The Rocky Mountain Heiress Collection (110 page)

“A standing in this town?” Alex looked up at his wife. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Charlotte. You know I don’t give one whit for social standing, but if I did, an Englishman and his titles are always welcome in the drawing rooms of Denver.”

To her credit, Charlotte only let her haughty expression slip for a moment. “I’ve a mind to tell you exactly what I mean, but I fear I shall only cause more harm to what appears to be an endangered arrangement.” She lifted her chin. “I shall forgive you for considering the breaking of your promise.”

“You shall?” He stood and looked down on her from his superior height. “That’s quite magnanimous of you, Charlotte.”

“As is allowing you to live in
my
home when you have acted so dishonorably.”

She took his laughter no better than the news of his lack of interest in the annulment. Dropping the fabrics at his feet, Charlotte stormed toward the door.

“Come sit down,” he called.

“I won’t.”

“Fine,” Alex said, “but you should know it is
I
who am allowing
you
to live in my home.”

He waited for her footsteps to slow, and she returned to stand before him.

Alex shrugged. “I’ve the proof if you’re interested.” He retrieved the file Daniel Beck had given him upon their arrival in Denver. “I had hoped to spare you this.”

Charlotte looked at the file with disdain and refused to take it. The expression she offered him was no better. “I wish no proof from you, Viscount Hambly. If you’re not to be trusted with the annulment, then you’re certainly not to be trusted with this.”

She squared her shoulders, but something in her eyes held the slightest bit of fear.

“Then go and ask your father,” he said. He’d already told her more than he’d intended. What was it about this woman that made him do
things he wished he hadn’t? “And send the tailor up. Being poked with pins sounds like a slice of heaven compared to continuing this conversation.”

“All right,” Charlotte said. “I shall.”

Later, as the tailor took his measurements, Alex heard the carriage leave. Exactly one hour and ten minutes later, it returned. Alex moved to the window and watched as the driver handed Charlotte out of the carriage. While she made her way up the stone walk to the door, he slipped back so that Charlotte would not see him observing her.

When the front door slammed shut, he heard it. And when she stormed up the stairs to slam yet another door, likely the one to her bedchamber, Alex heard that too.

He went back to his desk and retrieved the letter from the university. Request to teach. Offer to research. Plans to extend the current program. He read the letter from the dean in phrases, two or three words here and there, until he reached the end. “Must have your reply before 15 September.”

Two weeks from now.

Another door slammed, and he heard footsteps on the floor below. Charlotte seemed to be pacing, as the steps continued but she did not seem to make any progress.

And then, suddenly, everything went quiet. He shifted to listen. Nothing split the silence except the tick of the clock behind him.

Alex rose to find the book he’d been reading, Mr. Langley’s
The New Astronomy
, but he had no mind for concentrating. His addled brain kept wandering back to the floor below, where his wife likely plotted either his imminent demise or her imminent departure.

When the carriage once again pulled around to the front of the house, Alex did not need his telescope to see who climbed inside. He
watched from the ledge between the two gargoyles as his wife and a half-dozen of her trunks disappeared down Grant Street.

He waited a full two hours before sending one of the staff down to the Beck home after Charlotte. When that failed, Alex debated whether to search for her at the Windsor Hotel. Surely she would not wish their marital troubles to become public knowledge.

But where else could she have gone?

September 7
Beck Ranch outside Fort Collins, Colorado

Another letter from Gussie. The second one in the four days since Charlotte had arrived at the ranch after spending a few nights with her friend. She stared at it from across the room and willed it to disappear, wishing she hadn’t asked for her old friend’s help in escaping.

Though Charlotte held Augusta Miller in high esteem, reading in exquisite detail about her preparations for her wedding to George Arthur was the last thing she felt like doing this afternoon. For all Gussie’s enthusiasm, she failed to grasp that now that Charlotte was a married woman, the New York social season would go on without her.

For that matter,
life
went on without Charlotte as she waited for Alex to respond to her demand for an annulment. In the meantime, everyone on the ranch believed she’d returned to help Gennie prepare for the ridiculous wedding reception.

The only person she hadn’t offered an excuse or explanation to was Alex. She didn’t care what he thought, and any questions regarding his absence went unasked by Papa and Gennie.

While enduring endless chatter from Gennie regarding every detail of the reception drove Charlotte mad, it was preferable to explaining why her husband was more than fifty miles away. The few times she’d been stupid enough to cry, Gennie had mistaken the tears for those of a bride longing for her groom rather than a woman wronged by a man bent on breaking the one promise that had gotten him married to her in the first place.

A knock sounded at the door, and Papa peered inside. “A moment of your time, Buttercup?”

“Of course.” She watched while he settled onto the settee nearest her window. He studied her as she sat beside him, then gathered her into an embrace that nearly set off a fresh round of tears.

“A father wonders why his daughter’s husband is nowhere to be found.”

Charlotte put on a smile and faced her papa. “He’s a busy man,” she said. “And I’m a busy woman.”

“Of course. Though I wonder if you’ve given too much thought to business and not enough to marriage.”

When he said nothing further, Charlotte rested her head on her father’s shoulder and sighed. How many times had she and Papa sat like this? Too many to count.

Finally she straightened and squared her shoulders. Best to say something before Papa did. “I know Alex,” she said. “He wants me to be happy.”

“A bride ought to find her happiness somewhere other than the boardroom,” Papa said. “But I’m just your father, so what do I know?”

With a knock, Elias stepped inside. “Beg pardon, but Mr. Hiram’s got a list of questions longer’n my arm. One of you ought to go down and answer ’em.” He looked at Charlotte and winked. “The other might
want to find something to do besides sit in her room and mope. Not that you’re asking, and nor am I suggesting it.”

Papa’s laughter echoed in the hall as he pressed past Elias. Papa’s old friend remained in the doorway. “Something bothering you that I can help with?” he finally asked.

Charlotte sighed. “No, but thank you for asking.”

“Remember, even when I’m not asking, you can still tell me. Tova, too.”

“Thank you,” she managed.

Elias gave her another wink. “I’ve got to get downstairs and see if I can calm my wife down. Bill Cody’s making his annual visit soon, and you know how she gets when that circus comes to town. She cleans every surface in the place and frets over what sort of mess they’ll make. Seems a contradiction, but what do I know?”

“Can you blame her?”

“Not really.” He lifted his cap and swiped his hand through iron gray curls. “But that don’t make it any easier to listen to.”

She smiled until Elias closed the door, and then tears threatened again. “Well, there’s nothing for it.” She stormed into her wardrobe and yanked off her afternoon frock.

The sun was out, and the sky was blue. With nothing else to occupy her time, Charlotte decided to take a ride and perhaps put the paints she’d finally found to use while the light was just right.

A change of clothes and a pair of boots later, she’d donned her favorite riding attire, tossed Gussie’s letter into her bag, and found her way down to the barn, where she tucked her mother’s paint box into her saddlebag.

The breeze bit as it slithered down her neck, so Charlotte shrugged closer into her buckskin jacket, glad she’d brought it, as they seemed to
be in for one of the strange, unseasonable cold snaps that occasionally happened in Colorado. The heavy leather coat was a favorite, especially for rides across the plains in search of just the right scene to paint, and had always kept her warm when no other could. Though Gennie swore it was once hers, Papa refused to confirm or deny the allegation. Charlotte suspected it might have been a gift from Colonel and Mrs. Cody. She couldn’t imagine her very proper stepmother ever willingly purchasing such a garment.

She rode through the paddock and out the gate, and then Charlotte spurred the mare into a gallop. The sorrel was a young horse but fast as the wind, and soon the ranch was merely a speck on the horizon behind them.

Charlotte dug her boots into the stirrups and headed for the stand of junipers at the edge of the canyon. There she would find the best view of the sunset as it stretched golden fingers across the canyon. Wood roses grew thick there, and though the ground would likely be covered in a light dusting of snow, she still wanted to capture it in the golden light. There was something about painting a fall afternoon in Colorado that almost made her forget about everything else.

If she didn’t think she would freeze to death, Charlotte might have attempted to paint the night sky, with its pulsing planets and endless stars, from this vantage point as well. But the air temperature seemed to be dropping by the moment as the wind grew stronger. Perhaps she’d come back in late spring, when a blanket wrapped around multiple layers of clothing would not be required to keep warm.

As soon as the idea occurred to her, Charlotte shrugged it away. By then she would be in London, and though there were many things to recommend the English city, the night sky was not among them.

Ducking her head to keep the cold wind from stinging her eyes,
Charlotte held on tight until the mare slowed near a copse of silver birch. She reined in the sorrel and set about finding a spot in the snow for her easel and folding stool. As she ran her hand over the enameled paint box, she thought of her mother. Of how Mama’s hands likely traced the same path across the wooden surface. This box was the only tangible connection Charlotte still had to her mother, her only inheritance.

Shaking away the memories, Charlotte lifted her head and lost herself in the beauty that was this part of Colorado. With long brush strokes, she painted a sky of the bluest blue, then dabbled on the myriad of colors that made up the canyon floor. Though the wind occasionally gusted past and the ground was so cold she had to stamp her feet to regain feeling in them, Charlotte continued to paint.

Finally she set her brushes aside and rose to take a step back. Something wasn’t quite right. She looked past the oil on the easel to the canyon beyond. She’d captured all she saw.

Perhaps a few clouds to decorate the horizon would give the painting what it needed. Charlotte went back to work, painting in wisps of white that trailed across the horizon and evaporated into the endless sky. When those did not appeal, she turned the cirrus clouds to cumulus with great thundering tops in the darkest gray.

Charlotte once again stepped back to admire her handiwork. Still she hadn’t managed to capture an image worth keeping.

An idea occurred to her, and she went to her paints to mix colors. Before the shadows of the junipers reached her feet, Charlotte had turned the painting of an autumn afternoon into a glorious nighttime scene with only a sliver of moon and a sky full of tiny stars.

Now to place the constellations. She closed her eyes and tried to remember where to put them. Perhaps tonight she would slip out after all and take a quick peek at the sky, just a fast visit to get the image
straight in her mind. Once the sun went down, the canyon would be bitterly cold, but what was necessary must be endured.

The mare began to complain, and Charlotte opened her eyes, trying to see what caused the placid horse to stomp and snort. Snakes were an ever-present threat, as were strangers, though she’d rarely been bothered by either.

Only a fool traveled alone and unarmed, so there was a pistol tucked into her saddlebag. With care lest the intruder be a snake, Charlotte rose and inched toward the still-complaining sorrel. Something rustled beyond the thicket, so she reached inside the saddlebag and wrapped her fingers around Papa’s old Colt. With her free hand, she scratched the mare behind the ear.

At Charlotte’s touch, the horse quieted. “Good girl,” she whispered.

She leaned against the animal’s neck to hide as best she could, then slid the revolver out and placed one boot in the stirrup. Now she could either shoot from where she stood or, as Colonel Cody had taught her, jump into the saddle and take aim on the fly.