Mail-Order Bride Switch. Dorothy Clark

shook her.

      His manners overcame his shock. “I’m Garret Stevenson, but that can wait. You need to get inside where it’s warm before we talk, Miss Rourk.” He grabbed her valises, carried them to the top of the steps and returned. “This way.” He placed his hand at the small of her back to steady her against the driving wind, gripped her elbow with his other hand and helped her down the steps. He turned back and grabbed a valise in each gloved hand, crooked his elbow her direction. “Take my arm and hang on. My hotel is not far, but you’re so slight, the wind will blow you away.”

      * * *

      “We’re here.”

      Virginia shivered and lifted her head, but the snowfall was too thick to see the building. Garret Stevenson helped her up three snow-covered steps, across a plank porch and through a door—painted dark plum, from the little she saw of it in the flickering light of the side lamps. He stomped his boots on a braided rug, then led her straight across the large room toward the end of a stairway climbing the back wall. She caught a glimpse of a long desk standing parallel to the stairs, and an open cupboard of small cubbyholes hanging on the wall behind it. Warmth from the fire in a stone fireplace caressed her cold face as they walked by. She cast a longing look at the seductive flames and shivered her way after him.

      The room they entered was small, well furnished. His private quarters? Her heart lurched. He put the two valises on the floor at the end of a short hallway on their left and motioned toward a settee and two chairs facing a fire on a stone hearth on the right side of the room. “You can warm yourself by the fire while I get some coffee. Then we’ll talk.” He strode toward a door in the wall beyond the fireplace and disappeared.

      Another shiver shook her. She glanced at a rough wool jacket hanging from one of the pegs beneath a shelf on the wall beside her, then turned and hurried toward the fire. Her long skirts whispered against an oval, fringe-trimmed Oriental rug as she crossed the room. She shook the snow from her fur muff into the fire, laid it on the arm of a chair and did the same with her hat.

      Then we’ll talk.

      Her heart thudded. He thought she was Millie—however would she explain? This whole situation was ludicrous. And it would never have come to be if only her father believed her instead of Emory Gladen. But Emory always had a charming excuse for his small cruelties. She brushed the snow from her shoulders and removed her gloves, reminded herself she was doing Garret Stevenson a good turn by coming to Whisper Creek to marry him. To marry him! Her cold fingers fumbled at the buttons in the fur placket that ran down the front of her coat to its hem. She shrugged out of the heavy velvet garment, gave it a brisk shake, then hurried back across the room to hang her things on the pegs. She placed her hat beside a man’s wool hat already on the shelf.

      The warmth of the fire wooed her back to the hearth, coaxed the chill from her flesh. Snow melted off her long curls and made cold damp spots on the back of her dark brown wool gown. She leaned her head back and shook her hair, tried to rub away the dull throbbing in her temples and remember the story she had rehearsed.

      Footsteps drew her attention. She opened her eyes. Garret Stevenson came into the room still wearing his coat and hat. He was carrying two large cups, the steam from them rising to hover like clouds over his hands.

      “This should help.”

      He glanced her way, slid his gaze downward. His face tightened.

      She glanced down, saw nothing amiss. “Is something wrong?”

      “That’s a stylish dress for a maid.”

      His words were curt, brusque. Her shaking increased. But it wasn’t from the cold. It was from the heat of anger in Garret Stevenson’s eyes. He seemed to have taken an immediate disliking to her. What would happen when he learned she wasn’t Millie?

      He handed her one of the cups. “Do you use milk or sugar?”

      “Black will be fine.” She’d rather chance the bitter taste than anger him further.

      He set his cup down on the candle stand at the end of the settee, walked over to the shelf with the pegs and took off his coat and hat. He was a tall man, broad of shoulder and efficient in his movements. She slid her gaze over his suit. Expensive fabric and well fitted—

      “All right, Miss...”

      He turned and his eyes fastened on hers, sent another shiver up her spine. The coffee she held danced. She stilled her shaking cup with her free hand. “Yes?”

      “Who are you? And don’t say Millie Rourk. Make it the truth. I can’t abide liars.”

      She squared her shoulders and met the blaze of anger in his dark blue eyes. “And I find people who leap to conclusions about others trying. I do not lie, sir.”

      He snorted, walked back to the candle stand and picked up his coffee. “And what do you call your presence here in my home if not a lie, Miss—”

      “Winterman. My name is Virginia Winterman. And I consider my presence here a kindness to you, and a blessing to me. I believe you will agree, if you will give me a moment to explain, Mr. Stevenson.”

      “I don’t want to listen to some concocted story. I want answers! Why did you say I was going to meet you at the train depot? How did you know my name?”

      She reached into her pocket, withdrew a folded letter and held it out to him.

      He glanced at the writing, frowned and looked back up at her. “How did you get my letter to Millie?”

      “She gave it to me.”

      “And why would she do that?”

      “Millie is...was...my maid. I am in trouble and—”

      “You’re not with child!” The words exploded from him.

      “Certainly not!” She lifted her chin, glared up into his eyes. “And I will thank you not to impugn my character in such a cavalier fashion, sir!”

      He stared at her, scowled and nodded. “All right. I apologize for again leaping to a conclusion. But I have troubles of my own, Miss Winterman, and—”

      “I know of your trouble, Mr. Stevenson. But, if you will pardon my honesty, it does not excuse your rude treatment of me.”

      He took a swallow of coffee, studied her over the top of his cup. “Spunky, aren’t you? And that, Miss Winterman, is an observation, not a baseless conclusion.”

      Heat flooded her cold cheeks. She put the vanquished chill from her face into her voice. “I suppose I can be—when the situation warrants it.” She took a sip of the coffee, fought not to shudder at the strong, bitter taste and put her cup down.

      His mouth lifted into a crooked grin. A charming grin. She stared, transfixed by the transformation it brought to his face.

      “All right, I deserved that. But let’s get back to your story. I have a problem to solve and I’m running out of time, hence my ‘rude’ behavior.” He lifted his cup to his lips.

      “I know of your time constraint, Mr. Stevenson.” She turned slightly to warm her other side. “That’s why I came here to marry you.”

      Coffee spewed from his mouth, shot by her in a violent spray. He grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket with his free hand and wiped his mouth and chin, swiped it over his vest and suit coat. “You came to marry me?” He stopped swiping at the coffee and looked at her. “What sort of trouble are you in? And what happened to Millie Rourk? Where is she? Did I get coffee on you?”

      “No, it missed me.” She took a deep breath and plunged into her explanation. “My father is a wealthy man and I am his only child. He wants what is best for me—for my future. To that end, he has given his blessing to a man who wishes to marry me. The man is wealthy, and to all appearances an honorable gentleman. I cannot abide the man’s presence. There is something about him...” She shuddered, took another breath, thankful there was no need to say more. “I refused the man’s