ToLoveaLady

by Cynthia Sterling

  “I just think it’s strange, don’t you? How a man everybody has so much respect and admiration for turns out to be on the same par with the rest of the folks I lock up in my jail.”

  “What I find strange is that people don’t have more respect and admiration for a man in your position,” Charles countered. “Why do you think that is?”

  Grady’s face reddened. “What would you know about it, Worthington? In this country, we respect a man because of what he does, not because of who his father is or the title he puts in front of his name.”

  Charles nodded. “My point exactly.”

  Grady frowned. “Think you’re clever, do you?” He lunged forward and grabbed Cecily by the arm. “But not clever enough.”

  Her heart beat furiously in her chest. Had Sheriff Grady recognized her? He would no doubt welcome the chance to humiliate her. She imagined the headlines the scandal sheets would carry: Titled Heiress Found in Brothel With Earl’s Son.

  “Who are you?” Grady demanded, shaking her. “I haven’t seen you before.”

  “Unhand the lady at once.” Charles clapped Grady on the shoulder, his voice heavy with menace.

  Grady released her, and shook off Charles’s hand. “She’s no lady.”

  He reached forward and started to lift her veil, but she stepped back and threw up her hands to block him. “No!”

  Estelle stepped forward. “Her face — it was burned. That’s why she wears the veil.” She put her arm around Cecily. “Her name’s Cici. She’s new here.”

  As the sheriff looked her up and down, his expression changed to a leer. “I guess the customers don’t care about looking at her face, do they?”

  Charles made a threatening sound and took a step toward the sheriff. Fists clenched, his face was a mask of rage. If he wasn’t careful, he could land them both in serious trouble. Cecily tried to signal him that he should calm down. If he would play along, they might get through this without the sheriff deducing her true identify.

  But neither Charles nor the sheriff was ready to calm down. Grady grabbed hold of Cecily’s wrist and pulled her toward him. “You’re under arrest.”

  “What is the charge?” Estelle kept her arm around Cecily, refusing to yield to the lawman.

  “Keeping a disorderly house. We got an ordinance in this town.”

  “We are not in your town,” Estelle glared at him.

  “Let go of her at once!” Madame charged toward them, the ties of her dressing gown flapping behind her. Two men chased after her, though they might have been gnats buzzing around an elephant, for all the attention she paid them. In nightrail and rag curlers, Madame LeFleur looked more like an ordinary hausfrau than a notorious madam. “You cannot arrest her. She has committed no crime in this county or anywhere,” she protested.

  “Stay out of this!” Grady snapped. “I’ll interpret the laws around here.”

  Charles cleared his throat. Though he still looked grim, he had made an effort to rein in his emotions. “Excuse me, sheriff, but in order for someone to be actually keeping a disorderly house, does not money have to change hands?”

  Grady sneered. “That’s what this place is all about, isn’t it — money in exchange for sexual favors.”

  Charles shook his head. “I assure you, sheriff, no money changed hands here tonight.”

  Grady looked disdainful. “You’d like me to believe it.”

  “It’s true.” Cecily pulled free of the sheriff’s grip and slipped her arm around Charles. “He did not have to pay me.” She was glad of the veil, to hide her blush. Charles squeezed her hand, bolstering her courage.

  “You can’t prove that,” Grady said.

  “And you cannot prove otherwise,” Charles countered. “Did it ever occur to you why, if this is such a den of iniquity, I am the only man here?”

  Confusion flashed through Grady’s eyes, quickly masked by anger. “The business is new. Maybe word hasn’t gotten around yet.”

  “You are welcome to return tomorrow evening.” Madame cinched the ties of her dressing gown and held her head high. “We will have plenty of business, I assure you. Men will flock to hear Estelle sing and Fifi give her recitations. They will come to listen to our Victrola and enjoy refreshments and feminine company.”

  “And you want me to believe that’s all they’ll enjoy?”

  She shrugged. “You may believe whatever you like, sheriff.”

  Grady turned back to Cecily. “What about you — what special talent do you have?” he sneered.

  The disdainful way he spoke made Cecily feel small inside. What special talent did she have? Arranging flowers and pouring tea hardly seemed worth mentioning. What could she do that was worth anything to anybody?

  “She is a good listener.” Madame came to her rescue. “Perhaps because in the past she has been unfairly judged herself, she accepts everyone, regardless of their flaws, and is willing to listen to their story. Many of the men who come here are lonely, and the greatest thing we can do for them is to listen.”

  Was listening such a great talent? Could it be Madame and her girls valued Cecily’s friendship as much as she valued theirs? Estelle squeezed her hand, as if to assure her this was so.

  “Hmmmph!” Grady looked disgruntled. “If you think I’m gonna believe cowboys will ride out all this way just to talk, you must think I just rode in on a hay wagon.”

  “You will not prove otherwise,” Madame said. “Even if you could, as I said, we have broken no law, and no jury will convict.”

  “Instead of harassing these women, Sheriff, why don’t you occupy yourself tracking down whoever has been stealing our cattle?” Charles asked.

  The question proved sufficient distraction. Grady whirled to face Charles, jaw clenched, a vein at his temple throbbing.

  “I suppose you think you could find the thieves yourself?” Grady snarled.

  “I’d start by taking a closer look at Danny Fells.”

  “Danny Fells is just another young rowdy. That doesn’t make him a thief.”

  “He always seems to have plenty of money, have you noticed that?”

  “Would you gentlemen like to take this discussion outside?” Madame interrupted them. “My girls and I need our beauty sleep.”

  One of the other men with the sheriff yawned loudly. “Reckon I’m ready to get on home. Don’t look like there’s any laws being broken here.”

  Grady scowled at the men, then turned to Madame. “I’ll leave for now, but I’ll be back.”

  “You do that, Sheriff.” Madame ushered them toward the stairs. “On Tuesdays, we have dancing. And Thursdays is cribbage night.”

  They all trooped downstairs. “You’d better go now, too Lord Silsbee,” Madame said.

  He started to protest. “Don’t you worry about Cici, now.” Estelle squeezed Cecily’s shoulders once more. “We’ll take good care of her.”

  They didn’t say anything else until the men had mounted their horses and ridden off into the darkness. As Madame shut the front door and locked it, Cecily sagged against Estelle. “I’ve never been so terrified in my life,” she said.

  Estelle patted her shoulder. “You did good. The hat was quick thinking.”

  “It was Charles’s idea, not mine.” She folded back the veil. “I never would have come up with the story about being burned, either.”

  “I’ll go fetch Davie and have him saddle your horse, Lady Thorndale,” Madame said. “He can escort you home once the sheriff and his men have had time to get a good head start to town.” She headed back toward the kitchen. Fifi followed, leaving Estelle and Cecily alone.

  “I didn’t make that story up, about the girl being burned,” Estelle said after a moment. “I worked with a girl in Fort Worth who always covered her face because she’d been badly burned.”

  “Oh no! What happened?”

  “A customer got a little rough one night and when she wouldn’t go along with him, he threw a kerosene lantern at her.”

  Cecily hugged hers
elf to ward off the chill that swept over her at Estelle’s words. “Doesn’t it ever frighten you? Working at a job that’s so dangerous?”

  Estelle looked down, fumbling with the ties of her dressing gown. “Sometimes. I try not to think about it.” She shrugged. “This is lots better than what I was doing before, working the streets. Madame runs a clean house. I think she really cares about what happens to her girls, so that helps, but there’s always risks. There’s risks in life.” She looked up and forced a smile. “So I guess you and Charles settled your differences?”

  Cecily nodded, feeling a blush heat her cheeks.

  Estelle’s expression grew serious once more. “He was good to you, wasn’t he? I don’t mean to pry, but sometimes the first time. . . “

  “He was good to me.” She smiled shyly. “Very good.”

  Estelle laughed and hugged her close. “I’m glad. Things will be all right now.”

  She hoped this was true. She’d been so caught up in the moment, she hadn’t had time to think about the future. Charles had made no mention of what was to become of them, either.

  Madame returned. “Davie will escort you home in a little bit. Why don’t you go upstairs and change and I’ll make some coffee and fix you something to eat?”

  Cecily nodded, and started up the stairs, but halfway up, she rushed down again, to envelope Madame in a hug. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything.” Before her friend could answer, she raced up the stairs, anxious to be back at the ranch with Charles, whatever the future might hold for them.

  * * *

  Charles rose early the next morning and dressed with care, telling himself as he knotted his tie that he was determined to do the right and honorable thing and ask Cecily to become his lawfully wedded wife as soon as possible.

  The fact that he could think of nothing else he wanted more at this moment, consequences be damned, had him grinning at his reflection like an idiot. Why had he waited so long to admit his feelings, to acknowledge that he had fallen in love with the wild and wonderful beauty his child-betrothed had become? Perhaps only last night, when he had held her in his arms and felt her heart beat against his naked chest, had he realized the woman, and the passion she called forth in him, was real, and not some feverish dream.

  He went down to breakfast before Mrs. Bridges had even set the table. The old cook looked askance at his hearty “Good morning” and bustled back into the kitchen, where she could be heard banging pots and pans around and muttering under her breath.

  An hour later, as he was sitting down to a breakfast of overdone bacon and runny eggs, Cecily entered the room. Despite the night’s misadventures, or perhaps because of them, she looked as pink and glowing as an English rose. How had he failed to notice before how very exquisite she was? He opened his mouth to say as much, but his glib words died on his tongue as she smiled shyly at him.

  “Good morning,” she said as she helped herself to tea from the pot on the sideboard.

  “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

  “Very well.”

  “Then you’re feeling fine?” He had worried he might have been too ardent and inadvertently have hurt her.

  “I’ve never felt better. And you?”

  “Never better.” He picked up his fork, intending to continue with his breakfast, but all appetite had deserted him. “Cecily, I –”

  “Charles–”

  “You first,” he said.

  “No, you.”

  “I wanted to say . . .What I mean is. . . “ He stopped and started over. “I think we should set the wedding date as soon as possible.”

  She looked pleased. “Why, Charles, what has changed your mind?”

  “Last night, of course. Now that we have. . . well, I know my duty and I readily accept the consequences of my actions.” He hadn’t meant to sound so stiff and formal. He saw the error of such an approach as the smile faded from her face.

  “Is that what it is to you?” she said stiffly. “Duty?”

  “I only meant that your reputation must be protected.”

  That had not come out as he’d intended, either. She appeared more and more agitated. “My reputation? Is that all that concerns you?”

  “Of course not.” He leaned forward and took her hand. It was ice cold. “We have been promised to one another for quite a while now. Isn’t it time we carried on with our plans?”

  “I was never the one who wanted to wait.”

  “At one time, I admit I wondered if we’d made the wise decision, but all that’s behind me now. I’m ready to wed. As soon as possible.”

  She pulled her hand from his and looked away. “Perhaps I’m not ready.”

  “Not ready?” He stared at her, dismayed. “After last night. . . how could you not be ready? You came all the way from England intending to marry me. What could have happened to change your mind now?” A horrible thought struck him like a physical blow. He sat back in his chair and tried to catch his breath enough to speak. “Last night. . . did you find me so repugnant? Can you not bear the thought of sharing my bed again?”

  “No! That’s not it at all!” She looked at him, wide-eyed. “Last night was wonderful. All I ever hoped for. . . and so much more!”

  “Then what is it? Why do you hesitate to marry me?”

  She looked away again, her face pale. “I notice you don’t say anything about love.”

  Love. The word made him feel queasy. “Of course I have tender feelings for you.” Did he dare call them love? The word seemed weighted with so many unrealistic expectations. People loved chocolate or loved to ride or loved the sunset. Could such a common word convey the wealth of feelings the flooded him whenever he thought of Cecily?

  She threw down her napkin and rose from her chair. “How can I marry you if all you see is duty and not love?”

  “Cecily, I’m sorry, I–” He rose also, and reached for her, but she refused to listen and fled. Her slippers made desperate, whispering sounds as she rushed across the dining room and up the stairs.

  He sank into his chair, defeated. What had gone wrong? The pretty, willing woman he had held last night had turned on him. He was offering what she wanted, marriage, and she was hurling the offer back at him like a bouquet of wilted flowers.

  Gordon entered the room, carrying a fresh pot of coffee. He took one look at Charles and set the coffee aside. “Is something wrong, m’lord?”

  “Nothing. Everything.” He rose again and threw his napkin on the table. “Deuces, man! If I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn’t be in this fix!” He stormed out of the room, and headed for the stables. At least a horse had a predictable temperament. Something that couldn’t be said for Cecily.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cecily sat at her dressing table, twisting the ring on her finger. The sapphire and pearl-encrusted band had belonged to Charles’s grandmother. She had worn it for four years now — so long that when she took it off an indentation of it remained, a pale, thin band of flesh to remind her of what she had lost.

  What she had thrown away, a harsh voice in her head taunted her. The moment she had longed for so long had arrived, and she had shied away from it, like a racehorse suddenly terrified of the starting gate.

  “If only he’d said he loved me,” she whispered, as the ring became a blue-white blur through a film of unshed tears.

  They had shared so much last night, and yet, in the end, it had not been enough. Charles still saw her as nothing more than an empty-headed girl, or a schemer who only wanted his name. He respected her, or their position in society, enough that he would not see her shamed, but how could she give the rest of her life to a man who saw her as a duty? How many years before duty turned to burden, and burden to eventual scorn?

  She wrapped her right hand around her left, hiding the ring and its mocking glimmer. At one time, she would have welcomed Charles on any terms, but coming to Texas had changed her. On her own for the first time, she’d discovered a strength she hadn’t known she
possessed, and a certainty that she was capable of more than had been asked of her before.

  She straightened and stared at her reflection in the dresser mirror. From as early as she could remember, people had told her she was pretty. They had compared her to flowers and to gems, a lovely ornament to grace a gathering. Few other talents were considered necessary for a woman who possessed beauty.

  But in Texas, she had discovered she did have at least one other talent. She knew how to teach people. She enjoyed it, and she was good at it.

  Gratitude welled inside her, breaking through the torrents of grief. That one talent might be the savior of her yet. Instead of pledging herself to a loveless marriage, she would devote herself to teaching. Instead of occupying her spare time serving as a volunteer for the Academy, she would apply for a job teaching there.

  Before her faint courage could desert her, she picked up the bell that sat in one corner of the dresser and rang it. In a moment, Alice appeared. “Yes, m’lady?”

  “Lay out my riding habit, Alice. I want to pay a call in town.”

  So it was that an hour and a half later, Cecily found herself on a quiet side street near the edge of Fairweather, in front of a whitewashed cottage with a neatly lettered sign by the gate: Simms.

  Leaving her horse at the hitching rail, she walked up the gravel path, past the neatly swept yard, and knocked firmly on the door. Her hands felt damp inside her gloves and her knees trembled, but she forced herself to stand fast. She would be a good teacher, if only she could convince the Academy board to hire her.

  The door opened and instead of the maid or other servant she’d expected, she was greeted by Hattie herself. “Oh. . .Cecily. I mean, Lady Thorndale,” Hattie stammered. She put one hand to her hair. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “I apologize for arriving unannounced, but I have something important to discuss with you.”

  Hattie took a step back. “Of course. Do come in.”

  She ushered Cecily into a small front parlor, to a seat on a slippery horsehair sofa. “Would you like some refreshments? Should I make tea? And I believe I have some cake –”