Foxe had turned an uncomely shade of red, but said nothing. No one else spoke, either, and Lyla sensed her stay at his estate would be more trying than either of them dared to imagine unless he muzzled his help. Her cookie was dry and not nearly spicy enough, so she set it on her plate and quickly quaffed her tea. “Excuse me. I can’t swallow another bite.”
Striding toward the stairway, she heard Frazier making her apologies behind her. She hated to cave in to Miss Keating, but she refused to be a laughingstock…especially since she was supposedly to become the mistress of this house!
Lyla closed her bedroom door and crossed to the window. She’d unknowingly chosen a view of the sheep buildings—double torment because they reminded her of home, and because they teased at her as a means of escape. If only Connor, Kelly, and Nate didn’t live there…she sensed those desperadoes would be far easier to elude than Frazier, but the idea of running blind was suicidal. Better to bide her time, learning the workings of this inhospitable household, than to be hauled back in humiliation after a failed attempt at running off. She had no horse, no map…
No Barry Thompson to run to.
She stuffed her knuckles into her mouth and crumpled onto the bed. Such a lovely room this was, with carved cherry furnishings and olive, caramel, and cream print accessories. Items she would’ve chosen to decorate the house Barry said he’d be building. Just when they’d reconciled their misunderstandings and declared their love, their dreams had gone up in smoke, all because Frazier Foxe resented being belittled, and Thompson refused to be bought.
Lyla’s repressed grief flooded her soul and she gave in to uncontrollable crying. Barry Thompson was a good man: gentle, fair-minded, affectionate. And just when she realized how much she loved him—just when he revealed his deep feelings and wonderful plans for her—it wasn’t fair! All the horrors she’d been forced to witness those last few moments outside the shack would haunt her forever. There was no forgiving such a callous act, no forgetting a love that would’ve lasted a lifetime.
Again Lyla saw his beloved face: the boyish grin, the sweet green eyes so like the hills of home, the light brown hair that framed his ruddy features, the lush, seductive mouth that would seek hers no more. She ached with the memory of his kiss, reliving each tender sentiment they’d shared this morning, shackled by captor’s ropes, yet free within each other’s arms.
If only she’d fought harder…if only she’d gone outside, as Barry had told her to, and caused a diversion so the marshal could escape from the shanty before the three thieves set it afire. If only she’d told him she loved him before he perished. So many vows unspoken; so many tender moments turned to dust.
And the worst part was that even if she got Foxe and his gang convicted of their heinous crimes, it wouldn’t bring Thompson back. Once justice was done, her life would become an endless, aching void no other man could fill.
Lyla had sobbed herself out when she heard her door opening. Rather than acknowledge whoever it was, she lay facing the wall, her cheek on the wet comforter as tears dribbled unchecked down her face.
“I realize you’ve suffered a shock, dear-heart, but we must come to an understanding. I can’t allow this behavior to continue.”
A handkerchief fluttered over her shoulder, and the far side of the bed dipped with Frazier’s weight. He waited for her response, and when she only hicced and sniffled, he continued in that low, cultivated voice Lyla had come to despise.
“You must put Thompson and today’s events out of your mind, Miss O’Riley. Hollingsworth and Allegra will find these outbursts quite unseemly from a young woman who’s to marry into such a fortune.”
“Unseemly?” Lyla gasped. She rolled into a sitting position and glared at the ogre who regarded her so calmly. “How seemly is it for you to bring me here in the first place? I’m young enough to be—you obviously hadn’t told them you even intended to—and when I appeared wearing Mick’s dirty old clothes—”
“Yes, you were a shock to them, dear-heart,” he said with a chuckle, “but they’ll adjust. We all shall. You’re the first woman I’ve ever brought home, so I imagine their tongues are wagging full tilt about now.”
Frazier’s slender legs were crossed and his gloved hands rested in his lap. As always, he was dressed to perfection in a striped suit and a crisp shirt and tie; his face appeared freshly-shaven around his waxed mustache, and his tight curls lay neatly in place. Barry’s insinuations about this man’s effeminate nature came back to her—since he never worked up a sweat over anything else, it made sense he wouldn’t sully himself with a woman. And since he was sparing her no embarrassment, Lyla saw no reason to mince words about their incompatibility.
“Mr. Foxe, it’s no secret that you pay the ladies at the Rose for their company, yet you never unfasten your pants,” she said bluntly. “Why on earth do you want to get married—to the likes of me, no less?”
His expression never wavered. “Who else would have you, dear-heart? You’re known as a thief and a potential murderess. Unemployable. Just another vagrant from the far shores come to America and unable to support yourself.”
“Your flattery overwhelms me,” Lyla muttered. “And you’re changing the subject. Why do you want me? According to Barry, you don’t even like women.”
“That’s why he’s dead!” Frazier snapped. “He shot his mouth off too much. Stuck his nose where it didn’t belong.”
Despite her grief, Lyla fought back a smile. She’d found a chink in this monster’s armor and she was determined to pry at it. “And speaking of mouthiness, if I’m to be the mistress of this house, I won’t tolerate Miss Keating’s rude remarks. If she intends to remain here as—”
“You’ll have no say concerning the running of this household or my staff,” Foxe replied brusquely. “Not only because I don’t want you causing any rifts, but because the wife of an extremely wealthy man doesn’t concern herself with her husband’s responsibilities. You’ve much to learn about your new station in life, Lyla. Most girls would be giddy with the prospect of marrying into the life of the idle rich.”
“Most girls haven’t watched the idle rich murder the men they loved.”
“Love!” Frazier retorted with a roll of his pearl-gray eyes. “Only the young and the feeble-minded believe in such claptrap! Surely what you witnessed today taught you how useless it is to invest yourself in someone else’s heart.”
Lyla swallowed a sob and forced herself to focus on Frazier Foxe’s monocle. Why upset herself again, when this unfeeling beast would never concede to her arguments because he’d always evade the issues she was discussing? “So,” she began in the strongest voice she could find, “this will be a marriage in name only? What a relief! I thought I’d have to—”
Foxe’s grin chilled her. “Actually, the only feasible reason for me to bother with such a worthless institution as matrimony is to beget an heir. After amassing such vast holdings—my very purpose in life—I have to pass it on to someone when I pass on myself.”
Lyla was so mortified she couldn’t breathe. The thought of sharing a bed with this criminal repulsed her. After making love with Barry—even a Barry who was out of his head—how could she possibly allow his murderer to invade her body? Why, he probably wouldn’t even take off his gloves, let alone—
“And so there won’t be any misunderstanding,” Frazier continued coolly, “I’ll reassure you that I’ll be no part of the necessary mating that must ensue.”
Lyla lifted an eyebrow. “Surely a man with your low opinion of love can’t believe in immaculate conception,” she said wryly.
Foxe’s laughter filled the room, and he rose to walk around in front of her. “You’re clever, Miss Lyla. Too clever for your own good. And since you didn’t also mention virgin birth, am I to assume you aren’t one?”
She forced her face to remain expressionless, yet she felt the color creeping up her cheeks.
Foxe laughed again. “Good. Connor won’t be getting everything he bargained so ha
rd for after all.”
“And what does he have to do with this?” she asked, although Frazier’s wicked grin was confirming the boastful threats his younger stepbrother had made at the shack.
The Englishman assessed her as though she were a ewe to be considered as breeding stock. Then he shrugged. “Fornication’s his favorite sport, dear-heart. Since there are precious few women on this ranch—and since he so gallantly offered to forgo his bonus if he could have you instead—I saw this as the solution to my heir less state.”
The ramifications of his words were too horrible to consider. “Wh—why can’t you just will Foxe Hollow on to Connor?” she mumbled. “He’s your kin, and—”
“And die knowing my hard-earned estates and holdings would be piddled away at a poker table before I was even cold?” He adjusted his monocle, shaking his head. “Much as I despise children, I’ll take my chances on indoctrinating a son before I allow Connor to control the purse strings.”
Lyla was feeling paler by the minute. Not only was this madman handing her over to a professional killer, he was expecting her to go along with it! “I—what if it doesn’t—what if there’s no baby?”
“Oh, Connor’s a proven breeder. I shudder to think how many abortions I’ve paid for—or train tickets, for girls too stupid to see the doctor until the baby was due.” He looked her over again, stealthily. “And you seem healthy enough to conceive, dear-heart. Don’t you see how perfect this arrangement will be? I’ll have an heir, my stepbrother will have an outlet for his urges, and you’ll never have to work another day in your life. As much practice as Connor’s had with women, I wouldn’t be surprised if you forgot all about Barry Thompson before the month was out.”
Too agitated to sit still any longer, she went to the window. Once again she felt the barrel of Connor Foxe’s pistol and the cruel kisses he’d forced upon her. She had to convince Frazier he’d regret giving her to his hired gun. Lyla clenched and unclenched her hands, thinking. Where was the catch? She had to either appeal to Foxe’s baser desires or make him squirm—anything to avoid the degrading, immoral possibility of begetting a baby by one man as a commodity for another.
Lyla turned to face him, clutching at a few more straws. “If I bear a child by Connor, it won’t be yours, so—”
“A son, dear-heart. You’ll bear me a son I’ll raise as my own because I’ll have the certificates to prove he is.”
“What if it’s a girl?”
“Then you’ll have to keep producing until I have a namesake and heir.” Foxe chuckled, clasping his hands behind him as though he were extremely pleased with how things were working out. “You’re not going to talk me out of this, Miss O’Riley. Better to spend your energies acclimating yourself to my household and habits. I can be delightfully kind to people who give me what I want.”
Lyla lowered her gaze, thinking of her next objection. “What about Hollingsworth and Miss Keating?” she demanded. “Connor’s such a braggart they’re bound to find out what he’s doing with me, and—”
“Miss Keating will indeed be incensed,” Frazier agreed. “You’ll have to either teach Connor the meaning of discretion, or live with my housekeeper’s accusations. Allegra loyally reports every transgression she sees, which will assure me that an heir is on the way! She’s well compensated for acting as the conscience of Foxe Hollow.”
She was to endure the housekeeper’s censure, to be branded as an unfaithful wife while her husband gleefully insisted upon these unholy entanglements. Frazier Foxe was even more loathsome than she’d imagined, and Lyla rued the day she’d accepted those new dresses and a job at the Rose as tokens of his concern for her. She had to escape this madhouse before—
“You, too, shall be handsomely compensated, dear-heart,” her host was saying. “Tomorrow we’ll draw up the papers stating the divisions of my property, as a premarital covenant between us. You take care of my needs, Miss Lyla, and I’ll most certainly see to yours. Dinner’s in an hour. I expect you to be at the table wearing a smile that reflects your unbounded joy and gratitude for the blessings I’m about to bestow upon you.”
Chapter 19
Dinner was the bleakest meal Lyla had ever endured. She and Frazier were seated at one end of his long dining room table, suffering through course after course of Allegra Keating’s abysmal efforts at cooking. The soup was lukewarm with a skin of grease congealing on it when Hollingsworth set it in front of them. The mutton was boiled beyond recognition yet still smelled gamy. The carrots, potatoes, and parsnips, cooked in their skins, had eyes and little clumps of rootlike fringe still attached. Her host apparently saw nothing unusual about any of these things and ate heartily while she took the fewest bites possible and pushed the remaining food around on her plate.
Foxe was proudly describing his sheep operation: how many thousands they sheared each spring, how many hundreds of lambs his registered ewes produced last year, how many sheepherders he employed, and how much he spent on supplies and food to make Foxe Hollow the most prestigious, prosperous ranch in Colorado—and possibly the whole West. Lyla nodded, truly impressed with the magnitude of his operation, which made her parents’ herd look humble indeed.
But between Frazier’s lines she heard the undercurrent from the kitchen and felt two pairs of eyes upon her. Such phrases as “obviously unsuitable” and “too young to be worthy of…” drifted out in Allegra’s stilted whisper, answered by the valet’s lower-pitched “a golddigger with the breeding and social sensibilities of an alley cat.”
She wasn’t particularly surprised by their opinions, but it appalled her that Foxe pretended not to hear them. When Hollingsworth appeared with dessert, he beamed up at the valet. “Give my compliments to Miss Keating for a fine dinner on such short notice.”
“Indeed I shall,” the servant replied as he bowed over them to set down their final course. “She was so delighted about your return that she prepared your favorite dessert—blanc mange with a sugar crisp. Enjoy it, sir. And you too, miss, of course,” he added with a stiff nod in her direction.
The blanc mange was the most colorless, watery excuse for pudding Lyla had ever seen, and the cookie on her plate was burnt along the edges.
“You really should try it,” Frazier encouraged as he dipped in for his first spoonful. “I don’t want you getting sickly so you can’t conceive. And if Allegra thinks you don’t like her cooking, she’ll be quite upset. She’s sensitive about being criticized—and I do want you two ladies to get on together. Female company is scarce in these parts.”
She was too wrung out from her crying spell and Frazier’s earlier revelations to eat even the tastiest of meals, but she couldn’t admit it. The only way she would find any peace in this house was to acquiesce to the man’s whims and kowtow to his housekeeper…or at least appear to.
Lyla smiled weakly. “Perhaps Miss Keating was right,” she said in a conciliatory tone. “Perhaps I would be more attractive if my dresses weren’t so snug. You yourself said that anything more than a handful was excessive.”
“I would never utter such a vile remark!” he declared. Then he adjusted his monocle and studied her closely. “Actually, I find your figure rather charming. And I suspect my housekeeper was merely jealous of your endowments when she made that remark about the corset. I found your reply admirably witty, by the way. And appropriate, considering our betrothal.”
He ate another spoonful of the pale pudding, chuckling to himself. Frazier Foxe was a hypocrite and a liar: he had made a crude remark about her breasts when Mrs. Delacroix was measuring her for her gowns. But he was complimenting her now, willing to acknowledge something positive because he thought she was submitting to his will.
And if playing up to his indecent suggestions won his confidence, Lyla would play to the hilt—and then beat him at his own game by escaping. “Aye, well... it wouldn’t hurt to be a bit thinner. To look nice in my wedding gown, you know.”
Frazier appeared dumbfounded for a moment, and then brushed cook
ie crumbs from his lapel. “Of course you’ll be wanting…I suppose my associates would think it odd if we didn’t have a ceremony that outshone the McClanahans’. Would that make you happy, dear-heart?”
“Oh yes,” she whispered, “it’s what every girl dreams of.”
“Consider it done, then. Perhaps the planning and anticipation will help you and Miss Keating become better friends.” Frazier dabbed his mouth with his napkin, chuckling into it. “Don’t go turning into a stick on us, though. It’s your voluptuous way of filling out a gown that Connor adores most about you.”
Lyla smiled sweetly. She’d sent the younger Foxe tumbling into icy water before, and she could freeze him out again. For now it was victory enough to have Frazier mixing his twisted threats with jokes.
The evening passed slowly, but she was learning patience, taking in the details of this life that would eventually help her escape it. Frazier and Hollings-worth were engaged in a chess game that apparently continued from one night to the next, and Allegra was cleaning up the kitchen. After considering the unseemliness of helping her, Lyla instead wandered around the parlor and the other rooms on the main floor.
Off the vestibule there was a sitting room, furnished with upholstered chairs and an elegant settee, all in maroons that blended with the Persian rug beneath them. This fireplace was of pink marble—the rooms had hearths and mantels that complemented their unique decor. The salon across the entryway boasted a gleaming concert grand piano. Another room, Frazier’s study, was papered and paneled and richly decorated…a den she’d explore when the others were too busy to notice.
Lyla passed through the large, opulent dining room on her way to the parlor, wondering if the fourteen mahogany chairs around its massive table were ever filled. Did anyone ever play that piano? All this artwork, the luxurious draperies and rugs, the tiered chandeliers that glittered like a thousand diamonds when tickled by the slightest breeze…who did they impress, besides Frazier himself?
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