Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] by Deadly Caress Page A

because
divorce
was simply not a part of her vocabulary.
    She continued downstairs, clad in a dusky blue skirt that she had never liked, clasping the smooth wood banister. Their home was a magnificent one, just around the block from her parents’ mansion, on Madison Avenue and 62d Street. It had four stories, vaulted ceilings, marble fireplaces, and two guest suites. It had been built during the year of their engagement, an engagement that had happened within weeks of their first meeting and Neil’s whirlwind courtship. Connie no longer knew what to think of her memories. Once, she had treasured each and every one. Once, she had known that Neil had fallen in love with her just as she had with him. Now, she wondered. Their marriage was a typical one; he was an impoverished British lord, she a wealthy American heiress. Perhaps he had never loved her at all. Perhaps he had married her for her money and she had been so foolish as to think his gallantry was love.
    Connie brushed several tears aside as she crossed the ground floor. She felt fairly certain that she had a luncheon that day, but she intended to cancel it. She knew she must continue on with her girlfriends and the wives of Neil’s associates—she knew it as surely as if Julia had insisted she do so. But how could she? The whole city knew of Neil’s affair. She simply could not smile over grilled sea bass at the Hotel Astor, and pretend that nothing was wrong. And she was tired of the almost gleeful looks on the other ladies’ faces. Fran had once told Connie that her marriage was the envy of society; she had already known that quite a few of her friends adored her husband. She knew that if, God forbid, anything had ever happened to her, Neil would not remain a bachelor for long.
    She heard the girls then. Charlotte was laughing and Lucindawas howling in protest. Connie smiled. Her heart warmed. And for one moment, as she listened to the girls, she forgot about Neil, and the pain of his betrayal faded; for one instant, she was Connie Cahill Montrose again, a vibrant, beautiful happy woman with a perfect husband, a perfect marriage, a perfect life.
    Connie hurried into the family room, a small, cozy parlor where she often read to the girls while Neil listened and browsed through a newspaper.
    Her two daughters, the one three and precocious, the other just eight months old, were both on the floor. Charlotte was playing with her dolls and mercilessly teasing the howling Lucinda. Mrs. Partridge, their nanny, was scolding Charlotte, but she was ignoring the tall governess. She was as stubborn as her Aunt Fran.
    “Charlotte, that isn’t fair,” Connie said swiftly, hurrying forward. “You must share your dolls with your sister.” She knelt beside them both.
    Charlotte leaped up to wrap her arms tightly around Connie’s neck. “Mommy, Mommy! Mommy, Mommy!” she cried.
    Connie hugged her back and thought, aghast,
Dear God, in my grief I have been neglecting my daughters
! It was one thing to cancel luncheons and teas, to beg off evening affairs, to avoid her husband, and quite another to have become careless with her own children, whom she treasured more than life itself. “Darling, you are squeezing every drop of air from my lungs; I can hardly breathe,” she said gently.
    Charlotte released her. “How beautiful you look!” she cried, as if surprised. “How pretty your dress is! Mommy, you aren’t sick anymore? Daddy said you were sick. He said we must allow you to sleep, that we must be very quiet. That we mustn’t disturb you!”
    Connie bit her lip, filled with guilt and moved to tears. The pain returned—she could imagine Neil softly telling the girls how to behave for their mother’s sake. He would have Charlotte on his lap, explaining very seriously what she must and must not do. Then he would address Lucinda asif she understood his every word, which of course she did not. But Lucinda would have gurgled happily anyway. Both girls adored their