The Bad Luck Wedding Dress (12 page)

He’d wanted her. Badly. She’d set his senses afire, erased all rational thought from his mind. He’d sunk into pleasure so pure it was torture, and all from a kiss.

God knew what bedding her might do.

Determined to put the incident from his mind and meeting with only limited success, he managed to avoid any personal contact with Jenny Fortune for the next few days. That ended when a note arrived from Miss Harriett Blackstone, the girls’ teacher, requesting a meeting to discuss mischief Maribeth had hatched at school the previous day. Upon arriving he was startled to find Jenny Fortune also in attendance. The meeting that followed proved to be an exercise in humiliation, and one of the longest half hours of Trace’s life.

As they left the building a blush stained Jenny’s cheeks, and he thanked God for the summer tan that hid proof of his own embarrassment. He yanked on his hat and grimly set his teeth. If he had a nail he’d be chewing on it. “When I get my hands on that girl I swear I’ll dust her feathers.”

Jenny wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m certain she meant no harm. And Miss Blackstone realized the … uh, stories … Maribeth told about us couldn’t be true.”

“She’s only nine years old, by God! I haven’t taught her about… that. Where did she learn it? Who told her? That’s what I want to know.”

They walked together toward the wagon Trace had driven to the school, having delivered four cases of whiskey to a private home on his way to the meeting. Beside the buckboard, he paused. Unwilling to appear ungentlemanly on the heels of his daughter’s devilment, he offered Jenny a ride back to the Rankin Building, half-hoping she’d decline.

She accepted. He refused to acknowledge the ripple of rightness he felt at having her seated beside him.

She smelled like soap. Nothing fancy, just clean and fresh. He’d noticed it first in Miss Blackstone’s classroom amidst the autumn odor of chalk and children. Her scent teased him, luring his thoughts in a direction they didn’t need to go.

She made a couple of attempts at conversation, but Trace wasn’t in the mood to chat. They completed the trip to Fortune’s Design with an uncomfortable silence hanging between them.

His tenant had recently added awnings to the front of her shop, and the green-and-white striped canvas flapped in the breeze as Trace jumped down from the buckboard. As his boots hit the dry red dirt on Throckmorton Street, Katrina shouted from an open window upstairs. “Papa, oh Papa,” she cried, leaning farther out than was safe. “We’re so glad you’re home.”

Emma’s head joined her sister’s. “Please hurry, Papa. We have something important to tell you.”

Trace had a few things to say, himself. He called up to his daughters. “Y’all back away from that window. And tell your sister I said to meet me in the parlor. In fact, I might as well talk to all three of you.”

“But Papa!”

The welcome bell in Jenny’s shop sounded a tinkle. Trace turned his head to see a stunning woman dressed in a stylish traveling suit of royal-blue serge step from inside. “Well. There you are. No wonder your business is failing if you leave it unattended all the time.”

“Mother?” Jenny said incredulously. “What are you doing here?”

Her mother
. So this was the infamous Monique Day. Trace’s gaze swept the older woman, taking in at a glance the fine bone structure, radiant complexion, and curvaceous figure. He should have recognized the lady immediately. Jenny looked just like her.

He glanced from the women to the upstairs window where now all three of his daughters leaned dangerously over the sill. He lifted his hand to wave them back inside at the same time a man stepped from inside the shop.

Younger than Trace and impeccably dressed, the tall man smoothed a finger over his dark mustache, smiled warmly, and said, “Hello, Jenny darling.”

Jenny darling?
Trace looked at the dressmaker. Was that surprise he saw in her expression? Shock? He tied the reins to a hitching post, his gaze flicking between Jenny and the dandy who called her darling.

She finally cleared her throat, nodded, and replied, “Hello, Edmund.”

Edmund. So, his name was Edmund. Trace’s mouth suddenly tasted sour. Who the hell was Edmund?

“You’re surprised to see me here, are you not, my dear?” Edmund moved forward, lifting a hand to assist Jenny from the wagon.

Trace stepped right in front of him, grabbed the seamstress around the waist, and swung her to the ground.

The stranger’s eyes flashed a protest. “I say, man!”

“Nothing I imagine I want to hear,” Trace drawled.

As the two men squared off like bantam roosters, Monique glanced eagerly from one to the other. “My goodness, Jenny. Who is this man? This situation has shades of one of my dramas. Perhaps we should all go inside before—”

Jenny made brief introductions all around. Trace learned the man’s surname. Wharton. Edmund Wharton. Wharton Shipping was a big concern out of Galveston. Did this dandy have a connection with them?

Dismissing the men, Jenny frowned at her mother. “Did you and Edmund cross paths here in Fort Worth?”

“No, he traveled with me. We’ve just arrived from the coast.”

Trace didn’t miss the way Jenny’s mouth dropped open in surprise as she asked, “You’re traveling with Edmund now?”

Monique gave her a look. “Don’t be gauche. I am being faithful to your father during this marriage. I have told you that.” Then she flashed Wharton a smile. “Edmund has been such a dear. We have plans, Jenny, grand plans. And they involve you.”

“Why is it I don’t want to hear this?” Jenny questioned of no one in particular.

At that moment the apartment’s front door banged open and a trio of petticoats and pigtails burst onto the scene. “What’s taking you so long, Papa?” Maribeth asked, folding her arms and looking downright peevish.

Katrina flung herself at his knees, and Emma hung back, wringing her hands. “Don’t be mad, Papa. We simply couldn’t stay upstairs any longer. You said not to leave until you came home, but you’re home now so we shouldn’t be in trouble, right?”

“Never mind trouble, Emmie,” Katrina said against his shoulder. “We have a ‘mergency.”

Trace looked at his two older daughters, noting their fearful expressions. “Emergency?”

“Yes!” The three girls exclaimed as one.

The dressmaker stepped toward them. “Girls? What has happened?”

“It’s awful, Miss Fortune.” Maribeth glared at Edmund Wharton.

“Truly terrible,” Emma agreed, fastening her unforgiving stare on Monique Day.

“The most terrible awfullest worstest thing,” Katrina cried, wrenching herself from her father’s arms. With her flare for the dramatic, she stepped forward, put one hand on her hip, and extended the other arm, her finger pointed at Edmund Wharton’s face. “That man has come to steal you away from us. We heard the whole story.”

Emma nodded and grasped Jenny’s hand. “He says he’s come to Fort Worth to marry you!”

It is bad luck to have a rabbit cross your path from right to left
.

CHAPTER 8

AN UNUSUAL, YAWNING ACHE spread outward from Trace’s heart, catching him by surprise as he turned to Jenny.

She said, “Oh.”

That was all.

Then the girls all began talking at once. They protested, challenged, and generally acted extremely upset. As the situation deteriorated, Trace stood woodenly through it all, assaulted by the vague sensation that he was about to forfeit something he hadn’t realized he wanted.

After giving Trace a curious look, Monique Day took charge by shooing Wharton and Jenny inside the shop. But when Trace made to follow, his daughters trailing like three little ducklings at his heels, Monique blocked the doorway, her smile gracious but the light in her eyes unyielding. “Family business, Mr. McBride. I’m certain you understand.”

He understood, all right, and he didn’t like it one little bit. Jenny’s dazed expression made him downright uncomfortable. “Mrs. Fortune,” he began.

“Day,” she corrected. “Monique Day. Please call me Monique. I do feel badly about rushing you away. Perhaps you and your family would care to join us for dinner later this evening at the Cosmopolitan Hotel?”

Trace hesitated. This was a school night; he should put the girls to bed early. But they needed supper one way or the other. What would it hurt? “Thank you, ma’am— uh, Monique. I accept the invitation.”

He ushered his daughters upstairs, hating to leave Jenny in the hands of this fancy-man Wharton who called the dressmaker “darling.”

The moment the shop’s front door shut behind Trace and his children, Jenny looked from her mother to Edmund Wharton, then back to her mother again. “Would someone care to explain just what is going on?”

Monique’s smile blossomed like a peach tree in spring. “It’s perfect, dear. I’ve taken the germ of an idea and nurtured it into a full-blown scheme.”

Jenny leaned against her worktable and stifled a weary sigh. This was just like her mother.

“Your mother and I have solved your problems,” Edmund’s voice resounded. “Our plan is simple and to the point. We need only your agreement to put it into motion.”

“That’s right.” Monique opened the door of Jenny’s display case and removed a silk fan. Studying the butterflies painted on its face, she explained, “Edmund needs to marry, too. After I left here last time I remembered a conversation I had with his mother. I fear there’s been a scandal of some sort involving him and …” Her mouth dipping in a frown, she sought the name from her memory.

“Elizabeth Randolf,” Edmund supplied with a laconic smile.

“That’s right. The Randolfs are in banking, I believe. I’ve met the family on a number of occasions. The daughter is a beauty, but that mother of hers has woefully neglected her teeth. Why, if I were her, I’d—”

“Moth—er,” Jenny protested.

Monique batted the fan and wrinkled her nose at her daughter. “Anyway, Edmund’s moth—er explained that her son’s scandal involving the shipping magnate’s daughter threatened the Wharton family’s personal fortune. His father has issued an ultimatum: Find a wife and settle down or risk disinheritance.”

Jenny looked at Edmund. Leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, he lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. She wasn’t surprised by his predicament. It fit with everything she knew about the man.

She had met Thomas Edmund Wharton III last year while visiting her mother in Galveston. He had declared himself smitten within hours of their first meeting, and he had pursued her from that moment on. Jenny had found his attentions flattering at first, but her opinion changed following an incident during the second week of her visit.

While her mother was busy taking the island society by storm, Jenny had sneaked off to a secluded beach to be alone and contemplate the proposition she intended to pose to her father the next time she saw him—the idea of moving away and starting her own business.

The day had been warm, the gulf waters inviting. Believing herself to be quite alone, Jenny had indulged in a swim, dressed in only her chemise and drawers. She’d been gliding along in chest-high water when she met up with the shark named Wharton.

Flashing an enormous smile, he informed her that Monique had sent him to bring her daughter back to Wharton mansion for afternoon tea. He urged her to continue her swim, stating that they weren’t in a hurry and that he’d enjoy the opportunity to spend time with her. He swam in circles around her, offering views and opinions of popular topics of conversation. Although he acted the gentleman, Jenny found herself eyeing his back for a dorsal fin. She’d headed for the beach as quickly as possible. He’d sworn to avert his eyes as she exited the water, but the heat of his gaze was tangible as she gathered her clothes and dashed for the cover of the dunes.

From that moment on, she could not look at Edmund Wharton III without picturing him as a shark who swam on land. Over the months that followed, he’d continued his pursuit every time circumstances placed him and Jenny in the same location at the same time. This was the first time, however, he had migrated to the waters of Fort Worth, Texas.

Jenny found herself glancing around the shop for a harpoon. She addressed Edmund. “You don’t mind my mother telling this story?”

“Not at all.”

Jenny pulled out her work chair and sat down. She had the distinct feeling she’d best save her strength to get through the remainder of the day.

Monique continued. “Once I remembered Edmund’s trouble, I realized I had the perfect solution for you both. I telegraphed him and here we are.” She snapped the fan shut with a flourish.

“And your ‘perfect solution’ for me is marrying Edmund?”

“Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Wonderful is hardly how I’d describe it, Mother.”

Edmund pushed away from the wall. “Monique has told me how important your dress shop is to you, and I’ve agreed to do what I can to help you keep it. I suggest we live together long enough to satisfy my father’s edict and reverse the townspeople’s fears about the Bad Luck Wedding Dress. After that, we may enjoy a more liberal, less restrictive marital state.”

“It’s how your father and I structured our second marriage,” Monique informed her. “It worked fine for a time. Had Mr. Montgomery not become so … proprietary, I believe the experiment would have had a more satisfactory outcome.”

Mr. Montgomery, a south Texas cotton planter, hadn’t understood the dynamics of Richard and Monique’s arrangement, and Jenny remembered the duel between her father and the gentleman to this day. Thank God they both were such pitiful shots.

For a few minutes Jenny sat and thought about her mother’s idea. A more liberal, less restrictive married state, he’d said. She knew firsthand just how unfair such an agreement was on children. She wouldn’t dream of bringing a child of hers into such a situation. Was she willing to give up future daughters or sons for the sake of Fortune’s Design? A few weeks ago, she wouldn’t have hesitated to say yes.

But a few weeks ago, she hadn’t grown to love the McBride Menaces.

“I appreciate the effort to which both you and Edmund have gone,” she said. “I’ll need time to think about it.” Standing, she continued, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to check something in the back.”

What she wanted to do was escape for a bit. That and change her clothes. She’d made it a practice to keep a few things here at the shop, and now she was glad she did. Before the meeting this morning she’d donned her most stylish day dress in the hopes of gaining the schoolteacher’s patronage. Her choice, she silently insisted as she entered the dressing room, had nothing to do with the fact that she’d be seeing Trace McBride.

“Lot of good it did,” she muttered. The teacher obviously didn’t give a fig for fashion.

And Trace had walked away without looking back.

As Jenny yanked at the buttons on her bodice, her mother’s voice intruded. “Now, now. For a seamstress you’re being horribly rough with that fabric, Jenny. Please don’t be so careless.”

“Monique, I’d appreciate a little privacy.”

“You don’t need privacy; you need a husband. Tell me what the problem is so I can see to solving it.”

Jenny sighed. “I can’t tell you what the problem is because I don’t know what it is myself.” She might suspect, but she wasn’t about to admit it.

“Is it your father? Have you changed your mind about living with him?”

“No,” Jenny said without hesitation. “I do want to remain in Fort Worth. I want to restore the reputation of Fortune’s Design and make it the success it once was.”

“Then why aren’t you happier about the solution I— at great trouble I might add—have offered?” Monique paused and gave her daughter a considering look. “Don’t tell me you’ve managed on your own. Have you done it, Jenny? Did you find your own man to marry? Could it be this Mr. McBride? He’d a look about him. Possessiveness. It clung to him as nicely as that shirt he wore.”

Jenny heard Trace’s words echo through her mind.
Surety you didn’t think I was asking you to marry me
, he’d said.
I’ll never marry again
.

“No, Mother. I have no marital prospects at the moment.”

Monique tapped a finger against her mouth. After giving her daughter a long, considering look, she shrugged and said, “Yes, you do have a marital prospect. You have Edmund! He’s perfect. He needs you as much as you need him.”

Trace McBride needs me
. The thought flashed through Jenny’s mind as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. It was true. He did need her. For his children, and maybe even for himself. He was simply too big a fool to realize it.

He might need me, but he certainly doesn’t want me
.

Monique continued to talk, reiterating her arguments. Jenny listened, growing colder by the moment, and a grim smile spread across her face. She had more pride than to pursue a man who didn’t want her. It was time to forget about Trace McBride entirely, forget her foolish dreams.

Marriage to Edmund wouldn’t be all that bad. She’d regain her professional reputation. She’d have Fortune’s Design. Certainly, her fate could be worse. She could return to East Texas and work as her father’s research assistant.

Marry Edmund and save Fortune’s Design. Save her independence, her autonomy. Monique was right. It was a perfect solution.

If it made her want to cry, so what?

She exhaled the breath she had been holding and exited the dressing room. Edmund leaned against her work-table, flipping through a sketch book. When he looked up, Jenny nodded and said, “All right. I’ll marry you, Edmund. As soon as possible, if you don’t mind.”

He flashed a mouthful of teeth and walked toward her. As Edmund’s mouth swooped down on hers for a kiss, she shuddered and wondered,
Dear Lord, what have I done?

AFTER LEAVING Fortune’s Design, Trace sent the girls upstairs while he unloaded foodstuffs from the back of the wagon. Returning the conveyance to the wagonyard could wait, he decided, hoisting a pair of boxes into his arms. Experience had taught him that leaving the girls alone for more than a few minutes when they were this upset invited trouble.

Besides, he sort of wanted to keep an eye on the situation downstairs.

As he climbed the steps to his apartment, his thoughts focused on Edmund Wharton. Trace didn’t like the look of the fellow one bit. His eyes were too close together, and he had an oily look about him. A fellow like that couldn’t be trusted.

Trace knew men like Wharton; he made his living off men like Wharton. They came to the Acre to drink away their troubles, gamble away their money, and throw away their marriage vows by bedding the whores.

Jenny Fortune deserved better.

Trace entered his apartment, dumped the boxes on the kitchen floor, then headed straight for his bedroom where his daughters were already in position, monitoring the events taking place in Fortune’s Design.

Emma lifted her eye from the knothole in the floor and begged, “Papa, don’t make us leave. Please. This truly is an emergency. You won’t believe what’s happened.”

Trace shook his head. “Scoot over, Emmie.”

“But Papa!”

“Hush, sweets. We won’t be able to hear a thing if you keep yammering.” With that Trace dropped to his hands and knees and put his eye to the spy hole.

What he saw made him seethe.

Thomas Edmund Wharton III was kissing Jenny Fortune.

FORT WORTH had seen more than its share of strange sights over the years. In a rowdy town of buffalo hunters and whores, cowboys and tycoons, bizarre incidents often proved the order of the day. But the sight that got the town to talking, the event that created more wind than a west Texas dust storm, was the gathering that took place in the restaurant of the Cosmopolitan Hotel that evening.

Mr. Thomas Edmund Wharton III, dapper in gray pinstripes, entered the dining salon with a beautiful woman on each arm. On his left walked the talented, notorious sculptress, Monique Day. On his right was Monique’s daughter, Jenny, infamous as the creator of The Bad Luck Wedding Dress. They took their seats with quiet aplomb, and the gentleman made a show of ordering a bottle of the Cosmopolitan’s best champagne.

As appealing as the two women proved to be, it was another sight entirely that stopped people on the street. A crowd gathered, pointing and murmuring as they gazed through the plate-glass window into the hotel dining room.

Trace McBride had brought his Menaces to dine in public.

“If a man didn’t know better, he might label those three pretty little girls angels,” a portly gentleman observed. “All dressed up in ruffles and bows, they certainly look the part.”

“Table manners!” a matron noted, shaking her head in disbelief. “Who would have ever thought.”

Finally Trace asked the waiter to see that the window curtains were closed. “I feel like a monkey in a cage,” he whispered to Maribeth.

“In a circus wagon, Papa,” Katrina piped up. “Did you hear the news? P. T. Barnum is bringing his circus to town. Isn’t it exciting?”

Jenny, in the first natural action Trace had seen in her that night, offered Katrina a conspiratorial smile. “Yes, it is. I can’t wait. The animals. The acrobats. It sounds so exciting.”