Proving Herself

by Yvonne Jocks

  She chose, "I'm pleased to finally meet you, Lady Vivian."

  "And you," said the china doll. "We shall be sisters our­selves, shan't we, Mrs. Pembroke?"

  She seemed awfully reserved—but so did Uncle Benj's wife sometimes. If Laurel didn't know Vivian had jilted Collier, she didn't guess she would have hard feelings toward the woman.

  And considering how she'd benefited from Vivian's loss, maybe she should drop those hard feelings, too. "Yes, we shall."

  For at least another couple of years. And maybe...

  But this sure wasn't the time to plot to keep Collier.

  The ticking of the clock on the mantel seemed to be in­creasing in volume. The room's heat stifled her; she longed to rush to the window, throw it open, and hang out into the air. Even if it would be city air, it would be cold. She could at least see the mountains beyond the chimneys and the telephone wires, if she just went to the window.

  But when the viscount said, "Please join us," she sank onto a settee beside Collier. She was doing this for him, after all. Nothing else mattered, did it?

  At least, nothing in Colorado.

  Collier said, "I hope you were able to spend time in New York before leaving for the West." Laurel recognized it as one

  of the four rules of proper conversation—pay compliments, ask after others, be positive, and smile.

  Unsure about the first three, she made sure to smile while Edgar began to tell them about New York City.

  Had Collier feared Laurel would embarrass him? After dinner and an evening's company with his family, he knew better.

  He was an idiot to have doubted her. His family—unfet­tered by his mother's usual tempering influence—embar­rassed him. Laurel was his quiet little rock against a tide of pettiness.

  Little of the conversation focused on him or his past year, nor on Laurel and Sheridan. Considering how much he and Laurel had to hide, this was perhaps a fortunate slight... but a slight nevertheless. Before leaving England, he'd grown used to being treated as the informal overseer of Bramboume. That had changed with his exile to the American West. These were no longer his peers; they were, by all ac­counts, his betters. He felt the gulf between what he could have been and what he now was, more by what they did not discuss than by what they did.

  Instead of asking after Laurel's family, or Collier's plans, they discussed their own travels so far—San Francisco and Los Angeles. Thus far they had not been impressed by the United States. Despite what Collier had so carefully taught Laurel about polite conversation, they said so.

  Their railway travel!" admonished Tentrees. "Could it be more dreadful? The rushing and the pushing."

  "I must own that I dislike it immensely," agreed his wife. "The conductors must pound on the doors before opening them, and they barge through demanding to see tickets far more often than is necessary. And those nasty vendors, pes­tering one to buy their wares despite the most cutting looks!"

  Collier knew from their long ride today that Laurel enjoyed train rides. But she smiled politely and said nothing.

  "What I find distressing," offered Edgar, "is how one must live at the table d'hote morning, noon, and night. Thank

  goodness the Windsor is British enough to provide even sit­ting rooms, or we should be gathered in their lobby even now."

  "They charge extra for it, though," reminded their father. "That would be the Scots' influence."

  "And their style is abysmal," agreed Lady Tentrees. "Even once we insisted they bring in flowers, they did not know the fashion of dyeing them until our Vivian explained it."

  Looking around him, Collier realized that the room boasted a large crystal vase of white roses—which, likely be­cause of the purple water, were taking on a lavender blush.

  "Her favorite color," explained Lady Tentrees.

  "Service was no better at dinner," Vivian noted, to murmurs of agreement. "The waiters turn worse the angrier one be­comes. It is as if they fear that by waiting on one, they might appear rightly subordinate. I doubt the saying that 'gold can­not tarnish' should have any meaning at all, for that sort."

  Laurel's hand was starting to squeeze his. Collier knew the others had noticed the vulgar familiarity of their clasped hands, but counted the loss of appearance a fair price for his ability to reassure his wife. Now he began to wonder if, rather than reassuring her, he was reining Laurel back.

  "The manner of the lowliest shop girl indicates perfect equality," mourned Vivian, then covered her mouth with a gloved hand. "Oh! Beg pardon, Mrs. Pembroke."

  "My wife," Collier corrected her, only years of training keeping his tone polite, "is the daughter of a cattle baron, and a landowner in her own right."

  "Papa hates to be called a cattle baron," Laurel corrected him, her voice low. "He's just a rancher."

  "Just a rancher on one of the largest properties in Wyo­ming," noted the viscount.

  Laurel seemed startled, as if she'd forgotten he was there. "Yes, your lordship. But he owns only half of the Circle-T. Your niece's husband, Benjamin Cooper, owns the other half."

  Oops. His father's face reddened. "You will refrain from discussing that woman in my presence."

  Collier squeezed Laurel's hand. He would explain how Al­exandra's marriage had disappointed her family—later. Please...

  When Laurel simply nodded at the viscount, Collier could have kissed her. Had it been proper. Which it was not.

  But as soon as the viscount indicated that he was tired of everyone's company for the night and should like to retire, as soon as they maneuvered their way through all the proper good nights and rest wells, Collier all but dragged Laurel back to their own room, then gathered her tightly against him and kissed her with all the gratitude he was humanly capable of conveying in a kiss.

  Thank the good Lord that, unlike Vivian, he had no fears of Laurel breaking under the strength of his ardor.

  She blinked dazedly up at him as his lips released hers and he took the first truly deep breath he'd had in hours. "Did I do all right, then?"

  "You were perfect. You were the true lady in that room, my dearest. If gold truly cannot tarnish, then the company this evening was no more than a clever reproduction."

  "Fool's gold." She smiled shyly. "That's what folks call iron pyrite, what they think is gold but isn't. Fool's gold."

  "Compared to you, Vivian and Edgar are iron pyrite." And he kissed her again, and somehow, between starting and end­ing that kiss, they'd sunk to their knees on the drugget car­peting.

  What a lovely turn. Unlike at the Coopers', Collier felt no compunctions against making love in a well-built hotel room.

  "Compared to you, too," she assured him loyally, arching into his touch as he ran his spread hands down her cinammon-clad back, over her petticoat-pillowed derriere, then back up the neat darts of her bodice to other pillowy regions. "Mmm."

  She couldn't say anything more for several minutes be­cause he was kissing her as erotically as he wanted to make love to her—and undoing her buttons as quickly as he knew how.

  Which was rather quickly.

  "I don't understand," said Laurel, which surprised him. But when he paused to blink down at her, she laughed a husky, honest laugh. "Oh, I understand this" she insisted, pushing his coat off his shoulders. "But... what did your father mean about seeing no reason to hasten our marriage. Does he think I'm that ugly?"

  "You are not the least bit ugly, my darling," Collier assured her, opening the bodice of her gown, then detouring his at­tentions to her camisole-covered breasts. That meant laying her onto the carpet and kissing across her chest long enough to dampen the embroidered silk to near transparency. She did have such marvelous breasts.

  "Then what—oh, yes, like that! What did he mean?"

  Hmm? Oh. "That you're not in the pudding club." When she snorted, he denned that as pregnant. Then, since she liked expanding her vocabulary in the most unladylike of ways, he offered, "Gone. Looking in seduced circumstances. Knocked up."

  She laug
hed. "Knocked up?"

  He paused in his enjoyment of her womanly attributes to grin down at her. "Think about it." And, by way of illustration, he thrust gently against her, certain she could feel his arousal even through their clothing.

  "Ooh. He thought you'd married me because you had to. Well that is rude." She considered that. "And not in a good way."

  "What could be rude in a good way?" he challenged, cov­ering her more thoroughly. His demonstration of "knocking" had reminded him of just how marvelous the "up" part would be.

  "Mm. Like this." Rocking beneath him, she drew her skirts high enough to free her stockinged legs, wrap them around his, and neatly roll him over onto his back.

  "That is rude." He stretched under her. "Ah. And that."

  She'd already drawn back on her knees to undo his trou­sers. Over the last months she'd gotten quite as good with that as he was with the fastenings of a lady's apparel.

  Passing footsteps provided an erotic naughtiness to their love play. But they could not have chosen a worse time for someone to knock on the door. "Oh, bloody hell," he mut­tered, propping himself up on his elbows.

  "Shhh," ordered Laurel—and, rude little minx that she was, she slipped a greedy, gloved hand into his trousers' flap, to do more rude things to him ... in a very good way.

  Laurel, he mouthed silently at her, widening his eyes as much with his hot, hard reaction to her touch as with rebuke.

  Again the knock at the door—then a familiar voice, pitched just right to be heard inside without disturbing other residents of the hotel. "Collier? It's Edgar."

  Bloody hell. Collier supposed he should find out what—

  But Laurel shook her head fiercely, scooted back down to straddle his shins—then bent down over him and took him into her mouth. Instead of answering Edgar's summons, Col­lier found himself stretching his mouth wide in a silent cry, then quickly biting the heel of his hand to keep from giving it voice.

  She was being remarkably rude. He doubted he'd ever been part of anything so wantonly, wonderfully rude in his life.

  "Viv and I hoped to discuss something with you." But with Collier's continued silence—and Laurel's, beyond a tiny, happy slurping noise—Edgar clearly decided they'd not yet gone to their rooms. Were they in the bedroom, rather than the floor of the sitting room, near the door, Collier would have heard no more. The rushing in his head as he clenched his throat against the pleasures shuddering through him did not help.

  "P'raps they went out for fresh air," he heard Edgar say.

  Then Viv, "Or the bar." Viv was there too!

  Laurel began to lick him then, tiny licks up and down the length of him that reduced his breath to tiny little gasps.

  "Not with his wife," protested Edgar.

  "Oh?"

  Laurel sat up at that and glared at the door. Clearly, despite her enjoyment—an enjoyment obvious from both her enthu­siasm and her still-damp sheer camisole—she, too, could hear to the hallway. This, of course, was Collier's chance to push her off of him, call excuses through the door, and make himself quickly presentable.

  He did not. Instead he slid both hands into her thick, soft hair and drew her firmly back down to what she'd been do­ing.

  Laurel giggled around the girth of him, another beautifully novel sensation, and his voice escaped in a squeak, which made her giggle harder—though she did that silently.

  "Did you hear something?" asked Viv from outside the door.

  Collier's eyes were tearing.

  "What? No, nothing. Let's send a note, then, and he'll come to my rooms later, hey?"

  Then Collier heard nothing at all, because Laurel was clearly trying to get her bloomers off under the layers of her brown skirt, wiggling her behind in an adorably distracting way even while she gamely continued her hot-mouthed tor­ture.

  Gaining confidence in their privacy as relative silence ticked past, Collier decided to reassert himself. When Laurel sat up to move back over him, he caught her hips and rolled her over onto her back, sliding a thigh—still clothed in neatly creased trousers—between her legs, to tease her in return.

  She opened her mouth in clear protest, even as she rocked under the thickness of his leg. Naughty, heavenly mouth. But Collier wanted what she did, too much so to taunt her as the little barbarian deserved. Drawing his other knee between her legs and spreading them wide with his own, he slid his now thoroughly wet hardness into her thoroughly hot wel­come.

  Then he set about finishing, as painstakingly as possible, what the little minx had started.

  Writhing and straining beneath him, biting her lip so firmly he feared she would make it bleed, Laurel grasped at his hair, pulling the tie loose from his queue, then weaving her fingers deep into it. Collier tugged her camisole up over her breasts and tried reminding her of just how cruel she'd been just moments earlier. And during it all he continued to thrust.

  Filling her, loving her, wholly.

  When she began to whimper, he took pity on her and cov­ered her mouth with his to muffle the cries that began to stammer out of her. When the ecstasy clawed him and he finally shuddered his seed into her, she silenced his own howl of joy in the same way.

  He poured himself out, more of him than he knew ex­isted—never had he found release so violently in his life— and by the time he'd sunk onto her, completely exhausted, he truly feared he could not move.

  Good heavens. What had he done, marrying this girl?

  Even as he wondered that, he managed to drop his head just far enough to kiss across the fine, soft hair at her temple. It had fallen from its coif, of course, in rich, dark waves. And Laurel's skin, flushed pink with his lovemaking—had he ever thought it unladylike?

  He now understood his need to buy her a real diamond, even if it used most of his latest remittance. This was no longer a counterfeit marriage, no matter what they'd said or planned. Whatever they did in the future, it was real right now, and he could not have felt more fortunate. Or more fearful.

  Because the only thing he wanted as badly as to stay mar­ried to Laurel was the one thing she'd protested from the start.

  Another knock sounded at the door, this one more tenta­tive, and Collier stiffened atop his wife. Again?

  But this time nobody called. Instead a folded paper slid under the door, and footsteps continued away from them.

  For a long time Collier just stared at the bit of stationery on the carpeting.

  "Can you reach it?" asked Laurel finally, her voice thick with satisfaction.

  "I fear," he said, panting across her damp skin, still on her, still in her, "that I cannot move at present. Even were I will­ing."

  "Want me to?"

  "Please do."

  So she reached out an arm still sleeved in cinnamon ba­tiste—neither of them had actually shed anything except per­haps her skivvies—and caught it with her fingertips, drew it back to them and, one-handed, managed to bully it open.

  " 'Collier,'" she read." 'Please see me as soon as possible, regarding...' Oh."

  "Hold it steady and I can read the rest," he offered. But when he saw the words, he wondered if she'd stopped from an inability to read Edgar's handwriting, or an unwillingness.

  Please see me as soon as possible, regarding the future of Brambourne. We need you back. Resp., E.

  "Oh," he said. Something of an understatement. We need you back.

  It was the one thing he wanted as badly as he wanted Laurel. England.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  "I do have to see what they want," insisted Collier, stripped to his waist and washing himself at the cherrywood stand. Laurel sat on the bed and watched him.

  Actually she was admiring him: his bare back and shoul­ders and chest, how he could be so broad in some places and so slim in others. Was it any wonder she couldn't keep her hands off him?

  Remembering what they'd done on the carpet, in this oh-so-posh hotel, she felt warm for more reasons than the flannel nightgown she'd changed into behind the dressing screen
while Collier washed other parts and put on neatly pressed trousers.

  "And I'll thank you not to distract me again," her husband ordered sternly, turning to point at her.

  Laurel widened her eyes in an attempt at innocence. After all, he was the one who had started things, kissing her like that. After hours of suffocation, biting her tongue and smiling like a fool, Laurel had felt desperate to collect her reward, to remind herself of why she'd come here.

  Which was him. And, oh, he had reminded her!

  In the washbasin mirror, she saw that he'd smiled despite his pretense at severity. A real lopsided Collier smile.

  "Never distract you again?" And she hugged her flannel-draped knees up to her chest. It seemed a terribly big bed to be alone in while he went to see what his brother wanted.

  The future of Brambourne.

  He dried himself off. "Not tonight, at least."

  "Not at all tonight? Couldn't I distract you a little when you get back from the summons?" Likely she was a hoyden, at that. But when misbehaving felt as good as Collier did ...

  Well! She still felt warm and tender and satisfied from that. And she'd rather savor those sensations than the fear that had nibbled at her ever since she'd read his note. We need you back.

  We. That meant Lord Edgar and Lady Vivian, right?

  They needed him back. In England.

  Collier sighed as he slipped into a fresh white shirt, hiding his sleek muscles. "It is an opportunity, not a summons."

  "Oh." An opportunity to return to England. Away from her.

  "How promising an opportunity, I shan't know until I get there." He tucked the shirt into his pants, then combed his burnished hair and tied it back into its neat tail.

  "They never mentioned your hair," said Laurel, watching Collier's gaze capture hers in the mirror, then refocus onto his work. Actually, the Englishers hadn't talked about him much at all, considering that he'd been gone for over a year.

  "That means they detest it."

  "Oh." She considered that. "They didn't mention me, ei­ther."