Miss Phipps and the Cattle Baron (14 page)

Adam shoved his hat on his head. "And you can
bloody well keep Trudy out of this. She doesn't need her head
filled with a lot of women's suffrage nonsense!" He turned abruptly
and left, slamming the door behind.

And all Priscilla could think to do was to
slip off her shoe and throw it at the door. It landed with a thud
on the floor. But as she hobbled over to retrieve it, an idea began
to take form.

Little scandal sheet indeed!

***

From his place at the head of the long table,
Adam glanced over at Priscilla, sitting demurely in a fashionable
gown that revealed more cleavage than he would have expected from
her. Although décolleté gowns were the fashion, he had not expected
her to wear one, even to the theater where women would be in
competition as to who could display the most bosom without being
arrested for indecent exposure. His eyes dropped to the swell of
Priscilla's beautifully-rounded breasts where the gown dipped
dangerously low, and he imagined the perfect pink nipples he'd
feasted his lips onto, while in the buggy. With each of Priscilla's
breaths, as he stared at her now, those perfect pink nipples came
dangerously close to rising into view. And all he could think was
that tonight was to have been their night. Those creamy white
breasts, and the rest of her beautiful body, were to be his to hold
and caress and do with what he pleased.

He'd bought theater tickets for the entire
family and given the servants the night off with money for an
evening out, except for his manservant, Aubrey, who was to remain
long enough to prepare his bed with fresh linens, fill the bathtub
with warm water, and have a fire on the hearth in the bedroom
before leaving. After the deflowering, when Priscilla would be
languid and satiated and relaxed in his arms, he'd proceed again,
slower that time, while instructing her in the finer art of
lovemaking, though he was certain that before long, she'd be
teaching him things.

She was unlike any woman he'd ever known.

Then all his plans went awry...

When Priscilla arrived at the house, after
their heated confrontation, she was approached by his mother before
he could take Priscilla aside and try to mend things, in
preparation for their evening together. While he stood waiting for
whatever his mother was about, his mother asked Priscilla if she'd
like to join them at the theater, and Priscilla answered so
quickly, he knew she had no intention of carrying through with
their plans, and instead, wanted to be away from him. Away from
their night of sensual pleasure, and possibly the only chance
they'd have.

Which was probably for the best.

They were on opposite sides of a very
important issue, and she was a strong-willed woman on a mission
that could effectively shut down his campaign. That thought alone
could hamper his ability to perform sexually—something that had
never happened to him. And he didn't wish to suffer the humiliation
of being unable to function in bed. But then, he'd never been faced
with bedding a woman as direct as Priscilla, a virgin no less, who
insisted that if it was to be her first and last experience, he
must make it worth her while. That alone could put a damper on his
ability to carry out the deflowering. It sure as hell was doing it
now. That part of him was as limp and listless as an old
man's...

"Adam?" Lady Whittington said, drawing him
away from the alarming notion that he might have lost his virility,
"are you certain you will not join us tonight?
A Midsummer
Night's Dream
is a very entertaining play, and you so rarely
come with us. And I know Priscilla would enjoy your company." She
smiled at Priscilla, which disturbed Adam.

Ever since his mother consulted
Burke's
Peerage
and found a link between Priscilla and the Tudors,
she'd seemed intent on playing matchmaker. She'd spread the word of
her discovery among her circle of friends, who now viewed Priscilla
as royalty.

He looked at Priscilla, who held his gaze
unblinking, her face impassive. But beautiful, he realized.
Queenly. Posture erect, flawless freckled skin lightly powdered,
hair swept up with curls framing her oval face, slender white neck
inviting his lips. And her eyes, large and luminous in the light
from the candelabras, were fixed on him. She was like an ugly
duckling turning into a beautiful swan. Then her full lips parted
and her tongue came out to dampen them, leaving them moist and
inviting...

And what lay limp and listless below his belt
moments before was coming to life so quickly, he had to covertly
tug at his crotch to accommodate the change. He found himself again
feasting his eyes on the high round mounds forming her deep
cleavage. "Yes, I suppose I could join you at the theater," he
found himself saying. He shifted his gaze upward and focused on a
pair of lips that now held a Mona Lisa smile.

Hellfire and damnation!
The woman was
a curse. She'd bewitched him. It was the gown. She wore it to
seduce him then agreed to go to the theater to make sure he
couldn't act on it. And now, for some reason he couldn't hope to
understand, she'd won their standoff. He was following her to the
theater, the urge to bed her foremost on his mind. And she was
toying with him like a cat toyed with a mouse, which was evident
when she lifted her goblet to her lips, took a slow sip of wine
while peering at him over the rim, then ran the tip of her tongue
in a circle over her lips... slowly... seductively... drawing his
attention to her mouth, and the promise of what
that
held.

Shoving his chair back, he stood and said, "I
have to change for the theater." He hoped the bulge in his trousers
wasn't noticeable. But he saw Priscilla's gaze drop and hold, and
when she tipped her glass in a silent toast, it was all he could do
to keep from grabbing her arm and hauling her to the nearest
bedroom. Then, on the other hand, maybe he would not take her
virginity. Maybe he'd let her stay in her candy shop, frustrated
and untouched.

But that was his quandary. There would be
others ready to open up the jars so she could taste the candy. And
he wanted to be the only one to do that. It was a hell of a
dilemma.

***

They rode to the Opera House in an elegant
black town coach pulled by a team of four blacks with patent
leather collars and silver rosettes on their face pieces. The
footman and coachman were smartly dressed in dark blue greatcoats
with rows of shiny brass buttons, and matching trousers tucked into
high black boots, and top hats perched on their heads. As the
audience poured into the opera house, each lady received a perfumed
silk, blue and white program. They ascended the grand stairway and
made their way to Adam's private box, which looked down on the
crowd below.

Lady Whittington insisted on the end seat,
placing Priscilla beside her and next to Adam, and during the play
it raised havoc with Adam's libido. Every time Priscilla laughed at
the antics of the performers, the swells of her breasts jiggled and
quaked and moved in concert with her laughter, constantly drawing
his attention to them. And when the lights came on at intermission,
and he still found himself staring, Priscilla toyed with the cameo
hanging in the concave above her cleavage, as she said, "You seem
interested in my cameo. I presume that's what you were staring at.
My mother gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. If you look at it
closely, you'll see that it's a likeness of Queen Elizabeth."

Adam lifted the cameo and held it between his
thumb and index finger, the heel of his hand resting against the
swell of Priscilla's soft, warm breast. "I suppose it does," he
said, fighting the urge to place a kiss where his hand lay. Had
they been alone he would have, though he had no idea how she'd
receive him at this point. She seemed intent on putting him through
some kind of hell for breaking up her meeting and attacking the
dignity of her paper. But that was a matter separate from his
bedding her, though she might have already decided he would not be
the man to whom she would give up her virginity, a thought that
troubled him deeply...

"There's an inscription on the back," she
said, inviting him to turn the cameo over.

He allowed his fingers to trail over her
bosom as he did, and her breath quickened. As he read the
inscription, the rise and fall of her chest increased, bringing her
breasts pressing against the heel of his hand with each breath.
"It's difficult to see," he said, wanting a reason to keep his hand
against her soft, warm flesh.

"Then look closer," Priscilla said,
straightening her back while thrusting out her chest to accommodate
him. "The inscription is small. You'll have to look very
close."

Adam inclined his head over the cameo and
caught a glimpse of a pink nipple winking at him each time
Priscilla's chest contracted with her deep breaths. "What are you
trying to do, Priscilla?" he said in a hushed voice, so his mother
wouldn't hear.

"I have no idea what you're talking about,"
Priscilla replied.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about,"
Adam said, keeping his voice low. "You lured me here wearing a gown
displaying breasts I'd been expecting to hold and kiss in the
privacy of my bedroom suite. I doubt we'll get another chance to
carry out our plan."

"Might I remind you that that was
your
plan," Priscilla said, in a hoarse whisper. "You bought the tickets
and planned the evening,
then
informed me of what you'd
done."

"I was trying to facilitate your desire to
give up your virginity," Adam groused.

"How very accommodating of you."

"Adam?!"
His mother's voice startled
him. "What are you doing?"

"He's trying to read the inscription on my
cameo," Priscilla said. "My mother gave it to me on my sixteenth
birthday and had it inscribed with
'to Bess from Mother.'
Like I told Adam, the cameo is a likeness of the queen."

Adam released the cameo and knotted his fist
against his knee. Damn the woman. Damn her teasing. And damn what
was taking place below his belt. Why he agreed to go through this
torture was still a mystery to him.

"Then your mother must have been certain you
were descended from the Tudors," Lady Whittington said, fingers
laced in delight...

"Edwina!"
Lady Bertha Ashbury, the hub
of Cheyenne's British society, bent down and gave Adam's mother an
air kiss, then looked at Priscilla, and said, "And you must be Miss
Phipps. Edwina... Lady Whittington, has told us so much about you.
It must be thrilling to be a direct descendant of several kings, as
well as a cousin of Queen Elizabeth."

"Well actually," Priscilla said, "it has not
been estab—"

"Priscilla, dear," Lady Whittington cut in,
"show Lady Ashbury your cameo." Lady Whittington turned to Lady
Ashbury. "It's a likeness of the queen. Miss Phipps was just
showing it to Adam. The inscription on the back reads,
'to Bess
from Mother.'
Everyone called Miss Phipps Bess when she was
growing up. Isn't that lovely?"

Lady Ashbury leaned around Lady Whittington
and eyed the cameo. "Oh, but it is lovely," she said. "You really
must come to one of our Garden Club teas. I would be honored to
have you as my personal guest."

Lady Whittington gave Lady Ashbury a sharp
look. "Miss Phipps... Priscilla," she amended, "has already agreed
to come as my guest. But we three can share a table," she said,
magnanimously.

Lady Ashbury's pursed lips relaxed, and she
said, "I look forward to that." She raised her opera glasses to her
eyes. While scanning the crowd milling in the aisles below the
boxes, she gave a muffled, "Harrumph!"

"I know what you're thinking, Bertie," Lady
Whittington said. "Nesters have taken over the place. They are a
tawdry bunch, and they're allowed to buy tickets just as we are.
Thankfully we have the boxes taken up, for now."

Priscilla looked at the women, puzzled.
"Nesters?"

"Homesteaders," Lady Ashbury groused.
"They're coming here in droves. The whole character of Cheyenne is
changing. We Brits brought class and refinement to what was little
more than an army outpost, but we are quickly being overrun by
these people." She sighed. "Before long, they'll be arriving at the
theater in boots and overalls." She lowered her opera glasses and
said to Lady Whittington," Edwina, shall we go mingle?"

"Yes," Lady Whittington replied. "I want to
see Georgina Wentworth's gown. From what I saw through my opera
glasses it has elements of historic dress, with all the lavish
fabrics and trimmings of a Worth, and I want to take a closer look.
Georgina made a point of telling us at the last tea that she had
just returned from Paris, where she'd had a private fitting by Mr.
Worth himself. She was quite obnoxious about it all. I'm sorry you
weren't there." She turned to Priscilla. "Will you join us
downstairs, dear?"

Priscilla shook her head. "No, thank you. But
perhaps Lord Whittington would like to escort you." She gave Adam a
dark look accompanied by a feigned smile.

Adam eyed her steadily. "I believe I'll keep
Miss Phipps company."

After the women left, Priscilla said, in an
irritated voice, "You did not need to stay and keep me company. In
fact, I'd prefer to be in the company of nesters than Brits."

Adam let out a short guffaw. "Need I remind
you that you're living with Brits."

"Only for another week," Priscilla said. "Jim
is, at this moment, converting one of the larger upstairs bedrooms
into a kitchen. It will have cabinets, a cook stove, and a sink
with a boiler for hot water. And in my bedroom, which will be the
one adjacent to the kitchen, there will be a bathtub, which will be
connected by a water pipe to the boiler in the kitchen, so I'll be
able to immerse myself in warm water while bed warmers warm my
sheets." She gave him an ironic smile. "After my bath, I'll be able
to dry off and crawl directly into bed."