“Charity’s my daughter and she’ll see the wisdom of my ways. Get out, before I have Mrs. Yancy summon the sheriff.”
The preacher’s eyes were as dark and unforgiving as his stiff black frock coat. With an apologetic glance at Charity, Devereau closed the door on a narrowing dilemma: he was the wrong man for a fine girl like Charity Scott and they all knew it, but he was responsible for the mess she was in. And he was condemning her to eternal damnation if he refused to marry her. Rather than go down the hall to his own room, Dillon lingered near the doorway and tried to think of a way to prevent this absurd shotgun wedding.
He heard Charity sniffling, trying to find her voice. “Papa, please . . . I—I’ll forget all about finding Mama, if you’ll only—”
“You can’t bargain for your soul, daughter, with me or with the Lord either. Now wipe your face and—”
“But we didn’t do what you’re thinking,” she pleaded. “I—I don’t love Dillon so why—”
Devereau flinched, yet he admired the spunk it took to stand up to a father who heeded no voice but his own. He heard quick, heavy footsteps. Charity gasped and the couch thudded against the wall.
“Love is not the issue here—it seldom is in a marriage—but you’re too starry-eyed and silly about Devereau to think straight,” Scott replied brusquely. “We’re talking about duty and respect for your—”
“And since Mama stopped believing in those things, you’re taking your anger out on me!”
At the sound of Noah Scott’s slap, Devereau threw open the door. Charity was reeling from the force or her father’s blow, holding the left side of her face, and he barely caught her before she stumbled backward onto the couch. That Scott had orchestrated this nasty scene just so he would rescue the girl didn’t matter now: Charity’s life was in his hands.
“You snake-tongued son of a bitch!” He spat the words out, glaring at the preacher’s malicious little grin. “This is your revenge for having to come to Kansas, isn’t it? And you know damn well I’ll marry Charity rather than subject her to your heavy-handedness—which means you’ll be completely free to indulge in your own little sins. Let’s go, Charity, before I forget your father’s a clergyman and flatten him.”
Charity had been stunned by her father’s forceful slap, but now she became fully alert again. “We’re not going anywhere, Dillon,” she protested, struggling against the grip he had on her shoulders. “Papa has always told me what to do, and this is where it stops. I’m not going to marry you!”
Ordinarily he admired feistiness in a woman, but Devereau sensed that Charity didn’t realize the gravity of her situation. He held her close so he could talk softly into her ear. “If you stay with your father, you’ll live to regret every day of your life—the man has no concern for anyone but himself,” he murmured. “And if you run off, then what? When your money’s gone, you’ll have to hire on at a brothel like so many other decent girls who’ve come west. You’re too good for that, Charity.”
“What do you care?” she retorted. “The last thing you want is a wife, so it seems I’d only be settling for a different sort of hell if I married you.”
Her vehemence shocked him. She was squirming, twisting her head so she could bite the hand that held her left shoulder, and her father was enjoying the spectacle immensely. Before Charity’s teeth met his knuckles, he dipped and swung her into his arms, then slung her over his shoulder to carry her to the privacy of his room. She struggled and kicked until she nearly knocked him off balance in the hallway; he closed his door with his foot and dropped her unceremoniously onto the bed. “You have every reason to be angry—”
“You’re damn right I do!”
“—but let’s consider our choices, Charity,” he continued in the most controlled voice he could manage. “You’re right—I don’t want a wife. Until a few years ago I was a nomad, wandering to the next cowtown for the highest stakes, and I couldn’t ask a woman to share that existence. And you deserve better than a gambling man, even if he owns the most prestigious parlor in Kansas City. But you’re wrong about one thing, sweetheart. Very wrong.”
Charity gazed up at him from the bed, in awe of the powerful restraint he was displaying as he leaned over her. “Wh-what’s that?”
“I do care about you. That’s why I’m prepared to strike a deal—a bargain your father doesn’t need to know about.” She was still sprawled on his bed, her clothes and hair in wild disarray, but he had her undivided attention now. He sat down beside her, trying not to feel disappointed when she refused to hold his hand. “Charity, for your own safety, I think you should marry me. It’s not the head-over-heels romance every girl dreams of, and I’m certainly not ideal husband material, but once we’ve cornered your mother, you and I can quietly get an annulment. I’ll set you up—in a music shop or a studio where you can teach, or whatever you like—and we’ll be free to go our own ways again. No strings.”
Her eyes widened as she thought about his unorthodox proposal. “I ... you’ve already done too much,” she said with a shake of her head. “I can’t accept any more—”
Dillon silenced her with his finger. “Here’s your chance to pay me back in full, just by becoming my wife for a few weeks. Interested?”
Frowning, Charity took his hand from her mouth and held on to it. “What are you talking about?”
He sensed she would accept his offer now, yet he was very careful about the way he worded it. “I’m chasing after Powers for my own reasons, you know,” Devereau reminded her. “Even though the gambling trade left Abilene and other cowtowns years ago, I won’t be welcomed back with open arms because I usually departed . . . under a cloud, shall we say?”
Charity felt the beginnings of a grin. “Because of wild women and crooked cards?”
“And barroom brawls and a few unpaid debts,” he continued, nodding. “Having a wife would lend me a certain respectability. The men who ran me out would not only accept repayment if they thought I’d changed my ways, but they might provide the information we need about your mother and Powers. It beats getting booted out before we can ask any questions, doesn’t it?”
She crossed her arms over her stomach, studying the handsome man who was returning her gaze with a disarmingly boyish grin. “So I’d get out from under Papa’s thumb and you’d become a pillar of society, and then we’d part company? Sounds like a deal with the devil.”
“It probably is,” Devereau said with a chuckle. “But as long as we enter into this union of our own free will, for purposes we understand and agree to, we’re really no different from any other partners in marriage. What do you say?”
She felt foolish even hesitating—what woman wouldn’t jump at the chance to marry a debonair, wealthy man like Dillon Devereau? Yet marriage ranked with birth and death as a milestone to be celebrated with sacraments ... an event to be entered into seriously, rather than out of spite or for other reasons. “It—it’s still a big decision,” Charity mumbled. “I can’t ignore the teachings I’ve grown up with, and yet ...”
“I can’t expect you to throw aside your past or ignore your conscience, honey—any more than I can,” he replied quietly. “But your father’s waiting for an answer, right outside the door, for all we know.”
She glanced nervously toward the entryway and lowered her voice. “It seems that once again I really don’t have a choice,” she replied, “so I guess I’ll accept your offer. It’s more than generous.”
Dillon sighed to himself, wishing she’d shown more enthusiasm. “All right then, it’s settled. We’ll go tell your father, before he sends the sheriff in here to arrest me for kidnapping or some other trumped-up crime. Shall we seal the deal with a kiss?”
Charity watched his lips part in anticipation, yet she held back, suppressing a giggle. “I—I would, but Papa might suspect we’re working around him. I don’t want him to think I’m one bit happy, and a kiss would show all over my face.”
Chuckling, he helped her up and straightened the folds
of her brown calico dress. “That’s the spirit. I’ll act as though I finally forced some sense into your head, and you can be the submissive daughter—though we both know what an act that is.”
She laughed, muffling the sound with her hand as he closed the door behind them. Then, when they reached the room where her father was waiting, Charity turned to look up at Dillon. “Those things I said about you when Papa and I were fighting?” she ventured hesitantly. “Well, they weren’t entirely true. I think you’re a decent, trustworthy man despite your occupation. And even though you talk me into things I know aren’t proper, I still like you a lot, Dillon.”
It was the most he could hope for, given their awkward situation, and Devereau felt his pulse speeding up. “I like you, too, Charity. I don’t know much about marriage, but I intend to do you justice as a husband, even if it’s only for a few weeks.”
She nodded, her heart skipping happily, and then grasped the doorknob while trying to muster a suitably resigned expression for Papa. Suddenly something occurred to her; she bumped backward into Dillon with a beseeching look. “It’s not that important, really,” she faltered, “but ... I don’t have a dress good enough to ...”
Even a girl of modest means expected certain niceties at her wedding, and Devereau hugged her fiercely. “You will, sweetheart,” he vowed. “I’ll take care of everything. While you’re mine, you’ll have the best.”
Charity bit back a smile and prepared to submit to her father. Wearing what she hoped was a doleful expression, she opened the door and saw Papa pacing before the window. His gaze went from her face to Dillon’s and then lingered on hers again, gauging their moods.
“Do I perceive penitence and a newfound sense of responsibility?” he asked in a domineering tone. “I was beginning to think you’d run off and left me.”
She stifled a laugh by clearing her throat. “We— we’ll do as you say, Papa. It’s for the best.”
“Excellent.” Her father adjusted his glasses as though trying to see through any mockery or pretense. “I suggest we look for a church, so I can perform the ceremony before any evening services might be—”
“We’re waiting until tomorrow.” Devereau placed a hand on Charity’s slender shoulder and
looked her father in the eye. “You may locate a clergyman tonight, if you wish, since you’ll be giving the bride away. Tomorrow I’ll take care of the other details to make our wedding the memorable event it should be. Your haste lends an essence of gunpowder I find totally inappropriate, Reverend Scott— especially since Charity and I have done nothing wrong.”
The preacher bristled. “All that’s required is the repetition of vows before witnesses—”
“Your daughter deserves better,” Dillon replied firmly. “Since she hasn’t enjoyed any sort of engagement, or had a chance to plan the biggest day of her life, the least we can do is find her a suitable dress and—”
“Who’s paying for such wastefulness?”
“It’ll be my pleasure to provide the bride’s trappings,” Devereau replied smoothly. “Despite your opinion of me, I do appreciate an attractive, virtuous woman—a rare combination these days—and I’ll be proud to call her my wife.”
Before Scott could object any further, Dillon turned Charity so she faced him. Her jade eyes were huge, as though she just now realized that they really were getting married. “Rest tonight, and leave everything to me,” he said with a smile. “It’s bad luck for a man to see his bride the day of the wedding, so have your father tell me what time he’s set the ceremony for, and I’ll see you at the church.”
She nodded, dumbstruck. And as the tall, virile gambler—her fiancé!—left the room, Charity felt the first pangs of regret that such a wonderful man wouldn’t be hers forever.
Chapter 12
There was no mirror in the small storage room where Charity was dressing, but as excited as she felt, she knew she must look like a different person, too. As she’d anticipated, Dillon had brought along the cream-colored gown she’d worn on the Crystal Queen’s stage; it had been laundered and delivered to her room at the boardinghouse that afternoon. What she hadn’t expected were the large white boxes from Bright’s Ladies’ Shoppe, which contained a crinolette with a built-in bustle to wear under the gown, as well as seven sets of pastel camisoles and pantaloons, and two nightgowns of the sheerest fabric she’d ever seen.
“One for every day of the week,” she’d marveled as she lifted the delicate undergarments from their box.
Papa had muttered something about it being the least Devereau could do after dishonoring her, and left their rented room with a disapproving glance at the lingerie she was scattering over the bed. He hadn’t returned by the time Charity thought they should be leaving for the church, so she’d carried the awkward boxes of clothing down the dusty street herself. Without Dillon’s smile, it had been a long, lonely day—nothing like the giddy prenuptial excitement she’d dreamed of while she was growing up.
But when she stepped inside the church, its cool shadows soothed her. The fragrance of fresh flowers made her peek into the sanctuary, where she saw ribboned bouquets adorning each of the pew ends along the center aisle. The organist stopped practicing for a moment to wave and smile at her.
“I imagine you’ll want to dress in this room behind me,” the young woman said, pointing to a doorway. “Mr. Devereau told me the service was at seven. I’m going home to change now.”
“Yes . . . thank you,” Charity murmured. She hurried down the aisle to where the organist had directed her, wondering if she could possibly hope for the miracle it would take to transform herself into the lovely bride she’d always wanted to be—the bride Dillon deserved.
Exchanging her muslin underthings for a set of lacy white ones, she felt a shiver of goosebumps when the silk caressed her skin. Next came the crinolette, with its cagelike contraption that made her feel extremely conspicuous from the rear. She slipped into the embroidered gown as quickly as she could without wrinkling its voluminous silk skirts, hoping no one walked in on her. Surely it was almost seven, yet the silence inside the church was deep and undisturbed.
As she fastened the last of what seemed like dozens of contrary pearl buttons on her bodice, a door at the far end of the building opened and there was a steady creak of floorboards—Dillon, perhaps? Was her dress hanging correctly over the bustle? Did she have the front buttoned right, nervous as she was? And how could she possibly make her hair presentable without a mirror?
“What a lovely gown,” a voice behind her said. “Devereau told me you might want some help, but it looks like you’ve managed just fine. I was so fidgety on my own wedding day I broke out in hives and was ashamed to show my face—which must’ve struck everybody as a fine joke indeed.”
Charity turned to see a petite woman a few years older than herself coming through the doorway, a woman so stunning she found the hive story hard to believe. Her ebony hair was swept up in a graceful topknot with tiny ringlets at the temples, and her scarlet dress accentuated a glowing opalescent complexion. Dark eyes studied Charity with a catlike gaze until she finally found her tongue. “I—I could use some help with my hair,” she stammered. “There’s no mirror.”
“Of course you could,” the woman answered with a coy smile. “We’ll pin it all on top and then attach this veil Devereau had me make up,” she continued, setting a round box on a table beside the door. “Have a seat, dear.”
Confused yet curious, Charity perched carefully on the room’s only chair. Her dark-haired visitor began to brush her long, wavy tresses with hands that were surprisingly cool on this warm summer’s evening. That she knew Dillon was apparent, but her tone suggested an acquaintance that went far beyond asking her to fashion a veil. “I—I don’t mean to seem distant or rude,” Charity said quietly, “but Dillon didn’t tell me to expect anyone.”
Her hairdresser let out a giggle that sounded out of place in church. “No, I don’t suppose he would,” she replied in a spritely voice
. “I’m Phoebe—Phoebe Thomas. My husband owns the general store, and we knew Devereau back when the streets were so splotched with cow pods a decent lady couldn’t cross ’em except in a wagon. Not that it stopped me. There—let’s have a look at you.”
Phoebe stepped daintily around her cream-colored skirts, appraising her with a satisfied nod. Then she lifted Charity’s chin, her expression wry. “And where might Devereau have met such a tender thing as you, dear?”
Charity cleared her throat nervously. “At his casino. The Crystal Queen in Kansas City.”
Mrs. Thomas raised an eyebrow, and then went to open the box she’d carried in. “The music’s starting,” she said. “We’ll have you all prettied up in no time. Now stop looking so worried and smile, Charity. You’ve lassoed the heartthrob of Abilene, you know.”
Charity felt a hairpin going into either side of her upsweep, and then the gossamer folds of a veil edged in tiny pearls fell gracefully around her face. She stood, allowing Phoebe to adjust her bustle and skirts, trying to keep her knees from knocking as the organ music suddenly swelled behind them. “Do—do I look all right?” she breathed.
“Like an angel come down from the pearly gates,” Phoebe replied as she stepped toward the door. “No tears now—promise? As I recall, Devereau can’t stomach a woman who cries.”
Charity gaped after her, remembering several times when Dillon had shown the utmost compassion for her tears. The woman in scarlet was a baffling creature—who did she think she was, feigning such familiarity with Dillon Devereau’s preferences?
When Papa stuck his head in through the hallway door, however, she forgot all thoughts of Phoebe Thomas. A wedding march was playing, and he was here to escort her down the aisle . . . she really was getting married, instead of having another schoolgirlish fantasy about it. At that moment, Charity desperately wanted her father’s approval—some sign that he loved her. An acknowledgment that she was more than just a duty life had thrust upon him.
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