Indiscreet Page 8

  Quite the opposite, he thought, with a self-satisfied grin.

  When he'd gone as far as he could, he caught her chin and made her look at him. "Are you all right, Miss Clarissa?"

  She nodded, but even in the soft moonlight, he could see that she was blushing. "Don't call me that—not while we're doing this."

  "Why not?" he smiled.

  "Because it's a kind of proper way to address me, and what we're doing is definitely not proper, and that seems wrong, somehow."

  Doyle shook his head. "It'll be proper soon enough. And that's just what I like about it—the contrast between the two. Just like you." He leaned down and whispered the last phrase into her ear.

  She made a mental note to talk to him about why they had to get married so quickly, but that was as far as she got with coherent thought because then he began to move. And soon, again, she began to scream.

  When she woke the next morning, she was in her own bed, in her own room, wondering how she'd gotten there. He'd kept her up most of the night, making love to her in various ways—each one of which made her blush that much harder than the last—even now, hours later, just to recall them.

  And then she remembered that, moments before she'd fallen into an exhausted sleep in his arms, he'd whispered boldly into her ear, "If there wasn't a baby before, there probably is now."

  But he must've gotten up at some point and carried her in here, which wasn't a bad idea, considering that Lucille would have arrived at the crack of dawn to make them breakfast, and she would have just died if, somehow, she had been caught sneaking from his room back to hers.

  He'd saved her from that ignominious fate, anyway.

  She dressed quickly and headed out of her room, not sure whether she wanted to bump into him or not, but relieved of that choice by the fact that he seemed to be waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

  "Good morning, Miss Clarissa," he said in a deliberately provocative drawl, and she blushed, right on cue.

  "Good morning, Mr. Doyle," she purred boldly back at him. Two could play at that game.

  She didn't know why, but his big smile at her attempt at vamping him made her feel inordinately pleased. He offered her his elbow, formally escorted her into the dining room, where, as soon as she sat down—again in the chair she seemed to somehow have usurped from Winnie—he dropped to one knee before her, the ring box he'd had last night at dinner magically appearing in his hand.

  "I forgot to do this last night, but then, I had other things on my mind." He put the ring on her finger, then kissed it and her, before standing up again.

  It took Lucille exactly six seconds to notice it when she came in with the food.

  "Is that an engagement ring on your finger, Miss Clarissa?" she asked, practically dropping a plate of hot, fresh blueberry muffins on the table in favor of grabbing Rissa's hand and peering at the ring as if she'd never a diamond before. "Are you two engaged?" she asked, sounding as though it was the last thing she could imagine, which didn't make Rissa feel very good, despite the fact that it was the last thing she could imagine, too.

  But Doyle looked so proud he was fit to pop his buttons. "Yes, we are, Lucille, and you're the first person to hear the happy news!"

  Isaac and Winnie were next, and they were just as flummoxed, although they were no better able to cover their complete surprise than Lucille had been.

  "But you two are always—" Winnie began, trailing off awkwardly rather than completing her unflattering thought.

  "She's got spunk. I like that," Doyle asserted, patting her hand.

  "When are you thinking of getting married?" Isaac asked.

  In unison, Doyle and Rissa replied, "Saturday," and "We haven't really set a date yet."

  Doyle looked questioningly at his fiancée and repeated more firmly, "Saturday."

  "This Saturday?" Winnie asked incredulously.

  "Yes."

  "Oh my word, we have a lot of work to do then, don't we? How are we going to get you a wedding dress on such short notice?"

  "We're going to go into Albuquerque and buy one," Doyle answered for her. "Or have one made. I'm happy to pay whatever it takes to get it done for when we need it." He reached out and patted Rissa's hand. "And, while we're there, we'll get you a whole new wardrobe. I can't have my wife going about town in last year's threadbare wardrobe."

  She didn't know why, but his comment about her clothes hurt more than a bit, especially when said in front of everyone—even though he was right—although it was more like year before year before last's threadbare wardrobe, but he was a man—he wouldn't pay attention to that kind of detail. Apparently, he had noticed the dilapidated condition of her clothes.

  Normally, her first response was to fight back, but for some reason, she couldn't work up the indignation she needed to do that. She was too busy feeling inadequate and embarrassed even to fight him much about how quickly he was rushing her into this marriage. It just seemed inevitable to her that he would always get his way, and that he was going to end up marrying a woman he thought of as a poor relation in need of rescuing.

  Chapter 7

  They all made the trip to Albuquerque, which meant almost a day long ride in the coach. Rissa had never been but couldn't work up much enthusiasm about it—or much of anything else—anyway.

  It was Winnie who was ending up doing most of the work for her wedding and having to push her to do the things only she could do, but, of course, not understanding why Rissa was so reluctant to do much too help.

  But it was Doyle who confronted her about it. Although getting remarried was the farthest thing from his mind, he was a man of action and had come to grips with the consequences of what they'd done very quickly, accepting and even embracing his responsibilities towards her, in a manner that surprised him, and he expected her to do the same. They'd done something they oughtn't, and they had to do the right thing to rectify the situation. He'd be pressuring her to do this, even if the was no chance of her becoming pregnant.

  But even wearing his ring, even now with the very distinct possibility of a child, she was still not at all sure that getting married was the right thing for them to do. Oh, she knew that it was right on paper—that it was the proper thing to do. She had no doubts about that. But she wasn't at all sure that that should apply to the two of them, somehow. Married? To Doyle Caldwell—who couldn't seem to keep his hands off her, even though he didn't seem to like her very much at the same time, who was a prominent businessman in the state, and who seemed perfectly content to marry a woman who was obviously far beneath him socially?

  Even the beautiful hotel and the excellent meal in its restaurant couldn't cheer her up, nor could shopping for her wedding dress and trousseau the next day.

  Finally, Doyle'd had enough.

  Isaac had a few business meetings to attend, so he had been excused from dress shopping—much to his ill-concealed relief—but both Winnie and Doyle were keen to deck poor Rissa out from head to toe, so their first stop was the trendiest, most expensive dressmaker in town, Madame Bouvier, who was only able to squeeze them in because of a generous bribe from Doyle. And Rissa was the least enthusiastic among the three of them.

  So, when Winnie and the Madame seemed occupied trying to decide on fabrics and styles for dresses, wedding and otherwise, Doyle took the opportunity to bully his way into Rissa's private dressing room.

  Rissa was down to just her bloomers and a chemise because Winnie was insisting that she be dressed completely from the skin out, so eventually she'd even be losing the chemise and bloomers. When she heard the door to her room open, she had assumed that it was one or the other of the women who had come in. Only it wasn't. It was the man who was going to be her husband, looking genuinely dapper, dressed for town as he was, and for some reason, even though she was still wearing some clothes, she felt even more exposed now than she had when she'd been naked in front of him standing next to his bed.

  Perhaps it was that very intent, very carnal look he was giving he
r, or the fact that he was completely clothed and she was nearly nude, or it might have been their environment. This was very obviously a lady's shop, and he was very much a man standing in the middle of it. Regardless, she found herself cornered in a matter of seconds, though he hadn't yet touched her—and she sincerely hoped he didn't, although she knew better than to put that past him.

  "Are you ill, darling?" he asked levelly, although she knew from experience that she shouldn't push him and refuse to answer, and she wouldn't in so public a place. She already felt wholly inadequate to be marrying him—she wouldn't add bringing a scandal down on his house to that, if she could possibly avoid it.

  "No," she said quietly, looking down.

  He caught her chin on the edge of his curled finger, gently forcing her to look at him, his voice wonderfully soft and caring. "Are you injured somehow that I don't know about?"

  "No."

  "Has someone been treating you badly?"

  "No." She couldn't really say that even he had, especially lately, when he'd turned into what was for him, a very loving, affectionate fiancée. He was attentive, even solicitous, and very definitely generous.

  Yet she couldn't seem to get her shame and embarrassment at his comment in regards to the poor state of her garments out of her mind.

  He chuckled softly. "I've never been very good at mind reading, Miss Clarissa. Has someone said something of an insulting nature to you?"

  She couldn't help it. She hesitated. Lying didn't come easily to her, so she was unprepared to do that. But neither did she want to confess to him that he was the one who had insulted her.

  Doyle gave her a considering look. "So someone has said or done something that offended you?"

  Lying, she was very uncomfortable with. But she and stubborn had a very comfortable relationship. That was, until she'd met the man who was standing before her. Still, Rissa kept her mouth tightly closed.

  Doyle took another step towards her, bringing his body into close—highly inappropriate—contact with hers. "Why do you not speak? Are you trying to protect someone, little girl?"

  Although she was growing more nervous by the minute and beginning to fidget as a result, Rissa remained silent.

  Doyle noted this, how anxious she was becoming, and wondered at its cause. He was unhappy to hear that someone had behaved like this towards her, and he couldn't imagine who it was who had done that, but he intended to find out.

  Drawing himself up to his full height, he gave her a look out of the corner of his eyes, scolding, "Tell me you do not mistakenly assume that I wouldn't take you over my knee, right here and now, and give you a very thorough spanking—while everyone else in the shop can hear how you're being treated— until you stop this disrespectful silence and answer me?"

  "It was you," Rissa whispered, her eyes closing, causing two fat tears to race down her cheeks.

  "Me?" He couldn't have been more surprised if she'd said it was Sheba who had insulted her.

  His first instinct, of course, was to deny it and brush it off, to scoff at her feelings. But he forced himself not to do that to her, not to dismiss her out of hand, conversations he'd had with Laura about such things floating through his mind. She'd called him on that tendency, and he had done his best not to do it anymore, and now, he very much wanted Rissa to feel comfortable telling him things, even things he might not want to hear about himself.

  So, he took her hand and guided her to the loveseat style couch that lined one of the walls in the small dressing room, sitting down next to her and pulling her against his side, cuddling her tightly, then saying, "Please. Tell me what I did to make you feel so blue. Give me the chance to kiss it and make it better."

  Rissa was amazed that he even wanted to, but tried not to show it.

  "You…well—"

  She was fidgeting again, and he didn't like the way it made him feel that she was afraid of him. "Honey, we're going to be married for a long, long time, and I don't want you to think that there's anything you can't tell me, even if you think it's something I might not want to hear or something naughty that you've done. It'll always be better for you to tell me than not."

  Knowing he wasn't going to let her go until he got what he wanted, she sighed heavily. "Well, I doubt you'll even remember this, but before we came on this trip, when we first told Isaac and Winnie that we were getting married, you said…" She paused and swallowed hard, but he didn't push her. Doyle could see that this wasn't easy for her. It wasn't easy for him, either, he realized, because it made him ache when she looked so forlorn and because he was trying so hard to make this unusual, uncomfortable situation right for her.

  "You said that you couldn't have your wife wearing last year's threadbare wardrobe," she whispered miserably.

  Doyle had no idea why she'd taken offense at that offhand remark, and that was almost exactly what he said to her, if in a very tender, gentle manner. "Obviously, that hurt you, and I'm very sorry that it did, but it's got to be a deficit on my part that I can't understand why. Will you please explain it to your blockheaded fiancée?"

  Rissa appreciated his self-deprecating humor and the fact that he was obviously doing his best to let her know that he cared about her feelings, which was a lovely discovery in and of itself. But still, she was unable to stem the flow of tears as she muttered and mumbled her way through her explanation. "I lost my job while Winnie was out here—didn't want to worry her so I didn't tell her—and I got kicked out of my apartment, and I had to live on the charity of my friends for almost a year before I came out here, so that I could save up enough money to travel and pay the bills I'd accumulated while I was living alone. I didn't have money for new clothes. I barely had money for food."

  A silk handkerchief was pressed into her hand. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I'm so sorry you had to go through that." The he chastised quite sternly, "Why didn't you let us know? I would have paid your way here, or given you money to live more comfortably there, or whatever you wanted."

  "I wouldn't have taken your money, Doyle."

  He almost rolled his eyes at her, but stopped himself just in time. "Of course, you wouldn't. But you know me well enough by now to know that, if you had refused my offer, I would have simply come and gotten you, don't you?"

  Rissa pinched him, hard, for that, totally ignoring his last sentence. "I didn't want Winnie to worry. She was out here and had fallen in love with Isaac; I didn't want to burden her."

  Her fiancée gave her a look that made her worry that she might just end up over his lap, anyway, and his next words proved her hunch out. "I should spank you for that, at the very least, silly girl. Winnie would have wanted to help you, just as much as I would."

  "But I'm the older sister. I'm supposed to take care of her! It's bad enough that I eventually ended up having to come out here to live with you, imposing on you as I have. I couldn't blame you for not wanting me here; you had Winnie already, but you didn't sign up to support her family."

  He understood the "oldest sibling" thing. He'd felt it himself, especially when things with the ranch weren't going so well financially, right after their father had died.

  It was the other things she'd said that had her ending up over his lap, with his big hand cupping her behind threateningly. "I'm sorry if I was gruff and brusque and didn't make you feel very welcome at first. But you have never been—and never could be—an imposition."

  As she held her breath to see whether or not he spanked her, Rissa's gaze caught sight of the fact that he hadn't locked the door behind him when he'd barged in on her a few minutes ago.

  "Doyle, I don't think the door's lock—"

  She no sooner got the phrase out of her mouth than the Madame entered briskly. Luckily for them, her eyes were on the dress she had in her hands and not on them, and they managed to rearrange themselves into a somewhat presentable tableau rather quickly, so that all she saw was a young woman in her fiancée's arms.

  Still, she looked quite startled to see him in there w
ith her and began to babble in French, which Rissa didn't understand. But Doyle apparently did, because he began to converse with her quite fluently as he allowed himself to be ushered out, kissing her a hasty good bye, then skirting by the frantically shooing Madame, sounding sincerely apologetically the entire time, until he'd managed to close the door behind him, leaving the two women in there without him.

  Madame Beauchamp gave her a knowing look. "He is very passionate, no?" she asked.

  "Yes," Rissa nodded with a smile.

  "He is French, then, no?"

  "No, English."

  The older woman looked both horrified and doubtful at the same time, but then dismissed it with a gallic shrug and began to tuck her charge into the dress she'd found, making and notating measurements the entire time.

  Although she seemed to be of a little better spirits the rest of the day, Doyle could still see tinges of sadness around Rissa's eyes that he wished—more than he thought he would—he could make disappear. Their highly improper little impromptu chat had been rudely interrupted, just when it was getting interesting, and he wasn't willing to simply let it go and fester within her. He'd had no idea she'd felt like that, and he was going to do everything he could to show her that she wasn't a burden to him in any way.

  In fact, she was becoming quite a joy, and he was happier than he had ever expected to be again in his life. When he'd lost Laura, he might not have said it out loud—probably because he was in his cups too often to do so, especially at first. But he had quietly resigned himself to living out the rest of his life as a bachelor, although he knew that was the last thing she would have wanted for him. No one would ever be able to replace her in his mind or his heart.

  And he was finding that was true. Rissa wasn't trying to replace Laura at all, but she was making room for herself in his heart. It was a painful process for him, one that he was sure would result in hurt feelings occasionally down the road when he felt something sharply that he had trouble communicating to her and it made him lash out. But they were going to be bound together for the rest of their lives, and he intended to make it as good a one for the both of them as he could, and if that involved changing himself a bit—for the better—then he would do it.