“I have business there, of course—the hotel and casino. You would like to visit your family. You will miss them.”

There’s no need to pose it as a question; he has a very good sense of how much my family means to me and how far I am willing to go to protect them. My father wanted me to marry Anthony, and so I did, because following my family’s wishes without protest is what I have been raised to do.

I envy men the freedom to choose their own spouses. They snap us up as though they are purchasing a piece of fruit at the market, and we are expected to have no say in the matter.

Anthony’s speaking of the house where we are to spend our honeymoon, and while I sit there, watching his full lips move, I cannot really hear anything, am able to do little more than nod as though I understand, as though I am here with him, when really I am out to sea, drowning, lifting my arms in the air, asking someone to save me while people pass me by.

“Does that suit?” Anthony asks, and I jerk my head like a marionette.

How will I survive this strange marriage?

Three

Elizabeth

“Call me Eliza,” I purr. “All my close friends do.”

This is not strictly true—I am Elizabeth in all circles, most frequently Elizabeth Anne Preston when my mother is vexed, which she often is. It hardly matters, though; on this train, I can be Eliza if I like. Besides, the line does the trick as I’d hoped. The college boy sitting across from me on the Florida East Coast Railway train flushes as I lean back in my seat, the pale curve of my leg flashing his way before I cross my ankles again, his attention momentarily drawn away from my face.

Who said the trip to Key West had to be boring?

For much of the over-fifteen-hundred-mile journey since I boarded the train in Penn Station, it was one small, depressing, no-name town after another, the view offering little to recommend it. Finally, the scenery changed. Brown and gray became aquamarine and sapphire, Mr. Flagler’s railroad eventually living up to its vaunted reputation. Flagler and my grandfather were friends of a sort in their lifetimes—well, acquaintances, if I’m being truthful. No matter how much my mother wishes it were otherwise, even in our heyday we didn’t have Standard Oil money. The last name Preston might mean something in this country, but the value is diminished considerably when you’re a mere cousin to greatness, your family status relegated to invitations to the odd wedding and funeral, a reunion every few years.

College Boy and I have been doing this dance for five states, at least. He’s traveling home, on break from some fancy university in Connecticut, and I’m, well, more than a little antsy for the journey to be over.

We started our flirtation when the train left Penn Station in New York City, my unease over the length of the trip mollified by the sight of his broad shoulders and elegant suit. We exchanged pleasantries, engaging in the familiar game of which families we had in common, boys in his fraternity whom I’ve known throughout the years. The car is busier than anticipated, likely due to the Labor Day holiday weekend and the sale the railroad is advertising to entice business, but we’ve sought out each other like two magnets drawn together, sharing cigarettes and a flask of whiskey as the train rolled down the tracks.

At Key Largo, I allow him a peek at the barest hint of cleavage, my dress several seasons past fashionable, hardly the only castoff in my closet.

There are those who would say I should endeavor to not draw attention to myself, but I’ve never been much for what other people say, which I suppose is part of the problem. So a red dress it is to match my hair and lips, the color attracting the regard of every man in the carriage save one.

The man in the gray suit.

I noticed him when he boarded the train in Miami and slid into the seat across from mine with little fanfare. I noticed him even more when he proceeded to not notice me back for the next several hours while I conjured up in my mind all the possibilities of who he could be.

Unlike the other passengers, who began looking out the window as soon as we neared Key West, their attention diverted by the view, the majestic Atlantic Ocean on one side, the equally stunning Gulf of Mexico on the other, he’s engrossed in whatever he’s reading as though he has no interest in the scenery.

“Did you see that?” College Boy asks, his expression filled with excitement. “Look at the fish below.”

The corner of the man in the gray suit’s mouth quirks. Almost a smile.

“Neat,” I drawl, my gaze not on the school of fish swimming in the water a couple dozen feet below but on the man sitting across from me. That half smile is the closest thing I’ve seen to a human emotion since he boarded the train. And still—

He doesn’t bother glancing up from his papers.

What can possibly be so interesting about some dusty old pages anyway?

“I’m going to see if I can get a better view in the observation car,” College Boy announces.

I dismiss him with a wave of my hand, his affections easily won, my attention firmly on the man in the gray suit now, the challenge too delicious to ignore. The journey’s almost over. Surely, he’ll look up.

I lean forward in my seat, giving my book a little shove off my lap, making absolutely no effort to conceal my intent.

The book hits the train floor with a thud.

Something that sounds a lot like a sigh escapes from the man in the gray suit.

I wait.

He moves, his big body uncoiling as he leans forward to pick up the book I’ve dropped. I shift in my seat, advancing at the exact moment he does, perfectly aware that the movement puts him in direct line of sight with the impressive décolletage of my strained dress.

He emits a noise—somewhere between a sharp inhale of breath and a sputter—and my lips curve.

Gray Suit hands my Patricia Wentworth novel back to me wordlessly.

His eyes are a lovely, solemn shade of brown; his hair is a neat close-cropped blond intermixed with strands of brown, and perhaps, a touch of steel. He must be thirty, at least.

He’s not handsome, not in an obvious way, but he has the look of a soldier about him, all square-jawed goodness.

“I’ve been waiting for you to notice me,” I say in a breathless voice, fluttering my lashes, trying to summon a suitable blush, my skills rusty. My social life has become one of the casualties of this Depression, my technique not what it once was when men flocked around my skirts and danced attendance upon me.

Gray Suit doesn’t respond, but he straightens in his seat slightly, his gaze pinning me.

“Did you notice me?” I ask.

His lips twitch. “Sure did.”

Another bat of my eyelashes. “And what exactly did you notice?”