To Seduce a Texan. Georgina Gentry

from Paris, France. Even had it monogrammed.”

      Bought with my daddy’s money, she thought, but she only said, “Oh, Godfrey, you shouldn’t have.”

      “Nothing too good for our dear Rosemary,” he said and gave her an oily smirk.

      Reluctantly, she opened it and the crowd gasped. It was a white, pure silk scarf with her initials on it, very fine and expensive. “It’s lovely,” she said without enthusiasm.

      “Put it on,” someone urged.

      She tied it in a loose bow around her neck.

      “Lovely as the wearer,” Godfrey quipped.

      She waited for God to strike him with lightning for his lying tongue, then decided God was asleep at the switch today. “If you don’t mind, I’m very tired—”

      “No, you can’t leave yet.” Godfrey put his hand on her arm and squeezed hard in warning. “Everyone will be so disappointed.”

      So she stayed another hour, greeting people and eating cake, too much cake because she was nervous about making a bigger fool of herself, and of course she got crumbs all over the expensive white scarf. She looked about in vain for the tall cowboy who had saved her from ridicule, but he was gone. Well, what had she expected? Hadn’t Mother said that only the bank’s money would get her a beau?

      Finally a buggy came from the mansion to take her home.

      “Oh, by the way, dear,” Godfrey said as he puffed and struggled to lift her up on the seat, “I’m giving a dinner party tonight for a few select people. Be ready.”

      She got herself up into the buggy, thinking wistfully of the strong and virile man who had carried her. “A dinner party?” Rosemary sighed. “I’m awfully tired—”

      “Be ready,” he warned her, and his eyes were cold and black as marble. “I’ll be home early, and oh, let Mollie help you pick out something to wear. She has such good taste.”

      And of course, Rosemary didn’t. Hadn’t her mother told her that her whole life?

      “All right.” She was not going to get into a fight with him right here. She would confront him later. After all, she was powerless until she was twenty-one.

      The driver drove her to the imposing mansion five miles outside town that her father had built to bring his elegant, back-East bride to. Agatha Worthing had been much too good for such a country bumpkin, as she’d told her daughter so often, but her family had fallen on hard times and Noah Burke might have been a mannerless hick, but he’d gotten rich growing wheat and then began to lend money to the local farmers. He had such a sterling reputation that he soon opened a promising bank.

      The household staff were lined up to greet her at the door, even Mollie, the pretty but coarse Irish maid with the crooked front teeth, whose lip seemed to curl in derision as she curtsied. Or maybe Rosemary was imagining that.

      “I’m very tired,” Rosemary said to all, “and I’d like to rest and clean up. Mr. St. John is planning a dinner party, I understand.”

      Everyone nodded.

      “And I’m to help you pick out something to wear.” Mollie smirked, and her tone of importance annoyed Rosemary.

      “I think I can dress myself,” she snapped and went up the stairs. She didn’t really like Mollie. Sometimes when she and Mother and Godfrey had been sitting before the library fire, she’d thought she’d seen her stepfather exchanging winks with the pretty maid. She dared not tell her mother, who not only wouldn’t have believed it, she’d have berated Rosemary for her suspicions.

      Rosemary went into her room and stared into the mirror on the dresser. Yes, she looked as big a mess as she thought she did. The big plumed hat tilted dangerously to one side and Rosemary took it off and threw it across the room. She hated hats anyway.

      She fingered the white silk scarf and sighed with resignation. She didn’t care much for expensive clothes, but Godfrey did. She tied it around her throat again, tucking it into the neck of the plum dress. She napped for a while, then drifted down the stairs. Everyone in the house seemed to be bustling about, getting ready for the grand dinner party.

      She wished she could avoid that. Godfrey and her late mother loved to entertain with grand balls and dinners, but Rosemary found such events boring. She preferred a simpler life…or maybe it was because she was so clumsy; she always seemed to spill something on her clothes or trip when a young man asked her to dance.

      Out of idle curiosity, she wandered out into the conservatory, Godfrey’s passion. It was hot and green and steamy inside. He grew exotic, expensive plants like orchids and seemed fascinated by plants such as fly catchers. In fact, she had seen the gleam in his cold eyes when he fed crippled flies to the plant.

      She looked about the conservatory, admiring the exotic flowers. Then she bumped into a small orchid and the pot crashed to the floor with a loud noise. Oh, gracious, she had done it again. Well, he had so many plants, maybe he wouldn’t notice one missing. Or maybe she could repot it and save it. She found another pot and tried to replant the orchid, but it now sat at an angle in its pot, looking sickly. She’d done the best she could, but if Godfrey noticed, he’d be angry. Where could she hide it?

      When she took over the estate, she promised herself, instead of exotic plants, she’d grow no-nonsense things like maybe some sunflowers and some fruit trees. Maybe she could even start a little garden here in this big glass room and grow vegetables.

      How like your father. She could almost hear mother’s scornful voice. I’ve tried to turn you into a lady and you’d rather be a farmer.

      “Yes, I would.” Rosemary nodded emphatically. “And I’ll get some cows and chickens and more horses and a dog, a big, hairy dog.”

      But first, what to do about the damaged orchid? Rosemary took the pot and walked around, looking for a good place to hide it. She paused in front of a tall, big-leafed plant. This was unusual. She hid the little flower pot behind the big leaves. Whatever it was, some of its leaves had turned scarlet and it seemed to have decorative cockleburrs for flowers. Some of the cockleburrs were open and their speckled seeds were visible. They looked a little like pinto beans. The identifying tag on the big plant read “Ricinus Communis: African Origin.”

      Out of curiosity, she touched one of the cockleburrs and yanked back. “Ohh! Damn it!” Then she looked around quickly to make sure no one had heard her swearing. Now she noticed the drops of blood on her fingertips.

      “Clumsy me.” She had pricked her fingers trying to get the seed pod. Without thinking, she wiped the blood on the white silk scarf, along with the dirty smudge from her fingers. Gracious, now Godfrey would be really upset. Maybe she could rinse it out before he saw it. Rosemary hurried upstairs, took off the scarf, wondering about washing it. She couldn’t give the task to Mollie, the little snit would certainly tattle on her. She heard someone coming.

      “Miss Rosemary?” Mollie called, “be ye be gettin’ dressed? Mr. St. John is comin’ home early.”

      Oh, damn, damn, damn. Rosemary yanked off the bloodied scarf and tossed it under her bed. She’d figure out what to do about it later. “I’m getting ready if you’ll pour me some bath water.”

      Quickly, Rosemary, stripped off the dusty plum dress and stared at herself in the mirror, then regretted it. She was plump, there was no doubt about it; even with her corset so tight, she could hardly breathe. She kept promising herself she’d diet, but then she’d have an ego-crushing disappointment and fill the void with snacks and candy. She would have given half her life to be thin and pretty, but no matter what cosmetics she bought, how she tried to starve herself, she was always going to be a tall, large girl. A man might marry her for her money, but not for love. She’d have to find that in the romantic novels she’d always hidden under her mattress.

      In the next room, she could hear Mollie pouring pails of water. The Irish girl stuck her head in the door. “Would ye be wantin’ my help with