The Emperor's New Clothes (19 page)

A sudden thought struck her with the crystal clarity of the glass in her hand. Perhaps it was already too late? Perhaps her heart was already lost?

She stared at the bauble and faced the truth. Regardless of her feelings for him, she was a liar and a cheat and a fraud. And he could never love her the way Shakespeare's heroes loved his heroines. Not that she wanted his love anyway. Love only crippled women and made them objects to be pitied and discarded. Lust, on the other hand…

Perhaps, with this particular man, it was time to
sample the pleasures of the flesh. It would be something of an appropriate farewell to the life she'd led since her father died. And once she and Jenny had a respectable home, there would be no opportunity for such goings-on. Yes indeed. Tyler Matthews would be a memory to keep captive in her heart for the rest of her life.

Just as the color was held captive in the tiny ornament in her hand. She stared into the glass and smiled slowly. Did he pick this piece deliberately, or was it just a coincidence? Did the glassmaker know what he did when he mixed these particular colors?

Or was she the only one who stared at the piece and saw the yellow of the full moon teasing the blue waters of Venice.

 

“Are you quite certain you wish to go through with this farce?” Frederick Hunt, the Marquis of Charleton, dropped into an elegant wing chair and propped his feet on a conveniently placed footstool.

“That will be all for today.” Eloise Dunstall nodded to the troupe of seamstresses she'd had working nonstop ever since her arrival in Chicago. The young women left the extravagant hotel room in a flurry of quickly gathered silks and satins and giggles and promises. Eloise sighed and settled on a nearby chaise longue. “Honestly, Freddy, I never knew commissioning a completely new wardrobe would be so exhausting.”

Freddy quirked a jaded brow. “You could have waited until we returned to London and civilization.”

“You obviously know far less about women than you think you do, my dear.”

“I obviously know far less about you than I thought I did.” Freddy heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Explain to me again why you've changed your mind about let
ting the authorities handle this whole matter.”

“I will admit that when you first received the telegram, I was quite upset. However, my curiosity overcame my annoyance and I decided it would be far more interesting to deal with this myself.”

Freddy groaned. “I don't see why you have to drag me along to this godforsaken spot. What's the name of it again?”

“Dead End.”

“Sounds bloody awful,” Freddy grumbled.

“It sounds like an adventure.” Eloise cast him an impish glance. “Just think of it, Freddy. Out there, practically in the middle of nowhere, some woman is using my name and selling my title.”

“It's fraud is what it is.”

“No doubt, but don't you find it amusing?”

Freddy glared silently.

“Well, I do. Besides, it's just the kind of thing I might have done in my younger days.”

“Well, you most certainly wouldn't do it now.”

“Of course not,” she said in a chastising manner. “I have no need for such adventures these days. Now, I'm the dowager Countess of Bridgewater—”

“You could be the Marchioness of Charleton if you'd just give in and marry me.”

“—and my poor, dear Charles left me extremely well off. Still, when I met my late love I was simply another young, pretty American actress struggling to survive on the London stage.”

“I don't know why we left London in the first place,” Freddy muttered.

Eloise released an exasperated sigh. “Goodness, Freddy, I haven't been home in more than twenty years. I wanted very much to see the land of my birth. And I especially wanted to see the West before I remarry.”

Freddy brightened. “Me?”

“Well, naturally you. Who else would I marry?”

Freddy narrowed his eyes. “When?”

“Soon, dearest, very soon,” she said vaguely. “But first, as soon as my wardrobe is completed, it's off to Wyoming and Dead End.”

“And what happens then?”

She drew her brows together and thought for a moment. “I'm not entirely certain. We shall simply have to wait and see.”

Freddy rolled his eyes heavenward. “Dead End, Wyoming. What a horrible name.”

“But weren't we suppose to visit there originally? I thought it was on our initial itinerary, and we even had train tickets before I lost my luggage and we had to return to Chicago.”

“It was.” Freddy winced as if anticipating her response. “But it was a joke and I gave the tickets away. At first I thought the name sounded quite in the spirit of the Wild West, but tickets or not, I never intended for us to actually go there.”

“Well, now we shall. And right now, the joke, my love, is on us.” She shrugged and smiled. “But when I am face to face with the other Countess of Bridgewater, we'll see who has the last laugh. I suspect this will be the most fun I've had in ages.

“I do wonder, though”—Eloise picked up a length of sky-blue satin and held it up to the light—“if in addition to my name, the woman has my clothes as well.

“I don't mind sharing the name so much,” she said with a sigh, “but I would like my bloody clothes back.”

 

“Hell and damnation.”

Tye threw the book across the room and rubbed his hand over his eyes. He couldn't work, he couldn't sleep, he couldn't concentrate. All because of that woman.
That infuriating, annoying, desirable woman.

It wasn't enough that she hadn't an honest bone in her beautiful body, or that she was trying to steal from Big Jack, but she had to go ahead and shoot him as well. His shoulder still twinged where the bullet had grazed it.

He pulled himself to his feet and stalked across the room to pick up the volume of Shakespeare. He had a list of things as long as his arm he should be doing in the middle of the day, and reading the work of dead British playwrights wasn't on it. But the book had lured him this morning, as it had yesterday and the day before. He couldn't seemed to get away from the words of the Bard or from her.

Ophelia.

Every word he read reminded him of her. Every quote had a double meaning. Every line of dialogue brought his mind back to thoughts of her.

Ophelia.

He'd stayed away since she'd shot him. At first he was just too damned mad. It was still hard to believe even his aunt didn't seem to take the shooting seriously. Why, Ophelia could have killed him. And that maid of hers, or whatever she was, was apparently just as big a liar as Ophelia. Who on earth couldn't pronounce “countess” or “my lady” or “Bridgewater”?

“Hah! She must think I'm a complete fool.”

Lord, now she had him talking to himself. Maybe he
was
a complete fool. Yesterday, he'd even brought her a gift, the little glass bauble he'd picked up in Venice. It reminded him of moonlight and water and—he groaned—her. He raked a hand through his hair. What had she done to him?

Ophelia.

He wanted her in his bed. Hell, he'd wanted that from the moment he'd first seen her. But he'd wanted
women before and he'd had them. Those he hadn't lost to Sedge, anyway. And he wanted proof of her deception. Proof that would save Jack a great deal of money and more than a little embarrassment. But now it seemed he wanted more.

What did he want anyway?

He sank back into the chair, the answer hitting him like a blow to the gut. He wanted mahogany-haired children to teach to ride a horse and chase calves and fish in the creek. And he wanted long winter nights around a crackling fire with the sonnets of Shakespeare read aloud in a voice lilting and lush and just a bit husky, with an accent that melted something deep inside him. And he wanted the first thing that he saw every morning and the last thing he saw every night to be eyes the color of emeralds and lips full and lush and made to be kissed and hair like a Wyoming sunset.

He wanted Ophelia and he wanted her forever.

He sighed and leaned his head back against the chair. It must be love. What else could it be? What a mess. What a disaster. She was a liar and a thief and who knows what else. But she was also smart and loyal, and there was a look in her eye when she talked about home and family that tugged at his heart.

A sudden thought stabbed him, and he straightened in the chair. She didn't have to be a thief and a liar and who knows what else. She didn't have to take Big Jack's money. She could reform. He could reform her. Of course, she'd never admit anything to him, so he'd still have to get his proof first. But then—he grinned—she'd be his.

He leapt from the chair and paced across the room. He only had three weeks until some British lord Sedge had wired showed up for the bogus ceremony making his uncle a count. Ophelia was far too clever to stay for that and risk being exposed. He'd have to get to the
truth before she tried to leave town. And then he'd have her.

She was smart, all right, but he was smarter. He laughed out loud. Oh, certainly, some people could say his plan smacked of blackmail. But it took a bit of a scoundrel to catch a scoundrel. And who would appreciate the irony of that better than the fair Ophelia?

Confidence surged through him. Lorelie had said that Ophelia would be at the meeting of that silly women's society today, but tomorrow he'd start putting his plan into effect. Ophelia would never leave Dead End without getting her money from the bank. And she couldn't possibly do that before the ceremony without arousing suspicion. But just to make sure, he'd have Randolph keep him informed as to her banking activities. And why not? He was the mayor, after all. And just maybe there were some benefits to the job.

He flipped open the book and settled back in the chair. Once he had Ophelia reformed, he had to make the woman love him. Lord knows, she already wanted him. But he'd never set out to make a woman fall in love before and, with Ophelia, Shakespeare was undoubtably the best place to start.

He glanced down at the open book and grinned. A line from
The Merchant of Venice
stared up at him. How appropriate. How prophetic. How perfect.

To do right, do a little wrong
.

“Who ever would have imagined a simple little building like an opera house would be so incredibly complicated?” Ophelia said under her breath. She stared at drawings and plans and ill-formed ideas spread before her on the makeshift table smack dab in the middle of Dead End's main and, for the most part, only street.

“The way I see it, the facade of the building should…” The banker spread his arms in a wide, dramatic gesture that would put even the most experienced actor to shame.

“No, no, no Randolph.” The woman from the general store declared. “The front of the opera house…”

“Just think of it, Ophelia.” Lorelie sighed. “The Dead End Opera House.”

“The Empire City Opera House,” someone else said firmly.

Was every single resident of Dead End involved in this project? Obviously, the town's people had gotten
past their ambivalence over the name change and direction for the future. Now, they worked together for the same goal. At least today. Ophelia glanced around the gathering with a sense of sheer helplessness. This project had the feel of a community event or a barnraising. And she had no idea how to raise a barn.

But these people, these very nice people, were looking to her, or rather to a sophisticated countess, to direct them in the construction of their shining symbol of civilization. Certainly, from an actor's point of view, she could guide them here and there. But a great deal of the ongoing discussion had to do with things like “joists” and “load-bearing walls,” and it was all she could do to keep a perplexed, if not downright stupid, expression from her face.

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Fine. If a countess confident in construction was what they wanted, they were in for a rude awakening. She was all they had and they'd better learn to accept that.

“Gentlemen, ladies.” Even Ophelia's best stage voice couldn't penetrate the din for more than a ten-foot radius, but those within range turned toward her expectantly. “I have been in a great number of opera houses and theaters in my life. I have even been backstage in quite a few. I am more than willing to give you my thoughts and advice on decor and design and various other details, but I simply cannot tell you how to build the thing.”

The crowd stared at her as if she was insane, then traded looks among themselves.

“Countess.” The sheriff—what was his name?—stepped forward. “We don't expect you to tell us how to build it.”

“No indeed.” Randolph said. “We know how to put up a building here.”

“What we need from you is just what you said.” The
shopkeeper ticked the list off on her fingers. “Decor, design, details.”

The sheriff chuckled. “We didn't figure you could tell us how to build the damn thing.”

Relief flooded through her. “I simply thought with all this…” Ophelia swept her hand toward the papers and plans littering the table and shrugged. “Well, I must say I am relieved.”

“And rather, what we need from you now, ma'am, is this here part.” A big, hulking, sweaty man she believed was the town's blacksmith selected a large paper from the debris on the table and spread it before her. A rudimentary sketch of what the building would allegedly look like was drawn in pencil. He traced a line with his finger. “We ain't sure if this is…”

Was this all they wanted? Ophelia listened to the blacksmith's questions with a surging sense of excitement. She'd been just plain silly to think they wanted her to tell them how to build anything. They simply wanted her to make certain their opera house was as civilized and respectable as it could be. This might even be fun.

Helping with this project was, after all, the least she could do for the town. Or rather, for the ladies of the town. Ophelia realized she couldn't possibly get Big Jack's money out of the bank until after the ceremony. And if she hung around until then, she'd surely be exposed and wouldn't be allowed to claim the money anyway. But the ladies of Dead End offered her salvation.

She'd played with them yesterday and the day before, and both times had left considerably richer than she'd started. They wagered shocking sums on every hand, almost as if their money had no real worth. Ophelia had seen such disregard for money before, among the very rich, the very bored or the very good.
And there was no doubt about it, the publicly proper, apparently upright, staunchly moral ladies of Dead End were sharps.

Plainly and simply, every single one of them was a better player than most men she'd met. She could put just about any of them in any saloon from here to St. Louis and they'd break the house. Playing with these women was more than enjoyable, it was something of a challenge. They were good, but thankfully, Ophelia was better.

The blacksmith smiled and nodded his approval, then strode off shouting orders right and left. Ophelia glanced up and down the street. The opera house was under construction at the north end of Main Street, and from here Ophelia could see clear down to the train station that bordered the town on the south.

It wasn't a bad little town. In fact, it was almost charming in a rustic sort of way. The buildings had all been recently painted, no doubt part of the effort to achieve respectability. The streets were fairly clean. Even the horses tied up here and there along the rails were relatively well behaved.

Beyond the flurry of the construction area, there was still quite a bit of activity in town. Some centered on the saloon, but most seemed to be the typical ebb and flow of life in a small but vital community. A community to be proud of with nice people who worked together. Exactly the type of town she wanted for Jenny and herself. A pang of regret twinged through her, and she pushed it firmly aside.

This would never be their home. No matter how nice the people, or how respectable the opera house or how handsome the mayor.

“Countess.” The banker's wife, Henrietta, hurried toward her with a sheaf of papers in her hand and a
query in her eye. “Countess, we were wondering if the…”

Ophelia gratefully turned her attention to the myriad of questions Henrietta threw at her. Anything to get her mind off the one subject her thoughts were always on these days. Damn, where was the man anyway? She still hadn't seen Tye since the day she shot him, and she did hope he wouldn't hold that minor accident against her.

No, he had sent her that charming piece of glass, after all. But time was fleeting. She only had three weeks before she had to get out of Dead End. Three weeks to win as much as she could from the Every Other Tuesday and Thursday Afternoon Ladies Cultural Society. And three weeks in which to seduce Tyler Matthews.

The very thought sent delicious shivers of fear and anticipation up her spine. Now that she'd made her decision, she really did want to get on with it. Of all the things she planned to accomplish in the time she had left here, seducing Tye would probably be the easiest. There was no question the man wanted her. No doubt the tiniest hint of her willingness to submit would be enough to attract him to her bed. Any man who sent baubles to a woman who'd shot him was obviously deep in the throes of mindless lust. And wasn't lust what this was all about? On both sides?

An odd thought picked at the back of her mind, and the more she tried to ignore it, the more it nagged and badgered and refused to go away. Ophelia believed she knew a great deal about lust simply from backstage observation, and she freely admitted she knew nothing at all about love and had probably never seen that emotion displayed. But there was one tiny aspect of Tye's behavior that didn't quite seem to fit under the heading of lust. Not that it could possibly be love, of course.
Love was a far cry from lust. No, it was probably a gesture of insignificant affection. That was it. Tye might very well like her.

The man had kissed her on the tip of her nose.

He definitely liked her. A kiss on the tip of the nose was something one bestowed on a beloved sister or a dear child or a close friend. It was completely innocent, with no meaning to it whatsoever, and easily explained away. Still…

Why had he called her “my love”?

 

There she was. His lovely liar. His beautiful thief. His future. Ophelia stood in the midst of a crowd of people waving her arms in gestures of drama and grace, obviously telling them how to build this new folly. Lord, she looked like a genuine countess in that group. Who was she really? He'd find out eventually. Wives didn't keep secrets from husbands and women didn't keep secrets from lovers. He grinned and strode toward her. Ophelia would soon be both. He'd make an honest women out of her, in more ways than one.

The crowd scampered off to do her bidding, and he stepped up beside her. “Morning, Countess. How's your opera house today?”

Warmth flashed in her eyes as if she was glad to see him. “Very well, I think. I can't believe how fast it's going up. Of course, we've got everyone in town working on it.” She narrowed her eyes and planted her hands on her hips. “Everyone but the mayor, that is. Wherever have you been for the last two days?”

He'd meant to be here yesterday for the start of this nonsense, but mooning over Ophelia with a book in hand and nursing his shoulder had put him off schedule. “Here and there. Trying to catch up on work at the ranch. But it hasn't been easy.”

“Oh? Why not?”

He rubbed his shoulder and grimaced. “I'm still not quite healed. You know, it's not easy to recover from a bullet wound.”

“Mr. Matthews. Tye.” She favored him with a tolerant smile. “I am truly sorry. But it really wasn't much of a wound. And it was an accident. I didn't mean to shoot you.”

“I realize that.” He released a long-suffering sigh. “If you'd meant to shoot me, you probably would have killed me.”

“That goes without saying.” Confidence and conviction rang in her voice. Was she really a good shot? What else was she good at? And what else didn't he know about the fair Ophelia?

She grinned and turned, casting an assessing gaze over the construction site. “The shell will be up in a day or two, and I should think the whole thing will be completed by the end of next week.”

The building was progressing with astonishing speed. Grudging respect for the people of the town, his town, seeped through him. He'd obviously been away far too long. How could he forget what they could do when they put their collective minds to it? Maybe he hadn't given them enough credit. Maybe their goal of civilization wasn't so ridiculous after all. And maybe, just maybe, Dead End was a community with a real future. Or rather, Empire City was. “It looks like it'll be done in plenty of time for the big celebration,” he said.

“Indeed.” She nodded, and an awkward silence fell between them. It was ridiculous, of course. He had a great deal to say to her. Odd that he wasn't quite sure where to start.

“Tye.”

“Ophelia.”

They stared, then laughed in that uncomfortable manner that marked two people struggling to choose
their words with care. He drew a steadying breath and tried again.

“I would consider it—”

“I was wondering if—”

Once more silence settled between them. Hell. What was wrong with him? He'd never had a problem talking to a woman, any woman, before. Of course, he'd never planned to marry one before either.

“I was just going to say”—she straightened her shoulders, as if gathering courage, and smiled—“how much I've missed you.”

“You have?”

“I certainly have.” She seemed distinctly encouraged. What was she up to now? “I was wondering, hoping actually that we could spend some time together.”

“You want to spend time with me?” He narrowed his eyes and stared at her. There was no doubt about it. She was definitely up to something.

“Um-hum. I think it's important.” Her eyes widened with a candor that was at once difficult to believe and impossible to dispute. Had he ever seen eyes so green before? “I very much fear you have some reservations about my dealings with your uncle,” she added.

“I have a number of concerns.” Her eyes were so deep and intense they were endless and inviting, calling to something buried inside him, capturing his soul.

“And I believe you also have questions about whether I am who I say I am.” Her voice was breathless, a shade huskier than he'd remembered, with that accent that tensed his stomach and curled his toes.

“Well…yes.” Why was his mouth so dry?

“It's been quite obvious. I'd very much like to answer those questions and alleviate those concerns.” Lord, he could listen to that accent, so sweet, so sultry, forever. She reached out and trailed her finger along the line of
his jaw. “I'd hate for you to distrust me,” she murmured.

“Would you?” He swallowed an odd lump caught in his throat. What was she doing to him?

“I would.” The words were little more than a seductive sigh.

“Perhaps I should spend more time at Jack and Lorelie's?”

“Perhaps you should.” Her voice was ripe with an unspoken promise.

“Well…I suppose…” He couldn't seem to get his words out or his mind straight. He couldn't seem to get anything past the thought of those lush lips pressed against his, that lovely body crushed beneath him, that captivating accent murmuring words of passion and surrender and love in his ear. “I mean…I guess…” He laughed self-consciously. He really had to pull himself together. He took a long breath. “I should go help. Shouldn't I? With the building?”

“By all means.” How could he tear himself away? All he wanted was to take her right here, right now, right in the middle of Main Street. “Perhaps I'll see you this evening?” she said.

“Sure.” He nodded, turned and took a few steps. Oh, what the hell. Without a second thought, he swiveled back to her side, pulled her into his arms and planted his lips firmly on hers in a kiss of urgency and desire and warning.