The Duchess And The Desperado. Laurie Grant

      “Your grace, Mr....uh...Calhoun has arrived,” the somberly dressed woman called from the anteroom, all the while eyeing Morgan suspiciously. After returning her stare with a cool one of his own, he went back to studying the elegant wallpaper and paneling of the anteroom and its paintings of Western mountain scenes. A vase by the door held pink roses that had to have been grown in a hothouse. Compared to the Mountain View Boardinghouse, where he was staying just long enough to gather his provisions before heading up into the mountains, the Grand Central Hotel was a palace. And a duchess was practically a princess, wasn’t she? What did that make him—the dragon?

      “Show him in, Celia,” came the musical, aristocratic voice.

      For the hundredth time since he’d seen the duchess ride off in her carriage, Morgan wondered just why he’d obeyed the summons to tea.

      He had no intention of taking any money for what he’d done this afternoon. Protecting a helpless woman when there were bullets flying in her direction had been no more or less than the right thing to do, and he would have done the same thing if she’d been homely and dressed in the simplest calico. But telling her his real name, when that name and his likeness were on Wanted posters all over the West, was probably the greatest piece of idiocy he’d committed in the past few years. He should have given his name as Jake Faulkner, or one of the many other aliases he’d used since he’d been on the run.

      And coming here simply because she’d asked him to, when he had no intention of taking any reward money from her, was even more stupid. He should be out buying a pack mule and the beans, bacon, salt, flour, sugar and coffee that he’d need to go up into the mountains, not taking tea with a foreign duchess who was so perfectly beautiful she might have been a princess from a fairy tale.

      His thoughts made him angry at himself, and so he was edgy and nervous as he followed the woman—what did they call them, ladies-in-waiting?—into the sitting room.

      There were more flowers in vases around the room, but he paid little attention to them, for he saw the duchess arising, smiling, from a velvet-upholstered carved-back chair. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Calhoun. It was good of you to come.”

      She was dressed in a gown that was the same pink as the roses. There was pleated lace in the V-shaped neckline, which matched the lace at her waist. Her golden hair was once again artfully arranged in a coil at the nape of her neck, as it had been before he had knocked her to the ground and disarranged it. But it was her eyes that held his attention, just as when he had first seen her. Then, as now, he was reminded of the vivid blue of a Texas sky on a sunlit spring day.

      He caught sight of the grumpy-looking fellow she’d introduced as Lord Halston hovering unhappily behind her chair, looking even more unhappy as his eyes met Morgan’s. Morgan saw a disdainful expression creep across Lord Halston’s face as he stared at the clean denims and the white shirt Morgan had paid the widow who ran the boardinghouse an extra two bits to press for him. He stared right back until Lord Halston reddened and looked away.

      “Hello, Miss—Duchess,” he said, feeling more awkward than he ever had in his life. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to call you...and I reckon these aren’t goin’-to-tea duds, but I didn’t exactly come to Denver prepared to—”

      “No apologies are necessary, Mr. Calhoun,” the duchess interrupted, extending her hand but not enlightening him as to how to address her. “The pleasure of your company is quite sufficient.”

      He had the feeling he was supposed to do something with that hand besides shake it. Once he’d seen a European fellow kiss a lady’s hand, but he couldn’t imagine he was supposed to take such a liberty with a duchess. So he just took it in his, savoring its satin-smooth texture. He could just feel the slight tremor in it. So she was nervous, too, he realized. How much more nervous would she be if she knew I was a wanted man?

      Lord Halston stepped forward as Morgan reluctantly let her hand go. “Her grace has asked me to prepare a reward for your—ahem!—heroic actions this afternoon,” he said, looking as if every word pained him.

      Morgan saw that he was carrying a small leather pouch that looked as if it were heavily weighted with coins.

      “Go ahead, take it,” Lord Halston urged, glaring at him. “You’ll find it’s a substantial amount in gold.” His expression told Morgan he hoped he would depart as soon as he’d accepted the bag.

      Morgan’s eyes cut back to the duchess. “Ma’am, I told you this afternoon I wasn’t going to accept any money, and I’m not. You keep your money...though I thank you for offering it,” he added belatedly, when his words echoed back too belligerently at him.

      Lord Halston appeared relieved, then he and the duchess exchanged a look.

      “Are you sure, Mr. Calhoun?” Sarah Challoner inquired in her lovely, well-modulated voice. “Surely you could use it in whatever endeavor you intend to pursue in Colorado Territory?”

      Actually, he could—the supplies he had to buy would take most if not all of the money that remained from his last poker winnings—and not taking it was the third stupid thing he’d done today. But he knew he just wouldn’t feel right taking money for what he’d done.

      “There, you see, uncle? It’s just as you said, he won’t take it,” said the duchess, turning back to her uncle. “So you can now relax. Perhaps you have correspondence to take care of? In that case you must feel free to excuse yourself. Celia will attend me,” she said.

      Morgan had to admire how neatly she’d gotten rid of the sour old windbag—and against his will, too, he saw with amusement as her uncle struggled to hide his dismay.

      “Just as you say, your grace,” he said, giving a stiff little bow in her direction. “Mr. Calhoun, I’ll bid you good day,” he said. The words were civil, the tone hostile.

      “Mr. Calhoun, won’t you come and sit down?” the duchess said, going over to a low table between two chairs to Morgan’s right. He had not even noticed it when he came into the room, for he had been intent on her.

      In the center of the table, set on a silver tray, was a great silver teapot, several delicate china cups and a few small plates. Surrounding them lay dishes covered with more food than he’d seen since the war.

      “I-I thought you asked me to tea, duchess?” he said, certain that he must have misunderstood. “This—this looks like supper to me.”

      She gave a high, silvery laugh that reminded him of the music of water dancing over stones in a hill country stream. She sat down and indicated he should take the other chair. “Oh, no, Mr. Calhoun, it’s merely tea—or high tea, as we should properly call it back home in England—simply something to carry one through until dinner later on. We had some ado to get the hotel cook to make us watercress and cucumber sandwiches, and Celia was only able to get biscuits, jelly and butter rather than scones and crumpets, but I think you’ll find the little cakes are quite good. I must confess I nibbled on one while I awaited your arrival.”

      Her mischievous smile as she admitted the last fact made her suddenly less an aristocrat, more approachable. For a heartbeat he caught a glimpse of what she must have looked like as a young girl. She must have been a handful even then, he decided as he lowered himself carefully into the other chair.

      “Shall I pour, your grace?” the female servant inquired, approaching.

      “No, Celia, I’ll do it, but come and get something to eat. You must be hungry,” the duchess said. “Celia, I do not believe you have been properly introduced to Mr. Calhoun. Celia Harris, may I present Mr. Morgan Calhoun? Celia is my dresser,” the duchess informed him. “I should be quite lost without her.”

      The woman’s face lost some of its severity. “Thank you, your grace.” As the duchess poured a cup of tea, and poured in some cream, Celia came forward and carefully placed a watercress sandwich, a biscuit, a blob of jelly and one of the sugary cakes on her plate. Then, after taking the cup of tea her mistress proffered, she carried her plate and cup over