Linda Castle (7 page)

B
rooks shrugged on his dove gray suit coat, worn over a charcoal silk vest. He indulged in an uncharacteristic moment of masculine vanity as he paused in front of the cheval mirror.

The carefully tailored coat hugged his shoulders, now heavy with muscle from months of hard riding and roping half-grown steers on the Circle B.

Will Missy notice?

Where had that thought come from? Surely he had learned from his experience in the Territory that Missy was never impressed by the cut of a man’s clothes—at least not his. Brooks scowled and let his dark thoughts continue. Missy had shown a modicum of curiosity in the way he sat a horse, but absolutely none in the way he dressed.

Perhaps that was because she was waiting for you to be thrown on your ass.

A knock at the door brought his melancholy musing to a halt. He crossed the room in four long strides and opened the door. Rod was leaning against the jamb, his expression a study in annoyed forbearance.

“If this invitation had come from anybody but Ellen, I
swear I’d take off this damn coat and go to the office to get some work done,” he threatened.

“So don’t go. I am not looking forward to your chuckles and smirks, anyway. I am sure she will understand.”

“Oh no. You can’t get rid of me so easily, brother dear. I have a feeling there is more to this little party than meets the eye. Mother has been positively closemouthed…and I have not heard from Clair since we returned from Bellami’s wedding. Silence among the James women is never a good sign, and then, of course, there was that conversation with good ol’ Cyril. The pot is simmering.”

Brooks opened his mouth to deny Rod’s suspicions, but snapped it shut again. Something
was
going on, and he had the uneasy feeling that Missy O’Bannion would end up right in the middle of it. Missy and debonair Cyril Dover.

Across town at Leland James’s mansion, Missy sat worrying her bottom lip with her front teeth.

“Stop that.” Ellen’s reprimand brought immediate composure to her face. “Now come sit down so I can finish your hair.”

“I’m so consarn—” Missy quickly amended her speech. “I mean, I am terribly nervous, Ellen.” She sat down in front of the French-style vanity and watched Ellen’s reflection in the mirror.

“You’ll do fine.” Ellen sighed heavily. “You have learned a great deal these past few weeks.”

“Thanks to you and Cyril. Are you feeling all right?” Missy frowned. There seemed to be even less color in Ellen’s already porcelain complexion.

“Don’t fuss—you sound like Papa. Of course I am all right. Cyril has been a dear, hasn’t he?” Missy tried to turn around and look at Ellen directly, but a sharp tug on her hair kept her in place. “Be still,” Ellen said as she
fastened and looped long strands. “And remember, Missy is gone…you are a different woman with a different name.” Ellen braided a tiny length of pearls and a spray of small white flowers into the side of her hair to frame her face.

“I do feel like a different person. If I can just remember to answer when I’m called.” Her laughter was brittle with tension.

Ellen stepped back and assessed her handiwork. “Now you are all ready. Go to the gazebo in the backyard, but don’t let anyone see you until I introduce Miss Marisa O’Bannion to my guests. Cyril knows what to do once he arrives.”

Missy’s mouth went dry as a sun-baked arroyo. “Do you really think Br—everyone will notice the change in me?”

Ellen paused at the bedroom door.
“Everyone
would have to be stone-cold dead not to notice the change in you. Missy is gone. Don’t even think of yourself as Missy anymore. You are Marisa O’Bannion and you are every inch a proper lady.”

Three downstairs maids efficiently directed the new arrivals to the back garden, creating a steady stream of traffic through the house. The fragrance of roses wafted through the open French doors on a rain-freshened spring breeze.

Small tables set with crisp white linen and a crystal vase holding a single pink rosebud had been strategically placed among the flowering shrubs and sweet-smelling vines.

From her perch within the gazebo, Marisa took in the magnificent, romantic garden. She peered out from among the blooms surrounding the gazebo and studied each new.
arrival with excitement and dread. “Marisa O’Bannion—my name is Marisa O’Bannion,” she chanted over and over under her breath.

A new group of arrivals spilled through the French doors and out onto the lawn. Ellen stood ready to greet them. She smiled widely, but Marisa was concerned by the pale blue smudges beneath her eyes. While preparing for this party, Ellen had not been getting enough rest, she thought guiltily. But then Marisa’s gaze fell on a cluster of people, and her heart lodged like a stone beneath her breast.

“Welcome, cousins.” Ellen stood on her tiptoes to give first Rod, then Brooks, a peck on the cheek.

Brooks scanned the garden with squinted eyes. Marisa felt like a rabbit, cringing in the brush while a hawk sought her out She drew back into the gazebo and flattened herself against a pillar.

“Have some refreshments, please,” Ellen suggested.

Brooks picked up a crystal cup of punch and brought it to his lips. He was oddly disappointed not to find Missy among the fresh-faced debutantes and their escorts.

Rod nodded toward the door. “Just as I suspected…” he said cheerfully.

Brooks turned, expecting to see the elusive Miss O’Bannion. Instead he saw his mother and eldest sister, Clair, and Cyril Dover. A tiny shiver worked its way-down his back as the trio stepped into the mottled patterns of sunlight filtering through the russet leaves of the copper beeches.

“Rod, Brooks…” Clair released Cyril’s right arm to make her way to the pair. Her gown of pale blue lace and darker gray silk ruffles caught the light. “My favorite little brothers. I have missed you. Wasn’t it a lucky thing that Ellen decided to have a garden party?”

Clair obviously did not expect an answer, since she never halted her prattle long enough to receive one.

“Where is your husband?” Rod asked, peering over her head at the door behind her.

“Australia. Sailed off two days ago. He is helping Father with some business involving Ashland Shipping.” Clair’s brows arched as if to emphasize her complete shock that he had left her. “Very inconvenient timing considering…but no matter. I have a little announcement to make later.” A smile replaced the frown as she turned her attention to her youngest sibling. “Brooks, let me look at you. You have filled out and, my goodness, you are as brown as a native! Oh my lands, there are calluses on your hands!” She grasped one hand and turned his palm up to examine it, as if she had never before beheld the results of physical labor.

Brooks accepted her sisterly attention in good humor. She was, after all, his oldest sibling, and accustomed to hovering over him and Bellami. Finally Clair drew in a breath, and Brooks seized the rare opportunity to speak to his mother.

“Mother?” He frowned. “Rod and I would’ve been happy to escort you and Clair.”

Patricia still had her slender hand draped through Cyril’s arm, a gesture of familiarity that puzzled Brooks. He had not been aware of any friendship between them or their families.

“How very sweet of you, darling, but Cyril was happy to bring us in his carriage.”

“Cyril? You and Cyril traveled over in his carriage?”

Brooks saw Rod nod once as if to say “I told you so.”

“Yes. He dropped by and was a dear to offer to drive me and Clair. There was no reason for you and Rod to trouble yourselves.”

Brooks had never known his mother to tell an outright lie, but she had been known to bend the truth fifty different ways. He wondered if she was doing so right now. Brooks studied her face, trying to guess what she was up to, and if Rod’s dour prediction of trouble was correct. A ripple of distrust and suspicion twined its way through Brooks’s belly when he scanned Cyril’s unreadable face. The two men stared at each other while the silence grew strained. Then Ellen appeared, all blond bouncing curls and happy smiles, and the tension of the moment evaporated.

“It is so good to see you, Aunt Patricia.” She turned and looked at Cyril. Brooks wasn’t sure why, but two small circles of high color appeared on her cheeks as she spoke. “And you, Cyril. Thank you so much for coming.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “We are in your debt and could never have done it without you.”

Brooks frowned, wondering what her remark meant, but he had little time to speculate because Ellen turned toward the gazebo and extended one milk white hand. “Allow me to introduce Marisa O’Bannion.”

Telling herself she was indeed Marisa O’Bannion, Missy lifted her chin and stood straight. She silently recited every instruction Ellen had given her about deportment as she made her way down the three shallow steps of the gazebo. She felt like a fairy princess when she stepped into a shaft of sunlight and her satin-slippered toes touched the verdant turf. She inhaled a breath of air refreshed and sweetened by yesterday’s rain, and brought her chin up a notch.

There was no turning back now, not with
him
watching.

Brooks knew he was staring, bug-eyed and illmannered, but he could not seem to help himself. A diffused heat spread from his belly to his limbs. He devoured
the woman with his eyes, while a little voice in his head reminded him that this confection was only opinionated, bullheaded Missy—nothing to get all hot and bothered about.

Yet his eyes and senses questioned what he saw as a new woman smiled shyly and glanced his way.

Marisa?

Where had she gotten the name? Had she made it up? Had Ellen? Where did Cyril Dover figure in this transformation?

Sunlight peeking through the thick canopy of coppery leaves cast alluring shadows on her face.

Marisa O’Bannion.
The name ran through Brooks’s head like a crystalline waterfall. Wherever it came from, it suited her.

Patricia smiled widely and stepped forward. “Cyril, is this what you were telling me about? My stars, you did not exaggerate. How she has blossomed…” Her voice trailed off as she and Cyril walked past Brooks toward Marisa.

“You look lovely, my dear, simply lovely.” Patricia’s gaze swept from the dark shimmering hair to her satinclad toes. “Do I call you…Marisa?”

“Thank you, ma’am. And yes, my given name is Marisa…I decided to begin using it.” Marisa’s knees were shaking, but she managed to keep her hands still within the folds of her pale yellow dress. She forced herself to be calm, all the while telling herself that if Brooks could break a horse, then she could certainly survive a garden party.

“Your frock is stunning,” Patricia exclaimed. “The soft pastel color is so becoming to you, with all that dark hair. I never would’ve been so creative.”

“Ellen has been kind enough to allow me to use her
dressmaker,” Marisa replied, carefully pronouncing each word. “The two of them advised me on the most becoming shades of fabric.”

Patricia shook her head, sunlight glinting along the waves in her silvery curls. “If this is the result of a cleverly sewn frock in the proper hue, then I must change dressmakers at once.” She laughed and touched Marisa’s arm affectionately.

“Nonsense, Patricia, you are the most handsome woman in New York.” Cyril quickly and gallantly denied any need for her to change her modiste. “And you well know it,” he added with a playful wink.

Brooks felt his gut lurch. Cyril was flirting with Marisa and flattering his mother. It was too much. The knot in his middle tightened. He told himself that it was foolish. Missy would never be interested in a slick-haired dandy like Cyril.

Would she?

Marisa smiled at Cyril and allowed her lashes to sweep down modestly.

“Cyril, you are shameless.” Patricia smiled again at Marisa. “But then, of course, Marisa, you would already know that about the most charming bachelor New York has to offer.”

Brooks scowled. How would she know?

He took a deep breath, determined to get his rebellious pulse under control.

I don’t care. If Missy has fallen under the spell of that slick-haired, macassar-oiled lothario, then fine. It means nothing to me.

“Better be quick, brother, the bees are at the flower,” Rod whispered behind Brooks.

While Brooks searched his mind for something scathing to say, the air became alive with the sound of formal
introductions, as every unattached young man in the garden stepped up to meet Marisa O’Bannion.

“Miss O’Bannion, I would be honored if you would let me take you to see the statue in our harbor. It is called Liberty Enlightening the World,” one tall, lean fellow with thin brown hair exclaimed.

“If you are not otherwise occupied, please say you will accompany me to the theater on Saturday next,” another fresh-faced swain pleaded as he elbowed his way closer to Marisa.

I don’t care. My plans do not include romance or marriage or standing court with all these fawning young men.

Brooks’s feet began moving before his brain fully registered the thought. He nudged his way through the circle of new admirers, and by sheer brute strength finally found himself standing directly behind Marisa. He stared at her smooth elegant shoulders, revealed by the clever bodice of her pale yellow gown. Her hair was piled on her head, twined with tiny white flowers and pearls in an elaborate style that made her look older and more sophisticated than he had ever imagined possible.

Brooks had always thought her thick hair was straight as a string. But now, in the spring humidity of New York, he could see it wasn’t true. Several damp curls were forming at the nape of her neck.

Her smooth alluring neck.

It was charming, feminine and utterly enchanting the way the ebony tresses caressed the delicate column.

The way I would like to rest my fingers against her flesh.

For one mad instant he thought about pressing his lips to the sweet depression on her nape, then reality overtook him.

He shook himself, but the mental image of tasting her
skin remained at the edge of his mind like a sleeping predator. He had to speak to her, had to hear her fling insults at him so this magical snare would be broken.