Sweet Laurel

by Millie Criswell

  He grinned, tweaking her nose. “I know—you love me and think I’m the best lover in the world.”

  She laughed. “Certainly the most conceited, but definitely the best.” At his pleased look, she added, “I just wanted to prepare you about the babies.”

  He jerked to a sitting position. “Babies?”

  She nodded.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

  “I think I’m carrying twins.”

  It was actually Helen, from the train, who’d deduced as much. A midwife of some repute, Helen had delivered dozens of sets of twins during her career, and had proclaimed after a brief external and auditory examination of Laurel’s abdomen that she would indeed deliver twins. Of what sex? Helen hadn’t been bold enough to predict. But some sixth sense told Laurel that they were going to be big strapping, handsome boys like their papa.

  Chance shook his head, unwilling to believe it. “Two babies? I think you’ve made a mistake, Laurel. In fact, I’m pretty damned certain you’ve made a mistake.” There was no way in hell Laurel could be having twins. He was potent, but not that potent!

  Kissing him softly on the lips, Laurel’s eyes filled with joy, mirth, and boundless love. “Care to place a bet, gambling man? I think this is one wager you’re going to lose.”

  Placing his hand on her abdomen, he stared at her body in wonder, his eyes softening as he imagined Laurel nursing their child—okay, two children—then he hugged her fiercely. “I’ve already made the biggest gamble of my life, angel, and won.”

  Please read on

  for an excerpt from

  PRIM ROSE

  BOOK THREE IN THE DAZZLING

  FLOWERS OF THE WEST

  TRILOGY

  CHAPTER ONE

  Salina, Kansas, Late Summer, 1883

  “Damn, damn, and double damn!” Rose Elizabeth tapped her foot impatiently against the rotting boards of the railway platform as she waited with no small amount of dread the arrival of the westbound train from New York City.

  It was cursed hot; she was sweating like a pig; and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky that held any promise of rain for relief.

  “It’s surely going to be something having a real live English duke living here in Salina,” Skeeter Purty, the station manager, remarked, scratching his whiskered chin. “I reckon it could put this here town on the map.” The wad of chewing tobacco he spit missed its mark, landing just short of the brass spittoon near his rocker.

  Rose’s head jerked around, and with narrowed eyes she stared in disgust at the brown gooey mess on the platform, then at the old man himself, wondering if he’d been secretly nipping at the bottle of corn liquor he kept hidden in his desk drawer and thought no one knew about. She had half a mind to turn the old fool in to the sheriff, though she doubted Morris Covington would do anything about it. Mo had a hollow leg himself when it came to drinking whiskey.

  Liquor had been banned in Salina and elsewhere in Kansas for the past two years, though that didn’t stop old-timers like Skeeter and Morris from imbibing when they got a hankering, which was often.

  “In case that feeble mind of yours ain’t workin’, Skeeter Purty, I am not one bit happy about that damned duke coming here, and I’m doubly damned unhappy that he’s stealing my farm out from under me.” She crossed her arms over her chest, and her toe went into double-time.

  The old man rocked back and forth, and he spit twice more, unfazed by Rose’s sharp tongue. Rose Elizabeth had about the sharpest tongue in the whole state of Kansas for someone of such tender years. Some folks said she could cut a man down to size without raising much of a sweat, her tongue was so keen.

  The townsfolk had taken to calling her “Prim Rose” behind her back, because like her namesake, Rose was about as thorny as they come, and not the least bit prim and proper like a young lady should be.

  “ ‘Pears to me, Rose Elizabeth, that your sister wanted that farm sold off. Your pa, too. God rest his soul. ‘Pears to me that you was lucky to have found a buyer so quick, and a rich one at that.”

  Rose felt in her pocket for the cursed telegram that had arrived from the duke’s English business factor, and she railed silently at the fates that had brought her to this day. Alexander James Warrick, the Duke of Moreland, would be arriving on the noon train. “Please be prepared to greet his lordship, show him every possible courtesy, guide him to his new residence, and familiarize the duke with the lay of the land,” the telegram dictated, like she was one of his dukeship’s royal flunkies.

  “We’ll just see about that!” No one dictated to Rose Elizabeth, except perhaps her older sister Heather, who, much to Rose’s great dismay, had had the unerring good sense to insist that their local land broker, Mr. Walker, advertise their farm for sale in the New York Times and other large city newspapers.

  Well, despite her bad luck that the duke’s business factor had seen the ad for their land and had talked the stuffy old goat into buying it, she had absolutely no intention of following Heather’s highhanded orders that she hightail it to Mrs. Caffrey’s School for Young Ladies in Boston once she turned over the farm to the new owner.

  She didn’t need refining, and she certainly didn’t intend to abandon Ma and Pa’s graves to a total stranger—a damned Englishman, and a duke to boot!

  Whatever could Heather have been thinking of? Rose knew perfectly well that it had been her pa’s idea to sell the farm. Ezra Martin wanted better for his three girls.

  But to cast them off to parts unknown . . .

  Send them out into the cruel, strange world to seek husbands . . .

  She shuddered. It was perhaps the most impractical idea Ezra had ever concocted, and he’d hatched some doozies in his lifetime. And for Heather and Laurel to have gone along with him was, in her opinion, even more ridiculous.

  Just because Heather had this undying desire to illustrate for a big city newspaper, and Laurel, who had the voice of a tree frog on her best day, had taken it in her head to become an opera singer in Denver, was no reason that she, Rose Elizabeth, should be forced out of the home she loved, off the land that was so much a part of her, to travel to a dirty, depressing city so she could get refined and become a schoolteacher.

  Indeed, she couldn’t think of a worse fate. Unless, of course, it was being hitched to some smelly old English coot like the Duke of Moreland.

  He was probably short and squat and looked like a toad. And with that reminder, she reached into her other pocket to make sure Lester, her pet bullfrog, was all right.

  The duke was probably a dandified gentleman who had absolutely no idea about running a wheat farm, and he was probably so arrogant and mannered that the sound of a good belch and a few well-delivered swear words would send him into a fit of the vapors.

  Rose smiled at that notion.

  “Rose Elizabeth, praise the saints! Don’t you have something better to wear than that old threadbare dress to greet the duke? Why, he’s royalty, young lady.”

  Groaning aloud at Euphemia Bloodsworth’s high-pitched voice, Rose turned to cast Salina’s most notorious gossip and resident spinster a thin smile. In fact, it was so thin you’d have been hard-pressed to find it, if your eyesight wasn’t one hundred percent accurate. “Good afternoon to you, too, Miss Bloodsworth.”

  “Old Beaknose,” which is how the Martin sisters had always referred to Euphemia behind her back, moved over to where Rose was standing.

  “I don’t mean to interfere, my dear,” she said, and Rose’s eyes rolled heavenward, “but I feel it’s our duty to show his lordship that we aren’t just a bunch of country bumpkins. As founder of the Salina Garden Club and Ladies Sewing Circle, I feel obligated to put our best foot forward.” She smoothed the folds of her black taffeta gown adjusting her white crocheted shawl.

  Wondering how the woman could stand to wear such stifling garments in the summer heat, then remembering that Euphemia supposedly had vinegar in her veins instead of blood, Rose replied, “We are a bunch of bumpkins, Miss Bloodsworth.
And I don’t think we should be trying to fool the duke into thinking any different. I certainly don’t intend to put on airs and pretend to be something I’m not. My foot’s staying firmly planted on good old Kansas soil.”

  Euphemia shook her head in disgust. “The other ladies of the welcoming committee will be joining me shortly, Rose Elizabeth. Perhaps the duke won’t notice how provincial you look dressed in that faded blue gingham gown. And really, Rose Elizabeth, you know how checks make a body look . . . Well, you should take care to minimize your propensity to pudginess.”

  Rose’s cheeks reddened in embarrassment, as they always did when someone had the insensitivity to comment that her figure wasn’t as pleasing as those of her two sisters. She’d been cursed with a curvaceous body, a “pleasingly plump figure,” her ma had always called it. But though she’d been cursed, she wasn’t about to starve herself or make herself into something God hadn’t intended. As long as no one called her a “plump little partridge,” which was the nickname her pa had always used, she’d be able to put up with just about any of their stupid remarks.

  “Leave the girl alone, Euphemia.” Skeeter rocked forward and rose to his feet. “Rose looks just fine. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with the way she’s dressed, far as I can see.”

  Rose flashed the station manager a grateful smile, firmly convinced once and for all that he had indeed been tippling at the whiskey bottle.

  Skeeter and most of the other bachelors in Salina kept their distance from Miss Bloodsworth and did their best not to engage the spinster in conversation if they could help it. Because to Euphemia Bloodsworth conversation, no matter how innocent, no matter how mundane, was an indication of interest. And an indication of interest to a spinster of Miss Bloodsworth’s years was tantamount to a full-fledged proposal.

  “Why, Mr. Purty,” Euphemia advanced on the man, “how very gallant of you to come to Rose Elizabeth’s defense. Though it was totally unnecessary.” She pursed her lips into what was supposed to be a smile, reminding Rose that she should pick up some lemons from the grocer while in town. “I’m sure Rose knows that I was only being motherly. Since she was orphaned at such a tender age, I’ve always done what I could to step in for dear departed Adelaid.”

  And she’d very nearly given poor Ezra a heart seizure every time he’d had the misfortune to run into the old windbag in town. The widower had been at the very top of Euphemia’s eligible husbands’ list before his demise last May.

  Having absolutely no intention of placing his name under Ezra’s scratched-out one, Skeeter stepped back. “I’d better mosey on in and check to see if there’s been a telegram sent. Train shoulda been here by now.” He clicked open his pocket watch and scratched his thinning head of hair in bewilderment. “Can’t figure out what’s causin’ the delay.” But he sure as hell was happy to have an excuse to leave for a spell.

  Rose Elizabeth watched Skeeter depart, and she had half a mind to run after him. Skeeter was, for all his shortcomings, a friend. And though he tried her patience on many occasions, he was kindhearted and harmless for the most part. Except when strong drink took hold of him. But even snockered, Skeeter was a better companion than Euphemia. Being alone with the spinster for any length of time was not an amusing prospect.

  Where the hell was that damned train? Maybe his “Most Royal Pain in the Butt” wouldn’t be as bad as Euphemia’s endless array of questions.

  “You must just be so excited to be entertaining a member of royalty.” Euphemia’s face flushed with pleasure.

  “It just gives me the runs to think about it, Miss Bloodsworth. Why, my bowels have been in an uproar ever since I heard about the duke’s arrival.” At least that was the truth, Rose thought.

  Gasping, Miss Bloodsworth’s hand flew to the cameo brooch at her throat. “Really, Rose Elizabeth!” She drew herself rigidly erect. “Proper young ladies don’t mention such things. It isn’t seemly. I can see that your father and sister were justified in wanting to send you back East to attend finishing school. You’ve many rough edges to smooth out, my dear.

  “You may not be aware of this, but I was a graduate of Mrs. Caffrey’s. Though it wasn’t called by that name back then. I guess you can see what proper guidance can do for a young lady.”

  Biting the tip of her tongue, Rose decided once and for all that she was never going to attend Mrs. Caffrey’s, or any other finishing school for that matter. The prospect of turning out like Euphemia was enough to curtail enrollment at the most prestigious of learning institutions.

  “Don’t see much use in finishing schools, Miss Bloodsworth. Aside from teaching a body to poop silently and cutting an orange with a knife and fork, I can’t really see the benefit of them.” At the choked sound the woman made, Rose Elizabeth chuckled inwardly.

  “I . . . I must go and see what’s keeping the welcoming committee. Please don’t let the duke leave without meeting all of us.” Euphemia ambled off the platform with more agility and speed than Rose had thought possible.

  The whine of a locomotive could be heard in the distance. Rose’s brown eyes sparkled with mischief, and her lips curved into a smile. Perhaps getting rid of his dukeship was going to be easier than she’d originally thought.

  She had every intention, as the telegram requested, to show his supreme portliness the lay of the land. She was certain that when she was finished with him, she’d have also shown him exactly which way the wind blew.

  The welcome mat at the Martin farm was going to be just a teensy bit smaller than what she was sure the Duke of Moreland expected.

  * * *

  The train pulled into the Salina railway station amid the screeching of brakes, belching black smoke, and a large number of curiosity seekers who had come to see what a real member of English nobility looked like.

  Euphemia, along with her welcoming committee comprised of Sarah Ann Mellon, whose husband owned the mercantile, her daughter Peggy, whose bustline matched her surname, and who “welcomed” just about anything wearing pants, and Abigail Stringfellow, wife of Horatio T. Stringfellow, mortician and sometime dentist, waited anxiously for the duke to descend from his private Pullman car.

  All four were waving wildly at the train, smiling like hyenas, and making perfect fools of themselves in Rose Elizabeth’s opinion. Why anyone in these United States would welcome British aristocracy with open arms, when it had taken this country so long to get rid of the pompous devils, was beyond her understanding. As her mama used to say, “There was just no accounting for taste.”

  Skeeter sidled up next to her, looking a mite perplexed by the whole turn of events. “I confess I was excited at the prospect of meeting the duke, but now I ain’t so sure. ’Pears to me he’s gonna be the center of attention for a right good while. The way them ladies are carrying on, don’t know if that’s such a good thing.”

  Rose stared into the crowd to find Marcella Tompkins waving as wildly as everyone else. Folks in Salina knew that Skeeter had a crush on Marcella, and that one day he was fixing to ask her to marry him. “I doubt Marcella will be interested in anyone as shallow as the duke, Skeeter,” she reassured the older man with a pat on the arm. “He’s sure to be as homely as my Lester and not nearly as smart.”

  Skeeter let loose with a loud guffaw, slapping his knee, and Rose Elizabeth followed suit. But her laughter soon died on her lips when her eyes fixed on the tall, incredibly handsome gentleman emerging from the train.

  Impeccably dressed in a well-cut suit of black worsted wool, which contrasted dramatically with his snow-white shirt and head of flaxen-blond hair, he was surely the finest-looking man Rose Elizabeth had ever laid eyes on. In fact, she was quite certain she’d never before seen such a fine specimen of a man. And she knew damn well that there wasn’t one like him in Salina, and probably in all of Kansas. A sinking feeling formed quickly in the pit of her stomach.

  “Do you think that’s him, the duke, I mean?” Skeeter asked, impressed in spite of himself, his complexion paling considerably. �
��I’d best go see how Marcella’s faring. She might find this heat too unbearable, considering how delicate she is and all.” In the blink of an eye, he disappeared, leaving Rose alone to face her fears and her worst nightmare.

  Alexander James Warrick, the Duke of Moreland, was not the supreme portliness she’d been expecting. In fact, she doubted if he had a spare ounce of flesh on his muscular physique.

  “Damn, damn, and double damn!” she cursed, pasting on an uneasy smile as he approached.

  “Miss Martin?” He held out a gloved hand to her, and she stared stupidly at it, as if it were some foreign object out to do her harm—it was definitely foreign—then she gazed up into his very aristocratic face, which was void of anything resembling a smile. “I’m Alexander Warrick, late of Sussex, England.” His tone was imperious, and she knew without a doubt that this man was used to issuing orders and having them obeyed.

  Rose Elizabeth grasped his hand in what she hoped was a firm handshake. “I’m Rose Elizabeth Martin, presently of Salina, Kansas, of these United States of America,” she mimicked, and several of the townsfolk laughed. “Where’d you stow your gear, your dukeship? We’d better get a move on if we’re going to reach the farm.”

  The duke glanced in bewilderment at the redheaded giant who appeared suddenly out of nowhere to stand beside him.

  “Now don’t be selfish, Rose Elizabeth,” Euphemia scolded with a silly giggle as she came to stand before the couple. “The rest of us would like to make his lordship’s acquaintance.”

  The duke opened his mouth to speak, but Rose Elizabeth butted in, not allowing him the opportunity. “It’s my responsibility to see that the duke gets settled in, Miss Bloodsworth . . . ladies.” She smiled spitefully at Peggy, who she knew was in a perfect snit. They’d been unfriendly rivals for years.

  “Perhaps the duke will invite all of you out for tea and crumpets after he learns his way around my home.” That shouldn’t take him too long, Rose thought, considering the soddy only consisted of three rooms, and none of them very large. She couldn’t wait to see the duke’s expression when he saw his new “castle” for the very first time.