The Emperor's New Clothes

by Victoria Alexander

  So why did the very thought hurt?

  This was it.

  Why was his throat so damn dry? He couldn’t even seem to swallow. He slanted her a quick glance.

  Ophelia sat looking straight forward, her manner as relaxed as if she had the world at her feet. What he wouldn’t do to give her just that.

  Odd how life worked. When he first met her, it was her fiery beauty that attracted him. Now, there was much more that pulled him to her. So many little things that added up to love. Why, look at the way she’d helped with their opera house. Or the way she’d been so friendly to the ladies of Dead End. And Lord knows, only a saint would put up with the torture of their performances day after day.

  He chuckled to himself. Ophelia was no saint. Good. He didn’t want a saint. He wanted a flesh-and-blood woman. This flesh-and-blood woman. He wanted her naked body, hot and demanding, next to his. He wanted her to gaze at him as if he were the only man in the world. And he wanted her forever as his wife.

  But first, he’d get the truth out of her. Not that he cared any longer about the details of whatever it was she was up to. It was more to satisfy his own curiosity than anything else, because who she was or what she wanted no longer really mattered. But once he had the truth, she’d have to marry him.

  It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to. She obviously loved him, whether she wanted to admit it or not. No doubt it was the simple matter of her fraudulent masquerade that prevented her from giving into feelings he was confident were as intense as his own. Well, he had all afternoon to break down her defenses and win her hand and her heart.

  He laughed softly under his breath, and she tossed him a curious glance. Yes indeed. First he’d get her confession, and then he’d offer her his own admission of love and proposal of marriage. He grinned. No doubt about it.

  This was definitely it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You were right. It’s beautiful here.” Ophelia extended her hand, and Tye helped her out of the buggy, holding on a moment longer than necessary. Her gaze locked with his, and her breath caught at the dark emotion she saw in his eyes. Was it simple desire that smoldered there or something more?

  “Beautiful.” His gaze raked over her. He smiled and released her, turning back to the carriage for the basket Alma had prepared. Ophelia stepped away, as much to avoid his glance as to admire the scenery.

  He hadn’t exaggerated.

  The scene spread before them was every bit a banquet for the eyes as Alma’s provisions were for the body. They stood on a slight rise. A long, low valley fell away so gently, it was almost impossible to discern any drop at all. The plains stretched on and on until they faded to mountains in the distance, so far off they were little more than a suggestion. Tye’s creek danced and laughed through a stand of trees—oak, she thought, the only real shelter to be seen anywhere. Trees were apparently few and far between in this country. But their lack only added to the stark beauty. There was an air of serenity here that seemed to seep inside her soul. She drew a steadying breath. She could certainly use all the serenity she could get.

  “Would you help me with this?” Tye held out a scarlet blanket.

  A blanket?

  “And what are you planning to do with that?” Her voice rang a shade higher than normal.

  “I’m planning on laying it on the ground—”

  “Just as I suspected.” She glared indignantly.

  “—so that we have something to sit on when we eat.”

  “Exactly! And…and…” A sinking feeling settled in her stomach. Had a woman actually ever died from embarrassment? “A fine idea it is too.” She grabbed the edges of the blanket and stretched it out over the grass.

  “What did you think I was going to do?”

  She busied herself smoothing wrinkles from the coverlet to avoid his gaze, but she couldn’t miss the smile in his voice.

  “Why, sit on it, of course.” Ophelia struggled to keep her tone light and innocent, but she wanted to rage out loud. At herself. How could she forget she was the one whose schemes included seduction, not him. And even if his intentions did match hers, well, so much the better. It would, no doubt, be far easier to accomplish if he was as willing as she. It was just that she was so damned nervous.

  “You look like you’re about to bolt at any minute.” Tye lounged on the blanket, a smug smile on his face. “Sit down, Ophelia, I won’t bite.”

  Perhaps it was the smile that did it. Perhaps it was the indulgent tone in his voice. Perhaps it was simply the total picture of confidence the man presented, as if he had the world and everyone in it firmly under his control. His arrogant expression abruptly quieted her overwrought nerves like a brisk wind snuffing out of flickering candle. This was her seduction, her performance, and damn it, this man was not going to upstage her!

  She was Ophelia Kendrake, daughter of the theater.

  She was the Countess of…of…of wherever, with a lovely castle and a charming estate, imaginary though they may be.

  And above all else, whether she could recall her lines or not, she was an actress. If her sojourn in Dead End had taught her nothing else, she’d learned she was a better actress without a script than with one. How difficult could seduction be anyway? Why, men did it all the time.

  “Do you promise you won’t bite?” She smiled in what she assumed was a provocative manner, and sank down on the blanket.

  “Of course.” He raised a brow as if curious about her abrupt change of attitude, then lifted the cloth covering the basket and rummaged through the contents. His words were muffled but unmistakable. “For now.”

  She pretended not to hear.

  “There’s a feast in here, Ophelia.” Tye pulled out a napkin-wrapped plate. “There’s chicken and biscuits and one of Alma’s pies.”

  “Goodness, we’ll never eat all that.”

  “And”—he held up a bottle of champagne and grinned—“a bottle of Jack’s champagne.”

  She tilted her head in feigned surprise. “Imagine. That Alma. She certainly did think of everything.”

  “Didn’t she, though?” It was his turn to look innocent. He popped the cork and fished around in the bottom of the basket until he found two crystal flutes. He poured the wine like an expert, and presented a flute to her with a flourish. “Countess?”

  “Thank you,” she said primly, and drew a deep swallow. While she had a firm grip on her outward appearance, inside she remained as taut as a violin bow. With any luck, the champagne would relax her. She took another sip, and noted with surprise the glass was already nearly empty. “I do so love champagne.”

  “Do you?”

  “I do.” She held the crystal up to eye level and studied the sparkling wine. “It’s the bubbles, I think.”

  He nodded with the wisdom of an experienced man. “Tickles your nose, doesn’t it?”

  “Why, I hadn’t really considered that, but I suppose it does. No, I like the way it feels going down my throat. So delicate and pleasant.” She tossed him a dreamy look. “Like a smile or a laugh. That’s it, a laugh. A very light laugh turned to liquid.”

  “A laugh?” He chuckled.

  “A laugh.” She nodded firmly. “It definitely feels like a laugh going down, and then, right here”—she placed a hand over her stomach—“it turns to a delightful warmth that spreads straight through you from your head to your toes.” She drained the rest of her drink, and held her glass out to him. He obligingly refilled it, and she took another sip.

  “Is that what women usually say about champagne?” she asked.

  “Is what what women usually say?” Confusion colored his face.

  “About it tickling their nose?”

  “Oh, that. Well, in my experience—”

  “Have you had a great deal of experience?”

  He shrugged. “I imagine that depends on how you define experience.”

  “For goodness sakes, Tye, you know exactly what I mean.” She stared in exasperation, and quickly drew anothe
r swallow of the wine. “Experience with women and champagne. Together or separately.”

  He laughed, a full-bodied, male sound that reverberated in her soul. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I like to know exactly who I’m dealing with, that’s all.” She raised her chin in a lofty manner.

  He stared at the wine, and his voice was soft. “Do you?”

  “Indeed I do.”

  “Is that important? To know who you’re dealing with, I mean?” There was an odd undercurrent to his voice, as if his words had a deeper meaning she couldn’t quite comprehend.

  “Of course it is.” She glanced down at her glass, surprised to find it empty. Odd, she didn’t remember drinking it all. Perhaps she had spilled it. Of course that’s what happened. After all, Ophelia never had more than two glasses of champagne. She held her goblet out to him. “Who am I dealing with, Tyler Matthews?”

  He refilled her wine and smiled. “I thought you knew.”

  “Refresh my memory.” She hiccupped and pressed her fingers to her lips. “Pardon me.”

  The corners of his mouth quirked up in amusement. “Well, let me see. I’m the mayor.”

  She raised her champagne in a jaunty toast. “And I’m the countess.”

  “Are you?” His voice was casual.

  “No, no, no. None of that.” She wagged her finger under his nose. “I most certainly am.”

  He laughed again and shook his head. “Very well, where was I?”

  She took another swallow. “You were the mayor and I was the countess.”

  “Of course. I went to school back East—”

  “Where you met that terribly attractive but horribly annoying Englishman.”

  “Sedge?” He raised a brow.

  “What kind of a name is that anyway? Sedge.” She snorted. “Rhymes with hedge or wedge or bedge.”

  “Bedge?”

  “Bedge.” She drained her glass. “It’s a silly name. Not like Addicus.”

  “One of your husbands?” Was he laughing at her?

  “Yes indeed.” She sighed. “Dear, dear, dead Addicus. So sweet, so young.”

  “I thought you told Sedge he was an older man.”

  “Well, of course he was older eventually.” She rolled her eyes heavenward. Why was the man having such a difficult time understanding the slightest detail? “But he was young first.”

  “I see.”

  “Now, go on.” There was a drop left in the bottom of her glass. If she stretched her tongue just so, she could probably reach it. An odd, strangled sound came from Tye. She glanced up at him. Why did he look so strained? She waved her free hand. “Tell me more.”

  He swallowed and took a deep breath. “After school, I toured Europe.”

  “And Venice.” She held out her goblet. “Tell me again about the moon in Venice and the artists and the…lovers.” She cast him an alluring gaze. At least she hoped it was alluring. This business of seduction was definitely easier than she’d expected. Maybe it was time for a kiss? Certainly she was more relaxed about the entire endeavor now than she’d been when they’d arrived. Or perhaps it was the champagne? It really didn’t matter. She just wished she wouldn’t keep spilling it.

  “Didn’t you tell me you never have more than two glasses of champagne?” He refilled her glass with a hand that didn’t seem quite as steady as before.

  She shook her head. “Nope. Never.”

  “But this is your fourth.”

  She leaned toward him and whispered, “I don’t drink them, I just spill them.”

  He whispered back. “The only place you’ve spilled it is right down your throat.”

  “That’s silly.” She bent closer and kissed him on the nose. “In fact, right now you look rather silly.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes indeed.” She sipped the wine and gazed at him thoughtfully. Perhaps a kiss on the nose wasn’t quite enticing enough to launch a seduction. “You look confused—”

  “Hard to believe,” he said wryly.

  “—and you look…” She narrowed her eyes. “Somewhat determined. Yes, that’s it, determined.”

  “I am.” His eyes echoed the warning in his voice. She ignored it.

  “And you look, oh, I don’t know.” She chewed on her bottom lip and his gaze drifted to her mouth, and even a woman as inexperienced as she was knew with an unerring instinct that he wanted her. How perfect. Her voice softened. “Like a starving man contemplating his first real meal.”

  His gaze shot to hers and locked. “Is it that obvious?”

  “It is to me.”

  “Ophelia, I—”

  “Kiss me, Tye.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He leaned forward, across the blanket, and touched his lips to hers, carefully, as if she was a delicate flower or a piece of Venetian glass. She sighed beneath his touch and her mouth opened, her breath mingling with his. Gad, she would surely melt with the sheer sensation of his lips on hers. She strained forward to press her lips harder against his. Her heart raced. Her blood pounded. Her breath stilled.

  She hiccupped, and a giggle escaped her.

  “Oh, dear.” She pulled back and clapped her hand over her mouth.

  Tye’s deep eyes simmered, and he heaved a heavy sigh. “Excellent timing, my dear.”

  “Thank you.” Lord, she had certainly shattered that moment. Well, it was perhaps all for the best. Now that his lips, his wonderful, warm, intoxicating lips, were no longer against hers, sanity returned. And so did her anxiety. Any effect from the champagne vanished. Maybe seduction was more difficult than she thought after all.

  She scrambled to her feet. “So, is this the creek where your father taught you to fish?”

  He stared at her for a moment, as if wondering whether to pull her back down beside him or join her. With obvious reluctance, he plastered a smile of resignation on his face, unfolded his long body, and pulled himself to his feet. “Yep, this is it.”

  She walked toward the creek and stared at the rushing water. “Would you teach me to fish?”

  His brows pulled together. “You want to learn to fish?”

  “Not really.” She drew a calming breath and caught his gaze with hers. “I’d just like you to teach me.”

  He stepped closer and cupped her chin in his hand. His eyes drew her deeper and deeper until she thought surely she could see his very soul. “Would you?” he murmured.

  “I would,” she whispered.

  He stared silently, and she wondered—no—she wanted him to kiss her again. And more. Perhaps he would ravish her right here and she needn’t bother seducing him at all. What a glorious idea. She leaned toward him in blissful surrender.

  “Excellent.” He released her chin, and she nearly staggered forward. “First”—he stepped away, his gaze skimming the ground beneath the trees—“you have to find a nice, straight stick.”

  “A stick?” She could barely choke out the words. “What do you need a stick for?”

  He cast her an innocent glance. “For a fishing pole, of course.”

  “A fishing pole?” She glared in frustrated indignation. “What about a kiss?”

  “Ophelia.” Condescension rang in his voice. “You can’t catch a fish with a kiss. Won’t work.” He turned and continued his search. “I suspect it’s been tried. Fishermen will try damn near anything. But I think a stick for a pole and a nice, fat, juicy worm would work better.”

  She stared in disbelief. Here she was all prepared to seduce him, or better yet, allow him to ravish her, and all he could do was talk about fish and worms. Worms!

  “This will do nicely.” Tye held up a stick and grinned like a little boy.

  Didn’t he understand that when she gazed into his eyes and whispered for him to teach her, the very last thing she wanted was to learn to fish?

  “Now.” He walked toward her pulling a jackknife from his back pocket. “I think it works best if you shave the bark off and shape it up a little.”

  Perhaps
she’d been too subtle.

  She stalked back to the blanket, found her glass and filled it again. This time, she wouldn’t spill it.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Not one little thing. You just go ahead and make your stick and I’ll be right back.” She waved gaily, turned and scanned the stand of trees. Oh, she’d be back all right. And he’d better be ready.

  There was a spot just to the left of the blanket that looked fairly protected. She cast an assessing gaze first at Tye and then at the trees. Yes indeed, she could do what she needed to over there. She stepped toward the sheltered area. She didn’t know a great deal about lovemaking, but she did have a grasp of the basics. And one thing she was certain of was that clothes simply got in the way. Well, she’d take care of that right now. And then she’d see if he was still interested in the fine art of fishing.

  Or an altogether different sport.

  It was all he could do to keep the grin from his face or stifle his laughter. Tye sat beside the stream, paring long strips of wood from his stick. Lord, her expression when he’d removed his hand from her chin had been priceless. The woman had practically fallen flat on her face.

  He glanced up toward the blanket to see her disappear behind a knot of trees. What was she up to now? It didn’t really matter. He had the upper hand, and would not hesitate to use it to his advantage.

  He’d probably need to use that second bottle of champagne as well.

  Damn. This would never, ever do.

  Ophelia took a thoughtful sip of her champagne and sighed. She simply wasn’t a good enough actress to carry this off. Besides, it was a bit breezier than she’d thought. Perhaps the fault wasn’t in her acting, but in her character. She brightened at the realization. Only a true tart could walk out from behind the trees stark naked. Although she was confident her nudity would attract his attention. But she was definitely not a tart. Still…he did think she was a widow.