by Kari Trumbo
“I thought I would join you only for tonight.” She forced her hands to keep still, though she wanted to press her skirts. Constance had warned her not to, the fabric wrinkled easily. Though it was lush under her fingers, she wished to return it in the same condition she’d borrowed it.
“Well, we’ll have to see how you feel about that by the end of the evening.” His gaze lingered lower than her eyes and she pulled her wrap tighter about her shoulders. His insinuation that she would want to be with him beyond this evening burned like acid in her gut. The carriage came to a rest and he waited for the driver to open the door for them. Mr. Turner helped her out of the carriage and waited nearby, holding her too close. “Jones, make sure the picnic is ready before I bring Miss Arnsby down.” He stood with her next to the carriage, the breeze tousling his hair. She wanted to step away, to run. He glanced down at her lips then lower and the shade of the carriage reminded her they couldn’t be seen by anyone, even his driver had disappeared down the small embankment.
If Mr. Turner was talking, he couldn’t do anything dastardly. “What brought you all the way to the Black Hills, Mr. Turner?” Hadn’t Mr. Davidson asked her to get to know him, chat, experience romance? She bit back a sarcastic laugh, he’d also said, let him lead…
He chuckled. “I recently lost my brother. Sticky family matter. I decided I needed to stay away from home for a time. Even though I’ll only be here for one week, by the time I make it home, I’ll have been gone for three months.”
The sea was unimaginably vast to her. Even reading about it left her mind boggled at its immensity. She couldn’t imagine the sea under her feet for so long. “The extended travel must be dreadfully dull.” And indeed, it must be. The longest trip she’d ever taken had been from Cutter’s Creek, Montana to Deadwood, South Dakota, and that journey had felt like a lifetime.
He glanced away from her, his eyes relaxing to boredom. “It can be. I enjoy sea travel, for the most part. The colors of the water, the smell of the air. I imagine it could get tedious for some.”
Travel was probably much easier when you weren’t required to do anything but enjoy it, and Mr. Turner would have all the finest ships with superior rooms and excellent foods. Nothing like the tiny wagon she’d traveled in.
“I was told you like to play cricket.” She ventured a new subject and prayed that Mr. Davidson had given her enough information on the ball sport to respond as she should.
Mr. Turner’s gaze pinned her to the carriage. “I doubt you know anything about it, and that’s just fine. Here comes Jones. The meal must be laid out and waiting.”
He took her arm and led her down the shallow embankment to a grassy knoll along the edge of the river with sporadic trees blocking them from view. The birds chirped and the sounds of people walking in the streets beyond faded away in the midst of trees. The site was almost too quiet. Mr. Davidson had told her to look around if she needed help. There was no one here. Even Mr. Jones kept back out of sight. Her stays squished her ribs and she couldn’t take a full breath. What should she do if he laid his hands on her? She wasn’t strong enough to stop him.
“There, now we can eat without anyone staring. We can enjoy the sound of the water.” He directed her to sit. There was no reason not to comply, she’d agreed to come out with him and have a picnic. If she refused now, it would be admitting she thought him a scoundrel. The best course was to sit as far from him as she could without showing obvious dislike.
She glanced behind her once again, and though the sun wouldn’t set until late in the evening, there were fewer people out. She couldn’t even hear people talking from where they were. “You think we were being watched?”
“People are always watching me. Everything I do.” He frowned. “Now, for my offer. Where would you like to go, assuming I can get you to spend the week with me? Or, perhaps you’d like to go somewhere else? Paris, or England, perhaps?” He gave her a smile that would’ve made her knees weak if she weren’t sitting just where she shouldn’t be, with a man who could ruin her and not care a whit.
“I really think we should go back.” Why couldn’t she sound determined? Her sisters Ruby, or especially Hattie, could give an order without you ever realizing you were doing something for them. But not her. She was just mousy. Blast it all.
“You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Arnsby. I’m as harmless as a kitten.” He began eating, but she couldn’t bear to touch it. Not only was she so nervous her hands shook, but she’d soil her borrowed dress and gloves.
He watched her intently as he ate, licking his lips far too often to be necessary. “I think it’s lined up that we go roller skating after this. It sounds marvelous. It’s been a while since I’ve been. It’s a somewhat rustic pastime.” He wiped his mouth and stared at her. “Not hungry, Miss?”
“No, Mr. Turner.” She tipped her head to avoid him seeing the lie on her face. “So, you’ll only be here for a week?” How could she get out of going with him and still have Mr. Davidson help her? If this was romance—this strange sick feeling in her gut—the fear that he would jump over the blanket and crush her, then she didn’t want to experience it. Better to write of it as all the other women did, as if it were magical and amazing, something profound and desirable. The only feelings she’d felt in her gut so far was nervousness.
“Yes, a week that will be supremely lonely without anyone to wander with me. Say you’ll wander with me, Miss Arnsby.”
No, she wouldn’t so readily agree, but if she could be sure she wasn’t alone… “Perhaps you have a friend? I’d feel much better about spending the week with you if I could bring my friend, Constance, with me.” She bit her lip and prayed he had no one. Then she could beg off ever going with him again.
“Is that all? It just so happens that I do!” He stood and offered his hand to help her up. As she stood, he was too close. She made to pull away, but he held her fast. His eyes drank in her face and she noticed the harsh lines by his mouth. He was accustomed to frowning, though he hadn’t much that night. Perhaps he needed the respite of South Dakota and she shouldn’t keep him from enjoying it.
“If that is the case, we could go hiking next.” Constance, if she agreed to come, would complain horribly about that and he’d never want to see either of them again.
“See, I told you we could come to an agreement.” He paused, his eyes devouring her lips more than the chicken he’d just consumed. “Let’s go skating.”
Chapter 6
Tension knotted in Clive’s gut. He’d been sitting outside the squat building used for skating for the last two hours, waiting for Frances and Turner to emerge. It was a nondescript, large white building with a false front. Derthick’s Auditorium was painted in big block letters on the front. How could he have lost her? In town, yes, but here? There were only four rigs sitting outside, but not a one was the Englishman’s.
To continue his reconnaissance, he’d gone back to the hotel and changed back into his dusty livery clothes, but he couldn’t go inside after the couple. Derthick’s Auditorium, though a novelty, was a failure with the Rapid City populace. There wouldn’t be enough people inside for him to hide amongst them. Turner would’ve spotted him right away. His hand gripped the lines and the horse stomped, just as impatient.
Another fifteen minutes passed before an angel in a lavender gossamer gown appeared on the arm of the dandy. Turner stopped them midway around the side of the building and Frances almost fell. Clive growled as Mr. Turner reached out and caught her, then raised his hand to her chin. Time froze as Clive waited. Clive couldn’t see Frances’s expression. The gas lights didn’t illuminate their faces. Finally, he could stand it no longer. He jumped from the rig. Turner’s face plunged toward Miss Arnsby and Clive’s hand balled into a fist. He’d wanted her to gain experience, but not right in front of him. It was too much. He couldn’t stomach it.
“Mr. Turner, I trust you had a good evening?” If he were discovered, so be it. At least Miss Arnsby wouldn’t be eaten alive on th
e front step of one of the local businesses.
Pulling back from Miss Arnsby’s flushed face, Mr. Turner nodded to him, but largely ignored him. “Frances, I do hope that you and your friend can join me tomorrow? Our host was so kind to offer the use of his resort.”
Frances hesitated. “I...will have to speak to Constance. I’ll send you a message tomorrow morning. Thank you for a lovely evening.” She did a quick curtsy and rushed toward Clive. He had the strangest sensation to open his arms and catch her but held himself in check. He shook the thought from his head and turned, reaching his hand out to help her into the open rig. Her hand shook in his and he squeezed it.
“There you go.” He got her up to the seat. “You’re fine now. How was your evening?”
Her face froze in rigid formality. He almost wished for the flighty child she’d been when he first met her over the sullen woman she was now. She’d been so plucky sitting in front of his desk. Though she’d aged since he’d first seen her, he hated that her spunk had fled.
As he climbed into the seat, he took the lines. “Was I imagining it, or did you mention Constance coming with you next time? I wasn’t going to push you for a next time after meeting him.”
Narrow shoulders quaked next to him. No, don’t cry. I can’t do a thing for you here...
“It was just awful. I felt like I was on the menu the whole night. If you hadn’t agreed to it already, I would refuse to see him again. If that’s what romance is, then I’ll write a lie.” Her voice cut through him like glass.
Turner hadn’t spoken to him about anything further, but he couldn’t send her off alone again and Constance would save him from feeling guilty about this first outing. Frances might never be wooed like he’d originally hoped, but at least she’d have some idea about how to act, and how to write men. He just prayed that all her heroes weren’t Englishmen who sniffed at skirts.
“He said that he had a friend in the area that Constance could go with. I hope that doesn’t bother you. You seemed rather worried about her earlier.”
He pulled on the lines, stopping the horse in the middle of the street. “Just what do you mean by that?” Was she accusing him of desiring Constance Charity? The girl was pretty, but was also a whiny, spoiled heiress. He just didn’t like seeing anyone get hurt. Nothing could make him interested in that particular socialite.
“You seem quite concerned about her welfare. Don’t worry, I’d never tell her. Unless, of course, you’d like me to.” She fluttered her lashes and he caught a subtle look of hurt in her eyes. Did she feel sorry for him, thinking he’d fallen for someone well above his station? Or did something else shadow her thoughts?
“There’s nothing to tell. I hardly know Constance, and her kind doesn’t usually pay much mind to the lower classes. Not that I mind.” He didn’t want to add to her misconceptions. The last thing he needed was Constance Charity thinking he had some soft spot for her.
Frances clicked her tongue. “I’m sorry, Mr. Davidson. While I wouldn’t agree with you about Constance, her father is that way. He would never agree to such a match. I hope that doesn’t break your heart.”
He could almost laugh. He’d put more thought into what he’d worn the day before than he did into Miss Constance Charity. She just didn’t occur to him. “I’m pretty sure my heart will still beat in the morning.” He laughed. “You’re telling me you’ve gotten no inspiration for your story tonight?” He had to turn the subject away from Constance. He’d rather spend the last few minutes of his night finding out more about Misty Raines than discussing the overzealous socialite.
Her eyelashes fluttered up and she regarded him in the moonlight. A soft expression framing a face that was lovely right down to her last gently curling eyelash. Too pretty to get tangled with a news reporter. He sat up straighter in his seat and focused on his task.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say I came away completely empty handed. I realized my hero looks all wrong. And you were right, he doesn’t act precisely as a man should. Perhaps, even if I don’t get to experience romance, I can at the very least make my characters real.”
His hand tightened on the lines and he had to consciously tell himself to loosen the grip. How could she say in one breath that she couldn’t stand Turner, didn’t ever want to spend another minute with him, yet still want to turn him into her hero? He reminded himself that he’d wanted that very outcome, that he shouldn’t feel the green jealous beast rear its head within him, yet there it was all the same.
“Good, then tonight wasn’t wasted.” His jaw was too tight, his words hard to make out as he shoved them between his teeth.
“When we get back, I’ll need Constance’s gun.” Her response held a tremor of fear. Had he frightened her?
He patted his pocket where the heavy piece sat. “Don’t worry. I’ll get it back to you. Just be sure you leave it at home tomorrow. I don’t know how connected Mr. Turner is to the aristocracy in London. For all I know, he could be some displaced noble. But we’ll all find out if you accidentally shoot him.”
She muttered, “Or not so accidentally.”
He laughed. “I thought you were just saying how you were going to fashion your hero after Turner?”
He searched her face, not sure what he was looking for. Her innocent eyes met his and a shock spliced through him. Such honesty, such trust.
“I never said he was my hero.”
Her words dashed ice water over his head. The little woman, who knew nothing of romance, had just thrown an arrow directly at Clive’s heart. She was speaking of him...wasn’t she? Clive had lost track of her so early in the night, could there have been someone else there to romance her? Surely, Turner wouldn’t have allowed her to skate with others, but she could’ve shared conversation with another man. She couldn’t mean him, could she? A sliver of hope grew within him that he wanted to pluck out, but it held fast.
He pulled the carriage to a stop in front of the Charity mansion and climbed down, his heart still racing. He helped her down and she held his hand fast as she paused. “Thank you for making sure I made it safely, Mr. Davidson.”
Something about the moonlight on her skin, shimmering off the gown, the whispered velvet of her voice, or perhaps because she may have insinuated he was worthy of being called hero made him ache to pull her close. To taste those soft lips. But he couldn’t. He had to keep his head, or he wouldn’t be the chief reporter long. He cleared his throat and looked off across the expanse of the lawn.
“You’re welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He carefully fished the derringer from his vest and handed it back to her. She held it as if it were a slippery frog and tip-toed toward the house. He couldn’t make himself leave until he heard the solid click of the door.
She was safe, from Turner, and from him. For now.
Chapter 7
“What do you mean I’m to go out with you?” Constance stared at her from over her breakfast roll, the third she’d had that morning already.
If poor Constance wasn’t careful, she wouldn’t fit into any of her fitted bodices. Mr. Davidson had accused her of being naive about Constance. But just because she ate a little more than she ought didn’t mean anything. She was distraught over losing Reginald. Some people turned to food when they went through trials, Constance had to be that sort. Or, was there more that Frances couldn’t see, because as Mr. Davidson had said, she hadn’t lived enough.
“While I said I envied you, I don’t think Father would approve of this. It just isn’t done, and he’ll be watching us even closer with you here. I don’t even know who I’d be with, and you don’t either. Just because you escaped the pages this morning, doesn’t mean you’ll do it a second time. You shouldn’t be so bold. Didn’t you hear Dunworthy’s warning? He’s just looking for a reason to plaster my secrets all over.”
Frances hid her indecision behind her cup. She wouldn’t go with that man alone again. Either Constance would go, or neither of them would. That would leave poor Mr. Davidson scrambling. Not to ment
ion that he might turn her away if she wasn’t willing to learn, and she couldn’t have that just yet. Her writer’s mind had already begun spinning Mr. Davidson and his gray-blue eyes into her daily thoughts.
“You wouldn’t leave me alone, would you?” Frances set down her cup and pushed the eggs around on her plate. Turner could jump in the lake at the resort and she wouldn’t care. Her evening with the Englishman had been downright horrid, but the ride home had been exquisite. Sitting next to Mr. Davidson, the muscles flexing in his arm as he drove, his smile... She felt the heat creep up her neck, remembering her own admission that he was her hero...
And how had he reacted? He hadn’t. Maybe he was right, sometimes men were just men. If that was the case, why did it matter if the hero in her story was lunk-headed? Mr. Davidson had fit that description last night. Though, she had to admit that he didn’t make her feel uncomfortable or like a freshly cut steak on display at the butcher, as Mr. Turner had. He made her feel alive, worthwhile, and smart. He believed in her.
Constance had to come, or it would all be ruined. “I didn’t want to leave you out, and you said you enjoy it so much. It’s just this one week and we’ll be going out to very public places, like Crystal Lake or the hatchery...” She let her words trail off. Constance was a daughter of means. An evening at what had been explained as an exclusive resort might sway her, whereas Frances would rather avoid it.
“What if I end up in the paper again and Reginald sees it?” She set down the roll and stared at it as if it were a toad on her plate.
“Well, I have assurances from the paper that Dunworthy won’t be anywhere near us. Does that help?”
“Only a little. It’s still two strangers.”
“Turner is only slightly a stranger. I came home just fine, didn’t I?” Frances slid the small purse from the previous evening back over to Constance. “I was told you can’t bring a gun on these outings.”