Wildblossom (11 page)

For Geoff's part, he wondered what she would say if he told her he'd never set a table before tonight. The entire experience of watching her cook and helping to prepare for their meal was deeply satisfying to him. He held out her chair, made a little gesture to invite her near, and was rewarded by a radiant smile as they sat down together. Alone.

"What's this?" Shelby asked, looking at the little pressed-glass goblets filled with deep ruby liquid beside each place.

"You were threatening to drink whiskey earlier, so I thought a bit of wine might take the chill out of our bones. I brought a few bottles with me from London. This one is a fine cabernet."

Shelby sipped appreciatively, thinking that it tasted like ambrosia. "I don't suppose you have food like this in England," she said, sounding rather apologetic.

"No," Geoff agreed with an enigmatic smile.

"What would you have for a usual supper?"

"Oh... Scotch broth. Turbot with lobster sauce. Mutton cutlets. Cabbage and rice... stewed cucumbers... stewed pears." He drizzled honey over a wedge of corn bread, sampled a bite, then smiled with honest pleasure. "Nothing nearly this good."

"You're making those up, aren't you?" Shelby couldn't help laughing. "To make me feel better, I mean! Who would eat such things?"

"The English. We stew and pickle foods regularly. It's rather a point of pride."

They laughed together. The lightning and thunder had passed over the ranch, and Shelby relaxed slightly. Nibbling on a piece of red potato, she said, "I suppose the boys are safe and they'll come home when the storm has passed, hmm? I mean, they're used to such weather."

"I'm sure you're right." He had eaten the last bit of stew on his plate, and said, "This is simply delicious. And it's odd that you have Blue Willow dishes; it's what we used for every day at our country house in Yorkshire when I was growing up. I was always much fonder of it than the gilt-edged china my mother favored."

"I chose this pattern myself before I came back from college in Massachusetts," Shelby said. "I never was much of one for a hope chest or anything so nonsensical, but I do have definite tastes of my own, and I knew I'd be unlikely to satisfy them in Deadwood." Shelby watched Geoff refill her glass and smiled. "So, I forced myself to spend one tiresome day buying some of the things I liked: the Blue Willow, a lot of Belgian lace that I've stored away, fine bed linens, some Eastern riding gear that I rarely use, and books. I do treasure my books. Unfortunately, Uncle Ben made me leave most of them at home... and I agreed, because I was worried that they might be damaged somehow. I wasn't sure what to expect in this wilderness, or what sort of home awaited me."

"I see. And what is all this about
The Eustace Diamonds
?" he asked softly, caught in the spell of the moment. The room was lit from the golden fires within, and by luminous rays of sunset piercing the thunder-heads outside. Shelby's radiance was brighter still. He looked down at her hand, resting near his on the tablecloth. "How did you know that Manypenny was reading Trollope? Have the two of you begun a private literary club?"

"Hardly." She found herself warming more and more to Geoff. His dry wit appealed very much to her intellect and her own sense of whimsy. Also, she liked his way of remaining calm under almost any circumstances, unlike Uncle Ben, and certainly unlike her. And finally, there was something more in Geoff's brown eyes that lent substance to his other, cooler traits. He looked at her with an unspoken sense of understanding that made her trust him in spite of all her efforts to resist. Emboldened by the wine, Shelby blurted, "Percy told me about your trunk full of books!"

He looked as if she'd slapped him. "For God's sake, do not call him
Percy
! I can assure you that he will not appreciate it when his senses are restored!"

Shelby beamed. "I thought, by your expression, that you were angry that I knew your secret."

"Secret? Nothing of the sort. Would you like to see the books? I'm afraid the trunk's very cumbersome, so we'll have to visit my bedchamber. Quite innocently, of course." He spoke lightly, pressed the napkin to his mouth, and pushed back his chair. "I'll help you with the dishes first."

"No—let's just put them in the sink for now—to soak." She could scarcely contain her excitement. "I can't wait! Oh, you have no idea how I've dreamed about your trunk full of books ever since Mr. Manypenny mentioned them days ago. He was sitting on the veranda, reading Trollope, and I was so envious! When he told me that you had dozens more, I confess that I harbored mean thoughts toward you..."

Geoff brought the bottle and both glasses as they walked toward his bedroom. "My dear Shelby, what are you talking about?"

"I thought you were a greedy book hoarder!"

He had a powerful longing to take her in his arms, but instead caressed her with his eyes. "I assure you that, had I been apprised of your passion for literature, I would have invited you into my chamber the night I arrived!"

"And I would probably have been shameless enough to accept."

They stood on the threshold of his bedroom, staring into each other's eyes, and an electric current seemed to pass between their bodies, like the bolts of lightning illuminating the evening sky. It was a feeling unlike anything either of them had ever experienced, and in that instant, they both stepped backward.

"I don't know—" he murmured.

"Maybe it's not..." Shelby whispered.

Geoff reminded himself that he was a civilized man. What was he afraid of?

Don't be a missish ninny! she scolded herself.

"After you, Miss Matthews." He gestured gallantly for her to precede him.

Heart pounding, Shelby walked into Geoffrey Weston's bedroom and listened as he came up behind her. The room smelled wonderfully of him, and the white iron bed seemed to fill her vision. It was covered with a frayed quilt, hand-stitched in the log cabin pattern, and one of Geoff's soft blue shirts lay casually across one side. There was an impression in the feather pillow from his head.

Shelby suddenly felt very hot, in spite of the stormy night.

Chapter 6

"The trunk..." Geoff was dismayed to find that he sounded hoarse. This wasn't at all the self-assured figure he wanted to cut. But then... hadn't he fled London society in search of just this sort of shaky, heart-pounding reminder that he was alive?

Wondering if he had condemned his tendency toward cool indifference a bit too hastily
,
he gestured toward the Louis Vuitton canvas-covered trunk. It was disconcerting to feel his gut tighten when Shelby looked into his eyes. What was it about her? Why hadn't he reacted this way in the presence of English females?

"Is it unlocked?" she asked, kneeling in front of the trunk at the foot of the bed. Her face shone. "I am so excited!"

"As am I," he murmured with a touch of irony.

She watched as he crouched beside her and lifted the lid, gesturing at the contents with one handsome hand. "Have at it."

"Oh.
Oh!
Look at these magnificent books!" They were all leather-bound, stamped in gold, and clearly cared for with love. It came to Shelby that it said a great deal about Geoff that he had needed his books so much that he was willing to risk damaging them by carting them all this way. When she picked up the first one and saw the title, her sense of wonder doubled.
"Ivanhoe!
I love this story! The scene when he returns from the Crusades and jousts, and they don't know who he is until he removes his helmet... !" She sighed, nearly giddy. "Oh, Geoff, even the paper is fine. You know, my parents have a beautiful library, but I don't think I've ever seen books as rich as these."

"Compliment accepted." He watched as she pulled off her boots and sat down on the floor, cross-legged in her divided skirt and stockinged feet. His fingers itched to reach out and pull the tortoise-shell pins from her hair and let it spill free.

"Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde!
Ooh!" Shelby pretended to shiver with horror. "Dare I read it? I adored
Treasure Island,
but my teachers thought this wasn't fit literature for a female, and then when I was in college I forgot about it."

Geoff joined her on the rug and leaned against the open trunk so that he faced her. Drawing off his own boots, he flexed his toes and remarked with a shrug, "It's more disturbing than conventionally scary, in my opinion, and certainly isn't everyone's cup of tea. But you seem a brave sort, and insightful. It's a fable, you see, crammed with insights into human nature and the struggle to balance good and evil."

"I'll read it, then." She set the book aside and took out others, exclaiming in delight either because she'd already read some books or because she'd been longing to.
Moby Dick
was at the top of her must-read list, Sherlock Holmes was a character she'd discovered the summer before, and Dickens had been a favorite of her girlhood. "I always was entranced by the characters' names, and I would cry and cry when tragedy befell them. I read
Great Expectations
at twelve and it made a tremendous impression on me."

Geoff tried to remember the last time
he'd been entranced—until now—and forgot to speak until she remarked upon his silence. "I was just thinking... that you are unlike any woman I've known in the past."

"Is that good?"

"Quite." He smiled at her in a way that made her cheeks color. "And you like my books even though there's nothing by Jane Austen, or the Bronte sisters...."

"I think I'll have more wine myself," Shelby said, and watched him reach for the bottle and pressed-glass cups. When they each held fresh portions, she offered a toast. "Here's to common interests and uncommon friendships." They were both lighthearted as their glasses clinked. Shelby savored her first sip, then reflected, "I will admit that I never would have imagined I could like someone like you. I know we agreed to leave your past in England, but I am curious. You're something
noble,
aren't you!" She wagged a finger at him in a faintly accusatory manner. "A duke?"

"No, not a duke... but, yes,
something.
I'd really prefer that we not—"

"All right, you don't have to say... but tell me this: What would you be doing if you were in London right now?"

Caught off guard, Geoff stared out the window for the moment. Rain continued to batter the windows, slanting across the ranch house in blurry sheets of water. Old-fashioned oil lamps provided the light for his room, reminders of the days before gas lighting, and the air was decidedly chilly. The rag rug on which they sat was scant protection from the hard, roughly sawn boards of the floor. And yet, Geoff felt more content in this rustic environment than he had in his own town house on the Thames, with its priceless rugs from the Orient, crystal gas-lit chandeliers, modern marble bathrooms, plush feather beds, servants to attend to every need, and motorcars in a newly constructed garage.

Shelby touched his arm. "Are you going to answer?"

"If I were in London tonight..." he replied slowly, "I'd be at the theater in the West End, or the symphony or opera. Or I might be dining in the home of a titled family, followed by a grand ball...."

Her eyes were wide, sparkling like sapphires. "Truly? But if that's so, why did you come here? We don't even have a phonograph, let alone the sort of entertainment you're used to."

"I'd really rather not discuss this—"

"Are you in
disgrace
?" Bracing her hand on the trunk, Shelby leaned forward and whispered in his ear. "Were you forced to flee to America to lie low until a shocking scandal dies down?"

A lazy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but—no, I came to Wyoming by choice. I don't expect you to understand, but I found those pastimes in London to be excruciatingly boring."

She studied him as he spoke, taking in his profile, etched in the glow of the lamplight, and the keen intelligence in his brown eyes. He was every inch a person of breeding, of quality: it was apparent without hearing his cultured accent and speech. Yet, Geoffrey Weston was acquiring a harder edge. Stubble glinted on his jaw, and his hair was tousled, curling behind his ears and over the collar of his tan flannel shirt. But though he might be toughening into a cowboy, he clung to certain civilized habits, like the washing up he'd done before supper tonight.