Wildblossom

by Wright, Cynthia

  "Oh—love—" The fire was getting hotter. When Geoff climaxed, his teeth in the curve of her neck, Shelby wrapped her arms around his wide back and wished they never had to move.

  Time passed, and she whispered, "It feels like home...."

  PART 3

  How many loved your moments of glad grace,

  And loved your beauty with love false or true,

  But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

  And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

  ~W. B. Yeats

  Chapter 18

  "If this weren't going to make such a devil of a mess in my life, I'd laugh," Geoff said as he opened the morning edition of the Times in front of them on the bed. "Look, the writer can't stop babbling about 'Shelby Matthews, the audacious, captivating cowgirl who lights up Earl's Court with her sharpshooting antics....' "

  "Goodness, does it really say that?" Shelby nuzzled his chest and peeked at the newspaper under long lashes.

  "Yes, and every newspaper is the same. Buffalo Bill and the Wild West Show are old hat, but you're not, and all of London is in love with you, scamp." His hand slid under the fine linen sheet to caress her intimately then settle on the curve of her bottom. Shelby, meanwhile, pulled the pages closer and read every word, wondering what it was in Geoff's voice that suggested he really wasn't happy about her newfound fame.

  She didn't want anything to spoil their perfect morning. Or was it afternoon by now? The fog had burned away and sunlight streamed through the windows facing the Thames. There were silver carts full of dishes on both sides of the bed, and Shelby had balanced a little plate of sliced peaches, buttered scones, and bacon on one of the pillows. The countless moments of bliss that made up the past dozen hours were riches for her soul. Even now she caught herself lazing in Geoff's arms and remembering their exquisite lovemaking at dawn, when the entire bedroom had been drenched in a warm, blushing glow. It was all too wonderful, and Shelby didn't want the mood to be altered by the newspaper stories. Yet... why should Geoff begrudge her a bit of acclaim?

  "Well, you have to admit that it's very nice. I mean, in my wildest dreams, I wouldn't have imagined—"

  "My love, don't you see that it just makes it harder for us? It will be tricky enough, getting free of the wedding to Clemmie, particularly since the invitations have already gone out. But when I trot out my new choice for a bride—"

  It was Shelby's turn to interrupt. "You don't need to spell it out." She fell back in the pillows, the corners of her mouth turned down. "Perhaps it would be better to wait a few months, until London Society has forgotten about the terribly undignified spectacle I made of myself as a common performer. Then, if we're careful to give me a new name, people might not realize that you're marrying Shelby Matthews. I mean, it's bad enough that I'm an American! Consuelo Vanderbilt might have married the Duke of Marlborough, but she brought a two-million-dollar dowry to soften the blow to the nobility."

  Geoff's dark face loomed above her, his hair tousled, tendons standing out in his neck. He looked just wild enough so that Shelby was deliciously frightened. "That's enough!" he commanded.

  Her heart jumped; she let him take her, kissing her until she was weak. It seemed that they couldn't get enough of each other. The mere imprint of her breast against his back in the middle of the night had set off a frenzy of half-dreaming lust: kisses that burned tender flesh too long neglected, rough caresses, daring liberties, love sounds given voice, and fulfillment beyond memory.

  Now, they clung together, arms and legs twisting in the bed linens, kissing with fresh ardor, endlessly hungry for the sustenance they could only find together. Geoff sank his fingers into her hair which gleamed like brandy spilled over the pillows. Boldly, she returned his stare, her eyes slanting a bit at the corners, and it came to him again that part of the reason he loved her so ravenously was that she would not be tamed, not even for him.

  "I crave you," he whispered.

  When his lips trailed down Shelby's throat, his hands roaming over her breasts and belly, she reflexively grew congested, aroused, in spite of the soreness between her legs. It was crazy, the lust that burned between them... and yet, wasn't the fire this hot because of all the other elements strengthening their bond?

  "Tell me it doesn't matter," she gasped. Her fingers closed around his warm, hard manhood and she ached to have him inside her.

  Unfortunately, Geoff knew exactly what she was talking about. "I wish it didn't matter." He was there, nudging the slick, welcoming entrance to her hideaway.

  Employing her easy athleticism, Shelby scrambled out from under Geoff's strong body as if she were a butterfly escaping a collector's pin. "I suggest you take back your promises, Your Grace! In the light of day, isn't it all just a bit too outrageous? Impossible?" Her voice trembled, half out of fear of his warning gaze. "Face it, Geoff, nothing you can ever say will convince them that I'm good enough to be the Duchess of Aylesbury." Yanking the sheet from the bed, Shelby wrapped it around herself like a toga. "Perhaps we were both right all along. I'm proud of who I am! And now, if you'll be so kind as to call for transportation, I must return to Earl's Court." She swept toward the bathroom door, the end of the sheet making a train in her wake.

  Geoff flipped over on his back, hands balled into fists that he pressed against his brow. "Shelby... for God's sake, don't go."

  "But I have to. I have a performance to give at two o'clock!"

  * * *

  Geoff leaned close to Manypenny, eyes narrowed, and muttered, "I wanted to wrap my hands around her pretty throat and strangle her!"

  The elderly manservant wore a look of unaccustomed shock. "I say, Your Grace, I don't think you ought to express such sentiments, even in jest."

  "You know I don't really mean it. Aren't I allowed to make wild threats even to you?"

  "Not when they concern Miss Matthews. I suspect you would call out any other man who spoke of her in such a manner."

  "Never mind then, old scold." Scowling, he stood over his desk and sorted through his mail. Then, abruptly, Geoff brought his fist down on the satinwood surface and stormed, "How, I'd like to know, did I get into this coil, and how am I going to get out without either being disgraced or cut off from Shelby? Why couldn't I have siblings? It would be so much easier if I could just give this unwieldy title to an unsuspecting younger brother!"

  "Sir, if I may be so bold..."

  Geoff gave him a narrow glance. "When I rant on and pose irrational questions, I don't necessarily mean for you to answer me."

  Ignoring him, Manypenny persevered. "I would simply remind you that nothing at all will be accomplished if you stay here and shout at me."

  "You're right. I need to act, hmm?"

  "Exactly so, Your Grace." Relieved that the matter was back on track for the moment, the manservant followed Geoff to his dressing room and watched as he began rifling through his suits. "Sir, I've been meaning to mention that I had a rather unnerving experience yesterday. I was stepping out of the carriage at your tailor's in Clifford Street when I saw a man dart into a hansom cab... and if I didn't know better, I would swear that the fellow was Bart Croll."

  "That is such a bizarre vision that I am surprised you would even remark upon it!" Geoff replied with a trace of impatience. "Bart Croll is in Wyoming, and there isn't a reason in the world why he would be lurking about in Clifford Street!"

  Manypenny pursed his lips. "Did Miss Matthews neglect to tell you that Mrs. Croll is in London, sharing her tent at the camp village?"

  "What? How do you know this?"

  "Perhaps I should confess that Mrs. Croll visited me here. It was she whom you saw getting into a carriage recently." He watched the duke's astonishment reflected in his eyes. "She helped to convince me that that you and Miss Matthews should see each other again before you married someone else and it was too late."

  "You knew!" he cried. "That's why you talked me into going to the Wild West Show yesterday!"

  "Quite true, Your Gr—that i
s—"

  "Never mind. I'm getting used to it." Geoff selected clothing, then allowed Manypenny to assist him in changing. "Now then, about Vivian—why is she in London? Don't say that Croll let her come alone?"

  "I do not know all the details, Your Grace, but I did deduce that the marriage is ended. She looked rather like a frightened rabbit at the mention of his name, and allowed me to believe that Miss Matthews had, in effect, rescued her from a wretched situation by bringing her to London."

  "So, if Bart were actually here, that would mean he'd come to find her."

  "Yes, but I don't suppose it's possible, do you? It must be someone who only looks like Mr. Croll."

  "I'm sure you're right, but I'll make a point to ask Shelby about it." He slipped into a chocolate-brown coat and let the shoulders settle into place. "That is, if we ever speak again."

  Manypenny handed him the engraved, silver-spined comb and they both moved to the cheval mirror. For a moment, Geoff had a sense of deja vu, and the year-ago night he'd decided to go to Wyoming floated back in his memory. "I was just thinking, old fellow, how much you have changed of late."

  "I fear so." His great brow furrowed, considering. "Do you mind, Your Grace?"

  "Only occasionally." Geoff laughed then, and Manypenny let out his breath, relieved.

  "If I may be so bold, I should like to take this opportunity to point out that you also have changed, Your Grace... most especially since you found Miss Matthews again yesterday. It is as if you are alive again, as you were in America."

  "Ah. I see your point." He grabbed a hothouse pear from a Canton dish on his dressing table and started toward the door. "You're in danger of meddling a bit too regularly, though, Manypenny. I wouldn't mind a return to the old mute corpse demeanor, at least part of the time. Has it gotten away from you? Perhaps you might practice in front of the mirror..."

  * * *

  Shelby was furious by the time she returned to her tent at the end of the afternoon performance. She jumped off her bicycle and set it off to one side, then looked around for Vivian.

  "There you are! Good grief, of all the days for you to stay in here—"

  "What happened?" Viv's eyes were big, and she stepped in front of a huge engraved silver pot with a yellow rosebush planted in it. There was no point in Shelby seeing it until she was calm enough to appreciate it.

  "Uncle Ben didn't show up!" She tossed her hat on her cot and paced outside the tent on the little wooden walkway. "Colonel Cody had to do his part, which meant that I had to cue him—and I'm used to Uncle Ben cuing me! Oh, Viv, it was horrible! I can only guess that the people were cheering because they'd read the papers and they didn't know any better."

  "Did you try the bicycle trick?"

  "Yes," she replied through gritted teeth. "Yes. I rode around the arena and shot at various targets from my bicycle, but the pieces from the clay pigeons I'd shot earlier were on the ground, and every time I rode over something like that, I'd veer just a bit—and I missed." Shelby gave her friend a glum look. "Twice."

  "People understand that you're new. They love you because of your charm!"

  "I did all I could to make up for it, miming and holding my head and riding the bicycle in a silly way—as if I were a clown in the circus!" She grimaced at the memory.

  "No one in their right mind would take you for a clown, Miss Matthews," a male voice said from behind her. "You're much too beautiful."

  Shelby whirled around to find herself face-to-face with one of the monocle-wearing gentlemen she'd seen in the Savoy Hotel the night before. "Oh! Well, it's kind of you to say so, sir...."

  "I am Bernard Castle," he murmured, bowing low, catching her fingers in his gloved hand and kissing them. "Your humble servant."

  "Nonsense, Mr. Castle!" Shelby felt herself turning pink as she managed to retrieve her hand from his possession.

  "No doubt you are wondering who I am and why I have turned up this way...."

  "Well, actually, yes." She tried to size him up without being too obvious about it. Castle appeared to be about forty, with reddish hair and old-fashioned side-whiskers flecked with white, a sallow complexion, and lively eyes the color of bay leaves. Slight of build, he was elegantly dressed. His monocle was in place, and he carried a homburg hat and an ivory-handled blackthorn walking stick.

  "I happened to see you last night as the Savoy Hotel," Castle murmured in confidential tones. "I had no idea of your identity, but one of my companions saw you perform yesterday for Their Majesties. Then, I read the glowing article about you in the newspaper and I knew that it was meant to be." He leaned closer, his face nearly even with Shelby's, and a note of passion crept into his voice. "I had to come. Did you like my present?"

  "Present?"

  Inside the tent, Vivian blanched as Shelby's eyes came her way. His present! She'd been certain that Geoff had sent the beautiful rosebush with its silver pot! "Um, I didn't have a chance to show you," she called, and bore the yellow flowers out into the light.

  Shelby exclaimed over the gift, which indeed would go far toward brightening the doorway of her tent. "I like to sit here and read, though I don't have very much time now that I'm performing...."

  Castle was eyeing Vivian with displeasure. "I have all my servants trained to inform me of deliveries such as this the very moment I arrive at home."

  "Do you? How efficient. I, on the other hand, am hopelessly relaxed. And Viv is not my servant. She is my friend, and is kind enough to help me organize my life so that we don't have to bother with a maid."

  "Colonel Cody is not paying her to act as your servant?"

  Shelby blinked. "I am sure you did not mean to be intrusive, Mr. Castle, nor can I imagine that such a matter would interest you for any reason."

  "You must call me Bernard, Miss Matthews." His features melted again with adoration. "If I overstepped my bounds, it is only because I feel that everyone within your circle should act as your servant. It would be my privilege to do so as well."

  "That's very kind but quite nonsensical! I have no servants." Shelby found herself running short of patience. What was she to do with this puffed-up, worshipful gentleman? Looking hopefully toward Vivian, she said, "Speaking of my lack of servants, where on earth is Uncle Ben? He's probably afraid to show his face for fear I'll use him for target practice!"

  "Would you like me to send detectives to search for your uncle?" Castle begged.

  "Certainly not!" Laughing, Shelby turned to him, on the verge of sending the fellow away with a firm set-down, when she caught a glimpse of Geoff approaching her tent. He, too, was carrying a pot with flowers in it, only his was more to her taste. He'd chosen a smaller blue and white Chinese cachepot filled with yellow and peach narcissus, paper whites, and little snowdrops. It was an exquisite miniature spring garden, created with her in mind.

  Her heart caught as she took in Geoff's appearance: rebelliously graceful and dashing, dark hair combed back from his aristocratic face, a camel hair muffler round his neck as if he'd absently donned it before remembering that the weather had turned springlike. Although she longed to simply wave Bernard Castle away and go straight into Geoff's arms, for once Shelby was able to stop long enough to consider the situation she found herself in.

  Casually, she shielded her eyes against the sunlight and smiled at him. "Good afternoon, Your Grace."

  Bernard Castle gripped his monocle and spoke with furrowed brow. "What, might I ask, is the Duke of Aylesbury doing here with flowers on the eve of his wedding?"

  "But, those couldn't be for me!" Shelby put on an amazed expression. "I couldn't be lucky enough to get flowers twice in one day. I'll bet you're taking that treasure to dear Lady Clementine—isn't that right, Your Grace?"

  A muscle flickered in Geoff's jawline. The last thing he needed was interference in the form of overbearing, over-rich, over-nosy Bernard Castle. "Were you addressing me a moment ago, Castle? It's difficult to tell when you look over my shoulder." Then he reached for Shelby's hand and held it
a moment too long. "As for my gift, I confess that it is for you, Miss Matthews. I, we, were so taken with your performance yesterday that it seemed a small token—"

  "How kind of you and Lady Clementine to think of me! You must thank her for me."

  Castle was watching this exchange warily. "It would be far too easy for one to misinterpret this scene."

  "Miss Matthews knows exactly what my intentions are," Geoff said with a wintry smile.

  It took every ounce of control Shelby could muster to keep herself from turning crimson. Inside the tent, Viv was fanning herself, swooning at the romance of it all. "Well, I must say that it's lovely to have so many friends here in London. I thank you both. Your Grace, did you see the magnificent rosebush that Mr. Castle has brought?"

  "Magnificent indeed. Almost excessively friendly..."

  "Not at all," Castle protested. "I aspire to higher goals. In fact, although I had hoped to ask you in private, Miss Matthews, I shall take this moment to request that you join me this evening for theater, followed by supper at the Palm Court at the Carlton Hotel. It is my habit, with my friends, to dine either there or at the Savoy, every night." He was watching her face anxiously, oblivious to the duke's darkening visage. "If you would join me, I can promise you an evening of rare pleasure. Do, please, say yes, Miss Matthews!"

  Silence charged the air, then Shelby smiled suddenly and replied, "Yes... I would be honored to accept your invitation, Mr. Castle!"

  Vivian pressed a hand to her mouth, smothering a gasp, but Geoff did not react. Victorious, Bernard Castle announced that he had another appointment and could not linger. He promised to send an automobile to fetch Shelby that night, adding that the driver would escort her from her tent to the waiting Daimler. Then, bowing again, he hurried off, disappearing among the tents and the colorful performers who were milling about.