The Men of Pride County: The Pretender

by West, Rosalyn

  She put a hand to the small of her back, reminding Deacon of her condition. His arm banded her in immediate support.

  “Would you like to sit down?”

  “No. I’d like to have this baby so folks would quit fussing so much. I thought Mama would have a conniption when I showed up, but Mrs. Prior insisted that I be here, fat with child and all. But for Mama’s sake, I’ll keep a low profile.”

  Deacon glanced at her big belly. “That’ll be kinda hard to do.”

  She poked his ribs with her elbow, then grew serious.

  “She’s quite the hostess, your Mrs. Prior.”

  Deacon’s features hardened, the light leaving his eyes. “She’s not my anything.”

  Patrice didn’t bother arguing, which bothered him plenty.

  “She’s very lovely. No wonder you fell in love with her.”

  Squirming under his sister’s observations, Deacon switched his to the woman in question. Yes, she was lovely. Lovely and poised and looking every inch the society matron. As hostess, she was dressed for tactful understatement, not wishing to outshine any of her guests. He could see his mother’s touch there. But why Hannah Sinclair would school her in etiquette the way she would a daughter was a mystery to him.

  Garnet was every inch the lady. In her modest gown of pale blue moiré with a pattern of raised velvet flowers of the same subdued hue imprinted upon the full sweeping hem, she was every man’s dream of a hostess for his home: tasteful, refined, and yet simmering with an innate sensuality that all the manners in the world couldn’t contain. She was the kind of woman a man would show off on his arm with pride while dreaming of the night to come when propriety could be cast off along with elegant clothing. His stare cut to Montgomery Prior, who was chuckling over some story with Judge Banning. Is that what he was dreaming when his gaze touched fondly upon his bride?

  Jealousy burned like a brand in Deacon’s heart.

  “Deacon, I would like to sit down.”

  Patrice’s quiet request called him back from his envious musings. With a solicitous hand upon her elbow, he guided her to the fringe of the company, holding her steady as she lowered into a chair like a freight wagon dropping a load of bricks. Reeve was instantly there to attend her, nodding to dismiss Deacon, then fussing until Patrice slapped at his hands.

  “I’m fine,” she insisted testily.

  But in studying her drawn expression, Reeve could see that wasn’t true.

  “What’s wrong, ‘Trice?”

  “Nothing that can be easily mended, I’m afraid.” Suddenly, her mood shifted. “Reeve, would you be good enough to fetch me a glass of lemonade? I find myself positively parched.”

  She’d spotted Tyler Fairfax arriving with his sister, her best friend, Starla Dodge, and her husband, the town’s banker. The unlikely trio made her arch a brow, but she was quick to call Tyler over with a beckoning smile. He took up her hand in his gloved one and held it gently. His jaded stare softened with an affection reserved for her and Starla.

  “I hope you don’t mind me sayin’ so, but darlin’, you sure look beautiful this evening.”

  “I look like one of your bourbon barrels,” she complained, flattered nonetheless. She nodded toward Dodge. “It seems you’ve mended your fences with your brother-in-law.”

  “The Yank?” Tyler shrugged. “He ain’t so bad. Star’s crazy for him, so what can I do?” His voice lowered a notch. “It would be bad form to kill him, now that he’s making me an uncle.”

  Patrice’s gaze leapt to the always glamorous Starla, then back to her proudly grinning brother. “Starla and Dodge?” At his nod, she pouted. “Why didn’t she say something to me?”

  “She wants to keep it quiet until she’s sure things will go well, after her losing the baby last time and all.” He looked away, uncomfortable with the topic and the painful memories that clung there. “The Yank, he spoils her something fierce, and she swears she’s healthy as a hog, so I guess it’s all right to let you know.”

  “I’ll scold her about it later. Sit down with me for a minute. We haven’t talked for ages.”

  Tyler’s expression lost all its sharp edges, his look so needy, so anxious, it caused Patrice a moment of distress. The ill-will between them over the actions he’d taken against Reeve before their marriage put a damper on the friendship they’d once shared and suddenly, she realized that she’d missed it and him, the unrepentant scapegrace. She tugged at his hand, encouraging him to sit. His obvious pleasure twisted poignantly about her heart, but she blocked it in deference to her purpose.

  “Tyler, what do you know about the Priors?”

  The guarded look returned in a blink. “Why do you ask, darlin’?”

  “I was just curious about how you came to sell the Manor to them.”

  His caution intensified. “Patrice, I don’t want to get into no argument with you about your brother selling off the mortgage to me.”

  She pressed his hand gently, as if she no longer felt any bitterness over that situation. “I don’t want to argue either.”

  He regarded her warily for a moment, then fixed his attention on the comely Mrs. Prior. “She sought me out, wanting to buy the place. Real insistent, she was.”

  “Wanting to buy any plantation?”

  He shook his head. “No. Just this one.”

  She followed his stare. “Why?”

  “I don’t know, darlin’. You might want to ask your saintly brother what he done to make her want to pay three times what this place is worth just to stand there in that doorway, smiling at all the neighbors.”

  The idea of getting her stoic brother to spill his guts concerning a lost love affair was as far-fetched as it was unlikely. So that left one alternative.

  “Maybe I’ll just have to get to know Garnet Prior better.”

  For the first half of the evening, Garnet concentrated on Hannah’s lessons. It was during this critical time that she would pass or lose her laurels. She circulated in an unobtrusive manner, speaking in a gently modulated voice, trying to commit the names of her guests to memory so as not to embarrass herself or them upon their next meeting.

  As hostess, she was excused from dancing in the quadrilles. There were enough ladies to fill the sets, while Monty attended those who didn’t dance with a courtly charm that had them blushing. She noticed he paid particular attention to Hannah Sinclair, and if she noticed, so would others. Making note to speak to him about it, she had no time as the first half of the dance programme ended and guests were excused to a separate room for supper. Monty had offered his arm to the widow Sinclair, leaving her adrift in a sea of unfamiliar faces. To her dismay, she saw Roscoe Skinner approaching. He was groomed and sleek and grinning like a fox. Something about the man made her inexplicably uncomfortable. Perhaps the directness of his stare that seemed to peel away her outer defenses to get at inner thoughts she’d prefer to keep private. Or the way Monty kept pushing them together.

  “Might I escort you to supper, Mrs. Prior?”

  She glanced up in surprise, staring at the elbow Deacon offered as if she’d never been extended such a courtesy before. In truth, it wasn’t one she’d expected from him. Then she saw his attention wasn’t focused on her, but rather on Roscoe. Her moment of tender anticipation faded. His gallantry was meant to thwart the new overseer, not to please her. Skinner drew up short, eyes narrowing at the interception of his plans, but he bowed as if there were no hard feelings. The glitter in his stare said there were plenty.

  Glumly, her features set in lines as somber as his own, Garnet placed her fingertips upon Deacon’s sleeve so he could lead her, as hostess, into the dining room first. Monty brought up the rear as guests were seated agreeably, the host at one end, the hostess at the other. As her escort, Deacon wordlessly assumed a position at her side. After the salmon and fried smelt were trowled out to each guest, she was relieved when he offered her a glass of wine. She needed the fortifier with him so close at hand. Raising the first glass, Deacon bowed to her as
lady of the house, the other gentlemen following suit.

  “I trust you are having an enjoyable evening,” Deacon murmured, never looking directly at her. “From all indications, you are a success.”

  “Thank you.” Thank you, Hannah. “You are too kind.”

  “No, I’m not. You know me better than that.”

  Waiting for the servants to finish dishing up the meal, she was relieved from the obligation of answering. But yes, she did know better.

  She did know that he could be kind, though he chose not to be. She noticed that the party guests went out of their way to give him plenty of space, addressing him only with polite nods of acknowledgment, as if afraid to confront him directly. She didn’t see him as an intimating figure, but rather as a lonely one. But before she could engage him in inclusive conversation, she caught a blur of movement darting in from the hallway under the table. Ulysses had somehow come to visit.

  Oh no!

  She was halfway out of her seat, gesturing frantically for the nearest waiter, when Boone burst into the dining room like a wildly galloping horse. He made a beeline for the table, too intent upon the chase to realize what Garnet saw at once: that he couldn’t easily fit between the guests or under the edge. He lunged, knocking the guests on either side from their seats as he disappeared beneath the table. Unfortunately, he tangled in the scalloped lace hem of the linen cloth, dragging it under with him.

  And all the place settings, wineglasses, and silver followed, avalanching into the laps of all those on that side of the table.

  In that instant, Garnet saw her social doom.

  When the last apology was made and the final guest on his away, Garnet left the servants to the disaster in the dining room, and, with the mournful sound of Boone howling on his rope outside, she slowly climbed the stairs. Hannah already occupied her spot on the edge of William’s bed, assuring the little boy that neither he nor the kitten he hugged to his chest would be cast out in disgrace. She watched the older woman tuck the boy in with gentle words, missing her own mother, thinking how lucky Deacon was to have enjoyed the tender care of this woman all his life. She would have entered the room to add her own reassurances, but William snuggled in and was immediately asleep with the purring puff of fur balled up on his chest.

  Feeling unneeded, she wandered to her room, having just closed the door when she heard Monty’s low voice mixing with Hannah’s dulcet tones. After they moved along the hall together, a sense of failure and isolation crept in through her downed defenses. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—the fine lady of the house in wine-stained satin, her features lined with anxiety and despair. A fraud in her own heart, and now, in everyone else’s mind.

  He almost missed her. Her shadow skimmed along the dark tracery of the leafless bushes—a figure in men’s trousers with a most provocative walk. There was such solitude in her lonely travels, but respecting her private thoughts and her need to work through them, Deacon sat on the back porch rail, allowing her the peaceful embrace of the night and himself the pleasure of simply watching her.

  He wasn’t alarmed when she disappeared into the darkness, knowing she’d eventually return. Whatever preyed upon her mind, and he had a fairly good idea of what that was, she kept to the moonlight for over an hour before approaching the house with shoulders slumped and spirits dragging.

  “Nice night for a walk.”

  His voice startled her into drawing up short. For a long beat, she remained safely in the shadows, then finally came to the stairs.

  “If you say something cuttingly clever about not making silk purses from sow’s ears, I’ll be forced to shoot you, and I really don’t need the extra burden tonight.”

  Because her retort smacked of the impertinent young woman living within hewn wood walls and not the sophisticate he’d seen of late, Deacon allowed a lopsided smile. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for any more of your burdens.”

  She stared up at him as if doubting that was true. In the muted light, in her mannish garb, with her heavy hair concealed beneath a flat crowned hat, he was looking once again into the face of innocence that had captured him five long years ago. And as tears made silvery traces down stubbornly held features, that endearing contrast made him lose his heart all over again.

  She stiffened at the soft sound of his laughter.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised that you’d find my misfortune funny.”

  “It’s not that,” he chuckled. “I was just remembering the look on Skinner’s face when that bowl of gravy landed in his lap.”

  Garnet drew a pained breath. He could see her shoulders tremble. Feeling poorly about taking amusement from her distress, he was about to apologize when she said in a slightly strangled voice, “Or Tyler Fairfax covered in buttered yams.”

  His grin flashed bright and they shared a moment of quiet laughter at the ridiculousness in her social tragedy. Slowly, she came up onto the porch and he stepped aside, expecting her to pass. Instead, she stopped beside him, still chuckling helplessly even as more tears glimmered upon her cheeks. Unable to help himself, he brushed one trail away with the leisurely swipe of his thumb.

  “You’ll survive it, Garnet. At least you’ll be the talk of the town tomorrow. Isn’t that a hostess’s fondest wish?”

  “As a topic of envy, yes, of sport, no.” Beneath the wry observation lurked a quiver of vulnerability that acted upon a part of Deacon’s soul that he thought he’d lost.

  “No one will make sport of you,” he promised, following that claim with a rumbling, “At least, not in my presence.”

  She stared up at him, puzzled by his compassion, by his intensity.

  Then all curiosities fell away as he bent and kissed her.

  Too surprised at first to do more than instinctively part her lips, Garnet let the sweet sensations overcome her staunch defenses. After all, wasn’t this magical taste of heaven what she’d yearned for every night since he’d ridden out of her front yard? A soft sound of confusion escaped as a sigh.

  Deacon … don’t … don’t stop.

  When his hands fit with a possessive familiarity upon the slope of her shoulders, she swayed into him, surrendering to her need to know again the passionate response only this man woke in her. Heat roared to places too long ignored. Her breasts ached. The juncture of her thighs throbbed in tight little pulses, demanding more than just his kiss to heal the miseries of this night, to bridge the loneliness of the years.

  Hands fisting at the collar of his coat, she met the reacquainting movement of his mouth, slant for hungry slant, feasting on the pleasures with a starved urgency. Letting the tide of remembered emotions catch her in its delicious rip and ebb. Gasping for breath and for some smidgeon of control, she lay her head against his chest, her arms circling his neck in a desperate attempt to remain standing on suddenly unreliable legs. Her body was taut and trembling, the same tension straining her voice as she said his name in a torment of want.

  “Deacon …”

  He responded, but not in the way she’d hoped. She felt him withdraw before he ever moved an inch. His muscles took on a denying stiffness. His ragged breathing slowed and grew regular upon one lengthy inhalation. And hands that had pulled her to him with such claiming forcefulness, now pushed her away with firm purpose.

  She didn’t want to look up to read what was in his expression, but she had to know, and forced her gaze to lift in search of his. His slated stare was impenetrable, keeping her away, just as his kisses had called her closer an instant earlier. The change in signals deepened her confusion and left her vulnerable to his next painfully proper statement.

  “I shouldn’t have done that. I had no right. I’ve insulted you and your husband, and for that I apologize.”

  He stepped back, setting the distance between them once more, a distance that seemed all the more impossible to breach, considering his shattering aloofness. As if their passion was a fleeting mistake that could be quickly forgiven and forgotten and not a long, smoldering
remnant of their first encounter.

  His remoteness gave her the courage to adopt a like attitude. “No apology necessary,” she assured him with a thready conviction. Then she let him walk away while every fiber of her emotional being cried out for her to reach out, to grab on, to not let go of what he’d betrayed with that kiss.

  The desire was still there.

  But if love lingered along with it, would it be so easy for him to extinguish the same feelings shivering through her with a feverish weakening of heart and mind?

  She sank down upon the porch steps, her fragile mood allowing sobs to escape her in silent shudders.

  What had she done? Had she outsmarted herself by creating a convenient marriage that was meant to protect her and that now, it would seem, prevented her from achieving the happiness she sought?

  How could she ever unravel the web she’d spun, now that she was trapped within its sticky lies?

  Chapter 16

  To Garnet’s surprise, a tray full of calling cards awaited her when she finally managed to shake off the effects of a near sleepless night to brave the new day. She was still staring at the sight incomprehensibly over her morning coffee when Patrice Garrett was announced.

  Patrice summed up the significance of the cards with a smile. “Goodness, you are a success, Mrs. Prior.”

  While waiting for her voluminous guest to make herself comfortable on one of the parlor sofas, Garnet said, “Please, call me Garnet. And why do you say that?”

  “The speed in which your hospitality is repaid with cards or visits determines how desirable you are to our fickle society. I would say you are a much sought-after commodity. Congratulations.”

  With a confused sigh, Garnet sank into an adjacent chair. “After the disastrous, not to mention messy, evening I gave them? I don’t understand. I’d think I’d be avoided like some plague.”