He’d never seen her flirt before and he was enchanted. “Very nearly,” he said. He wondered briefly if he would ever have his fill of her. It was a heady thought, having a wife. It was also a commitment and a responsibility he’d never before considered, and that was scary as hell. He leaned toward her, delighting in the fact that she wanted him too, and took the tray from her lap.
“Now, sweetheart,” he said, “my hour is up and you can have your way with me again.” He cupped her face between his hands and began kissing her. He quickly forgot about their honeymoon, building a house, and an unknown future filled with responsibility. He’d also wanted to speak to her about their fiasco argument of the previous night, but not now. No, not now.
“You are looking quite splendid, Byrony,” Chauncey Saxton said, smiling at her friend. “I see that marriage agrees with you.”
“Brent is—” Byrony paused a moment. “He is, oh, I don’t know. Thank you for shopping with me, Chauncey.”
“My pleasure. I thank the elements it isn’t raining. Come, love, let’s have a cup of tea, and let me rest a moment.” She patted her growing belly. “This little brute is jumping about, and Saint told me tea—only mint tea, mind you—would calm him down.”
Byrony quickly agreed. They entered the small pastry shop called Mortimer’s on Market Street and the smiling, very rotund Timothy Mortimer led them to a small table. “Ladies,” he said.
After they’d ordered, Chauncey sat back in her chair and drew a contented sigh. “Oh course, Saint has no idea how to calm down this wild child of mine, but his suggestion of mint tea—with lemon, of course—I find delightful. You must give me your advice, Byrony, if you would be so kind. Del and I will be married a year next week and I haven’t the foggiest notion of what to give him.”
But Byrony was silent.
Chauncey looked up and saw Mrs. Stevenson and Penelope in the doorway to the shop. “Ignore them,” she said. “Besides, we don’t know which of us they disapprove of more. Dear Penelope has always been a mild thorn in my side. It’s all too silly, you know.” She nodded toward the two women.
“Ah, our tea. Thank you, Timothy.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Saxton. Tell Del that the new oven is working better than I ever dreamed it would.”
At Byrony’s questioning look, Chauncey said, “Del loaned him some money for the famous oven.”
“At least he spent it on an oven and not in Brent’s saloon.”
Chauncey laughed and toasted Byrony with her cup of tea.
“How is the new bride?”
Byrony slowly set her teacup into its saucer and raised her eyes to Penelope’s face. “Hello, Miss Stevenson.”
“The new bride looks marvelously happy,” said Chauncey, “doesn’t she, Penelope?”
Penelope considered this a moment. “Do you always look marvelously happy when you marry, Mrs. Butl—Mrs. Hammond? At least for a short time?”
Byrony locked her eyes on the blue-and-white-checked tablecloth.
“I saw your child the other day. What is the poor little thing’s name? Michelle?”
“Poor Penelope,” Chauncey said, shaking her head. “It must be so difficult to ignore facts and wallow in fiction.”
“I should say that most of the ladies in San Francisco think it appalling that a woman would leave her child and husband to marry her lover. Don’t expect to be greeted fondly, Mrs. Hammond.”
Brent had warned her, of course. Still, chilling looks were easier to take than this direct attack. I can’t allow Chauncey to continue protecting me, she thought, and raised her eyes to Penelope’s face. “I think, Miss Stevenson,” she said slowly, very precisely, “that you shouldn’t have any lemon with your tea. Your lips are pursed so tightly now, you just might find yourself permanently wrinkled.”
“Indeed, Penelope,” Chauncey said, “take yourself off and regale your mother with all your nasty little tales. Better yet, find yourself a husband, then you’ll be kept too busy to spread gossip about other people.”
“She’s so very pretty,” Byrony said as she watched Penelope flounce away from their table. “She seems to have everything a girl could want. Why is she so very nasty?”
“Saint thinks she needs to be beaten every morning. Clear her of evil humors, he says.”
“Oh no, not that.”
Chauncey frowned. “It was just a jest, my dear. Now, we must plan a small dinner party. I’m not bragging, mind you, but I fancy I have just as much social power as Mrs. Stevenson and her little group. And of course Agatha Newton could sway a battleship. Indeed, I’ll never forget—”
Byrony listened to Chauncey ramble on, not really attending, her thoughts on her very bizarre situation. She still didn’t know what to do about her mother. The money would continue to be sent to her father, of course. Ira had promised. She supposed she must write and tell her at least some of the truth. Dear Mother, she thought, I have a new husband, but I never really had a husband before, much less a child. No, you aren’t a grandmother, not really. . . .
“Everything will work out.”
Byrony tried to manage a smile. “Yes, of course.” She shrugged. “I think I should have left San Francisco. Brent really didn’t want to marry me, as I’m certain you realize. Perhaps I should simply—”
“Stop it, Byrony. You’re being a simpleton. Brent Hammond does nothing he doesn’t choose to do, believe me. He wanted to marry you.”
“He has a mistress.”
That drew Chauncey to a halt, but she said, “So did Delaney. Her name is Marie.”
That gave Byrony pause. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand how things work. Men are expected to dally about, but if a woman does it, she’s a miserable, dishonest—”
“Yes, all of those things. It doesn’t make any sense, does it? How do you know about this mistress of Brent’s?”
“I heard him talking to Maggie—on our wedding night. When I rather heatedly asked him about it, he told me she had nothing to do with me. In short, it’s none of my business.”
Chauncey frowned. She liked Brent Hammond, found him charming, and he had saved her life. But he didn’t seem to be dealing well with his new wife. What on earth was the matter with him? Byrony was a lovely girl whose disposition seemed as sweet as her face. She knew that many wives simply ignored such behavior, but Byrony wouldn’t. “It is your business,” she said. “He is your husband.”
“And I am his wife, as he so kindly informed me. It’s like I’m some sort of possession. I don’t like it.”
Chauncey leaned over and patted Byrony’s hand. “Do you love him, Byrony?”
Byrony went utterly still.
“Forgive me, it’s really none of my business.”
“No, it’s just that I haven’t thought of love.” Liar. To be loved, to belong, is something you’ve wanted all your life. “All I know is I wanted to kill him when—Well, I’m rather a fool, aren’t I? Oh, damn, Chauncey, I suppose I do love him. But it doesn’t make a whit of sense.”
“Good,” said Chauncey. “He will come around, you’ll see.” And he would, she was certain of it. Del had told her that Brent was something of a womanizer and a loner. “But,” Del had said, grinning at her, “I think for the first time in his life, Brent has been fairly caught.” Chauncey chose to believe Del. “Shell we visit Monsieur David now?”
Chauncey said as they left the pastry shop, “I shall have to tell Saint that his prescription of mint tea and lemon worked well.”
It was a foggy, damp night. Byrony shivered and moved closer to the fire. Brent was downstairs in the saloon. Maggie had visited her earlier in the evening, and given her an enthusiastic response to her two new gowns.
Where was Brent? It was past midnight. I’ve been married three days, she thought, and smiled. Married for the second time for three days. She closed the volume of Voltaire and stared into the leaping flames. “The best of all possible worlds,” she said softly. Byrony sighed. She had to write to her mother. She was a cow
ard.
She started up at the sound of the office door opening and closing.
“Not in bed yet?”
She turned to face her husband, and drank in the sight of him. His coat and trousers were black as his hair, his shirt a startling white. “No,” she said.
She rose and walked quickly to him. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, and flung her arms around his back.
“Me too,” he said, his hands caressing her through her dressing gown. He breathed in her special scent, feeling himself drawn to her. It was a scary feeling, and he didn’t like it. Suddenly his hands were gripping her arms and he was gently pushing her away. “I’m sorry, Byrony, but I must leave again, just for a little while. I’ve got to go to the El Dorado and see James Cora.”
She wondered wildly if he made love to her if he would still have the strength or desire to visit his mistress. She didn’t believe for a second that he was going to see James Cora. “Can I come with you?”
Brent laughed. “Hardly, sweetheart.” He tucked an errant tendril of hair behind her ear.
She warmed at his endearment, foolishly, of course. He meant nothing by it. Damn him, he probably called Celeste his sweetheart.
“Your hair is so soft,” he said, winding a long strand around his fingers.
“I washed it this afternoon,” she said.
He gathered a handful of hair and brought it to his nose, and breathed in deeply. “What is the scent?”
“Gardenia.”
He drew back, his eyes going cold. Laurel had used gardenia. Had drenched her bathwater with the scent, had lavishly sprayed it all over her body.
“It isn’t my favorite,” he said. “I should prefer another scent, perhaps jasmine or rose. I shall buy it for you.”
She winced as though he’d struck her.
But Brent didn’t notice. He’d quickly closed Laurel from his mind and was trying to figure out a way to stay with Byrony. “Oh, damn,” he said. He quickly leaned down to kiss her. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”
She finally went to bed and lay awake for two hours. He hadn’t come in by the time she fell asleep.
Actually, Brent finished his business with Cora, a joint purchase of poker tables from Baltimore, but was detained by Maggie. He looked impatient, but she merely motioned him into her parlor.
“You’ve got to get her out of here,” Maggie said without preamble. “The damned talk will continue if you keep your wife here.”
“Byrony said she liked it here,” Brent said.
“Don’t be a stupid ass,” Maggie said. “Do you know that two of my girls, Felice and Nora, visited her this afternoon? No, I didn’t think you did. I shudder to think of what they talked about. Nora is a half-wit and Felice can talk of nothing but men and their preferences. Is that what you want for your wife?”
“Shit,” said Brent.
“Exactly. Now, I’ll miss her, don’t get me wrong, Brent, I’ll miss you too for that matter. But it just isn’t right. Another thing. Byrony asked me to go out with her tomorrow. Can’t you just hear the talk now? Mrs. Hammond in the company of a madam? I told her no, of course, and she was hurt. She really doesn’t understand, Brent.”
“Give me a brandy, Maggie.”
“Idiot man,” Maggie said under her breath. When she’d handed him a snifter of brandy, she asked, “What do you intend? Keeping her here until she’s pregnant with your child?”
He choked on the brandy. Pregnant. “I’m not ready to be a father, for God’s sake!”
Maggie grimaced at his outraged tone. “Oh,” she said sarcastically, “she is still a virgin then? You haven’t laid a hand or any other part of your man’s anatomy on her? You’ve given her instructions on how not to conceive?”
“No, I’ve loved her until we’re both exhausted.”
“Such an intelligent man.” She gentled her voice, very slightly, at the stunned expression on his face. “Look, Brent, you’ve been with a very different breed of woman until now. Celeste, Felice, Nora, they all know the rules. They made the rules, for God’s sake, and they’re all growing quite prosperous off the horny men in this city. What does Byrony have?”
“She has a husband,” he said.
“Such a lucky girl. Just what do you expect her to do with herself? Knit perhaps,while you’re gambling downstairs? She’s a bloody prisoner, Brent. For God’s sake, get her out of here.”
Brent tossed down the rest of his brandy, snapped the snifter on a side table, and rose.
“Let me tell you another thing, Brent,” Maggie said. “Saint also thinks—”
“Damnation. Is everyone minding my business for me? Hell, is Delaney going to track me down tomorrow with his advice?” He held up his hand when Maggie’s mouth opened.
“All right, I’ll think about it.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Lord, life was so bloody simple.”
“It still could be if you weren’t such a stubborn fool,” said Maggie to his departing back.
TWENTY-ONE
Brent stared wistfully down at her sleeping face, then slowly, resolutely, pulled away. She stirred, said his name, and he stilled. He felt her warm hand glide downward and sucked in his breath. “No,” he said, grabbing her hand.
Byrony blinked away the sleep, but the dreamy, soft feelings still held her. “I missed you,” she said, stretching against him.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, twisting away from her.
“Oh no, not yet. It’s still so early, and don’t you always want—” She broke off. She’d wanted to tell him that she enjoyed their early mornings together, enjoyed how, since that first morning, he’d always awakened her with his lovemaking. What was wrong?
He’s probably exhausted from spending all those hours last night with his mistress.
She was coldly awake now. “I didn’t hear you come in last night,” she said. “Were you very late?”
“Late enough,” he said, his body warring with his mind. Maggie’s words had haunted him a good hour before he’d finally fallen asleep. Pregnant. Marriage was too new to him to consider creating a son or daughter. It was damned terrifying, as a matter of fact. What if she were already pregnant? He’d dismissed it because he’d wanted to. After all, hadn’t he made love to her only that one time? Of course he’d ignored Saint. But there was no excuse, no logic at all for what he’d done since they’d been married. It took Maggie’s sarcasm to penetrate his brain. It shook him, and he quickly pulled away from Byrony and rose. The room was chilly and he shivered as he pulled on his dressing gown.
“Brent?”
He didn’t turn until his dressing gown was firmly belted at his waist. “Yes?”
“I don’t understand.”
No, you probably don’t, he wanted to tell her. You’re used to me falling all over you in the mornings, aren’t you? But he wouldn’t again, not until he’d found out how to prevent conception.
“Nothing to understand,” he said easily. “I’ve got a lot to do today and want an early start.” He didn’t mean to look at her again, at least not until he had a firm grip on himself, but he gazed briefly over his shoulder as he headed for the washbasin and his razor. He would have had to be a blind man not to see the pain and confusion on her face. He cursed softly.
“Byrony,” he began, his voice desperate to his own ears, “please, sweetheart, I—Would you like to take a ride with me to the ocean today? If the fog clears, it will be beautiful, and we could stop at Russ Gardens, perhaps visit the racetrack —”
“You are probably too busy. Maybe Maggie could—”
“No. That is I won’t be too busy. I want to go. All right?”
“If that is what you wish.”
“I believe I’ve told you before that I don’t particularly care for your whipped-puppy routine,” he said, frowning at her lowered head. He watched the bedcovers slip a bit and considered the odds on making love to her only one more time.
Her chin went up. “Very well. When do you wish to leave?”
He thought quickly. Celeste usually slept very late, that is, if she’d spent the night with him. He hadn’t seen her since he’d married Byrony. He supposed he could ask Maggie about contraception, but he shied away from that. He didn’t think he could stand the patronizing smirk she’d doubtless give him. You, Brent Hammond, he could just hear her, you who have rutted your way West don’t know how to prevent conception? And she’d preach, he didn’t doubt it for a moment, about his responsibilities, about his selfishness—
“How about after lunch?”
She nodded. She’d seen the myriad shifting expressions on his face. So, she thought, feeling numb, he no longer wanted her, he wanted his mistress.
Byrony watched him go through his now familiar morning routine. “I’ll have Caesar bring up your breakfast,” he said, bending down to kiss her cheek. “Why don’t you go back to sleep?”
She made a noise that he chose to think an affirmative.
“Byrony,” he said, “how do you feel?”
She looked at him, startled.
He tugged on a lock of hair behind his left ear, and cleared his throat. “That is, ah—When was your last monthly flow?”
She stared at him as though he’d asked her when she’d last traveled to the moon.
“When, Byrony?”
“Just before we were married,” she said, not meeting his gaze.
Brent closed his eyes a moment. He wished he hadn’t asked. “Go back to sleep,” he said again, and left.
She fluffed up her pillow and leaned back. What was she to do? Leave San Francisco now. But something deep within her rebelled. That was the coward’s way. And Brent had told her that he disliked her so-called whipped-puppy routine. Very well. He’d soon see just how submissive she really was. She threw back the covers and bounded out of bed. As she bathed, she thought he would at least have breakfast before he visited his mistress. She splashed more of the gardenia scent into her tub. Why, she wondered blankly, had he asked her about her monthly flow? She would never understand him.
Forty-five minutes later Byrony stood in the shadow of the saloon, waiting for Brent to come out. The air was heavy with fog, and she drew her cloak more closely about her. Had she been wrong? Of course you’re not wrong, you silly fool. But she continued to dither and argue with herself. Then she heard his voice. She swallowed, watching him walk out of the saloon and down the street.
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