Proving Herself

by Yvonne Jocks

  She scowled—hurt? Angry? "Did she open her mouth?"

  Collier looked briefly away, mustering his strength. "Yes."

  "What did you do?"

  And suddenly he felt relieved to be telling this to some­body. Not just somebody—to Laurel. "For a moment I was too startled to do anything! Then I pushed her away. That's why you smell her on me, see?" He sniffed his hands, then offered them to her as proof, and Laurel smelled them too.

  Then she leaned tentatively nearer him and sniffed his neck, his chest, his hair. Collier closed his eyes against the erotic warmth of her, so close to him.

  Laurel sat back, sniffed her own hands—and scrambled off the bed for the washbasin. "Yuck! I smell like her too."

  Yuck ? Collier smelled his hands again, barely detecting the faint trace of Vivian's Parisian scent. But Laurel was washing it off as she would manure or rabbit guts.

  Perhaps the Lady Vivian had more in common with such offal than he had ever once realized. "We shall burn the gloves," he offered, also standing. "Laurel, please believe how sorry I am. I should have left the moment I saw Lady Vivian in attendance. I assumed that since Edgar was there—"

  "She kissed you in front of Edgar?" Laurel spun to gape at him, water dripping off her elbows.

  He caught the towel off its rod and wrapped it gently around her hands. "And I did push her away."

  She tugged the towel away from him to dry herself in more violent swipes than would he. "Did she fall down?"

  Collier drew back. "No!"

  "Then you didn't push her hard enough."

  He washed his own hands and took the towel from her. "I hope you know me well enough to know there are several things I should never do," he told her stiffly. "One is mistreat a woman—even a woman who behaves as poorly as did Lady Vivian tonight."

  Another is to betray you.

  But that realization still felt too new, too fragile to offer her yet. When he did confess his love of Laurel to Laurel, he would not bury it amid cheap apologies for Lady Vivian. It should stand as more than a distraction.

  Distracting though it was.

  Laurel was pacing now, scowling—and he loved her. He loved that she did believe him. He loved that she did not sulk merely to extort jewelry or travel from him... as if she wanted either. He loved that, whether she realized it or not, she'd become a moral touchstone for him, a reason powerful enough, consequential enough, to compel him toward the right decision.

  Without Laurel, he might have accepted Edgar and Viv's demeaning offer. Because of his wife, he had to be a better man.

  For that, too, he loved her.

  "What did Edgar want to talk to you about?" she demanded. "Why did he let Vivian kiss you? Did he end the engagement?"

  She looked so hopeful at that thought that Collier found himself smiling—despite the bizarre offer that they had made, and how surprisingly difficult it had been to turn them down.

  He just had to keep reminding himself that he had not rejected England, only Edgar and Vivian.

  "Come sit down," he entreated, climbing onto the bed and opening his arms to her. He was still mostly dressed, but that was perhaps just as well, if they were to talk. "You're exhaust­ing yourself, and it's been too long a day already."

  Laurel eyed him suspiciously. "Will you tell me everything? I need to know everything, Cole. I need to."

  He supposed any wife would be upset. Had a man kissed her...

  Even if she'd not kissed the rotter back, and even if she pushed him away so that he fell down—a nice flight of stairs, perhaps—Collier could not imagine accepting it gracefully.

  "Every bit," he promised. To his relief, she climbed onto the bed and to him. It felt good to lean back against the headboard and cuddle his wife—his beloved wife—to him while they talked. She smelled of soap, pine, warmth, and Laurel.

  And he had no fears of breaking her.

  "You must repeat none of this, though," he admonished, while she leaned her head against his shoulder to look up at him as he spoke. "Agreed?"

  She nodded. "I'm not Victoria. I can keep a secret."

  "This secret, dearest, is of great import." But when Edgar entertained Viv's scheme, he had made it Laurel's business. And Collier trusted her. That felt as good as she did in his arms. "My brother is unlikely ever to sire an heir."

  "Why? Is he sick?"

  Was there no end to the improper education he was giving this wife of his? "It is rather more complicated than that. He ... does not fall in love with women." As I have.

  "Why doesn't he?" He loved how she could look so tousled and innocent, and yet so seductive, all at the same time.

  "Because he loves other men." When she stared up at him, waiting to understand, he tried again. "It's not as uncommon as you might think... but in England and America it is quite illegal. This is why you must tell nobody—not even my fa­ther."

  Especially not his father! Considering how badly the Mar­quess of Queensbury had reacted when he had learned of his son ...

  "I know my brother," Collier insisted. "I've known him well enough and long enough to know that this is no foppish whim. It is simply... Edgar. I trust you not to condemn him for it."

  She shook her head. "But how can love be illegal?"

  "Perhaps in the same way our French letters are illegal, though with harsher penalties," he reminded her. "Every time I go to the druggist for more, he and I risk fines or arrest under your Comstock Law. As for Edgar, it's more the practice."

  Despite their privacy, he leaned even closer to explain sod­omy—and so that he could kiss her hair, breathe her scent.

  Laurel's eyes widened. "Men like that?"

  "Some of them." And some women, from what he'd heard.

  She marveled at that, then asked, "Have we ever done any­thing illegal? Other than the French letters?"

  "If we have not," he whispered, "we may yet."

  He enjoyed watching her blush, an honest flush of her cheeks, as she imagined the possibilities. Everything about Laurel was honest. Not always as refined as he should have chosen, nor as deliberate. But the only dishonesty he'd ever seen from her, he had suggested in the first place.

  Which worried him the more when she said, "But what does this have to do with any scheme?"

  "Ah. That." He'd been more comfortable explaining sod­omy. "Edgar is as unlikely to lie with Lady Vivian as would you be."

  Safe in the circle of his arms, she laughed. "Well, that's just silly. We're both girls."

  Collier fought back a smile. Another topic, for another day. "He may have difficulty siring an heir. With no son ..."

  This, at least, she understood. "Then you inherit."

  Viscount of Brambourne. Everything he had longed for. Everything Edgar had ended by breaking their bargain.

  "Which neither Edgar nor Father want. Nor Viv, for that matter. So the bargain that they proposed," he admitted, wincing at the sheer impropriety of it, "is that I sire the next heir of Brambourne on Vivian, and let Edgar claim the child as his."

  Laurel sat up, despite that this meant leaning out of the circle of his arms. "No!"

  Lord, but he wished he weren't so exhausted. Loyalty such as hers deserved rewards beyond jewelry or trips. Pleasuring her until she screamed would be a fair start.

  "Of course I said no," he assured her, taking her hand.

  "Of course you did. Why would they even think you would consider something like that?"

  Well, he had stayed to listen.

  Laurel jiggled his hand, holding hers, to prompt his reas­surance. "Cole? Why would they think that?"

  He lifted her hand to his lips again, then admitted, "They made a compelling argument, Lorelei."

  "How? If they're childless, you inherit it all."

  "We inherit it all," he corrected—and she ducked her head against his shoulder again. "Or our son does. Had we a son."

  She did not pursue that, so he left that subject for later as well. "But that would be years away. And if they make t
he offer elsewhere, a pretender could take the estate."

  "That wouldn't be fair!"

  There was so much about the peerage that his darling Lau­rel did not comprehend.

  "Also, in return for my ... contributions... Edgar prom­ised to invite me home. And I would see my child, or chil­dren, inherit."

  "Children?" Her eyes widened. "This wouldn't be just a one­time stud service?"

  Lord help him for marrying a rancher's daughter—though he doubted she'd learned that term from her father. Now he felt like blushing. "Er, no. Another good reason to refuse."

  "Why would anyone want children they couldn't claim?"

  "To know my line would continue running the estate." When she didn't appreciate the importance of that, he ad­dressed the more personal issues. "I would become a... be­loved uncle."

  He saw no more misgiving in her pretty face than he'd seen when he'd explained other facts of life. She still did not sus­pect her own questionable parentage.

  "But..." she began. She'd said that quite a bit tonight.

  "I did say no, Lorelei," he reminded her softly.

  "They shouldn't have asked," she insisted stubbornly.

  No, they should not. Even if there had been a chance.

  He kissed her for her loyalty. "But they did, and I refused, and the polite response now is to pretend it never happened."

  "I'm supposed to go on being nice to her?"

  "Merely polite," he assured her. Then, since they were back in civilization, he kissed her cheek and stood to prepare for bed properly—lest there be a fire, and anybody should no­tice.

  "Collier?" asked Laurel as he unbuttoned his shirt. He glanced over his shoulder to where she sat, perplexed, on the bed. "Your mother is nice, isn't she?"

  What an odd thing to ask. "My mother is a paragon."

  "What about Agnes? And your little brother, Acton?"

  He stepped behind the dressing screen long enough to pull on a bedshirt. "Acton is a bookish sort, rather like your sister Kathryn. Agnes is..." He tried to remember the last time he'd seen his baby sister. It made him sad to think of how long he'd gone without seeing them. "Agnes has a ... brightness to her."

  When he came out from behind the screen, Laurel had crawled under the covers and lay with her cheek on the pillow, watching solemnly for him. Would she ever not be in­viting?

  Although the spirit was willing, for once the body was weak—no little fault of their mischief on the sitting room carpet! Collier turned down the lights before climbing into the bed beside his wife. He wrapped her in his arms, drawing her tightly against him.

  With Laurel beside him, the ache of homesickness dulled somewhat. "Good night, dearest," he whispered into the dark­ness.

  She wriggled slightly against him, as if she could crawl right into him through the nightshirt and his skin. "Collier?"

  "What is it?"

  "I'm glad you're not going away to England."

  He felt her waiting. Did she want him to say he was glad too? He couldn't. He was pleased to be with her, and relieved not to have prostituted himself. But not returning to Eng­land ...

  "I'm glad you're glad," he offered finally, holding her.

  And he knew he'd let her down.

  If only Vivian would behave herself, thought Laurel the next day at breakfast, perhaps she could forgive the kiss.

  But she disliked Vivian for so much more than that.

  Again the viscount and the Fordhams decided their waiter was dawdling simply to annoy them. When Laurel tried to smile encouragement at the man, she received pointed looks too.

  More from the two women, she noticed. Collier did not seem to notice, and even Edgar seemed amiable. They were brothers.

  When Laurel called a greeting to an elderly rancher of her father's acquaintance, the Englishers stared at her again— though Collier rose to the occasion, standing for the intro­ductions and even remembering that Americans preferred handshakes to bows. "Collier Pembroke, sir. A pleasure."

  "Granville Stuart," said the rancher, then presented his wife, Allis Belle. Collier introduced the rest of the company.

  "Congratulations on your nuptials," said old Mr. Stuart—to Collier. Did everyone know these rules? Then he turned back to Laurel. "You say hello to your mother and father for us, hear?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Aren't you the popular one?" teased Collier as he sat.

  Enjoying the brightness of his smile, Laurel almost didn't hear Lady Vivian murmur, "Who was that?''

  It somehow sounded like, Who do they think they are?

  "Mr. Stuart owns one of the oldest ranches in Montana," offered Laurel, then took a sip of water. "That's all."

  It was that easy. Especially when Baron Tentrees, watching the couple leave, said, "I've heard of him."

  Vivian's eyes flared at the setback. Laurel sat up taller.

  That was when she began to suspect she would not make it through the day without having it out with the Lady Vivian.

  After breakfast the gentlemen discussed business while the ladies went through their invitations for the day. Laurel sat in the middle of the room, finding fault with both conversations.

  "So you did not know Stuart," the viscount accused Collier. "Tentrees here did. And he's not posing as a cattle rancher."

  Posing?

  "It may be a small ranch, Father," said Collier evenly. "But as we are raising cattle, I protest your characterization."

  'Tell me something about ranching then." And the vis­count sat back, folded his arms, and waited.

  Edgar, who had taken a position slightly behind his father, raised his eyebrows as if at an intriguing scene in a play... especially when Collier did just that. Laurel found herself smiling, and not just from good manners, as Collier explained the American cattle market. Her husband might not have been raised around cattle, but clearly he could learn.

  But all his father said was, "So you haven't shown profit."

  "At the moment, not a brass farthing," agreed Collier.

  The viscount opened his mouth again, but Laurel beat him to it. "It takes two years to show a profit on cattle!"

  She might as well have blown her nose on her sleeve, the way every head in the room came up, like horses sensing danger. Ladies weren't supposed to interrupt? Well, she guessed noblemen weren't supposed to belittle their sons, either.

  "Thank you, dear," said Collier into the silence. His smile was even, though, without dimples. "But Father has every right to ask how we are investing his money."

  His money? The way the viscount nodded told her just why Collier had said that, too. When the older man began to praise how British and Scottish interests were pulling out of the dying market, Laurel made herself turn to Vivian and her mother.

  "Mrs. Crawford Hill!" The Lady Tentrees lifted a cream-colored card. "If we must attend any of these dreary recep­tions, I suppose we should attend hers."

  "Is she consequential?" asked Vivian.

  "For Denver," qualified her mother.

  Laurel remembered her own mother, on a visit to Denver, turning down an invitation from someone with that name. Hill, like the posh Capitol Hill neighborhood where most of Denver's old guard lived. "I despise exclusivity," Mama had said firmly.

  Feeling increasingly trapped, Laurel stood and moved to the window, beside that big vase of silly purple roses. She had to wipe the pane with a gloved hand to better see the Rocky Mountains. Feeling the chill on her face, she could imagine the whispering sound of the snow, wrapping the world in white.

  "... sent you here to make something of yourself." The vis­count caught her attention again. "And I've seen little proof of it."

  "Father—" protested Edgar gently.

  "The cattle boom is over; he says so himself." Now the viscount spoke to the Baron Tentrees, not even to Collier. "Men make fortunes on the new, on what they know. None of that here."

  "Perhaps," said Collier, "we should wait more than four months to judge my success."

  "Four
months or four years. I can tell when the spark is there, boy, and you've got no spark. Not for cattle."

  "But I know cattle!" When Collier slanted a gaze of protest toward her, Laurel stared right back. She had every right to speak, whether she'd married an Englishman or not. "And Collier has incredible business sense. And he knows horses, too. You can't have a ranch without horses."

  "Mrs. Pembroke." What bothered her was, it was Collier who said that. He said it gently. His mercurial eyes were ask­ing for her cooperation, not ordering it. But... Mrs. Pem­broke?

  Edgar came to her rescue. "She's quite correct, you know. I've seen Collier play polo. He's a smashing rider; always has the best string. Several of my friends have commented on it."

  "I had the best string," Collier said. "In England."

  And he'd had a thoroughbred mare, but Laurel had lost it.

  "Polo!" dismissed the viscount. "A mere diversion."

  Then Edgar and Tentrees both began to argue about Lon­don polo clubs, tournaments, and something called a Westchester cup. Collier told them about a ranch in San An­tonio, and the Baron Tentrees laughed at what he'd seen of scrawny cow ponies.

  Collier said, "You've not seen them do cutting work, then."

  Laurel would have enjoyed more of that particular discus­sion, had Lady Vivian not caught her ear with the question, "Should I know who Mrs. Margaret Tobin Brown is?"

  "Only to avoid her, dear," assured her mother. "She's dread­fully coarse. You saw her at the opera."

  "Her?" And Vivian giggled. "Nouveau riche."

  "And Irish," added Lady Tentrees.

  Vivian nodded her resolve. "Then I shall write only the briefest of apologies and dispose of her invitation at once."

  And Laurel said, "Given the choice, I would prefer to ac­cept Mrs. Brown's invitation than Mrs. Hill's."

  The men were still debating horses. But both ladies blinked.

  "Then it is lucky for our reputations," said Vivian, "that you have no choice." And with a superior smile, she dropped the invitation into the wastebasket.

  At least Laurel did not have to wonder if that had been deliberate. Even the Lady Tentrees said, "Vivian, really."