Proving Herself

by Yvonne Jocks

  "Of course they did, dearest. Edgar admired your beauty, Vivian called you a shop girl, and Father noted that I've not yet knocked you up." When he turned back to her, dimples crescented his cheeks and his eyes shone bright, reassuring her of how little the poor opinions of others mattered. Espe­cially theirs. What mattered was his. And he'd said ...

  "Not yet?" she asked, and fear chewed a little harder.

  "I meant to say, at all," he assured her. "I've not forgotten our bargain. I fear we've shocked the druggist with our num­ber of purchases."

  "We keep forgetting to use them." She sighed. "The letters." Even this evening. She'd enjoyed it even more for the over­sight.

  Collier paused while adjusting the drape of his suit jacket, then turned back to her, more serious this time. "I should like to discuss that later. If you are willing."

  Laurel swallowed. Hard. Was he angry that she forgot? Did he think she meant to trap him into staying married perma­nently?

  Or was there the chance that he wanted more?

  She wasn't sure which likelihood frightened her more. If he was returning to England and wanted babies with her, then it meant he wanted them together... but not in Wyo­ming.

  They should not have forgotten the French letters so often.

  "All right," she agreed bravely. "When you get back."

  "Thank you, darling." Collier started toward the door to the sitting room, then stopped himself, came back to the bed, and leaned gracefully across it to kiss her. Laurel liked that very much. It felt so wonderfully... married. She had to use every bit of self-control she had left to keep their kiss chaste, to let Collier go instead of seducing him onto the bed, trying to keep him there so long that he'd never find out what Edgar offered.

  After she'd spent the evening experiencing British society, her supply of self-control was running dangerously low.

  To Collier's surprise, not just Edgar but Vivian waited in the antechamber of the rooms beside their father's.

  "Good Lord," he exclaimed as his older brother closed the door behind them. "Do you mean to court scandal, or are you—"

  But he bit back the rest. He was no longer the overseer of Brambourne. He'd lost whatever right he'd had to bully his older brother out of the messes Eddie regularly created.

  Then Vivian, from her chair, said, "You were not so afraid of scandal two years ago, Collier," and he went quite still.

  Edgar knew about Vivian. Did Father, Tentrees? Would they... ?

  Collier tamped back panic with the realization that they had little ammunition left against him. Would they deprive him of his family, the land of his ancestors? Make him shovel manure or live in a one-room shed? Father might yet reduce his remittance, but most of that came from his mother's in­heritance. Tentrees was unlikely to call him out. And they could not make him marry Vivian, because he was already married.

  Laurel to the rescue again.

  Rather than making excuses, Collier said, Two years ago I knew what was to be gained. Tonight you must enlighten me."

  "Have a drink," offered Edgar, indicating the chairs with a sweep of his own hand. "Courvoisier? Or perhaps absinthe?"

  Trust Edgar to find absinthe in Denver.

  Collier accepted the offer and the chair—the one farthest from his affianced sister-in-law. "The brandy, please."

  "I must apologize, Lord Collier," said Viv softly, "about having broken our agreement. You must believe how dread­ful I felt. But what else could I do? They'd sent you away to this horrible wilderness, and I had nobody. And ... well..."

  Collier felt as if he were waiting for the ax to drop.

  "My marital prospects are limited," she reminded him. "Since I am not... not"—she ducked her head in a way he'd once found charming, but now saw as merely high-strung— "pure."

  He rose and strode across the room. "Good Lord, Viv!"

  Edgar handed him the Courvoisier, and Collier took a longer draft of it than was wholly polite. "This is hardly the place!"

  "Don't mind me," said Edgar. "Vivvie and I have no se­crets."

  Again Collier wondered what he had to lose. He suspected he could take Edgar, if it came to fisticuffs. Maybe. "May I remind you, Lady Vivian, that you were not pure two years ago either."

  He took another sip of the brandy, awaiting the worst.

  Viv's eyes widened. "I most certainly was! Merely because there was no ... Oh! It is too lowly even to discuss."

  There had been no blood when he'd first bedded Laurel, either. Heaven only knew in what childhood fall from a tree, or a horse, or a rock his wife had lost the proof of her virginity. But he'd known. With Vivian he'd resolved to overlook his doubts—as long as she carried no other man's child, and stayed faithful afterward, who was he to scorn her?

  But if she was blaming that for her engagement to Edgar!

  "No use, Vivvie," said Eddie now, remarkably cheerful for a man whose future bride had just been insulted. And, ac­cording to her, deflowered by his own brother. "I told you he would have noticed the difference. If there's anything Collier knows, it's the horses between his legs, and the women ... well."

  "Thank you." Lady Vivian turned firmly away from them both.

  Collier studied his older brother with some surprise. "Are there no secrets between you, then?"

  Edgar, who had his own skeletons, raised his own glass to acknowledge Collier's unspoken question. "None. Which, my dear brother, brings us to the issue at hand."

  The future of Brambourne. We need you back.

  Collier dismissed his first suspicion as too bizarre, even for Edgar's creative standards. But he had difficulty forming a second suspicion, and so waited for them to enlighten him.

  Rather than say more, Edgar offered his fiancee a gloved hand. "Lady Vivian? Perhaps you ..."

  With a nod, Viv rose and went to Collier's side, pale and golden. Once, Collier would not have put any thought into how a lady achieved her beauty, only that she did. Now he wondered if Vivian were one of those women who took small doses of arsenic to keep their complexions.

  If so, Edgar faced yet more hurdles in siring an heir.

  "It's simple, really," she said—then kissed him.

  "Perhaps I should leave you two alone," suggested Edgar.

  But Collier caught Viv by the shoulders and pushed her firmly away—to full arm's length. While her lips parted fur­ther in dismay, he took several steps back for good measure. Lord! His first suspicion, bizarre or not, had been correct! “I’ll leave."

  "Collier!" protested Vivian.

  Edgar looked from one of them to the other, amused. "I say. Is that how I looked when you first tried it on me, Vivvie?"

  "You," she reminded Edgar, turning so sharply that her skirts swayed, "had a reason for rejecting me so rudely."

  She thought that was rude? It took every ounce of Collier's gentlemanly breeding to not wipe his mouth on the back of his gloved hand. "As have I," he told her coolly. "Like Edgar's, my interests are otherwise engaged."

  His brother reared back, one eyebrow quirked. "Oh, re­ally?"

  "I am married," Collier reminded them. That he'd left his wife's side to meet these two seemed increasingly foolish.

  "Oh, that." Viv sank back onto a chair without any help. "I understand your animosity at our engagement, Collier, but really! You need not have been so drastic as to marry, much less her."

  "It had nothing to do with your engagement," Collier in­sisted. At least, it no longer did. Somehow his values had indeed changed—so very, very much. "I love my wife."

  And he only felt foolish for not telling the wife first.

  "What remarkable fidelity," noted Edgar. "You really are going native on us, hey, Leatherstocking?"

  "Good evening." And Collier made a cold bow to them.

  He hadn't reached the door before Vivian said, "You could be back in England by summer, Lord Collier. To stay."

  And he stopped. He loved—loved!—Laurel. But Wyo­ming ...

  "Return to England how?" he as
ked.

  And at the knowing look his brother and future sister-in-law exchanged, he felt caught as surely as Laurel had been when the creek dragged her into its freezing current.

  He merely faced a different class of danger.

  Their room did not, Laurel found, overlook the mountains. Unable to sleep without Collier, she opened the window any­way. Even with a view mainly of telephone wires, trolley lines, and chimneys, lit by so many lights as to cheapen the waning moon, the icy cold felt fresher than the steam-heated air of the hotel.

  It felt more like home, even if it didn't smell of it. And this was Denver! What must flatland cities smell like?

  Laurel wanted to go out—just around the corner, to see the Rockies that dominated Denver's horizon. But it was late ... and she was a lady. More of a lady every day, darn it. And less... herself.

  Since she must be squandering coal, or electricity, or what­ever the Windsor used to power its steam radiators, Laurel reluctantly closed the window and climbed into the large, soft bed to await Collier. Funny how in the mountains, often miles from another human, she never felt alone. But in a posh city hotel, with more people living within a mile than she guessed populated all of Sheridan, she felt horribly lonely.

  She would feel better when Collier returned, of course. He was the reason she'd come—that and the deal they'd made.

  The deal didn't include her worrying what he would say— about babies or England—when he got back. Watching her covered feet, moving under the blanket like gophers, Laurel guessed she ought to stop thinking of it as a pretend marriage at all.

  But, oh, those awful people. Carpeted rooms with dyed flowers. Gloves and girl-shoes! She hadn't fallen in love with Collier's suits or etiquette—even if she'd come to love the

  kindness behind his manners. She hadn't fallen in love with his taste for opulence. She'd fallen in love with him despite those things.

  Desperate for distraction, she got up again, pulled on her robe, and sat down at the writing table in the sitting room to try, yet again, penning a brand for her unnamed ranch. Thus far she'd used earmarks to blaze hers and Cole's cattle. But come spring roundup, they'd need a brand. Before marrying, she'd considered everything with an L—lazy, flying, back­ward, bar, double-bar—to no avail. Now that Collier might leave...

  She still had another year or two, she reminded herself. He was honorable enough to see their deal through.

  Which was only one reason, out of a mountain of them, that she should let him go anyway. Collier had helped with her dream.

  But he also wanted to talk about the French letters. Which meant there was at least the chance he wanted to quit them. Which maybe meant something else.

  If they were truly married, forever married ...

  Feeling like some of those girls back in school who would practice combining initials on their slates, Laurel dipped the pen in the inkwell and began to try variations of the brand including the letters P, and CP. Or perhaps BB, for Bram-bourne. Maybe that would flatter his self-important father enough to toss Collier at least a crumb or two of recognition.

  But then it wasn't her brand at all.

  She covered two pages, but nothing worked. Maybe a body had to be out on the range to hit upon a proper brand. Or maybe a person ought to know how much longer she would have a partner.

  When the door opened, she all but spun to face it. He's back, she soothed herself. He's back!

  But for how much longer?

  "Laurel!" Collier looked odd. Tired. Hesitant. When he came to her side, kissed her cheek—like a husband, her hus­band—he smelled somehow different, too. But the way he paused, then ducked back for another kiss on her mouth— that was pure Collier. So was his self-deprecating smile, all bright eyes and dimples, when he did straighten.

  "Whatever are you doing awake?" he asked, shrugging off his suit jacket as he went into the bedchamber.

  "I was waiting for you." Stoppering the inkpot, Laurel fol­lowed him. "I can't sleep in this place."

  She was perfectly happy to clamber onto the bed now, to sit and watch him remove his gloves, loosen his tie. She loved watching him undress, especially the jacket and gloves and tie. She loved that she got to have the real Collier.

  "This is the best hotel in Denver," he reminded her on a laugh. "How could you not sleep here?"

  "It's too close."

  "As opposed to your cabin?" She felt a lump of uncertainty deep inside her when he called it her cabin.

  "In our cabin there's nobody on the other side of the wall."

  Raising his eyebrows with curiosity, Collier leaned slowly closer to the wall opposite of her, apparently listening. Then he shrugged and came back to the bed, sitting down to un­button his shoes. "I apologize for keeping you waiting, dear­est."

  He apologized so easily, and for things that weren't even his fault. She admired that about him. As difficult as she found apologies, his showed a kind of quiet courage.

  Her fingers itched to reach across the space between them and untie his hair, to let it fall into little golden waves below his collar... but then they would never talk.

  And if they stopped talking, they might forget the French letters again. And before they did that, she really should know, even if she feared his answers.

  "How did it go?" she asked. "With Edgar."

  Bending over his second shoe, Collier hesitated—then shook his head. "I'm not certain you would want to know."

  "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't!"

  "No. I suppose you would not. I apologize."

  So maybe that courage of his could annoy her some, too.

  Especially when it kept him dancing around the topic at hand. Well, she had her own strengths, even if they were nowhere near as diplomatic. "Are you going back to England with them?"

  For a long, horrifying moment, Collier just sat there with his elbows on his knees, a shoe still dangling from one hand. Maybe he hadn't decided yet, or didn't know how to tell her.

  You can, if you realty want to, she ought to say.

  We can renegotiate our agreement, she ought to assure him.

  Instead she just stared at him and waited miserably until he said, "No, Lorelei. I'm not going back to England with them."

  And then she flung her arms around him and kissed his cheek and his jaw and his neck and his mouth instead. "Oh, good!"

  "Whoa!" Laughing, Collier caught the bedpost with one hand to keep from falling off under the momentum of her hug. Then he wrapped her in his strong arms, and he really kissed her.

  As if she were something special. As if maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't mind being forever-married, too.

  "I'm pleased you approve," he admitted huskily as they drew barely apart to catch a breath. Even then, he nuzzled her cheek with his. "It is important for a man ..." Mmm. He'd found her ear. "... and his wife to agree on matters of im­port," he assured her. "For a successful domestic partner­ship."

  She giggled when his breath tickled her neck. He drew back to grin at her, bright and lopsided, and she felt soft inside.

  "Do we have a successful domestic partnership?" she asked.

  He'd said earlier that he wanted to discuss the French let­ters and how they kept forgetting them. They'd agreed early on that even if consummating the marriage would not make it permanent, babies would.

  Laurel still wasn't sure she wanted babies. But, oh, she

  wanted him. And maybe if they were his babies...

  Collier traced the backs of his fingers up Laurel's cheek as if admiring the slope of her face, her eyes. As if she were anywhere near as pretty as Lady Vivian.

  But thinking of his former fiancee, some missing impres­sion slipped into place. It didn't make sense. It wasn't possi­ble. There had to be an explanation, of course. What was it?

  "I do think," promised Collier, "that we are well on our way."

  Either he was lying, or there was some explanation. Or the British saw things even more differently than Laurel had feared.

  "T
hen why," she asked as evenly as she could—despite her inability to breathe, to think, to understand—"do you smell like Lady Vivian?"

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Trust Collier to marry a bloodhound.

  There is an explanation," he assured Laurel quickly, but with dignity. A gentleman never lost his dignity.

  Although, faced with the wrath—and worse, the pain—of his rancher wife, a gentleman came close!

  "Lady Vivian was in Edgar's rooms with him." At least that news startled her out of her original suspicion—or what Col­lier could only assume was her original suspicion.

  Though, really—as if he could have done anything with Viv tonight, after what he and Laurel had done. Well, good Lord! He doubted he had the strength to do more with Laurel tonight!

  "Alone!" she asked, wide-eyed.

  "With Edgar, of course." Lest she fear some sort of tryst.

  "They aren't married yet!"

  "They were not, I assure you, doing anything infamous."

  "Still, for a real lady, that Vivian has to be one of the most unladylike women I've ever known. You said yourself that you once—" Oops. Laurel's eyes darkened into suspicion again.

  Collier began to see the downside to marital honesty.

  "Why do you smell like her, Lord Collier?" she asked.

  So much for Cole. But she had cause for suspicion—more than he liked to admit—and as her husband, admit it he must. So he caught her hands in his, not merely for her com­fort but for his own safety. "This may sound worse than it should."

  She lifted her chin in silent challenge and waited.

  "She kissed me," he confessed.

  Laurel sat still for a long moment. Then she swallowed. Very steadily, she asked, "Did you kiss her back?"

  "Good Lord, no!" The honesty felt good, there.

  It relieved him that she took a breath—a deep one. Deep enough to swell the front of her robe, though he ought not be noticing that at this precarious juncture in their evening.

  Then she asked, "How did she kiss you?"

  "Laurel! A gentleman—" But her expression finished that answer. When it came to one's wife, he supposed a gentle­man did not protect the reputation of other ladies, at that. "She just kissed me. It shocked me quite as much as it shocks you."