The Emperor's New Clothes

by Victoria Alexander

  “Damnation,” she breathed.

  “What did you say?” His brow furrowed.

  “Um…I said….” She smiled with sheer joy. “I love you too.”

  “Then?”

  She nodded eagerly. “I’ll marry you.”

  “Well, then, now that we’re officially betrothed, I guess”—a wicked twinkle sparked in his eye—“I can kiss you.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.” His expression fell and she grinned. “I can kiss you.”

  She threw herself in his arms, and the two of them tumbled backwards onto the welcoming grass. Her lips met his with the eagerness of newly discovered passion. Her spirit soared, and all she wanted was more of the sheer intoxication of his touch. She’d never dreamed love could be like this. No one had ever told her. Why, Ophelia—

  The thought of her sister sobered her like a splash of icy water, and she pulled away from Zach and scrambled to her feet.

  “What?” Confusion and interrupted passion dazed his eyes. “What happened?”

  “Ophelia.”

  “Where?” He staggered to his feet and cast a frantic gaze around the area.

  Jenny stared. The dear boy really did look rather amusing with his hair all disheveled and bits of grass clinging to his clothes. And that look in his eyes like a sleeper roused out of a deep slumber. “She’s not here,” Jenny said.

  “Good.” He paused. “Then why did you call her name?”

  “Well, I can’t possibly marry you until Ophelia is firmly settled with Tye.”

  “Why not?”

  “Goodness, Zach, if Ophelia isn’t matched with Tye and matched soon, she’ll insist on leaving Dead End and taking me with her.”

  “Why would she want to take you with her? You’re just her maid.”

  “It’s kind of hard to explain exactly. Just take my word for it. When Ophelia leaves Dead End she’ll want me to go with her.”

  He narrowed his gaze suspiciously and pointed an accusing finger. “You’re hiding something from me.”

  “Nonsense.” She tossed her long hair over her shoulder. She couldn’t possibly tell him everything. At least not now. “What would I be hiding?”

  “I don’t know, but you are.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Wives do not keep secrets from their husbands.”

  “Really?” Jenny knew absolutely nothing about the rules that governed relations between a husband and wife, but Zach’s pronouncement struck her as totally and completely wrong. Besides, she wasn’t his wife yet. “We simply have to make sure Ophelia never wants to leave.”

  “But you haven’t told me—”

  “For goodness sakes, Zach, we have to get back. Now. We need to offer our help to Lorelie to get her nephew and my sis—countess together.” She turned to go, but Zach grabbed her arm and twirled her to face him.

  “But it doesn’t matter, does it?” His anxious gaze searched her face. “You’ll stay with me regardless of what she does, won’t you?”

  Stay with him regardless? Choose between the man she loved and the sister who’d sacrificed her own life for her? It was a choice she didn’t want to make. And a choice she didn’t have to make right now. But he didn’t have to know that. “Of course.”

  Relief washed across his face, and he pulled her into his arms for a quick kiss. He released her, and she drew a deep breath. “I suspect we shall do a great deal of that when we’re married,” she said.

  “I suspect we will.” He grinned. “And I know I’m looking forward to it.”

  They strode toward the horses, and Zack helped her into her saddle. He wasn’t the only one looking forward to marriage. Kissing and marriage and settling down in one place forever. Everything Jenny had ever longed for was within her grasp.

  Determination raised her chin. Regardless of what Ophelia said, Jenny would not be leaving Dead End. This would be her home now. She dug her heels into her horse’s sides and headed toward the Matthews place. The best solution to her dilemma was to make certain Ophelia didn’t want to leave either.

  And Tyler Matthews was the only sure way to do just that.

  “I think it’s a lovely stage.” Ophelia perched on the edge of the high platform that, with a few finishing touches, would be the center of performance for the Empire City Opera House.

  “I think you’re right.” Tye gave a jutting nail a single whack with his hammer and nodded in satisfaction. “I think the whole thing has turned out surprisingly well.”

  “It’s not completed yet,” she said quickly.

  “No, but it’ll serve for Jack’s ceremony next week.”

  “Indeed it will.” Ophelia stared out into the area that would be fitted with seats for the anticipated audience that would soon fill the Empire City Opera House. Tye studied her silently. What was she thinking? What were her plans?

  The damned town had once again surprised him. He’d never dreamed this building would go up so fast. Aside from getting her money out of the bank, and Randolph said he hadn’t seen her make any withdrawals, there wasn’t much to keep Ophelia in Dead End. And he would do whatever he had to to keep her here. But the longer she stayed, the more she risked exposure. Now that the building was more or less finished she could disappear from his life at any minute. Funny about that, though. She’d seemed to revel in the frenzy of activity surrounding the construction. She’d apparently liked the now-daily meetings of Lorelie’s Cultural Society. And he knew she enjoyed their evenings spent together on the porch at Jack and Lorelie’s, even though whenever he made any kind of definite progress toward getting her in his bed, his aunt seemed to magically appear.

  Still, he’d learned a great deal about her. About her thoughts and feelings and dreams. She continued to hide the truth behind her masquerade, and while he would have to determine that at some point, she revealed so much more he no longer cared quite as much about what she continued to conceal. And with every day spent together his admiration grew, and so did his love.

  “What are you thinking?” he said softly.

  “Nothing of importance. Nonsense really. Can you hear them?”

  “Hear who?”

  “Why, the audience, of course.” She laughed lightly and gestured at the non-existent assembly.

  “Oh, the audience.” He clapped his hand to his forehead with feigned chagrin. “How could I have possibly overlooked them?”

  “How indeed.” Ophelia scrambled to her feet and strode to the center of the stage. “Why, just look at them, Tye.” He stepped to her side.

  “Over here”—she covered her mouth with her hand as if imparting a secret—“these are the terribly expensive seats, you know, reserved for only the very best people.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s opening night. The men are all charming and handsome and dressed in their finest. The women, mostly wives, of course, but here and there, is an occasional—”

  “Mistress?” He grinned.

  She lifted an indignant brow. “I was going to say companion.”

  “A companion.” He nodded somberly. “Of course.”

  “At any rate,” she continued in a lofty manner, “their gowns are from Paris. Their manners impeccable. And their noses kept firmly in the air.”

  He laughed. “I don’t think you’ll find a gown from Paris anywhere in Dead End.”

  “Probably not.” An impish twinkle shone in her eye. “But you might in Empire City.”

  “Maybe someday, but right now in Empire City, here’s what you’ll see on opening night at the opera house.” He took her hand, tucked it in the crook of his arm and escorted her to the left side of the stage. “Over here”—he nodded at the space directly below them—“you’ll find the town’s banker, Randolph Watson, and his wife—”

  “Henrietta,” she murmured.

  He nodded. “Henrietta. She’ll be all atwitter with excitement. And he’ll be ready to burst with pride at this shining symbol of civilization.”

  “And rightfully so,” she said wi
th a firm nod.

  “In this area, as far from Randolph as you can get and still be in the good seats”—he led her to the other side of the stage—“Joe Simmons—”

  “The saloon keeper?”

  “Yep. Joe and his wife, Anna Rose, will be seated right there. There’ll be the barest spark of anticipation in her eyes that for just a moment will distract you from notice of her rather impressive mustache—”

  “Tye!”

  He ignored her. “—and Joe will be reluctantly admitting to himself that maybe civilization isn’t such a bad thing after all.”

  “Only to himself?”

  Tye chuckled. “Joe doesn’t much see the need for anything that smacks of respectability.”

  “I see.”

  “And here.” He walked her to the center of the stage. “Just to one side of the middle, will be the town’s leading citizens.”

  “Big Jack and Lorelie?”

  “Other area ranchers will be here, of course, but Jack’s the one who’s always kind of run things and run them well. And people like him.”

  “He’s a very nice man,” she said quietly.

  “Yes, he is.” He placed his hand over hers and nodded at a point beside Big Jack and Lorelie’s imaginary seats. “And do you see who’s sitting right over there?”

  She laughed. “No. Who?”

  He gasped in mock surprise. “Don’t tell me you don’t recognize him?”

  She clapped her hand over her mouth. “What a horrible breach of social etiquette. Can you ever forgive me?”

  He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll try.”

  “Thank you.” Her eyes sparked with humor. “Now tell me, who’s in that seat?”

  “Why, Ophelia, that’s where the mayor sits.”

  “Of course.” She leaned toward him confidentially. “He has excellent seats.”

  Tye shrugged casually. “He’s the mayor.” He paused and considered his words, then plunged ahead. “Do you see who’s in the seat right beside him?”

  Ophelia squinted and shook her head, laughter in her voice. “I can’t quite make it out.”

  “That’s the mayor’s wife.”

  She stilled beside him. “His wife?”

  “Yep. I don’t know how you can miss her.” Damn, this was hard. His heart was in his throat. He hadn’t planned on saying anything like this, hadn’t planned on declaring himself at all until he’d wrung the truth out of her, but the moment seemed so natural, so right. “With that hair that reminds you of a summer sunset, and eyes like deep green pools, and the way he looks at her…”

  “The way he looks at her?” she whispered.

  “Why only a fool would fail to see that he’s—”

  “There you are!” Lorelie’s voice rang from the back of the room, and they broke apart like children caught in the cookie jar. “I have been looking all over for you two.”

  “We were just discussing…opening night,” Ophelia said. Surely only he could hear the slight tremble in her voice.

  “Opening night?” Lorelie wrinkled her nose. “But aside from Jack’s ceremony, and of course a town party, we have no opening night. Frankly, beyond that, no one has really considered exactly what we’d do with an opera house.”

  “Eventually, you can get troupes of actors to come and perform. You can even present an opera or a play yourselves,” Ophelia said.

  “Ourselves?” Lorelie’s eyes widened with delight. “What a charming idea.”

  “But keep in mind,” Ophelia said, “it takes a great deal of time for, well, amateurs to put together any kind of real performance.”

  “Except for readings,” Tye said slowly, the glimmer of an idea in the back of his mind.

  Lorelie tilted her head with interest. “What kind of readings?”

  “Well, poetry, for one,” Tye said, the idea growing. “Doesn’t your Cultural Society read poetry? Couldn’t you do something with, oh, say Keats’ ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’? I can see you ladies playing the parts of Grecian urns.”

  Lorelie paled as if upset by his simple question. How odd. Why should a reference to the Every Other Tuesday and Thursday Afternoon Ladies Cultural Society distress her? No doubt he was mistaken.

  Lorelie shook her head. “We’re not all that fond of poetry, dear. And we especially dislike urns.”

  “Well, then.” The idea snapped into a form so sharp and clear he could have crowed with delight. An idea that would keep Ophelia firmly planted in Dead End for that much longer. “What about Shakespeare?”

  “Shakespeare?” Ophelia gasped.

  “Shakespeare,” Lorelie said thoughtfully.

  “Shakespeare.” Tye’s voice was firm. “Ophelia is almost an expert on Shakespeare, aren’t you?”

  “Well, yes, but…” she stammered, obviously not as intrigued by the idea as he was.

  “What a wonderful idea.” Excitement rang in Lorelie’s voice. “You could direct us. Why, we could do readings from Romeo and Juliet and Much Ado About Nothing and—what else, Ophelia?”

  Ophelia sighed in resignation. “Oh, I don’t know, Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “The Taming of the Shrew?” Tye said, innocence in his voice.

  She cast him an irritated glance.

  “Or…why not…” He grinned. “Twelfth Night?”

  Twelfth Night?

  The play about Viola? A woman posing as a man? A woman pretending to be someone she wasn’t?

  He knew!

  There wasn’t a doubt in her mind. It explained everything. She’d known of his suspicions, of course. She’d have to be a complete fool, given his snide comments to Big Jack and his interrogation of Jenny, not to have known. But it had all been so terribly subtle, a quiet back-room type of game between the two of them. Until now. His suggestion and the wicked look in his eye was blatant. A challenge if you will.

  The man was calling her bluff.

  Blind panic seized her, and she wanted to run. Now. Get out of Dead End and never look back. But she’d been in tight spots before, and natural instinct took hold. As quickly as fear had struck, calm descended.

  He still didn’t have any real proof. What kind of game was he playing now? With that talk of the mayor’s wife? And what was Lorelie up to? She’d brought up the subject of marriage as well.

  “Ophelia?” Concern laced Lorelie’s voice. “Are you quite all right, dear? For a moment you looked as if you might swoon.”

  “Thank you, Lorelie, I fear it was just a momentary twinge of”—she slanted Tye a pointed glare—“indigestion.”

  “Then you will help us put on a reading of Shakespeare?” he asked.

  “I don’t see how I could possibly refuse.” She smiled graciously, but seethed inside. He’d tricked her. She wasn’t sure how exactly, but he did.

  Very well. She still had a week in which she could safely stay in Dead End. And she grudgingly admitted she liked the members of the Every Other Tuesday and Thursday Afternoon Ladies Cultural Society, and she liked the town and, well, now and then, she even liked the mayor. This might be fun. Besides, she wasn’t planning on leaving yet anyway.

  Though she’d won a tidy sum from the Cultural Society initially, she’d since had less success. She wasn’t sure how it happened. On any given day, she’d win just a little more than she’d lose. At this rate it would take next to forever to get even a paltry amount together. Still, she could afford to stretch her stay here as long as possible. She could easily leave the day before the arrival of the Queen’s representative and be long gone before anyone noticed.

  And as for Tye, why on earth was he looking like a cat sated with cream? What would she do about him? Certainly, seduction was still in her plans, if she could avoid Lorelie long enough. An idea simmered in the corners of her mind.

  She cast him a sweet smile, and his grin faltered, as if he feared what she might be up to now. She was right about him. He was smart. But he had greatly underestimated her.

  She was smarter.

  Chap
ter Thirteen

  “No, no, no, Anna Rose, you’re supposed to be the Queen of the Fairies. It requires a very light touch.” Ophelia smiled her encouragement, and sighed to herself.

  Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to allow the ladies to select their own readings. But who would have ever dreamed the very sturdy Anna Rose Simmons had a secret longing to play Titania? Right now, Anna Rose and the other ladies made even Keats look appealing. No doubt these women would make far better Grecian urns than wood nymphs or fairies or virgins.

  “So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle gently entwist the female ivy, so…” Anna Rose’s voice rang out with all the authority, and much of the charm, of a barkeep breaking up a free-for-all.

  It was all Ophelia could do to keep a supportive smile on her face. No doubt Shakespeare could probably overlook the rather fascinating facial hair of this Titania. After all, most of his female roles were played by men. But that voice…Ophelia shuddered. He must surely be rolling over in his grave at the enthusiastic desecration of his works. It wouldn’t surprise Ophelia one bit if the Bard’s ghost showed up any minute in erie, indignant protest.

  It was all Tye’s fault, of course. The day after he’d suggested this farce he’d shown up with a stack of volumes of Shakespeare’s plays. The Every Other Tuesday and Thursday Afternoon Ladies Cultural Society had descended upon them like a Biblical plague of locusts. Before Ophelia could utter a word of protest, she had a matronly rancher’s wife declaring herself to be Cleopatra, an elderly spinster memorizing Juliet’s lines and the quiet, retiring sister of a shopkeeper spewing the speeches of Lady Macbeth with a vengeance that widened even Lorelie’s eyes in surprise. There was no casting according to type in this little performance.

  Ophelia had to admit that though there might not be a lot of talent here, there was a great deal of fervor and unrestrained eagerness. It was, in fact, quite a lot of fun. The women had even changed their organization’s name. From now on they were the Every Other Tuesday and Thursday Afternoon Ladies Cultural Society and Theater Troupe. Every morning they rehearsed. Every afternoon they won and lost tremendous wagers in continuing games of high-stakes poker.