“Sweetheart, I’m sure your father didn’t mean to call us all liars,” Dillon said gently. “Any man would have a hard time accepting his wife’s brazen . . .” He stopped when Charity focused eyes like frosty green seas on him. Her face was pale, and he wasn’t sure whether she was about to slap him or cry.
“Breaking her marriage vows, and taking on her twin sister’s identity, and faking her own death may seem brazen to you, Mr. Devereau,” she said quietly, “but can you really question why she did? That’s what my father can’t accept. And he obviously knows some things he’s not telling us.”
Dillon was stunned speechless. Was Charity summing up a lifetime of frustration in one singularly astute observation? Or had the truth about her mother sent her into shock? He took her gently by the elbow to escort her back to the Planters, but she began to tremble so badly she couldn’t walk. When Charity leaned heavily on him, wracked by sudden, wrenching sobs, he swung her up into his arms and slipped into a nearby alley where she could cry more privately.
“You—you must think I’m a—a terribly ungrateful daughter,” she hiccupped. “I—it was wrong to say those things about Papa, and—”
“Shhh. You’ve heard a lot of unsettling news today. And it’s no secret that your father can be ... rather trying,” he murmured near her ear.
“—what Mama did was wr-wrong, too,” she continued in a quavery voice. “But I meant it. I ... was hoping Erroll and Maggie would ask me to stay awhile, so I wouldn’t have to go back home. I—I’ll probably go straight to hell for even thinking that way.”
Despite Charity’s blotchy face, red nose, and lashes that were matted with tears, Dillon felt inexplicably drawn to the sniffling waif in his arms. She’d searched out the truth about her mother without flinching, and passed judgments that were blatantly honest about both her parents, yet her innate goodness shone so brightly he was dazzled by it. He knew it made a strange sight, his leaning against the side of a store clutching a gingham-clad redhead to his chest, but he kissed her cheek anyway.
“I—I must look frightful.”
“You’ll get over it.” He kissed the tip of her nose, smiling when she brightened. “Feel better, now that you’ve gotten that load off your mind?”
She nodded, loving the intimate melody of his voice. “I really shouldn’t have told you such personal—”
“My lips are sealed.” The sunlight was dancing in her auburn hair, and Dillon considered taking her for a picnic by the river, or for a horseback ride across the open fields outside of town ... or just slipping her into his bed, which was where all his fantasies about her led to anyway. But he’d be an inconsiderate fool to seduce her now, after she’d uttered what was undoubtedly the most shameful confession of her entire life. “Shall we walk around town?” he asked softly. “It’s a lovely day, and—”
“I’d love to, Dillon, but I should wash out my clothes so they’ll be dry by tomorrow. Something tells me we’ll be heading home.”
“You’ll have time for laundry this afternoon,” he coaxed. “I’ll be playing poker, and perhaps your father will change his mind by then.”
“You think he’ll go after Mama?” Charity frowned and shook her head. “I doubt his pride would allow that. Now put me down so I can—”
Devereau clutched her to his chest so tightly she couldn’t move. “I won’t let you go until you say yes, Charity,” he teased. “Leavenworth’s quite a town, and I’d like to show it to you.”
“Dillon, you—put me down!”
“A simple yes is all I need to hear.”
Charity tried to push away from him, but he was holding her so firmly—and she was starting to giggle so hard—that all she could say was, “I can wait. You can’t hold me this way forever, Mr. Devereau.”
“What a tempting challenge,” he replied with an arched eyebrow. “But you’re right, I’d eventually have to shift you around . . . probably press you against this building and make love to you. Didn’t I warn you never to go into alleys, Charity?”
The golden shine in his eyes told her Dillon Devereau wouldn’t give in until he had his way with her, in one fashion or another, and her pulse fluttered at the notion that he, too, had thought about lovemaking. Charity kissed him chastely on the cheek. “Papa was right—you’re only after my virtue,” she said lightly. “So yes, I’ll walk around town with you. It’s my only decent alternative, isn’t it?”
Could she possibly realize how her innocent smiles and sharp wit aroused him? Dillon gazed at her slender face, then deftly lowered her to the ground. “You’re right, as usual,” he said hoarsely. Then, before his thoughts could stray to the bed in his hotel room, he resolutely tucked her arm around his.
Since shopping was a pastime she seldom got to enjoy, Charity decided to put aside her jumbled thoughts about Mama. She’d have plenty of time to sort things out during the endless, empty weeks after she and Papa returned home. She listened attentively as her handsome escort told her about the shops and businesses they were passing.
“You remember Sol Goldstein? That’s his bank across the street.”
Charity looked at the impressive brick structure and smiled. “You have friends in high places, Mr. Devereau.”
“In my profession, it helps to be on good terms with the money men,” he replied with a wink. “Once in a while I come up short—you can’t win all the time—but my banker friends know I’ll make good. It’s a matter of honor.”
She suspected Devereau was capable of more underhanded schemes than she could count, yet the fact that he could admit to losing—and so graciously—made her admire him all the more. As they passed by a window filled with gilded bird cages, fine china, and other imported luxuries, Charity slowed down to take them all in. Crystal goblets glistened in the sunlight; everything had such a dazzling shine.
Seeing her wide eyes, Dillon reached for the door. “Shall we go in? This is B. C. Clark’s china shop, and I’m sure he’d be pleased to see you again.’’
Charity shook her head. “No use in looking, when I could only wish for—”
“Your wish is my command,” he said suavely, and he opened the door with a jaunty bow.
“But Papa would never let me keep—”
“You’re eighteen, Charity,” he murmured. “Accepting a gift from a friend certainly won’t ruin your reputation. I’d like you to have at least one pleasant memory of this trip.”
As they stepped inside the lavishly appointed shop, Charity’s conscience tugged at her. So many fine things—how could she possibly choose a memento Papa wouldn’t condemn as impractical or exorbitant? She saw Mr. Clark approaching them and smiled sweetly at Dillon. “I suppose he’d be less inclined to cheat you this afternoon if we at least bought something,” she whispered.
Devereau laughed and squeezed her shoulder. “Sounds like the perfect excuse to choose the most expensive item in the store. Get whatever you want, sweetheart.”
He let her wander along the aisles while he chatted with Clark. After a moment, the storekeeper went to help another customer and Dillon was free to watch Charity. Her wistful gaze as she lightly touched hand-painted vases, porcelain lamps, and brass candlesticks made him want to buy the whole damn store for her. Most people came to Clark’s to add a touch of imported gentility to their homes, pieces the likes of which this preacher’s daughter would probably never see again. She paused, fingering a set of tortoiseshell combs.
“Those are perfect. Very becoming,” he said as he walked up beside her. “What else would you like?”
Charity gaped at the price tag. “Oh, these are much too—”
“Nonsense. B.C.?” he called to the manager. “The young lady wants these combs. And if you have something else—perhaps a mirror and a hairbrush to match them?”
“Right over here, Mr. Devereau.” Clark sauntered to the shelf to pick them up, smiling broadly at Charity. “Will there be anything else, Miss Scott?”
She swallowed and shook her head.
&nbs
p; “These combs will look quite fetching in that pretty hair of yours,” the shopkeeper commented as he wrapped the parcel. He glanced at Devereau and then back at Charity. “I hope the puzzlement concerning your mother has been satisfactorily solved?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” She took the package and allowed Dillon to escort her outside before she vented her frustration. “Mr. Devereau, I can’t let you spend so much—”
“It’s my money, and I’ll do as I please with it.” Her eyes flashed with emerald lightning, warning him of the storm to come, so he gently gripped her shoulders. “Charity, it’s impolite to object when a man gives you a gift with the most honorable intentions. Please indulge me,” he added in a softer voice. “I rarely meet a woman I truly like.”
His tawny eyes were so intense and his tone so earnest, Charity realized his kind words were the greatest gift he could possibly give her. “Thank you,” she mumbled. “I like you, too, Dillon.”
“Well, then,” he whispered as he lifted her chin to give her a brief kiss, “there must be hope for a scoundrel like me after all. Shall we continue?”
She nodded, and as they strolled along the busy sidewalks, Charity felt as though they were floating in a fairyland. He bought her chocolates and lilac-scented soaps, and treated her to a dish of ice cream at a nearby saloon. Dillon was flirting openly with her—even suggesting they sneak into the public bath house together!—and she knew she’d remember every delicious minute of him weeks from now, when her days with Papa became unbearably stifling. They were almost back to the hotel when she noticed a strange movement in the crowd up ahead.
As Charity stared, a clown approached them, doing handsprings. His bright red pants were tucked into his boots, and he wore a huge polka dot shirt and white makeup all over his face. He stopped beside them, his red grin widening as he honked his bulbous nose.
“Afternoon, Miss Scott—Mr. Devereau,” he added as he removed his silk hat. “As you can see, ma’am, there’s nothing inside—nothing a-tall,” the clown crooned while he deftly rolled the hat up one arm and down the other. “But oh—wait a minute ...”
Charity squealed when he pulled a colorful bouquet of paper flowers from the hat and offered them to her.
“For you, pretty miss,” he said as she took the bouquet. “And now, it’s back to work. See you later, Dillon.”
He sent the black hat spinning above them, and at precisely the right moment he ducked underneath it, grinned, and continued down the sidewalk on his hands.
Dillon chuckled, watching Charity eye the flowers as though they might disintegrate. “That was Enos Rumley,” he explained. “He works at Parker’s where they carry circus and carnival supplies. A rather colorful fellow to have around, don’t you think?”
She laughed, and when Devereau guided her up the stairs at the Planters, she deliberately slowed their pace. “I—I’ve had the most wonderful afternoon,” she murmured.
“I’m glad.” Dillon held her packages so she could unlock her door, then quickly brushed her cheek with a kiss. “I’ll see you tonight after my game, all right? I imagine your father’ll return anytime now, and he won’t want me to be here.”
He entered his own room and was surprised at how lonely he felt. Was Charity Scott already tugging on his heartstrings? As he changed into fresh clothing, he could hear a boy bringing her hot water . . . then she was bathing, or doing laundry—or both, judging from the constant splashing—and he grinned wickedly. Unless he missed his guess, Noah Scott was still avoiding his daughter’s questions and assuaging his wounded pride, and wouldn’t be back for hours. Meanwhile, Charity was alone and nude, since all her clothes would need washing. And he had an hour to kill before his card game.
He listened outside her door . . . she was humming in that low, seductive voice that drove him crazy. Dillon smiled and knocked softly.
Chapter 7
Charity froze and pulled her towel tightly around her. Papa wouldn’t knock, which was why she’d arranged the Japanese screen around the tub, so who could it be? She stood staring toward the door, dripping, and decided that if she didn’t make any noise, the visitor would go away.
“Charity, are you all right? I have a surprise for you.”
“I’ll bet you do,” she muttered. Damn that Devereau! He knew she’d have to wash every piece of clothing she owned, so now he was playing tricks on her. Since he might be shameless enough to come in through the balcony window, she stepped quickly out of the tub and grabbed one of Papa’s frock coats from the back of a chair. “I can’t let you in, Mr. Devereau—as if you didn’t know that,” she called out.
Dillon swallowed a laugh. “I’d like you to go with me this afternoon, Charity. You’d be—”
“I don’t play cards, Mr. Devereau,” she replied as she briskly rubbed her wet hair with the towel.
“I don’t expect you to. I—” He smiled politely at a man whom he recognized as the hotel’s manager, and who was giving him a suspicious looking-over. “Please, sweetheart, let me in,” he crooned. “People are staring at me.”
Clutching the frock coat around her, Charity opened the door only far enough to glare out at him. “And what do you think Papa will do? If you’re so concerned about—”
“We’ll leave him a note. The game’s at Sol Goldstein’s, so it’s not as though we’ll be unchaperoned.” Dillon wedged a foot and a hand into the doorway and gently pushed his way inside, noting the wet clothing that was hanging all over the room. Charity’s red waves clung limply to the shoulders of a coat that dwarfed her; its sleeves bunched at her elbows and covered her hands, and its hem flapped loosely around her bare knees. He knew better than to laugh or tell her how adorable she looked, so he took an appreciative sniff as he glanced around the cluttered room. “You used your new soap. Lilac suits you.”
“One generally uses soap when one bathes,” she replied stiffly. The fact that Devereau was nattily dressed in a fresh white shirt and tan plaid trousers only made her feel more foolish and gawky as she stood trembling under his gaze. “Why did you really come over, besides to embarrass me to death?”
Dillon chased away thoughts about the fresh, feminine body beneath Noah’s coat. “After our pleasant morning, I was hoping to spend some more time with you, Charity,” he said with his best smile. “I won’t be able to concentrate on my cards, knowing you’re here alone, fretting over your mother’s disappearance. You can be my good luck charm—my queen of hearts. She’s always been my lucky card, you know.”
Charity realized his dimpled grin and honeyed words were merely bait—a professional gambler didn’t need a castoff like her for luck. But being with Dillon Devereau sounded like much more fun than waiting in this lonely room for Papa to return. “Even if I wanted to go,” she pointed out, “I—I certainly can’t wear this.”
He shrugged. “So don’t wear anything. Black’s really not your color.”
“Dillon!” Charity grasped the coat tightly in one hand as she swung the door open. “I knew this was a mistake. Now get out of here before—”
“What if I told you there’s a green satin gown hanging in my closet, waiting for just such an emergency?”
Charity’s eyes flew open. “But I ruined it.”
“Not at all. Katrina saw to it that the fabric dried properly, and it’s as good as new.” He stepped toward her with a smile. “And think how nicely your new combs will complete the outfit. But we really must hurry.”
“Dillon, you’re the most arrogant, demanding—” She gasped as he gripped her lapels and pulled her close, wearing a grin as devilish as any she’d ever seen.
“Kiss me, or you’ll have to fetch that dress yourself,” he teased in a low voice.
Her heart was pounding as his gaze wandered freely along her jaw and down the gaping neckline of the frock coat. “But I—I don’t have any . . .”
Devereau kissed her hungrily, until she stopped struggling and returned his affection.
“... underwear,” she breathed when
he finally let her go.
Dillon clung to her, laughing uncontrollably for several moments. “I won’t tell a soul. I promise.”
“But I can’t go without any—”
“Had I thought about taking you to Sol’s while we were shopping, I would’ve bought you some lingerie, sweetheart,” he said as he fought a roguish grin. “Something silky and frilly—much more stylish than . . .”
Charity was ready to demand how he knew so much about her under things, until she realized the plain muslin garments were openly displayed around the room. “Dillon,” she whispered sheepishly, “it wouldn’t be proper to go somewhere without—”
“Who’ll know?” He searched her huge green eyes to keep from gazing at the delicate breast that was peeking out of Noah’s coat. “The dress is dark, with several layers of fabric and trim. And the men’ll be too engrossed in cheating me to notice anything’s missing. Honest, honey. Why, if I thought a lack of lingerie would be obvious, I’d cancel the game rather than think of embarrassing you in public.”
He was stringing her along again, and he sounded so willing to forgo poker that Charity had no doubt as to how he’d rather spend the afternoon. Dillon brushed her damp hair back with fingertips that trailed as softly as angel tracks along her neckline. When his lips followed the same path, making a bold new desire rush through her veins, Charity sucked in her breath. “You’d better hurry and get that dress, Dillon,” she said in a strained voice. “If we arrive at Mr. Goldstein’s late, your friends are bound to speculate about why.”
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