Darby: Bride of Oregon (American Mail-Order Bride 33) (3 page)

Jezebel Carlton whacked Rand’s desk with her
delicate mother of pearl fan and the pieces flew everywhere. Two shards hit him
in the face and he winced.

On her feet, seething, she hardly noticed she’d
destroyed her favorite gift from him. “You said you’d changed your mind!”

“No,” he said calmly, rubbing his face to see if
he was bleeding. “I said I’d given up hope that Miss Miller would ever find
someone to meet my requirements. I never changed my mind.”

Since Jez didn’t seem concerned about the fan, he
brushed his hand across his desk to send the debris to the floor.

“You don’t have to marry a stranger—”

He held up his hand to cut her off. “I will not
marry you, Jez. I cannot get far in politics with a wife named Jezebel, let
alone a brothel owner, and you know it. We’ve already been over this.”

She came around the desk and pressed up against
him with one arm around his shoulders and her…endowments…close to his face. “I
can sell the businesses, change my name. I’ve done it before. Portland will
forget.”

He resisted shaking his head for what the contact
would do to them both. He would never go to her bed again, not with a wife
headed his way on a fast, westbound train. And if Jez hadn’t realized it yet,
that any intimacy between them was over, she would soon enough.

He leaned away from her slightly. She understood
the hint and, with her seduction foiled, went back to the seat across from him
and slumped into it.

 “Which part of Portland would forget?” he
wondered aloud. “The men who frequent your cathouses? Or their wives who resent
you for owning them?”

Jez rolled her eyes and ignored the question. He
was relieved the emotional outburst was over. In fact, she didn’t seem any more
upset about his rejection than she’d been about the fan. Something was off.

“What are you really upset about, hm? You don’t
really want to be a married woman. You’d have to sit in my house on the hill,
away from the action. No more night life.”

She wrinkled up her pretty nose. “No, thank you.
Besides, you’d be dead in a week without me watching your back.”

“I’ve got plenty of men watching my back, Jez, if
you really want to settle down with someone.”

She rolled her eyes. “Can we close the subject?
You’ve already managed to put me off my dinner.” She hid her eyes from him. “What’s
the princess’s name, anyhow? It had better be a lot more respectable than
Jezebel.”

He grimaced, then dropped all expression. “Miss
Darby McClintock.”

Jez slapped the desk again, this time with her
hand. “A Scot! Are you mad?” She was back on her feet, leaning over the desk,
eyes flashing.

“No. She’s not a Scot. She’s English. Just has an
unfortunate last name.”

“
I
have an unfortunate name, and you won’t
even consider—”

“Jez! No. I won’t consider it. At least this woman’s
name will change the traditional way, and the sooner the better.”

“Will you just meet her at the train station with
a parson?” She laughed lightly. “Her delicate sensibilities might be bruised.”

Rand bit his lip, wishing he had another
alternative, but he hadn’t. Finally, he could put it off no longer.

“That’s why I’ve asked you here, Jez. I was
hoping…you could do me the favor of…making arrangements for a small wedding
ceremony.” He glanced up briefly and pretended not to notice her mouth hanging
open. “You’ve got a talent for making things happen on short notice, and, as a
friend, I hoped—”

“I’ll do it.” She stood, swept her thin shawl
around her shoulders, and headed for the door. He couldn’t see her face to gage
her emotion. She paused with her hand on the doorknob. “When?”

He hated speaking to her back. “She should arrive
Thursday morning. Thursday afternoon would be best.”

Jez’s massive coil of sable hair nodded once, then
she was gone. The chill she left behind was regrettable, but it was time to
move on to the next stage of his life. Unfortunately, Jez couldn’t move on with
him.

Did he love her? Of course. She’d been his best
friend, fought at his side, comforted him from time to time when he’d
desperately needed comfort in order to continue the life he led. However, when
he imagined a wife on his arm, in his bed, bearing his children, Jezebel never
fit into that picture.

But this Darby woman would. In fact, she had to.
Now that Miss Miller had found a woman to suit his needs, his dreams were alive
again. He intended to make a surprise bid for mayor in the next election. And
as soon as he cleaned out the Shanghai tunnels of Portland, he would run for
governor and clean up the entire Oregon Seaboard.

Miss Darby McClintock—soon to be Beauregard—was
saving lives just by answering his advertisement, just by being a well-bred
woman. She just didn’t know it yet.

During the long journey from Lawrence,
Massachusetts to Portland, Oregon, Darby had an insatiable need for friendship.
Travelling alone was frightening for any woman, especially those headed for
mysterious destinations to entrust their very lives to strangers. But what made
it more bearable for Darby was to lend a kind shoulder to others of her ilk.

Not only did conversation help pass the hours, but
it also gave her ample opportunity to hone her new—and likely permanent—accent.
Also, with practice and attention, she’d been able to reduce her bouts of
temper to one or two per day, and never within earshot of her new friends.

All right. Three.

But the very fact that she could hold her tongue
until she was alone, and vent her frustration in private, showed tremendous
progress. So, by the time the train crossed into Oregon, she was a wee more
confident than she had expected. Confident about her accent and demeanor, at
least. Hopefully, there would be many a young woman with a clear memory of an
elegant Englishwoman who accompanied them across the plains…and none at all who
would remember a sharp-tongued Scottish lass with opinions to spare.

The worst parts of the journey had been in quiet
moments when Darby had been alone with her thoughts and fears. No matter how
she reminded herself of the sturdy stock she’d come from, she’d faltered from
time to time. Waking nightmares plagued her of a tall handsome gentleman
meeting her at the train station. Just how angry would he be if he discovered
her secret? Angry enough to strike her? To put her out on the street?

And what would he do if she struck back?

The conductor walked through the car and announced
they would arrive in Portland in but five minutes! The waiting was over. In six
minutes’ time, she would know just how much trouble she was in.

“Please, Lord, let him be ugly as a gnawed bone.”

“What’s that, dear?” The old woman sitting beside
her cupped her hand around her ear and leaned closer.

“I was thanking the Lord for seeing me safely
home.”

The old woman smiled and nodded, then patted Darby’s
leg.

Darby’s heart pounded harder in her chest with
every mile that passed by the large windows. Farms grew closer together, then
houses, then larger buildings. When the train began to slow, she prayed for it
to speed up. But alas, it came to a stop and she panicked.

Surely, starting over in some other town, with the
two dollars she had in her reticule would be just as easy, if not more so, than
taking her chances with Mr. Beauregard. All she had to do was stay aboard a wee
bit longer. Or better yet, she could disembark and pretend to be someone else
entirely.

That was it! A Scottish lass looking for work.
None would suspect she was the Englishwoman who had left Rand Beauregard
standing empty-handed at the train station!

A heavy burden lifted from her chest and she was
finally able to take a deep breath again.

“Good luck, dearie,” said the old woman as she
moved to the end of the car.

A gentleman who had been watching Darby off and on
since the last stop stepped in front of her and removed his hat. “Would you
allow me to carry your bags, miss?”

She smiled in thanks. “If you’ll lift them down
for me, that would be kind enough, sir.”

He nodded, flipped his hat back onto his head,
then pulled the bags from the shelf. Unfortunately, he hung onto them. “I can’t
possibly expect you to carry these heavy things yourself. I should at least
assist you into the depot.”

Others passed them in the narrow walkway,
listening to the conversation, watching to see how she would react.

She smiled kindly again as she stepped forward
onto the toe of his boot, then pressed down on it, the movement hidden beneath
the generous folds of her skirt. “Ye’re mistaken, aye? They weigh nothing a’tall.
And I canna delay ye any longer than I already have.”

His practiced smile slid slowly from his face.

She held out both hands and waited for him to set
the handles into her grasp, all the while pressing firmly on his toes, silently
promising him a great deal more pain should he refuse her.

“I believe you’re right, ma’am.” He handed them
over. After she released his toes, he slid his foot out of her reach, then
backed away. “I don’t reckon you’ll have any trouble with those at all.”

But what was more important was that she wouldn’t
have any more trouble with
him
.

She was the last one off the train. There were a
few men still standing on the platform, including one man obviously waiting for
someone. His Stetson was pushed back away from a puffy nose and an anxious but
friendly face. When his searching eyes turned in her direction, she had a split
second to decide who she was—or rather, who she intended to be for the rest of
her life.

She looked away quickly and found the man who had
tried to help her with her bags. No longer the center of attention, he leaned
against a pole and glowered at her.

“Miss McClintock, I hope?” The friendly man stood
with his hat now in his hands. A head of thick curly hair made it seem unlikely
the hat had fit over it in the first place.

She could feel the other man’s eyes upon her,
waiting for her answer, no doubt waiting to see if she would be leaving alone.
And just like that, the decision was made.

She gave the blond man a dignified but heartfelt
smile. “Yes. I am Darby McClintock.”

He held out a hand and helped her step from the
train to the stool, to the platform. “Thank you, Mr. Beauregard, is it?”

He choked. “Oh, no, ma’am. I’m Hardy Jacobs, the
driver. I’ve come to take you to the house, so you can revive a bit. Mr.
Beauregard will meet us at the church at four o’clock this afternoon. He’s
sorry he can’t meet you sooner, but he has a court case he has to see to.”

“A court case? He’s a lawyer?”

Jacobs squashed his hat over his curls, picked up
her bags, and nodded for her to walk along. “No ma’am. Not anymore. But he
still sits on the bench from time to time when they need him.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

He grimaced. “My apologies, ma’am. Mr. Beauregard
was a judge before he took the City Commissioner post. When the courts get
backed up, he helps out. Just small matters, mostly.”

Her husband-to-be was a judge? Had Miss Miller
known? If the woman had only mentioned it, Darby would have never agreed to
come all this way!

Her mind reeled as she followed Jacobs to a large
closed carriage. He set her bags down to help her climb inside, then set her
bags on the seat opposite her. “Mr. Beauregard is a fine man and a fine judge.
Can spot a bounder from a mile away.” Jacobs stepped back to close the small
door, removed his hat again, and spoke through the open window. “And don’t you
worry, Miss McClintock. He’s as handsome as they come.”

As the carriage rolled across the bridge over the
Willamette River and through the large city, she had little attention to spare
for the place. After all, she wasn’t going to be there long, so she needn’t get
attached. And she was far too busy trying to guess how much time Judge
Beauregard would have to spend in jail for throttling his wife, if indeed that
wife proved to be a bounder…

Rand stood on the rise behind his home and
followed the progress of the carriage that carried Miss Darby McClintock up
Burnside Street toward the west hills. He was too nervous to sit at his office,
and he’d already sent word that he wouldn’t be able to meet her until that
afternoon, at the church. But his curiosity was eating him alive.

If he were at least prepared for the way the woman
looked, he might avoid making a fool out of himself later on. Short and stocky?
Tall and lean? Pretty or homely? Plain or fancy? With no idea of the color of
her hair, he hadn’t been able to imagine anything at all. But deep down, he
hoped that he’d know her when he saw her, that he would recognize her as the
woman he’d always pictured on his arm.

His imagination rarely failed him, but it failed
him now. And so he was doomed to sit and watch from a distance with the spy
glass from a dead sea captain.

Finally, the carriage arrived in front of the
house. He watched closely to see her reaction to her new home. Waited for Hardy
to assist her.

Feathers emerged first. A hat. Shadows. Then
sunlight reflected off a generous head of hair.
Red hair!

“Damn it!”

Hardy’s head turned in his direction before he
hurried the woman inside the house, as if he’d seen Indians gathering on the
hillside, damn him! Rand hadn’t gotten so much as a look at her nose!

But that hair!

He groaned and snapped the spy glass closed. Why
did she have to have red hair? A governor’s wife should be quiet and
unassuming, and he’d yet to meet a redhead that fit that description. Yes, he
wanted someone lovely to wear on his arm during social events, but not a woman
who would turn every head in the room.

On the other hand…

He took heart. At least there was still hope that
she was homely.

~ ~ ~

The maid had a bath ready for her. After a bit of
hot water added at the last, Darby insisted she could undress herself and was
finally left alone in the large bathing room.

“Dinna get used to this,” she whispered. “Don’t
you dare get used to this.”

The bath was glorious and she stayed in the fine
claw-footed tub until she grew chilled. The dressing gown hanging on the hook
was silk and enchanting. It was bright gold with small black symbols along the
lapels and the hems of the sleeves. Chinese, she would guess.

“Just borrowing it for now,” she murmured, and
wrapped the smooth gold around her body.

The bathing room was located in one of two
pentagonal towers at the rear of the mansion. Four of the five facades were
filled with large windows that looked out upon the forest surrounding the
place. The drapes were pulled to one side, but there was little chance anyone
could see into the room from the forest beyond. And if the maid hadn’t thought
it necessary to cover the windows, Darby would trust her judgement.

As she toweled her hair dry and looked out over
the mountain range to the west, there was movement to her left. But when she
moved to the next window, whatever it had been was gone.

“A wild animal, no doubt.” And she determined
never to go outside alone—for as long as she was allowed to stay.

~ ~ ~

Exhausted from her journey, she slipped beneath
the counterpane to rest her eyes for a little while. Just in case it was Mr.
Beauregard’s bed, she didn’t want to insinuate herself between the sheets, or
into his life for that matter. She simply had to assume her dishonesty would be
revealed in quick order, and she’d best take what little rest she could.

The pillowcase was soft and soothing, just the
ticket to take her mind off her problems. And wrapped in smooth gold, as she
was, it was a simple thing to imagine she was a princess in a tower with
nothing pressing on her schedule but to sleep.

She woke to the sound of Margaret shaking her.

“Margaret, leave me be.”

The shaking ceased.
Margaret never gave up so
easily…

But Margaret was in Atlanta, and she was
in…Portland.

She bolted upright and nearly bumped heads with
the maid. “Forgive me,” she said, adopting her practiced accent. “I hadn’t
intended to fall asleep, only to rest my eyes.”

Queen Victoria. I am Queen Victoria.

“No, mum. The fault is mine. I should have come
sooner. We need to get you ready for your wedding.” The maid grinned
shamelessly. “Mr. Jacobs will be coming to collect you in an hour.”

The poor girl was mightily disappointed in the
dress Darby had set out for the ceremony. Unfortunately, it was the best she
had. But at least her undergarments weren’t in tatters. In some things, being a
seamstress served her well.

“Begging your pardon, mum, but there are dresses
in your closet you might find…tempting.”

“Dresses in my closet? To whom do they belong?”

“Mr. Beauregard had a sister who used to come
visit when the house was first built. She died two years ago, in childbed.” She
gasped. “But that was not my place to say. Forgive me.”

Darby gave the girl’s hand a squeeze before she
realized it was the last thing Victoria would do. “No harm done. Let me see
these dresses.” She stood imperiously in front of the mirror and waited for the
girl to bring the clothes to her. The first was a pale green that went well
with her hair. The next was white with small green and pink flowers stamped
onto the material. It was tempting. After all, Victoria had worn white to her
own wedding…

The next was a rich cream satin that looked fit
for a royal ball. The bateau neckline had been expertly stitched. The bell
skirt was ruched in several places and beneath the ruching, a pink tulle
petticoat that matched tiny pink bows tied along the peaks of the hem.

She smiled at the maid. “I suspect you saved the
best for last, uh...”

“Jenny, mum. I think so too.”

“I hope it will fit me.”

“I’m sure it will, ma’am. You look to be about
Miss Rachel’s size.”

An hour later, when Jacobs helped her into the
carriage, she half expected him to warn her that the magic would disappear at
midnight. Of course, she didn’t need reminding.