The Emperor's New Clothes

by Victoria Alexander

  “What?” She widened her eyes in an innocent manner, and bent to flick his nipple with her tongue.

  He gasped and grabbed her wrists. “Ophelia.”

  She stared straight into his deep eyes. “Tye, you said yourself our clothes aren’t dry yet.” She inched closer, her breasts brushing against his chest, and a now-familiar ache shivered through her. “And didn’t somebody say something about dessert?”

  “Ophelia.” He groaned in surrender and crushed her against him, his body hot and urgent next to hers. She responded with the enthusiastic eagerness of a newly discovered passion, and before she lost herself to the sheer sensation of his touch, a thought fluttered through her mind.

  One must always be willing to sacrifice.

  Damn, if he thought she was pretty naked, the look of her right now, halfway clothed with only those frilly underthings on, was enough to spur him to rip them off her with his teeth and take her yet again. He shifted uncomfortably at the thought. His Levi’s were still damp, and fit a bit snugger than they did this morning. It wouldn’t do at all to allow images of Ophelia’s soft, rosy body writhing beneath him to make his jeans even more uncomfortable than they were.

  Not that it seemed he was actually the one doing the taking. No indeed. Ophelia made love with all the enthusiasm and energy of a teetotaler taken to drink or a heathen taken to God. Odd. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on nagged at the back of his mind. Something he’d noted earlier, but that now seemed to have slipped away. No doubt it was just one more truth he had to wring out of her. And he might as well get to it.

  “Ophelia?”

  She wore some kind of pantelet, and was lacing up a frilly wisp of a chemise. “Um-hum?”

  “We need to talk.”

  Her hands stilled and she raised a brow. “Do we?”

  He drew a deep breath. “Yes, we do.” He stepped to her, grasped her shoulders and trapped her gaze with his. “It’s time, Ophelia. I want the truth.”

  Her gaze slid from his. “What truth?”

  Annoyance surged through him, and he wanted to shake the answers out of her. He clenched his teeth. “You know what truth, Ophelia. Who you are and what you want.”

  She shuddered beneath his hands, and for a moment he wished for nothing more than to pull her back into his arms and tell her to ignore his demand. To tell her he didn’t care and the truth didn’t matter. To tell her all he really wanted was for her to trust him enough to confide in him. Like a wife in a husband.

  “I am…” She met his gaze with hers, and defiance flickered in the lush depths of her eyes. “I am the Countess of…of…”

  “Bladewater?” he suggested.

  “Indeed.” She wrenched free of his grasp, drew herself up and glared. “I am the Countess of Bladewater.”

  “And your deceased husband, the count, his name is?”

  She furrowed her brows in thought; then her expression brightened. “Adrian.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Of course I’m certain.” Contempt at his question rang in her voice. “His name was definitely Adrian.”

  “Hah! Since you’ve been in Dead End, you’ve yet to call that dead count of yours, who probably never existed in the first place, by the same name twice. Let’s see, there’s been”—he ticked the names off on his fingers—“Alfred, Albert, Alford, Alphonse—”

  “I’ve always been rather fond of the name Alphonse,” she murmured.

  “—Aloysius, Adolph, Austin, Addison—”

  “I never called him Addison!”

  “My mistake.” He glared and continued. “Alcazar—”

  “I like Alcazar too; it has a nice ring to it.”

  “—Ambrose, Alvin, and finally,” he finished with an angry flourish, “Addicus.”

  She gave him a chilly gaze. “And is there a point to your ravings, Mr. Matthews?”

  “A point? A point?” Hell! Was he sputtering? The damn woman had him sputtering! “Of course there’s a point. You can’t seem to remember the name of your own husband. And do you know why?”

  “Of course I know why. Do you?”

  “I most certainly do. You can’t remember the name of your dead husband, or your own name for that matter—”

  “Ophelia?”

  “No, not Ophelia.” He clenched his fists by his sides in an effort to keep from strangling the infuriating woman. “Bridgewater! You can’t remember Bridgewater!”

  “Oh, that.”

  “And do you know why you can’t remember your make-believe name or that of your fictitious husband?”

  She pulled her brows together in a thoughtful manner and tilted her head as if grasping for an answer that lay just beyond her reach. “Grief?”

  “No! No, it’s not grief!” Why was he yelling at the top of his lungs? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d lost control like this. What had she done to him?

  “Grief does terrible things to a person’s mind, you know.” She gave him a smile of pity, as if he was too insensitive, or just too plain stupid, to know that basic fact of life, and turned her attention back to her chemise.

  “Yes, I know! I also know one can’t grieve for someone who never existed.”

  “And you claim my dear, dear, dead Avery never existed?” Ophelia finished with the undergarment, plucked her corset off the ground and studied it. “Can you prove it?”

  “Prove it?”

  “Prove it.” She dropped the corset on the blanket as if deciding it wasn’t worth the trouble, picked up her stocking and settled her back against the tree. “You have no proof, Tye.”

  “I don’t need proof!” Damnation, he’d tried to get proof. But every time he got near her, she distracted him with those feminine wiles of hers. “I have your own words as proof.”

  “What words?” She pulled one stocking up a long shapely leg.

  “For one thing, every time you talk about your dead husband—”

  “Abraham.” A spark snapped in her eyes. Was she toying with him now?

  He heaved an exasperated sigh. “Fine, Abraham, he’s either young or old—”

  “Most people are.” She affixed the stocking to a garter, pulled the pantalet over the top and turned her attention to her other leg. He struggled to ignore the innocently seductive scene she presented.

  “—and he’s been dead one year or two—”

  She rolled up a stocking and held it poised over the toe of a nude limb. For a fleeting second, he wished to be a stocking. She gave him a pleasant smile. “Confusion, brought on by grief.”

  “Confusion perhaps, but grief has nothing to do with it. You simply can’t remember which lie you’ve told from one minute to the next. And I’ve said it before, Ophelia. You’re a bad liar.”

  And the most seductive woman he’d ever met. Here he was, more annoyed than he’d ever been in his life, determined to get the truth from her, and all he could concentrate on was the slow, sensual way she unrolled the stocking up her leg and the silk that caressed every curve of her long and lovely limb. Was she even aware of how she appeared? Her every move was enticing, yet natural and almost innocent…. That was it. Innocent.

  Ophelia made love with all the enthusiasm and energy of a teetotaler taken to drink….

  This very experienced woman was…

  …or a heathen taken to God…

  “Good Lord!”

  …or a virgin.

  “What now?” She fastened the last garter and glanced up at him. Her gaze met his and her expression froze. “Tye?”

  He couldn’t seem to get the words out. At once everything snapped into place. What a fool he’d been not to have noticed before now. Everything else about her was a fraud. It only made sense she’d lie about this too. He’d realized right away there was no dead count, but he’d just assumed she was an experienced woman. He’d noticed that brief moment in the water, of course, how could be not, but the passion and the intensity and the sheer frenzy of their joining had wiped away all rational thoug
ht. Until now.

  She’d given herself to him, and there was no way in hell he was going to let her out of his life now.

  “Tye?”

  His gaze narrowed. His voice was soft. “I have proof, Ophelia.”

  A light of quiet triumph glittered in his eyes, and her heart caught in her throat. What proof could he possibly have? Short of the real countess, there was no way to prove or disprove her act. “I hope you’re not planning on using anything I’ve said against me. I’ve told you, any discrepancies can be explained by grief.”

  “I don’t have any need to use what you’ve said.”

  “Then what are you talking about?” Gad, she didn’t like the look in his eyes.

  “I’m talking about this.” In one long step he reached her side and hauled her into his embrace. Her arms were pinned, his lips crushed hers, and she struggled until the familiar greed for him welled like a relentless thirst within her and warmth spread from hidden parts of her body still aching with the need for his touch. She moaned against his mouth, and he pulled back.

  An unnamed emotion simmered in his eyes. “I have been with a number of women in my life, Ophelia. The majority of them quite experienced and very good at what they do.”

  “I know, widows.” She glared, her passion squelched. What kind of a cad was he anyway? Telling her about his previous escapades? “And what does that have to do with me?”

  “You’re nothing like them.”

  Panic fluttered within her and she pushed at him, but he held her tight. “Of course I am. I’m just like them.”

  “No, you’re not.” His gaze burned with an amber fire that glinted somewhere in the depth of his endless brown eyes. “When you touch me, when I touch you, there’s a joy that comes from discovery, from the beginning of something fresh and new and never before even dreamt of.”

  Her heart stilled. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you weren’t a widow, you weren’t a woman of experience, and before this afternoon, my fair Ophelia, you were a virgin.”

  “I was not!”

  Total disbelief darkened his eyes.

  “Very well, then, if you prefer to believe that, fine. I know how men enjoy their little fantasies about innocent vir—”

  “Stop it, Ophelia,” he said roughly. “And just tell me the truth.”

  “You have as little proof for this charge, Tye, as all the others.”

  He stared down at her without a word, then released her, combing his fingers through his tousled hair in a gesture of frustration. “You’re right. You’ve got me there….” Abruptly a grin stretched across his face. “Except for one little thing.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I have, through the years, built up a rather impressive reputation with the ladies.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest in a smug manner that made her long to shoot him again. “If Tyler Matthews says a woman is a virgin, there’s not one person in this town, male or female, who’s going to dispute it. And virgins are generally not widows.”

  She gasped. “You wouldn’t!”

  “I sure would.”

  He had her there, right where he wanted her. She probably should have killed him when she’d had the chance. Now what would she do? Or more to the point, what would he do? “What do you want from me, Mr. Matthews.”

  “I want the truth, Ophelia, that’s all. Just the truth.”

  “Why?” Her voice rose. “Why is it so important to you?”

  “Because wives always tell the truth to their husbands!”

  Images of countless married actresses and the ebb and flow of their lovers popped to mind, followed in quick succession by the faces of the Every Other Tuesday and Thursday Afternoon Ladies Cultural Society and Theater Troupe. “Where on earth did you ever get such a stupid idea?”

  Tye glared. “Big Jack.”

  “Big Jack? Big Jack Matthews? Lorelie’s husband?” Ophelia laughed, and couldn’t seem to stop. “Lorelie’s husband says wives always tell their husbands the truth?”

  “Other people say it too.”

  “Indeed?” Tears of mirth pooled in her eyes. She sniffed and wiped them away. “Men, no doubt.”

  “Well, yeah,” Tye said defensively.

  “For a man who works around cattle all the time, you certainly can’t seem to see manure when it’s being thrown around.”

  “Oh, no?” He quirked a brow. “I saw through you, didn’t I?”

  “That remains to be seen.” She flounced over to a bush where her dress was spread out to dry and snatched it off the branches. Abruptly, something he’d said earlier caught at her mind. She whirled and glared at him. “What does that nonsense about wives telling the truth to their husbands have to do with you and me?”

  He stared at her for a long, strained moment. Tension pounded through her veins. She feared the answer. She prayed for it.

  “I want you to be my wife.” His voice was quiet and steady, and it melted her resolve and her will. “I want to marry you.”

  Her pulse leapt. And for a moment the thought of being in his arms and by his side forever seemed solid and safe and right. Then reality crashed around her. A man like Tyler Matthews could never be happy with a woman like her. And sooner or later he’d know that, and she’d be left with nothing but bittersweet memories and a broken heart.

  She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “That’s very nice, Mr. Matthews, but I don’t want to marry you.”

  A slow smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Oh, yes, you do.”

  “Why, you arrogant—”

  “Thank you.” He shrugged in a modest manner. “Regardless of your assessment of my character, you do want to marry me.”

  “I most certainly do not. And furthermore, you don’t really wish to marry me.”

  A dark brow quirked upward in surprise. “I don’t?”

  “No.” She shook her head. Tye seemed to actually be listening to her. Good. Exactly what she wanted. She ignored a niggling twinge of regret. “You don’t even know me.”

  “I know all I need to.”

  “Just what do you know?”

  “I know you believe in home and family. I know you’re intensely loyal. I know what makes you laugh, and I’ve watched you not laugh when it might hurt someone’s feelings.”

  “Anna Rose,” she said under her breath.

  “And just about every other member of the Cultural Society. I know you’re willing to extend your help with something as ridiculous as an opera house. I’ve watched you be patient and kind and thoughtful.” He paused and pinned her with an intense glance. “You see, I do know you.”

  “No, no, no.” She paced before him, her dress waving in one hand like a flag of truce or surrender. “You don’t know me at all. Tye.” She stopped and took a deep breath. “I am a gambler and a liar and a thief.”

  “And those are your good qualities.” A twinkle danced in his eyes, but whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was right. “I can forgive you and you can reform.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t you see, Ophelia.” His voice was soft and fraught with meaning. “I don’t care about your past, only your future. A future with me.”

  She shook her head. “But why, Tye? I don’t understand.”

  “Why?” Confusion crossed his face as if she spoke another language. Then his expression cleared and he grinned. “Don’t tell me I didn’t mention it?”

  “Mention what?”

  He stared at her with a look that seemed to reach inside and shake her soul. “I love you, Ophelia.”

  I love you, Ophelia.

  The words rang in her mind and panic flooded her. “Oh, no, you don’t. I’m not falling for that.”

  “Falling for what?” Tye’s brows pulled together in puzzlement.

  “Falling for that…that…line of dialogue. For goodness sakes, Tye, you underestimate me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re no different from any other
handsome man—”

  “You think I’m handsome?” he grinned.

  “—who thinks a few flowery phrases will turn a woman’s head, leaving him free to lead her astray—”

  He snorted. “You’re accusing me of leading you astray?”

  “—and when he’s had his way with her, will leave her crying and broken-hearted.”

  “Now, wait just a minute, Ophelia.” Tye glared with righteous indignation. “I’ve already had my way with you, as you so charmingly put it, although, it seems to me, you were pretty much having your way with me as well—”

  “Tyler Matthews!”

  “—but given that, why would I only now, after the fact and not before, declare my love?” He cast her a triumphant smirk. “Explain that if you will.”

  “You didn’t think of it before!”

  “I did think of it, I just didn’t say it.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “I don’t understand any of this. My intentions here are completely honorable.”

  “Honorable, hah?” She threw him a scathing look. “You want to marry me!”

  “Because I love you!”

  “No! No! No!” She pulled her dress on over her head, a frantic need to escape pushing her faster.

  “Ophelia!”

  “No, Tye, you’re just like every man who thinks a few overused words to a woman will give him not just her body but her soul. Well, not me, Mr. Mayor.” She struggled to fasten the buttons on her dress. “You’ve had my body, and it was quite delightful, thank you, but my soul is my own. I refuse to be left alone and pathetic at a stage door waiting for someone who never comes, who never planned on coming in the first place. No, not me. There are far too many Edwin Kendrakes in the world to take a chance that you’re the exception.”

  “Who’s Edwin Kendrake?” Tye voice was cool, but his eyes sparked.

  She grit her teeth and glared. “My father.”

  “The Shakespearean scholar?”

  She shrugged. “All right.”

  “I see,” Tye said slowly. “Your father treated women—”

  “I don’t want to talk about my father’s behavior toward women. He was a wonderful father. That’s all that really matters.”

  “But—”

  “It’s not just my father. It’s every man I ever saw growing up. Not any of them knew what love meant. Yet every single one freely and sincerely declared his devotion to achieve his ends, and women were the sorry victims. I will not be one of those women. I will not be a victim of you or any man.”