As Penelope began to pull the pins from her hair, still contemplating her scheme to reclaim her son, Adele draped a pearl bead necklace around her neck. “You’ll wear your hair down, like in The Mountain Sylph,” she commanded, snapping the necklace clasp closed. “The sight of all those curls seems to turn men into witless fools. Why, we swept up close to two hundred dollars worth of gold from the stage last time you wore it like that.”
She paused a moment to critically examine Penelope’s face, before adding, “And for God’s sake, do something about your nose. It’s redder than a boil on a bookkeeper’s backside.” With that, she pivoted on her heels and glided toward the door.
But before she got more than halfway across the room, she paused. “Oh. By the way.” When she turned, Penelope could see cruelty gleaming in her eyes. “Sam was in town today. He says to tell you that your brat has the croup again.”
“Tommy is nearby?” Penelope held her breath as she awaited the answer. During the past year and a half, Adele had had the Skolfields hold the baby in hiding places along the company’s performing route. Having him near was an effective way to control Penelope, for it made Adele’s threats terrifyingly possible.
It also made it possible for Penelope to see him regularly. It was those few hours with her son that made her life bearable.
As if reading her thoughts, Adele replied, “Yes. If you’re wise, you’ll remember that while you entertain Seth Tyler.”
“I’ll do anything you say. I promise,” Penelope swore. “Just let me see him for a few hours on Sunday. It’s his second birthday, and I want to take him some presents.”
Adele let out a scornful grate of laughter. “As if the brainless little brat knows what day it is … or anything else for that matter. I’ve seen smarter children in idiot asylums.”
Prudently curbing her impulse to protest Adele’s cruel assessment of her son, Penelope implored, “I know what day it is, and it’s important to me that I make it special for him. Won’t you please just consider letting me go?”
Adele gave a noncommittal shrug. “I’ll consider it … if all goes well this evening.”
Chapter 8
“How come them Injuns didn’t scalp you?” gasped the saloon girl, her red-rouged lips forming a wide O of horror.
Seth stuffed another bonbon into her mouth, grinning at the way she wiggled her backside against his groin as she chewed.
“I was rescued by a fellow stagecoach passenger, a traveling saleslady from Chicago,” he explained, letting one finger meander from her lips to her thinly veiled breasts. “Seems she was set on making a killing peddling her extra-heavy cast-iron frying pans to Denver’s wives. Claimed those pans were thick enough to fry a steak to perfection and heavy enough to persuade a roving husband to stay home at night.”
With tantalizing slowness, the girl unfastened the tiny pearl buttons at the front of her camisole. “Nivver seen a travelin’ saleslady before,” she murmured, baring her plump breasts to her new boss’s appreciative gaze. “Was she pretty?”
“Aside from the fact that she was six feet tall and almost bald—”
“Bald!” The girl’s eyes bulged with disbelief.
“Curling tongs accident,” Seth replied mournfully, though his expression was anything but mournful as he cupped the girl’s soft breasts in his palms. “Burnt her hair off to the roots. What was left stood straight up on end, kind of like an irate porcupine.”
“Poor saleslady.” The girl practically purred as she arched her back in response to Seth’s caresses.
“Poor me. Since the other passengers had gotten off the stage at Fort Lyon and the driver had headed back for help, the Indians were left with slim pickings as far as scalps went. Hers, of course, was rejected without a second glance, while it was decided that mine would make a fine trophy.”
The girl raked her fingers through his hair, pulling it over his shoulders. “Can’t say I blame ’em. You do have purty hair.”
Seth chuckled and dropped a kiss on her vanilla-cream flavored lips. “Fortunately the saleslady liked it, too—on my head. So just as those two savages were all set to scalp me, she came bounding up behind them bellowing like a raging bull. Before they could say ‘Ugh,’ she whomped them over the head with her top-of-the-line frying pan and knocked them out cold.”
The girl shrieked with laughter and threw her weight against him, sending him sprawling backward across the worn red velvet settee. “Yer funnin’ me!”
“Want to see my top-of-the-line, extra-heavy cast-iron frying pans?” he countered, wrestling her down on top of him.
Still giggling, she snaked her hand between their closely pressed bodies and slipped it into his trousers to give his sex a naughty tweak. “You swear? There really was a saleslady?”
“Swear on Chief Left Hand’s ghost,” Seth murmured, arching up against her wantonly probing fingers.
“It don’t count none to swear on a dead Injun. Everybody knows Injuns ain’t honest.” With that pronouncement, she began to rub up and down his length.
“Sure they are, sweetheart,” he said, rolling his hips in rhythm with her hand. “Those two Indians honestly indicated that they were going to scalp me.” Despite his best efforts to become aroused and her skillful ministrations, his sex barely stirred.
What the hell is wrong with me? he wondered, opening his legs as she cupped him. He held is breath, awaiting the shock of pleasure he knew he should feel.
Nothing. He felt nothing but a vaguely annoying prodding sensation in his nether regions. His breath escaped in a hiss. Why the hell wouldn’t the damn thing behave? It wasn’t as if he couldn’t get an erection. He got them all the time … day … night. He awoke as hard as a rock every morning.
The answer, as disturbing as it was, was one he knew all too well. It was the reason he’d failed to find pleasure the single time he’d bedded a woman since his split with Penelope; the same reason he hadn’t accepted the numerous carnal invitations he’d received during the past two years.
That reason was that he still loved Penelope. And the thought, much less the act, of having sexual relations with anyone else left him about as excited as attending a Temperance Society meeting. He’d been a fool to think he could spend his lust like this. Frustrated and more than a little shamed by his dismal performance, he gently pulled the girl’s hand away.
“Mr. Tyler,” she protested.
“Seth.”
“Seth,” she echoed, reaching for his trouser buttons. “Don’t you worry none. Titania’ll have you hard in no time at’ll.”
Before he could reply, there was a soft knock at the door. “Seth?” queried a half-muffled voice.
“Who could that be?” he muttered, relieved by the interruption. As if in response to his question, the door swung open and in strolled Penelope.
“Seth—” Penelope stopped in her tracks, taken aback by the sight of the couple on the settee. Though Seth was fully clothed and the girl was merely kneeling between his legs, his flushed face and her glare confirmed her suspicion that she’d interrupted something intimate. Stammering an apology, she turned to leave.
“Wait!” he barked.
She paused, wanting nothing more than to flee the oddly painful sight of Seth with another woman. Yet, it had been a long while since she’d had the freedom to do what she wanted, and like everything else she’d done over the past two years, her reason now for seeking Seth out had nothing to do with her own wants. It was remembering that reason that made her turn and face him.
“Have you met Titania, Princess?” he drawled.
Penelope nodded, discomforted by her irrational urge to yank the hussy off him and boot her broad backside out the door. As she watched, Seth drew the girl down on top of him to whisper in her ear. The girl giggled and nodded at whatever he said, then stood up, blatantly flaunting her bare breasts.
Penelope didn’t miss the lazy look of admiration that crossed Seth’s face. For some inexplicable reason that look made her t
emper rise a few degrees. “I see you found a willing dinner companion,” she snapped.
Seth sat up and tossed his tousled hair back over his shoulders. “Plenty of hungry girls here at the Shakespeare.”
His indifference made her temper hit the boiling point. “I can just imagine what those girls are hungry for,” she muttered.
“I’m sure you can.” His gaze never wavered from the near-naked form sauntering toward the door. “Titania?”
The girl paused.
“Thanks.” He tossed a gold coin to her, which she caught with practiced ease.
“Believe me, honey. It was my pleasure.”
Eyeing the exiting saloon girl with distaste, Penelope plastered herself against the doorjamb, scrupulously avoiding contact as she passed. As the woman disappeared down the hall, she let out a snort of disgust. “Really, Seth. Is that little trollop the best you could find?”
“I have no complaint. Her appetite was hearty enough,” he said, sauntering to the sideboard to study the untouched dishes.
Penelope sniffed. “I imagine you’ll complain loudly enough when you find yourself with the French pox. It’s excruciating, I hear. Especially when your man’s part turns black and rots off.”
Seth laughed. “I’m sure you’d enjoy watching me suffer in such a manner.”
She sniffed.
He laughed again. “Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart. But I have it on good authority that Titania is as clean as a freshly laundered sheet. Speaking of ailments, I thought you were too ill to dine with me. Nobody informed me of your miraculous recovery.”
Uncomfortable at having to add yet another lie to her already infinite list, Penelope reached down and fidgeted with the brass doorknob. “I decided that Floyd is”—scr-e-e-ch! the unoiled knob protested as she fitfully twisted it back and forth—“right. Perhaps what I need is a glass of champagne and some food. I haven’t eaten”—screech! grind!—“anything since this morning, and not eating always gives me a headache.”
Seth winced at the shrill sounds emanating from the doorknob. “Then, why don’t you stop lurking in the doorway and come eat something?” He motioned to the white-clothed table in the center of the red and gold embellished room.
As happy as a martyr on the way to the stake, she complied. “For the record, I wasn’t lurking,” she grumbled, perching on the edge of a gilded “Fancy” chair.
“You have your definitions, and I have mine.”
“So you’ve been kind enough to point out.”
They lapsed into strained silence as Seth lifted the silver covers off the serving dishes. From where Penelope sat, she could see that there was antelope steak in mushroom sauce, wild goose liver in jelly, and what appeared to be some sort of fish, all accompanied by an eye-popping array of side dishes. When Seth pulled the cover off the last charger to reveal something she couldn’t identify, she broke the silence. “What is that?”
He peered down at it for a moment, then smiled. “Lamb fries.” Glancing across the table to where she sat listlessly toying with her silverware, he added, “If I remember correctly, lamb is a particular favorite of yours.”
She nodded without enthusiasm.
Ignoring her marked lack of interest in the food, Seth picked up a plate, inquiring politely, “May I serve you?”
She sighed in resignation. “If you wish.”
Starting with a heaping serving of the lamb, he quickly filled her plate. After setting the food in front of her, he poured them each a glass of champagne, then served himself. That task completed, he settled into the chair opposite hers and began to devour his meal with gastronomic delight.
Penelope, on the other hand, merely stared at her plate, restlessly spinning her knife like a top.
“Why so nervous, Princess?”
She glanced up, startled. “I’m not nervous,” she lied.
“Sure you are.” He nodded meaningfully at her hands.
She jerked her hand from the knife and flattened her palms against the tabletop, willing herself to stop fidgeting. “That’s ridiculous,” she muttered. “Why would I be nervous?”
“Good question. Why don’t you answer it.” Seth took another bite of antelope steak. Chewing rhythmically, he transferred his gaze from his plate to her hands, watching with the fascination of a ten-year-old seeing a freak show for the first time.
Penelope frowned and followed his line of vision. Damn! Now she was wadding the tablecloth up beneath her palms. Stifling a frustrated groan, she balled her hands into fists and retorted, “I can’t answer your asinine question, because I’m not nervous.”
“Don’t forget that I’ve known you since you were twelve. Even back then you had that annoying habit of picking at everything in sight when you were nervous or upset.” He paused to take a sip of champagne. “So? Are you nervous or upset?”
“Neither! I’m merely bored with your questions.”
“I distinctly remember you agreeing to answer my questions when we struck our bargain.” Seth’s gaze skewered her over the rim of his glass. “Of course, if you’d like, we could always renegotiate the terms”—his gaze traveled suggestively from her face to her breasts—“find a less boring way for you to fulfill your half of the deal.”
She gasped at his leering insinuation. “How dare you! What would my brother say if he heard you make such a crude proposal?”
“Who do you think taught me how to bargain?” Seth put down his glass and leaned forward, his eyes glittering with challenge. “Now, if you’re a true Parrish, if you’ve inherited even an iota of your father and brother’s legendary business acumen, you’ll come up with an appropriate counteroffer.”
She sputtered with outrage. “I w-won’t be your doxy!”
He made a clicking noise between his teeth. “Just as I suspected. You’re a changeling child.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Shall I assume that you’ll stick to our original bargain and answer my questions?”
She jerked her head once in grudging assent. He wanted answers? Fine. He’d get them. Fictional ones. After all, he hadn’t specified that she tell the truth, had he?
As if reading her mind, he added, “Oh, and don’t think to fob me off with lies. I intend to verify each and every one of your answers. Madame du Charme should come in handy for that.”
Penelope stared at him, horror-struck at what Adele might do if faced with his questions. If he pried too deeply into her business, and knowing Seth’s propensity for thoroughness, he probably would, Adele might panic and take drastic steps to keep her crimes from being discovered. The results would be tragic.
Apparently her face reflected her thoughts, for Seth inquired, “What? Changed your mind again?” When she didn’t reply, he snorted. “I’ll take your silence for a yes. All right, then. If you won’t answer my questions or be my doxy, how do you propose to uphold your end of the bargain?”
Penelope scrambled for something—anything—she could offer him. Money was out of the question, for even if Adele didn’t demand every cent she made, she’d never have enough to buy his cooperation. The blasted man was richer than old Croesus himself.
“Surely you have something worth bartering. Some kind of skill or talent?” His gaze was unwavering as it bore into hers.
“Nothing that would interest you.”
“You’d be amazed at what I find interesting.”
“Well, let’s see. I can sing and dance.” She looked at him hopefully.
Without so much as blinking, he rasped, “What else?”
“I write a fine hand, and I’m good with numbers. Perhaps I could help with your accounts?” She crossed her fingers.
“My solicitor takes care of that. What else?”
Sighing, she uncrossed her fingers, “I can draw and paint, and I’ve learned simple sewing. Oh, and I play the pianoforte.”
He yawned. “All admirable traits, I’m sure. What else?”
She was at a loss. When itemized, her skills did sou
nd negligible. Feeling utterly useless, she murmured, “Effie says—”
“Effie?” he queried sharply.
“Euphemia Hotchkiss. She’s the dramatic actress of our company. We share a room at the boardinghouse.”
He nodded. “Do continue.”
“Yes. Well. Effie says that I make the best face cream she’s ever tried and that I’m particularly skilled at styling hair. Of course, you’d hardly be interested in such services.”
A calculating gleam entered his eyes. “Ever tie a man’s tie?”
“I’ve helped the men in the company with theirs.”
“Ever shine boots or shave a man?”
“No to the former, and yes to the latter.”
“You’ve shaved a man?” His eyes narrowed. “Who? A lover?”
“Must you drag everything down to your own filthy level?” she snapped, picking up her knife. “For your information, I shaved Jake when he first returned home from the war. He was too ill to do it himself, and I liked helping him.” She stabbed a creamed artichoke heart with murderous intent.
“And I know for a fact that he actually survived your efforts. Excellent! We’re finally getting somewhere.”
She looked up from her skewered artichoke, incredulous. “Where exactly are we getting to?”
“We’re getting to the point where we can strike a bargain.”
“We are?”
He sighed. “It’s a pity about your lack of Parrish business acuity. However, such skills aren’t required by a valet.”
“Valet!”—Clunk!—She dropped her knife, artichoke and all.
“Valet,” he repeated. “Since my valet, Roper, has an inordinate fear of being scalped by what he terms ‘red-skinned heathen devils’ and refused to accompany me here, I’ve had the tiresome chore of tending to my own needs.”
She sputtered wordlessly for a moment. “I-I hardly think it appropriate that I act as your valet!”
“Less appropriate than being my mistress?” He lifted one eyebrow tauntingly.
“Of course not. Being either is out of the question.”
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