Territorial Bride. Linda Castle

against the gold and crystal glitter of his mother’s dining room, dressed in a snowy white shirt, black coat and tie. Every candelabra in the house was blazing, in addition to the gaslights in the ballroom.

      “What is that supposed to mean?” Brooks sipped his drink and acted as if he were unaware of the pending festivities.

      “You know perfectly well what I am talking about. You have not been home for dinner twice since we returned.” Rod stepped outside. He was grinning. “Interesting coincidence that you decided to come home on the first night that Missy O’Bannion is going to be here.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous,” Brooks snapped. “I just happen to be home.” He had made the same observation to himself earlier, but Rod was wrong, and so was he. He had simply tired of the giggling women who had begun to present themselves upon his return. He had grown bored listening to stories of how they all had been pining away in his absence. He had tired of telling the same stories of his life in the West—and the novelty of his unconventional mode of attire had worn so thin he was actually thinking of going upstairs to change.

      “Perhaps you are telling the truth, since you are still dressed like you rode in from the range.” Rod shrugged and glanced at Brooks’s boots.

      “I am thinking of changing—just to please Mother.” Brooks took another sip of the liquid.

      Rod chuckled. “I am sure she will be pleased—but wear whatever you wish. As a matter of fact, those pants of Levi’s suit you. I have almost grown used to the new you. Tell me, though, is your prickly attitude also part of the new you, brother?”

      Brooks frowned. The front doorbell chimed. The pair watched the butler’s back as he opened the door. Brooks caught himself rising on the toes of his Justins to see who it was.

      “Anxious?” Rod asked, a sly grin curving his lips.

      “Not at all.” Brooks shook his head and moved closer to the open doors.

      The doorbell rang again.

      Brooks drained his glass. “I think I’ll go up and change.”

      “Better hurry, she will be here soon.”

      “Who?” Brooks asked innocently, but Rod only laughed and stepped inside.

      

      By ten o’clock the Jameses’ brownstone was a hive of social activity. Maids and butlers scurried about, making sure every glass was full, every plate picked up the moment the last morsel was consumed. Brooks had lingered in his room after he had changed. Now he stood with one foot hitched up on the top stair as he watched the activity below. He hated to admit it, but he felt out of place in his own home.

      The sound of laughter drew his eye. There, surrounded by men, was a familiar head of lustrous dark hair.

      A strange, tight coil of heat formed in his chest. While he watched, his grip on the banister tightened.

      It was Missy, and half the unattached men in New York City were paying her court.

      He was halfway down the stairs, focusing only on Missy, when he felt a hand on his arm. Brooks shrugged, intending to remove the unwanted restraint.

      “It has been a long time, darling.”

      The words brought him to a halt and he turned, already knowing who he would see.

      Violet Ashland lifted one brow and gave him her coolest smile. “I was coming up to find you.” Her hand moved over the cloth of his coat in intimate fashion, and a hundred memories of stolen passion ripped through him. “I still remember the way to your room…Shall we go catch up on lost time?”

      It was at that very moment he looked down at Missy and she looked up. Their gazes caught and held, not going unnoticed by the men surrounding her or the woman who still possessively fingered his arm.

      Violet followed Brooks’s gaze. Her smile became cooler than ice. “Is this the little country girl I have heard so much about?”

      Brooks frowned and looked at her. “What?”

      “The sweet child your mother brought from the West. The poor dear—how she must’ve suffered in that harsh environment.” Violet scooted closer to Brooks and looped her arm through his. “You must introduce me—I am just dying to meet her.”

      Ghostly fingers traced a line down Missy’s spine as Brooks descended the stairs and walked in her direction. She had never felt so trapped in her life as she did when he turned his blue eyes in her direction. Suddenly the velvet gown she was wearing felt about as attractive as a gunnysack. She tried to swallow the champagne one of the men had brought her, but it stuck in her throat and she choked.

      “Miss O’Bannion, are you all right?” a voice asked.

      “What…? Yes. Yes, I am fine,” she lied. Mercifully, a disembodied voice asked if she would like a glass of water. Within seconds her champagne glass was gone, replaced by a crystal goblet of water. She brought it to her lips, but the dryness remained.

      “Oh, she is precious. Brooks, what a darling child.” The blond woman clinging to Brooks surveyed Missy from head to toe. Without a word passing between them, Missy knew all she had to know.

      This woman was her mortal adversary.

      “Brooks, introduce me.” Violet kept the smile pasted to her face while she inspected every inch of the dark-haired beauty before her. She had heard all the gossip about the lovely woman who had returned with Brooks. She had not believed it. But now that she was face-to-face with the little chit, she had no choice.

      This woman was her adversary.

      Missy felt her stomach knot up. In spite of the notion that the woman before her was everything she despised, there was a tiny part of her that was envious.

      Violet Ashland was a lady, and she was holding Brooks’s arm as if he belonged to her.

      Brooks cleared his throat—and tried to clear his mind. Violet clung to him like a burr to a mustang’s tail, as tenacious and as thorny. He wanted to peel her fingers from him and walk away, but he could not do what he wanted here.

      This was his mother’s drawing room, in New York. How he wished he were back in the Territory, where a man could be honest about his feelings.

      “Violet Ashland, Missy O’Bannion.” Brooks would not lie and say he was pleased to introduce them.

      “I am so glad to finally get to see you, Miss O’Bannion. I have been hearing a lot about you.” Violet turned slightly sideways and looked at Brooks. “Darling, she is a treasure. Such a charming child.”

      Missy stiffened. Images of Becky Kelly came unbidden to her mind. This woman was simply a more polished and older version of the woman who had jilted her brother, Trace. Anger and a desire to silence Violet Ashland spurred Missy on.

      “It is very nice to meet you, but I am a long way from being a child. It probably just seems that I am young compared to you.”

      A silence so heavy it could be felt settled over the small crowd gathered around the two women. Brooks winked at Missy and his heart hammered inside his chest.

       Damn if she isn’t magnificent.

      Brooks felt Violet’s fingers dig into his arm, but, to give her credit, the smile never slipped.

      “Oh, you are charming…in an untouched fashion.” Violet inclined her head. The gaslight turned the strands of her hair to ribbons of gold. The crowd around them began to drift away. Evidently they had grown bored with the inane conversation. Now Brooks could drop his facade.

      “When did you return, Violet?” he asked.

      “Me? Oh, I have been back for ages now. I have been sitting at home pining away for you.” She leaned close enough that he could smell her expensive French perfume. “You never even wrote.”

      Missy blinked back her surprise and tried not to