Linda Castle (5 page)

“Do you really believe it will work?” Missy crinkled her nose with doubt.

“Of course,” Ellen said confidently. “I can’t wait to see the look on everyone’s face when they see the transformation. And then you can teach me to ride and my papa will have to see that I am not a frail child anymore.” Ellen cast a sly look at Missy when she spoke.

B
rooks tried to keep up with Missy and Ellen, but the crowd at Grand Central Station closed around him like a living wall. A sharp blow to his ribs sent the air rushing from his lungs in a painful hiss. He spun around on his boot heel, ready to do battle with his attacker, only to find a prune-faced woman over seventy wielding an umbrella like a cavalry saber.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” Brooks reeled back half a step and touched his finger to his hat in apology. Evidently she was unimpressed by his show of good manners, because she harrumphed loudly and seared his flesh with a dour look before she moved on. By the time he turned back around, the feather on top of Missy’s borrowed hat was disappearing into a hansom cab. Before he could utter a word of protest, the carriage departed, its yellow wheels winking in the bright spring sunlight as it rolled out of the station.

“Damnation.” He dragged off his Stetson and slapped it against his thigh in exasperation. For three days he had been struggling to find an opportunity to talk privately to her, and now she had escaped him one more time.

“Are you talking to me, or to yourself?” Rod stood
beside Brooks, attempting to balance an array of boxes, bags and parcels. “If you are through accosting elderly matrons, I could use a hand.”

Brooks stuck his hat back on his head. Then he took an octagon-shaped hatbox that had been awkwardly perched beneath Rod’s bony chin. “Why did Ellen and Missy run off like a pair of scalded cats?”

“Scalded cats?” Rod repeated incredulously. “If a cat is scalded, does it run? And where on earth did you learn such a ridiculous expression?” Rod peered at his brother over the bulk of a string-tied bundle, only one of the purchases their mother had made at various stops on the way home.

Brooks rolled his eyes heavenward. “All right, I’ll rephrase my question. Why do you suppose dear cousin Ellen and Miss O’Bannion fled the station as if it were on fire?” He tilted his head to see if his new query better suited Rod.

His brother shrugged and hailed a passing cab, obviously unimpressed by the question and its delivery. “No reason for them to wait for us.” The hansom cab rolled by without stopping and Rod swore softly under his breath.

“They could’ve shared their carriage. That is a logical reason,” Brooks snapped. “Why on earth hire two cabs?”

“I understand they are headed in the opposite direction. It would be silly to go to Ellen’s house and then double back to the brownstone.”

“Ellen’s house?” The hair on the back of Brooks’s neck prickled. “What do you mean, they are going to Ellen’s house? I thought the whole idea of this little visit was so Missy could spend some time at the brownstone with Mother.”

Rod stretched to peer over the crowd. “I heard Ellen
telling Mother that Missy is going to spend some time with her first.” Rod smiled victoriously when a hansom cab responded to his hail. He hurried over and started handing bags to the driver. “Come on, Brooks, don’t stand there with your mouth open like a carp that has been landed. Help us load this baggage.”

Brooks stifled the sharp retort that bubbled up in his throat. How could he have been so thick as to allow Missy to come to New York? And on the heels of that thought, another more-sobering notion flitted through his brain. There wasn’t a damn thing he could have done to stop her.

Missy tried not to gawk, but she had never seen so many people in one place in her entire life. A sound engulfed her, almost like a thousand spring peepers and katydids droning their tuneless songs. She leaned back against the padded leather seat and closed her eyes.

“Are you ill?” Ellen’s voice broke through the fog in Missy’s mind.

She opened her eyes.

Ellen was peering at her with concern etched in her pale face.

“I—I don’t know what I expected, but it’s awful big.”

Relief flooded Ellen’s face. “Oh, is that all? You had me worried. I thought you might be coming down with something. You’ll get used to the city quickly, I promise.” She smoothed her skirt and stared idly out the window, the very picture of serenity and confidence.

Missy couldn’t help but wonder if she would ever possess that kind of poise or if she was chasing rainbows by even trying. But she had accepted the challenge, and now, for good or ill, she was set on her course…There could
be no turning back, not when Brooks was waiting for her to fail, like a hungry hawk waiting for a rabbit.

No. She could not fail—her pride would not allow it.

Missy and Ellen were lingering over a cup of creamed tea when the downstairs maid appeared at the parlor door. She carried a silver tray in her hand. A solitary piece of paper rested in the center.

“Pardon, miss.” The maid bobbed a little curtsy.

Ellen leaned over and glanced at the envelope. “It is from Aunt Patricia.”

“How can you tell?” Missy asked, frowning. The outside of the envelope was as blank as the expression on the maid’s face.

“It’s her stationery.” Ellen scooped up the paper and nodded as the maid curtsied and left the room. “See the watermark?” Ellen held it up toward the light streaming in through the French windows. The outline of a fancy crest within the fibers of the paper became evident.

“Oh.” Missy ducked her head in embarrassment. Another thing she didn’t know, but if Ellen thought anything about her ignorance she did not show it as she busied herself opening the envelope.

“Well, this is unexpected.” Ellen passed the paper to Missy, who read the neatly printed words and felt her stomach lurch.

“A party?” she gasped. “Mrs. James is throwing a party—for me?” Desperation rang in every word. “But I’m not ready.” She stood up and started to pace. “I’ll never be ready.”

Ellen studied her face for half a minute, and then she brightened. “Nonsense. It will be fine. Aunt Patricia will only invite family and close friends. Actually, this will be
good for you. We will ease you into New York society by degrees.”

“Do you think so?” Missy stopped pacing and looked at Ellen.

“Absolutely.” Ellen picked up a delicate china cup painted with yellow primroses and leaned back in the wicker chair. “Now that I think of it, it’s a wonderful idea.”

Ellen seemed completely confident, and if she wasn’t worried, then Missy decided she wouldn’t be, either.

The night of the party was hot and sultry from two days of uninterrupted rain. Then, as if the heavens knew that Patricia James would be displeased if her guests were inconvenienced, the sky cleared. A handful of bright stars twinkled overhead as Brooks stepped out the French doors with a glass of cognac in his hand.

“Well, well, well. Did you decide to grace us with your company tonight, or are you home for some other reason?” Rod’s deep, teasing voice brought Brooks around abruptly. His sibling was silhouetted against the gold and crystal glitter of his mother’s dining room, dressed in a snowy white shirt, black coat and tie. Every candelabra in the house was blazing, in addition to the gaslights in the ballroom.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Brooks sipped his drink and acted as if he were unaware of the pending festivities.

“You know perfectly well what I am talking about. You have not been home for dinner twice since we returned.” Rod stepped outside. He was grinning. “Interesting coincidence that you decided to come home on the first night that Missy O’Bannion is going to be here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brooks snapped. “I just happen
to be home.” He had made the same observation to himself earlier, but Rod was wrong, and so was he. He had simply tired of the giggling women who had begun to present themselves upon his return. He had grown bored listening to stories of how they all had been pining away in his absence. He had tired of telling the same stories of his life in the West—and the novelty of his unconventional mode of attire had worn so thin he was actually thinking of going upstairs to change.

“Perhaps you are telling the truth, since you are still dressed like you rode in from the range.” Rod shrugged and glanced at Brooks’s boots.

“I am thinking of changing—just to please Mother.” Brooks took another sip of the liquid.

Rod chuckled. “I am sure she will be pleased—but wear whatever you wish. As a matter of fact, those pants of Levi’s suit you. I have almost grown used to the new you. Tell me, though, is your prickly attitude also part of the new you, brother?”

Brooks frowned. The front doorbell chimed. The pair watched the butler’s back as he opened the door. Brooks caught himself rising on the toes of his Justins to see who it was.

“Anxious?” Rod asked, a sly grin curving his lips.

“Not at all.” Brooks shook his head and moved closer to the open doors.

The doorbell rang again.

Brooks drained his glass. “I think I’ll go up and change.”

“Better hurry, she will be here soon.”

“Who?” Brooks asked innocently, but Rod only laughed and stepped inside.

By ten o’clock the Jameses’ brownstone was a hive of social activity. Maids and butlers scurried about, making
sure every glass was full, every plate picked up the moment the last morsel was consumed. Brooks had lingered in his room after he had changed. Now he stood with one foot hitched up on the top stair as he watched the activity below. He hated to admit it, but he felt out of place in his own home.

The sound of laughter drew his eye. There, surrounded by men, was a familiar head of lustrous dark hair.

A strange, tight coil of heat formed in his chest. While he watched, his grip on the banister tightened.

It was Missy, and half the unattached men in New York City were paying her court.

He was halfway down the stairs, focusing only on Missy, when he felt a hand on his arm. Brooks shrugged, intending to remove the unwanted restraint.

“It has been a long time, darling.”

The words brought him to a halt and he turned, already knowing who he would see.

Violet Ashland lifted one brow and gave him her coolest smile. “I was coming up to find you.” Her hand moved over the cloth of his coat in intimate fashion, and a hundred memories of stolen passion ripped through him. “I still remember the way to your room…Shall we go catch up on lost time?”

It was at that very moment he looked down at Missy and she looked up. Their gazes caught and held, not going unnoticed by the men surrounding her or the woman who still possessively fingered his arm.

Violet followed Brooks’s gaze. Her smile became cooler than ice. “Is this the little country girl I have heard so much about?”

Brooks frowned and looked at her. “What?”

“The sweet child your mother brought from the West.
The poor dear—how she must’ve suffered in that harsh environment.” Violet scooted closer to Brooks and looped her arm through his. “You must introduce me—I am just dying to meet her.”

Ghostly fingers traced a line down Missy’s spine as Brooks descended the stairs and walked in her direction. She had never felt so trapped in her life as she did when he turned his blue eyes in her direction. Suddenly the velvet gown she was wearing felt about as attractive as a gunnysack. She tried to swallow the champagne one of the men had brought her, but it stuck in her throat and she choked.

“Miss O’Bannion, are you all right?” a voice asked.

“What…? Yes. Yes, I am fine,” she lied. Mercifully, a disembodied voice asked if she would like a glass of water. Within seconds her champagne glass was gone, replaced by a crystal goblet of water. She brought it to her lips, but the dryness remained.

“Oh, she is precious. Brooks, what a darling child.” The blond woman clinging to Brooks surveyed Missy from head to toe. Without a word passing between them, Missy knew all she had to know.

This woman was her mortal adversary.

“Brooks, introduce me.” Violet kept the smile pasted to her face while she inspected every inch of the dark-haired beauty before her. She had heard all the gossip about the lovely woman who had returned with Brooks. She had not believed it. But now that she was face-to-face with the little chit, she had no choice.

This woman was her adversary.

Missy felt her stomach knot up. In spite of the notion that the woman before her was everything she despised, there was a tiny part of her that was envious.

Violet Ashland was a lady, and she was holding Brooks’s arm as if he belonged to her.

Brooks cleared his throat—and tried to clear his mind. Violet clung to him like a burr to a mustang’s tail, as tenacious and as thorny. He wanted to peel her fingers from him and walk away, but he could not do what he wanted here.

This was his mother’s drawing room, in New York. How he wished he were back in the Territory, where a man could be honest about his feelings.

“Violet Ashland, Missy O’Bannion.” Brooks would not lie and say he was pleased to introduce them.

“I am so glad to finally get to see you, Miss O’Bannion. I have been hearing a lot about you.” Violet turned slightly sideways and looked at Brooks. “Darling, she is a treasure. Such a charming child.”

Missy stiffened. Images of Becky Kelly came unbidden to her mind. This woman was simply a more polished and older version of the woman who had jilted her brother, Trace. Anger and a desire to silence Violet Ashland spurred Missy on.

“It is very nice to meet you, but I am a long way from being a child. It probably just seems that I am young compared to you.”

A silence so heavy it could be felt settled over the small crowd gathered around the two women. Brooks winked at Missy and his heart hammered inside his chest.

Damn if she isn’t magnificent.

Brooks felt Violet’s fingers dig into his arm, but, to give her credit, the smile never slipped.

“Oh, you are charming…in an untouched fashion.” Violet inclined her head. The gaslight turned the strands of her hair to ribbons of gold. The crowd around them began to drift away. Evidently they had grown bored with
the inane conversation. Now Brooks could drop his facade.

“When did you return, Violet?” he asked.

“Me? Oh, I have been back for ages now. I have been sitting at home pining away for you.” She leaned close enough that he could smell her expensive French perfume. “You never even wrote.”