Proving Herself Page 11

  "I insisted Mr. Cooper agree to a childless marriage."

  Collier could not imagine marrying—a true marriage, not pretend—under such a stricture. Had Cooper wanted Alex­andra so badly as to forsake all hope of immortality?

  Collier could not conceive of such love.

  "We succeeded for some years, but Alec... surprised us," Alexandra said, explaining their young son. "Had I insisted upon seeing a doctor, I doubt Mr. Cooper would have stopped me. He is a man of his word, for all his charming foibles."

  Good Lord. Then however it was you attempted to pre­vent ..." There were no polite words for this conversation. "It did not succeed."

  "That is the risk one takes," she agreed, too easily for his comfort. "No attempt is failsafe but one, I wager: keep your trousers buttoned in Miss Garrison's presence."

  "Alexandra!" But he felt his cheeks warming. He, who had often courted the reputation of a rakehell, was blushing?

  But she was speaking of Laurel.

  "Several techniques have proved adequate, otherwise," Al­exandra assured him. "If that is what you meant to ask me."

  Collier nodded. To his relief she did not ask why he wanted to know. She simply told him what she knew.

  And it proved remarkably comprehensive.

  Chapter Ten

  In late August, Collier invited Laurel to dine with the Coopers again—and, once there, to commit to marriage.

  He had no intention of forgetting himself in her company again without the protection of a ring of her finger. And they had discussed their agreement thoroughly. Either they com­mitted to it, or they dismissed it.

  When he suggested they sit on the veranda together, to enjoy the afternoon sunshine, Laurel looked at the porch swing with some suspicion. But when he then faced her and went down on one knee, her pretty blue eyes widened into something akin to panic.

  "What are you doing?" she whispered through clenched teeth, perhaps so that anybody watching would think she smiled. She spoke quietly, since the house windows were all open against the heat. "Get up."

  "It's well past time to get this part done with," he insisted, also low and without moving his lips. "Marry me."

  She blinked down at him—then laughed.

  Collier frowned. This was not the expected reaction.

  Laurel covered her mouth for a moment to regain her com­posure. Then, eyes dancing, she leaned closer to him, clenched her teeth, and said, "This is how you ask me?"

  Then she began laughing again.

  Good Lord. After a long, stunned moment, Collier gave up his fragile hold on dignity. He laughed, too, and even leaned back against the house's brick wall, one leg folded beneath him, until he could stop. Never would he have risked being seen so, back home—but this was Wyoming. Between mor­tification and humor, he preferred humor. Thank heavens he was marrying a woman who...

  That is, pretend marrying.

  Not that she had accepted yet.

  The screen door slammed shut, and Benjamin Cooper looked out at them. He seemed relieved to note that Collier was sitting a good two feet from Laurel's swing, although the fact that Collier was on the ground raised a dark eyebrow. "Someone tell a good joke?" he drawled.

  Laurel caught her breath. "Collier just asked me to marry him, but he muddled it up."

  Cooper's usually cheerful voice deepened as he fixed Col­lier with a serious stare. "He what?"

  Laurel clutched at her pleated, organdy middle. "He—"

  Collier widened his eyes at her, and she recovered her senses. "Oh, never mind that part. Just go inside so he can do it properly, with all his ten-dollar words and such."

  Ten-dollar words? Well, really!

  Cooper looked at Laurel, and he seemed confused. "You're agreeable to this?"

  "Ought she not tell me first?" demanded Collier.

  Cooper shook his head and turned back to the house, then leaned back out. "You're proposing to many her?"

  "Yes."

  "You've even got a ring?"

  "As a matter of fact, I do."

  Laurel looked worried. "Oh, not a ring, too!"

  Definitely not how he'd anticipated it. Collier rolled his eyes at her, and she squeezed her lips shut.

  "Never thought I'd see things come to this," mourned Coo­per, but he went back into the house. It wasn't as if he could not listen from the parlor or living room.

  "Now do be serious," insisted Collier, resuming the proper position of a knight pledging fealty. When her eyes danced, he waited sternly until she recovered herself.

  "My only Laurel," he began honestly enough. "You cannot have failed to notice, these past months, the extent of my feelings for you."

  She cocked her heart-shaped face, more serious.

  "You have come to symbolize a certain... hope to me," he continued, just as honestly. "Perhaps my only chance at a future, when I've despaired of regaining my past. I only trust that, in return, I may somehow add to your future."

  The next two or three years of it, in any case.

  "Will you do me the honor of marrying me?"

  She continued to stare at him, her lips parting into some­thing of an O. He took that chance to slip the new ring from his pocket and offer it for her approval.

  Her eyes widened. "I swear!"

  Again not what he'd expected. "Laurel!"

  She covered her mouth, clearly recognizing her error in etiquette, but her eyes stayed wide. "Cole, it's huge!”

  He frowned at the ring, which he had bought very care­fully. "Alexandra's is larger than this." Oh. He raised his voice. "And hers is not at all ostentatious."

  Lest she, too, were listening.

  "But what am I supposed to do with it?"

  "If you agree to marry me ..." He waited.

  "Oh! Yes, you knew I would. But what..."

  He had not realized she was quite this backward. "You wear it," he instructed, and tugged her glove slowly, one fin­ger at a time, off her left hand to demonstrate. Her strong, callused hand beneath it did little to counter the sensuality of so innocent a disrobing. "The third finger is traditional."

  "No! I mean—" She scowled as she thought. "It's too big and fancy. I can't wear something as fine as this."

  She seemed so honestly distressed that he rose to sit on the swing beside her so he could lean near her ladylike ear, her glossy brown hair, and murmur, "It's glass."

  She closed her eyes for a moment and shivered. Then she frowned, as if confused. "It... what?"

  "I hope you don't mind too terribly," he insisted, still very quietly "But for a pretend marriage..."

  "Oh!" She nodded. "That was very sensible."

  "If I think anybody suspects, I'll say you're wearing a coun­terfeit for insurance purposes, that the real one is in our safe-deposit box." He'd heard similar stories told about other jewelry within his family's circles.

  "We have a safe-deposit box?"

  "A pretend one," he whispered. She smelled like the moun­tain. "In Denver."

  "Oh." When her eyes drifted closed again, he realized why. He quickly leaned back from her ear.

  Laurel drew a deep breath, blinked, then squinted at him. "But... glass means it's even more fragile, doesn't it? I can't do chores and swing ropes wearing this."

  Good Lord. She hadn't meant to question its worth, but its practicality?

  "Perhaps you can tie it around your neck," he teased.

  She actually brightened. "There's a thought!"

  He groaned. "Could you please try not to embarrass me?"

  Only when she turned away from him, not quite before he caught her hurt expression, did he regret that request.

  "Ain't never heard such foolishness," accused Papa, pacing the parlor of their ranch house.

  When Mama cleared her throat, from where she had sat for Collier's announcement, Papa scowled her into silence. She caught Laurel's gaze and mouthed the word sheep.

  Under other circumstances, Laurel might have laughed. To­day she felt ill. True, Mariah's beau had be
en a low-down

  sheep fanner. For that reason Papa had refused to give his blessing. But what if he refused now, too?

  If she loved Collier, that would be one thing. Mariah had eventually defied their father for love, and Laurel had more grit than Mariah did! But she didn't love Collier—even if she loved his kisses, and his voice, and his golden hair and bright, lively eyes.

  And this marriage was just pretend. Unless she and Collier kept a healthy distance from each other when alone this win­ter, it might even end in divorce. At least, once alone, they needn't whisper to each other!

  "I realize I've not had a chance to prove myself to you," said Collier evenly. While Papa paced, the Englishman seemed as cool as the lemonade they sipped.

  "Haven't you?" challenged Papa, as if Collier's chance had already come and gone since his arrival in Sheridan.

  Laurel said, "Papa!"

  "Don't work," her father reminded her, pointing in accu­sation at Collier with two fingers. "Don't make himself useful. Jest wears his fancy duds and plays games on horseback and wastes time in places he best not go."

  Oh? For a horrible moment Laurel wondered if Collier had already turned to ladies of the evening for succor. The se­ductive, feverish feelings he'd awakened in her had kept her awake for more than one night, since their impropriety by the creek. If such temptations really were worse for him ...

  But he leaned nearer her and whispered, "The Buffalo Bill." By which he meant the saloon at the Sheridan Inn.

  She nearly melted again. He had to stop doing that!

  While she recovered, helped by several thirsty gulps of lem­onade, Collier said, "If you've been asking around, you also know that I am not excessive in my drinking habits, nor have I involved myself in gambling or other vices."

  "Drink's bad enough," accused Papa.

  "Even Uncle Benj drinks," Laurel pointed out, though Col­lier laid a quieting hand on her arm.

  "Cooper ain't your father."

  Mama interjected, so he would not have to. "It is true we keep a temperate house. Except for medicines." But her eyes began to laugh again. Only last year, little Audra had gotten lit up on some "painkiller" when having a tooth pulled. Now, whenever the younger girl got too priggish, all Laurel had to do to rile her was call her a booze hound.

  Outside of Papa's hearing, of course.

  "The allowances that I receive—" Collier started.

  "Remittances."

  Collier's gaze turned steely. "Call it what you will; the larger part is an inheritance through my mother. I can count on a yearly income that, though moderate, will remain steady— steadier than were I a clerk or a farmer. Perhaps more signif­icantly, I am second in line to the estate of Brambourne."

  That was more significant than being able to feed and clothe her? Not that Laurel meant to count on him for that.

  Papa folded his arms and shook his head at her, as if trying to figure this whole thing out, and she felt ill again despite Mama's silent support. "Never knew you to hanker after no­bility and such."

  "My family is not noble," Collier corrected. "Though it's a common misconception here. We are in fact—"

  But at Papa's scowl, he said, "No matter."

  "You're right, Papa," clarified Laurel. "I never was one to hanker after society. I'm still not. But Collier's different... and I hanker after him." If in the wrong ways.

  Her father glared at both of them, then released his breath in a long-suffering sigh. Laurel took great hope in that sigh. At least it wasn't a no.

  Then he asked, "Where you two thinkin' to live?"

  She glanced at Collier. This was the tricky part.

  "My inheritance is not such that I could soon purchase a residence," Collier admitted. But he was watching her, wait­ing for her to take over.

  "We're going to prove up my claim and live there."

  And despite that they had done relatively well till now— that they had convinced Uncle Benj and Mama, and that

  Laurel even wore an embarrassingly fancy glass ring—Papa's eyes narrowed to murderous slits, focused wholly on Collier.

  "Git," he said.

  Collier sat back, as if insulted. "Pardon?"

  "Git out of my home!"

  "Oh! I thought... Yes. Well." He cleared his throat. "Please hear me out."

  But Papa had already dismissed him to turn his outrage on Laurel. That's what this is about, ain't it?"

  "Papa!"

  "Oh, Laurel, it's not," said Mama. "Is it?"

  "Knew you was stubborn," accused Papa. "But I never thought I'd see the day when one of my girls—"

  He stopped himself before Laurel found out what he never thought he'd see. Collier, maybe because of all his education, seemed to fill in the rest of the sentence even so, and his silvery eyes went molten. He slowly stood. "I will do you the courtesy, sir, of not assuming you to mean what a more vulgar man might by that."

  What? But even though Laurel looked questions at Collier, he was too busy returning her father's glare to stop and whis­per more explanations to her.

  "You," said Papa, "are either a skunk or a fool."

  "In England I might call you out for that."

  "Well, we ain't in England." Papa glared at Laurel.

  She stared helplessly back, waiting. But despite swallowing several times, her father said nothing. Finally he looked at Mama. “Talk to her."

  Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, he stalked past the lot of them, snatched his hat off the hook in the front hall, and slammed out the front screen door.

  "Oh, my," murmured Mama, wilting slowly back in her chair. "Can't one of you fall in love with a rancher?"

  Laurel decided not to say that after they married, Collier would be a rancher. She was too busy watching him get slowly angrier than she'd ever seen him.

  "I told you Papa might take it badly," she tried explaining, but he turned his glare on her. Well! Only when she glared right back did he seem to recover his more gentlemanly man­ners.

  "I—" He took a deep breath, released it, then faced her mother. "My apologies for bringing such discord into your home, Mrs. Garrison. This was not my intention."

  "I don't suppose it was." Taking her own deep breath, Mama sat up again. "So what, exactly, was your intention?"

  "To do the parents of my intended the courtesy of asking for their blessing in person."

  "Mmm-hm." Mama turned to Laurel. "How about you?"

  "Well..." Laurel looked down at her engagement ring, but unlike Papa, Mama wasn't going anywhere. "I won't say this has nothing to do with the claim," she admitted slowly. "It's all part of the future we've worked out—our cattle ranch, and ... and eventually a house, I guess."

  She looked at Collier, who said, "There's no house?"

  "There's a claim cabin," she reminded him. "But I might someday want a house."

  "Oh. Then as soon as our profits allow, absolutely," he agreed slowly. "You should have a house."

  Once he left her? But Mama was still listening.

  "And each other," Laurel added. "We 're part of it, too. Mak­ing something on our own."

  "Mmm. And what happens should Collier inherit? How happy would you be off in England as Lady Brambourne?"

  Aware of Collier watching, Laurel barely managed to keep from grimacing. "Not very happy, I guess. But we wouldn't have to live there. Not all the time. Would we?"

  Mama waited, so Laurel turned to Collier. "Would we?"

  Only then did she remember that—unless death came sud­denly to his older brother—they would no longer be married by then.

  "I am sure that we could reach a compromise," he said.

  Which relieved her all the same.

  "Seems you still have some rough spots to work through," said Mama. "A long engagement might be wise."

  "We thought to many in late October," said Collier.

  "Do couples have such short engagements in England?"

  "Ah," countered Collier. "But we are not in England. I as­sure you, our re
asons are not improper. I do not want Laurel wintering alone on the mountain any more than does her father. And I do not want to see her lose her claim."

  Mama took a sip of lemonade, then asked, "Have you ever been through a Wyoming winter, Lord Collier?"

  "No, ma'am." He smiled. "Not nearly as many as you."

  To Laurel's relief, her mother smiled. Touche."

  "Then you approve?" she asked, but Mama shook her head.

  "Not really, Laurel. I don't disapprove the way your father does, but if this is even partly about keeping the claim, I don't want to see you ruin your life for it."

  Collier blinked. "Pardon?"

  "You either, Lord Collier. You seem like a nice enough fellow." She grinned. "For a Marmaduke."

  "Mother!"

  "But you are both very young." Mama leaned closer to them, intent. "Neither of you can see the future. And yet you're ready to risk tarnishing it with regret, marrying in haste like this. How could I approve of that?"

  "But if we do marry?" asked Collier, and Mama sighed.

  "I will, of course, wish you the best that luck and love have to offer. But consider yourself forewarned."

  And she took another long sip of lemonade.

  "Will... ?" But Laurel couldn't ask her mother to tell Papa for her. If she was adult enough to marry—especially to pre­tend to marry—she was adult enough to do this. "I'll go tell Papa. About October."

  When she stood, Collier did too. "I shall go with you."

  "No. I should do this alone. But thank you." And she kissed his cheek. It was the first time, she realized then, that she'd kissed any part of him but his lips. He'd shaved very cleanly, and he smelled as wonderful as ever.

  But she had to go face her father.

  When Laurel went onto the front porch, Victoria—at the comer—pointed toward the woodshed, so that was the way Laurel went. Papa sat on a stump, sharpening a knife on a whetstone, Kitty on one side of him and Elise draped over his shoulder on the other. "Angle it right," he explained. "Keeps its edge."

  She felt a pang inside her. He hadn't shown her how to sharpen knives since she turned twelve and started riding sidesaddle. Would he draw away from his other girls the longer their skirts got? Had he already done it with Audra?