Molly gritted her teeth, glancing around the room to see Willy, who seemed to be viewing the proceedings with a great deal of faintly drunken amusement.
“How are you tonight, Willy?” she greeted him, desperate to remove herself from Lisa’s arch glances. She didn’t need her far from subtle reminder of what she’d been doing with Molly’s husband.
“Good enough, m’dear,” Willy answered, raising a dark amber drink in greeting. “Glad to see you decided to join us after all.”
She felt a sudden spurt of anger at all of them. They must have discussed poor little Molly in their various condescending tones, conspiring to torment and embarrass her. Well, she wouldn’t let them down, she decided suddenly, throwing herself down into the most comfortable chair in the room and glowering at them all like a spoiled teenager.
Patrick stalked over to her to thrust a tall glass of bright red liquid at her. “Here you are,” he said with false solicitude, and she controlled the urge to throw the drink back in his face.
“What is it?” she demanded suspiciously.
He raised an eyebrow. “Your usual. Cranberry juice, just as Aunt Ermy ordered for you, though tonight without the vodka. I assume you aren’t allowed to drink after your supposed blow on the head.” His voice was cool and disbelieving, and she barely controlled an equally snappish answer.
Instead she took a small, ladylike sip of it and wondered absently if among her myriad other faults she had been a drunk as well. She took a second, larger sip and leaned back further into the protective recesses of the chair to watch her family and friends.
Her participation was not missed. Willy, Patrick and Lisa were deeply involved in a discussion of horse breeding, a subject as foreign to her as mountain climbing. Though of course, she thought ruefully, she could very well have dabbled in both. She was the first one to notice the arrival of another guest, walking quietly along the stone-floored hallway. He was above medium height, though shorter than the lanky Patrick, with curly brown hair and a quiet intensity about his eyes. He looked handsome, shy, and out of place, so far removed from the tightly leashed violence she sensed in her husband. She suddenly felt a little more optimistic. Maybe she’d finally found an ally among all these enemies.
“Hello, there.” He cleared his throat at the door and they turned to greet him with enthusiasm.
“Toby!” Patrick’s sudden, friendly grin was a revelation. “We were just discussing Arab’s points. We’ll forgive you for being late if you can clear something up.”
Molly stared at Patrick, shocked into momentary silence. Remembering, almost remembering, with the sight of that sudden, devastating smile...
And then Toby stepped between them, and his eyes were warm and sympathetic. “How are you, Molly? We missed you.”
The others were staring at him with silent disapproval, as if they suddenly discovered they had a traitor in their midst, but Toby didn’t seem to notice. For the first time someone seemed sincerely glad to have her back, and Molly’s eyes threatened to fill with those unwanted tears again.
“Thank you, Toby,” she said softly, smiling up at him.
“Let’s go in to dinner,” Patrick said abruptly, breaking the moment. He took Lisa’s silk-clad arm and led her toward the dining room. “I could eat a horse. Next time I invite you for dinner you come on time, boy,” he said with mock seriousness, and Toby laughed.
“I was held up, Pat,” he said, following Willy’s beefy form. “Miss Molly’s just about to foal and I didn’t know whether I dared come at all.”
By the time Molly entered the dining room she noticed with a grimace that Lisa had taken the traditional seat for the woman of the household, at the foot of the table opposite Patrick, and she was relegated to a seat next to Willy. She sank down with sullen grace, wondering once more what she could have possibly done to have turned her family and friends against her. And what further insults would she have to bear while she remained a prisoner in this house. At least there was Toby, looking across at her with undisguised admiration. She tried to concentrate on that, shutting out the sound of Lisa’s arch laughter as she flirted with Patrick.
“Molly, darling.” Lisa turned to her in a coaxing voice. “Pat says you want to do some clothes shopping. I’d be delighted to come with you, give you a few pointers on style.” Her expression told Molly that she badly needed all the help she could get.
“No, thank you, Lisa.” She managed to control the faintly homicidal urge that was building up in her. “Mrs. Morse will come with me—I wouldn’t think of bothering you.”
“But darling, it’s no bother,” she protested prettily. “Remember what fun we had, picking all your other clothes? I’ve always helped you choose; you know I love to do it.”
So she had Lisa to thank for that closet full of unsuitable clothes, Molly thought. Andi bet she did it on purpose. “No, I don’t think so, Lisa. I prefer to choose my own clothes.” Her voice was cool and firm, and there was nothing Lisa could do but shrug her elegant shoulders and exchange a look with Patrick as if to say, what can I do?
Toby tried to smooth over the moment of tension by expressing a sudden interest in the weather, but Molly had finally had enough of the strained atmosphere and subtle sniping. Of the secrets that no one was supposed to mention. “Tell me, Lisa,” she said in a casual voice, flashing her as false a smile as she’d been given. “When is it that you and Patrick plan to marry?”
“I beg your pardon?” Lisa demanded in frosty tones.
Molly took a bite out of the rich chocolate cake Mrs. Morse had provided for dessert, reveling in the shocked expressions of all those around the table. She looked up with innocent eyes. “I just thought it would be easier if I knew what your schedule was. Your husband’s been dead...how long? I think I was told it was five weeks, is that right? And I gather you’ve both been planning this for years, so I’d hate to make you drag out any role-playing as a grieving widow.” Molly’s eyes drifted down Lisa’s seductive apparel with a faint smile. “Perhaps you could persuade my husband to get an apartment somewhere while we wait for the divorce to go through. I wouldn’t want to cramp your style, and you are so good at persuading my husband.”
“Get out of here,” Patrick said quietly. Molly turned her blandly innocent smile in his direction, wanting to lash out and hurt him.
“But why are you so mad, darling?” She mimicked Lisa’s tone of voice perfectly. “You shouldn’t let the fact that her husband’s barely cold in the ground get in the way of your plans. After all, you only married me because you couldn’t have her. And now you’ve got her. Happy happy, joy joy.” She rose and stalked out of the room, anger finally taking control. She was halfway up the stairs when she heard him coming after her. Stifling a sudden, panic-stricken desire to run and lock herself in that sybaritic room, she turned at the top of the stairs and waited for him with spurious calm.
He caught her wrist in a grip that was almost painful, his blue eyes dark with anger. “What the hell did you mean by that little scene in there?” he demanded.
“Isn’t it true?” she asked quietly. “Isn’t every word I said true?”
“You have no right to criticize anybody. Not when you’re dealing with gossip and suppositions and half-truths,” he said in a furious undertone. “I didn’t run off in the middle of the night, I didn’t set fire to the east barn and kill three horses, I didn’t crack old Ben on the head and leave him bleeding in the middle of the yard. I wasn’t found unconscious with a murdered man beside me.”
