Territorial Bride. Linda Castle

actually counting all those white teeth, thinking how he would like to forcefully remove a quantity of them.

      “Yes, Bellami’s new sister-in-law is visiting,” Rod said with a sidelong glance at Brooks.

      “She is quite lovely,” Cyril continued.

      Rod’s face was unreadable. “You have met her?” he asked innocently.

      “Yes.” Cyril grinned wider. “I would stay and have another go in the ring, but I have an engagement with her this morning. Would you like a ride? I have a carriage waiting.” He paused with one leg through the ropes.

      “No thanks, Brooks and I are making a morning of it. He has been a little gloomy since his return from the West.”

      Brooks flashed his brother a dark look.

      “No? Well then, I’d better go and change.” Cyril slipped to the floor and disappeared.

      “You know, Brooks, according to the gossip Cyril has been spending quite a bit of time with Missy.”

      Brooks didn’t answer.

      “I got it from the Mulligans’ cook, who heard it from the Bentons’ upstairs maid, that Cyril has seen her nearly every day.” Rod waggled his brows.

      “Then it is practically gospel,” Brooks snapped.

      Rod chuckled at his brother’s terse answer. “Cyril has also been asking a lot of questions about the O’Bannion family.”

      Brooks refused to encourage him to continue.

      Rod shrugged and continued as if Brooks had done so. “A lovely woman, new to town—”

      “I thought Cyril had an understanding with Carol McLain,” Brooks interrupted. “After two scandals in the past, and that breach of promise suit, I am amazed good ol’ Cyril would show more than a passing interest in any new woman.”

      “Ah, but I have it on good authority that his father has laid down the law. The rumor is that Cyril must find a bride or be cut off.”

      “Isn’t Carol suitable?” Brooks’s brows lifted.

      “I dunno. But if he is seeing Missy every day, then I would think it is safe to assume his attentions have turned in a new direction.” Rod slapped his brother on the shoulder. “It sounds as if Cyril has set his sights on your Miss O’Bannion.”

      Brooks whirled on him, only to find an annoying smile curling Rod’s lips. “She is not my Miss O’Bannion,” he snapped.

      “Perhaps not…” Rod frowned again. “But if Cyril Dover’s intentions are what I think they might be, she may not be anybody’s Miss O’Bannion for very much longer.”

       Chapter Seven

      Brooks shrugged on his dove gray suit coat, worn over a charcoal silk vest. He indulged in an uncharacteristic moment of masculine vanity as he paused in front of the cheval mirror.

      The carefully tailored coat hugged his shoulders, now heavy with muscle from months of hard riding and roping half-grown steers on the Circle B.

       Will Missy notice?

      Where had that thought come from? Surely he had learned from his experience in the Territory that Missy was never impressed by the cut of a man’s clothes—at least not his. Brooks scowled and let his dark thoughts continue. Missy had shown a modicum of curiosity in the way he sat a horse, but absolutely none in the way he dressed.

       Perhaps that was because she was waiting for you to be thrown on your ass.

      A knock at the door brought his melancholy musing to a halt. He crossed the room in four long strides and opened the door. Rod was leaning against the jamb, his expression a study in annoyed forbearance.

      “If this invitation had come from anybody but Ellen, I swear I’d take off this damn coat and go to the office to get some work done,” he threatened.

      “So don’t go. I am not looking forward to your chuckles and smirks, anyway. I am sure she will understand.”

      “Oh no. You can’t get rid of me so easily, brother dear. I have a feeling there is more to this little party than meets the eye. Mother has been positively closemouthed…and I have not heard from Clair since we returned from Bellami’s wedding. Silence among the James women is never a good sign, and then, of course, there was that conversation with good ol’ Cyril. The pot is simmering.”

      Brooks opened his mouth to deny Rod’s suspicions, but snapped it shut again. Something was going on, and he had the uneasy feeling that Missy O’Bannion would end up right in the middle of it. Missy and debonair Cyril Dover.

      Across town at Leland James’s mansion, Missy sat worrying her bottom lip with her front teeth.

      “Stop that.” Ellen’s reprimand brought immediate composure to her face. “Now come sit down so I can finish your hair.”

      “I’m so consarn—” Missy quickly amended her speech. “I mean, I am terribly nervous, Ellen.” She sat down in front of the French-style vanity and watched Ellen’s reflection in the mirror.

      “You’ll do fine.” Ellen sighed heavily. “You have learned a great deal these past few weeks.”

      “Thanks to you and Cyril. Are you feeling all right?” Missy frowned. There seemed to be even less color in Ellen’s already porcelain complexion.

      “Don’t fuss—you sound like Papa. Of course I am all right. Cyril has been a dear, hasn’t he?” Missy tried to turn around and look at Ellen directly, but a sharp tug on her hair kept her in place. “Be still,” Ellen said as she fastened and looped long strands. “And remember, Missy is gone…you are a different woman with a different name.” Ellen braided a tiny length of pearls and a spray of small white flowers into the side of her hair to frame her face.

      “I do feel like a different person. If I can just remember to answer when I’m called.” Her laughter was brittle with tension.

      Ellen stepped back and assessed her handiwork. “Now you are all ready. Go to the gazebo in the backyard, but don’t let anyone see you until I introduce Miss Marisa O’Bannion to my guests. Cyril knows what to do once he arrives.”

      Missy’s mouth went dry as a sun-baked arroyo. “Do you really think Br—everyone will notice the change in me?”

      Ellen paused at the bedroom door. “Everyone would have to be stone-cold dead not to notice the change in you. Missy is gone. Don’t even think of yourself as Missy anymore. You are Marisa O’Bannion and you are every inch a proper lady.”

      Three downstairs maids efficiently directed the new arrivals to the back garden, creating a steady stream of traffic through the house. The fragrance of roses wafted through the open French doors on a rain-freshened spring breeze.

      Small tables set with crisp white linen and a crystal vase holding a single pink rosebud had been strategically placed among the flowering shrubs and sweet-smelling vines.

      From her perch within the gazebo, Marisa took in the magnificent, romantic garden. She peered out from among the blooms surrounding the gazebo and studied each new. arrival with excitement and dread. “Marisa O’Bannion—my name is Marisa O’Bannion,” she chanted over and over under her breath.