Monique’s smile was almost wicked. A sculptress of renown in Europe, Monique and Dr. Richard Fortune had been the source of so much scandal that the pair had fled their home in England, eventually landing in Texas a year before Jenny was born. Texas proved to be a good place for Monique to live and work. The state attracted all sorts of strange characters, so the outrageous artist and her single-minded lover had fit right in.
At least, for a time. Texas grew more conservative with every year that passed; Monique Day’s reputation kept pace in the opposite direction. She thrived on scandal, and the proof of it now glimmered in her eyes. She thoughtfully tapped a finger against her lips, then said, “You should take the Bad Luck label and turn it into something women covet.”
“I want the entire subject to fade quietly away,” her daughter grumbled.
“But that will never happen, will it?”
Jenny shrugged. Although she took after her mother with her penchant for autonomy, she also was a realist, a side of her nature she inherited from her father. As surely as the dress in the mirror was white, this rumor wouldn’t go away without help. So, what was she going to do about it?
Jenny turned sideways, eyeing the profile of the dress. Simple and elegant and too tight in the bust. Those Bailey girls were flat-chested women. “If I were to wear the dress, I’d need to let out the seams in the bodice and take them in on the skirt. I’d need—”
Monique clapped her hands. “Wait. Don’t say another word.” She gazed shrewdly at the dress and said, “Yes. It’s perfect!”
“What’s perfect?”
“Why, for you to wear the dress, of course. What better way to disprove this silly idea that a dress can create bad luck than to wear it yourself? Preferably at a wedding. Your own wedding.”
For just a moment, Jenny considered it. Then she sadly shook her head. “It wouldn’t work, Monique.”
“Certainly it would,” her mother replied. “Trust my judgment in this. After all, didn’t you just ask for my advice?”
“But—”
Monique interrupted with a martyred sigh. “That’s the story of my life. She asks and then she never listens.” Lifting her nose into the air, she exited the dressing room in a whirl of petticoat and perfume.
Jenny followed, searching for the words to convey both her appreciation for her mother’s efforts and her doubts about the outcome of such a plan. Monique took a seat at her daughter’s worktable and flipped through a stack of designs. She pointed to a sketch of a ball gown with a plunging neckline and said, “I’d like one of these. In yellow, I believe. For the Christmas Ball.”
“Yellow in December?”
Her mother gave her a droll look. “Jenny, you forget to whom you are talking.”
“No, I don’t.” Despite her troubles, a smile tugged at the corners of Jenny’s mouth. “I’m fully aware that you could wear a costume toga to a formal ball and still be the belle of the evening.”
Monique nodded, taking the compliment as her due.
“But I have a bolt of emerald silk perfect for you,” Jenny continued. “I love sewing for you, Monique. You do my designs better justice than any other woman in Texas. Although, now that I think about it, for your figure I believe I should alter the line of the—”
“Whatever.” Monique grasped her daughter’s hand. “I trust your judgment where fashion is concerned, Jenny. But in other areas…” She gave the fingers a squeeze. “I’ve been waiting for you to marry for years. Not for grandchildren, mind you,” she added with a shudder. “I’m not that old.”
“Monique, I’m happy by myself. I don’t need a man.”
Her mother dropped Jenny’s hand, held her own hands palms up, and lifted her face toward the heavens. “That a daughter of mine would actually put voice to such drivel.”
“Mother.”
“Sit down, Jenny.”
“But—”
“Please?”
Jenny sat.
Monique smiled gently and said, “I understand your feelings toward marriage. I know you think I don’t, but you are wrong. I hate to see you living alone. I want you to know the joy a woman can find with a man—the right man. A bliss such as what I’ve found with your father.”
“Bliss?” Jenny scoffed, rubbing her forehead with her fingers. “Monique, you’ve divorced him three times.”
Monique waved a hand. “Don’t confuse me. I’m attempting to make a point here.”
Jenny stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “And what point is that?”
“I believe you are waiting for love, am I right?”
Jenny didn’t want to talk about this with her mother any more than she’d wanted to talk about the Bailey girls with Wilhemina Peters. “Mother—”
“That’s your problem; you can’t expect too much too soon. True love isn’t something that occurs overnight. True love takes time to build; time and shared experiences to strengthen the bond between two people.”
“Like the true love you built with Papa?” Jenny asked sarcastically.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Of course we didn’t have true love from the first. We had great passion. Love grew from that.”
“I don’t think we should be discussing this.”
The older woman gave a frustrated snort. “And who better to discuss such matters with than your own mother? Listen to me. This is important. You do not need love to lust for another, Jenny, and sometimes lust can lead to something deeper. You are twenty-three years old. Have you ever surrendered to a man?”
Jenny’s back snapped straight. “No, Mother, and I never will.”
Monique waved a hand. “Perhaps surrender was a poor choice of words, but you know what I’m asking. Jenny, are you a virgin?”
“What a thing to ask your daughter!”
“Well, you asked for my advice, and I’m simply trying to help. Marriage is the ideal solution to your problem and you’ve always been so set against it. I’m thinking a little experience might prove to you what pleasures you are missing.”
Jenny hung her head. This conversation was a perfect example of just how different her upbringing had been. Most young women were cautioned against surrendering to passion by their mothers; Jenny was being encouraged. She closed her eyes. “I appreciate your point, but I’m afraid I can’t view marriage and love and … relations with a man in the same light as you. I’ve never been the free spirit you are.”
“Your father’s influence, I fear,” the artist replied, sniffing with disdain.
Conviction rang in Jenny’s voice. “Nevertheless, I’d rather be a spinster than be trapped in a loveless marriage.” With that, she stood and walked regally to the dressing room, suddenly feeling the need to be free of both the wedding gown and her mother.
“Ah-hah.” Monique followed her, shaking a finger. “But that’s not the question, is it? The question is whether you would rather be your father’s assistant living at Thicket Glen than be married and run your own business.”
Jenny grimaced. “I’ll solve my problems another way.”
“Marriage would be the easiest.”
“Marriage is never easy. I’d think you of all people would admit that. And it would not work. A marriage made for such reasons is bound to fail.”
“Now, Jenny—”
“I know what you’re going to say,” she interrupted, her frown deepening as she noticed a tear in the dress’s trim. The taffeta rustled as she lifted the skirt to check for damage. “You know how I feel about divorce.”
Monique waved her hand. “Oh, all right. I don’t have time to waste time with that old argument, anyway. I do have a train to catch, you remember.”
“I can fix this.” Jenny murmured, then breathed a sigh of relief that had nothing to do with the rip in the trim. She simply didn’t have the energy to debate the merits of divorce with her mother this afternoon. As the product of such an on-and-off-again union as that of her mother and father, Jenny’s views on divorce differed substantiall
y from Monique’s. They’d argued the question on numerous occasions.
The older woman’s brow lifted as she gave her daughter a pointed look. “You did ask for my opinion.”
“My mistake,” she muttered under her breath.
“I heard that, and I want to say you are being terribly unkind to a mother who wants only the best for her child. Proving the dress to be free of bad luck is a good idea, and I think you are foolish to dismiss it out of hand.”
Jenny knew she’d hurt her mother, and she felt guilty because of it. Adopting a conciliatory tone, she said, “You’re right, Mother. I’m sorry.” She worked the buttons on the left sleeve. “I’ll admit your idea has some merit, but I’m afraid it’s a moot point. I don’t have a beau.”
“Oh, dear.” Her mother groaned. “Not one?”
Jenny lifted her shoulders in reply.
Monique laid her hand against her chest. “I am scandalized. Simply scandalized. My heavens, you may have my features, but you certainly have more of your father in you than what is healthy. It’s bad enough that you disguise your beauty with that silly chignon and the dull colors you choose. You know I never have agreed with your idea that a modiste shouldn’t outshine her customers. It seems to me that you should be your own best advertisement.”
She hooked her thumb over her shoulder toward the worktable where a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles lay beside the sketches. “And those eyeglasses! Perhaps they do help prevent eyestrain while doing stitch work, but you wear them in public. Like armor … unattractive armor at that.”
She shook her head in wonder. “I don’t understand you, daughter, I simply don’t. It’s difficult enough to accept that you don’t have a husband, but how can you not at least have a beau? Didn’t you learn anything growing up? Why, you were raised at the petticoats of the best flirt in Texas!”
That much was certainly true. It was also the reason Jenny had long ago chosen not to attract attention to herself by dress or manner. Something inside her rebelled against her mother’s flamboyant ways.
“Men and I seem to want different things,” she said defensively in a soft voice as she unfastened the buttons on the right sleeve. “I’ve yet to meet a potential husband willing to allow me to keep Fortune’s Design. I see no reason to waste my time being squired about by a man when we have no future together.”
Monique tisked. “See what I mean? If you were not still a virgin, you’d know better than that.”
“Mother!”
“I’m certain there must be at least one man in Fort Worth who would serve your purposes. Your business is at risk today. Unless you come up with a brilliant idea of your own, I think you must at least consider mine and identify the man you would target. Surely there’s someone in Fort Worth who interests you?”
Jenny had a sudden vision of her landlord sweeping his youngest daughter into his arms, both their faces alight with laughter.
Just because she found the man attractive didn’t mean she’d consider marrying him. And so what if she indulged in daydreams involving him from time to time? The man had never looked twice at her.
“No, Mother.” She shook her head decisively. “I appreciate your help, but I don’t think this is the answer. Besides, I’m not certain wearing the dress myself would do the trick. Fort Worth would simply hold its collective breath waiting for ‘bad luck’ to happen to me. They’d probably publish odds on how and when it would happen in the Democrat, just like they do for the horse races.”
While people all over the world had strange ideas about luck, Fort Worth, being a gambling town, seemed to have stranger ideas than most. Folks here made bets on everything from the weather to the length of the sermon at the Baptist church on Sunday. Jenny theorized that this practice contributed to a dedicated belief in the vagaries of luck, making it easy for many to lay the blame for the Baileys’ difficulties on the dress.
Monique shrugged. “Well, I think you’re wrong. Give it a try, dear. It’s a perfect solution. And you needn’t be overly concerned with your lack of a beau. Despite your father’s influence, you are still my daughter. The slightest of efforts will offer you plenty of men from whom to choose. Now, I think you should start with this.”
She pulled the pins from Jenny’s chignon, fluffed out her wavy blond tresses, then pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’m so glad I was able to help, dear. Now I’d best get back to the station. Keep me informed about the developments, and if you choose to follow my advice, be sure to telegraph me with the date for the wedding. I’ll do my best to see that your father drags his nose from his studies long enough to attend.”
“Wait, Monique,” Jenny began. But the dressing room curtains flapped in her mother’s wake, and the front door’s welcome bell tinkled before she could get out the words, “I can’t undo these back buttons myself.”
Wonderful. Simply wonderful. She closed her eyes and sighed. It’d be just her luck if not a single woman entered the shop this afternoon. “The Bad Luck Wedding Dress strikes again,” she grumbled.
Of course, she didn’t believe it. Jenny didn’t believe in luck, not to the extent many others did, anyway. People could be lucky, but not things. A dress could not be unlucky any more than a rabbit’s foot could be lucky. “What’s the saying?” she murmured aloud, eyeing her reflection in the mirror. “The rabbit’s foot wasn’t too lucky for the rabbit?”
Jenny set to work twisting and contorting her body, and eventually she managed all but two of the buttons. Grimacing, she gave the taffeta a jerk and felt the dress fall free even as she heard the buttons plunk against the floor.
While she gave little credit to luck, she did believe rather strongly in fate. As she stepped out of the wedding gown and donned her own dress, she considered the role fate had played in leading her to this moment. It was fate that she’d chosen to make Fort Worth her home. Fate that the Baileys had chosen her to make the dress. Fate that the brides had suffered accidents.
The shop’s bell sounded. “Now someone comes,” she whispered grumpily. “Not while I’m stuck in a five- hundred-dollar dress and needing assistance.” She stooped to pick the buttons up off the floor and immediately felt contrite. She’d best be grateful for any customer, and besides, she welcomed the distraction from her troublesome thoughts.
Pasting a smile on her face, Jenny exited the dressing room and spied Mr. Trace McBride entering her shop.
He was dressed in work clothes—black frock jacket and black trousers, white shirt beneath a gold satin vest. He carried a black felt hat casually in his hand and raked a hand nervously through thick, dark hair.
Immediately, she ducked back behind the curtain.
Oh, my. Her heart began to pound. Why would the one man in Fort Worth, Texas, who stirred her imagination walk into her world at this particular moment?
She swallowed hard as she thought of her mother’s advice. It was a crazy thought. Ridiculous.
But maybe, considering the stakes, it wouldn’t hurt to explore the idea. Jenny had the sudden image of herself clothed in the Bad Luck Wedding Dress, standing beside Trace McBride, his three darling daughters looking on as she repeated vows to a preacher.
Her mouth went dry. Hadn’t she sworn to fight for Fortune’s Design? Wasn’t she willing to do whatever it took to save her shop? If that meant marriage, well…
Wasn’t it better to give up the dream of true love than the security of her independence?
Jenny stared at her reflection in the mirror. What would it hurt to explore her mother’s idea? She wouldn’t be committing to anything.
Jenny retailed the lessons she’d learned at Monique’s knees. Flirtation. Seduction. That’s how it was done. She took a deep breath. Was she sure about this? Could she go through with it? She was Monique Day’s daughter. Surely that should count for something. She could do this.
Maybe.
Trace McBride. What did she really know about him? He was a businessman, saloonkeeper, landlord, father. His smile made her warm inside and the mu
sky, masculine scent of him haunted her mind. Once when he’d taken her arm in escort, she couldn’t help but notice the steel of his muscles beneath the cover of his coat. His fingers would be rough against the softness of her skin. His kiss would be—
Jenny started. Oh, bother. Had she lost her sense entirely?
Perhaps she had. She was seriously considering her mother’s idea.
What was she thinking? He’d never noticed her before, what made her think he’d notice her now? What made her think he’d even consider such a fate as marriage?
Fate. There was that word again.
Was Trace McBride her fate? Could he save her from the rumor of The Bad Luck Wedding Dress? Could he help her save Fortune’s Design?
She wouldn’t know unless she did a little exploring. Was she brave enough, woman enough, to try?
She was Jenny Fortune. What more was there to say?
Taking a deep breath, Jenny pinched her cheeks, fluffed her honey-colored hair, and walked out into the shop.
If you break your washpot, you will have twenty years bad luck.
CHAPTER 3
TRACE STOOD AWKWARDLY BETWEEN a rack of ribbons and lace and a naked dressmaker’s form. He’d been in the shop before but always with his daughters. Something about all the froufrou and furbelows in this place made his neck itch. He didn’t want to think it might be the woman.
Jenny Fortune wasn’t his type at all. The question of plain or pretty aside, she was respectable and acquainted with his girls—reason enough for him to maintain his distance. Trace had a firm rule to remain on a nodding- acquaintance-only basis with any woman his daughters might consider a prospective mother. He wouldn’t have them hurt, and since he’d never—under any circumstances—marry again, he didn’t want them getting their hopes up.
Despite all his good intentions, when the woman in question emerged from the back of the shop, he found himself fighting a strong surge of lust. Must be the tears, he tried to tell himself. He’d always been a sucker for a lady’s tears.
The Bad Luck Wedding Dress (The Bad Luck Wedding series) Page 3