The Emperor's New Clothes (6 page)

“Big Jack Matthews?” Jenny collapsed onto the bed in a heap of disbelief. “But you said he was so nice.”

“He is nice, and obscenely rich to boot. That's why this will work so wonderfully well. Don't you understand?” Ophelia perched on the bed beside her sister. “First of all, nice people usually believe the best of others. That's why they're so easy to fool. Secondly, nice people who also have money tend not to be quite as upset about losing some of it as unpleasant people who have money or people who have no money at all.”

“You're really going to dupe him out of his money?”
Jenny cast her a look that fell somewhere between abject wonder and sheer horror.

Ophelia sighed. “How do you think I've been supporting us for the past six years?”

“You've always said you didn't cheat.” Jenny glared.

“Well, I don't for the most part,” Ophelia said sharply.

Jenny narrowed her eyes. “And do you steal?”

“Not generally,” Ophelia hedged.

“Have you ever swindled anyone?”

“I've had my moments.” Ophelia clenched her teeth. “But I suppose not in the strictest definition of the word, at least not in any significant way.”

“So, right now, you—I mean we—haven't really done anything terribly illegal.”

Ophelia thought for a moment. “Not terribly, no.”

Jenny threw her sister a pleading look. “Then why start now?”

“Jenny.” Ophelia struggled to remain patient. “We need to settle down. We need to have a real home. But that takes money and we don't have any. This is the perfect opportunity to change our circumstances. A chance that may only come along once. I refuse to pass it up.”

“But it's wrong,” Jenny cried.

“Wrong is relative.” Ophelia waved her hand blithely. “It's not as if I was suggesting something exceptionally vile. For example, I would never steal from orphans.”

“It's good to know you'll draw the line somewhere,” Jenny snapped.

“Well, I do have my standards.” Ophelia's manner was lofty. “And if you look at this properly, we're orphans ourselves. I'm certain Big Jack wouldn't mind contributing to the health and well-being of orphans.”

Hope glimmered in Jenny's eye. “Then why don't you just ask him for the money?”

“Jenny!” Ophelia gasped. “That would be charity.” She shook her head. “I could never take money given as charity.”

“No,” Jenny groaned, “you'd rather steal it.”

“It's much more fun that way.” Ophelia grinned. “But I'm really not talking about actual thievery here. I shall have to work very hard. Why, it's almost a legitimate…job. You could even call it good, honest work.”

“Work?” Jenny buried her face in her hands and groaned. She peeked at her sister through her fingers. “Only your convoluted way of thinking would see swindling as a job.”

“Thank you,” Ophelia said modestly.

Jenny picked the book up off the bed where Ophelia had tossed it, stared for a long moment, then heaved a heavy sigh of resignation. “What exactly are you planning to do?”

Ophelia pulled her brows together in consideration. “I don't know yet.” She rose to her feet and paced the room. “It seems to me there is a great deal of potential here, but I can't quite put my finger on it.”

“Well, you can't very well try to sell them fabric that doesn't exist,” Jenny said in a matter-of-fact manner. “Besides, I doubt anyone in Dead End, Wyoming, is particularly interested in the latest fashion.”

“No, not fashion,” Ophelia said thoughtfully. What were these people interested in? The answer seemed to linger just out of reach. What was it Tye Matthews had said tonight? “That's it.” She clapped her hands together with delight.

“Wonderful.” Jenny's voice carried all the enthusiasm of a doomed man waiting his turn for the gallows. “What's it?”

“What the fair residents of Dead End—pardon me, I mean Empire City—want.”

“And what do they want?” Jenny studied her with a wary eye.

“Civilization. Respectability. Sophistication!” Ophelia fairly crowed with delight.

“And you're going to try to sell them that?” Jenny raised a skeptical brow. “It's hard to believe anybody, outside of a fairy tale, would be that witless.”

Ophelia smiled sweetly. “Don't forget, these are nice people.”

Jenny shook her head in disgust. “Just what are you going to do?”

“I haven't the vaguest idea.” Ophelia planted her hands on her hips and directed an irritated glare at the younger girl. “And I do wish you would stop asking me. I'll come up with a plan and it shall be quite brilliant.”

“Brilliant?” Jenny raised a skeptical brow. “It had better be if you're going to sell this town respectability.”

“Not me.” Ophelia cast her a triumphant glance. “The Countess of Bilgewater.”

“Bridgewater.” Jenny groaned.

Ophelia barely heard her sister's correction. Far too many plots and schemes flew through her head to allow the acknowledgment of petty details. At any rate, it scarcely seemed to matter what she called herself. It was simply a role in a play that had now taken on the proportions of a command performance.

A command performance that could set the stage for the rest of their lives.

 

The stars spilled across the heavens and the blue-black Wyoming sky seemed to stretch forever, the serenity of the night disturbed only by the sounds of nature herself and the muffled, rhythmic clop of his horse's hooves on the hard-packed ground. It was a hell of a night to be alive.

Ever since Tye had started back to his place, long after the party had ended and way past the point when he'd thought the countess might yet return downstairs for a breath of fresh air or a late-night snack or to see if he was still around, an insane feeling of buoyant expectation had clung to him. He couldn't stop grinning. He wanted to laugh out loud. He wished the evening would never end.

She was something, all right. Pretty, sharp-witted for the most part, with a subtle sense of absurdity that put a sparkle in her eyes and a smile in his. To top it off, she was rich and a widow. Not that he cared about the money, of course, even if it would make his life easier.

In spite of the encouraging looks he'd received from his aunt whenever he went near the countess, he had no desire for a wife. And a wife was exactly what he suspected was next on his aunt's list of what she wanted for his life. It wasn't enough that he'd spent five long years getting what Lorelie referred to as “polish.” She hadn't said anything yet, but the speculative look in her eye tonight had told him what new, diabolical plan was simmering in that clever little brain of hers. Lorelie Matthews probably couldn't find her way home in the dark, but Tye had long ago learned that in many respects, she was not nearly as light-headed as she usually appeared.

But this time, she'd lose. He didn't want a wife. Not now. Not ever. But a widow—his grin widened—that was another matter. Widows were women of the world, experienced and relaxed about the intimacies that naturally developed when mutual attraction was as strong as that between him and the countess. And he was confident, simply from the way her body seemed to fit so perfectly with his, that she was as attracted to him as he was to her.

Funny thing, though. He pulled his brows together
with the unsettling thought. The blasted woman had almost seemed to be avoiding him tonight. Maybe she was simply a lot more reserved, possible even shyer, than she looked.

“What do you think, Whiskey?”

The blood bay beneath him nickered her assent. Tye chuckled. He could always trust Whiskey to agree with him. After all, if a man couldn't depend on his horse, who could he count on?

Certainly not his closest friend. At least not where women were concerned. He'd seen the way Sedge had pursued the countess when he'd first spotted her. Although, as the evening progressed, the Englishman had seemed to ease up on his attention to her. Strange. It wasn't Sedge's usual technique.

“Maybe he's already given up.” Tye patted Whiskey's neck absently. “Maybe he's conceding this one to me.”

The mare whinnied, and Tye laughed. “You're right, old girl, Sedge would never admit defeat so easily. Not with a woman like this.”

No, not with this woman. She was damn near irresistible, with hair a deep, dark red just a shade lighter than his horse, and eyes the intense green of an exotic gem or rich, spring grass. And her voice. Lilting and lush and just a bit husky, with an accent that melted something deep inside him. Hell, when it came to women, he loved a foreign accent. Especially when it fell from lips full and ripe and made to be kissed.

He noticed, though, her inflection was somewhat different from Sedge's. Her pronunciation seemed much more precise than his friend's. In fact, it reminded Tye of the Shakespearean plays he'd enjoyed back East. Oh, well, it didn't much matter. Sedge and the countess apparently weren't from the same part of England, and the difference in their accents was no doubt due to that. There were probably regional
speech differences in their country the same way there were in the United States.

Not that he really cared one way or another. Why, he didn't mind if the woman never opened her mouth again. Well, not to talk anyway. As much as he liked her voice, it was neither the only nor the most important thing about her that made his blood race and his temperature rise.

Even her name was taken straight from the plays of the master. Ophelia. Of all the worthless subjects he was forced to study in college, Shakespeare was damn near the only thing he actually liked. He'd even brought home a collection of the Bard's works that now sat proudly on a shelf in his parlor. Maybe he'd dust them off when he got home and refresh his memory. Who knows? A few classic phrases just might help in his campaign to win her fancy.

It had been a long time since a woman triggered this kind of demanding need and unrelenting desire. He shifted uncomfortably on the saddle at the very thought. He wanted this woman and wanted her bad. Maybe it was just that she was the first female he'd met since he'd returned home that seemed worth the trouble. Maybe it was just the challenge of another friendly contest with Sedge to win squatting rights to one more female. Or maybe it had just been too damn long since he'd had a beautiful woman in his bed.

Again, a wide grin stretched his face. She'd warm his bed and soon. He'd lost to Sedge before, but he liked to believe his friend only came out on top in those cases where he himself didn't try quite as hard as he could. There would be no defeat this time. The Countess of Bridgewater—Ophelia—would be his for as long as he wanted her. After that? Tye shrugged to himself. That was one of the beauties of wooing widows, es
pecially rich ones. Rarely were they looking for a lifetime commitment.

He chuckled aloud. “Women of the world, Whiskey.” The bay pricked up her ears. “There's nothing like 'em.”

He'd be on hand tomorrow, when Big Jack had promised to show her around the ranch. And tomorrow night for the dinner that was planned. And every day and every night for as long as it took to win the favors of the lovely lady. Even with Sedge doing his level best to distract her, Tye didn't doubt his own success. There wasn't any question about it.

In no time at all, the fair Ophelia would be his.

Ophelia stepped onto the broad veranda of the Matthews house and breathed a sigh of relief. A shining, dark green surrey sat just a few feet from the front steps. The dainty two-seater was perfect. Thank goodness she was not expected to tour the ranch on horseback. Not that she could, of course. While her sister knew she couldn't ride, even Jenny didn't suspect Ophelia's abiding dislike of horses. The very thought of being forced to sit on one of those huge, nasty, brutish creatures sent a cascade of shudders through her. Even facing the backside of a horse from the vantage point of a carriage was preferable to being forced to balance precariously on one.

That would not be a problem today. Ophelia nodded with satisfaction, opened her parasol and stepped lightly down the stairs, scanning the grounds for Big Jack. He said he'd meet her out here, but right now was nowhere to be seen. No matter. She could use a
few quiet moments to enjoy what promised to be a delightful day.

She closed her eyes, pulled her hat off and tilted her head toward the morning sun. Warmth kissed her face like a well-loved friend, and she welcomed the restorative rays seeping into her flesh and into her soul. It was terribly unfashionable, but she did so adore the touch of the sun on her skin. With it she was alive and vital and strong, as if she could conquer the whole world. Or just a tiny part of it. She smiled. This tiny part of it preferably. Soon she would have Big Jack and the residents of Dead End in the palm of her hand, ready and willing to give her what she needed in life. If she could only figure out exactly how…

“Countess?”

Ophelia's eyes snapped open at the familiar voice, and her stomach knotted. She slapped her hat back on her head, hoping her cool tone hid the irritation surging through her. “Mr.—or rather, Mayor Matthews.”

“Ma'am.” Tye touched the brim of his hat in what passed for a greeting, and smiled down at her from his perch on a massive red horse. Goodness, he certainly was attractive. “My uncle said he was showing you around today.”

“That's correct,” she said, her manner crisp and no-nonsense. Maybe if she was cold enough to him, the damned man would simply go away. “He should be here any minute now.”

Tye chuckled. “Probably got sidetracked. That happens a lot. Jack gets awfully busy around here.”

“Perhaps I should go inside and see how long he's been delayed.” Ophelia nodded sharply in dismissal, turned and stepped up the stairs, eager to escape from the scrutiny of eyes that seemed even darker in the light of day than at night.

“What's your hurry, Countess?” The drawled words
shivered through her blood, and she stopped short. There was a challenge in his tone that she couldn't ignore. Even if she wanted to.

She turned slowly back to him. A teasing smile played about his lips, and there was a gleam in his eye. She'd seen that gleam before. Always in the eyes of men who didn't seem to realize that just because a girl knew how to play a good hand of poker, it didn't mean she was willing to indulge in other forms of entertainment as well. Games with stakes far higher than she'd ever cared to risk. Her spine stiffened and she stared with as regal an attitude as she could muster.

“You're quite mistaken, Mayor. I am in no particular hurry whatsoever.” She lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “I would assume, however, that the myriad responsibilities of your office would demand your attention elsewhere.”

He raised an amused brow. “But Countess, you
are
one of my responsibilities. Duty demands I help escort you around the ranch.”

“That scarcely seems necessary.” She forced a light-hearted note. “I'm quite certain your uncle is more than capable of showing me the sights. So you see, your presence is really not needed at all.” She cast him a condescending smile. “Surely, the mayor of a community such as yours would have more pressing demands upon his time than playing the part of…tour guide.”

His grin didn't waver, but a speculative glint appeared in his eye. Good. She'd rather have him curious than lecherous. His suspicion she could handle. His lust she wasn't quite sure about.

“Well, Countess…” He pulled his hat off thoughtfully and slapped it against a firm, muscular thigh. A cloud of dust puffed outward, and she resisted the impulse to sneeze. “When I was on the Continent…”

“Europe?” Her voice jumped with astonishment.

“Um-hum. That's the continent in question.” He replaced his hat. “I've surprised you again, haven't I?”

“Oh, no.” Her words came out in a rush. “I've always considered Europe to be the Continent too.”

Confusion crossed his face, and the tension within her eased slightly. She'd been right last night. The best way to keep this man off guard was to keep him as confused as possible. And the surest method to accomplish that was to imitate the scatterbrained charm of his aunt. She smiled innocently. “You were saying?”

“I was, wasn't I?” He shook his head and cast her a bemused smile that quirked up the corners of his lips and stabbed at something deep inside her. “Oh, yeah, I was talking about the tour guides. You could spot them a mile off, leading tourists around like a herd of stupid, confused woollies.” He chuckled. “Funniest thing I ever saw, especially amidst the ruins in Rome and Pompeii. Don't you agree?”

She laughed lightly. She'd never seen a tour guide in her life. “Oh, indeed. It does seem quite ludicrous at times.”

“I guess it's all part of the experience.” He shook his head in amused disbelief. “My aunt and uncle insisted on my taking the grand tour. Lorelie said it would be broadening.”

“Travel is extremely broadening,” she said in a superior manner as if she knew what she was talking about. She had indeed traveled her entire life, but only from one theater to another. Her father had been gradually working his way to California when he'd died, and he used to talk about getting to Europe one day. Ophelia hadn't even seen the big cities of the East since she was very young, and she'd never been outside America.

He raised a brow. “I imagine people in your kind of
social circle do a great deal of traveling.”

“Constantly.” She sighed, as if the topic was too mundane to dwell on, but her mind raced. What the hell did she know about traveling as a countess? When it came right down to it, what did she know about traveling with money in her pocket?

“I have to admit,” he said, “in spite of my initial reluctance, I rather enjoyed the sights of Europe.” He cast her a wry smile.

“Well,” she said, laughing lightly, “who doesn't?”

He shifted on his horse as if he was settling in for a long dissertation on the joys of Old World tourism. Just what she needed. Unless it was the setting of a play, she knew nothing about Europe. And she hated a production without a script.

“I did enjoy Paris,” he said thoughtfully. “Although the French do seem to look down their noses at anyone who isn't French.” Gad, what had happened to the “aw, shucks,” down-home quality of his voice? All of a sudden he sounded exactly like a well-bred, distinguished gentleman. What had happened to the cowboy-mayor? Abruptly she wondered: Who was the better actor here, he or she?

“That is always so disagreeable,” she said quickly, hoping she was right.

“I suppose you really can't blame them, though. Paris is really something.”

“Without question.” Paris? She searched her mind frantically. Did Shakespeare ever set anything in Paris?

“It's probably old hat for you.” He gazed at her curiously. “I imagine you've visited a great many cities just as impressive. Where have you traveled?”

“Oh, here and there.” St. Louis, Chicago, Kansas City. She waved an airy hand. “Around and about. You understand.”

He nodded. “Did your husband like to travel as well?”

“My husband?” Who?

He pulled his brows together in a questioning frown. “Your husband? The count?”

Oh, that husband. “My, yes. Dear, dear Albert. He did so enjoy traveling. And he always did like Paris best.”

“I think I enjoyed Italy the most,” Tye said. “Do you like Rome?”

Rome? The setting for
Julius Caesar?
“Indeed.” She nodded enthusiastically. “The city of the Caesars. It's quite fascinating.”

“But Venice was probably my favorite city.”

The Merchant of Venice
. “Venice is lovely.”

“What did you like best?”

“Best?” She racked her brain.
All that glitters is not gold
. Great, that one line she could remember. Was there anything in the damned play about the city itself? Absolutely nothing came to mind. She shrugged in a vague gesture. “It's so terribly difficult to pinpoint one particular thing. It's simply an amazing place. What did you like best?”

“The way the city's built on water, perhaps,” he said. “It's a fascinating feat of engineering.”

“Fascinating,” she echoed.

“But I think it was the light in Venice that I remember most.”

“The light?” What in the hell was he talking about?

He nodded. “The sunlight. It's different there somehow. It seems almost golden. I believe that's why it's so popular with artists.” His gaze pinned hers. “And lovers.”

“Lovers?” Even to her own ears her voice sounded higher than normal.

He nodded. “The light casts something of a magical glow on everything. It serves not merely to illuminate, but almost seems to caress each person it touches.”

The intensity in his voice seemed to caress as well.
She swallowed hard. “It does?”

“Um-hum.” With him on his horse and her on the porch, they were at eye level. It was a dangerous place to be. She couldn't seem to pull away from the smoldering depths of his gaze. His eyes seemed to draw her inward, and without thinking she stepped closer. “And it's not just by day. Surely you remember the moonlight in Venice.”

“The moonlight?” Her voice was breathless. “Oh…my…yes.”

“The moonlight casts a spell all its own.” His voice was as seductive as his eyes, and again she stepped toward him until she was but a few inches away. At once all she wanted was to lose herself in that voice, drown in those eyes, feel the pressure of his lips on hers.

“A spell.” She sighed.

“The moonlight in Venice was made for love.” He leaned forward, and she wondered if he meant to kiss her.

She'd been kissed before, of course. Grabbed and forced to endure the sloppy smacks of men who believed she could be had with a fine phrase. They'd always paid for it. Usually a slap across the face made her point. Now and then she'd have to brandish the derringer she usually kept conveniently secreted on her person. And occasionally she'd have to resort to a knee planted swiftly in that most vulnerable spot of male pride and lust. But she'd never, ever returned their desire. Never, ever particularly wanted to be kissed.

Never, ever. Until now.

“Was it, do you think?” she said softly, drawing closer to him. So close the hot, heady scent of bay rum and man drifted around her. “Made for lovers?”

“I'm certain of it.” He leaned forward precariously, tipped her chin up with two strong, tan fingers and
stared into her eyes. Her breath caught at the blatant desire she saw there and her own shocking yearning. For the first time in her life she wanted what she knew this man was about to offer. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. “And Venice is lovely this time of year.”

“Lovely,” she whispered. Gad, he was going to kiss her. And Lord help her, she was going to kiss him back.

His lips brushed against hers lightly, and she gasped at the shock of sensation that rushed through her. Maybe it was her sharp intake of breath. Maybe his balance in the saddle was off. Or maybe his horse didn't like her any more than she liked it.

Abruptly, the beast emitted one of those revolting animal noises that sounded like a cross between a snort and a snicker. She jumped back and glared at the animal.

“Hell and damnation,” she snapped.

“What?” Tye's eyes widened with surprise.

“Oh, dear! I mean…um…” What
did
she mean? “Bloody hell.”

The creature responded with that nasty noise again. It was definitely a snicker. The beast was snickering at her.

Tye laughed and slid from his saddle. In two steps he was beside her on the porch, pulling her into his arms. “Now, where were we before Whiskey decided to put her two cents in?”

She stared at him, and for a brief moment wanted to give in to the still-lingering desire that had been so very tempting. But the satisfied look on his handsome face triggered a swift return of her senses. Where were they? Why, she was about to sacrifice herself to this far too confident, much too fast-talking charmer of a cowboy.

She pushed against him roughly and stepped away.
“You presume too much, Mayor.”

“Do I?” The smug smile remained firmly in place. Tye crossed his arms and leaned against the porch rail. “You didn't seem to mind a moment ago.”

“I was merely being…polite.”

“Polite?” He scoffed. “If that's what you call polite, I'd love to see you being downright friendly.”

“Mr. Matthews!”

“It seems to me we were simply having a pleasant conversation about Venice…and moonlight.”

“Yes, well.” She struggled to regain her composure. “We are not in Venice and it's broad daylight. There's no moonlight whatsoever.”

“You're right about that.” A slow, easy smile spread across his face, and a wicked twinkle danced in his eye. “But next to Venice, Wyoming moonlight is a close second. The moon here is so big you can practically reach out and touch it. I'd expect artists would appreciate it here, and…lovers.”

“Well,” she said haughtily, adjusting her parasol, “I have no intention of finding out. I am not of an artistic nature.”