Wicked Temptations (13 page)

Adam's mother slapped her palm against his desk, sending papers flying. "Well, it was apparently enough to send her packing! What was it about?"

Adam glared at his mother. "It was between Priscilla and me."

"A lover's quarrel?"

Adam looked at his mother with a start. "Priscilla and I are not lovers." Hell, he didn't know what they were. But he did know that Priscilla was solidly rooted under his skin, and no matter what he did, he couldn't dislodge her.

 
His mother's thin nostrils flared. "Well, you're behaving like one, Adam. I suspect you're in love with the woman, though you may not be aware of it."

If it had been anyone but his mother, Adam would have shoved her out the door and slammed it behind her. Instead, he willed himself to remain calm, as he said, "That, Mother, is the biggest bunch of claptrap I've heard in months."

Her eyes darkened. "Your reaction just now tells me otherwise. Now, I ask you to make amends with Priscilla and convince her to remain here, where she belongs."

"Where she belongs?" Adam let out a short guffaw. "Priscilla only started belonging here when you learned she was a Tudor."

His mother pursed her lips and straightened her spine. "Her being a Tudor has nothing to do with my wishing her to stay."

"It has everything to do with it," Adam countered. "When Priscilla first arrived here you said she was as plain as an old shoe. But once you found out she was related to the queen, you suddenly found her acceptable."

"I always found her acceptable," Lady Whittington sniffed. "She only needed some guidance in fixing her appearance to make herself attractive. She's doing that now, and she is really quite presentable. And I believe you have noticed. Am I wrong?"

Adam rested his forearms on the arms of his desk chair and leaned forward. "I found Priscilla presentable the first time I laid eyes on her," he said, looking steadily at his mother. "Because she's attempting to fashion herself into the image you wish of her, she's still attractive to me, but in a different way."

Lady Whittington pressed her lips in disgust. "Then why are you not courting her, Adam? You were willing to marry a mail-order bride, a woman half your age whom you had never met, in order to secure a mother for your children. Priscilla is of the correct age to become their stepmother,
 
all three of the children like her, you claim you find her attractive, and yet, you have made no effort to pursue her."

"That's where you are wrong," Adam said. "At the theater, I brought up the idea of marriage, which Priscilla promptly rejected. In fact, it was the basis of our disagreement."

His mother looked at him, befuddled. "Why on earth would she do that? You're wealthy, handsome, well-established socially and, I presume, a gentleman when you're alone with her. What reason could Priscilla possibly have to reject your offer?"

Adam shrugged. "She reminded me that I'm an aristocrat and she's a nester."

"She is of royalty!"

"For heaven's sake, Mother. She came across the plains in a covered wagon with the homesteaders. She's a nester."

"But a nester with royal blood in her veins."

Adam restacked his papers and attempted to peruse them in an effort to end the exasperating encounter. "Well, it's irrelevant now," he said, "because she's simply not interested in marrying me or anyone else. She's involved in running her newspaper, and she would not have time for a husband, or for mothering a brood of half-grown children."

"Poppycock!
That's merely her excuse because she's intimidated by your uncommonly good looks and your overbearing demeanor. You are a man who could have any woman you want, and she's puzzled and suspicious as to why you'd want her because she is—" she stopped and pursed her lips.

"Plain as an old shoe?" Adam eyed his mother with vexation. "That
is
what you were about to say, wasn't it?"

"She is not as plain as she was. In fact, she's really quite attractive now. And she wore that dress to catch your eye which, I noticed, it did."

"I'm a normal, red-blooded male, Mother. Any woman with a bosom as ample and manifest as was Priscilla's in that gown would catch my eye."

"Then you admit you're physically attracted to her as well."

"I never said I wasn't. You were the one to label her plain. I find her intriguing and challenging, and certainly more exciting that the eligible females among
Cheyenne
's elite. And yes, the dress did catch my notice, as it did many other men at the theater. In fact, I saw men's heads turn whenever Priscilla walked past them."

"That's because she carries herself like a queen. There's a regal air about her, which I believe comes with her bloodline."

"It comes from study and practice, Mother. Priscilla tried to emulate the queen the entire time she was growing up in order to fool her mean-spirited classmates."

"No matter. She's queenly, and she commands notice. Now, that's all I intend to say about it. It's up to you to convince her that she's the woman you want for your wife."

Adam stood, braced his hands on his desk, leaned toward his mother and said, in a firm voice, "No, Mother. Priscilla is everything I do not want in a wife."

Catching movement across the room, Adam looked toward the doorway to find Priscilla standing there. If he'd hoped to convince her to stay, there was no convincing her now. Whatever she'd come to tell him, she set it aside and continued down the hallway.

"Bloody hell!"
He shoved his chair back, rushed around his mother and went after her. "Wait, Priscilla," he called out. "I want to talk to you."

Priscilla stopped at the front door and waited for him to come to her. "I hope you'll make it fast, Adam," she said, "because my belongings are packed, and Jim is out front with the buckboard, ready to collect them and drive them to my place."

"I don't want you running off like this. What I said in there—"

"What you said has no affect on me. I'm no more interested in becoming Lady Whittington than you are in having me as your wife. I have a business to run, and you have a cattle empire to oversee. Attempting to make a cozy little family out of
that
combination would be absurd. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm ready to leave."

Adam reached out and took her by the arm. "Not until I kiss you."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," Priscilla snapped. "And if you try, I'll scream."

"Then start screaming." Adam tugged her into his arms and covered her mouth with his, and although he knew his mother was standing at the end of the hallway watching, he refused to stop what was happening, even when Priscilla thrust her fingers into his hair and forced his head toward hers, demanding his lips take firmer possession, his tongue match the fervent thrusts of hers, his chest embrace her breasts.

His mind whirled with the need to scoop her up in his arms and kick open the nearest bedroom door, then hurl her on the bed, shove her skirts up, release his throbbing male part from the damn britches, and do what they both wanted. And there was no doubt in his mind that Priscilla would relinquish her virginity to him if he packed her off to a private place. But he fought off that almost uncontrollable urge because, although Priscilla might accept him, he was apt to get his eyes clawed out during the process.

When the kiss finally ended, Priscilla looked at him steadily, and said between labored breaths, "So that there's no misunderstanding, Adam, that kiss meant goodbye. Nothing more." She turned and opened the front door and walked toward the buckboard, back straight, head erect, like a queen who'd just issued a proclamation that was not to be challenged. And all he wanted was to haul her off to bed and claim her as his. Permanently.

CHAPTER SEVEN

'She hath abused her body by unspeakable

and incredible variety of lust, which

modesty suffereth not to be remembered'

— William Cardinal Allen about Elizabeth I - 1588

The jingle of the bell on the front door of
The Town Tattler
building announced the arrival of a customer. Priscilla looked up from her typesetting at the copy table and was surprised to see Lady Whittington, Lady Ashbury, and a younger woman whose features closely resembled those of Lady Ashbury. It was late in the day, and Jim and the women had left, so she was surprised that anyone would stop in. She had only seen Lady Whittington once since she left their home, two weeks before, and then only briefly to take care of an issue with Trudy. And she had not seen Adam at all during that time as he had been away at the ranch. Which suited her fine. Her feeling for him were in an upheaval, and she needed time to sort things out.

She set aside her composing stick and returned the type characters to the type drawer. Wiping her hands on a rag, she walked up to greet the women. "Good afternoon Lady Whittington, Lady Ashbury, Lady—?"

"Rumsfeld," the younger woman replied. "I am Lady Ashbury's daughter."

"We're sorry to be stopping by so late, dear," Lady Whittington said in an apologetic voice, "but we didn't want to disturb you during your working hours. But it seems you're still working."

"Well, yes. The ladies who are in my employ are new at typesetting, and therefore still slow, so I have to pick up the slack," Priscilla said. "May I offer you refreshments? My kitchen is modest, but I do have tea and custard tarts."

"No thank you, dear," Lady Whittington said. "Actually, we're here on business."

"You are?" Priscilla said, then realized it was not so surprising. Lady Whittington had given every indication that she'd be sending business her way, not by anything she'd said, but because there seemed to be a competition of sorts between the British cattlemen's wives and daughters, who seemed determined that
The Town Tattler
be British in nature because the owner and editor was a Tudor and therefore descended from royalty, and the homesteader's wives and daughter's, who expected the paper to reflect the lives of the commonplace folks who'd come west in wagon trains to start new lives, as did the owner and editor of the paper.

Priscilla was determined to stand for both.

"We want to place advertisements in your newspaper," Lady Ashbury said, "and my daughter has written a story which she hopes will be suitable for publication."

Priscilla looked at Lady Rumsfeld. "What is the subject of your story?" she asked.

The younger woman blushed. "Well, actually, it is a romantic story, much like those that Sara Claxton and Mary Reed Crowell write."

"Ah yes," Priscilla said,
"The Secret Marriage
and
The Masked Bride.
Then I must assume you're an avid reader of Dime Novels."

"Well... yes. In fact it's my dream to write them for publication," Lady Rumsfeld said. "My husband recently purchased a Remington typewriting machine for me, so you'll find the manuscript easy to read. The story, which I brought with me today, is short, but I have others that could run as continuing stories in several issues. And my husband would like to place an advertisement in
The Town Tattler
for Remington Typewriting machines, which are being sold in one of his stores."

Priscilla quickly tallied up the advertisements she'd already secured: the latest in Boulevard Velveteen from Jensen's Drygoods; the new Pivot Corset from Madam
LaFoy's
Ladies Apparel; Tissue Paper Flowers from Jerome Novelty;
Heminway
Spool Silks and Madonna Embroidery Cotton from Merrill's Dry & Fancy Goods. As each advertisement would first appear, she'd include a short descriptive piece about the product. But her best advertisement, which would take up one-quarter of a page, was from A.L. Dutton Specialty Wear for Women for their latest in bicycling costumes, promoting the new divided skirts and bloomer costumes. She'd be including a four-part essay, which would run in the next four issues, and which would address the health benefits of bicycling.

She'd sold a number of subscriptions to the British ladies, but she'd lost count of the number she'd sold to the homesteader's wives, most of which had been paid for in goods. The shelves in her pantry were now stocked with jams and jellies and canned fruits and vegetables, and she had several jars of pickled eggs and pickled pigs' feet. And out back, Jim had hastily built a henhouse for her four laying hens. She had also accepted teacups, and sets of dishes, and kitchenware—items she hadn't brought in the covered wagon, but planned to purchase upon arrival. And today, she accepted a pair of ladies walking boots that a woman ordered from
Bloomingdales's
and which turned out to be too small.

"Have you a title for your story?" she asked Lady Rumsfeld.

"Yes," Lady Rumsfeld replied. "I am calling it
The Runaway Bride."
She reached into the pocket of her satchel and withdrew her manuscript. Handing it to Priscilla, she said, "I've chosen the pen name Vivian Penworthy. That is, if you have no objection to my using a pen name."

"No, of course not," Priscilla said. "But many of the most popular writers of Dime Novels are now using their own names,
Metta
Victor being the exception. I'll read your story tonight. Basically, what I'm looking for in romantic stories is love and a happy ending. A young woman finds herself in dire circumstances and alone in the world, she attracts a handsome man far above her station, and after a series of mishaps and separations, the couple is united, and they marry."

Lady Rumsfeld smiled. "I believe you'll like my story then."

"If that's the case, I look forward to publishing others. Perhaps you could bring 'round your longer stories as well."

Lady Rumsfeld smiled broadly. "I will deliver them to you tomorrow."

Lady Ashbury, who had been waiting patiently for her daughter to finish, reached into her hand bag and withdrew several handwritten papers. "I have some items for the society column, and something for your Tattle Tale column," she said. "I did not mention the name, but there's a woman among us who is making claims about having gowns made by Frederick Worth, but on close inspection, it was easy to tell that the gown was a cheap imitation. I just want to draw attention to the fact that if a woman goes around making false claims, she
will
be exposed."

Priscilla paged through the papers. "I'll see that these are included," she said. "One point I'd like to mention though. When placing items in the Tattle Tale column, if you include a person's name, then you must include your own name as well. But since you haven't included a name in the one you're submitting, it can be signed, ‘Anonymous’."

Lady Ashbury smiled. "I understand," she said. "One thing more. My husband would like to include an advertisement. Actually, it's for our eldest daughter. We have just set her up in her own millinery shop on
16th Street
, which will open next month, and she'll be calling it Millie's Millinery. My husband and daughter will stop by to discuss with you what they'd like in the way of advertising. I just thought I'd let you know."

"I look forward to that," Priscilla said.

Lady Whittington glanced around the room. "Has Trudy been underfoot too terribly much?" she asked.

"No," Priscilla assured her, "she's a delight to have around. She's also been very helpful. She has a fine flare for writing, and we will be publishing an excellent article that she wrote about Viscountess
Harberton
and the Rational Dress Society, which, as you probably know, the
viscountess
founded. They are against the wearing of tight-fitting corsets, heavily-weighted skirts, high-heeled shoes, and anything impeding movement of the arms or rendering healthy exercise impossible. The new Pre-Raphaelite style of dress they are promoting is based on considerations for health, comfort and beauty."

"Trudy did tell me something about it," Lady Whittington said, "and that you purchased one of the new gowns for yourself. I'd be interested in seeing it."

"It hasn't yet arrived," Priscilla said. "I purchased it from a catalog put out by the Liberty & Company Artistic and Historic Costume Studio. I expect it to arrive shortly. But we will be including an illustration with Trudy's article. It should be of interest to readers."

"Well, it seems to be keeping Trudy's mind off the young man at the ranch," Lady Whittington said, "so that was what we were after. I am also glad to see Trudy interested in her father's campaign. She has been making leaflets to distribute at the fourth of July picnic where the candidates will be greeting voters. Which brings up the reason I'm here. I'd like to place an advertisement in your paper for Adam. I have this engraving of him—" she dug into her handbag and pulled out a metal plate "—and I've jotted down a few lines that tell a little about him."

"Does Adam know you're doing this?" Priscilla asked.

"Well, no," Lady Whittington admitted. "It was Trudy's idea. She wants it to be a surprise for her father. I told her I'd pay for the advertising space if you'd be willing to include it."

Priscilla didn't want to take an open position on the election at this time. By placing a picture of Adam in
The Town Tattler
, she would, in effect, be doing that. But she didn't want to disappoint Trudy either. Of course, Adam's opponents were welcome to take out advertising space as well. So she'd include an editorial about the race, stating that
The Town Tattler
did not take a position, but welcoming candidates to promote themselves through the paper, and for readers to write opinion pieces about candidates. "I'll include it in the next issue," she said, hoping Adam would welcome the piece, fearing he would not. But once he learned that Trudy was behind it, he'd hold back any critical comments he might have had.

The women were gathering their things to leave when the door swept open, and Adam walked in, unannounced. Lady Whittington looked at him in shocked surprise. "We were not expecting you for several days yet, Adam," she said. "Why are you here?"

"I might ask the same of you," Adam said.

"We are here on business," she replied.

"So am I."

Lady Whittington's brow gathered in a puzzled frown. "May I ask, out of curiosity, what kind of business you have with Miss Phipps."

"No, Mother, you may not," Adam replied.

Lady Whittington lifted her chin and gave a short, "
Harumph
."

Priscilla stared at Adam with guarded curiosity. After her brusque words to him following their passionate kiss in the hallway the day she moved out of his house, she had not expected to see him again. At all. That he showed up at this particular moment was awkward. "Can it not wait until tomorrow?" she said. "As you see, I'm busy."

Lady Whittington's gaze shifted from Adam to Priscilla, and back to Adam, her frown replaced by awareness. "We are finished now," she announced. She returned to Adam. "Will you be staying at the house tonight, or will you be returning to the ranch?"

Adam eyed Priscilla in a way that made her face flush, then he said to his mother, "I will not be staying at the house."

"Then you will be returning to the ranch, I presume," his mother said.

"Or I might stay at the Cheyenne Club," he replied. "I have some business to tend to there, and if it runs late, I'll take a room."

Priscilla felt her temper rise. She had a fairly good idea what that business was. Although the Cheyenne Club was not a brothel, it was rumored that clandestine affairs were frequently carried on behind the closed doors to the private rooms upstairs.

But she had no claim on Adam, nor he on her. He had, however, stopped by for a reason, and she hoped it didn't include a bathtub and a deflowering because that was not an option this particular evening. Nor would it be in the near future. During the two weeks that Adam had been gone, more incidents of cattlemen threatening and terrorizing farmers and homesteaders had occurred. A farmer's mule had been shot and killed. A homesteader's wife almost raped by three cowboys, the husband arriving in time to chase the men off, and another fence torn down and the crop trampled by livestock.

The women bid their farewells, but as Lady Whittington was leaving, she looked at Adam, and said, "If you will stop by tomorrow, I'd like to have a word with you."

"As you wish," Adam replied.

When the door clicked shut behind the women, Adam started toward Priscilla. "I take it you're comfortably settled in your apartment upstairs?" he said.

Priscilla backed away from him. "Yes, why do you ask?"

Adam continued toward her. "I think you already know why."

Priscilla continued to back away, while saying, "The last time I saw you, I made it clear that whatever was between us would not proceed any further. Nothing's changed."

"The last time you saw me, you kissed me like there was no tomorrow," Adam reminded her. "Well, tomorrow came, and I'm here, and I intend to kiss you again, and after that I'm going to carry you upstairs and fill your bathtub with warm water, and strip you naked, and put an end to the torture you're putting me through."