Lassoing A Mail-Order Bride

by Cheryl Pierson

  The sparkle of amusement in mademoiselle’s expression faded as she cast her gaze into the distance. The ghost of a pucker settled beside her eye.

  Of its own accord, Amon’s hand rose to smooth the worry from her perfect skin. Before the touch connected, he snatched a fist and drew the hand to his shoulder. “Something on your mind?”

  Teeth planted in her bottom lip, she shook her head.

  Had the lady been a gambler, she’d be impoverished. “What troubles you, mademoiselle?”

  “Nothing troubles me. I am merely restraining a meddlesome urge to snoop.”

  The slight tint in her cheeks and the shy smile she flicked his direction tangled his gut. “Ask your question. I haven’t bitten anyone in months.”

  “Jenny.” She contemplated the polished boots that peeked from the hem of her riding skirt with each step. “Jenny and your father…”

  Dread swelled behind Amon’s breastbone. The mademoiselle wavered on the threshold of the question he’d read in her eyes during supper the night she arrived. In the three days since, he had yet to devise an explanation that wouldn’t send her fleeing for civilized New Orleans.

  He stopped, took possession of her shoulders, and turned her to face him. After warning his hand to ignore the touch of her skin, he tipped her chin, hoping she’d hide behind the dense curtain of her lashes so he didn’t have to watch disgust kick up a storm in the Gulf. “Yes. They live as husband and wife. They have for eighteen years.”

  Without so much as a blink, clear gray-green eyes stared right into his, curious but not repulsed. “Such a thing is allowed in Texas?”

  “No. No more than it is anywhere else. Pa and Jenny don’t care. Neither do I. Neither do the hired hands or the house staff, or they wouldn’t be here.”

  A man could drown in her eyes, and his fingertips hadn’t paid the slightest attention to his warning. A burn gnawed all the way to the bone. He blinked, hard, and sucked a breath. “Bennett is the only one who disapproves.”

  Chapter Four

  Jo paused in her pacing long enough to examine her image in the chamber’s three-glass Cheval. Again. Every detail must be perfect when she faced her bridegroom for the first time.

  The pink taffeta dinner gown augmented the creamy complexion of which Maman had been so proud. Not a flounce on the skirt or the wide pagoda sleeves fell out of place. Deep-rose ribbons complimented the glossy braids that began at her temples and ended wrapping an elaborate chignon at the back of her head.

  The woman in the looking glass appeared elegant and confident…but the flurry of wings beating at the top of her stomach refused to settle.

  Bennett disapproves.

  She leaned closer to the mirror, pinching her cheeks until the apples blossomed.

  Bennett disapproves.

  Wringing her hands, she whirled from the mirror and nearly tripped over Napoleon. He yelped and scrambled beneath the dressing table. “Oh, mon petit.” Blinking back tears, she crouched. “Forgive me.”

  The tiny dog rushed into her outstretched arms, and she swept him against her bosom, holding tight to the only living creature who would love her forever, without judgment.

  “What are we to do but go forward, mon amour? Monsieur Bennett cannot disapprove if he does not know.”

  God willing, he’d never see through the masquerade. Only Lucien Bouchard would gain from exposing her deception, and Lucien did not know where to find her. Madame Espallier had guaranteed silence in exchange for the last of Jo’s inheritance.

  An inheritance Céline had purchased with her life, from a man so enraptured by her caramel skin and erudite manner that he killed her in a jealous rage.

  A knock on the door lifted Jo to her feet. She smudged at the corners of her eyes.

  “Josephine?” With a single word, Jenny’s musical voice soothed the raw edges of Jo’s spirit.

  “Entrer.”

  “Are you ready for supper?” The café au lait complexion, benevolent smile, and kind gaze that swept into the room with Jenny could have belonged to Maman. The Creole’s fingertips whispered against Jo’s cheek. “What causes you grief, ma chère?”

  “I…” Jo grabbed the first suitable explanation she could find. “I stepped on Napoleon.”

  Jenny’s brows rose in chastisement. “Were you underfoot again, little emperor?”

  Pinning his ears flat against his skull, Napoleon squirmed. Jo’s heavy heart floated back into place, raising the corners of her lips. She kissed the top of her bodyguard’s head.

  Jenny linked her arm with Jo’s. “You look exquisite.” She leaned close and whispered. “Bennett will trip over his tongue.”

  ****

  Were Monsieur Bennett inclined to trip over his tongue, Jo wished he would hurry. Perhaps he’d break a leg in the fall.

  Aside from a terse greeting and the requisite bow upon their introduction, he occupied his father’s throne at the head of the table like a usurper, barely speaking except to compliment a meal he called superb.

  Though the crown roast of veal filled the room with a succulent aroma, Jo could not vouch for her betrothed’s assessment. The ponderous silence in the dining salon, coupled with Bennett’s frank scrutiny of her every move, tightened around her throat like a garrote.

  Jenny’s meal sat untouched, as well, though her gaze never rose from the china plate. Even Napoleon, who planted himself on Jo’s slippered foot, seemed unnaturally subdued.

  Only Amon’s presence—the surreptitious, encouraging glances he sent her every time Bennett looked away—kept Jo in her seat.

  Lifting a piece of meat from his plate with his fingers, Amon patted his leg with his other hand. “Napoleon.”

  Bennett snapped a level stare to his brother. “Do not feed that animal from the table.”

  Unperturbed, Amon ferried the morsel out of sight. “Why not? This animal eats from it.” He cut another bite of veal.

  “You haven’t in years.” The bland look on Bennett’s face didn’t change, but his tone acquired an edge. “What are you doing here now?”

  “Eating.” Amon sliced a sidelong glance to his brother as he raised his fork. “You?” He jabbed the veal between his teeth.

  Jo studied the standoff from behind the curtain of her lashes, resisting the urge to squirm. Whatever sculptor had chiseled the brothers’ features from a common block of marble neglected to breathe any softness into Bennett’s. She’d never seen a man’s expression under such rigid control. How could two siblings look so alike and be so utterly different?

  Bennett returned his attention to her. “What arrangements have been made for the ceremony?”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but words stalled in her dry throat.

  “None.” A reassuring blue gaze captured Jo. Amon nodded to her wine goblet. “We didn’t want to bother Pa with details until he feels better.” White teeth glittered from a thin smile. “And we thought it might be impolite to arrange your life without your input.”

  “Amon.”

  Jenny’s warning hiss, the first word she’d uttered all evening, extended Amon’s arm in her direction. Without abandoning the staring match with his brother, Amon flattened his palm on the tablecloth.

  Bennett rose, drawing himself to his full height before tossing his napkin onto his plate. A growl wound upward from the small body warming Jo’s toes.

  The Collier heir aimed a sharp glance at the noise before addressing his brother. “I have business in Austin. The wedding will take place three weeks from today. Family only.” A hint of disquiet flickered across his face. “Father doesn’t need the excitement of a big affair.”

  Without another word or so much as a glance in Jo’s direction, he quit the room.

  Dizziness arose to replace the relief that escaped her lungs in a rush. She pressed trembling fingertips to the throb between her brows.

  Amon’s quiet, steady tone settled her nerves. “You all right?”

  She nodded.

  Amon aimed for the doorw
ay, pausing long enough to lay a hand across Jenny’s shoulder. The Creole raised her chin and delivered a shaky smile. Holding her gaze, Amon tightened his grip.

  Then he hurried after his brother.

  ****

  “Bennett!” Amon’s clipped bark bounced off his brother’s back.

  Ben kept walking.

  In four strides, Amon snatched the pompous ass by the elbow. A yank spun the self-important dandy on his heel.

  Ben’s cocked arm came around first. His fist slammed into Amon’s jaw, snapping his head to the side. Amon staggered backward, barely keeping his feet. The Bennett Collier he’d wrestled in the dirt as a boy may have grown into a lawyer who did his fighting with words, but he hadn’t forgotten how to throw a punch.

  By the time Amon’s vision cleared, his brother had peeled off his frockcoat and hat and tossed them on the ground. A silver-gray waistcoat gleamed in the waning light. Chest heaving around agitated breaths, Ben extended a hand and flicked his fingers toward his palm.

  “Uh-uh.” Not until he re-hinged his jaw, anyway. Amon opened his mouth, stretching the joint and massaging a spot beside his earlobe until a painful pop stole his breath and made his eyes water. Gritting his teeth, he rubbed the fierce ache with his fingertips. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

  Ben seethed for only a few more breaths before releasing a heavy gust and raking clawed fingers through his hair. “She had to be beautiful, didn’t she?”

  Confusion knocked Amon backward another step. “What?”

  “Miss LaPierre. She’s a vision.”

  “She is, isn’t she?” A grin started across Amon’s lips, only to retreat before an inexplicable pang in his chest. “If I could take your place, I would.”

  Ben’s teeth flashed between thin lips. “But you can’t, can you?”

  Amon returned his brother’s glare, dropping his chin to protect his jaw—just in case.

  “I don’t want a wife. I don’t need a wife.” Ben rubbed the back of his neck on a sarcastic huff. “At least bedding Mrs. Collier to fulfill my obligation to posterity won’t be a hardship.”

  A strange, sick feeling slithered up Amon’s throat. “It may be for her,” he grumbled under this breath.

  If Ben heard the remark, he ignored it. He bent to retrieve his hat and coat. “Business will keep me in Austin for at least a week. I’ll be back in time for the nuptials.” The wrist he swiped across his forehead as he straightened failed to remove a frown. “I’ll not have Pa’s courtesan at the wedding.”

  A chill wind blew through Amon, emerging in his voice. “You won’t even say her name?” His unoccupied hand curled into a fist. Stretching his fingers helped calm the storm in his gut. “You decreed family only. Like it or not, Jenny’s family.”

  “She’s not my family.” Ben punctuated the snarl with a smack at the dark wool draping his forearm. “I mean it. She’s not to attend.”

  “You know Pa won’t stand for the snub.”

  “He will if he wants me to go through with this farce.” Ben shrugged into the coat and settled the hat on his head. “The old man may be able to force me to marry, but he can’t force me to acknowledge the trash who crawled into his bed fifteen years before—”

  On a hard swallow, Ben’s gaze dropped to his boots. For a heartbeat, Amon suspected his brother’s fortress might crumble. He narrowed the gap between them by a single step. “Ben—”

  The hand Ben flung up, palm forward, fingers spread, shook. He swallowed again before raising a bitter gaze. “They couldn’t even wait for her to die.”

  Amon planted his boots and tracked his brother’s stiff back all the way to the stable. Three weeks. In less than a month, Ben would claim his bride and spirit her away to his house in Galveston, where the lion’s share of the Collier business and political interests lay. Without the unwelcome distraction of a woman who belonged in the big city, Amon could redirect the entirety of his attention to the ranch he’d all but neglected.

  During a week that had been both too long and too short, Mademoiselle LaPierre had left an indelible mark. Even if she never returned, Mrs. Bennett Collier’s honeysuckle scent, Gulf-green eyes, and berry-stained lips would haunt Dumont forever.

  Chapter Five

  Though the night air weighed on the earth like a soggy woolen blanket, Jo shivered as she set Napoleon in the grass. The lantern hanging beside the kitchen door spread a glow several feet beyond the steps. “Remember not to go beyond the light, mon petit.”

  Hugging her waist, she rubbed her elbows through the watered-silk wrapper and the nightgown underneath, but the chill remained. In the weeks since Bennett’s brief but unsettling visit, everything had changed. Monsieur Collier’s health had improved, but instead of celebrating, all of Dumont had settled into the final stages of mourning. Someone—or something—precious had died.

  Or perhaps that perception was hers alone.

  Before leaving New Orleans, she had buttressed her courage, prepared to endure a loveless marriage, but the reality was much sharper and more dispiriting than anything she could have imagined. Perhaps she would have been wiser to surrender to Lucien. At least then she would not have had to live a lie.

  And she would not have met Amon Collier. The younger brother’s absence these past three weeks had left suppers at Dumont cold and empty. Why couldn’t he have been the man Madame Espallier arranged for her to marry?

  With a series of fierce barks, Napoleon bounded across the circle of lamplight. Jo scooped him up before he could escape. Planting small forepaws on her shoulder, he growled toward the house. She spun, peering into the shadows while her heart pounded her ribs.

  The tall grass beside the kitchen steps rustled, and then parted to reveal glowing, almond-shaped eyes. A sleek calico cat slinked into the light for only a moment before racing along the veranda’s foundation and disappearing into the darkness.

  Relief washed a smile across Jo’s lips. She rubbed Napoleon’s ears. “Merci, my brave defender. One cannot be too careful when lions are about.”

  The moment she set the gallant knight upon his feet, he bolted after the cat.

  “Napoleon. No!” She yanked the wrapper and gown to her knees and gave chase.

  ****

  Jo peered into the inky blackness made even more impenetrable by the tears clouding her eyes. “Napoleon.” Where could he be? Wild animals, hounds, even large barn cats could make a meal of him in one bite. Winded by the dash around the far corner of the sprawling mansion, she fought for every sobbing breath.

  Bending at the waist, she parted the shin-high grass with her hands, straining to spy the tiniest movement. “Napoleon, please—”

  “Looking for someone, mademoiselle?”

  The familiar deep, quiet voice sent Jo’s heart scrambling for her throat. She bolted upright and whirled. “Napoleon. He’s—”

  “About to drown me.” A small, enthusiastic tongue bathed the skin beside Amon’s scrunched-shut eye.

  “Dieu merci.” The whispered words escaped around the hands Jo clasped at her lips. “Where did you find him?”

  “He found me.” Amon peeled Napoleon from his neck and set him in Jo’s arms. He swiped at the side of his face, swiped her with a glance, and averted his gaze. A tight grin played at his lips. “You often go for midnight strolls dressed like that?”

  Jo looked down and gasped. Her wrapper gaped open and the hem of her nightgown, dampened by the grass, clung to her knees. Face warming, she shoved Napoleon against Amon’s chest. He clamped a large hand around the dog while she straightened her garments.

  “What are the two of you doing out here?”

  Her trembling hands fumbled with the wrapper’s sash. “He was restless.” She gave up on tying a bow and jerked a knot in the silk.

  A low chuckle pushed more heat into her cheeks. “I couldn’t sleep either.”

  Despite the darkness, a sparkle lit the gaze that sought her face before tracing a languid path all the way to her toes. “You’re
a beautiful woman. I hope my brother realizes how lucky he is.”

  The reverence in the gaze and the tone were at once comforting and confounding. Jo wound one end of the silken sash through her fingers, watching the pattern change, trying to remember how to breathe.

  “We’d best get you and le petit caporal back inside the house before…”

  She glanced up. A distant sadness she suspected he meant to cover lingered at the outer corners of his eyes. “Before what?”

  Amon nodded at Napoleon, cradled in the bend of his elbow. “Before he starts snoring.”

  A warm palm cupped the small of her back all the way across the yard and up the kitchen steps. Amon doused the lantern and set Napoleon inside the door. Tiny claws clicked over the tile floor as he trotted off to find his bed.

  Jo would have followed, but a mountain of Collier filled the doorway. A subtle tension vibrated just below the surface of his calm.

  The intensity in his eyes caused the strangest stumble in her pulse. She lowered her gaze and tried to squeeze past. “Bonne nuit.”

  He shifted to block her path. Fingertips applied gentle pressure under her chin. “Josephine, look at me.”

  Her name flowed from his lips like a prayer. “You take liberties, Monsieur Collier.”

  He didn’t correct her. “Maybe so. Look at me anyway.”

  The pressure against her skin increased until she had no choice but to comply. She licked dry lips, and flames ignited in darkening eyes.

  He swallowed twice before he spoke. “Despite the side he showed you, my brother is a good man. Remember that when you marry him tomorrow.”

  “How did you know—”

  “That you were worried?” A sardonic huff ruffled the wispy tendrils at her temple. “I’ve known Ben for thirty years, and I’d have been worried in your place.”

  Leaning close, he brushed aside her hair and dropped a murmur into her ear. “Give him time. He needs you. You and a family of his own…in a house with empty closets.” He lingered for a moment, his breath tickling her neck. Then he pulled away, refusing to meet her gaze, and turned for the steps. “Bonne nuit, mademoiselle.”