Territorial Bride

No. She could not fail—her pride would not allow it.

Missy and Ellen were lingering over a cup of creamed tea when the downstairs maid appeared at the parlor door. She carried a silver tray in her hand. A solitary piece of paper rested in the center.

“Pardon, miss.” The maid bobbed a little curtsy.

Ellen leaned over and glanced at the envelope. “It is from Aunt Patricia.”

“How can you tell?” Missy asked, frowning. The outside of the envelope was as blank as the expression on the maid’s face.

“It’s her stationery.” Ellen scooped up the paper and nodded as the maid curtsied and left the room. “See the watermark?” Ellen held it up toward the light streaming in through the French windows. The outline of a fancy crest within the fibers of the paper became evident.

“Oh.” Missy ducked her head in embarrassment. Another thing she didn’t know, but if Ellen thought anything about her ignorance she did not show it as she busied herself opening the envelope.

“Well, this is unexpected.” Ellen passed the paper to Missy, who read the neatly printed words and felt her stomach lurch.

“A party?” she gasped. “Mrs. James is throwing a party—for me?” Desperation rang in every word. “But I’m not ready.” She stood up and started to pace. “I’ll never be ready.”

Ellen studied her face for half a minute, and then she brightened. “Nonsense. It will be fine. Aunt Patricia will only invite family and close friends. Actually, this will be good for you. We will ease you into New York society by degrees.”

“Do you think so?” Missy stopped pacing and looked at Ellen.

“Absolutely.” Ellen picked up a delicate china cup painted with yellow primroses and leaned back in the wicker chair. “Now that I think of it, it’s a wonderful idea.”

Ellen seemed completely confident, and if she wasn’t worried, then Missy decided she wouldn’t be, either.

The night of the party was hot and sultry from two days of uninterrupted rain. Then, as if the heavens knew that Patricia James would be displeased if her guests were inconvenienced, the sky cleared. A handful of bright stars twinkled overhead as Brooks stepped out the French doors with a glass of cognac in his hand.

“Well, well, well. Did you decide to grace us with your company tonight, or are you home for some other reason?” Rod’s deep, teasing voice brought Brooks around abruptly. His sibling was silhouetted against the gold and crystal glitter of his mother’s dining room, dressed in a snowy white shirt, black coat and tie. Every candelabra in the house was blazing, in addition to the gaslights in the ballroom.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Brooks sipped his drink and acted as if he were unaware of the pending festivities.

“You know perfectly well what I am talking about. You have not been home for dinner twice since we returned.” Rod stepped outside. He was grinning. “Interesting coincidence that you decided to come home on the first night that Missy O’Bannion is going to be here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brooks snapped. “I just happen to be home.” He had made the same observation to himself earlier, but Rod was wrong, and so was he. He had simply tired of the giggling women who had begun to present themselves upon his return. He had grown bored listening to stories of how they all had been pining away in his absence. He had tired of telling the same stories of his life in the West—and the novelty of his unconventional mode of attire had worn so thin he was actually thinking of going upstairs to change.

“Perhaps you are telling the truth, since you are still dressed like you rode in from the range.” Rod shrugged and glanced at Brooks’s boots.

“I am thinking of changing—just to please Mother.” Brooks took another sip of the liquid.

Rod chuckled. “I am sure she will be pleased—but wear whatever you wish. As a matter of fact, those pants of Levi’s suit you. I have almost grown used to the new you. Tell me, though, is your prickly attitude also part of the new you, brother?”

Brooks frowned. The front doorbell chimed. The pair watched the butler’s back as he opened the door. Brooks caught himself rising on the toes of his Justins to see who it was.

“Anxious?” Rod asked, a sly grin curving his lips.

“Not at all.” Brooks shook his head and moved closer to the open doors.

The doorbell rang again.

Brooks drained his glass. “I think I’ll go up and change.”

“Better hurry, she will be here soon.”

“Who?” Brooks asked innocently, but Rod only laughed and stepped inside.

By ten o’clock the Jameses’ brownstone was a hive of social activity. Maids and butlers scurried about, making sure every glass was full, every plate picked up the moment the last morsel was consumed. Brooks had lingered in his room after he had changed. Now he stood with one foot hitched up on the top stair as he watched the activity below. He hated to admit it, but he felt out of place in his own home.

The sound of laughter drew his eye. There, surrounded by men, was a familiar head of lustrous dark hair.

A strange, tight coil of heat formed in his chest. While he watched, his grip on the banister tightened.

It was Missy, and half the unattached men in New York City were paying her court.

He was halfway down the stairs, focusing only on Missy, when he felt a hand on his arm. Brooks shrugged, intending to remove the unwanted restraint.

“It has been a long time, darling.”

The words brought him to a halt and he turned, already knowing who he would see.

Violet Ashland lifted one brow and gave him her coolest smile. “I was coming up to find you.” Her hand moved over the cloth of his coat in intimate fashion, and a hundred memories of stolen passion ripped through him. “I still remember the way to your room…Shall we go catch up on lost time?”

It was at that very moment he looked down at Missy and she looked up. Their gazes caught and held, not going unnoticed by the men surrounding her or the woman who still possessively fingered his arm.

Violet followed Brooks’s gaze. Her smile became cooler than ice. “Is this the little country girl I have heard so much about?”

Brooks frowned and looked at her. “What?”

“The sweet child your mother brought from the West. The poor dear—how she must’ve suffered in that harsh environment.” Violet scooted closer to Brooks and looped her arm through his. “You must introduce me—I am just dying to meet her.”

Ghostly fingers traced a line down Missy’s spine as Brooks descended the stairs and walked in her direction. She had never felt so trapped in her life as she did when he turned his blue eyes in her direction. Suddenly the velvet gown she was wearing felt about as attractive as a gunnysack. She tried to swallow the champagne one of the men had brought her, but it stuck in her throat and she choked.

“Miss O’Bannion, are you all right?” a voice asked.

“What…? Yes. Yes, I am fine,” she lied. Mercifully, a disembodied voice asked if she would like a glass of water. Within seconds her champagne glass was gone, replaced by a crystal goblet of water. She brought it to her lips, but the dryness remained.

“Oh, she is precious. Brooks, what a darling child.” The blond woman clinging to Brooks surveyed Missy from head to toe. Without a word passing between them, Missy knew all she had to know.

This woman was her mortal adversary.

“Brooks, introduce me.” Violet kept the smile pasted to her face while she inspected every inch of the dark-haired beauty before her. She had heard all the gossip about the lovely woman who had returned with Brooks. She had not believed it. But now that she was face-to-face with the little chit, she had no choice.

This woman was her adversary.

Missy felt her stomach knot up. In spite of the notion that the woman before her was everything she despised, there was a tiny part of her that was envious.

Violet Ashland was a lady, and she was holding Brooks’s arm as if he belonged to her.

Brooks cleared his throat—and tried to clear his mind. Violet clung to him like a burr to a mustang’s tail, as tenacious and as thorny. He wanted to peel her fingers from him and walk away, but he could not do what he wanted here.

This was his mother’s drawing room, in New York. How he wished he were back in the Territory, where a man could be honest about his feelings.

“Violet Ashland, Missy O’Bannion.” Brooks would not lie and say he was pleased to introduce them.

“I am so glad to finally get to see you, Miss O’Bannion. I have been hearing a lot about you.” Violet turned slightly sideways and looked at Brooks. “Darling, she is a treasure. Such a charming child.”

Missy stiffened. Images of Becky Kelly came unbidden to her mind. This woman was simply a more polished and older version of the woman who had jilted her brother, Trace. Anger and a desire to silence Violet Ashland spurred Missy on.

“It is very nice to meet you, but I am a long way from being a child. It probably just seems that I am young compared to you.”

A silence so heavy it could be felt settled over the small crowd gathered around the two women. Brooks winked at Missy and his heart hammered inside his chest.

Damn if she isn’t magnificent.

Brooks felt Violet’s fingers dig into his arm, but, to give her credit, the smile never slipped.

“Oh, you are charming…in an untouched fashion.” Violet inclined her head. The gaslight turned the strands of her hair to ribbons of gold. The crowd around them began to drift away. Evidently they had grown bored with the inane conversation. Now Brooks could drop his facade.

“When did you return, Violet?” he asked.

“Me? Oh, I have been back for ages now. I have been sitting at home pining away for you.” She leaned close enough that he could smell her expensive French perfume. “You never even wrote.”

Missy blinked back her surprise and tried not to feel what she was feeling. It was silly, but for some strange reason she felt…hurt to see the woman so intimate with Brooks.

“I saw no reason to write,” Brooks said as he turned and looked at Violet. “When I left you were busy chasing a title.”

“It was all a great misunderstanding, darling.”

Darling. The word hung like a sword.

“A misunderstanding?” The tone of Brooks’s voice was deadly. “It was a damn lot more than that.”

“Nonsense.” Violet removed her hand from his arm and tugged off her elegant, elbow-length glove. “It was nothing to me and I can prove it.” She held up her left hand and wiggled her fingers. Gaslight and candlelight glinted off a huge stone. “I am still wearing your engagement ring. I think that says it all.”

For the next few days Missy moped around Ellen’s house, reading the latest Godey’s magazine and practicing at solitaire, which Ellen taught her…trying to forget the scene at the brownstone. Then one day during breakfast Ellen surprised her.

“I think it is time we answered a few of these invitations.”

Missy looked up and blinked. She was still numb all over, except for the unaccountable pain in her heart.

Why should I care if Brooks is engaged?

She had asked herself the question a hundred times and more, but she never came up with an answer that suited. It could be that she had harbored some silly girlish fantasy about him. Or it could be that it was just such a shock. After all, he had never mentioned the golden beauty who wore his ring. It might be all of those reasons…or none of them.

“Did you hear me, Missy?” Ellen frowned and pointed to a pile of calling cards and small white envelopes. “Gregory Whitemarten was here again this morning, and Charles Rutheford.”

“I don’t want to see anybody,” Missy said glumly.

“No, you’d rather sit at home and let him win.”

Missy’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?”

“Cousin Brooks is having his cake and eating it, too, if you ask me.” Ellen plunked two cubes of sugar into her tea and stirred it savagely. “He’s got Violet Ashland hanging all over him, telling anyone who will listen that they will be married, and you are sitting at home pining away.”

“I am not pining.” Missy blinked at the harsh words. “What a silly notion.”

“Prove it,” Ellen challenged with a toss of her yellow curls. “If you aren’t smitten with my cousin and you are not pining, then pick one of these invitations.”

“Right now. I won’t believe another word you say unless you prove it.”

Missy narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. She shoved the stack of cards and envelopes around on the table while she glared at Ellen. “I can’t believe you would get such a dunderheaded idea, Ellen.” When she could delay no more, she closed her eyes and picked up a slip of paper.

“Let me read it,” Ellen said as Missy stared at it blankly.

After glancing at it, Ellen swallowed hard, but then she inhaled deeply and looked Missy straight in the eye. “It is from Cyril Dover.”

“Which one was he?” Missy’s irritation had momentarily banished her misery over Brooks.

“He was the tall slim man with the blue eyes—the one who brought the bouquet of roses the morning after Aunt Patricia’s party.”

“Oh, him.” Missy sighed. “I guess he is as good as any of them to prove to you that I am not moping around because of Brooks. I don’t care one little bit that your cousin is engaged.”

Ellen’s brows rose over cornflower blue eyes full of doubt.

“Well, I don’t,” Missy reaffirmed.

Chapter Six

For a few days Brooks went to his old haunts, including the theater and his favorite café, but everywhere he went he met with the memory of Missy’s dark eyes and the unwanted presence of Violet Ashland.

She kept turning up, clinging to his arm. It was all he could do to bite down on the inside of his mouth and remember that he had been given a gentleman’s upbringing. But it didn’t take long to realize that he was a changed man—a man who found the simpering blond beauty of Violet more annoying than intoxicating.

One gloomy morning when the clouds were a great gray frown across the eastern horizon, Brooks was staring into the dark brew at the bottom of his china coffee cup. He largely ignored the conversation of his mother and brother, enjoying a hearty breakfast.

When the doorbell rang, Tilly answered it, then appeared carrying a flat silver dish containing a white envelope.

Brooks barely stifled his groan. He had been expecting a long overdue summons from his eldest sister, Clair. He knew the envelope was going to contain a family invitation that would be unavoidable. Her parties were boring affairs, attended by dozens of horse-faced girls of marriageable age and doubtful charms—and without a doubt Violet.

He drained the contents of his cup and stood up, ready to beat a hasty exit before Tilly reached him. But the bemused look on his mother’s face as she read what was written on the creamy card stock she’d plucked from the silver tray stopped him in his tracks.

“Mother, what is it?” he asked. “Not bad news?”

She glanced up, as if only becoming aware of his presence. “No, not a bit. It is an invitation to a garden party.” Her voice was soft and slightly bemused.

“Just as I thought,” he grumbled under his breath. Clair was throwing another of her boring dinner parties and wanted him there. Well, he wasn’t going to do it, not this time. He wasn’t going to be there for Violet to use as a crutch to reenter the social set she had left when she was chasing a duke’s title. She had scandalized herself, and he was not about to act as if it all never happened.

Brooks headed in the direction of the French doors and freedom. He was nearly there when Rod’s hearty chuckle stopped him. Against his better judgment he turned and found Rod’s face wreathed in a cunning smile.

“I haven’t seen a smile that wide since the last stock report, Rod.” Brooks crossed his arms at his chest and watched his brother. “What has made you so happy?”

“Read the invitation addressed to you.” Rod returned his invitation to the dish Tilly continued to hold. “Perhaps it will bring a smile to your long face. Lord knows I am tired of seeing you scowl. I swear, you’ve had a frown since the night of Miss O’Bannion’s introductory party.”

“I have not.” Brooks jerked the envelope from the tray and ripped it open. He was disgusted for allowing himself to be manipulated by family connections and social ties. If his father wasn’t such a good friend of Horace Ashland’s, Brooks would simply call Violet a liar the next time she started all that nonsense about rings and engagement.

Hell, he just might do it anyway!

He scanned Ellen’s flowing script and felt the pace of his heart increase as he read. “A garden party…” His voice trailed off as he quickly read the entire invitation. “At Uncle Leland’s house. That might be nice.” He looked up to find Rod studying him, undisguised amusement twinkling in his brown eyes.

“Nice? Missy and Ellen are throwing a party and you think it is nice?”

“Yes.”

Rod grinned. “And what a happy coincidence, brother, that you’ll finally get to see Missy O’Bannion again.” He rose from the chair and pulled on his coat.

“Why in blue blazes would I want to see Missy? I have rather enjoyed not having my hide flayed off.” Brooks cleared his throat and wondered why his pulse was racing like a runaway mustang.

The image of her dark eyes as she’d turned and left him standing with Violet had kept him awake more than one night. He just wanted to explain that he had no intentions of settling down with any woman. That was all.

Wasn’t it?

Rod shrugged. “It was just a joke, little brother. Take it easy.” Rod walked to his mother’s chair and dutifully bent to deliver a kiss to the top of her silver curls. “I never dreamed you’d return from the Territory so serious, Brooks. Perhaps a garden party is what you need.”

“Where are you going, Rod?” Patricia looked up, still holding the invitation in her hand, with a happy smile on her face. Parties did that to her, Brooks mused.

“It is my morning at the gentlemen’s club.”

“Oh yes.” Patricia frowned at Brooks. “Why don’t you go too, Brooks? You have been a bit grumpy lately.”

“I have been grumpy?” Brooks repeated in astonishment. “I don’t know why you all keep saying that.”

“Well, you have, dear, and I can’t for the life of me imagine why, especially when things seem to be working out for you and Violet Ashland.”

Brooks rolled his eyes to the ceiling and counted to ten. “Mother, there is nothing between me and Violet. I’ve told you this before.”

Patricia smiled. “All right, dear.” She held both her hands up. “If you want everything to be a surprise, then fine, I will act as if I haven’t heard a word.” She beamed at him. “Just as you say, there is nothing between you and Violet.”

“Mother—” Brooks started to explain, but Rod snagged his arm and tugged him toward the door as if he were a shavetail.

“Come along, little brother, or I’ll box your ears. It will do you good to work up a sweat instead of just getting hot under the collar.” Rod laughed aloud when Brooks flashed him another dark gaze, but he continued to tug his sibling toward the door.

The carriage lurched through a light drizzle of rain. Brooks had been silent on the way to the club, trying to figure out why on earth his mother could be so convinced that he and Violet were still romantically involved. But before he had found a scenario that seemed to fit, Rod was opening the carriage door.

Moisture accumulated on Brooks’s face and his mustache as his eyes traveled up the craggy facade of the club. Vermont granite, the color of the storm clouds scudding overhead, soared upward without a break for seven stories. Stark, unadorned rock, solid and unyielding, met his eye.

“It never changes, does it?” he muttered.

“Not on the outside, at any rate.” Rod tilted his head, endeavoring to see what held his brother’s attention. “We have had one or two minor alterations on the inside.”

Brooks’s eyes scanned each floor while memories of his former life flooded through him. He’d had his first liaison here with Violet after a boxing match. “What? Have they installed new leather sofas?”

The carriage clattered away as the pair took the polished steps two at a time, side by side. “Not exactly.”

“I know—new humidors,” Brooks teased, suddenly glad that Rod had insisted he come along.

Rod smiled thinly at his brother’s attempt at humor. “A group of forward-thinking young women came to attend one of the weekly sparring matches.” He chuckled.

Brooks raised both brows, a little doubtful of the story. “I’ll bet that caused some of the older members to need three fingers of brandy and a short rest.”

“You would think—but that wasn’t the way it turned out at all. After the hoopla settled down, everyone noticed the pugilists actually seemed to be putting forth a little more effort.” Rod shook his head and laughed. “Because of the record amount of wagers won and lost on that day, a new tradition was started. Now, once a week, ladies are invited—actually welcomed—to observe the exercises. It has caused some raising of brows from other gentlemen’s associations, but we are standing firm.”

“Remarkable.” Brooks found himself chuckling along with Rod. The staid and conservative founders of the club were probably turning over in their graves while the present members won wagers of staggering amounts on each bout. The women were allowed in, so long as it profited the stodgy members.

“You should understand, brother, a man will endure all kinds of pain to impress a woman.” Rod kept a straight face, but his eyes twinkled.

“Perhaps, if she is the right woman,” Brooks acknowledged, while his thoughts vacillated from Violet to Missy. He found himself lost in a world of his own while Rod went to change his clothing. It seemed like only moments had gone by before he returned.

“Last chance to come and take a shot at your older brother. Those hands of yours are tough and callused as shoe leather from the work you did out West. Now is the time,” Rod taunted as he danced around in his high-topped boots, feigning punches and rotating his broad shoulders as he warmed up.

“No need to break a sweat to see who the winner is. I concede defeat from right here.” Brooks leaned back in a heavily padded chair and laid his coat over the arm. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. “I have no desire to get up there and have my face pummeled. You carry on without me.” He intended to remain seated; there was nothing Rod could say, no inducement he could offer, to get him into the ring.

“Suit yourself.” Rod turned and focused his attention on a young man who entered the ring bare chested, wearing similar knitted wool tights and high-topped, laced boots of black leather. They met in the middle, shook hands and then, during the next few minutes, proceeded to pound each other’s face.

Brooks unconsciously grimaced each time Rod took a punch. Brooks had eaten enough dirt and tasted his own blood more than enough in the Territory. The sport of bare-knuckle pugilism no longer interested him.

Sweat covered Rod’s exposed upper body in a glossy sheen, but he danced on his toes, obviously still fresh. A young man who stood outside the ring rang a small bell and both men stepped away, going to opposite corners.

“He’s got a nice punch,” Brooks offered. “Who is he?”

Rod spat a mouthful of water into a bucket and grinned at his sibling. “I believe that is Cyril Dover—you remember him.”

“No, don’t think I do.” Brooks looked at the man.

“Rumor has it he has been squiring Missy O’Bannion around town.”

Brooks’s head snapped up. Something hot and liquid coursed through his veins.

Jealousy.

Brooks stood up and started unbuttoning his shirt. “I think I’d like to—” be the man who escorts Missy “—have a go at him,” he said.