Tomorrow's Dreams (19 page)

The Matchmaking Fairy
, a rather risqué fantasy piece, necessitated that she don a complex series of harnesses, which were in turn rigged to a pulley that lifted her into the air and sent her flying across the stage, treating the audience to a tantalizing view of her ankles and calves. The preparation was not only time-consuming, but physically uncomfortable as well.

Restlessly Penelope twisted one of the forest green satin bonnet streamers around her index finger. If Miles didn't arrive soon, she'd never make the nine o'clock curtain. Not that she cared if the drunken louts in the audience had to wait to ogle her legs; if she had her way they'd wait forever.

No. What concerned her was the fine Adele would levy for her tardiness. There would be a fine, no doubt about it, even though the woman would know that the fault for her lateness lay entirely with Miles. Yet, as usual, she wouldn't dare protest out of fear that Adele would deny her her visit with Tommy tomorrow. And what was the loss of a few dollars compared to the priceless joy of spending time with her baby? Of course, if she was too late, the penalty might very well be the forefeiture of the visit altogether. And that was one punishment she wouldn't risk.

That thought was enough to make her glance nervously at the clock. It was ten after seven. If Miles didn't arrive within the next five minutes, she would be forced to walk the short distance to the theater by herself … not a thought she found comforting.

While calm enough during the day, by night the streets of Denver was overrun by scores of cowboys, sodbusters, miners, and farmers, all in town for a bacchanal evening of drinking, gambling, and female companionship. That being the case, any woman caught on the streets unescorted was likely to be perceived as fair game, and consequently treated as such. Especially if the woman happened to be an actress such as herself.

But what choice did she have? A tendril of dread snaked down Penelope's spine as she admitted that she had none. Bertram and Effie had left for the variety hall over an hour ago; Bertram being eager to get to the saloon for his customary preperformance shifter of brandy, and Effie needing the extra time to experiment with some new hair-enhancing treatment.

Heaving a sigh of defeat, she glanced down at the bonnet streamer, which in the course of her mindless fidgeting had become tangled around her index finger. As she attempted to right the mess, she mentally cursed Miles's unreliability. Though the actor was frequently late—for a promising poker hand, a fine bottle of liquor, or a particularly accommodating whore always took precedence over punctuality—this latest display of irresponsibility went beyond the bounds of tolerable behavior.

Mumbling an unladylike expletive, she gave the ribbon a vicious twist, smiling as she visualized Miles's neck in place of the streamer. She succeeded only in further tightening the knot.

As she sat clumsily trying to extract her finger from its satin snare, the clock announced a quarter after the hour. Snorting her frustration, she marched toward the front door, shaking her hand as she went in a frantic attempt to dislodge her still-trapped finger. As she paused in the tiny entry hall to claw at the recalcitrant streamer, there was a rap at the door.

Miles, at last
. With the bonnet still dangling from her index finger, she yanked the door open, berating, “It's about time! Do you know how late—” The words died on her lips when she saw who it was. It was Seth Tyler. A resplendently garbed, impossibly handsome Seth, who was lounging against the doorjamb with one hand behind his back and his sensuous mouth tilted into the crooked grin she always found so disarming.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured, seizing her right hand and lifting it to his lips. Gallantly refraining from commenting on the hat hanging cockeyed from her finger, he pressed a kiss to her palm. As he released her, he explained, “I would have been here at seven sharp, but I had a devil of a time finding these.”

With a courtly flourish, he pulled a beribboned nosegay of pink roses, blue columbine, yellow marigolds, and white daisies from behind his back. Peering at her from beneath his thick sweep of lowered eyelashes, he pleaded, “Forgive me?” Then his lips curved into a repentant smile that she found every bit as endearing as his previous grin.

Staring at him and his bouquet with as much amazement as if he were wearing a ruffled skirt and dancing the cancan, Penelope sputtered, “W-what are you doing here?”

“You've forgotten?” He clasped the flowers to his heart and sighed with dramatic effect. “You wound me!”

She frowned at his flirtatious response. Whatever had gotten into him? If she didn't know better, she'd swear he was wooing her. She shot him a wary look.

He flashed her a very wide, very alluring smile.

Her heart missed a beat. He hadn't smiled at her like that since the night at Delmonico's two and a half years earlier when they had celebrated the three-month anniversary of their engagement. As it turned out, it had been their last romantic night together.

Seth had been at his most charming that evening, playfully challenging her to a contest to see who could eat the most oysters and drink the most champagne. After devouring thirty-nine oysters and drinking three bottles of fine champagne, they were both too full to move and completely—

“Seth Tyler! Are you drunk?” Penelope leaned forward and sniffed his breath suspiciously.

He exhaled, bathing her lips in the warmth of his breath. “Sure I am,” he purred. “I'm drunk off your beauty … intoxicated by your sweetness, and”—his mouth was so close, she could feel his lips move against hers ever so slightly as he finished—“I'm tipsy with the pleasure from your company.”

Their sudden intimacy caught Penelope completely off guard, leaving her powerless to do more than just stare into his eyes. She'd always heard that the eyes were the mirror to the soul, and Seth's beautiful, chameleonlike eyes were proof that the saying was more than just empty words.

For instance, when they were soft sage green, rimmed in chocolate brown with a sunburst-like star of gold surrounding his pupils, she knew he was happy. On those rare occasions when his irises were stormy-gray edged in charcoal and speckled with mossy green, she tread lightly, for experience had taught her that he was displeased. And when they were dark, as they were now, indeterminate in hue, yet burning with sultry topaz fire, they bespoke of simmering passion and promised ecstasy.

Passion? Ecstasy?
She stumbled back in stunned disbelief, clumsily catching her heel in her hem. She swayed perilously and would have tumbled backward had Seth not whipped his arm around her to steady her.

Crushing her against his chest, he stared down into her flushed face, drawling, “Sure you're not the tipsy one? Your face is awfully red, and you seem a little unsteady.”

“Don't be ridiculous!” she snapped, squirming from his embrace. “I tripped over my skirts, that's all.” When she'd put several feet between them, she braced her hands on her hips and gritted out, “Now, why don't you stop babbling nonsense and tell me what you want. I'm terribly late for the theater.” Tapping her foot impatiently, she folded her arms across her chest and stared at him with ill-concealed annoyance, an effect that was completely ruined by the frilly hat dangling from her finger.

Smiling faintly, he shifted his gaze from the bonnet to her glowering face. “I said I'd be here at seven to walk you to the variety hall, and”—he spread his arms wide—“here I am.”

“I told you that Miles always escorts me.” Without thinking, she shook her finger at him for emphasis … her right index finger to be exact … smacking him in the chest with the attached bonnet.

“But Miles didn't show, did he?” From his strained expression she could tell that he was struggling not to laugh.

Mortified, she dropped her gaze from his face to scowl down at the bonnet. Giving the stubborn streamer a series of vicious but futile tugs, she admitted, “No, but I'm sure he'll be along any—” Her hands stilled suddenly, and she shot him a suspicious look. “How did you know?”

An enigmatic half smile curved his lips. “Call it a hunch.”

“A hunch? Ha! I'd bet my lucky ribbon that you did something awful to Miles, like tie him up and toss him into the corral, just so you could ask your blasted question!”

“If we were wagering, I'd now own a lucky ribbon.” Seth's half smile broadened into a full one. “By the way, thanks for reminding me about the question. It had slipped my mind.”

Penelope clicked her tongue between her teeth and rolled her eyes in a gesture of disbelief. “I'll just bet you forgot!”

“In that case, you lose again. Maybe you'd better stop betting while you're ahead.”

She graced him with a scowl. “Be that as it may, I still don't believe that Miles would willingly let you escort me.”

“He was willing all right.”

“Oh?”

Seth tipped his head to one side and studied her for a moment, then shrugged. “Since you're so worried about the harebrained jackanape's welfare, I guess I'll have to put aside all gentlemanly discretion and tell you the truth. Your escort was detained by an obliging young lady named Sweet-Lips Alice.”

At Penelope's blush he observed, “I can see by your face that you know who I'm talking about.”

“I've heard her mentioned,” Penelope muttered, humiliated to feel her flush darken a shade. She'd heard more than a mere mention of the notorious Alice. Not a day passed since they had arrived in Denver that Miles hadn't regaled her with his exploits with the prostitute. Through his graphic descriptions, she was beginning to feel as if she knew the woman personally, a sensation she found disturbing. Strangely enough, she was even more disturbed by the thought of Seth patronizing Goldie's.

Not that I care what the blasted man does
, she reminded herself sternly. Yet try as she might, she couldn't deny that she did care what he did. Worse yet, she was jealous of whomever he did it with. Her heart twisted with sudden misery. Just as undeniable as her feelings for Seth was the fact that he'd visited the brothel that very afternoon. How else would he know about Miles and Alice? His assignation at Goldie's was probably the pressing appointment he'd mentioned at the drugstore.

Unable to meet his gaze for fear that he'd see the hurt in her eyes, she busied herself with her bonnet, which was now beginning to look to be permanently affixed to her finger. “How is it that you know about Miles and Alice's—tryst?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

Seth shrugged. “I stopped by the saloon awhile ago, and Monty happened to mention Miles's rendezvous. I put two and two together and knew you'd need someone to escort you to the theater.” Correctly divining the purpose of her question, he leaned over and added, “Never fear, Princess. I wasn't at Goldie's sampling her girls' charms.”

Penelope sniffed. “As if I care.”

“Well, I do care,” he replied softly. “Very much.”

Penelope stared up at his face, completely caught off guard by his admission. His smile was gentle, and his eyes were shadowed with what? Regret? Flustered and confused, she murmured, “Why?”

Tucking the nosegay into the crook of his arm, Seth grasped her wrist and raised her hand to examine the tangled ribbon more closely. “Just because we argued doesn't mean I no longer care.”

“But last night, you said—”

“Forget last night,” he interjected, his hand tightening convulsively on her wrist. “I behaved like a fool. The shock of finding you at the Shakespeare made me say things I didn't mean.” His grip tightened a degree as he remembered his vile behavior the evening before, drawing a soft whimper from Penelope.

Instantly he relaxed his grasp. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“It's all right. You didn't hurt me.”

Her eyes were glowing softly and were filled with such a wealth of tenderness, that Seth was struck speechless by the turbulence of his own answering emotion. When he was finally able to speak, his voice had dried to a whisper. “You're wrong. I did hurt you, and very badly I suspect.”

“Oh, no.” She nodded to where her wrist lay cradled in his hand. “See. My wrist isn't even the slightest bit red.”

Staring down at her wrist, which looked so delicate resting against the obvious strength of his square palm, he replied, “I was referring to your heart … your soul … about New York. I—”

“Seth—” she interrupted in a broken voice.

“No.” He shook his head sharply, suddenly desperate to say all the things he'd wished he could say a hundred times before. “Please … just hear me out?”

His gaze locked into hers, silently pleading for permission to continue. He longed to apologize for the terrible things he'd said and done in New York; he needed to seek her forgiveness. And no matter how long it took, no matter the personal price, he wanted to rebuild the collapsed bridges of trust between them.

When she didn't answer, he repeated in a breathless whisper, “Please, sweetheart?” All of a sudden regaining Penelope's regard seemed the most important thing in the world. Not for the reasons he'd given himself earlier: not for the sake of his friendship with Jake and certainly not out of some misguided sense of gallantry. But for the sake of his own peace of mind.

After a moment, Penelope nodded her consent.

He let out his breath in a forceful gust, stunned to discover that he'd been holding it. With a tiny smile of gratitude playing on his lips, he began, “I said a lot of hurtful things that night in New York, things said in the heat of anger that I didn't mean. I was a bastard, and I've never been able to forgive myself for treating you so shabbily. I needed—”

His voice faltered as he felt Penelope's wrist slide from his hand, and for a moment he was overcome with a crushing sense of defeat, certain that she was retreating from both him and his apology. But then he felt her soft, cool palm press against his, and when her fingers, ribbon and all, threaded through his, he found the strength to continue.