by Yvonne Jocks
Laurel walked to the wastebasket, reached in, and withdrew the card. "Mrs. Brown's parties are always more interesting."
"Have you ever been to one?"
"No, but my parents have." Once. From what Victoria had gathered, their father had spent most of the time in the furnace room with Mr. Brown, escaping the to-do. But Mama had enjoyed herself. Then again, my mother is part Irish herself."
The Lady Tentrees's eyes flared. "Oh, my God."
"I understand you much better now," said Lady Vivian smugly. "But you still"—and she snatched the card from Laurel's hand—"have no say in the matter. I am the daughter of a baron, and I am the one marrying the heir to Brambourne. You only married Collier."
Laurel was only vaguely aware that the men seemed to have stopped debating polo, horses, or anything else. "Dearest," called the Baron Tentrees in disapproval.
His wife turned back to Vivian. "You must remember your responsibility as the party of breeding," she insisted, low. Then she turned the facade of a smile to Laurel. "Please excuse our manners, Mrs. Pembroke. Americans do not always follow the same ... protocol... for deciding their social engagements."
That wouldn't have soothed Laurel even if Vivian's slur— You only married Collier—weren't rushing through her head.
"First off—" And Laurel took the invitation back. She had younger sisters. She knew exactly how to firmly catch Vivian's skinny wrist, then pry the card from her helpless hand. "Why don't I write our apology to Mrs. Brown. I don't trust you to follow American protocol. And second—" Here she leaned closer, still holding the British vixen captive with one strong hand. "If you value my husband so little, you can keep your skinny, blue-blooded lips off him! Eh?”
"Oh, my God," said Lady Tentrees again.
"You may," said Vivian, "have no choice in that either,"
The tramp had grit. Laurel hadn't expected that. But Laurel's scuffles sometimes left boys crying, in her wilder youth. If she couldn't take on a skinny piece of taffeta like this, she guessed she wasn't frontier material after all.
"Maybe I don't have say over what he does," she conceded. "But that works both ways. You push me too far, and I'll stop giving a damn about your etiquette."
Only then did she release Vivian's wrist and turn away.
Vivian asked, "Should I notice the difference?"
So on second thought, Laurel picked up that crystal vase full of its silly purple water and sillier purple roses, turned, and dumped the entire thing over the tramp's head. Goodbye, fancy hairdo. Good-bye, fancy gown. Good-bye, poise!
"You might," she said, into the moment of silence that preceded Vivian's horrified shriek. And then, snatching a hotel key off the table by the door, she stalked out of the room.
The only thing that kept her from laughing out loud was the stunned expression on Collier's face before the door closed.
Chapter Twenty-six
Collier stared at the door through which his wife had vanished for a long, silent moment—silent but for Vivian's angry screeching of, "How dare she? How dare she?”
Then, slowly, he stood. "Perhaps I'd best—"
The viscount cleared his throat. "Quite. Rightly so."
"And I'll..." Edgar shook his head, then strode to Vivian's side, where the Lady Tentrees, rather than comforting—or drying—her daughter, was quietly demanding some sort of explanation. God only knew for what. Laurel and Viv had been hissing at each other like cats, and Collier was glad not to have heard most of it. But, Lord help him, he could guess parts. And if it included Edgar...
"We may not attend lunch," he excused, heading for the door.
"Perhaps dinner, then," suggested the Baron Tentrees. Like the viscount, he'd not moved an inch toward the ladies.
Oh, to be so fortunate.
Striding toward his room, Collier wondered how a gentleman even dealt with something like this—especially with Laurel.
Perhaps he should claim some responsibility. He'd brought her here knowing full well of her mud-throwing tendencies, and warned nobody.
But when he strode into their room and found her packing, he somehow defaulted to asking, "What the bloody hell was that?"
"You heard her," accused Laurel, not pausing as she toted one pretty gown after another from the wardrobe to her new trunk.
"I heard nothing to warrant either a tug-o'-war over some invitation or your upending roses on my future sister-in-law." The water had been purple! Had Laurel planned such destruction?
"She said, 'You only married Collier'!"
Actually, Collier had heard that part. But he did not remember Vivian curling her lip, wrinkling her nose, or waggling her shoulders when she said it, per Laurel's demonstration.
"You did only marry me," he pointed out.
Laurel stared at him, her mouth falling open. "Only?"
Perhaps he should move the washbasin out of her reach.
"She was tactless to phrase it that way, but I'm not the heir. If you thought to defend my honor, your concern was misplaced. And if you let on to Lady Tentrees about Edgar—"
Were there any consequences that could encompass such a betrayal? Collier could have fallen against the doorjamb with relief when Laurel stared at him, clearly insulted.
"I told you I wouldn't say anything about that, and I didn't! I... I guess I let on about the kiss," she admitted. "But it's up to Vivian to explain that."
If anybody could equivocate her way past her parents' questions, it would be Viv. In the meantime—
Collier actually looked more closely. "Why are you packing?"
"Because I won't stay here with these people."
Bloody hell. He stepped forward to take an armful of clothes away from her, but at her glare he returned to words.
"Of course you shall. We have the most of a week left for our visit."
"You can stay. You should stay—they're your family. Though not the good ones."
"Are you trying to be rude?"
She considered it, then nodded. "Yes. I've decided it's easier."
"Well, you are succeeding admirably. You do realize, don't you, that children do what is easiest. Adults do what is right."
“Then your brother is not marrying an adult."
"Neither, clearly, did I."
She hurled a wadded lump of cloth at him, perhaps to illustrate her resolve toward a life of rudeness. At least it was nothing injurious like a shoe. Or a knife.
Collier drew a deep, uneven breath. He'd also heard an admonition to remember one's responsibility as the party of breeding. That policy, as ever, had merit.
He picked up the wad of cloth—ah, a glove—and, as she was simply dropping her clothing in higgledy-piggledy anyway, he tossed it after the rest. "Laurel, stop this. Let me get your coat and we shall take a ride. Once you've calmed down—"
"I don't want to calm down," she said. "I want to go home."
"Are the two mutually exclusive?"
"I think they might be." But after admitting that, she stopped with an armful of muslin, as if she'd been roped.
Good Lord, he was beginning to think in Western metaphors.
"Darn it," she protested, frowning. "Now I'm not as angry!"
Then is it safe to come within spitting distance?"
He'd been thinking of cats. But when Laurel's eyes flared and she said, "I don't spit," the coarser image fit as well.
"Until today I hadn't thought you doused ladies, either."
"She's no lady."
Since she'd not warned him away, Collier risked crossing the room, moving the muslin from his wife's arms to the trunk's jumbled contents, then taking her bare hands in his.
She seemed less dangerous that way.
"You are quite right, dearest," he assured her. "She is not. I was speaking in general terms."
"Then why are you angry at me?"
Was he angry? Possibly. Frustrated, certainly. Embarrassed. Awed. He wasn't sure he'd recovered sufficiently from the shock to d
ecide more. "Were I angry, it might be because, by your little spectacle, you implied you are no lady either."
"Then the British have a different definition of ladies."
"You used the word 'damn.'" He'd heard that part, too.
"Fine. Then I'm not a lady. You knew that from the start." She tried to pull her hands from his, but he held on.
She glared at him.
He let go. "You'd been making great progress, though."
"Progress at being someone I'm not. Someone I don't even want to be. I only tried because ..." But she did not finish that. Whatever she'd meant to say darkened her eyes with something almost like pain, then vanished. "I'm a rancher."
Again he asked, "Must the two be mutually exclusive?"
"If a lady accepts meanness like I've seen from those people without protesting, then yes. No stand-up rancher would."
"You're saying a stand-up rancher would pour roses over a la—a woman's head?"
"No. A stand-up rancher would leave. If I'd done that right off, likely I wouldn't owe the hotel for staining their settee."
How could a woman who so bravely suffered mud, cold, manure, and frostbite turn coward in the face of a few mean-tempered society mavens? "Oh, Laurel. I promise you that Lady Vivian is one of the least stellar examples of British womanhood ever I've seen. Once you come home to meet my mother—"
She stared at him. "You want me to meet your mother?"
Oh. He hadn't yet mentioned his changing expectations for their marriage to her, had he? And he did still love her. A simple lapse ...
Well, it had been a splendid lapse. As far as lapses went.
But still!
"I believe it is tradition, even in America, for a man to bring his wife home to his mother."
She lifted her chin. "Not his pretend wife."
"That..." He cleared his throat, sure this was not the arena in which to be making such declarations. Or renegotiations. "I do want to discuss that further. But the question at hand is my father. And the Fordhams. And that spectacle of yours."
"Why is what I did a spectacle, and what Vivian did is not?"
"You mean last night?" When she nodded, he said, "I believe the telling difference would be the presence of spectators."
Laurel clearly did not appreciate his wit. "Well, if your father's the question, my answer is to go home where he and his friends won't bother me and I won't bother them." And damned if she did not return to her travesty of packing. "You can't think any of them want me to stay now."
"What anyone wants is immaterial. What's proper is foryou to apologize, Vivian to accept, and everything to return to some semblance of civilization."
Laurel stopped in the middle of the room with another armload of Lord knew what, and said, "Apologize?"
"You humiliated her."
"And she deserved it: You said so yourself."
"Nevertheless, you must apologize. You needn't mean it. Surely she'll not mean a word of her forgiveness. You can each go back to plotting the other's undoing as soon as formalities have been observed. But you must see that a public apology is essential. That's how it is done."
Perhaps he'd misused the word must. "Maybe in England."
He dragged a hand over his hair, then cupped the back of his neck in frustration. "And Lord forbid you should ever behave as if you were in England."
"If that means saying I'm sorry without meaning it, then yes. Does that mean you haven't meant it whenever you've apologized? Around here, Collier, that would be lying."
"And you never lie to get what you want?" he challenged. Apparently Laurel woke other passions in him—like anger.
Collier felt hot. He felt unbalanced. He wanted nothing more than to raise his voice, slam that damned trunk closed, grab Laurel by the shoulders, and make her understand what she'd done.
That was why, when she said, "Maybe that was a mistake, too," he had no choice but to leave.
"I haven't the time or patience for this," he declared, his words clipped. "I will go see to Edgar and make certain that your childishness hasn't ruined him."
Perhaps she recognized her mistake, because now it was she who caught his arm. "Collier! I meant the lying part, not anything else. Don't go all British on me now."
Would that be so bad? "I expect you here when I return."
She reclaimed her hand. "Is that what you expect? Or do you think I'll apologize to Vivian and let your father treat you like dirt and go be bored to tears by Mrs. Crawford Hill, too?"
Collier closed his eyes, summoning his composure. It did not answer his summons. So all he said before leaving was, "Grow up."
"You grow up!"
Perhaps there was something to be said for removing oneself from the source of one's anger, rather than counting on one's good breeding to keep one from doing violence to ... one.
Rather than immediately return to his father's suite, Collier went downstairs to the formal saloon. It boasted a huge mirror, even more decorous than that in the Buffalo Bill Saloon.
It also boasted the heir to Brambourne, sitting at the end of the nearly empty bar.
"Collier!" Edgar raised a glass. "Have a drink."
"It's barely noon," said Collier, going to his side.
"Not in England." And Edgar took another sip.
On second thought, Collier turned to the bartender and asked for a brandy. Then he took the stool beside his brother's. "Edgar, if Laurel in any way implicated you during her little tantrum, I shan't forgive myself."
"Really?" challenged his brother, raising an amused eyebrow. "Even if it means I'm disowned, and you're the heir?"
Collier could only stare, sickened by the weight of what he'd brought about—until Edgar winked. "Well, she didn't. Though thanks ever for sharing with her. I hope you won't marry often."
He wasn't implicated? Collier accepted the brandy that the bartender placed beside him with relief—and annoyance. "Bastard."
"Ah-ah-ah. Wishful thinking." And Edgar raised his glass in a toast. "Here's to women. They do keep life interesting." He took a pleasured sip. "Especially yours."
Interesting? "So how goes the fall of Rome?"
"Father and the baron left. I doubt it matters where to, as long as they escaped the ladies. Vivvie's in a right proper snit." Edgar grinned. "And purple, besides."
Collier blinked. "You mean, not just—"
"Oh, by no means just the gown. Her hair, her face, her hands. I—" A chuckle escaped Collier's brother. He cleared his throat, flattened his lips, and said in a somewhat tighter voice. "I doubt purple shall be her favorite color in the future."
Collier tried to swallow back the humor as well. But the laugh snorted out of him anyway, like a muffled choke. "So much for making a good impression, eh?"
"Oh, your Mrs. Pembroke indeed made an impression," Edgar assured him. "Lord only knows when it will scrub out. Vivian did admit to kissing you, but only that—said she kissed your cheek, and your shop girl overreacted. So no worries about Tentrees demanding pistols at dawn for that other business."
"I suppose I have that to be grateful for." Collier sighed.
"Trouble at Paradise Ranch, is it?" Edgar grinned. "Pard?"
"You are nowhere near as amusing as you think you are."
"But as long as /am amused, it's of no other consequence. Do tell me where you found the girl, Collier. She's splendid."
"She's ill-mannered and childish."
"But at least," offered Edgar, "she is not pretending to be someone she's not, hey? Like others among us."
Maybe that was a mistake, too. "Apparently not any longer."
"Eh?"
But Collier had no intention of discussing his marital difficulties, pretend or otherwise. What he intended to do was calm down. "Shall we play a game of billiards?"
"You're on," agreed Edgar. "What shall we play for?"
"Brambourne?"
"How about ten quid?"
Collier shrugged. "It'll do."
An
hour later and ten pounds richer, Collier felt as calm as he would get. He would not take offense. He would try to see things from Laurel's position. He would neither tell her to grow up nor demand to know what she'd meant by suggesting he do the same.
He would take her out someplace where they could see the mountains. If all went well, they could even, finally, discuss their future together... assuming she truly regretted only that they'd lied, and not that they'd married.
But Collier knew he was getting ahead of himself in that.
When he entered their room and saw her trunk missing, he realized just how far ahead of himself that had been.
For a long moment he stared at the space where her trunk had been. Then he strode to the wardrobe to look. Laurel's belongings were gone. All she'd left was a note on the writing table with his first name penned on the front.
Dearest Collier:
I am sorry I embarrassed you. If I had thought I would of done that—
"Would have," he corrected absently—then stiffened in dismay. Good Lord. He was a snob! How superior had he behaved at other times?
If I had thought I would of done that then I would not of come. That is why I am leaving, mainly, but to go home too. This does not seem fair to you, and I am sorry for that. I do not know what else to do. Enjoy your family. Mine is not perfect either. Please wire me through Papa when you will return to Sheridan.
She'd written the word please again, but crossed it out.
Collier glanced at the dustbin by the desk and saw a handful of crumpled pages. She had used up most of the hotel stationery, both on earlier drafts of the letter and what looked like...
Oh. He supposed those were brands.
She'd signed the note, Love, Laurel Pembroke.
Then she'd added, P.S.: I will find the money to replace the stained settee and wire it to you let me know how much.
Collier had not married a writer. But for purposes of communication, her letter sufficed. She was going home.
Alone?
Collier stood, grabbed his coat, pocketed the letter, and strode for the stairs. Perhaps he could catch her before she left—hopefully the hotel. If necessary, the city.