The Bad Luck Wedding Dress (20 page)

Jenny laughed. “The legend of the Bad Luck Wedding Dress lives on.” And she didn’t care one whit.

The minister interrupted, “Let’s finish this up, shall we? I’d like to clear the church before the Widow Sperry injures someone with that parasol she’s wielding.”

Shortly, he declared them husband and wife. She grinned at Maribeth’s loud
yahoo
even as Trace pulled her into his arms for the customary kiss. And then, she forgot everything else.

This was no peck on the cheek or polite buss on the lips. He wrapped her in a tight embrace and devoted himself to the task like Michelangelo at the Sistine Chapel. The kiss went on and on and on. Jenny heard a rushing in her ears. The din in the church receded until she and her brand-new husband were the only two people in the world.

The commotion actually did subside. People forgot about the mice and the cats and the dogs as, one by one, they noticed the duration and intensity of the kiss. While the animals escaped through the open doors at the back of the church, the congregation grew silent. Speechless. Ceremony-ending kisses never lasted like this one.

Finally, Wilhemina Peters expressed the thought running through many people’s minds. “Why, I do declare,” she said loudly, fanning her face with her notepad. “It looks as if that wedding dress has seen a change of luck!”

As the congregation cheered, Trace finally pulled away from his bride. Monique’s face beamed with delight as she rushed toward the altar and grasped him by the lapels, yanking him toward her. Jenny laughed at her new husband’s wide-eyed expression when his brand-new mother- in-law planted a kiss directly on his mouth and said, “Welcome to the family, you handsome thing, you. Welcome to the family.”

When a new home is built, the first fire to be made in the fireplace should come from a happy and prosperous home to bring good luck to the new home
.

CHAPTER 12

THE HOUSE ROSE MAJESTICALLY atop a hill on the west side of town. The back veranda overlooked the Clear Fork of the Trinity, while the view from the front balconies offered a scene of downtown Fort Worth, the railroad depot to the south, and the broad prairie beyond, where, in season, cattle herds waited to ford the river.

It was to this mansion on the hill that Trace planned to take his bride.

The house had set Fort Worth tongues to wagging since the beginning of its construction months ago. Through stealth and carefully placed bribes, he’d managed to keep the owner’s identity secret. Now, with the house finished and the sale of the End of the Line nearly completed, the time had arrived to announce the resumption of his profession.

If all went as planned, public admiration for his house would lead to commissions for other residential designs. Those, in turn, would lead to bids for commercial buildings.

But Trace’s professional concerns had little to do with bringing Jenny to the new house after their wedding reception. It was the privacy that appealed to him. Privacy and the bed he’d purchased at the railroad’s unclaimed freight auction a little over a month ago.

The bed was huge, the mattress firm, and he’d imagined Jenny lying on it a hundred times since he said “I do.”

He gave his bride a sidelong look. She sparkled. She glowed. She acted as if all of her dreams had come true.

Damn it all, they needed to talk.

As much as Trace desired a wedding night with this woman, he could not in good faith proceed with it unless Jenny understood the situation. This was no fairy-tale marriage where “I do” meant happily ever after. He couldn’t be that dishonest with her. In many ways this marriage would be similar to the arrangement she’d planned with Wharton, the oily bastard.

From the looks of her now, all pretty and bubbly and shining, she expected something more.

Her voice echoed in his mind.
I could have loved you
.

Damn. They needed to talk about that, too. He didn’t want her love, and God knows, he would never love her. He liked Jenny Fortune McBride way too much to do that to her.

Jenny noticed his regard and offered him a shy smile. “All right, I give up. Just where is it we are going?”

To bed
, he wanted to say. “You’ll find out when we get there,” he told her instead, snapping the reins to signal the horse to speed.

They rode in a coal-box buggy Monique had decorated with flowers and ribbons for the traditional Grand Parade around town following the reception. Instead of a Grand Parade, Trace had orchestrated a quick and quiet disappearance from the gala his new mother-in-law had hosted at the Cosmopolitan.

There, he’d had all the fun he could stand within the first half-hour. Wilhemina Peters had dogged the newlyweds’ heels like a bloodhound on the scent, recording every exclamation, felicitation, and proclamation uttered. Trace anticipated the devotion of an entire page in the
Democrat
for a recounting of all the wedding gossip. Two pages, if she went into any detail about the encounter she’d witnessed in the hotel lobby between the newlyweds and the former bridegroom.

Trace had been dancing with Jenny when Wharton steamed into the ballroom all but foaming at the mouth, his accusations loud, ugly, and for the most part true. Shrugging, Trace had refused either to confirm or deny the charge that he’d waylaid the groom, although he did quietly express surprise that Wharton had managed to escape the bondage room at Miss Rachel’s.

While the guests at the reception speculated about the bruises on Wharton’s face, Trace had advised him to lower his voice, congratulate the bride, and catch the evening train out of town.

He considered it unfortunate that the skunk then raised a stink, and he was forced to grab the man by the scruff of the neck and escort him from the hotel. The vicious, if empty, threats he murmured in Wharton’s ears apparently did the trick. His complexion blanched as white as the stripe down his back.

Just to make certain, Trace had slipped Casey Tate five dollars to keep an eye on Thomas Edmund Wharton III until the man actually boarded the train. He’d welcomed the news a short time later when the boy returned to the party and announced, “He polled his freight and left!”

In the meantime, Mrs. Wilson, God bless her, had distracted the guests by launching herself at Trace and wrapping him in a boisterous embrace. She’d conducted a loud, extended expression of congratulations, then smacked a congratulatory kiss right on his lips, after which she wrapped Jenny in a smothering hug and suggested she stay with the girls for an entire week so the newlyweds could enjoy a proper honeymoon.

For his wife’s sake, Trace couldn’t decline her offer. The transformation of the wedding dress from bad to good had begun. Publicly refusing an opportunity for newlywed privacy might have placed the process at risk.

Besides, when it came right down to it, Trace hadn’t wanted to refuse.

So, after promising his daughters that he’d think long and hard about an appropriate punishment for the day’s mischief, he had kissed them good-bye and ushered his bride to the waiting buggy.

The ride from the Cosmopolitan had taken them fifteen minutes, and by the time Trace turned into the drive that led up the hill to the house, the setting sun speared the western sky with beams of pink, vermillion, and gold.

Jenny glanced at him, her brows arched in surprise. “Trace?”

A fierce sense of pride filled him as he said, “It’s mine. We’re all moving in next week.”

Jenny’s chin dropped. “
You’re
the one building this place?”

Grinning at her surprise, he gazed toward the red-brick Georgian Revival style house. “Actually, I designed it. Someone else built it. I was the architect.”

“Architect? But you’re a saloonkeeper.”

“Not any more. I’m selling the End of the Line.”

“You’ve sold the saloon?”

The gasp filled her lungs with air, lifting her breasts. Trace damn near dropped the reins. “I have a buyer. We’ll sign the papers as soon as the lawyers finish their bickering.”

Jenny plopped back against the buggy’s seat. “I had no idea!”

“Nobody does. Not even the girls. I wanted to keep it a surprise for them until the time was right.”

She closed her eyes, shaking her head back and forth. “The last twenty-four hours have been absolutely bizarre.” After a moment’s pause, she added, “I have so many questions, not the least of which is why you changed your mind about marrying me, but I find I’m afraid to ask them.”

He tugged on the reins, bringing the horse and buggy to a halt in the middle of the circular drive. He thought of the bed upstairs and knew he had to speak. “We need to talk, Jenny.”

Almost a minute passed before she replied. “I know.” Then, meeting his gaze, she asked, “But, couldn’t we put it off for just a little while? I have a nasty feeling we’re bound to argue, and I truly don’t think I’m up to it.” She placed her hand on his knee. “It could wait until tomorrow, couldn’t it?”

He gave her a sidelong, skeptical look.

“Please?”

The woman’s smile packed more punch than moonshine. Sighing dramatically, Trace nodded and hopped down from the buggy, then moved to assist his wife. His hands lingered at her waist as he lifted her down, and he tried not to think about his easy capitulation.

He knew he’d taken the coward’s way out. He’d seized on her excuse in order to enjoy a wedding night.

Grabbing her satchel from the buggy, he escorted her up the front steps and inside the house. She stopped abruptly, gazing around, and his hand clenched the bag’s handle as he awaited her reaction.

“Oh, Trace!”

Oh, Trace?
He wanted more than that. It had been a lifetime ago since anyone’s opinion of his work had meant this much to him. Of course, it had been a lifetime since he’d done any work, period.

A crystal chandelier hung from the entryway’s vaulted ceiling, and Italian white marble tiled the floor. With no carpets and few furnishings, Jenny’s steps echoed as she walked toward the centerpiece of the house—the grand spiral staircase that led to the horseshoe balcony surrounding the second-floor landing. She stared for what seemed like days.

Finally, she glanced back over her shoulder. Wonder lit the depths of her summer-sky eyes as she said, “It’s fabulous, Trace. Simply gorgeous. Show me the rest, please?”

He released a pent-up breath. “There’s not much to see,” he said gruffly. “The only furniture I have is some stuff I picked up from the railroad, and it’s not all that special. Except for one piece, that is. I poured all my money into the house itself; my reputation depends on the design, not the sofas.”

She started nodding before he finished speaking. “Of course. This house is a grand display of talent. People have known that for months. And once they see the inside …” She beamed at him. “You’ll be the most famous architect in the state.”

“Fame isn’t important; commissions are. The girls need—”

“You’ll have your choice of commissions, Trace McBride,” she interrupted. “Believe me.” An impish light entered her eyes as she added, “I knew I married a talented man, but I had no idea just how extensive those talents were.”

Her reaction filled him with pride and something even more basic. Hell, he thought, as warmth pooled low in his belly, why not have a wedding night to remember? She had one coming to her; Wharton damn sure would have given her one. Before Trace locked the bastard in that room at Rachel’s, Wharton had confirmed Trace’s suspicion that “marriage of convenience” to him meant a convenient bedmate. That was the last thing he’d said before Trace threw the knockout punch and took the skunk’s place at the altar.

Now he wanted to claim his own place in the nuptial bed. “You’ve only scratched the surface of my talents, Mrs. McBride.” Decision made, he couldn’t wait. “C’mon, I’ll give you the two-bit tour. We’ll start upstairs, all right?”

As they climbed the steps he enjoyed a renewed burst of energy. A short time ago he’d been feeling the effects of last night’s minimal amount of sleep. Funny how a good dose of lust could kick the tired right out of a man’s bones.

“This way,” he said motioning to the right at the top of the stairs.

At the door to the master bedroom, Jenny stopped abruptly, a peculiar look crossing her face. Trace set her satchel beside the bed. “What is it?”

She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I guess the events of the last couple of days are catching up with me. I’m more tired than I thought.”

Trace tried to keep the disappointment from his voice. “You’re tired?
Too
tired?”

“No, not too tired.” Her cheeks flushed with color as she added, “It’s not that. I guess I just now realized that we, uh … that we’ll… that we’re
married
.”

She wasn’t turning him down. Immediately his spirits lifted, and he reached out, pulling her to him. “You’re hard on a fella’s pride, Wife,” he growled. “Have you forgotten that kiss we shared at the altar?”

“What kiss?” she breathed, her limbs trembling beneath his touch.

“Witch.” Bending his head toward hers, he said in a rough, low whisper, “Guess I’ll have to remind you.”

She moistened her lips with an innocent, sensual swipe of her tongue. “Guess you will, McBride.”

Heat filled him fast and hot as he crushed his mouth against hers. So soft, so sweet. Like the candy mints Monique had served at the reception.

Even as his tongue stroked the velvet of her mouth, his fingers wandered across the lustrous folds of taffeta, searching for a way inside.

She felt so damned good; she fit in his arms so perfectly. When she sighed her pleasure against his lips, a sizzle coursed through him, and he groaned aloud.

Good Lord, he wanted her. His body pulsed, the elemental need battling for control over his will. He didn’t want to rush this. Not this first time. Their first time. He lifted his head and drew a ragged breath. She smelled of roses and something more—the deeper, more exotic scent of arousal.

He touched his lips to her temple. “Come to bed, Jenny. Please, come to bed with me.”

Lifting her hand, she brushed back a curl from his forehead and teased, “Before the two-bit tour?”

“We’ll start it with the bed.” He turned his head and nipped at her fingers. “The longer tour costs fifty cents.”

She answered with a little smile that betrayed her nervousness, and Trace discovered he disliked seeing the sentiment. “Don’t be afraid, Jenny.”

“I’m not,” she said, shaking her head. “Not of you. Never of you.”

Her declaration touched that gaping void within him and warmth filled the hollowness. He was humbled.

Her faith made him feel like a man again.

“Let me change?” she asked in a shy voice as she stepped away from him. “I made a gown for tonight. I’d like to wear it.”

“No.” The fierceness of his reply surprised them both. “You made it for Wharton. It doesn’t belong in our bed.”

She shook her head. “I did not sew this gown for Edmund. I made it years ago to keep in my bridal chest in anticipation of my wedding night.”

“You’d have worn it for Wharton,” Trace said, feeling downright peevish.

“No, I don’t think so. I designed this gown to please the man I loved. It’s true I packed it with my things, but I don’t believe I would have worn it. Not for Edmund. But I’d like to wear it for you, Trace. May I?”

To please the man I loved
. And she wanted to wear it for him? Oh, hell. As much as he didn’t want to do it, they were going to have to talk. He held up his hand, palm out. “Jenny, wait a minute. Before we go any further, we need to get something straight—”

She placed a finger across his lips. “This is our wedding night, Mr. McBride, and wedding nights are not for talking. We have the rest of our lives to talk, but we only have one wedding night.”

God, he could drown in those eyes. Well, hell, he’d tried. And she did have a point. Wedding nights only happened once. They’d talk tomorrow, and he’d make damn sure she enjoyed tonight.