Corbin's Fancy (7 page)

Jeff agreed with a nod and dropped the hammer to the ground. “Anything you say,” he replied, with biting good humor.

*   *   *

Fancy stood nervously, taking in the compact beauty of the woman Keith had abandoned on the lawn. She was a wonder—her dark ringlets gleamed in the sun, her skin was flawness, her teeth were small and white and even.

“That Keith!” the vision trilled, as Alva flung her one unseen and inscrutable look on the way into the house. “He was rude not to introduce us!” She extended one immaculately gloved hand and stepped toward Fancy. “My name is Amelie Rogers.”

“Frances Gordon,” replied Fancy, accepting the offered hand and squeezing it firmly.

Amelie’s frown was pensive. “I thought Keith said your name was—Fancy.”

Fancy blushed. “That’s my nickname.”

“It’s really so—colorful.”

Fancy did not know whether to thank the woman or be offended. Because of that quandary, she said nothing at all.

Amelie caught her arm and ushered her along toward the house. Though her smile never waned, there was a certain challenge in its bright sparkle. “I hope that you and I can be friends, Fancy, but—”

“But, what?” demanded Fancy, stopping cold in her tracks.

Amelie had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Well, you are living here, with two unmarried men, and there is—well, there is some talk. Your being an actress—”

Considering what had gone on in the barn and then on the parlor couch, Fancy had a degree of difficulty maintaining her righteous indignation. “I am not an actress. Furthermore, Mrs. Thompkins shares this house also!”

Amelie bit her lower lip, regarding Fancy’s flushed face squarely. “I’ve made a miserable mess of this,” she murmured, after several moments of silence. A becoming blush moved up over her high, finely shaped cheekbones. “Oh, there’s nothing for it—I’ll just have to say what’s on my mind! I love Keith Corbin very much and we’re to be married next month and it’s obvious that he likes you—”

Fancy was both annoyed and relieved. “I’ve no
designs on your intended, Miss Rogers.” Your future brother-in-law, she added in rueful silence, is, unfortunately, another matter entirely.

Amelie heaved a delicate sigh of relief and, not for the first time, Fancy wondered why women always saw her as a threat to their romantic interests. Not until that very morning had she ever behaved in any way that could have been called wanton. “We shall be friends, then—very good friends. Tell me—have you ever met the Corbin family?”

Fancy shuddered. Jeff had not pursued her relationship with Temple Royce, but that was no guarantee that his family wouldn’t. Come to that, they probably wouldn’t approve of her in any case, given her brief career in show business. “No, I haven’t.” She didn’t add that she hoped she never would.

“They’re all coming here for the wedding, you know,” Amelie reflected innocently, as they entered the house through the screened porch at the back. “I declare, I’m so nervous I could just perish! Mrs. Corbin is an important woman.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Fancy, feeling just as nervous. How stupid she’d been not to anticipate this, not to realize that the rest of the Corbins would attend Keith’s wedding! How in heaven’s name would she face them?

But then, she thought, as she and Amelie trekked past a silent Alva on their way to the main parlor, she was little more than a servant in this house. She would not have to suffer formal introductions or take any real part in the celebration.

Amelie sat down in a chair near a massive, white-rock fireplace and distractedly removed her gloves and then her fetching Sunday bonnet. “I’ll die if they don’t like me,” she said.

Fancy was suddenly filled with sympathy for the bride-to-be; she could well imagine how Amelie felt. After all, the Corbins were an imposing group. “I don’t see why they wouldn’t,” she said honestly, sitting opposite Miss Rogers and folding her hands in her lap.

The distant echo of angry masculine voices reached the parlor and disrupted Fancy’s train of thought. Amelie looked concerned.

“What do you suppose they’re arguing about?”

Fancy was afraid she knew—there had been an angry, knowing look in Keith’s eyes when he’d arrived. A new thought occurred to her: that the reverend, in righteous outrage, would send her away. She was amazed at how badly she wanted to stay.

She lifted her chin and tried to look placid. “I think they just naturally argue a great deal,” she said.

Amelie arched perfect, raven-black eyebrows. “You may be right.”

In that moment, Fancy craved solitude more than she ever had in her life. Her thoughts were spinning and she needed to be alone to grapple with them. She did not know whether to stay or to go and worst of all, she had a nagging suspicion that she might be falling in love with Jeff Corbin. That, despite what had happened between them, would be disastrous.

Furthermore, how was she going to face Keith from day to day? How was she going to live under the same roof with Jeff and escape having the events of that morning repeat themselves over and over again?

She sighed. Keith and Amelie would soon be married, and she would be very much in the way when that happened. So, for that matter, would Jeff.

“What are you thinking?” Amelie asked, with gentle directness. “You look so sad.”

Fancy was sad. Sad because she could no longer pull rabbits out of hats. Sad because her virginity was gone forever. Sad because there was such a vast difference between Amelie’s future and her own.

“I’m only tired,” she lied.

The future Mrs. Keith Corbin clearly didn’t believe her, but she didn’t press. When Keith strode abruptly into the room, Amelie’s face lit up and they might have been the only two people in the whole world.

Fancy slipped out, unnoticed, and left the house by the front door. She walked around to the side yard, approaching the gazebo where she had been so roundly humiliated only the day before. She plopped despondently down on its top step.

The grounds bore no trace of yesterday’s celebration, except for one: Ribbons, now forlorn-looking, trembled in the gentle spring breeze, hanging forgotten from the boughs of the apple tree that had looked so glorious during the lawn party.

Suddenly, Fancy felt as denuded as that tree, and she lowered her forehead to her upraised knees in total despair.

Chapter Four

F
ANCY KNELT BEFORE
H
ERSHEL’S CAGE AND PUSHED A
dish of fresh water through the little door, along with a handful of lettuce leaves. She tried not to think about what had happened in this very barn only hours before, but the effort was useless. Never, no matter where she went, what she did, or how old she got, would she forget the magic that had been revealed to her here.

One tear slid down her cheek and she wiped it away angrily, forcing herself to square her shoulders and lift her chin. She’d made a mistake, a terrible mistake, but sitting about crying over it would change nothing. No, the only thing she could do now was leave before matters got any worse.

With a sigh, she latched Hershel’s cage door and rose to her feet, dusting straw from the skirts of her gray dress as she straightened. When she turned to leave the
barn again, though, she found herself face to face with Jeff Corbin himself.

Though she was distraught, Fancy’s heart leaped within her and then fell into place again, spinning. She glared at Jeff in despairing anger. Why hadn’t he left her alone? If he had, she would have been able to stay.

But she was wrong to blame him completely, and she knew it. She had been every bit as selfish and irresponsible as he had.

“What do you think of Amelie?” he asked, crossing his arms across his broad chest and leaning indolently against the gate of a nearby stall.

Fancy’s shoulders lifted in a deceptively nonchalant shrug. “Is my opinion important?” she countered.

Jeff grinned. “I guess not. Still, I’d like to know what it is.”

“I like Amelie,” Fancy said truthfully, trying to avoid those discerning indigo eyes.

“So do I.”

“But?” urged Fancy, though the answer really wouldn’t matter much to her, one way or the other. At the moment, she was feeling frazzled and just a bit sorry for herself.

“I don’t think she has enough spirit for Keith,” Jeff observed. He’d brushed his hair and changed his clothes for dinner—the first meal he’d taken outside his room in months, according to Alva—and he looked so handsome that Fancy ached to touch him.

Of course, she refrained. “How much ‘spirit’ does a minister’s wife need?” she replied, a little annoyed.

“I have no idea,” Jeff responded, “but I know how much spirit a Corbin’s wife needs.”

“Keith is different than you.”

Jeff chuckled appreciatively. “You innocent. He’s a man, not a saint.”

“He’s also a minister!”

“That will be small comfort in his marriage bed. He should wait for some infuriating snippet to come crashing into his life—the way Banner came into Adam’s.” He paused, but when he went on, his voice was very soft. “The way you came into mine.”

Color climbed up Fancy’s cheekbones. She stood still, her heart lodged in her throat and pounding there like a huge drum.

Jeff came closer, tangled an index finger in a curled tendril at her temple.

Fancy leaped backward as though burned by his touch. “Don’t—please—I can’t bear it—”

He sighed and his hands came to rest gently on the sides of her waist. “Fancy, I’m sorry. Not for making love to you—I can’t say I regret that. But I do apologize for the way you’re feeling right now.”

Fancy’s chin shot upward; pride was the only defense she had left. “And how is that?” she snapped.

“Used, I think. Maybe slightly taken-advantage-of.”

“Slightly?” Every muscle in Fancy’s small, trim body seemed to contract.
“Slightly?
Tell me, when and if I should marry, what am I to say to my husband? That losing my virtue was part of my job?”

“Fancy—”

“Damn you, don’t you dare try to reassure me! You’re a rich man, used to getting what you want, and nothing else matters to you—including the effect this could have on the rest of my life!”

His hands left her waist for her shoulders, gripping them gently. “Will you listen to me?” he pleaded, in such earnest tones that Fancy was almost fooled, almost
lulled into believing that he really had her best interests in mind. “I’m trying to tell you that—”

“Don’t tell me anything! I’m not interested in being placated!”

“Do you think I’m that pompous, that arrogant?”

“Yes!”

A muscle flexed in his jaw, then stilled. “Fancy, we can’t stay here,” he went on persistently. “Not after what’s happened.”

Fancy had already come to that conclusion herself, but it was surprising to hear it from Jeff. “I completely agree,” she said, in stiff tones, wishing that she had the nerve and the strength to break free of his grasp and walk away.

“Good. Then perhaps you’ll also agree that there is a magic between us that has nothing to do with your pulling rabbits out of hats.”

Fancy stared up at him, wide-eyed. “Magic?”

“I’ve never before felt the way I did with you, Fancy. Not ever.” He sighed and his grip on her shoulders eased a little. “Will you go away with me?”

The idea had more appeal than Fancy would ever admit. “And do what?”

“And be my mistress.”

Any dreams that might have been stirring to life were instantly dashed. Of course he would suggest that, after the way she’d encouraged him. That was no surprise. And yet, after only one day, she’d dared to hope that Jeff was beginning to love her.

She lifted her hand and slapped him with all the force of her grief, her confusion, and her shame. He was stunned enough to slacken his hold and Fancy whirled away to run, her skirts bunched in her fingers.

Certain that she could not bear to face Amelie or Keith or the understanding Alva, Fancy avoided the house and plunged into the orchard. Her breathing was ragged and raw, dry little sobs tore themselves from her throat as she fled.

“Frances!” bellowed Jeff, and she heard him behind her, gaining fast.

She tried to accelerate her own pace, caught one foot in the hem of her dress, and went tumbling to the soft, blossom-cushioned ground. Jeff was upon her instantly, wrenching her onto her back and then pinning her beneath his delightful, reprehensible, inescapable weight.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” he demanded, looking fierce in the gathering twilight.

Fancy could not form sensible words; she wailed with grief and writhed, trying to free herself. The frantic sobs continued to well up from within her.

Jeff caught her face between both his hands and stayed the motion of her head, though her body still rebelled beneath his. “Stop it!” he hissed.

Something in the tone of his voice reached Fancy’s reason and she was still, though tears were streaming down her face and her chest was still heaving. “Get—off of—me!” she choked out.

“Not until you listen to me, damn you! I wasn’t trying to insult you when I asked you to be my mistress!”

“Well, it’s an honor I can do without!” croaked Fancy.

“What the devil do you want from me?” he retorted furiously. “Marriage?”

“I wouldn’t marry you!”

One of his imperious eyebrows arched in contemptuous disbelief. “Oh, no?”

“No!”

He looked oddly pensive. Even reflective. “It
would
solve a few problems,” he mused.

“Not for me it wouldn’t!”

Jeff held Fancy firmly beneath him, quelling any possibility of struggle. “Wouldn’t it? Think, Fancy—you wouldn’t have to haul that rodent from one town to another. And, of course, things would be very different for your family—”

Fancy’s eyes widened and though Jeff stretched her arms out above her head and pressed them to the soft ground, she did not resist. “What do you mean?”

“You know very well what I mean.”

Fancy dared to imagine her mother and father freed from the ceaseless drudgery of their lives and her throat constricted. “Y–You would take care of them?”

“Yes. And you.” He chuckled. “And even your fat, stupid rabbit.”