The Bad Luck Wedding Dress (21 page)

Trace nodded toward a door on the side wall. “The dressing room is through there.” Then, hoping to ease the tension he noted in her eyes, he added, “Hurry, all right? I’m anxious to begin the tour.”

She lifted her satchel and walked toward the door, throwing an uncertain look over her shoulder as she did so. He winked at her and she answered with a slow smile. Then, as if gathering her courage, she raised her chin just a mite. In a brave, sassy tone, she teased, “Oh, I’ll hurry, Trace. I’m eager for you to show me your—”

He gave her a sharp look.

“—house.”

Trace was still grinning when, after stripping naked, he crawled into the bed. Stacking a pair of pillows against the headboard, he sank back into them. Then, considerate of Jenny’s modesty, he drew the sheet and blanket up waist high. “I do love this mattress,” he said with a sigh, wiggling his toes. Elbows outstretched, his fingers laced behind his head, he waited, erotic images running through his mind.

Hurry up, Jenny
. It seemed to be taking forever. As his imaginings grew even more explicit, his eyes drifted shut. The better to see his fantasies as he waited for reality, he thought.

The mattress cradled him. The blanket warmed him. The lack of sleep caught up with him.

After only ten minutes, Jenny returned to the bedroom wearing a diaphanous midnight-blue silk gown that revealed more of her charms than it hid. But instead of the heated look of lust she expected from her groom, she was met at the door with something else altogether.

Her husband’s snore.

Silently, she approached the bed, a tender smile stealing across her face. Her hero. Her savior.

Her love.

He hadn’t wanted to marry. He’d sworn he never would again. She had a hundred questions to ask, and she wondered just how many answers he would give her.

Not as many as I’d like, I suspect. Oh, Trace, I’ll make our marriage good for you. I promise. I’ll make you happy. I’ll help you forget
.

Then Jenny joined her husband in their marriage bed, curled herself against him, and went happily to sleep.

“I DON’T believe this,” the raspy voice muttered in Jenny’s ear.

She opened her eyes to the hazy light of dawn, rested and warm and spooned against her husband. Never in her entire life had she ever felt so content. Her lips lifted in a sleepy smile as she snuggled back against him, her eyes drifting shut as sleep beckoned once more.

Then his hand began to move, trailing upward from her waist to cup the weight of her breast, and a stab of yearning chased away all thought of slumber. “Trace?”

“I truly don’t believe this,” he repeated, his voice indignant and just a little embarrassed. He flicked the pad of his thumb across her nipple as he added, “I fell asleep on you.”

His touch sent warm honey running through her veins, and she felt so good, so wonderful, she couldn’t help but giggle, just a little. “Not exactly
on
me.”

He growled, rough and low, and tugged on her shoulder, rolling her onto her back. He loomed above her. “Are you laughing at me, Wife?”

“Oh, no, Trace. I’m laughing at us. I’m laughing for us.” She lifted her hand to caress the stubbled skin of his face and put her heart into a smile. “I feel like the luckiest woman alive.”

His eyes narrowed, passion flaring within their depths. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Her breath locked in her throat. When he looked at her that way, she thought her heart might burst. Anticipation filled her, fed by the love she felt for this man. “Make love to me, Trace.”

He lowered his head to press a quick, gentle kiss to her lips. “I don’t think anything could stop me this time.” He rose above her, bronzed and naked, and she caught her breath at the proof of his desire. Then he touched her, stripping away her gown to leave her bare to his heated gaze, and Jenny lost the ability to think. All she could do was feel.

He stroked her, suckled her, teased her with his breath. He spoke to her with his eyes and voiced words she’d never heard before. Seductive words, erotic words, carnal words that embarrassed and excited her. Words that made her ache with a need beyond all experience.

Jenny writhed in his arms. “Please, Trace.”

“Please?” He nipped at her neck. “Yes, sweetheart, I’ll please you. I’ll please you so well and so often you’ll never leave my bed for another’s.”

She heard the words, but did not note them, so lost was she in the sensual haze he had created. He found the core of her womanhood with his fingers, stroking and stretching her. With every movement, tension inside her heightened. She held him by the shoulders, her hands tightening, nails digging into his flesh. Her head rolled restlessly as she moaned and pressed against him, seeking relief.

“That’s it.” His voice was raspy and rough. “Give it to me. Give me your pleasure.”

She was poised at the edge of a high precipice, aching to tumble over, fearing the drop. Opening her eyes, she sought reassurance.

Trace held her gaze, both fierce and tender at the same time. “Go ahead and fall. I’m here to catch you. I’ll always be here to catch you.”

With a small cry, she gave herself up to the feeling. She rose, soaring, her husband holding her tightly all the way. “Oh, Trace,” she breathed.

“I know, honey.” He pressed a kiss to her lips and positioned himself between her thighs. She knew a moment of pain as he made her his wife, but its memory was lost as he filled her with his heat.

Each sensation imprinted itself on her mind. The sheen of sweat covering his skin, the musky fragrance enveloping them, the contrast of hard against soft. When she heard his groan and felt his body shudder as he poured his life force into her, Jenny knew an emotional pleasure as powerful and intense as the physical one of moments ago. Tears stung her eyes.

Her rescuer, her knight in shining armor. Her hero. This was love.

If only Trace could see it.

LATER THAT morning Trace once again attempted to instigate a “talk.” Jenny wanted no part of it. She suspected such a discussion would lead to strife.

She decided she could wait to learn about his first wife and the accident that killed her. And what was the rush in learning why he had changed his mind and taken Edmund’s place at the altar? They had plenty of time to discuss what to expect from this marriage.

She was living in a fool’s paradise, she knew, and the questions must be asked and answered. But what was wrong with a few days of happiness? What would a few days of pretending hurt? Shoot, Monique pretended for years at a time, and it didn’t seem to cause her any harm.

For now, Jenny was happy. Their lovemaking had been all she’d dreamed of, lacking only the declaration she knew not to expect. She wanted to enjoy the moment for as long as possible, and that enjoyment would surely end with the commencement of Trace’s “talk.”

Jenny loved Trace McBride, and she knew he didn’t return the feeling. Knowing something was difficult enough; her heart didn’t need the grief of hearing him say it. Not today. Not until after their honeymoon, however long she could make it last.

Distracting Trace from his purpose proved easy enough. Her talents in that regard, though never before used, were obviously something she’d inherited from Monique. She eventually got her two-bit tour, though not in a way she would have imagined. By the end of the day, Trace had made love to her in every room upstairs except for the girls’ bedrooms. He promised to show her the downstairs the following day, predicting she would develop an extra strong attachment to the dining room and its wide mahogany table.

For three days they enjoyed an idyllic honeymoon. While they didn’t have that “talk,” they did enjoy conversations, and Jenny was pleased that he listened with genuine interest to her opinions about public and personal issues. He spoke with her at length about his plans to resume his profession. He was open and honest about his financial situation. He expressed a real interest in Fortune’s Design, going so far as to offer advice on how to capitalize on the notion of “bad luck turning good.”

“Use what Wilhemina Peters said at the wedding,” he suggested on the afternoon of the third day. Sparks flew as he tossed another log onto the fire in the master bedroom fireplace. “Quote her in a newspaper advertisement. She’ll love it.”

Jenny dragged her gaze from the arresting sight of the flex of his bare muscles. “What are you talking about?”

“What she said when we kissed. You know, ‘Looks like that dress has had a change of luck.’”

“She said that? I didn’t hear her say that.”

Glancing back over his shoulder, he unleashed a wicked smile. “Guess you were concentrating on my kiss.”

Jenny almost groaned aloud. “Guess I was.”

“Want to do it again?”

“Guess I do.”

Half an hour later while stroking his finger softly up Jenny’s bare midriff, Trace casually mentioned her wedding gift should be arriving sometime that afternoon.

“My wedding gift?” Jenny was both shocked and delighted. When had he found the time to purchase her a gift?

He grinned, his jeweled eyes twinkling, but he wouldn’t say more despite her constant questions.

Trace had no way of knowing how much his action touched her. Her father’s wedding gifts to her mother had always been a source of delight. Throughout Jenny’s childhood, she’d spin fantasies about the next item to be added. Each time her parents married, Richard Fortune gave Monique a whimsical favor—a clown statue, a paper fan, a painted rock. The items occupied a place of honor among Monique’s possessions, and they fascinated her daughter. Thus, wedding gifts from groom to bride came to hold a special significance to Jenny.

That Trace would even think of giving her a gift, much less actually do it, made her heart sing.

By the time a wagon rolled up the hill at half past three, Jenny all but trembled with excitement. Standing at an upstairs window, she peered intently through the glass. “That’s Mr. Starnes, isn’t it? He’s bringing us something from the railroad?”

Trace was all mischievous innocence. “Well, I wonder what it could be?”

Jenny gave him a sidelong glance and was reminded of his daughters. Laughter sputtered up inside her. “Come along, Mr. Head Menace. Let’s go find out.”

The air outside was crisp and clean-scented. Standing on the front porch, Jenny rubbed her arms, half from chill and half from excitement. Wood scraped against wood as Mr. Starnes tugged the crate stamped Texas & Pacific from the wagon bed onto a dolly.

“Howdy, Trace,” he said. “Sure was surprised to see your name at this address. Surprised to be deliverin’ something other than spirits, too. Where you want this?”

Trace eyed the crate, then gave Jenny a nonchalant glance. “The front parlor will be fine, Ray. Mrs. McBride will want room to spread it all out.”

The deliveryman nodded to Jenny. “Best wishes, ma’am. Your wedding is the talk of Tarrant County. Dallas County, too, now.”

“Dallas County?” she repeated.

“Sorry I couldn’t help you with this, ma’am. Ain’t it lucky ol’ Trace here has been providing the liquor to the Fort Worth and Dallas offices of the T and P since the rails hit town?” He scratched his beard and chuckled a moment before adding, “That Ethel Baumgardner squealed like a stuck pig when your husband’s telegrams snatched this crate right out from under her.” He tilted back the dolly and rolled the box toward the house.

Jenny’s heart seemed to stop. Her eyes widened and she steepled her hands over her mouth. “My European shipment?” She whirled on Trace. “That’s my European shipment in that box?”

Trace folded his arms, nodding smugly. “Including the bolt Emma and Maribeth took off the train. It’s dark blue with—”

“Midnight-blue silk with silver and gold threads,” she said softly, as Mr. Starnes tugged the crate up the front steps and into the house. Following the men into the parlor, she blinked back tears and stared at the large wooden box. When she made no move toward it, Trace touched her arm. “I’ll get a bar to pry it open, all right?”

She nodded, vaguely noting his curious look as he escorted Mr. Starnes outside.

A few minutes later his boot steps echoed in the entry hall. She heard him enter the parlor, but all she saw was a blur because of the tears pooled in her eyes. Metal scraped and wood creaked as he pried the top from the box.

Jenny gasped. Silks, sateens, lawn, and lace. Arctic blue, smoke gray, primrose, and heliotrope. Dots, plaids, Scotch tweed. Trims to make any woman gasp with pleasure.

Her tears overflowed.

“Jenny? What the hell—”

“Oh, Trace.” She threw herself into his arms. “Thank you. Oh, thank you!”

The stiffness drained from his body and he wrapped her in a hug. “I take it you like your gift?”

“I’ve never…nobody ever….” Surrounded by his strength, his security, words erupted from the depths of her heart. “Oh, Trace, I love you.”

She knew immediately she’d made a mistake. He grasped her shoulders and set her away from him. “Don’t,” he said flatly. “Jenny, don’t.”

“But—”

“No!” His eyes were shards of green glass, his jaw made of granite. “It’s not that way for you and me. It’s no different than it would have been with Wharton. I married you to take care of my daughters; you married me to save your business. That’s all it is. A convenient marriage for both of us. Don’t expect any more. I won’t allow it. I don’t
want
it.”

A chill crept through her on spider’s legs.

“Goddammit, Jenny, don’t look like that!” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I tried to tell you. I wanted to talk.”

She closed her eyes, reeling from the blow. It was true. He’d wanted to talk, and she wouldn’t let him because she knew this would be the result. Oh, Jenny, why didn’t you just keep your mouth shut!

He said quietly, “Look, this need not change anything between us. We’ve been getting along fine, haven’t we? This marriage is working. Better than I expected, to be truthful.”

A bitter note crept into her voice. “That’s because you’re getting everything you want.”

“That’s not fair,” he said coldly.

She wasn’t feeling very fair. She was feeling childish and discouraged and brokenhearted. She whirled around, pacing the room in agitation. Trace stood in the center of the parlor like a stone monolith, and Jenny was seized by an overwhelming desire to send him toppling. The thickheaded man.