at last.
Sarah’s heart leaped, and her mind raced, searching for a way to avoid any questions she would be forced to answer with lies.
“Where is Stephen’s body?” she asked.
His expression became even more grim. “I had it sent ahead. He’s buried in the family cemetery. We will have a memorial service when you’re well enough.”
What about his beloved Claire? she wanted to ask. They would have wanted to be together. If there had been a way to tell him…an opportunity…she would have. Certainly, she would have. She studied him warily. If he was as strict and unyielding as her father, he would cast her to the side of the road. She couldn’t take that chance; she’d have to wait.
He stretched his long legs to the side, one knee cracking. Claire wondered how old he was. More than thirty probably. She wanted to ask him the question that Minna had lodged in her mind the night before. She studied the landscape for a few minutes, her thoughts streaking forward with uncertainty.
“Where are we going?” she dared to ask finally.
He looked at her as if she’d asked what color the sky was. “You don’t know?” he replied, that resonant voice a low rumble.
Sarah cringed inwardly, regretting her haste. Claire would have known where she and Stephen had been headed. “I only knew his mother lived in Ohio,” she said quickly.
“Mahoning Valley,” he said. “Our forges, factory and home are near Youngstown.”
“Who lives there?” she asked a minute later. “In the house?”
“Mother and I. A few servants.”
He didn’t mention a wife. Why did she care?
“It’s a big house,” he went on. “There’s plenty of room for the two of you.”
She hadn’t been concerned about that. She’d only wondered how many people would be expecting Claire to show up. The fewer she had to face, the better.
They made another afternoon rest stop, then rode as far as St. Petersburg, near the Allegheny River. They could have made it the rest of the way that night, Sarah overheard Nicholas say to the driver, but he didn’t want to push too hard. Meaning her, she knew. The rest of them were holding up beautifully. Even the baby. He ate and slept, oblivious to what was going on around him.
The St. Petersburg Hotel had a cable elevator, sparing them a repeat of the previous night’s encounter. Sarah wondered if Nicholas had known about the elevator and chosen their stop accordingly.
He settled her in her room. “Dinner sent up again?” he asked.
“Please.”
“We’ll arrive at the house tomorrow. I’m wiring ahead to have the local doctor call in the afternoon. The doctor in New York said you have bandages on that leg that will need to be changed, and we haven’t tended to that.” He started to close the door.
“Mr. Halliday?”
“Nicholas,” he corrected, pausing.
“Nicholas,” she managed. “You’ve been very considerate. Thank you.”
His dark gaze flickered momentarily, but his expression didn’t change. “What else would I do for my brother’s wife?”
She didn’t reply. The inflection in his tone was almost…acerbic. Her heart skipped a tiny beat.
But then he wished her a polite good evening, pulled the door closed, and she wondered if she’d really heard it.
Something told her he was skeptical. He treated her politely and provided more than she could ask for, but it was there, lurking behind his eyes and beneath his words. Doubt.
And tomorrow, she would have to face Stephen’s mother and tell her the truth.
Again and again, while picking at her dinner, while feeding the baby and settling him down for the night, she went over her pitiful options. And each time, she came to the conclusion that she had no choice. She would plead her case with Stephen Halliday’s mother and hope for the best.
What was the worst thing that could happen?

Mahoning Valley, Ohio
Leda Halliday, garbed in black, her eyelids swollen, greeted Sarah with welcoming arms. And Sarah knew, in some deep recess of her heart as she pulled herself to stand on her good leg and let the sobbing woman embrace her, that this was the worst thing that could have happened.
The small-statured woman smelled of violets and faintly of camphor. Her ample bosom shook against Sarah’s waist as she cried openly. To her surprise, responding tears came to Sarah’s eyes, and she accepted the violet-scented hankie the maid pressed into her fingers.
Leda pulled away, dabbing at her nose, and let Sarah sit back down but didn’t release her hand. “You are just as beautiful as Stephen wrote us,” she said on a sob. Her fleshy face crumpled, and Nicholas was there to take her in his arms and hold her against his broad chest. When he raised his face from his mother’s silver-streaked dark hair, there were tears on his dark lashes.
Sarah’s heart ached for them both. A pang of guilt shot through her chest like a sword of cold steel. She couldn’t meet Nicholas’s eyes. How was she going to say the words? If only Nicholas would leave them alone.
Finally Leda pulled away from her towering son and glanced toward the door. The driver stood in the opening, the basket firmly in his grasp. “Well, bring him here, Gruver, bring him here,” she said, motioning the man forward.
Her expression held anticipation, as well as curiosity. When she caught sight of the baby, she covered her trembling lips with her fingers for several long seconds. Sarah saw how badly she wanted to see her son in this tiny child, and regret yawned in her chest.
“He’s just beautiful,” she said at last, her voice thick with emotion. “What’s his name?”
Embarrassed, Sarah edged her gaze away from Nicholas and looked directly into Leda’s gray eyes. “I haven’t named him yet,” she said, knowing the older woman would think that as strange as Minna had.
Instead Leda glowed as though she’d been gifted with a king’s ransom. “We can do it together.”
Nicholas’s eyes narrowed, but Sarah wouldn’t lock gazes.
“Your rooms are ready,” Leda announced. “I think you’ll find everything in order, but you need only ask.”
Sarah glanced at the grand curving marble staircase that led to an open hallway above. She met Nicholas’s dark eyes.
“They’re upstairs,” Leda said, and then as if just now realizing, turned back. “Oh dear.”
“Not to worry, Mother,” Nicholas said. “Claire and I have perfected this transportation problem. Gruver, if you’ll just carry the little fellow up, you’ll be dismissed for the rest of the day. Take tomorrow off, too. I’m sure you’ve missed your family.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Nicholas swooped forward and waited for Sarah to reach for his neck. She did so, and he slid his arm beneath her legs, brought her against his chest, and turned to his mother. “See, Mother? All those peas and carrots paid off in the long run.”
“I told you so.” The woman chuckled and followed them up, her skirts rustling. Her small laugh eased some of Sarah’s discomfort, and Sarah was strangely grateful to Nicholas for making his mother smile.
This time Sarah didn’t fight the sensations his nearness created. His interaction with his mother and his treatment of his driver said more than a million words could have. He was a good man. A sincere man. A respected, decent man.
And she was still taking advantage of him.
She rested in the security of his arms for just these few minutes. Enjoyed his strength, the masculine scent of his hair and the crisp, fresh smell of his clothing. And wondered just how long she had before she was truly, deeply, impossibly past the point of turning back.
Leda had hired a nursemaid to care for the baby. The woman, a tallish, gray-haired widow who called herself Mrs. Trent, took him while Nicholas and Leda made Sarah comfortable. Sarah sighed in relief when Nicholas finally excused himself and left the room.
“Mrs. Halliday…” Sarah began.
“Leda, dear. Please.” The older woman patted the counterpane into place over Sarah’s good right leg and made sure the other one was settled on a pillow.
“Leda. I’ve been waiting for a chance to talk to you.”
“I know, darling. We’re going to have plenty of time together. You’re going to be the daughter I never had. And this little man…”
Leda took Sarah’s son from Mrs. Trent and held him to her cushioned breast. Tears ran down her cheeks openly. “This little man is going to keep me from dying of a broken heart.”
At the woman’s anguish, a great suffocating weight burgeoned in Sarah’s chest. “I’m not who you think I am,” she choked out.
“I don’t care who you are,” Leda said on a half sob. “If I hadn’t had you and the baby to look forward to these past few days, I couldn’t have borne the sorrow. A mother should never have to lose her child. Never,” she said fiercely. “You’re what I need to go on living now. You and him.” She nuzzled the infant’s downy head, and Sarah choked on the confession that welled in her soul.
But she didn’t have the courage to say the words that would destroy the woman who’d already lost her son. All her good intentions fled like dry leaves before a storm, and the secret cowered in a shadowy corner of her heart.
Not now. Not just now. She could wait. Until Leda had a chance to get over Stephen. By then Sarah’s leg would be better, and she’d be able to leave. Until then…how much harm would it cause to let the woman think they were her family for just a little longer?
Sarah prayed she wouldn’t have to know the answer to that.

The spectacled Mrs. Trent did as she was bidden, taking care of the baby’s laundry, bathing and changing him with efficiency, but never getting in the way when Sarah wanted to perform the tasks herself. In fact, she was more than pleased to share her knowledge, answer Sarah’s questions and assist her in learning to do what she could herself.
Leda visited Sarah and the baby often, but Sarah didn’t see Nicholas for the next few days. The portly middle-aged doctor called twice, proclaiming her leg better, but still not well enough to put her weight on. He checked her head, asked about the baby’s eating habits, looked him over and wished her a good day.
Sarah and her son slept and ate and grew stronger. At times, beneath Leda’s doting concern, Sarah didn’t feel so alone—until she remembered the gracious woman believed she was someone else. Her identity was a secret she bore alone. A burden she carried each day and each night, its weight squeezing her heart and her conscience.
Late one afternoon Leda came to her suite, and soon after tea was served. “I thought we might decide today,” the woman said, a note of hopefulness in her voice.
“On what, Mrs. Halliday?”
“Leda, please. On the baby’s name, of course.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“Tell me, did you and Stephen have any names you particularly wanted to use? Your father’s perhaps?”
Sarah didn’t know Claire’s father’s name, so she shied away from that idea. Her own father’s name would only remind her of his hurtful rejection. She shook her head. “I like Thomas. Or Victor. Peter is nice, too. Did you have any you particularly like?” Sarah asked, knowing full well she must.
“Well.” She settled her cup in its saucer and patted her lip with a linen napkin. “My father’s name was Horatio. Stephen’s father’s name was Templeton.”
Sarah hoped the woman had some relatives with acceptable names. Sarah had, after all, suggested she needed help choosing.
“My grandfather was William—”
“William is quite nice,” Sarah cut in quickly.
“Do you like it?”
“I do. I like it a lot.”
“He needs a middle name,” Leda commented.
Sarah nodded, grudgingly.
“How about Stephen?”
Sarah thought about the kind young man who had taken her in out of the rain and given her his bed for the night. If he’d been in that bunk, he would probably be alive right now. Naming her son after him wouldn’t make up for the debt, but it would be appropriate. “I think Stephen is more than suitable.”
Leda clapped her hands together in almost childlike excitement. “William Stephen Halliday! Isn’t it a grand name?”
Guilt fell on Sarah like a cold Boston fog and dampened her spirits. But seeing Leda this happy made her unwilling to change anything that she’d said or done. “It is indeed. It’s a wonderful name.”
“Nicholas will come and get you for dinner tonight,” Leda said, rising. “We’ll tell him then.” She bustled from the room.
Sarah wheeled her chair over to the alcove where the ornate iron crib Leda had purchased nestled beneath a brightly painted, sloping ceiling. She touched her son’s downy hair and patted his flannel-wrapped bottom lovingly. “William,” she whispered. “Sweet William.”
A trapped sensation gripped Sarah. What had she done? Doubt and shame clawed their way to the surface, and she was forced to admit to her part in this deception. She hadn’t told Nicholas the truth. She hadn’t told his mother the truth. Too much time had passed for them to understand now.
And she had just let Nicholas’s mother name the baby after her grandfather. A Halliday!
Sarah bit her lip, hating the self-reproach lying on her heart like a lead weight, and knew she had just passed the point of no return.

Sarah met with a problem in choosing a dress for dinner. Claire’s trunks had been delivered, and Leda’s personal maid told her she’d pressed the dresses and hung them in the armoires.
She opened the double-doored cabinet and stared at the collection of clothing. Satins and silks, vivid colors with plunging necklines and daringly visible underskirts lined the rod. What outlandish taste Claire had! Sarah rifled through her belongings, finding nothing suitable for mourning. Nothing suitable, period! Finally, she discovered a black silk gown with a lace insert from the bodice to a collar piece, and asked Mrs. Trent to help her with it. Thank goodness the bust was roomy enough for Sarah’s new full figure.
She was supposed to be a widow, after all, so black was an appropriate choice. The color washed her out, however, so she pinched her cheeks and applied a dab of lip rouge she found in her dressing table drawer. Claire had possessed an astonishing assortment of face tints and decanters. Sarah sniffed one of the perfumes and replaced the stopper with a grimace, feeling funny about using Claire’s personal items.
Nicholas appeared on schedule. Mrs. Trent stayed with William while Nicholas scooped up Sarah and carried her downstairs.
“My chair,” she questioned, looking back over his shoulder.
“You won’t have need for it,” he replied, his voice vibrating against her breast. He wore a linen shirt and lightweight jacket, and Sarah felt every sinewy muscle pressed against her body. “You won’t need to go anywhere that I can’t take you.”
His words and his voice spawned a quavery shiver along her spine, and her reaction to his nearness abashed her.
She concentrated on the house he carried her through. The furnishings and decor were as lovely as—no, lovelier than—her Boston home had been, more costly, yet more understated. The dining room they arrived in was paneled in rich walnut, with two sideboards and built-in china cabinets. Gilt-framed paintings of hunting scenes and meandering rivers lined the walls.
Leda waited impatiently for them. “Good evening, darlings!”
Nicholas placed Sarah in a chair at the corner of the table, across from Leda, and seated himself at the head. The older woman’s glance took in the dress.
“I have nothing appropriate for mourning,” Sarah said softly.
“Of course you don’t, and we didn’t think of it, did we, Nicholas?”
He shook his head and paused with a raised brow as he poured wine. “Claire?”
“None for me, thank you.”
He placed a stemmed crystal glass in front of his mother.
“I’ll send for the dressmaker tomorrow,” she said.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Sarah objected.
“Of course it’s necessary. You’re a widow, after all. And a Halliday. You mustn’t be seen in public without proper dress.”
It was true, she couldn’t possibly wear any of those dresses that had been Claire’s. Whatever had the woman been thinking of to buy them? What kind of person had Claire been?
Nicholas had been looking at her oddly for several minutes. “Your accent sounds more like Boston than New York,” he said finally.
“Does it?” She took a sip from her water glass and tried to appear unconcerned. “I think we tend to imitate the people we’re around, and many of my friends are from Boston.”
“Are they now?”
She nodded.
He appeared unconvinced, and she knew she’d have to be more careful of her speech. She was getting in deep now.
“You had an announcement?” Nicholas queried his mother over the top of his wineglass.
“Yes,” Leda replied with a broad smile. “We wanted to surprise you tonight, darling. Claire has chosen a name for the baby.”
His expression revealed neither surprise nor curiosity. Calmly, he took a sip.
“William Stephen Halliday,” Leda declared proudly. “Isn’t that a fine name?”
Nicholas’s knuckles tensed on the glass. “William was—”
“My grandfather’s name,” his mother finished for him.
Looking as if he knew he was expected to say something, he cleared his throat. “It’s fine.”
“And he’ll carry on Stephen’s name,” Leda added softly.
A maid came through the doorway, platter in hand, and served dinner. Nicholas watched Sarah select her portions and pick up her fork. They ate in silence for a few minutes.
“Did Stephen have any plans for work?” he asked.
Sarah’s bite of braised beef paused on its way to her mouth. “Work?”
“Taking a position here? Going back to the coast? All his wire said was that he was bringing you home to meet us. He failed to mention whether or not he intended to stay this time. Perhaps he only meant to leave you off to have the baby while he continued his pursuit of folly in the East.”
“Nicholas!” his mother admonished.
“Well, it’s true he never took any interest in our family’s business affairs. And very little interest in our family, for that matter.”
“Nicholas, please,” his mother scolded. “Your brother is dead. Can’t you let this rest? You’ve spoiled Claire’s dinner.”
“No,” Sarah denied. He was testing her. And Lord, save her from herself, she resented it. That was crazy. “He hasn’t spoiled my dinner,” she said to Leda, then turned her gaze on Nicholas. “I’m quite aware that you and Stephen differed on many subjects. I don’t know if he had any plans for involving himself in the business. I do know he wouldn’t have left his wife here to have the baby and have gone on his own way.”
“How can you be so sure?” Nicholas asked. “You only knew him a few months.”
Sarah remembered the loving way Stephen spoke to Claire, the way he touched her as though he needed that contact for his very sustenance. “I may not have known him a long time, but I recognize love when I see it.”
“Of course you do, darling. My son is just too old and stuffy for his years, and he thinks everyone should be just like him. Don’t you dare upset our Claire, Nicholas. I’ll not accept your rude behavior.”
“I’m sorry, Mother. I’m sorry, Claire,” he included her in the apology with a curt nod. “Why don’t you tell us all about your whirlwind courtship with my brother? So we’ll better understand, of course.”
A sarcastic undercurrent ran close to the surface, but Leda seemed not to notice.
Sarah placed her fork on the edge of her plate and nervously wrapped her fingers in her napkin. “I will tell you this. Your brother was one of the kindest, most generous people I’ve ever met in my life. He was accepting and caring and considerate. He laughed out loud and he loved deeply. And I can tell you he probably has a lot fewer regrets now than most people will when their lives are over.”
Nicholas chewed slowly and swallowed before meeting her unyielding gaze. “Have you finished putting me properly in my place?” he asked.
Her heart hammered. She didn’t know what to make of him, of his questions. Was it his brother he resented, or just her?
“Come now, children, we have important things to discuss,” Leda said. “We have plans to make.”
“What plans are those?” Nicholas turned his attention to his mother, and Sarah breathed a sigh of relief.
“Stephen’s memorial service. Now that our Claire’s feeling better, we can get things settled.”
A dark expression clouded Nicholas’s face. His lips flattened into a hard line.
“We can see to it, darling,” his mother said, reaching over and placing her age-spotted hand over his large hair-dusted one. “You’ve done quite enough already, handling the affairs in New York.”
He turned over his hand and encased hers. “I didn’t mind, Mother. And I won’t mind helping with the service.”
“I think we need to do this,” his mother said, and looked to Sarah for verification.
Sarah recognized Leda’s desire to do this thing for Stephen on her own, and to spare her remaining son another unpleasant task in the process. “Yes,” she agreed softly. “I’d like to do it.”
“Of course.” Nicholas gave in, and studied Sarah with a guarded expression, as if gauging her reaction.
She hadn’t tasted most of the meal, and her stomach rebelled against placing any more food in it. She sipped her water, and tried to calm her fluttering nerves. A memorial service! How would she ever manage to play the part of Stephen’s wife in this scenario? What would be expected of her? How many people would she have to see?
“A Saturday afternoon would be most appropriate, don’t you think?” Leda asked.
A Saturday afternoon. Only one afternoon. She could get through that She nodded and gave Leda what she hoped was an encouraging smile.
Nicholas folded his napkin and stood abruptly. “If you ladies will excuse me, I have business to attend to.”
“There’s dessert,” his mother called after him, but he was gone. “We’ll eat his share,” Leda said with a brave smile.
Sarah wished she could bolt from the room as Nicholas had. But she’d gotten herself into this situation. Now she’d have to see it through. She observed Leda’s determined expression and resigned herself. The least she could do was assist the woman and be as much help and support as she could. She owed them that much. And more.
After all, how long could a memorial service take?

Chapter Three (#ulink_851232f0-41da-56ff-abbc-860aa2118188)
The memorial service would be interminable, if the arrangements were any indication. Leda arrived at Sarah’s door early the following morning. Together they came up with the appropriate wording for the invitations, and Leda had Gruver deliver the text to the printer.
The following day Virginia Weaver, a plump seamstress, arrived to measure Sarah for dresses and undergarments. She brought catalogues from which she and Leda selected a double-spring elliptic skirt to shape the full bell skirts, as well as six corsets. Sarah watched with growing trepidation.
“I’ll need to make you at least a dozen petticoats,” Virginia claimed. The women gathered in the enormous dressing room that was a part of Sarah’s suite.
The idea of Halliday money buying her clothing made her increasingly nervous.
“I’m not usually this…full-figured,” she argued, hoping they’d see what a waste so many new garments would be after her figure returned to normal.
“Of course not, darling. But you will be for the next year, and by then, the styles will change again.”
Uncomfortable going along with this plan, Sarah glanced at Leda, who said, “Virginia is right. You know…” She stepped forward with her palms pressed together. “I think Claire should have one of those bustles, don’t you? Perhaps I will, too. And a few dresses to fit it.”
“It’s the latest fashion,” Virginia agreed.
Sarah thought of all her own clothes that had been in her trunk on the train, and wondered what had happened to them.
All she had was the emerald bracelet she’d sewn into the lining of her reticule, and that had somehow miraculously been delivered to the hospital with her. She prayed it’s sale would bring enough money to get her started on her own when she left here.
Virginia opened a valise of fabric samples. The new dresses would all be black, of course. Muslin, bombazine and corded cotton for day wear, silks, grosgrain taffetas and shiny sateen for evenings and outings.
“How can you keep these on your feet?” Virginia asked, now kneeling before Sarah and noting Claire’s slippers. She poked one finger between her heel and the soft leather. “They don’t fit you!”
“Well, I—I don’t have to walk, just yet,” Sarah stammered.
“Your slippers are too large?” Leda asked, peering at Sarah’s feet with curiosity.
“My feet were terribly swollen before William’s birth,” Sarah tried to explain, her cheeks growing uncomfortably warm.
“You poor dear,” Leda said, and her gray eyes misted. “And our sweet, sweet Stephen bought you all new slippers.”
“Yes.” The word came out as little more than a whisper. It did sound like something Stephen would have done for the woman he so obviously adored. That wasn’t so hard to believe.
“Her dress for the service must be extraordinary,” Leda said firmly. “Stephen would have wanted it so. Elegant and fashionable, even though it’s for mourning.”
“A bustle, then,” Virginia determined. “And I have some black French lace I’ve been saving for something special.”
“But no one will even see it with me in this chair,” she said, wanting them to see reason.
“It doesn’t matter,” Leda said. “You’re a Halliday. Hallidays have a position in this community. Measure her feet. She’ll need slippers.”
William’s cry alerted them to his feeding time. Mrs. Trent appeared in the doorway holding him.
Glad to escape the escalating dressmaking plans, and always eager to spend time with her son, Sarah opened her arms for the infant. “Will you wheel us into the other room, please?”
Mrs. Trent did as Sarah asked. “I’ll have his bedding laundered now, and take my noon meal, if that’s all right with you, Mrs. Halliday.”
“Certainly.” Appreciative of the woman’s time away, Sarah sat near the lace-curtained balcony windows, nursing William and humming softly. Soon she’d be able to do more to care for him herself, and then she would feel more like a mother. Leda and Mrs. Trent pampered her so, their constant attention and sometimes smothering concern had started to annoy her.
Each day drew her further into indebtedness to the Hallidays, both financially and emotionally. But there was no backing out now, no way to loosen the comfortable but certain ties that were binding her to this home and these people.
She brushed her fingertips over William’s silky pale hair and inhaled his milky, sun-dried cotton smell. Where would they be now if not for Stephen’s kindness and Leda’s misplaced loyalty and trust? If not for Nicholas’s tolerance?
The possibilities were more than she wanted to consider.
She would have to honor her benefactors and the Halliday name. She would make a proper appearance before their friends and associates. Leda and Nicholas were the only ones who ever had to know the truth. Later, she would spare them the humiliation of a public discovery by simply letting others think Claire had chosen to return to her own family.
But for now, she’d narrowed her own choices and had none left but to play this charade to its inevitable conclusion.

Nicholas sat beside his mother in the church pew. In the aisle at his right, his sister-in-law sat in her wheelchair. He fixed his gaze on the brightly colored stained-glass windows forming an arch above the clergyman’s head. The minister’s softly spoken words floated on the air along with the scents of candle wax and Leda’s flowery violet toilet water. Nicholas took her hand with the tear-soaked hankie between both of his and absorbed her tremors.
Anger at the pointlessness of his brother’s death coursed through his own limbs. Why that train? Why that particular night? If only Stephen had stayed at the university. If only he’d been more sensible. If only he’d listened to Nicholas’s counsel on finishing his studies and then coming into the foundry business.
If not for Claire, they could have had Stephen with them the last few months. Unfairly, Nicholas wished Stephen hadn’t linked their family to this girl with questionable motives, and he resented sharing their grief with her.
Against his will, his gaze moved from her leg, jutting straight out beneath layers of black fabric, to her blackgloved hands clenched in her lap. If his mother hadn’t been determined to bring her safely to Mahoning Valley, Nicholas would have paid her off and sent her back to her New York tenement where she belonged, posthaste.
She’d had the last weeks with Stephen. The last moments.
The realization that he would never see his brother again hit him squarely between the eyes. Stephen had been a handful, even as a boy, and Nicholas, older and bearing the responsibilities for the business and his mother and brother, had done his best to bring Stephen up as he’d believed their father would have done.
Stephen had resented his intrusive concern. And he’d deliberately done all he could to get under Nicholas’s skin. Claire happened to be one of those deliberate and rebellious stands against what was expected of him. Their marriage would have turned into a farce.
Now Nicholas was left to deal with her.
“Nicholas?” his mother whispered. “It’s time for you to speak.”
He stood and walked the few feet to the pulpit the minister had vacated. The first person he looked at was the last one he wanted to focus on, but he couldn’t help himself.
Claire sat with her head lowered and her hands in her lap, presenting the top of her hat. She raised her head. The black veil prevented him from seeing her eyes, but it left her delicate chin and deceptively vulnerable mouth visible. Her lips had a puffy look, as though she’d cried recently. Convincing—to everyone else. She’d sewn for actresses, he reminded himself. She would know how to make herself up.
Nicholas drew on his years of steadfast responsibility and dependability, and in a calm voice spoke of Stephen as a child, as a growing boy, and as a young adult. He said all the things that his mother wanted and needed to hear. All the things that their family and friends expected of him. All the things that he’d deliberately avoided thinking of until now. And then he took his seat.
And screamed silently on the inside.
Stephen. Stephen. His free-spirited brother with the unflappable zest for life and laughter. With so much yet to do and discover, his life had ended…leaving so many things between them unsettled. Would this gaping void of pain and loss ever heal?
The time had arrived for the mourners to get into their carriages and ride to the cemetery. Fearing she would crumple if he didn’t support her, Nicholas helped his mother stand. Milos Switzer appeared at his side, and Nicholas directed him to push Claire’s chair.
It didn’t matter who pushed her chair, Sarah’s thoughts were consumed with the actuality of what was taking place and what she’d done. Someone helped her into the carriage, where she sat with her foot on a padded crate and stared idly out the window, grateful for the cloaking anonymity of the veil covering most of her face.
Now his grave. She would have to see Stephen’s grave. And come to terms with the fact that he might have been alive had he been riding in his own compartment that evening.
They stopped and moved away from the carriage again. Nothing mattered but the sight of the canopy ahead. Her heart raced and panic rose in her chest. Somewhere in her peripheral hearing, a bird sang its sweet morning song.
Spring rain had turned the grass a bright green; scattered headstones and mourners dotted its perfection. Beribboned flower rings and colorful bouquets couldn’t hide the crude mound of freshly turned earth that covered Stephen Halliday’s body.
The overpowering floral scent struck the indisputable fact of Stephen’s death into Sarah’s heart with all the force of a bullet. She stared at the distressing sight, the ghastly horror of what she’d done hitting her squarely between the eyes.
She’d thought about Claire’s body before, but had banished the morbid thoughts from her mind. Now she had to deal with them.
Where was Claire? Where was Stephen’s real wife? She should be lying here beside him throughout eternity, but because of Sarah’s treachery, no one even knew enough to locate her body.
The thought physically weakened her and brought a sob to her throat. Leda reached a hand over to pat hers, multiplying Sarah’s feelings of hypocrisy.
And the baby Claire had been carrying! That tiny life deserved a burial place with both parents. There was no one to mourn for Stephen and Claire’s baby.
No one but her.
That burden crushed the air from her lungs and brought quick tears. Where were Claire and her baby? If they were separated from Stephen here on earth, would they be separated in the hereafter, too?
Sarah fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief and covered her trembling lips.
The minister went through his prepared speech, but it was lost on Sarah. God had spared her and William for reasons unknown to her, and in thanks she’d lied to Stephen’s grieving family.
One of Leda’s friends sang, and the clergyman prayed again. Sarah waited for lightning to come down and strike her where she sat. At that moment she’d have welcomed the escape. Lost in her own private guilt and misery, the only thing she could pray for was for this day to end.
“It’s time to go.” Milos Switzer stood beside her chair, and she realized Nicholas’s right-hand man had been silently waiting there for some time. The others had dispersed, and she sat alone on the grassy slope beneath the awning.
He pushed her chair over the uneven ground to where the carriage waited on the road, then lifted her in and assisted Mrs. Trent, who carried William. Once the women were situated, Milos seated himself at Sarah’s side, and the carriage pulled away.
“Stephen had so many friends,” Leda said, her voice hoarse with tears. “Just look at how many came.”
Nicholas rubbed his mother’s hand.
“He’s resting in a lovely spot, isn’t he, Claire darling?” she asked. “At his father’s left.”
Sarah was sure more blood drained from her face, if that were possible. She pressed the handkerchief to her lips to keep from sobbing aloud. Once Leda knew the truth she would hate Sarah for keeping Claire and her real grandson from their rightful resting place with Stephen.
William chose that moment to let out a wail. Mrs. Trent jostled him, and finally Leda took him and gave him her finger to suckle until they arrived home.
Claire sat with the handkerchief pressed to her lips. Observing, Nicholas wondered if she was ill.
“I’ll assist Mrs. Halliday,” he said to Milos once the carriage pulled to a stop in front of the house. “Help Mother, please.”
Milos tossed him an odd look, but said only, “My pleasure.”
Nicholas reached for Claire and she flinched, but composed herself. He lifted her against his chest and backed from the carriage.
In his arms, he discovered her trembling as fearsomely as his mother had. “Are you ill?”
“No,” she replied weakly, and steadied herself with a gloved hand against his shirtfront.
Yes, she smelled as exotic and erotic as he remembered, and he now regretted that Milos knew the pleasure of her soft feminine curves against his body. She was a Halliday.
Nicholas didn’t approve of her or trust her but he was responsible for protecting her and seeing to her well-being and that of her son. Like it or not, Stephen’s obligations were now his. His chest constricted at the reminder that this woman’s welfare belonged to him.
He didn’t want the responsibility of meeting her needs.
He didn’t trust her.
Or was it himself he didn’t trust?
He had no choice.
Aware of the slick cool fabric of her dress on his wrists, the mysterious rustle of petticoats beneath, and the jolting beat of his heart against her breast, he climbed the stairs.
He entered her suite and started for a chair.
“The bed, please,” she said with a fatigued wave.
“You are ill.” He leaned forward and deposited her against the bolster of pillows.
“No. Just tired.”
Nicholas reached for her hat, remembered it would be anchored somewhere, and instead flicked the veil back revealing her colorless face. Those solemn blue eyes met his gaze in surprise and…embarrassment? Or was it shame?
“This day was difficult,” she said softly.
He moved to stand at the end of the bed.
A dark smudge beneath each eye proved either her words or her skill with cosmetics. He fought against viewing her the way she wanted him to: fragile and painfully in need of care and guardianship. The vulnerable person he saw here contrasted vividly with the hard-edged women who had been his brother’s preference.
But he wasn’t about to be fooled. He had his mother and the business his father had built from the ground up to protect.
William’s cries carried up the stairs and along the corridor. Claire peeled off her gloves.
“I’ll go for your chair,” he said.
“Just leave it in the hall, please. I think I’ll rest here for a while.”
He nodded in consent.
Mrs. Trent bustled through the doorway with the squalling baby. Claire unpinned her hat, and a long strand of her hair caught and fell to her shoulder. She tossed the hat aside and watched the older woman. The governess carried him to his crib.
Nicholas followed and observed as she changed the baby’s wet clothing. William was a sturdy little fellow with fair hair that looked as though it would be feather-soft to touch. He had smooth pink cheeks that invited Nicholas’s fingertips to test the softness, but he kept his hand firmly at his side.
The baby’s flailing chubby legs testified to his health and appetite. He was a child anyone would be proud of. A little fellow who would be hard to resist if Nicholas didn’t know better. Yet he still wasn’t convinced this was really Stephen’s son. He studied the child, seeking something to significantly identify him as a Halliday.
The reports he’d received on Claire testified that Stephen had not been the first man with whom she’d kept company. She’d worked as a seamstress, but spent her evenings among the theater crowd. That was where, after brief relationships with at least three other men, she’d met Stephen.
A baby looked like a baby, Nicholas concluded. How could one compare those tiny features to an adult’s? It was impossible. His mother would be devastated if this were not Stephen’s child.
Mrs. Trent finished her task perfunctorily, rewrapped William and gave Nicholas a questioning glance.
“Give him to his mother,” he said.
She carried the child to Claire. Claire looked up at Nicholas, and embarrassment gave her cheeks the first color he’d seen on her face that day.
Feeling very much like an intruder, he excused himself and quit the room. For a woman who’d known her share of men, she certainly played the demure and modest young mother to her fullest advantage. And why shouldn’t she? As Stephen’s widow, she would never have to work another day in her life…or play another man’s mistress.
Mrs. Claire Halliday had it made.
Realizing he’d left his gloves behind, he stepped back to the partially open door, paused with his hand on the knob and peered around the mahogany panel.
Claire reclined against the stark white pillows, the baby suckling her full, ivory breast. The expression on her face was a lifetime away from Mrs. Trent’s when she held the baby. Claire studied her son, tenderness and adoration reflected on her lovely face. Nicholas wasn’t imagining the love shining from her eyes.
Okay, she loved the boy. She was his mother, so that didn’t prove anything. In fact she may have been so desperate to give him a father that she’d used Stephen to that end.
Nicholas had gone through the box of Stephen’s papers that had been forwarded, and if he remembered the date of their wedding correctly, it had been only about seven months ago.
William’s birth could have been brought on prematurely by the accident, however. He would probably never know for certain.
Nicholas observed mother and son a few minutes longer, coming to a conclusion. He wouldn’t know for sure if this were Stephen’s child—unless he got Claire to tell him. She was the one with the knowledge. His job was to wrest it from her.
By any means possible.

Chapter Four (#ulink_4ed3163a-872e-58f9-83dc-b66b530b7f5d)
Throughout dinner that evening, Nicholas sullenly speculated on the men Claire had consorted with. Was it something she enjoyed? Or simply a means to snare a fortune?
She wore another of her new black dresses, this one for evening wear, yet still properly modest. Against his will, he wondered what she looked like in russet or teal, or a shade of green. Even pastels would complement her multicolored gold- and wheat-toned hair and pink cream skin.
It was no secret why Stephen had fallen for her. Her seeming grace and delicate beauty had snared him. Stephen had appreciated her soft and flawless skin, the full ripe plushness of her lips, just as any man would. Perhaps those springy curls against her neck had captured his attention from the moment he’d met her and he’d yearned to place his lips there.
Beneath his scrutiny, a blush touched her cheekbones. Did her skin beneath the black dress pinken, too?
A highly inappropriate image of his brother touching her, kissing her, making love to her, burned an indelible impression in Nicholas’s mind and seared his body with unwelcome awareness.
Shocked at his presumptive and reproachful thoughts, he dropped his fork on his plate and excused himself.
Sarah glanced at Leda, who appeared too exhausted to notice her son’s odd behavior. “You really must get some rest,” she said to the woman. “This was an exhausting day for all of us.”
“Yes.” Leda leaned back and gestured for the maid to remove her plate. “I’m grateful it’s over now. I’m also grateful that I had you to help me through it.”
“It was my pleasure,” Sarah said honestly. Doing anything she could to lessen Leda’s pain assuaged her conscience.
“I believe I’ll go to my room,” Leda said after a few minutes of companionable silence. “Will you ask Mrs. Pratt to bring me wine later? That will help me sleep.”
“Certainly. Sleep well.”
Leda left her alone in the dining room.
“Anything else I can get for you, Mrs. Halliday?” the servant asked from her side.
Sarah instructed her on Leda’s request and rolled herself from the room. She’d never been abandoned downstairs before. Nicholas usually carried her back to her rooms after dinner. If he didn’t come for her, she could ask one of the servants for help. Sarah wasn’t worried. When William grew insistent, Mrs. Trent would come looking for her.
She took her time perusing the lower level of the Halliday home, admiring the handsome decor and elegant furnishings. Wood and brass and a minimum of glassware affirmed the masculine influences. Eventually, she came across a closed set of walnut doors and leaned forward to rap on the wood.
“Enter.”
Sarah rolled one of the doors back and edged her chair into the impressive but livable room, lit by a flickering fire and the golden glow of a hanging oil lamp.
Nicholas, sitting in a wing chair near the fireplace, turned his head at her approach. “Claire?”
“Pardon the interruption,” she said.
Swirling the golden liquid in his stemmed glass, he gestured to the decanter at his elbow. “Brandy?”
“No, thank you.”
“You don’t drink?”
“Whatever I eat and drink affects William.”
“It seems we both have responsibilities where William is concerned.”
“Are you feeling burdened?” she asked.
“Not at all. William’s care is of the utmost importance.”
She studied him curiously.
“He is the Halliday heir, after all.”
Guilt surged anew and Sarah turned and studied the surroundings with feigned interest. Bookshelves lined one wall, paintings adorned another. An enormous desk occupied an entire corner, papers and ledgers in orderly stacks on its surface. How much longer would she have to play this risky game?
A portrait hung over the fireplace.
“Your father?” she asked, changing the subject.
Nicholas nodded, the dancing flames highlighting his hair.
She noted the similarities between the darkly handsome gentleman and his sons.
“Stephen had your mother’s smile,” she observed aloud. The man in the painting appeared as somber as Nicholas.
She perceived his gaze and met it.
“Did you want something?” he asked.
“Actually, I did.”
He waited, his expression disclosing nothing. Few of his emotions were ever revealed on his face, and she wondered about the man inside the stoic mask.
“I wanted to tell you how very sorry I am for your loss,” she began. “I know how deeply you loved Stephen. All this must be difficult for you. You are wonderfully supportive of your mother.”
He said nothing, but she went on. “You’ve dealt with Stephen’s death since it happened, making the arrangements, coming for me, seeing to the things that had to be done.”
She smoothed her skirt over her knees, thinking of the many ways he’d made this horrible time easier for both her and Leda. If Sarah really were Claire Halliday, he would still have been as much of a godsend to her as he was to Sarah Thornton. “I guess what I want to say is thank you. And to tell you that if there’s any way I can help you, I’d like you to ask me.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. He appeared decidedly uncomfortable with the subject. Or perhaps it was just her presence. Perhaps he resented her forwardness. After all, even though he recognized an obligation, he merely tolerated her in his home.
It had been a bad idea to come to his office.
She turned her attention to the fire.
Nicholas watched her expressions with equal amounts of rancor, frustration and desire burning hotter than the brandy in his belly. The things she’d said drew on emotions he didn’t know how to deal with. “I have no use for your pity,” he said finally.
She turned those somber blue eyes on him. “I’m not offering you pity.”
“Beware of what you do offer. I’m not the same fool my brother was.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. A moment later, her gaze hardened and she looked away. She moved her hands to the wheels of her chair, but he stopped her from leaving with an outstretched foot in the spokes. “You need help up the stairs,” he said.
“I will find someone.” She tried to roll away.
That was what he was afraid of. He’d been angry with himself at dinner, and in his haste to get her out of his mind, he’d fallen back in his duties. But he wouldn’t allow anyone else to assist her. Even though the only male besides himself in the house was Gruver, a happily married man, Claire was a temptress, and he couldn’t expose his people to her.
He downed the last of his brandy and set the snifter aside, then rose and gladly wheeled her from his private domain. At the bottom of the stairs he paused, lifted her into his arms and started the climb.
Her arms came around his neck, her rounded breast flattening against his shirt. Her soft hair touched his ear, his cheek. He resisted the insane impulse to turn and bury his lips in the curls. He hated himself for having these intense reactions to his brother’s wife. Falling for her charms made him feel like a callow boy.
Perhaps she’d planned it. Perhaps she’d deliberately aimed for a vulnerable spot by offering sympathy. He was the stable one. He was the one who took care of others and did the comforting and handled what was unpleasant. No one else had comforted him. No one else had offered their concern and assistance. Even if there wasn’t a damned thing she could really do for or to him, she’d effectively searched out a weak spot in his armor.
He reached the top of the stairs and proceeded to her room. “A chair or the bed?” he asked.
“A chair,” she replied quickly. “Will you ring for Mrs. Trent, please?”
He propped her foot on a stool and pulled one of the bell cords connected to the servants’ quarters and the kitchen. When he turned back, she was attempting to remove her slipper by using her other foot.
“May I?”
She blushed to the roots of her hair. “I’m sure Mrs. Trent will be along shortly. It’s just that my foot seems to have swollen, and the shoe is quite painfully snug.”
He knelt before her extended leg and gently removed the shoe, noting her wince. It was ridiculous to allow her to suffer, so he reached beneath her skirts, found the stocking held up by her cast and gently rolled it down her ankle and from her foot, deliberating ignoring the rustle of petticoats and the feel of cool silk.
Her delicate toes were several shades of green and another shade almost yellow. Mrs. Trent came through the doorway just then, and a look of disapproval immediately puckered her face. She placed the sleeping William in his crib and hurried to Claire’s side.
“Fetch us some ice,” Nicholas ordered before she could take over the task of caring for Claire.
“Sir, I—”
“Now.”
Hastily gathering her skirts, she did as he instructed and returned with the ice.
“I’m going for her chair. After you’ve helped her with her nightclothes, prepare us some tea.”
“You’ll be taking tea here?” she asked in a deprecating tone.
“This is my home, Mrs. Trent. I’ll take tea wherever I see fit. And you’ll do well to keep your moral judgments to yourself.”
The woman pursed her lips and remained silent.
He returned with the chair to find Claire on the side of the bed and the nursemaid gone.
“Let me help.” Nicholas turned Claire to get both of her feet on the bed. He propped a pillow beneath her left leg and placed an ice pack on her swollen toes.
He noted her other foot, small and dainty, her ankle slim. The white nightdress exposed a curvaceous length of her calf.
“Cover me, please,” she asked in a strained voice.
He draped the counterpane over her legs, leaving only the foot he was treating exposed. “Do you have something to take for pain?”
“I don’t want to take it. William wakes during the night.”
He sat near her feet. “Mrs. Trent sleeps nearby. She can get him.”
“Yes, but I must feed him.”
“Perhaps we could find William a wet nurse.”
“No!”
Surprise brought his head up.
She looked away quickly.
“All right. I was thinking to make things easier for you.”
“That’s taking him away from me. That would not be easier for me.”
“You obviously have strong feelings about this.”
“He’s my son. I have strong feelings for him, certainly.”
“Certainly. He’s all you have left of Stephen. Besides a fortune in stock and investments Stephen left you in his will.”
She met his eyes, and the anguish he thought he read there almost made him sorry he’d said it.
Mrs. Trent returned with a tray, and placed it on the nightstand with a clatter that rattled the cups in their saucers.
“That will be all,” he said to her. “You may retire.”
Censure brought her brows together and she pursed her lips in a line.
“Good night,” Nicholas said deliberately, then poured. “Cream or sugar?”
“Honey, please,” Claire replied softly, with a sideways glance at Mrs. Trent.
The woman slipped into the dressing room where she slept on a narrow bed so she could hear William.
Nicholas stirred a spoonful of sweetener into Claire’s tea, handed her the cup and saucer and poured himself one.
“Call me if you need me, Mrs. Halliday.”
Mrs. Trent stood in the doorway in her robe, the front clenched tightly in her fist.
“Mrs. Halliday will call if she needs you,” he affirmed. Did the senseless woman think he was going to ravish his sister-in-law right here with her son a few feet away and his busybody nursemaid straining to hear?
She disappeared again, and he turned his gaze back to Claire. “You must have learned to favor honey in your tea from Stephen,” he said.
“I’ve always taken my tea with honey.” Noncommittal. Safe. Neither admitting or denying she knew of Stephen’s preferences.
“What were the qualities you appreciated most about Stephen?” he asked, leaving the side of her bed and carrying his cup to the nearby chair, where he sat and balanced it on the arm. He didn’t quite understand his need to press her about her relationship with his brother, but the desire to persist burned in him like a well-stoked fire.
She stared into her tea. “His concern for others. He was a warm, generous man.”
“Generous with Halliday money,” he agreed.
Her lips flattened into a line of displeasure, and she looked up. “When we met, I had no idea that Stephen had resources.”
“No idea, Claire?”
“You didn’t have much respect for your brother, did you?” she asked, taking him by surprise.
“Why do you ask?”
“You thought him foolish enough to marry a woman who was out for his fortune.”
“Are you?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I denied it.”
Nicholas held his cup by the rim, and considered the truth of her words. “Let’s just say my brother didn’t always make the wisest decisions.”
“The decisions you wanted him to make, in other words.”
He set the cup down, glanced at the waning fire and got up to add a log that should burn most of the night. He was deliberately inciting her. He was grieving for his brother and her presence irritated him, so he baited her.
“How does this new life compare to the one you had in New York?” he asked.
“My life is nothing like it was before. Nor is it anything like I anticipated it being.”
“In what way?”
“In the obvious way. Stephen is gone.”
“He took you to Europe before bringing you to meet his family. Didn’t you think that was odd?”
“Not at all. If you treated him with as much disdain as you treat me, he wouldn’t have had a pleasant start for his honeymoon. Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Treat him with disdain.”
He didn’t like anyone turning the tables on him. “Didn’t he tell you all about his family?” he asked.
“No. He didn’t. I didn’t know anything about you until I was almost here.”
“So you just fell head over heels in love with my brother and married him without knowing his background or even whether or not he was capable of taking care of you. Didn’t you wonder how he earned a living? Or if he did?”
“I knew about his plays. They were successful productions in the East.”
“So you thought you were marrying a struggling playwright. Then lo and behold, it turns out his family has made a fortune in the iron industry.”
“I never asked for a cent of your money,” she said, blue eyes flashing. “You’re the one who came for me—who carried me out of that hospital. You’re the one who brought me here. Leda insisted I have the clothing. I’ve accepted everything because she wanted me to have it.”
And as Stephen’s wife, all that was due her. And more. Being rude to Claire wasn’t going to bring Stephen back, and holding her responsible was only a small comfort.
At odds with his resentment was his appreciation of someone to keep his mother’s spirits up and to give her days purpose and pleasure. Claire had been nothing but a comfort and companion for Leda. A fact that ate at him.
“You’re a Halliday now,” he said, turning back to her, “no matter what you were before. No matter why Stephen married you. And that makes you my responsibility. It also gives you responsibilities.”
“And what would those responsibilities be?”
“We’ll discuss that tomorrow. I have a few papers to go over tonight.”
“And a bottle of brandy to finish.”
“If I see fit.”
“I’m sure you’ll see fit.”
“Good night.” He left and closed the door, admiring her for holding her own while at the same he congratulated himself for being right. At last her true colors were bleeding through. She wasn’t the demure little flower she pretended.
Weariness caught up to him. The days had to get easier after this one. He’d thought giving his mother the news of the train crash had been hard. He’d thought identifying Stephen’s body and shipping it home had been difficult. He thought finding Claire alive and making the arrangements for her and the baby had been tiring.
Appearing today before friends and family had taken every last ounce of reserve he had left. Nothing could ever be this difficult again.
Unless of course, it was fighting this sordid attraction to his sister-in-law and sorting through the feelings of betrayal that had come to haunt his nights.

He was testing her, purely and simply. And she was failing miserably because of her total unpreparedness. She didn’t have a clue who Stephen or Claire Halliday were. And since it appeared her stay with the Hallidays was stretching into infinity, she’d better do something about her lack of information. Soon.
She could learn about Stephen from Leda. The woman loved to talk about him, and it would seem only natural to discuss and share their loss.
Claire, however, was another matter. The more Sarah thought about it, the more she became convinced that Nicholas would have had Claire investigated to protect the family’s interests. And if that were so, the results of the investigation were in his office somewhere, probably in that enormous, organized desk. If she could read the report she’d at least have an idea of who she was supposed to be playing. She’d know the same things that Nicholas knew.
She learned from Leda and the servants that he went to the foundry each day, and she formulated a plan.
The next day at supper she invited Leda to come to her room that evening, and when the woman arrived, they sipped tea and played cribbage by the fire.
“Tell me all about Stephen when he was a boy,” Sarah begged.
Leda smiled a forlorn smile. “He was as delightful as a boy as he was as a man,” she said. “He got into his share of mischief, mind you, but he was sweet and loving.”
“What about when he was in school?”
Leda told her story upon story, and as Sarah had hoped, she reflected on something in his adulthood from time to time. Sarah hung on every word, asking questions and joining her laughter and her tears. She felt close to Leda Halliday, closer than she had a right to, and she appreciated the time and the concern that the woman afforded her. Being there for solace and companionship was the least she could do.
She dreaded that one day she would have to tell her the truth and see the anguish her masquerade had wrought.
Once the hour grew late, Leda left for her own quarters, and Sarah prepared for bed.
The doctor arrived early the next morning.
“I think you’re well enough to walk on crutches. You haven’t had any dizzy spells or imbalance?”
“No,” she replied. “I’m feeling well.”
“I suggest you seek assistance on the stairs. We wouldn’t want you to take a tumble and break anything else.”
The following morning Sarah discovered her bottom worked quite well to make her way down the stairs. Sliding her crutches ahead, she slowly, determinedly, made her way to Nicholas’s office. She had only William’s nap time to use. Someone would come looking for her if she wasn’t there when he woke.
Nicholas’s filing cabinets were exceedingly neat and organized, but since she had no idea what Claire’s maiden name had been, the search proved tedious. The top drawers were especially difficult to reach because of the need to balance on one leg and rest often, but after nearly an hour she’d systematically gone through each file and folder without success.
In frustration, she discovered his desk drawers locked, and searched the top of the desk and every nearby surface for a key. Of course it wouldn’t be in plain sight. What would be the point of locking something if the key were readily visible?
William would be awake by now. She would have to discover the whereabouts of the key and return.
Sarah grabbed her crutches and left, sliding the doors closed behind her.

Leda and William took their naps about the same time each afternoon. She would risk less chance of discovery then than in the morning when the maids were cleaning. The following afternoon, Sarah left Mrs. Trent dozing in the rocker beside the crib and made her way along the upstairs hall, checking doors, and investigating rooms.
She recognized Leda’s rooms by merely cracking the door. The scent of violets wafted into the hallway. Sarah closed the door silently and continued her search.
The corridor turned into a separate wing. Sarah hobbled along the hallway, listening for servants, but hearing nothing save the steady muffled clump of her crutches on the carpeted floor.
Massive double doors stood at the end of the hall. Leaning on one crutch, she tested one and it opened.
Maneuvering herself as quickly as possible, she entered and closed the door behind her, noting the maid had already been there, for the bed was made and the chamber conspicuously clean.
The enormous room held a heavy grouping of furniture before a fireplace on one side, a writing desk in the corner, and a massive bed with ornately carved headboard and foot-board on a platform on the opposite side. A matching armoire stood against the wall, and one door led to a dressing room, another to a small, unfurnished room.
Where to start? This was all a waste of time and a foolish risk, especially if Nicholas carried the key with him, which he probably did. But the papers she wanted might be here.
The desk was the most likely place to begin her search. The drawers were unlocked, and unfruitful, occupied by neat stacks of writing paper, pens and ink and an assortment of letters.
Sarah shuffled through them, finding they were all from Stephen. She opened the first one, dated several years previous, and read an account of his experiences at a production in London. The next one related a tale of an interesting woman he’d met in the East, and another the excitement of an opening night for a play he’d been wanting to see in New York.
She replaced all but a few and slipped them into the deep pocket of her skirt. Nicholas wouldn’t miss these, and she would return the remaining missives after she’d learned more about Stephen. The knowledge would be useful when Nicholas tested her again.
The other drawers held nothing of any interest and, disappointed, she headed to the armoire. The scent of freshly starched cotton and linens assailed her. The smell triggered the disturbing memory of being held close against his hard chest, and for a moment the recollection was so strong, she could have sworn he was right there. Guiltily, she looked around, but she was alone.
A unique scent, perhaps something he used on his hair, combined with clean linen and a faint trace of tobacco to represent Nicholas.
Quickly, Sarah went through the drawers, careful not to disturb anything and feeling criminal for going through his private things. The top of the cabinet held a wooden chest. A logical place to keep a key. In one compartment she discovered two roses, one dried, one looking as though he’d placed it there within the past few days. But why? Sarah pulled the dying flower to her nose.
She remembered the flowers heaped upon Stephen’s grave, and the answer came to her. Where had the old brittle one come from, then? The portrait over the fireplace in his office came to mind. His father’s funeral? The sentimentality of the idea seemed incongruous with the stern, untrusting man she knew.
Perhaps a woman had given them to him. She replaced the flower.
A garnet ring in a heavy gold setting, several diamond stickpins, a pocket watch and some gold coins were all she found in the other compartments.
The stand near the bed came next, followed by the drawers in the tables beside the chairs.
A soft gong sounded, and Sarah jumped and glanced around. A clock on the armoire ticked a vigilant accusation. She took her hand from her thumping heart.
This was hopeless. If he wanted to hide a key it could be behind a painting or in any of the hundreds of pockets in his clothing. More and more she leaned toward the theory that it was on his person.
It would be inconvenient for him to come up here to use this desk. And he obviously didn’t keep any kind of business papers in his sleeping area. If he had, they would have been with Stephen’s letters. She would never have access to the key if he carried it with him.
Sarah propped the crutches beneath her arms and prepared to leave. The unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway struck terror into her heart.
As quickly as she could, she hobbled in the opposite direction, in a quandary over where to hide. She passed into the unused room just as one of the huge walnut doors flew open behind her, followed by the sound of Nicholas’s angry cursing.

Chapter Five (#ulink_dbaeca41-09af-501c-994e-681adfae441a)
Reaching the privacy of his room, Nicholas swore to his heart’s content. He jerked out of his blood-spattered jacket and tossed it over the valet, his shirt following.
The safety of his workers was of supreme importance to him. He’d been working in his office at the foundry when he had heard the emergency bell and run to see what had happened.
Thomas Crane, one of the metal workers, had been injured when a pulley broke loose and struck him. He’d fallen several feet but had been conscious. Nicholas had immediately taken control of the situation, sending for a wagon and stanching the flow of blood from the man’s arm with his own hand while the foreman fashioned a tourniquet.
He’d accompanied Thomas to the physician in town, and waited while the wounds were stitched and dressed and his ribs were wrapped.

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