Tye and Sedge stared after her.
“She didn’t give us a single solitary detail about the countess, did she?” Sedge said with amusement.
Tye heaved a resigned sigh. “That’s one thing you’ll have to learn about my aunt, Sedge. You can talk to her for hours on end and come away from the conversation knowing absolutely nothing more than when you started. You’re lucky if you can manage to make sense out of anything that comes out of her mouth.”
“Charming woman, though,” Sedge murmured.
“That she is.” Tye grinned. “It’s that wonderful muddleheaded innocence of hers that makes her irresistible. Uncle Jack learned that the hard way.
“They met in St. Louis. It’s an odd story having something to do with mislaid ponies and misplaced parasols and mistaken identities and I’m not sure what else.” He laughed. “Every time she tells the tale the yarn changes a little, and I’ve never been able to make sense out of it.
“Anyway, Jack demanded her hand in marriage, telling her father he was the only man alive who could truly take care of her. Probably scared the hell out of the old man. It was her father’s money that gave him a start out here. And Jack, in turn, helped my dad.”
“Not quite on a par with tales of the Tudor dynasty”—Sedge raised his glass in a toast—“but an excellent family saga nonetheless.”
Tye grinned and toasted him back. “Thanks.”
Tye took a pull of his drink. Sedge brought his glass to his lips, then froze without taking a sip. Slowly, he dropped his hand and aimed his words at Tye, but his gaze was fixed elsewhere. “Tye, old man, remember your promise to let me keep the countess if she was young and pretty and rich?”
“Sure.” Tye swirled the wine in his glass, wishing it was some of that good Scotch whiskey Uncle Jack usually kept around the house.
“You won’t change your mind, will you?”
What on earth was Sedge up to now? Tye raised his glass. “She’s all yours.”
“Excellent.” Sedge thrust his glass into Tye’s hand and strode across the room. Tye’s gaze followed his progress toward where Big Jack descended the massive stairway.
Jack was always an impressive sight. A tall, powerfully built man, he towered over most of his acquaintances. Even at his age, an air of intimidating command hung around him. Tye’s mouth widened in an automatic grin. It took less than two minutes to get to know Big Jack Matthews, and then, unless you were a business associate or a natural enemy, the impression of authority and domination dissolved to an image of genial good humor, generosity and charm.
Tye’s gaze drifted past his uncle to the woman on his arm, and his breath caught.
This couldn’t be the countess. She was too young and far too pretty to be a widow traveling alone. She was taller than any woman had a right to be, and her hair was the deep, lush red of fine mahogany, twisted on top of her head with a careless elegance. Her skin wasn’t quite as pale as fashion decreed, but instead had a flush of color that hinted of spirited blood and high passion. He couldn’t tell the exact hue from here, but her eyes were wide-spaced and tilted up at the corners. And her lips were full and ripe and rich with promise.
But the vision wasn’t merely lovely. She floated down the stairs with an air of noble grace and perfection that proclaimed to anyone watching that this was a woman of quality.
“Hell.” Tye smacked the empty glasses down on a nearby table and headed toward the stairs. A familiar competitive urge surged through his blood. If Sedge thought he’d keep that ridiculous promise after actually seeing the woman, his old friend was crazy. He and Sedge had been rivals for the same females, and, through the years, the score was just about even.
Tye strode across the room, pausing to pluck two wine-filled goblets from a convenient tray, and firmly pushed away all the legitimate reasons why he didn’t want to be involved with anyone right now. He ignored the endless hours of work still looming before him at the ranch. He disregarded any thought of his pledge to allow Sedge to pursue this creature without interference. Sedge, of all people, would understand. He drew closer to the stairs and a smile grew on his lips.
Damn, she was pretty.
“If you are ready now, darlin’” Big Jack Matthews smiled down at Ophelia with the benevolence of a father. What a nice man he was, she thought. Nice people were so delightfully gullible.
“I am quite looking forward to it.” Opehlia placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her down the wide stairway. The room below was packed with people, all staring up expectantly, and her stomach knotted. Stage fright, nothing more. She drew a deep breath and concentrated on the proper behavior expected of a countess, the appropriate comments and correct demeanor, whatever that was. My, it was unnerving without a script.
Ophelia glanced at the upturned faces and relaxed a bit. These were indeed simple folk, and she should be able to carry off her deception without much difficulty. Confidence flooded her. If she had fooled Big Jack and Lorelie, the worst was obviously over.
The huge house, as impressive as anything she’d ever seen in Kansas City or Denver, had thrown her initially. Decorated with an odd, yet intriguing, mix of Old World antiques and homespun charm, it showcased fragile porcelain and magnificent paintings under the ferocious glare of a variety of dead animals. Most were disembodied heads that glowered down from plaques mounted on the walls toward the mortals milling beneath them, although there was a giant stuffed bear posed in a startlingly lifelike stance, and enormous animal skins that passed for rugs in nearly every room. But in spite of the grand scale of the house and its decor, it was very much a home.
Big Jack and Lorelie were as open and friendly as their residence. Ophelia was not at all used to dealing with anyone as candid and downright honest as the Matthewses, and she firmly ignored any twinge of guilt at her deception. After all, she was only taking a bit of room and board from them. If she could arrange some wagering or games of chance in the upcoming days, so much the better. It wasn’t as if anyone was being harmed by her little charade. In fact, if one looked at the situation from an unbiased and completely objective point of view, one might even say she was quite graciously helping them. They’d expected a countess to entertain and fuss over and impress, and she was willing to provide them with one. She lifted her chin and glided down the last few steps to the main floor.
“It looks like the whole county has turned out tonight,” Big Jack said. The smile of a host well satisfied curved his lips.
“It is an impressive gathering.” Ophelia gazed around the room. Jenny would have loved it, but the girl was confined to her quarters with strict orders to stay there. Jenny wasn’t happy about it, but had grudgingly agreed to keep out of sight.
Ophelia and Big Jack were the center of attention, but as yet no one had approached them. She leaned toward her host. “I do hope I haven’t offended anyone with all the confusion over my arrival.”
“Lord, no, darlin’.” Big Jack grinned. “They’re all a little shy about having a real live countess here. We’re just not accustomed to royalty.”
“To be specific, Mr. Matthews…” A British accent sounded beside her, and she turned to face an elegantly handsome man with dark hair and sparkling eyes. “While the position of countess is a noble one, it is not technically a royal title.”
The man took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “However, even the grandeur of an emperor would pale beside beauty such as this.”
“You can say that again, Sedge. You sure do have a way with words.” Big Jack’s laugh boomed across the room. “Countess, this is our local foreigner and fellow countryman of yours, Sedgewick Montgomery.”
She favored him with a gracious smile, but her heart skipped a beat. An Englishman? Here? In the middle of nowhere? For goodness sakes, she was in Dead End, Wyoming. The odds of running into a British gentleman must be astronomical. Damnation, she’d have to watch every single word she said, and worse, how she said it. She couldn’t let her English accent slip even for a
moment. Ophelia squared her shoulders slightly. Surely she was up to yet another challenge. The recent years had been full of them.
“Good evening, Mr. Montgomery.”
“I can’t tell you how delighted I am to meet you.” He held her hand in a firm grip. “It is so rare to run into anyone from England out here. It is the Countess of Bridgewater, is it not?”
“Yes,” she said faintly, and tugged at her hand. Why was he staring at her like that?
“It’s been months since I was home,” he said, “and I daresay we must know many of the same people.” An amused smile played on his lips. “We shall have to have a long chat.”
“Of course.” Of course not! She had to get away from this man. She tugged again at her hand, but he deftly tucked it into the crook of his arm.
Big Jack chuckled. “Sedge, my boy, she’s in your capable hands now. See to it she meets everyone. That’s why they’re here.” He nodded at Ophelia, and she realized he meant to abandon her to her alleged compatriot. “I see somebody I’ve been meaning to talk to,” Big Jack added. “Countess.”
“Mr. Matthews,” she replied. Big Jack nodded and walked away. Desperation seized her. This Sedgewick Montgomery was probably the only person here who could unmask her. She had to escape from him, at least until she was more comfortable with her role. But her hand was firmly tucked in his arm, and for the moment she was trapped.
Montgomery turned and led her away from the stairs. “Now then, my lady—”
She was too busy worrying about the man beside her to notice the one blocking their path.
“My lady,” the second man said.
Until now.
“Champagne?” He was big and blond and bronze, and a smile danced on his handsome face. He held out a glass of wine with a hand that dwarfed her own.
“Thank you.” She gazed up into eyes dark and deep and delicious. At once her mouth was dry, and she sipped the champagne gratefully.
Beside her Montgomery sighed. “You promised, old man.”
The blonde grinned. “I lied.”
Montgomery sighed again and released her hand. “I suppose I had best introduce you, then.”
“Excellent idea, Sedge.” His words were directed at Montgomery, but his assessing gaze never left her. Her heart thudded in her chest.
“Countess, this is Tyler Matthews.” Montgomery shrugged. “Tye, this is the Countess of Bridgewater.”
“Countess.” Tye grasped her free hand and quickly brought it to his lips, the light brush of his mouth shivering through her blood. Apruptly she wondered just what kind of promises a man like this made. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet,” he said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Oh?” Apprehension swept away his odd effect on her. “What have you heard?”
“Nothing really.” A flirtatious light shone in his eye, and relief washed through her. “Only that you were coming.”
“I see.” She considered him for a moment. “Matthews? Are you related to my host and hostess?”
“Is he?” Montgomery snorted.
Tye ignored him. “They’re my aunt and uncle.”
“Practically raised him,” Montgomery said.
Again Tye paid no attention to the other man. “So, I understand there is no Count of Bridgewater?”
“You knew she was a widow,” Montgomery muttered.
“No,” she said in a quick, breathless rush. He still grasped one hand; the other held her glass, and she was indeed trapped. The warmth of his fingers wrapped around hers was at once exciting and disturbing. She blurted out the words, “The count is dead.”
Abruptly, he released her and frowned with sympathy. “I am sorry.”
She placed the back of her hand against her forehead and sighed deeply. “The count, dear, dear, dead Alfred, passed on a year ago. I do miss him so.”
“Only a year?” Montgomery frowned. “And you’re already out of mourning?”
Ophelia glanced down at the deep sapphire gown she wore. Thankfully, the real countess had a figure only a little fuller than she, and a few nips and tucks were all that were needed to make the dress fit as if it was made for her.
“Did I say a year?” she said innocently. “I meant two years.” She gazed at Tye through downcast lashes. Overly dramatic perhaps, but effective nonetheless. “It is so difficult at times to carry on alone.”
“I can well imagine.” Tye stared down at her with a bemused expression, and triumph trickled through her. Lorelie’s nephew was a man well used to dealing with featherheaded women. British accent aside, this was obviously the way to keep him in line. And keep him at a distance. He was far too attractive for her own good. As for the Englishman, she’d better avoid him altogether.
“Tye, aren’t you going to introduce us?” A short, stocky woman with the full-blown bearing of an operatic diva bore down on them, a taller, distinguished-looking man a mere step behind. “We’ve been simply beside ourselves with anticipation.”
“Come now, Tye,” her escort said, “you can’t keep the countess all to yourself, you know.”
Tye threw her a glance that said he’d like to do precisely that, and an odd ache stabbed through her. But she had no time to wonder what exactly this new sensation was. The introduction of the eager couple before her seemed to open the floodgates for the rest of the guests. Within moments, they surrounded her with excited greetings and enthusiastic remarks. Ophelia quickly learned she had to actually say very little to this gathering. An occasional comment, astute tilt of the head and polite but sincere laughter were all that was required. It was a surprisingly simple effort and a role easy to enjoy.
The evening progressed in a whirl of conversation, and music and dance with musicians specially sent for from Omaha. The only troubling aspects at all were the nephew and the Englishman. It seemed every time she turned around one or the other of them was staring at her: the dark-headed one with a speculative look that unnerved her, the blonde with an equally upsetting gaze that said he was interested in far more from her than she was willing to give.
She laughed with true enjoyment at a comment made by a gentleman who apparently was the town’s banker, and wondered briefly if he was also a gambling man. Tonight was not the time to set up anything specific, but it was a good opportunity to gauge the level of possibilities in Dead End.
“We still haven’t had our dance.” Tye’s voice sounded behind her, and she tensed with a strange mix of anticipation and dread.
“Oh?” She cast him a lofty glance. “I didn’t realize I had promised you a dance.”
He quirked a brow over deep, brown eyes the color of fine chocolate. Damnation, she did so love chocolate. “Perhaps, I simply failed to ask,” he said.
She shrugged. “Perhaps.”
He laughed with delight, and the sound seemed to swell inside her. “In that case, Countess”—he swept low in a mock bow—“may I have this dance?”
Refusal was impossible, especially with the crowd around her staring expectantly. But the same natural instinct that had kept her and Jenny alive and well through the years now screamed a warning. This man was dangerous. Exciting and intriguing, but a risk she dared not take. Still, at this moment, there was no other choice.
“That would be lovely,” she said in as gracious a manner as she could muster. He led her to the floor and took her in his arms, and they moved as one in a surprisingly effortless way.
“So, how are you enjoying Empire City?” His breath brushed against her ear. His hard body pressed subtly against hers, and the intoxicating scent of bay rum and male heat enveloped her.
“Empire City?” What was he talking about?
He smiled, and her stomach fluttered. “We changed the town’s name.” He lifted his shoulders in a gesture of dismissal. “It was ridiculous really, but it’s what the folks here wanted. They think the new name sounds more respectable and civilized.”
“Is it?” She could barely follow his words. The warmth of his body seemed to sear
her flesh even through the gown, and she wanted to melt at his feet. What was happening to her? Lord knows, handsome men were nothing new in her life. One could not avoid handsome men while growing up in the theater. But this bronze god stirred her emotions in a distinctly foreign and unexpected way.
He pulled his brows together in confusion. “Is it what?”
Goodness, his eyes were dark. Dark and deep and forever. “What?”
“What what?” His puzzled expression jerked her attention back to the discussion of—what was it again—oh, yes, Empire City.
She drew a deep breath. “I was merely asking if a minor name change would provide respectability.”
“Who knows?” He shook his head. “But to go along with the new name, we’ve got a new mayor.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” He laughed again, and she steeled herself against its effect on her. “Me.”
“You?”
He eyed her thoughtfully. “You sound surprised.”
“I am.” She shrugged as best she could in his arms. “You don’t seem like the type of man who would be interested in politics.”
“This has nothing to do with politics. It’s simply a matter of respectability.” He adopted a lofty attitude. “A question of civilization as we know it.”
She laughed at the contrived arrogance of his expression. “Is civilization really that important out here?”
He snorted with amazement. “You wouldn’t think so, would you. At least, I never did. But now, all of a sudden, good old Dead End wants to attract people and business and growth. So, for some odd reason, it’s important to be respectable and civilized.”
“I see,” she murmured, the tiny seed of an idea taking root within her fertile brain.
“But I guess it’s not all bad.” A twinkle shone in his dark eyes.
“Civilization?”
“That’s still up in the air.” He chuckled. “But being mayor has a few interesting benefits I hadn’t expected.”
The Emperor's New Clothes Page 4