Secret Hearts Page 12

  Chapter 8

  Tom had never been attracted to proper females. He was at a loss, therefore, to understand why Claire Montague appealed to him so much. Maybe it was because he sensed something hidden in her; something that, if he could tap it, would make her blossom. Even though she’d never given him so much as a hint, he had a feeling she wasn’t as prim as she wanted the world to believe.

  She’d sure got mad at him yesterday. And she’d been really peeved when he’d told her he liked Ouida’s novels, too. He grinned as he looked out over the meadow now being fenced for horse pastures. Shoot, any woman with a temper and a taste for those idiotic dime novels must harbor passion in her soul somewhere.

  Hearing footsteps, Tom turned to discover Jedediah Silver loping up the grassy slope toward him. He lifted his hand in salute. “Morning, Jed.”

  “Good morning, Tom. These plans for the paddocks and barns were just delivered from the carpenter’s shop.” He waved a roll of papers in Tom’s face.

  “Great. Let’s look ‘em over.”

  “Do you want to discuss these with Miss Montague? She’ll probably have some useful input on the size and placement of the feed storage areas, accesses and so forth.”

  “Good idea, Jed. I’d like to keep her informed of my plans, anyway, and let her know when the work will begin. Maybe she’ll even agree to help me word a letter to the breeder. She seems to be so sensible about things. And she’s apparently quite fond of the written word.”

  Jedediah gave Tom an approving grin. “I’m glad you think so. Your uncle thought the world of her and it’s been my experience that, while she is only a woman, her advice is invariably well-considered and helpful.”

  “I’ve noticed that, too.”

  Which completely contradicted everything Tom knew about women. His own mother had been even less useful than his father. He expected Dianthe St. Sauvre, to whom Jedediah seemed to have taken quite a shine, was cut of the same cloth as his mother. Most of the females he’d known in his life were like that, in fact, except a couple of the scarlet women who’d followed the railroad, and he didn’t think they counted.

  In his experience, respectable women were decorative and totally useless on a practical level—well, unless you married one of them. Even then they were good for only one thing that Tom could think of, and marriage carried burdens he didn’t care to contemplate at the moment. Those burdens more than outweighed the brief pleasures the marriage bed assured a man. Actually, from what he’d heard from his married cronies, those pleasures weren’t even assured by marriage.

  No. Until he’d met Claire Montague, respectable women had held no allure at all. He supposed most proper females’ relative helplessness had more to do with the world’s expectations of them than from anything Nature had intended, but it didn’t make much difference. The result was the same.

  As he scuffed along beside Jedediah, eyeing his new kingdom with satisfaction, Tom decided it was undoubtedly his odd lifestyle that made him appreciate useful people so much. Anybody who wasn’t proficient in Tom’s line of work didn’t stay alive very long. If the elements didn’t get you, the Indians or outlaws would. Male or female, old or young, if you weren’t alert and capable, you were coyote fodder in short order.

  But Claire Montague. Well, Claire was another matter entirely. She was alert, capable, and cute as a button when she wasn’t watching herself. It was fun catching her off-guard.

  “What’s so funny, Tom?”

  Tom hadn’t realized he’d started grinning. “Oh, nothing, Jed. Nothing at all.”

  # # #

  His heart swelling with admiration, Tuscaloosa Tom declared, “Then come with me, Miss Faithgood. I shall lead you to safety.”

  Actually, Claire reflected sourly, his heart had probably swelled with relief when she didn’t seem to be opening up to shriek again.

  Admonishing herself not allow circumstances to make her bitter, Claire continued.

  Miss Abigail Faithgood took the hand Tom held out. A thrill shot through her at his touch. She swore she would be strong. These villains would not wrest her ranch away from her and make her give up her sheep. She owed it to her beloved father’s sainted memory [here Claire allowed herself a brief snort] not to waver in pursuit of her goal. With Tom Pardee on her side, how could she fail?

  The canyon echoed with hoof beats as Miss Abigail Faithgood and the gallant Tuscaloosa Tom Pardee rode away from the scene of their ambush. Tom’s golden hair shimmered in the sunlight. His posture was straight, his eye keen, and his—his—his—

  Patting one of her braids in thought, Claire chewed the end of her pen and scowled at the page. She’d been scowling, in fact, since she’d arisen this morning.

  Somehow or other, she had to ensure that Jedediah Silver didn’t write to her publisher. But how?

  She commanded herself to stop thinking about that awful problem and to concentrate on one disaster at a time. Right now, she had to wrench the idiot Abigail’s sheep ranch back from the evil men who were trying to snatch it away from her.

  . . . his very bearing proclaiming him a hero.

  Claire paused to consider if one’s bearing could do such a thing. Had Tom Partington’s bearing proclaimed him a hero when she’d seen him standing at the foot of the stairs on the night of his arrival?

  Yes. She remembered it well. In fact, she remembered everything about that fateful night. She stared dreamily out the window at her winter-bare garden, recalling the momentous occasion of Tom’s arrival into her life. He’d certainly lived up to her expectations.

  Heavy footsteps in the hallway outside her office jerked her to attention. In a flurry, she stuffed her manuscript into her desk drawer and slammed it shut. Leaping to her feet, she patted her coils madly as the door swung open after a short tap.

  The sight of Claire Montague nervously whacking at her rattlesnakes made a warm, slushy emotion puddle up in Tom’s innards. He certainly couldn’t have told anybody, least of all himself, why that should be. He’d always thought he favored shorter, more voluptuous, more overtly feminine females—Dianthe St. Sauvre, for example.

  But Dianthe made him yawn. Even the thought of her in his bed didn’t do much more than faintly titillate. But Claire—well, he sensed depths to Claire that he’d like to tap. In fact, if he had to choose between Claire and Dianthe, there would be no contest. He’d snap Claire up in an instant.

  Fortunately for him, there was no reason to make such a choice. He couldn’t think of any reason Claire shouldn’t wish to stay on indefinitely as his housekeeper. That would keep her close at hand without entangling him in any kind of commitment.

  Dianthe he could admire from a distance. As long as she didn’t open her mouth, she was quite lovely. And he was sure to find a willing widow or a scarlet lady to take care of his more earthy needs once he knew his way around Pyrite Springs. That should keep him from fretting about Claire’s untapped depths.

  Life, in short, was grand. It was even grander after he and Jedediah had consulted with Claire about his paddocks, stables, barns and pastures. With every contact, his admiration for Claire grew.

  # # #

  “Miss Montague, I can’t tell you how glad I am that you finally decided to come in and let me have at this hair of yours.”

  Claire wasn’t sure she appreciated Miss Thelma’s choice of phrasing, happy as she was to have brought pleasure into her life. She deemed a small smile the most appropriate answer under the circumstances, since the scissors Miss Thelma wielded were perilously close to her ear.

  “You have beautiful hair, Miss Montague. Simply beautiful. Why, Mrs. Humphrey Albright would kill for hair like yours.”

  As she gazed into the looking class in front of her, Claire saw her own eyes open wide even though she’d had to remove her spectacles. Mrs. Humphrey Albright? Good heavens. Mrs. Humphrey Albright was one of Pyrite Springs’s leading citizens.

  She allowed herself a brief, “Really?”

  “My, yes. I always have to sup
plement Mrs. Albright’s hair with false pieces, you know. You didn’t really think all that hair was hers, did you?”

  Miss Thelma giggled, causing Claire to catch her breath in trepidation. Apparently the hairdresser knew what she was doing, however, because Miss Thelma’s hand never trembled and Claire’s skin remained unbroken.

  “I had no idea.”

  “Oh, my goodness, yes. But you! Why, I’ll be able to do a Roman knot with this magnificent chestnut mane of yours with no trouble at all, and we’ll have plenty left over for curls in front.”

  “I don’t wish to appear frivolous, now,” Claire cautioned for about the fifteenth time since she’d set foot in Miss Thelma’s establishment at one o’clock that afternoon.

  “My dear Miss Montague, I don’t believe you could look frivolous if you tried.”

  “No,” Claire agreed after a moment, not altogether happily. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “But you’ll look perfectly charming, my dear. Just you wait.”

  Repressing her impulse to ask what Miss Thelma expected her to do besides wait, Claire again produced a smile.

  “How does the gown look, dear? Were the alterations done to your satisfaction?”

  Claire’s nervousness about having her hair cut for the first time in ten years was overcome by her nervousness about appearing in her new evening gown at Tom Partington’s Artistic Evening. It was the first gown of its nature Claire had put on her body since she’d deserted her father’s medicine show, and it frightened her.

  There was nothing intrinsically shocking about the dress; it was quite tasteful. But it was so different from what she usually wore. A deep golden yellow that went splendidly with Claire’s complexion and hair color, the gown had short puff sleeves embellished with russet velvet ribbons. The bodice sported a triangular insert of the same russet velvet, and the skirt’s ruffled flounces were drawn back and tied with more of the ribbon and adorned with silk roses.

  “I love the gown,” Claire said truthfully. “But it’s . . . it’s so different from the kinds of things I usually wear.”

  “It certainly is.”

  Claire was almost certain Miss Thelma would love to enlarge upon the theme, but was too tactful to do so.

  “I think it looks quite good, considering I’m rather tall and—and—”

  “You’re regally slim, dear,” Miss Thelma suggested tactfully.

  “Er, yes. And I’m sure it will look even better now that my hair will be done in a more . . . more appropriate style. To the gown, I mean.”

  “Of course, dearie.”

  Claire had tried her new dress on every evening since it was delivered. And she’d stared at her reflection in the mirror and imagined herself on Tom Partington’s arm, greeting guests to their very first Artistic Evening together. Invariably, too, she’d lectured herself on the stupidity of spinning daydreams, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

  Tom Partington really was the man of her dreams. And to discover that his nature was every bit as sensible as her own had been frosting on the cake, as it were. There didn’t seem to be a purposeless bone in the man’s body, and Claire approved. She’d had her fill of worthless charmers long since.

  “You know, Miss Montague, Mrs. Pringle tried on that same gown earlier in the week.”

  “She did?” Priscilla Pringle, a wealthy widow, was as close to an object of gossip as Pyrite Springs boasted. A supporter of the arts, she was frivolous and charming and flirted outrageously with all the men in town. She would also be coming to Partington Place this evening.

  A ghastly thought struck Claire. “She didn’t buy one like it, did she?” That’s all she needed, was to have the merry widow show up at the Artistic Evening in the identical gown Claire wore. Mrs. Pringle, with her dashing red hair and coy manner, would make Claire look ridiculous if they both wore the same ensemble.

  “Good heavens, no. It washed her out completely. Made her look like a sack of onions.”

  “Onions?”

  “Oh, you know. All sallow and pasty. No, that gown needed you, Miss Montague. And I’m so happy you found one another.”

  Miss Thelma giggled again at her wit. Claire gave the jest the small smile she felt it deserved. Then, taking her courage in both hands, she blurted out, “Perhaps you can help me augment my wardrobe further, Miss Grimsby. I’ve decided to—to add a little color to my life.” Exactly as Tom Partington told her she should do. She wondered if she was being a perfect fool.

  No. Nobody in this world was perfect. Except Dianthe St. Sauvre.

  “Oh, Miss Montague! I’m so happy to hear you say that. Why, I used to watch you walk past my shop several times a week and just long to get my hands on you.”

  Miss Thelma’s words did not make Claire’s heart sing. She did manage to murmur another, “Really.”

  “Oh, yes! Why, we can fix you right up. We have a lovely selection of demure gowns, skirts, and shirtwaists. Any of them would be suitable to your profession without being dowdy. Why, Mrs. Humphrey Albright and I were discussing you just the other day and we agreed that all you need is a little fixing up to be very attractive. You’ll see.”

  Even without her spectacles, Claire could see Miss Thelma beaming at her and returned her smile because she knew Miss Thelma’s heart was in the right place, even if her foot seemed to be lodged rather securely in her mouth. She asked tightly, “You were discussing me with Mrs. Albright?”

  “In nothing but the highest terms, I assure you, Miss Montague. Mrs. Albright agreed with me, too. We both think you’ll be one of the elegant ones.”

  “One of the elegant ones,” Claire repeated faintly.

  “Mercy, yes. You see, we think there are five types of females. Of course, there are the vulgar ones, and we shouldn’t even speak of them.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then there are the fairy princesses, like your friend Miss Dianthe St. Sauvre.”

  “Do you do Dianthe’s hair?” Claire had never even wondered before.

  “Yes, indeed. Then there are the flighty ones, like Mrs. Pringle.”

  “I see.”

  “But you and Mrs. Albright are elegant. Or will be when you fix yourself up.”

  Claire didn’t appreciate all this talk about “fixing herself up,” as though there was something wrong with her that needed improvement. Nor was she altogether sure she liked being lumped together with the stout, stately Mrs. Albright. She did, however, mutter a grudging, “Thank you.”

  “You’re perfectly welcome, my dear.”

  Miss Thelma clipped and snipped in silence for a minute or two. At last Claire asked, “What’s the fifth one?”

  “Beg pardon, dearie?”

  “What’s the fifth type of female you and Mrs. Albright classified?”

  “Oh.” Claire saw a faint tint stain the cheeks of the amorphous blob that was Miss Thelma’s reflection in the looking glass. “Well, we—ah—we—oh, dear, I don’t seem to remember right now.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “I do?” Miss Thelma’s twitter seemed forced.

  “The fifth type was unfashionable, wasn’t it, Miss Grimsby? Or, perhaps, dreary. And I suppose I fit nicely into that category, don’t I?”

  “Well—”

  “That’s all right, Miss Grimsby. I’m not angry.” Or not very angry, anyway. Claire supposed Miss Thelma’s assessment was no more than she deserved for having striven so hard to conceal her venal roots. Perhaps she needn’t have tried so hard.

  This evening should tell the story. This evening, she would see once and for all if her new persona, carefully crafted over the past ten years, could withstand a little gilding without shattering completely.

  Claire could scarcely recall a time in her life when she’d been so anxious.

  Chapter 9

  The stain on Claire’s cheeks owed nothing to the rouge pot. Her blush attached itself to her all by itself as soon as she entered the parlor before dinner and Tom, seeing her, dropped his cher
oot onto the Persian carpet. Jedediah Silver stared, too.

  “My God.”

  The duet of awed masculine voices checked Claire at the door. Clutching the doorknob in a death grip, she looked anxiously from man to man, trying to read the significance of their expressions.

  Actually, she didn’t much care what Jedediah’s expression signified.

  Tom’s mouth shut with a clack and he swept his cigar off the floor before the rug could catch fire. Thrusting the cheroot into an ashtray, he almost tripped over the velvet ottoman in his haste to reach Claire’s side. He snatched her hand away from the doorknob and said breathlessly, “Miss Montague, you look wonderful this evening. You look—you look elegant. Grand. Superb.”

  Cheeks afire, Claire murmured, “Thank you, Mr. Partington.” Silently, she gave Miss Thelma her due. Miss Thelma had said Claire was one of the elegant ones; Claire guessed she was right. Thank God.

  After a moment, during which he looked as though he’d been turned to stone, Jedediah rushed up to her, too. He grabbed her other hand and pressed it. “Miss Montague, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in formal attire before. You’re stunning this evening. Absolutely stunning.”

  Elegant. Superb. Stunning. Claire guessed she could stand such descriptions. When Jedediah released her hand, she forced herself not to scramble for the overstuffed armchair and cover herself with the Chinese cushion resting there, but to walk in an august manner to the chair and sit gracefully. Of course, it helped that Tom held her elbow the whole way. She was glad she’d remembered to air out her long gloves; they’d smelled dreadfully of camphor when she’d unpacked them earlier in the week.

  Tom sounded hoarse when he croaked, “Your hair, Miss Montague. I believe you’ve had your hair done in a different style.”

  Peeking up at him, Claire thought he looked a little dazzled. “Do you recognize it as one your Aunt Minnie used to favor, Mr. Partington?”