The Lassoed by Marriage Romance Collection

by Bell, Angela; Breidenbach, Angela; Carter, Lisa

  Henry stopped her with a hand on her arm. “The coachman will bring the luggage in after he unharnesses the horses and turns them over to the groom.” He kept his hand on hers, even pressed it a little until she met his gaze. “These are things you need to know, Miss Dupont.”

  She couldn’t help herself. “Don’t you mean ‘my dear’?”

  A troubled look flitted across his face, and he lowered his voice further. “You’re right, of course. I won’t make that mistake again. If I do, we’re in danger.”

  The sun, partly concealed behind a towering cottonwood, seemed suddenly dim. This is serious. The future of her son, indeed, of an entire family, was at stake.

  She looked up, hoped her expression would reassure him. “We’ll be careful.”

  But as she mounted the stairs, the looming stone tower overhead, she was the one in need of assurance.

  Henry barely lifted the knocker before the door was swung open by a butler, who, like the house, was tall and looming. For the first time since she’d met him, Henry broke into a genuine smile.

  “Manfred!” he exclaimed.

  The butler gave a short bow. His own smile flickered, almost as if against his wishes. “How very good to see you, sir.” He spoke in a faint British accent. “I greatly regretted being away the last time you were at home.”

  Henry shook his head. “Don’t concern yourself.” He clasped the butler’s shoulder to turn him toward Katie. “Manfred, please see that my wife is shown to her room and properly assisted with dressing for dinner. And fetch Miss Oliver for the child.”

  Katie tightened her hold on Georgie. Who was Miss Oliver?

  She didn’t have time to ask, for Manfred was already leading the way across the entrance hall to the staircase.

  Lustrous images passed before her in a blur, a vague march of portraits and stained-glass windows above a carved banister. She scarcely knew what had happened before she found herself seated in a girlish room, looking into a cheval glass mirror flanked by two dainty sconces. Behind her stood a maid, who met her gaze in the mirror.

  “I’ll have you ready in a wink, ma’am.” Without a pause, she swept Katie’s hair up in deft hands.

  Through Katie’s haze, one thing was clear. Georgie was safely in her arms, held snugly in her lap.

  Just as the last pin was tucked into her hair, there was a knock on the door. Another maid entered the room, clothed in a white blouse and finely made skirt of checkered wool. A lady’s maid.

  “Mrs. Baxter is ready for dinner, Bridget,” she informed the first maid. “See that you show—ah—Mrs. Baxter the way to the dining room.”

  A smooth voice spoke from the hallway. “We will refer to my son’s wife as Mrs. Henry when we are at home, Francine.”

  The maid’s cheeks turned pink.

  The lady of the house herself stepped through the door, and Katie hurried to her feet, awkwardly lugging Georgie with her.

  Margaret Baxter looked her up and down over a straight nose; thin lips twisted in an expression Katie couldn’t read. Disdain? She held Georgie closer, as if to shield him from the aloof eyes. Alas, Margaret’s gaze shifted to him.

  “Where can that Miss Oliver be?” she murmured. She glanced toward the maid who’d labored over Katie’s hair. “Bridget, do take the child and find his nurse.”

  The maid dipped a curtsy and reached for Georgie.

  Katie stretched as far from the reaching arms as possible. “I don’t mind holding him. Really, I don’t.”

  Her new mother-in-law’s brows rose.

  She didn’t expect me to have an accent.

  The surprise faded and a coldness took its place, a coldness not quite buried beneath Margaret’s poise. “We leave the tending of our little ones to capable nurses here on Capitol Hill, my dear.”

  Katie stared at her for the length of several heartbeats. This is best for Georgie, she reminded herself. But with every heartbeat, she felt a mother’s protest. It didn’t help that her son had fallen asleep, downy head pillowed on her shoulder, body slumped in a way that was entirely trusting.

  He didn’t awaken as Bridget carried him from the room. Still, everything within Katie wanted to snatch him back and depart the house, never to return. Especially when she saw that Margaret looked after him, too, her face devoid of grandmotherly warmth.

  At that moment, Henry appeared in the doorway, and his single dimple filled Katie’s vision. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought his smile bordered on sympathetic.

  “I see young George is off to the nursery,” he said.

  Unsolicited tears welled in her eyes. “Oui, but—”

  “It’s past time for dinner,” Margaret broke in. She addressed Henry. “Your brother and Alice are here, awaiting your arrival in the drawing room.”

  “Ah, good old Thomas. Finally overcame his habit of tardiness, did he?”

  Margaret ignored the question and turned to Francine. “Kindly inform Mister Thomas and his wife that dinner is served.”

  The maid left, and Margaret again addressed Henry. “You’ll find that your brother has changed in your absence. He’s no longer a child. Both he and Alice are aware of the…circumstances of your marriage.” She gave Katie a pointed stare. “But the servants are not. Let’s preserve their ignorance, shall we?”

  Katie managed a dazed nod, and her mother-in-law swept through the door, her black mourning skirt trailing behind her.

  Henry extended his elbow to Katie, and together they followed the velvet train through the hall and down the stairs.

  Dinner was a strained affair, made worse by Margaret, who apparently had some delicate matters to discuss with her offspring.

  Katie ate forkfuls of steaming duck and sipped vintage wine, all the while afraid she’d chosen the wrong fork.

  Henry’s brother Thomas sat across from her, his intense brown eyes—his mother’s eyes—on Henry. Almost as if he is weighing a stranger. Thomas’s pretty, blond wife, Alice, had smiled at Katie when they’d first entered the room. Just a small smile, but it seemed a veritable beacon of sunlight in this wainscoted cavern with its dark mahogany table and claw-footed chairs.

  The footman set a dish of currant jelly on the table, and Margaret waited for him to leave the room before she spoke.

  The jelly is supposed to accompany the duck. Katie realized she’d been the only one eating the savory meat. She chided herself for her blunder and hoped the others hadn’t noticed. She forced her mind to what her mother-in-law was saying.

  “You are aware, Thomas, that I sent for Henry when your brother was ill.” She didn’t wait for a response, nor did she seem to think it odd that she spoke of Henry as if he weren’t there. “I decided it was time for him to come home and take up his family obligations, primarily concerning the bank.”

  Thomas tightened his grip on his wineglass. “Pardon my bluntness, but…do you really think that’s wise?”

  A droll look appeared on Henry’s face. “You’re referring to my inglorious record of being more an embarrassment than an asset, I presume?”

  Thomas flushed, and his voice rose. “You deny it?”

  “No.”

  There was silence.

  Margaret broke it, nonplussed. “Nevertheless, Henry will take Jackson’s place as senior partner at Baxter and Company, and head of this family.”

  “That will hardly be necessary, Mother.” Thomas spoke icily. “I know enough about the bank to manage its operation.”

  She looked at him. “You are more than capable, son, but you’re too young. We need Henry to be the one who makes deals over drinks.” Her shoulders slumped just slightly. “Jackson had a way about him that made people trust him. Who knows?” She reached across and patted Henry’s hand. “Perhaps Henry will as well.”

  But even an outsider could see she didn’t have much faith in the notion.

  Katie could barely swallow her bite of duck. It would seem she’d joined a family who not only rejected both her and her son but also ha
d little respect for her husband.

  Chapter 6

  Through the open oak door, Henry could see his brother’s knee bobbing. He could hear the tapping sound of the sleek Stylographic pen on the ledger. He’d been troubled by Thomas’s behavior lately—the sending and receiving of mysterious telegrams, hasty departures, constant fidgeting. But he wouldn’t ask. Let him come to me for once.

  Henry’s massive book-lined chamber was separated from all others, accessible only through his brother’s office. He preferred it that way. During the months since he’d been home, he’d focused on learning his new trade. He’d poured over accounts, studied earnings books, checked and rechecked collateral. He was content to let Thomas deal with the clerks, bookkeepers, office boys, and runners even the clients. At least, all but the most salient of clients. As senior member, Henry was expected to meet with certain ones.

  But he didn’t dare do it without Thomas. Not until he learned more.

  He heard a scraping noise and looked to see his brother standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, the other holding a folded piece of paper. Henry recognized the insignia stamped on the creamy page, a winged lion.

  Randall & Son.

  A chill crawled up his back. The head of Randall & Son was a bitter enemy, a former business partner of Henry’s father before a terrible disagreement caused them to separate. Their rivalry grew fiercer as the years went by, and Henry knew that Arthur Randall would love nothing more than to ruin his family.

  Then why is my brother holding a message from him?

  “I’m headed home,” Thomas said.

  Henry searched for a reason to object. If I keep him here, he might tell me what this is all about. “Couldn’t you stay and help me with these joint transactions? I can’t quite decipher the postings.”

  Thomas crossed his wiry arms over his chest. “Isn’t that something the chief manager should know?”

  Henry sighed. He’d tried to be patient, earn respect little by little. But a hostile glint still shone in his brother’s eyes. “Yes. It is.” He waited.

  Thomas jerked his hand through his light brown hair. “I thought I explained it to you already.” He gave Henry a sudden piercing look. “Yes, I did. You do know how to do it. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

  Henry treaded with caution. He’d discovered a knack for business lurking inside him, and suspected his brother had seen it as well. If he doesn’t feel needed, we could lose him. The company couldn’t afford that. “Kindly remember that my business expertise consists of one uncompleted term at a university and two summers as an intern under Father’s junior clerk.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “I’ve been here for hours, Henry. My wife is waiting.”

  There’s more to his urgency than Alice’s eagerness. And Henry was sure it had something to do with that note from Randall & Son. But it was true Thomas had worked long. They’d both kept the newfangled electric lights on late tonight.

  Henry shrugged. “Very well, go.”

  Thomas left, and Henry resigned himself to learning more about the note another day.

  Their strained exchange put him in a foul mood that followed him home.

  His mood did not improve when he entered the house and the footman told him that his mother was waiting for him in the drawing room. He groaned inwardly and surrendered his hat to the servant, then walked down the hall and drew aside the curtain. He proceeded into the gas-lit room—his mother considered electricity downright perilous—to find her pacing.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She stopped in the middle of the immense Oriental rug and faced him with a grim countenance. “You’re spending too much time at work.”

  “I thought you wanted me to take the reins of the business.”

  She turned sharply, moved to sit on the floral settee. With a sweep of her hand, she gestured for him to sit across from her. “Not if it means neglecting your wife.”

  “So you’re fond of her now?” He nearly smiled.

  She glared.

  He let out an exasperated breath. “If you’re worried about the servants being suspicious, you needn’t be. They’ve no doubt thought I was merely preoccupied with my new profession.”

  “It’s not only the servants. Do you realize that in a few short months we’ll be out of mourning? We’ll host the expected reception for her. We’ll have guests. You and your bride must begin acting more affectionate now, or you’ll never convince them.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “And what of the boy? You’ve hardly glanced at him in weeks.”

  Something built inside, a simmering he’d kept under the surface. But now it bubbled over. “Do you think this has been easy for me, Mother? Do you think it’s easy knowing that the offspring I must claim as my own came from that…illicit union? Surely you’ve noticed the child is the very image of Jackson. Every time I look at him I remember his tainted origins.” The edge in his voice grew. “And my wife, formerly my brother’s mis—” In the widened white of his mother’s eyes, he saw he’d gone too far. One didn’t speak so bluntly in the presence of a lady.

  He studied her more closely. Or is it only that?

  She was gazing beyond him. He twisted and saw, framed in the entrance, Katie’s stricken face.

  She met his eyes for an instant, then whirled and hastened away.

  For a time he stared after her, numb. Then a sharp sensation knifed through his chest, and he sank his head into his hands.

  Katie looked in awe at the many-paned windows, gilt-framed portraits, and golden lambrequins that led the way to a vaulted ceiling. The ballroom had been unused all spring and was shadowy, covered in a layer of dust. Still, the men in the portraits should be smiling, being in such a grand place.

  So should the woman standing before her. Katie knew her mother-in-law enjoyed dancing, yet her mouth was drawn in a sour line.

  “I’ve no notion whatever,” she said, “of how to be the man.”

  Katie would have laughed if she hadn’t been so tired of being blamed. It isn’t my fault her summer is spoiled. There were no excursions to Twin Lakes Village or the summer resorts at Bear Creek for a family in mourning. Teaching me to dance should be a welcome diversion for her.

  “Maybe I could be the man?” Katie suggested.

  “Don’t be absurd. You can’t very well waltz with my son or dance a quadrille with our acquaintances if you can’t follow a lead.”

  Katie swallowed. She hadn’t considered that she might be dancing with Henry. It had been days since she’d overheard him talking to Margaret in the drawing room. She hadn’t spoken to him since. It wasn’t difficult to avoid him. He left the house before breakfast every morning, worked late, and though their rooms were adjacent, had yet to seek her out at night.

  She couldn’t imagine the intimacy of a waltz with someone who so disdained her. Or who despises my child. Her eyes stung, and she forced her thoughts to the matter at hand.

  The fall and winter seasons would bring many social engagements, dinner parties, teas, and balls. If Katie was to fit in at these events, she must learn whatever Margaret had to teach her. Even if she treats me like a soiled dishcloth—and even if I must dance without a man.

  At that moment, the door swung open, and a solidly built figure strode into the room. Katie felt herself stiffen when she recognized the confident gait of her husband.

  “Dancing, are we?” he paused to ask. He continued forward and halted before them. “I believe I can help with that.”

  And then, without warning, he lifted his brows pointedly at his mother, who lost little time in departing the room. Katie longed to call out after her. No! Don’t go. I forgive you for being a tyrant.

  But she was already gone.

  In the silence, Henry made no move toward her. He put his hands behind his head as though reclining in his favorite chair. He did that sometimes, she’d noticed.

  “Hard at work, I see,” he said. “Learning the social n
iceties.”

  She bit her lip and looked away. I am not making trivial conversation with him.

  He hesitated, then spread his arms wide in an invitation to dance. “Shall we?”

  She bore holes into him with her eyes. Then a lump formed in her throat and she dropped her gaze.

  Mistress. That’s what he’d almost called her. His brother’s mistress. She hadn’t been, not really. Jackson wasn’t married, and their relationship hadn’t been ongoing. She knew the latter was what Henry assumed. But once was bad enough.

  That was then, she reminded herself. This was now, and she needed to learn a new skill. For her son’s sake.

  Before she could think better of it, she stepped forward and slipped her hands into his.

  His clasp was warm. Masculine hairs darkened his wrist. Jackson hadn’t had those, she remembered absently.

  Her husband slid his arm around her waist and drew her nearer. She pulled back, spine rigid. His face was impassive as he led her through their first turn.

  The sway of his steps lured her, relaxed her. She followed his lead, gradually began to move with him—most of the time. He turned in a direction she hadn’t anticipated, and she lurched forward, her chest inadvertently brushing against his.

  His face changed. A flicker of…something…flitted into his eyes.

  He cleared his throat. “I suppose my mother has schooled you in a dizzying array of social rituals by now.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “The ceremony of the call, no doubt. The leaving of cards, the folding of corners to indicate the purpose of the visit, the proper length of time to return the call.”

  Why was he here, with his casual banter? As though nothing has happened. Well, something had. She couldn’t forget the way he’d insulted her. Couldn’t answer him. And yet she heard herself speaking.

  “I’ve discovered that it’s bad form to make introductions in the street. Or to arrive early to the opera, or wear the same gown to dinner as one wore to luncheon. My mind is forever racing, trying to keep track of it all.”

  He stopped. Dropped his hands to his sides, tired eyes telling of sleepless nights. “The other evening I was a rake. I should never have spoken that way about you.”