Linda Castle (8 page)

“Marisa?”
His voice was deep and husky. The sound of his own undeniable interest surprised and embarrassed him.

There was no mistaking the teasing male voice that sent shivers down Marisa’s spine. Every nerve in her body prickled and danced. She drew in a breath and waited, hoping the butterflies would leave her middle.

“Well, is it Missy or Marisa?” Brooks taunted. He leaned so close that his mustache actually tickled her earlobe. “What shall I call you?”

She turned slowly, determined not to fall into the trap he baited. In the past she had always obliged him by reacting before she thought.
Not today.

“I was christened Marisa Shelagh O’Bannion.”

For a moment his smile slipped and something—she was not sure what—clouded his eyes. Then he lifted one brow and gave her a sensual, teasing smile that made her breath catch. “Now that has a ring of the old country to it.”

Brooks stared into her shimmering eyes. He was impatiently waiting for her to flay the hide off him with her sharp tongue. When the cool Marisa revealed the fire that simmered inside the stylish yellow dress, these young bucks would fall away like dried leaves. Any minute now she would start to cuss and bluster…But to his shock and dismay, she only smiled and allowed those remarkably thick, dark lashes to sweep over her chestnut eyes once again.

“As you say, Brooks,” she agreed demurely. “I do stick out like a sore thumb here in New York, part Irish
and part Indian—a cat’s whisker from being a barbarian, wouldn’t you say?”

Missy—brave, blunt, wonderful Missy—was still beneath the lovely veneer.

“No, I wouldn’t call you a barbarian, and neither would anyone else within my hearing, I assure you,
Marisa.
” A sudden burst of possessiveness flared inside him. All he wanted to do was take her away, enjoy her company alone and keep these men from looking at her with hungry eyes.

Brooks’s gaze locked with hers. Heat rose between them like fog on a warm April morning.

Breathe, you idiot,
a voice inside his head screamed.

“Tell me how you ended up being Missy all these years.” Cyril’s voice broke the enchantment, and the young man smoothly insinuated himself between them. Brooks felt something—
not jealousy
—burn inside him.

Marisa’s lips curled up a little at the corners. It wasn’t really a smile, but seeing her look at Cyril that way grated against Brooks’s sensitive nerves.

“My youngest brother, Logan, could never quite get his tongue around Marisa Shelagh. It always came out ‘Missy.’ Soon everyone was calling me that. Back home there would be no chance at all of changing it, but here in New York…Well, I decided to put little Missy aside.” Marisa glanced at Brooks from under the fringe of her lashes. “I am a grown woman now and it is high time everyone realized it.”

“It is a lovely name, if you don’t mind me commenting.” Cyril moved closer yet.

If Cyril gets any closer to her he will be touching the edge of her skirt.

Brooks told himself he was being a fool, but he also took a step nearer. She tilted her head and glanced at him again.

“The name suits you, Marisa,” Cyril said.

“I am glad you approve, Mr. Dover.” She lowered her lashes.

“Please, call me Cyril.”

“I am not sure that would be proper. Do you think so, Brooks?” She looked directly at him. It was as if he had been poked by the hot end of a branding iron. “You are so much more knowledgeable about the way things are done in the city. Would it be proper?”

“Absolutely not,” he snapped.

Marisa shrugged and sighed. “Then I suppose I can’t call you Cyril—yet. Of course it is fine for Brooks and me to use each other’s first names.” She slanted another look at Brooks. “Did you know, Mr. Dover, that he and I are practically related?”

The impact of her beauty hit Brooks like a closed fist.

“Practically cousins now, I guess.” She laughed.

His loins tightened.

“Cousins?” Cyril seemed to be weighing that information. “Then I won’t waste any time being jealous of you, Brooks. It is good to know that there is no, uh, arrangement between you two. Leaves the way clear for the rest of us.” Cyril grasped her hand. “I am giving you fair warning, Miss O’Bannion, I intend for us to become much better acquainted.”

Brooks’s mind began to spin like a dust devil sweeping across the prairie. For some unaccountable reason he had to stop himself from dragging Marisa through the French doors, on through the house and into the nearest carriage. His heart beat against the inside of his rib cage like a rejected suitor’s fist on a locked bedroom door. Each time Marisa smiled at Cyril something hot and liquid poured through his chest.

What is wrong with me? Is this jealousy? It sure as hell can’t be love.

“Now, Marisa—pardon. I mean, Miss O’Bannion, let’s you and I find a quiet, private corner so you can tell me more about yourself.” Cyril moved close enough for his thigh to crush her full skirt in a way that was almost intimate. “We never finished our conversation the other evening.”

The other evening?

Brooks’s eyes widened. Damn it all to hell, this had gone on long enough. Marisa had some explaining to do. After all, she was Trace’s sister. Brooks was responsible—at least that was what he told himself to justify the hot tide of possessive jealousy sweeping through him.

He took a step forward, prepared to bodily remove Cyril Dover. But Patricia suddenly appeared and looped her hand through his arm. “Brooks, you have totally ignored your sister all afternoon.” His mother gently tugged him away, leaving Cyril standing at Marisa’s side. “Come and have a cup of punch with us and let Cyril get to know Marisa better. Clair has some surprise she wants to share with the family.”

Brooks’s head remained fixed, looking back over his shoulder at Cyril and Marisa, until the muscles in his neck pinched and cramped in protest. He wanted to stalk back and keep an eye on Cyril. But even more he wanted to toss Marisa over his shoulder and take her to the brownstone.

To ravish.

The gentle pressure his mother exerted on his arm was all that kept him in check.

But there is always later,
a lecherous voice inside his head promised.

Patricia smiled inwardly. She had seen Missy’s possibilities
back in the Territory, but thanks to Ellen, everyone else now did as well. It made Patricia happy to think that she could help Marisa by finding her a suitable young man. Ellen had performed magic upon her, and some young swain would sweep her off her feet in quick fashion, offering her a life of culture and comfort in the city.

“Brooks, Rod, Mother—I have a surprise for you.” Clair smiled widely. “Rossmore and I discussed it before he left. We were going to wait to tell you, but…”

“Tell us what?” Patricia’s forehead crinkled. “What have you been keeping from us? Are you ill?”

“No. I’m not in need of medical attention, at least not in the way you mean, Mother.” Clair smiled at Brooks and then looked back at Patricia as she took a seat in a nearby chair. “In about six months you will become a grandmother and you two will be uncles.”

Patricia’s jaw gaped open. For a full minute she held her stunned pose, then she knelt beside Clair, unmindful of what the position on the lawn was doing to the fragile fabric of her gown. “A grandchild? My very first grandchild. Oh, Clair, this is wonderful. It is more than wonderful.”

“Ross and I were not sure how you and Daddy would take it. I hope you don’t mind—I mean, does it make you feel old?”

“It makes me feel splendid. Donovan will be as delighted as I am. I cannot tell you how he has yearned for a tyke to bounce on his knee.” Patricia’s bottom lip quivered. “But dear, how do you feel? Are you all right?”

“Actually, I feel good.” Clair smiled wider.

“Rod, call for the carriage at once.” Patricia stood up, unaware of the grass stain on her gown. “I want to go home with Clair right away.”

Rod smiled. “Do you mind if I ride along with you as far as the office?”

“Not at all, but don’t dawdle.” Patricia smiled and dabbed at her moist eyes.

Brooks heard laughter, and his interest was immediately transferred from Clair to Marisa. Cyril was leaning close, whispering something in her ear. “That is wonderful news, Clair, congratulations,” Brooks said distractedly. He wanted to stalk to Cyril and ask him what he thought he was doing. But as much as he wanted to, he could not do anything but stand there with a smile pasted on his face.

Two hours later the party was progressing well. The news of Clair’s pregnancy had added another dash of festivity to the crowd. Ellen took a moment from her duties as hostess and found Marisa. “See, I told you it would be fine.”

“Yes, you did.” Marisa studied Ellen’s face. There was almost no color to her cheeks. “I think you should sit down for a moment.” Worry for her friend, and guilt over all the party preparations, nudged at the corners of her mind. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Stop worrying over me. You are supposed to mingle and meet new people, be adored by young bachelors and let
some people
see that you can be a lady.” Ellen smiled, but the expression seemed tired. “Besides, when I have kept my part of the bargain you have to begin teaching me to sit a horse.”

“You know I will.” Marisa caught Cyril’s eye across the lawn. Within a moment he approached with a chair in hand.

“Listen to Marisa, Ellen—you need to rest a bit.”

Ellen smiled up at Cyril. “Thank you. I believe I will,
since you both won’t be satisfied until I do.” She slid into the chair. “I never realized you were so gallant, Cyril.”

“Then it’s high time you started appreciating me. I am far more than meets the eye.” Cyril waggled his brows. “You know, Ellen, there are some new animals being brought into the zoological exhibit at Prospect Park in Brooklyn. Allow me to take you there tomorrow morning.”

“Well…” Ellen looked at Marisa. “Only if you will go with us. I wouldn’t feel right going without you, Marisa. Besides, Papa would have a fit if I was not chaperoned.”

“I have been tagging along with you too much,” Marisa said. “But if you insist.”

“I am glad that is settled.” Cyril grinned. “I have an engagement at my club at seven, but as soon as I am finished I’ll bring a carriage around.” His smile widened. “Why don’t I bring a picnic lunch? We can make a day of it.”

“That sounds absolutely wonderful.” Ellen glanced adoringly at Cyril for half a minute, then she lowered her eyes. “If you will excuse me, I must see to my guests.” She placed her palms on the arms of the chair and started to rise, but swayed unsteadily and sagged back into the chair as a wave of dizziness folded over her.

“My goodness, Ellen, you are not well.” Marisa watched the remaining color drain from her friend’s face. “You stay put. I’ll get your father.”

“Nonsense.” Ellen shrugged off Cyril’s gently restraining hand. “Don’t get Papa. I am just fine—a little lightheaded is all.” She struggled to her feet, then suddenly crumpled like a broken china doll on the turf beside the table.

“Oh no!” Marisa cried.

Brooks paused long enough to see Marisa kneel beside Ellen and tenderly lift her head into her lap. He turned and hurried toward the house, yelling for his uncle Leland as he went.

“Fetch the physician!” Leland barked at a maid when he had been informed. He plunged out of the house to the garden and burst through the circle of guests that surrounded Marisa and Ellen.

“Ellen…Ellen?” Marisa gently cradled her friend in the folds of her full skirt. Her fingers stroked the silky blond hair.

Ellen’s eyes fluttered open and she smiled weakly. “No, I am not hurt. Please don’t worry about me.”

Leland dropped down beside Marisa and gathered his daughter into his arms. “Brooks, if you don’t mind, would you see that our guests make their way to their carriages?” He stared coldly at Marisa. “I knew this would happen. I told her she was doing too much.”

“Papa, stop it.” Ellen reached out a slender hand to take Marisa’s fingers. “I have enjoyed myself more than I can tell you.” She smiled at her weakly.

“That is no excuse for your
friend
to take advantage of you.”

“I will be fine.” Ellen looked at Marisa, who had unshed tears in her eyes. “But I think we shall have to postpone your half of our agreement for a little while.”

“M
rs. James, how long do you think it will be until Ellen is up and around?” Marisa looked down the long dining table at her hostess. After Ellen’s collapse, Brooks had insisted that Marisa come home to the Jameses’ spacious brownstone. Considering Leland’s reaction to his daughter’s condition, Marisa was very grateful for the offer.

“Oh, dear, it is difficult to say.” Patricia rubbed the furrow between her brows. “Donovan, will you speak to Leland tomorrow? Perhaps you can get some information about Ellen’s condition.”

Donovan James nodded at his wife. He had been silent and his face was drawn with what Marisa judged to be worry over his niece, but then perhaps he, too, held her responsible for Ellen’s illness.

Marisa nervously ran her finger over the edge of one delicate blue-and-white china plate. Everyone was so somber. It was nothing like her dinners at home in the Territory.

She thought of all the hours she had practiced her table manners on a card table in Ellen’s room. Guilt and worry over her friend enveloped her. Marisa closed her eyes and
prayed that Ellen would recover. The doctor had assured them all that she was not in mortal danger, but Marisa could not forget the image of her friend’s pale face. She opened her eyes, but kept them focused on her plate and the silver-plated charger beneath it. If she dared look up, she would be forced to see Brooks, who was positioned directly opposite her. She did not want to find disapproval in his eyes, as she had in Leland James’s.

She shifted uncomfortably on the soft padded chair, occupying herself by plucking at a row of tiny ribbons on the bottom of her burgundy sateen bodice.

“It troubles me to see you so worried, Marisa. Ellen will recover.” Patricia’s voice drew her attention. The maid, Tilly, was serving fillets of whitefish covered in a thick cream sauce. “There is no need to be so concerned.”

“I feel so responsible.”

“The physician said it was nothing serious,” Rod interjected.

“Do you hear that, Marisa?” Patricia continued. “You must try to put it out of your mind. If you don’t eat you will become ill yourself, and that will not do Ellen any good.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll try.” Marisa watched Patricia lay her napkin in her lap. Mechanically she mimicked her graceful movements.

“Uncle Leland will call in a battery of specialists,” Rod stated solemnly. “Ellen will have the very best of care. Our uncle is a bit overprotective, Marisa,” he explained with a gentle smile, “but I am sure she will have roses in her cheeks soon.”

Brooks tried not to notice the deep furrow between the dark wings of Marisa’s brows. She was upset, but she
would force herself to be strong, because she was the most stubborn O’Bannion of them all.

He wished he could think of some way to make Marisa feel better. But on the heels of that thought he wondered why he yearned to comfort her.

He was being ridiculous. Still, a gnawing ache materialized in his belly each time he looked at her pinched face. How could his uncle have been so insensitive as to imply she had in any way caused Ellen’s collapse? With Ellen’s medical history it was foolish to try and lay blame at Marisa’s feet.

“Uncle Leland didn’t mean what he said, Marisa,” Brooks heard himself say. “He is just worried about Ellen and picked you as the easiest target for his anger.”

Marisa looked up and swallowed hard. In her mind she knew that Brooks was right, but in her heart a kernel of guilt remained. She ducked her head and went back to her silent prayers for Ellen’s quick recovery.

As Tilly served, Brooks allowed his eyes to skim over the slender column of Marisa’s neck, lingering on the hollow of her throat. He watched her pulse flutter beneath her silken skin. He shifted position in his chair and willed himself to ignore her.

“Well; at least some wonderful news came at the party,” Patricia reminded everyone in the silence. “Isn’t it wonderful? Donovan and I are going to be grandparents.”

Marisa looked up, and she could swear that Donovan’s chest puffed out a little.

“It is great, but Ross picked a helluva time to leave his wife,” Brooks said with a frown.

“It couldn’t be helped,” Donovan said, shooting daggers at his youngest son. “James Shipping is in the thick of a business merger With Ashland Lines. Rossmore was
needed in Australia to oversee negotiations. The whole situation is very delicate—the slightest little thing could blow the whole deal.”

“Are things that serious?” Brooks asked. He had his own investments, separate from the rest of the family, and rarely got involved with the business.

“Serious is too mild a word,” Rod answered. “Horace Ashland has been prickly about the whole thing.”

“Now don’t say anything against Horace,” Donovan said defensively. “He is just being cautious because of…well, because of the past.” Donovan’s gaze locked with Brooks’s, who understood only too well what his father was saying. Violet was the apple of her father’s eye, and if Violet wasn’t happy, then Horace would make sure nobody else was, either. And Horace had never heard the real version of what had happened.

Brooks focused on his plate, but suddenly his appetite was gone. Violet Ashland was becoming a thorn in his side. He had thought he was free of her machinations when he went to the Territory, but now it seemed she was binding him in a web once again.

Marisa looked up and found Brooks studying her face intently. His mustache twitched. She wondered if he had been about to speak…She wasn’t sure she could stand his teasing tonight, not with the thought of Ellen’s illness hanging over her shoulders like a shroud. If only she had not allowed Ellen to plan the garden party.

“Let’s not speak of things in the past. Clair is expecting a baby and Ellen will recover.” Rod picked up his glass by the stem. “I propose a toast. To the future!”

Everyone, including Marisa, followed his lead. “To the future,” they said in unison. But while Brooks swallowed a mouthful of wine, he asked himself if he was so sure of the future that he had planned. Marisa drank and looked
at Brooks from beneath her lashes. His wide hand was brown and work roughened from his time in the Territory. For a moment his expression softened, but then he frowned and looked back down at his glass.

He was dressed in a plain white shirt, without a tie. A dark russet coat hugged his shoulders. His hair was swept back from his face, the marks of his fingers still evident in the thick waves. He looked as if he had dressed quickly and somewhat carelessly. It gave him an air of ease. He looked more like her brothers did at dinner than how she imagined he would look when living his life as a New York gentleman.

While she studied him an almost overwhelming wave of homesickness folded over her. She drew in a deep breath and fought back the sting of tears.

What is the matter with me?
she wondered.

Abruptly he looked up, and their eyes locked in a compelling gaze. Her breath lodged in the back of her throat. Beneath the thick mustache she saw his lips curve up slightly. Her face began to heat from the base of her neck to the roots of her hair.

The meal progressed from soup to dessert in silence. After coffee was poured Rod leaned back in his chair.

“I suppose Ellen will be in an invalid’s chair again,” Rod said softly, shaking his head sadly.

Marisa gasped, pulled from her own thoughts. “An invalid’s chair? Is she so ill that she needs an
invalid’s chair?
” Her voice cracked. She inhaled deeply, determined to steady herself. “I can’t imagine anything worse than having to be dependant—not being able to walk, or to do for yourself.” A painful lump lodged in her throat. The image of being trapped in a body that would no longer do her bidding was more frightening than anything she could think of. Hot tears stung the back of her eyes.

“Rod, sometimes you are absolutely thick,” Brooks snapped. “You did nothing, Marisa. Ellen is simply delicate. She will be all right.”

Marisa managed to draw herself up and place both her palms on the table. She held her chin steady and blinked back the hot sting in her eyes. Suddenly Brooks reached out. He laid his hand on top of hers. It was rough, heavy and warm. He stared at her, and the hold of his gaze was almost hypnotic.

“And she would not be so frail if Uncle Leland would stop treating her like a hothouse flower,” he said to everyone, but his eyes never left her face.

Patricia clucked in disapproval. “How can you say such a thing, Brooks? What an unkind sentiment.”

“Yes, brother, when did you find the time to attend medical school?” Rod’s brows rose in mock curiosity.

“I may not be a sawbones, but I learned a few things while I was gone.” A strand of dark hair fell down across his wide brow as he spoke, still staring at Marisa as if he were speaking to her alone. “Look at what Bellami accomplished when she left the doting care of this family. There are no frail women in the Territory, only strong women of grit and determination.”

Marisa felt heat climb to her earlobes. It was obvious he was directing his comments to her. But instead of being comforted, it made her feel rough and unfeminine. She forced herself to meet his gaze, even though her heart was breaking.

“If you don’t mind, I think I will go up to my room.” Marisa pulled her hand from beneath his and pushed her chair back, moving carefully so as not to tread on the edge of her skirt.

“Yes, get some rest.” Donovan smiled, but his thick graying brows were still pinched together. “Things will
look better tomorrow. They always do.” He gave her a little wink.

“Thank you, and please accept my gratitude for inviting me into your home.” She took one step, then paused and turned. “Oh, I forgot, Mrs. James, Mr. Dover had planned to take me and Ellen to the zoological exhibit tomorrow.” Marisa worried her lip with her teeth. “I hope you had not made plans.”

“You agreed to go to the park with Cyril Dover?” Brooks blurted out.

“Yes.” Marisa saw his expression grow even more grim. Her chin came up a notch as she prepared to defend herself and her decision. For a moment she almost explained that she was only going to accompany Ellen, but then her temper flared. “Is there some reason why Mr. Dover should not take me—and Ellen—to the park?” Her words were clipped and defensive.

“Yes—no…” Brooks bumped his saucer, spilling coffee on the linen, turning it a dirty dull brown. He dabbed at it for a moment, then flung his napkin down in frustration and glared at Marisa. “Oh, damn it all, that wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

“Brooks, are you trying to tell me what I can and cannot do again?” Marisa carefully enunciated each syllable.

Brooks stood up and leaned forward, coming as near to her face as he could with the table between them. He placed his palms on either side of the coffee cup and narrowed his eyes. “Don’t start putting words in my mouth,
Missy.
What I meant to say is that this is New York, not the Territory. You cannot go about in carriages with men who are practically strangers to you.”

She glared at him and leaned closer. “Oh, you are impossible. Mr. Dover is hardly a stranger to me or your family. And I will go with whomever I wish.”

His mind raced, searching for a sound reason to contradict the truth. “Not without a chaperon,” he blurted. He tilted a brow, infinitely pleased that he had been able to grasp a plausible explanation for his behavior and objection to Cyril. No one could twist his meaning or his intentions, and nobody could accuse him of not looking out for Marisa’s best interests. He assured himself that he was acting out of respect for her family and Bellami. He was going to take steps to see Marisa did not ruin her reputation. It was the least he could do to repay Hugh and Trace for their hospitality.

Patricia made a clucking sound. Brooks turned to look at her. She was staring at him with a puzzled expression. “Cyril is a perfect gentleman, as you well know. Now I think it is time for Marisa to get some rest.” Patricia turned concerned eyes on Marisa. “And don’t worry about any of this, dear.”

Marisa nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” She turned to Brooks and gave him a stare that could have frozen water. “I am flattered by your concern, Brooks, but as your mother says, there is no cause for you to worry about me. You are
not
my keeper.” She turned on her heel and walked to the curving staircase. Brooks could only stare at her with his mouth agape.

Brooks lay in his bed and listened to the ticking of the clock below. He had not slept—could not sleep with the thought of Marisa only a few yards away.

He’d heard his parents go to bed hours ago, and even the soft sounds of Rod moving around in his room had long since subsided.

And yet I cannot sleep.

He rose from his bed and shoved his window up. The sultry night air washed over him. He wanted to speak to
Marisa, to get this silly misunderstanding cleared up, to explain.

Explain what? That you are driving yourself mad with jealousy? Or that you can think of nothing but kissing her? Or that you were a stupid dolt to think you wanted to be a bachelor forever?

He silently cursed himself and dragged his hands through his hair. He had shed his shirt and boots, but was still wearing his trousers. A night bird called and he shivered.

“This has gone on long enough. I have to talk to Marisa.”

Brooks eased open his door and tiptoed down the hall to Bellami’s old bedroom. He stood there, with his hand poised to knock, while he tried to imagine what he would say. Finally, when nothing came to mind, he turned and started back to his room, but the pull of Marisa would not let him go.

Taking every care to be quiet, Brooks put his hand on the knob. He turned it slowly, expecting it to be locked.

It wasn’t.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, telling himself that he had lost his mind.

He didn’t care.

The soft sound of breathing could be heard coming from the canopied bed. He crept closer, intent on getting a glimpse of Marisa, determined to satisfy his craving for her with one innocent look. The glow of gaslights from the street beyond illuminated half of the room. Brooks tiptoed nearer the bed.