Enchanted Afternoon

Enchanted Afternoon
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Beautiful, charming and respected as the wife of an ambitious senator, Helena Cabot Barnes is the leading lady of Saratoga Springs. But beneath the facade lies a terrible deception.Helena married for all the wrong reasons – and discovered too late that her husband is a dangerous man. Fearing for her safety, she ends her marriage and flees to legendary Moon Lake Lodge, where she creates a refuge for other women in need of a safe haven. And there she finds the courage within to become the woman she was meant to be.But Helena can’t outrun her past.In desperation, she turns to Michael Rowan, a man she once loved, a man who broke her heart. A brilliant inventor, Michael is still ruggedly handsome, still defiantly unconventional. For Helena, the road to trusting Michael again is long and hard. And danger lies ahead. But Michael has just discovered a shattering truth… and a reason to stay and fight for the woman he once lost.With a deft hand and a unique voice, acclaimed author Susan Wiggs creates an enchanting story that will take your breath away as it reaffirms the power of love and the magic of forgiveness.

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Praise for the novels of

SUSAN WIGGS

HALFWAY TO HEAVEN

“Wiggs’ writing shimmers…. Her flair for crafting intelligent characters and the sheer joy of the verbal sparring between them make for a delightful story you’ll want to devour at once.”

—BookPage on Halfway to Heaven

THE FIREBRAND

“With this final installment of Wiggs’s Chicago Fire trilogy, she has created a quiet page-turner that will hold readers spellbound….”

—Publishers Weekly

THE MISTRESS

“Susan Wiggs delves deeply into her characters’ hearts and motivations to touch our own.”

—Romantic Times

THE HOSTAGE

“Once more, Ms. Wiggs demonstrates her ability to bring readers a story to savor that has them impatiently awaiting each new novel.”

—Romantic Times

THE HORSEMASTER’S DAUGHTER

“In poetic prose, Wiggs evocatively captures the Old South and creates an intense, believable relationship between the lovers.”

—Publishers Weekly

THE CHARM SCHOOL

“The Charm School draws readers in with delightful characters, engaging dialogue, humor, emotion and sizzling sensuality.”

—Costa Mesa Sunday Times

Susan Wiggs

Enchanted Afternoon


To H.P.R., who survived.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The Historical Society of Saratoga Springs provided invaluable information for my research. Although Vandam Square and Moon Lake Lodge are my inventions, they were very much inspired by their real counterparts in this unique and beautiful historic city. Dramatic liberties have been taken with the town’s layout, and fictional characters are, of course, my own invention. Many thanks as always to Joyce, Barb, P.J., Rose Marie, Janine, Lois, Kate and Anjali. Thanks for being first readers, mentors and friends. And finally, thanks to H.P.R., who kept her promise.

“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.”

—William Congreve, The Mourning Bride

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Author’s Note

One

She wore long sleeves to cover the bruises. Although the July sun burned like hellfire and damnation through the soundless house—even the French voile curtains in the parlor windows didn’t dare to stir—she kept herself covered in the very height of fashion.

That, after all, was what people expected of a senator’s wife. Or, she thought with a dizzying leap of hope, his former wife. But that hope would be fulfilled only if she managed to get what she wanted out of this meeting.

She waited in the summer parlor, where the tall mantelpiece mirror was draped in mourning black. Though she’d lived in the handsome house in Vandam Square for years, a fine edge of terror and panic sharpened her perceptions. She noticed all the elegant details and art treasures in the room as though for the first time—the Italianate plaster wainscoting, the Meissen porcelain vase atop a Sheridan table, the ormolu clock on the mantel, the German-made harp in the corner, a series of boring, expensive pastoral scenes of lakes and forests and fox hunts hanging on the walls.

On a wall all to itself hung the strange new painting she had chosen on her own, just last season. It was the only thing in the room she didn’t find boring, the only thing she had acquired without consulting her husband.

It was a scene called Woman at Bath by an obscure French painter named Hilaire Germain Edgar Degas. Unlike the bucolic scenes that graced the halls of the vast mansion, this particular painting of a decidedly unglamorous nude drying her abundant body tended to shock everyone, even though it interested and excited her. In the bold distortions of water and light, she could see something special. The intimate, sensuous portrait depicted a woman comfortable in her own skin, and she felt like a different person looking at that painting. For that reason, she loved it. Because she so dearly wanted to be a different person—someone, anyone else.

There was another reason she loved the strange, light-washed picture.

Her husband hated it.

The only reason he let her keep it was that she’d told him it had been a gift from the Vanderbilts. That wasn’t true, of course, but it was the least of the lies she’d told him over the course of their nine-year marriage.

The faint jingle of harness outside the open window startled her, even though she was expecting it. She heard the footsteps of Archie Soames, the butler, as he went to the door. She moved to the window, which was veiled by sheer curtains. The wispy fabric exuded a hot smell, like fresh ironing. Because the curtains diffused the view of the driveway, the arriving vehicle appeared like something out of a dream.



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