Lady X's Cowboy (13 page)

Throwing himself on the plush seat and stretching out his legs, he realized that the angry churning in his gut wasn’t his breakfast repeating on him.  It was jealousy, plain and simple.  He’d never really experienced it himself, since there wasn’t much out on the trail to get jealous about.  And the women he knew weren’t worth that kind of trouble.  Hell, there’d never been anything or anyone he’d wanted badly enough to get jealous about.

Seeing Olivia with Lawford was starting to change everything, though.  They looked mighty handsome together, two dark-haired people dressed in rich clothes, as though they stepped off the cover of
Harper’s
.  And the way Lawford talked was like Olivia, elegant and refined, not like the lower accents of the people who worked at Greywell’s, or even her servants.  Clearly, Olivia and Lawford came from the same world.  And they knew each other.  She called him her “old friend.”  The way Lawford tried to stare Will down meant no trespassing, keep off.

He’d been a cowpuncher almost his whole life.  The wind blew him around like a tumbleweed.  It didn’t bother him.  He was the man he was.  But then, near the time Jake had died, Will had started to be badgered by an odd feeling.  The feeling that there was something else he wanted, something that just brushed the tips of his fingers, and if he reached out to grab it, he would only push it farther away.  He thought maybe going to find his family would help get rid of his discontent, let him know just who he was.  It still might.  Then he could go back to Colorado, finally settle down.  Marry even, if he found the right girl.  It seemed like a sensible plan.

But meeting Olivia made him wonder what he was chasing.  She had a passion for her work and dedication that he envied, even though it seemed to cost her quite a lot to pursue it.  And she fascinated him like no other woman had done before.  So smart, so beautiful, with such backbone.  She was able to understand, even when he hadn’t, what he was really looking for—not his kinfolk, but himself. 

“I’ll be jiggered,” he murmured in the empty carriage.  She was amazing.

He’d come to England to find his family, to get a sense of himself, and instead found a woman he could never have.

Chapter Seven

“Good God, a
cowboy
?” 

Charlotte Gough, usually one of the most gracious and refined people Olivia knew, openly gawked at Will as he came into the salon.

“I am so sorry,” Charlotte said, blushing at her own rudeness.  “Please forgive my lapse in manners.” 

“No offense taken, ma’am,” Will said affably.

“Charlotte, may I introduce Will Coffin?” Olivia said dryly.  She entered her salon and drew off her gloves, giving them and her bonnet to Mordon, who then took Will’s hat and coat and discretely faded away to get tea for Olivia’s visitor.  “Will, this is Mrs. Charlotte Gough.  Charlotte and I went to school together, and,” Olivia added wryly, “we’re such good friends that she occasionally stops by unannounced.” 

Charlotte tipped her fair head in acknowledgement of the breach of protocol.  “Yes, I know it’s terribly discourteous of me, but, Olivia, I’ve heard such rumors about you, I had to see you right away.”

“What sort of rumors?”  Olivia suppressed her sigh.  No sooner had she and Will returned from Greywell’s than she had found Charlotte waiting for her.  Olivia’s head was already buzzing with Graham Lawford’s stern admonishment about letting strangers, strange
Americans
, in her home and the potential for social disaster it could wreak.  Now her good friend and confidante had shown up, proving Graham right.  Society would inevitably learn about Will and want to dig up everything it could about him.  Charlotte’s presence was proof that the word about him was out.  There would be no hiding anymore.

It had been pure naïveté, or perhaps hubris, to think that Olivia could do anything without society taking notice.  She wasn’t that important a figure, but the world she came from was so small, and its confines so narrow, that any behavior which fell outside of sanction came under immediate scrutiny.

“Well,” Charlotte began nervously, casting a quick glance at Will.

“You may speak freely, Charlotte,” Olivia said.

Her friend grimaced in discomfort.  “The hearsay is that you have a Texas cowboy staying with you.”

“Colorado, ma’am,” Will drawled.  Charlotte dragged her gaze back to him.  “I’m from Colorado, not Texas.”

“Despite what gossip says, there is a difference,” Olivia said wearily.  “Denver is over nine hundred miles from San Antonio.”

Charlotte, who had little idea where either of those cities were located, was still well-bred enough to pretend as though she did.  “Naturally.  But one always hears of cowboys from Texas.  It’s where they come from.”

“Well, ma’am,” Will said, politely, “there’s cowboys from all over.  Texas, Kansas, Missouri, and,” he added, glancing at Olivia with a quick smile, “Colorado.”  He strode into the salon, filling the feminine, chinoiserie-stuffed room with his overtly masculine presence.

Without meaning to, Olivia returned the smile.  Something about him did that to her, make her forget herself.  Then she remembered that they weren’t alone, and closely watched, so she hurriedly smoothed out her expression.  She took a seat in a low-armed ladies’ chair opposite her friend on the divan. 

Will stood behind her, almost protective, his hands braced on the back of her chair.  She felt rather than saw his nearness, the warmth of his hands close to her neck and the real sense of him standing guard, alert, against whatever threat Charlotte might offer.  Olivia was grateful for that, even as she saw Charlotte’s eyes move back and forth between her and Will, considering. 

“Mr. Coffin is in England attempting to locate his family,” Olivia explained.  Mordon brought the tea cart in and she poured Charlotte a cup.  She offered tea to Will but he muttered something about self respecting cowboys drinking tree bark water.

“I see.”  Charlotte took a sip of tea but could not completely hide her puzzlement. 

“And I’m helpin’ her at the brewery,” Will said, and Olivia felt the vibration of his deep voice through the elaborate scrollwork of her oak chair. 

“I did not know that.” Charlotte’s smooth ivory brow wrinkled unhappily.  “Unfortunately, Olivia, most of what is being said about you and Mr. Coffin is pure conjecture.  And I am afraid that leaves too much room for speculation.”

“What sort of speculation?” Olivia asked, growing alarmed.

Again, her friend’s eyes danced uncomfortably back to Will.  “I...” she began, then stopped, blushing. 

Olivia understood that Charlotte was unaccustomed to speaking frankly with gentlemen in the room.  Rising up from her chair, Olivia stood next to Will and placed a hand on his sleeve.  Both of their gazes fixed on the sight for half a heartbeat, before she said quietly, “A lady’s salon can be a tedious place for a gentleman.”

Fortunately, he caught her meaning immediately.  “Call me if you need anythin’,” he said softly to Olivia.  Then, louder, to Charlotte, “A pleasure meetin’ you, ma’am.”  He tipped an invisible Stetson, then sauntered from the room.  Olivia noticed that he was slightly bowlegged, a legacy of years on the back of a horse. 
He must look wonderful on the back of a horse.
Perhaps they could go riding together if time permitted it.

“Oh, dear.”  Charlotte’s worried voice penetrated her musings.  Olivia turned her gaze to her friend.  “This doesn’t look good.”

Olivia returned to her seat, but found she had no appetite for tea or cakes.  She picked petulantly at the ribbon trimming of her skirts, feeling strangely cross and out of sorts like a child denied an answer to a question.  “You may talk candidly, Charlotte.”

Relieved that Will had finally left the room, her friend relaxed and launched into her tale.  “I actually received a morning call in the
morning
, from Francis Hadlow.  Of course I had the butler tell her that I was not at home, but she sent up word that she had urgent news about you.  I became alarmed.  So I broke the rules and had her come up.”  Her voice full of genuine concern, she said, “Francis spoke of a wild American staying at your home, and all sorts of strange to-doings.  I thought she was talking nonsense, but now I see she wasn’t.”  Concern was plain on Charlotte’s face.  “What
is
going on here, Olivia?”

Olivia decided to tell her friend the truth.  Charlotte already knew a bit about George Pryce’s attempts to seize the brewery, and it was a measure of Pryce’s power that not even Charlotte, or her husband Frederick, with a seat in the House of Commons, could help Olivia.  Though Charlotte might be the recipient of gossip, she was not known for spreading it.

As concisely as possible, Olivia told Charlotte everything that had transpired over the past few days: the thugs attacking her, Will’s rescue, her offer to Will, the trouble with the deliveries—all of it.  She omitted the strange attraction that kept pulling her and Will toward each other, however.  By the end, Charlotte’s eyes were as round as beer steins, and her tea was cold.

“What a life you lead, Olivia,” Charlotte breathed.  “It’s like something out of a penny dreadful.”

Olivia couldn’t help but laugh at the apt comparison, since it was her love of cheap literature that helped bring her and Will together.  “I admit that coming out of mourning has been more adventurous than I had anticipated.”

“But are you safe, my dear?”  Charlotte leaned forward and took her hand.  “Are you well?”

“I am.  Surprisingly well.  Actually,” she admitted, “I find all this adventure to be rather exciting.” 

Charlotte curled her free hand into a fist.  “If only we could expose that rotten George Pryce!”

“It’s quite hopeless.”  But Olivia did not feel resigned.  “Will and I shall find a way to beat him, though.  Don’t worry.”

At Olivia’s words, Charlotte gazed at her with apprehension.  Olivia realized too late that she had spoken of him informally.  “Who
is
this Will Coffin?” Charlotte asked, anxious.

“I already told you: an American looking for his family.  He’s able to assist me with Pryce and I can help him locate his relatives.”

“He isn’t one of those whiskey-loving cowboys who shoot down chandeliers and ride their horses through the ballroom, is he?”

Olivia chuckled.  “Yes, and his spurs inflict dreadful damage to the Persian rugs.  He spits tobacco juice in the Ming vases and lassoes the roast.”

But Charlotte wasn’t laughing.  “I’m serious, Olivia.  What kind of man is he?”

“He’s....”  Olivia sat back, thoughtful.  Her eyes wandered aimlessly around the room as she called a vision of Will into her mind.  Even thinking about him caused something warm and living to pool in her belly.

“He’s honest,” she finally said, gaze turned inward, “and hardworking.  Thoughtful.  More than you would think.  Very intelligent.  He’s quite strong, and not just physically.  Within, this fortitude.  It’s remarkable.  And there’s something about him, a wistfulness, a searching.  But no self-pity.”  She shook her head.  “He’s extraordinary.” 

The long silence from Charlotte made Olivia finally collect herself.  Straightening in her chair, she looked over at her friend, and the expression on Charlotte’s face made her ask with alarm, “What is it?”

“Olivia,” Charlotte said, naked concern in her stare, “be cautious.”

“Will is a gentleman,” Olivia protested.  Something else she had omitted from her earlier story was the kiss they had shared, and decided now wouldn’t be a good time to mention it.  “He doesn’t come from our world, but his behavior is honorable.”

“It isn’t Will Coffin that worries me.”  Charlotte rose and, coming to stand beside Olivia, gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.  “It’s you.  You will break your own heart if you aren’t careful.” 

“Mordon told me I would find you here.”

Will looked at Olivia over the back of a chestnut gelding.  He continued to run the currycomb over the horse’s flanks, even though Olivia’s coachman kept all four of her horses in top shape, making his work unnecessary.  Instead of answering her, Will kept his focus on grooming the gelding, so she watched him in silence from across the stable.  The only sounds came from the horse, sometimes snorting and stamping in approval and shifting in the hay strewn on the floor.

After Olivia had sent him packing from the salon, or whatever she called that room filled with dustcatchers, he knew he couldn’t go back up to his room and sit like a horse out to pasture.  He’d never had a place all to himself that was so big before, with its huge brass bed and a whole water closet all to himself—no outhouse for a lady’s home—but even with its high ceilings and tall windows, his room felt too closed in, too small.  Aside from the two weeks at sea, he’d never spent much time indoors, and all this going from roof to roof had made him itchy, so he went to the one place he could loosen up.

“You must miss being on horseback,” Olivia said, her husky voice breaking the silence.

“Cowboys don’t take kindly to walkin’,” he answered.  “That’s for dudes and townfolk.”

“And riding in carriages?”

“Only the cook in the chuck wagon did that.”

She was quiet for a moment.  “Did you sell your horse before coming to England?”

“Never had one of my own.  The outfit supplied ’em for the trails or the ranch.”

“But you brought your own saddle.”

He ran his hand along the smooth curve of the horse’s neck.  “A saddle’s somethin’ special, a man’s private property.  The one thing that shows his pride, his success, where’s he’s been and where he’s goin’.”  He finally looked back up at her, to see her gazing at him thoughtfully.  “When a man gives up punchin’ cattle, he sells his saddle.” 

“It’s a beautiful saddle,” she said.  “I hope you don’t sell it quite yet.”

Feeling oddly disagreeable, he continued to groom the trim, gleaming horse, trying to lose himself in the familiar action.  But he kept seeing Graham Lawford’s undisguised suspicion and Charlotte Gough’s fretting, reminding him that he was very far from anything familiar.  But that was what he was in England to do—find that sense of family, somehow.  It was only Olivia’s presence that made the whole lot bearable.