Proving Herself Page 9

  "It means us courting." Lord Collier spoke from so close that she spun and nearly fell in the creek, but he smoothly caught her arm. "And me asking for your hand in marriage."

  "Oh." Surely pretend courting would not be so terrible as the real thing, would it? She thought she would scream if she found herself trapped on another silent porch swing!

  "We needn't actually marry, when the time comes," he as­sured her. "But if we should choose to do so..."

  "The longer we've been engaged, the better," she agreed.

  "Exactly. For the sake of plausibility, we shall have to ... that is to say..."

  She felt as if her head would explode. "What?"

  "We must pretend romantic feelings toward each other."

  Oh.

  Lord Collier looked down at her, smelling of soap and sad­dle leather. Without his wearing his coat, his suspenders de­fined the angle of his chest and the width of his shoulders under a fine white shirt. And his hair lapped golden at his cheekbones, at his neck. How many women could only dream of such a man talking marriage to them, even pretend marriage? What a waste.

  Laurel's voice sounded strange to her own ears. "We could do that."

  His gaze searched hers; then he nodded, offering his arm. "Shall we start now?"

  Now? She stared at his starched white sleeve with a mix of fear and longing. But fear was something she'd never meant to live by. This was practically, she decided, a dare.

  "Now," she agreed—but offered her hand first. They shook.

  They walked back to the ranch house together.

  Chapter Eight

  Victoria Garrison caught up with Collier and Laurel before they reached the house. "You met up? Don't you know what folks will think?" She cocked her head. "Why did you meet up?"

  For some reason Laurel seemed to relax at her questions. "You're the one who's been teasing me about Lord Collier," she said.

  Collier eyed the younger girl more closely. Had she?

  "That's because it seemed so silly." Victoria cast Collier a quick glance. "No offense, your lordship."

  "None taken," he assured her. Best to start with their fiction now, after all. "It took us by surprise as well."

  Laurel looked quickly up at him. He smiled determinedly back—Remember the plan?Stricken, she nodded and looked away.

  Would these little boosts to his ego never end?

  Miss Victoria looked from him to her sister and back sev­eral times. "What took you by surprise?"

  Cole held Laurel's arm a little closer to his side, tucked under his own. "Our feelings for each other."

  He deliberately smiled down at her as if she truly were his special love. Women more worldly than she had fallen prey to that smile. Collier knew quite well that he had dimples.

  But Laurel only flushed and looked quickly away. Perhaps this was a truly terrible idea.

  That he had none better almost frightened him.

  "Did you have a good walk?" asked Mama, as Laurel settled herself on one of the porch steps. But the older woman's wandering gaze noted Lord Collier before returning to her daughter.

  Unsure how she could lie to her mother, Laurel just nod­ded. It had been a good walk, more or less. Now she had some hope.

  That was what she had to remember the hope of keeping her ranch. Maybe, against the threat of her marrying up with an Englisher, Papa would be glad to let her winter alone.

  She doubted it.

  Later, when the sisters clustered together to bid Mariah good-bye for the day, Audra asked, "Is Lord Collier really sweet on you, Laurel? He looked at you like he was sweet."

  "I've suspected it for weeks now," insisted Vic firmly.

  After a quick hug, Mariah fixed Laurel with a teasing look and said, "Well, he certainly is ornamental."

  "May God go with him," murmured MacCallum fervently, muscles bulging as he lifted his wife into their buckboard.

  AH of which felt embarrassing enough. But when Laurel saw Collier drawing her father aside, clearly requesting a pri­vate word, that was when she panicked. Nobody could lie well to her father... except maybe Victoria.

  She took several horrified steps in that direction, as if drawn against her will. Papa would see their lie, and then what?

  But as she got closer, Collier's words somehow sounded honest even to her.

  "I assure you that neither of us intended this. As soon as

  we suspected our regard, we determined to ask your permis­sion."

  Papa stood silent as ever, but Laurel thought she detected a hint of emotion under the shadow of his hat. What surprised her was that the emotion was amusement. He doesn 't believe it either!

  Should she feel relieved or indignant?

  "Permission," Papa echoed, challenging the word.

  "We," said Collier. "That is, /, would like your permission to pay court to your daughter Laurel."

  Papa noticed Laurel even before Collier did, and studied her steadily before scowling back at the Englishman. "To what end?"

  Looking over his shoulder, Collier saw Laurel and reached for her. Reluctantly she went to his side and put her hand in his. He'd taken off his gloves, and his palm felt warm, steady.

  "Should your daughter prove willing," he said, "then to­ward the only respectable end of any such attachment."

  Papa folded his arms and shifted his weight, looking from one of them to the other with suspicion. Their joined hands, in particular, seemed to hold his attention. He wasn't as sur­prised by the request, Laurel realized, as by her going along with it.

  "I would consider it an honor," insisted Collier, looking at her as if she were, indeed, special. "Sweet Lorelei."

  She said, "What?"

  "A Lorelei is an enchantress who bewitches sailors with her song." Collier smiled as if he found her reaction more charming than annoying—although a glint to his eyes said differently.

  "Bewitches 'em to their deaths," added Papa, surprising them both. "If I recall rightly."

  To their deaths? Laurel stood straighter. "Really?"

  "Ah," said Collier, somewhat flustered. "I forgot you've a German background, Mr. Garrison."

  "You're comparing me to some witch who sings folks to their deaths?" Almost too late, Laurel remembered their charade. Could the Laurel she was pretending to be have found that romantic?

  Collier squeezed her hand a little too tightly. "The sailors under her spell no longer care for their own safety, Miss Gar­rison. It is that part of the legend to which I refer. If you were to deny me this chance to prove myself..."

  "You'd die?" No, she couldn't find romance in that.

  He narrowed his silvery eyes, urging her to play along. "Per­haps not. But I might feel as if I had."

  The longer he held her gaze, the more she did like that he could create such a fancy for her, silly or not. "Oh."

  Papa cleared his throat, startling them. His amusement had darkened to something more intense. "You want this Englisher to call on you, Laurel Lee?"

  This was the moment of truth, the point where he would guess all. And yet, smelling Cole's clean scent of soap and leather and shirt starch, with his hand warm around hers, the words came easier than she'd feared. "I... I think so," she admitted, as if it really were the truth. "I'd at least like to find out."

  Collier squeezed her hand in approval.

  Papa did not look happy. "And if it takes?"

  "Excuse me?" asked Collier.

  "He means, if we do want to... if we decide we're well matched," she explained. "What then?"

  Papa scowled at him. "You employed?"

  "One definition of a gentleman," Collier offered, "is a man who need not work for a living. I receive a quarterly allow­ance from my inheritance."

  "A remittance," clarified Papa in disgust.

  Collier stiffened, but conceded, "If you wish."

  Papa shook his head, as if he'd seen everything now.

  Unwilling to let Collier make all the effort, Laurel said, "You always did want me to be a lady,
Papa."

  Her father looked as if he might just argue with her, then shook his head and simply turned to leave.

  "Mr. Garrison," prompted Collier, surprising her with his grit. "I would have your answer, if I may."

  So Papa pivoted back to face them, brow low, mouth set. Laurel found herself holding her breath as tightly as she was holding Collier's hand.

  "You two got enough rope to hang yerselves, anyhow," he offered, then stalked off to talk to Laurel's mother.

  Laurel stood very still. They'd done it. The very hardest part of the charade, and they—Collier, really—had done it!

  "Enough rope to hang ourselves?" he echoed, uncertain.

  "That means yes. He thinks we'll come to our senses faster by keeping company than staying apart—but it's a yes!"

  "Ah." And he took a particularly deep breath, as if he'd felt less confidence than he'd shown. "Good show, then."

  Pleased, she elbowed him lightly in the ribs. "Lorelei?"

  "You may well be leading me to my doom," he explained.

  She laughed. Collier cocked his head at her, his hair mol­ten in the late-afternoon sunlight, his eyes somehow golden too.

  "Permission to call on you is hardly permission to marry," he reminded her, as if afraid she would become over­confident.

  She shook her head. "Stuart didn't even get this far."

  "Then congratulations." But Collier had to add, "Lorelei."

  "And you," she returned. "Cole."

  They studied each other somewhat warily, then returned to join the party as an actual courting couple.

  "She's a Yank," insisted Nigel Graham, the third son of Lord Hunstanton. The four Englishmen had gathered at the bar as a fitting end to a splendid—if bastardized—game of polo. They had half the necessary players, and but for Collier's thor­oughbred the horses had no real training. But they'd enjoyed themselves, even so.

  Unfortunately they were now enjoying themselves at Col­lier's expense. "Really, Pembroke. What good could possibly come of wooing an American?"

  "Perhaps marriage," suggested Collier, to try the idea out.

  From the nearly identical stares of his countrymen, the idea fared poorly.

  "You don't mean to stay here forever, do you?" demanded Taylor Worthing, second son to the Baronet of Carlisle.

  "Not forever," agreed Collier.

  "Then think of what an embarrassment she'd be in Lon­don!"

  Luckily he had no intentions of finding out—although he could not tell them that.

  John Baines yawned. "Please." He was in fact heir to a duchy, but had incited his own exile through his enjoyment of drink, gambling, racing, and a married countess. "I thought you had something to prove to your old man. Marrying a Yank will hardly show you in a better light. Or..." His eyes gleamed behind a pair of wire spectacles. "Or are you not planning to marry her at all? Is this merely a way to get to know the girl better?"

  "Now that would be the ticket," agreed Nigel.

  Accepting his drink from the scowling bartender, Collier wondered if he truly belonged with his fellow countrymen— at least these examples, here and now. They made for sym­pathetic companionship, a chance to hear the Queen's En­glish spoken correctly, and a good game of polo or cricket or tennis.

  But they also represented much of why neither the English nor the Americans particularly respected remittance men. Worthing and Baines were blighters, full through, and Gra­ham seemed intent on learning to be. If he were being pun­ished by exile, why not commit the crime?

  Collier sometimes felt that way himself. But he had a plan.

  "My only intentions," he insisted, low, "are marriage."

  "Drinks on me," called Baines loudly. "My allowance came in, and I insist. Here's to mixed marriages!"

  Other men in the bar made agreeable noises, and why not? Americans liked free drinks, even if they did not always like the men who bought them.

  Collier covered his shot glass with his hand when the bar­tender came by. It wasn't evening yet. Thank you, no."

  Baines and Worthing rolled their eyes at each other.

  "You," said the bartender, surprising all four by speaking directly to them. These parts, we don't discuss respectable ladies in drinking establishments, savvy?"

  "Ah," said Collier. Thank you for the advice."

  The redheaded bartender held his gaze suspiciously, then continued to pour drinks for his suddenly thirsty clientele.

  The other three gentlemen stared at him.

  "When in Rome," reminded Collier, and finished his drink.

  "I've a splendid idea," said Baines, brightening. "Let's the four of us head to the third floor to celebrate Pembroke's new love in a more fitting way. My treat."

  The better prostitutes in town did business on the third floor.

  Before he'd realized his own intentions, Collier had the man's lapel in one hand and his forearm across Baines's throat as he lifted him smoothly back onto the long, shiny, imported-from-England bar.

  "I do not imagine," he warned, "that one should discuss a respectable lady in that context, either." He smiled. "Savvy?"

  Worthing and Graham pulled him away quickly enough. And when Baines brushed himself meticulously off, glaring at Collier, they hovered nearer him. Baines was, after all, a true heir. As soon as his father died he could return to En­gland—no matter how bad his behavior, damn him.

  "Do not forget where you are from, Pembroke," he warned. "Or just how little this godforsaken place truly counts." Then he stalked off, toward the elevator, his lackeys in his wake.

  What the hell am I doing? wondered Collier, staring at his hand. He'd come to fisticuffs before, true, but he'd been drunk.

  He did know how little Wyoming counted. He'd not for­gotten that this was hell.

  He just didn't know to what level he'd now descended.

  "Your remittance man's runnin' late," noted Papa, stepping onto the porch. With her little sister Kitty, Laurel sat on the ranch house steps in another pretty dress... and cowboy boots. She still disliked courting. It meant time spent away from the very homestead she meant to save.

  And now Papa was going to ride her about Collier.

  "I don't think he likes being called a remittance man."

  Papa snorted again. "Lives off remittances." But he didn't look quite so threatening without his hat.

  "I think it means something worse in England," she said.

  "Ain't no compliment here."

  Kitty shifted beside Laurel. "Why does courting make peo­ple so unhappy?"

  "What?" demanded Laurel, and even Papa pushed away from the wall to squint at his second-youngest daughter.

  "Last year when Mariah took up with Stuart, everyone got angry," she insisted, pushing her spectacles up more securely on her little nose. "And now you and Papa—"

  Laurel looped an arm around her skinny sister and gave her a hug. "Don't be silly, Kitty-kat. Papa and I always fight."

  Now Papa squinted at her.

  "We do so!" she insisted. "Ask Mama."

  "Ask me what?" Mama stepped out the open door onto the porch, wiping her hands on her apron.

  "Thinks we fight," explained Papa, looking somehow sulky.

  Mama blinked. "You and me?"

  He inclined his head toward Laurel.

  "Oh." Mama slipped her arm comfortingly around Papa's waist, leaning into his side. "She's right, Jacob. You two fight like cats and dogs. It doesn't mean you don't love each other."

  Papa squinted at her. Mama wrinkled her nose at him.

  Kitty bounced and pointed. "Look! Here he comes!"

  At least, they assumed the one-horse buggy that topped the rise was being driven by Collier. When it stopped, then started again in a lurch, Laurel covered a laugh with her hand. "I do believe you're right, Kitty."

  Even Papa began to grin. "Ain't never drove his own horse before," he guessed, maybe because Collier was English.

  "Or someone gave him a bad horse," added Mama, trying to hold back her ow
n smile. That seemed much more likely. Laurel stood to better see. "Oh. Poor Collier." Not only was the horse stopping and starting on its own, it also kept trying to stray off the track into nearby pastures. Each time the driver got it going in the right direction, it found a new way to disobey him.

  The occasional side view confirmed that this was Uncle Benj's phaeton. Laurel cocked her head, making out the bald face on what looked to be a sorrel—and understood. "It's Firefly!''

  Papa clarified everything in one disgusted word: "Cooper."

  Not that he likely minded seeing Collier embarrassed by an unruly two-year old colt. But he'd likely object to Uncle Benj subjecting a two-year old colt, barely harness-broken, to Collier.

  "Ooooh," said Mama. "Now that's just mean." Laurel bit her lip, trying to will Firefly to pull steady. She knew Collier was good on horseback... but how would she convince people she'd marry a man who couldn't drive a buggy?

  Then Kitty said, "He sure must want to see you." Suddenly Laurel saw the situation from a different direc­tion.

  One did not ride a carriage horse—certainly not while it was pulling! That was the only thing that kept Collier from leaping onto the demon beast's back, instead of struggling from the phaeton. No matter how the untrained sorrel exasperated him, neither would he risk ruining its potential by using the whip or sawing the reins. He considered simply leaping to safety past the vehicle's oversize wheels and letting someone else deal with horse and buggy both. A hike back to town, even in the August heat, seemed preferable to continuing this madness all afternoon!

  But he was to see Laurel this afternoon. The facade of courting gave them perfect opportunities to deliberate their business arrangement. He would buy cattle as a wedding gift. She would sit for a wedding portrait to send to his family.

  But Collier's disagreement with the heir to Bracknell brought up one particular topic they had not yet discussed, one that definitely required privacy.

  Two to three years was a very long time to require celibacy of a healthy young Englishman, after all!

  So he braved the track to the Circle-T, and the vexation of this animal, long enough to reach the two-story white farm­house.

  "I may be a moment helping you—" To his surprised relief, Laurel leaped into the phaeton's box with a flash of petticoats and boots before the horse even saw her coming.