“Sorry to interrupt you ladies, but the car is ready,” Livingston says.
“Wonderful.” Momma stands and places her fan into her handbag. Before she takes Livingston’s proffered arm, she looks at me. “Oh, and dear? I was young once. I see right through the both of you.”
The speed of my fan slows, but my heart speeds up. Momma’s words make me feel uncovered; I thought I was convincing in my performance. Were my feelings so apparent?
Quickly, I gather all my belongings while Livingston lavishes Momma with charm and helps her into the car. Once she’s inside, he turns to me, sweeping his hand toward the door.
I give him a stiff smile and wait for him to step aside and let me in, but he doesn’t. We stand there in the blazing sun. I rock back on my heels, feeling Livingston’s eyes on me. Luckily, my fan’s still in my right hand. To keep myself busy, I nervously fan myself. Livingston’s hazel eyes burn so bright, the gold around the pupils nearly gleams. He clears his throat, drawing my attention from his beautiful eyes to his beautiful lips. “Rainey, you wouldn’t be evadin’ me, would you?” he asks, his tone quiet
“Nonsense. Why would you think that?”
“You would not meet my gaze on the train.”
“Didn’t think there was a quota I had to fill,” I reply.
He doesn’t flinch or bat an eye. His control is remarkable. “And you hardly said two words, which is a rarity for you. You’re either agitated with me about somethin’, or you’re uncomfortable after our … night together.”
“My God. No, no, no. I’m not uncomfortable,” I quickly say. But Livingston couldn’t be closer to the truth. I was uncomfortable by what Livingston brought out of me when we were alone at night. It wasn’t normal to crave someone this much. I’m certain if I confided in another woman, they would stare at me as though I’d just grown horns and a tail.
“No, certainly not,” I firmly assert.
“Indeed, it is.”
“Can we have this conversation later?”
“I don’t know, can we? My intent was to speak on the train, but instead, I had the lovely honor of speakin’ to your momma.”
I can’t help but smirk at that. “For that, I am sorry.”
“Did you know her dear friend Lucy from the First Baptist Church, not to be confused with the Lucy who goes to St. Patricks, is havin’ their friends over for tea on the same day your momma hosts their monthly book club meetin’?”
“My, my what impertinence.”
“Oh, that’s not all.”
“All right, all right.” Laughing, I hold a hand up. “I acknowledge your sufferin’.”
He broadly smiles. The dimple in his left cheek pronounced. There’s a tightness in my chest that squeezes my heart so tightly I can barely breathe.
I love you. I love you so much. Tell me how to fix you.
Livingston’s smile vanishes as though he can read my mind. For a minuscule second, there’s a flash of yearning in his gaze. I’m almost tempted to say my feelings out loud just to take that expression off his face. But then he blinks, and his signature blasé grin is back in place. His eyes are completely blank. “Right. Well, we should be leavin’.”
Inside the car, I grab my fan, unable to ignore the stifling heat. The only breeze drifting into the car comes in through the open door. It doesn’t help matters when Livingston slides in beside me. He could sit beside the driver. There’s plenty of room beside him, but no. Apparently, the back seat is far more appealing.
The length of Livingston’s leg presses against mine, and even through the fabric of my traveling suit, I can feel the searing heat of his skin. Flashes of him looming over me in my bed, his arms bracketed around me, and his hips thrusting between my legs run through my mind.
I cannot continue to have these thoughts while we’re here. This is about Nat. Abruptly, I move toward Momma. Her left shoulder becomes pressed against me at an uncomfortable angle. I find myself selfishly uncaring, because for a minute there’s a few inches between Livingston and me, and I can breathe. Maybe not fully, but enough to gather my composure.
Momma turns to me, and with sweat gathering on her upper lip, she looks at me as though I’ve lost my ever-loving mind. “My God, Rainey. This travelin’ suit is not light. You layin’ on me like that will cause me to faint!”
I wince while Livingston smirks.
“I apologize.” I move an inch, but that places me in Livingston’s personal space, plastered against him.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
It is a few days. A few simple days.
I have been through worse.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Rainey
When we turn into driveway of Brignac House, we spot the slew of servants outside the plantation. Starting from the door and leading down the porch steps, the servants stand, all fifteen of their faces somber, their hands linked in front of them. Standing by the door is Oliver’s momma and Nat. Nat looks forward. Her face impassive and eyes unsmiling. The severity of her features feels like a jolt. I’ve never seen her so solemn.
“Oh, my,” Momma remarks.
I simply nod.
“Is there a reason they have a brigade of servants?” Livingston asks rhetorically.
I shake my head in disbelief. “Has Nat ever mentioned that before?”
Livingston thinks over my question, his eyes sharp on his sister’s small frame. The closer we get, the more defined she becomes. “Perhaps in passin’. I simply didn’t think much of it. In person, it’s quite excessive.”
“That’s an understatement.”
As we get closer to Brignac House, the servants almost create a human arrow toward Nat and the woman standing beside her. Both of them are wearing black gowns, but the woman who I recognize as Oliver’s momma, I can’t place her name. I want to say it starts with an M? Mary, perhaps?
Momma and I exchange glances and then look at our own attire. This might be the only time in my life I’ve ever felt underdressed. Momma brushes invisible lint from her skirt and juts her chin in the air. “I’m quite fond of my travelin’ suit.”
Livingston leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. He grins at Momma. “As you should. Purple looks lovely on you, Mrs. Pleasonton.”
Momma stops waving her fan long enough to tap the edge of the fan against his arm. “You’re too kind to me, Livingston. Too kind.”
While they strike up a conversation about the arrangements of the train, I can’t help but notice Livingston is leaning closer and closer to me. His elbows remain on his knees, and now my forearm is pressed flush against his rib cage, and my elbow is conveniently placed directly by his hip.
My heart is threatening to burst out of my chest, and my breathing becomes erratic. On my lap, I link my fingers together and try my hardest to ignore Livingston. Which has never gotten me far in life.
“I say, sweetheart. You’re lookin’ very red. Do you need my fan?”
“No, thank you. I have my own,” I croak. I begin to toy with the latch on my handbag as though this is the first time I’ve used my hands. I bend forward, the purse finally opening, and my elbow brushes against his lower stomach, far too close to the buttons of his slacks. Livingston tenses up. I begin to wildly fan myself as though the gates of Hell are steps away. Judging from my wicked thoughts, that isn’t too far of a reach.