Linda Castle (13 page)

H
e stood there watching her. Missy, Marisa…he knew her in many guises, but somehow this woman who fled from him was a tantalizing stranger. She was a delicious mystery he yearned to solve. At that moment he laughed aloud at the irony.

He was in love with Marisa O’Bannion.
The Territorial wildcat had come all the way to New York before he admitted it.

He could deny it until Judgment Day and it wouldn’t change a thing. Cyril had been right; Rod had been right.

So Brooks needed to settle things with Violet Ashland so he could start convincing Marisa.

The ride to the telegraph office seemed to take forever, but once Brooks sent the message to Rod a strange sort of calm settled over him.

Now that he had finally decided on a course of action, the whole world looked different. He was going to court Marisa O’Bannion—court her, woo her and win her. And he was going to start as soon as he had taken care of the rumors Violet had so artfully kept circulating through New York society.

He still had not figured out what her game was, but tonight at the charity drive he intended to find out.

Marisa fumbled with the ribbons on her chemise, trying for the third time to make a bow. She didn’t want to admit the episode with Brooks at the gentlemen’s club had affected her, but she felt so odd, she couldn’t quite put the disturbing incident out of her mind.

There had been a moment when he had trapped her against that wall that her heart had leaped at just being near him. She had smelled the manly musk of his body and something akin to lightning had seared the innermost parts of her soul. She had noticed the color of his eyes, the tilt of his brow, all the things that made Brooks James.

At that moment she would’ve given him anything—her body, her soul…her love.

“I am a silly fool,” she told her reflection. Marisa had become a moonstruck fool since she came to New York. After all, Brooks James was a charmer. He had broken more hearts than could be counted, if half of what Ellen told her was true. And he had never actually said that he was not engaged to Violet Ashland.

She stared into her own eyes.

He had asked her to trust him, but what did that mean?

How could she trust him when she couldn’t even trust herself to do the right thing? When he was near her she felt like a drunken idiot, incapable of rational thought, unable to keep her own code of honor.

“Damn it,” she swore. “Damn him.”

It rubbed against her O’Bannion grain to admit that he had gotten to her. “I won’t let it happen again. I won’t become a simpering fool and be a party to him betraying another woman’s heart.”

She picked up the emerald green, taffeta moiré gown
and shook out the wrinkles in the underskirt. It weighed nearly ten pounds. Ten pounds of glistening elegance that Ellen promised would win her every man’s attention.

With a sigh, Marisa started at the bottom, gathering yards of material and lace into her hands until she had cleared an opening for her head. It took some squirming, but finally the gown settled over her shoulders. The weight of the full skirt pulled the rest of it down around her hips with a heavy swish.

At least, she reasoned, by attending the party with Patricia, she would be spared any further teasing from Brooks tonight. He would not dare to take liberties in front of his mother.

With that thought to comfort her she brushed her hair and waited for Tilly to arrive and help her with the hundred other details of her grooming that were still a partial mystery. Marisa tried to clear her mind of Brooks and think only of the party. She was determined to look her best and act the part, even if she had never felt less like doing so.

An hour later Tilly was still fussing over each ruffle and bit of lace at the bottom of the full skirt.

“Oh, dear, it is almost time to go,” Marisa whispered breathlessly. She had managed to subdue thoughts of Brooks and replace them with the happy prospect of seeing Ellen. In fact, she had silently vowed to steer clear of all men this evening—Brooks, Cyril and anybody else in trousers. She resolved to find a quiet corner where she and Ellen could spend the evening talking about something besides men.

Maybe if Leland saw her keeping Ellen quiet he would soften his attitude toward her and lift his ban on her visiting.

It was something to look forward to.

“Yes?” Marisa called, when she heard a knock on her door.

“Are you ready, dear?” Patricia peeked inside. The gaslight reflected off her snowy curls and the diamonds at her throat and ears. She looked cool and richly elegant in her plum-colored satin gown.

“Patricia, you are just beautiful,” Marisa exclaimed sincerely.

“Thank you, dear. And you—there is a certain glow about you…” she said as she stepped inside. “You have been seeing a lot of young Cyril.” Patricia’s brows rose. “Could it be that love has brought a maidenly flush to your cheeks?”

“I don’t think so, Patricia,” Marisa murmured. She turned away and busied herself in front of the mirror.

Did she look different? Was she in…love?

Marisa banished the notion from her mind and focused on her gown. “My Pa would have a fit of apoplexy if he saw me in a dress this low,” she mumbled. The green taffeta moiré shimmered like the head of a mallard drake in the morning light, just barely covering enough of her chest for modesty and to keep the top from falling down.

Patricia laughed. “Well, fortunately your father will be spared apoplexy.” She smoothed one wayward curl at Marisa’s temple. “We’d better go or we will be too late to be considered fashionable.”

Marisa gathered her pale green, elbow-length gloves and followed Patricia downstairs. She stopped and looked in the downstairs mirror, still wondering if there was something different about the way she looked. An errant curl required her attention and she was busy with it when Brooks appeared behind her.

Marisa’s heart leaped to her throat.

He was dressed in a black tuxedo. The shiny points of
jet studs dotted the front of the ermine white shirt. The sharp, clean lines of his form-fitting coat emphasized the width of his shoulders. In his hand he carried a cane and a tall black hat. A cape was draped over one arm.

She whirled around to face him.

He stared at her, unblinking, while she studied his face. His left eye was a little swollen and discolored from the morning with Cyril, but he still wore the ruddy glow of the Territory. Rather than detracting from his looks, the black eye only made him look more manly, more dangerous and more irresistible than ever.

He was every inch the dashing New York gentleman Marisa had always imagined him to be. And as she stared at him she began to feel as attractive as a mud hen and as restless as the wind that blew over the Circle B. How could she ignore him? How could she not?

“You look magnificent,” Brooks said.

Patricia appeared and Brooks turned to her, but Marisa continued to feel his attention focus on her from time to time. After compliments all round they were finally ready to go.

But abruptly Brooks halted at the door and turned once more to his mother. His face was pinched into a frown. “Marisa certainly cannot go out in that condition.”

“Brooks!” Patricia’s eyes widened in shock. “How can you say such a thing?”

Marisa’s heart fell to her feet. She lifted her chin to hide her pain as she stared into his cool blue eyes. If he started teasing her now she wasn’t certain she could hold back the hot tears.

“I am surprised you did not see the difficulty.” His eyes roamed over Marisa’s body, savoring each curve, each valley and plane of her form as he played out the silly charade. For a moment he nearly lost courage, but
he knew she would never accept anything from him if he gave it to her in the usual fashion.

Patricia turned and allowed her eyes to skim over Marisa. “I cannot for the life of me see what you mean…” She looked at Brooks, obviously puzzled and flustered.

“She is practically
naked.
” His eyes focused on her cleavage and he felt his loins tighten in that familiar way.

“Brooks!” Patricia gasped.

Marisa’s bottom lip quivered.

He kept a straight face while he pulled a long, slender, navy blue box from the folds of his cape. “But I have the remedy right here.” He opened the box with a pop and drew out a string of lightning.

“Turn around, Marisa.” The sound of his husky demand made her stomach fall.

How could she refuse him anything?

His bare fingers grazed her collarbone, leaving a trail of molten heat that was immediately replaced by the chill of metal and cool glittering stones.

She stared into the mirror, unable to speak, unable to do more than swallow a hard lump.

The mirror revealed a delicate row of emeralds and diamonds resting against her flesh. Brooks leaned close enough for her to feel the whisper of his breath across her earlobe as he fastened the clasp. “Trust me,” he murmured so only she could hear.

“Now she is ready to go out, Mother,” he said to Patricia when he stood up straight.

“Brooks, that is absolutely stunning!” Patricia gasped. “And what a nice gesture.” She gave her son a kiss on the cheek. “You can be so nice—when you want to be.”

Marisa’s gloved fingers skimmed along the shining stones. “I—I can’t accept it. I can’t take something like this from a man who isn’t—”
free
“—isn’t family.”

“Nonsense. Weren’t you the one who pointed out to Cyril that we were practically related?” One brow rose, and Brooks smiled. “I believe you compared us to cousins.”

“Well, yes. But I—”

He held up his hand to silence her. “No buts. It looks lovely on you.”

Marisa gazed at herself and Brooks behind her in the sheet of glass. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything, not yet.”

Patricia glanced at them in confusion, but then she shrugged. “We’d better go. It is getting late.”

Brooks stifled his smile of satisfaction. He had once again terrified poor Tilly into telling him what color Marisa’s gown was, then he had rushed to the jeweler in search of the necklace.

Now if fate was on his side, this would be the night when all the misunderstandings between them would be cleared away.

The trio traveled in relative silence. Patricia seemed preoccupied with her own thoughts and Marisa had been tongue-tied ever since Brooks had whispered in her ear.

Trust me.

Just the memory sent chills trailing over her neck and shoulders.

Within a quarter hour the carriage turned up a long torch-lit driveway. Brooks roused himself and gestured toward the sweeping lawn, which glowed from the moon, as well as from dozens of gaslights.

“John Preston must’ve spent half his fortune on this,” Brooks remarked dryly.

Marisa swallowed hard. This was the biggest party she had attended since coming to New York. Her old fears
about being a lady nipped at the corners of her mind, but she pushed them aside, determined to conquer her fear of inadequacy once and for all.

As the carriage rolled along the paving stones of the driveway she got a better look at the house beyond. Torches burned along the walk, bordering the edge of the spacious lawn all the way to imposing steps that were flanked by a pair of carved lions.

“I hope he has not squandered all his fortune.” Patricia smiled. “I would like a bit of it for the hospital. And I intend to spend the evening persuading Mr. Preston to endow St. Michael’s.”

Brooks chuckled and shook his head. “I should’ve known there was a reason you insisted I come along. Do you think you will need reinforcements?”

Marisa’s eyes darted to Patricia’s face. The older woman lowered her lashes as if she might be a little embarrassed. “No, I do not. I want you to spend the evening with Marisa. It is rude for her to be unescorted.” She turned her gaze upon Marisa. “I hope you don’t mind, dear, but it is very important that the hospital receive some money.”

Marisa would not allow herself to look at Brooks. But even as she thought it, her eyes met his.

A river of molten passion seemed to pass from one to the other in that gaze.

“I promise I won’t leave her side for a single moment,” Brooks said as his eyes raked over her hotly.

“I am so pleased you two are getting along better,” Patricia said.

The moment her back was turned Brooks leaned across the carriage. “Do you hear that? I have my own mother’s blessing.”

* * *

True to his word, Brooks stayed at Marisa’s side through the ritual of being received by the host and hostess. Ellen was escorted in by a stern-faced Leland, who made sure she went to the most comfortable-looking couch. He cast one dark gaze Marisa’s way, and she knew her hope of talking all evening with Ellen was a hollow one. Leland had not softened his opinion of her, and now she was saddled with Brooks.

“Shall we dance?” Brooks whispered into her ear. He grasped her arm, just as he had at Trace’s wedding, and then maneuvered her through a maze of couples. Before she knew what was happening his unyielding arm was at the small of her back, drawing her close to him. Then he tilted up her chin and looked deep into her eyes.

“Remember, I am good—put yourself in my hands.”

As they started to spin out onto the floor, she wondered if he was talking about his dancing or some other ability…

During dance after dance Marisa stared at Brooks’s face and tried to deny her feelings. A sensation, as if she were falling from a great height, much higher than Ellen’s balcony, engulfed her. Just when she felt so dizzy she was unsure of her legs, he stopped and pulled her through a series of halls and doorways. Soon the noise and the crowd were far behind.

They stood in a quiet alcove where a fountain bubbled water from an urn held by a winged cherub. Plants of every variety surrounded them. Tall trees created a green canopy overhead. It was a magical place, peaceful and secluded.

Marisa let out a sigh of relief while calm settled over her. She looked up and found him watching her with a serious expression of speculation on his face.

“It is time we had a talk, Marisa,” he said.