Miss Phipps and the Cattle Baron (10 page)

***

When Priscilla bathed and dressed for dinner,
she had expected to dine alone with Lady Whittington. The children
had eaten earlier and were busy with their studies, and the last
she'd heard, Adam was to be at the ranch for the rest of the week.
Instead, he'd joined them shortly after she and Lady Whittington
started eating, and Adam was sitting at the head of the table,
staring at her intently, bafflement on his brow, a look that
closely resembled his mother's questioning stare. The
modus
operandi
had definitely taken a different turn than intended.
Adam was not supposed to be there. But he was. And she knew
precisely what he was thinking...

...she does not need the aid of infusions
and dyes and all manner of female fripperies that
will make
her look like a clown...

And in Adam's mind, she did look like a clown
this particular evening.

She'd put a dusting of pure white powder on
her face to lighten her skin, added ovals of blush along the ridges
of her cheekbones to heighten them, darkened her lips with rouge,
extended the outer corners of her eyes with Kohl to make her eyes
appear more wide set, and left her brows and lashes blond and
untouched. Lastly, she'd pulled her hair straight back to emphasize
her high forehead, allowing a dusting of coppery-red curls to frame
her face, then tucked pearls into the braid curving across the
crown of her head. Although she'd tried to be subtle with her
representation of the queen, from the looks she was receiving from
Adam and his mother, she knew she had not been subtle enough.

Attempting to disregard the quizzical looks,
she touched her napkin to her lips, and said, "It feels good to get
cleaned up after a day of typesetting. But after handling all of
the freshly-printed newspapers, I was not sure I could scrub the
ink from my hands."

Lady Whittington, whose brows had gathered
into a frown of concern, said to Priscilla, "I can see that would
be a problem, especially with your... very pale skin. Do you not
protect your hands with gloves?"

Priscilla sighed. "I'm afraid gloves would
make it impossible to pick up the tiny characters." She stretched
out her fingers. "But I suppose I could protect them with oil."

"It would certainly make it easier for you to
get those unsightly ink spots off your hands," Lady Whittington
said.

Priscilla let out a nervous laugh. "Actually,
they're not ink spots. They're freckles."

Lady Whittington raised her spectacles, which
had been dangling from a chain fastened to her lapel, and brought
them to her eyes. "Oh, my," she said, "they are indeed freckles.
Perhaps we can find some way to make them fade."

Priscilla stretched out her hands and looked
at them. "I'm quite used to having them," she said. "They have been
with me for a very long time."

"Yes, that is unfortunate," Lady Whittington
said in an empathetic tone. "But there are many fine products
available now that were not obtainable back when you were a
girl."

'Way back... thirty-nine years ago,'
Priscilla silently added. She looked at Lady Whittington, and said,
"At my stage in life, I no longer worry so much."

"As we age," Lady Whittington said, "it is
even more important to worry about our looks. Not that you are old
yet, Miss Phipps." She tipped her head back to get a closer look
through her spectacles. "But we all move ahead with time, and it
does take its toll."

Adam gave his mother a sharp look. "Miss
Phipps does not have to worry about aging for a long time." He
turned to Priscilla. "Do you have plans after dinner, tonight?"

"Yes," Priscilla replied. "I plan to read.
I'm interested in the Elizabethan period, and I have a book that I
have not had time to peruse."

Lady Whittington touched her napkin to her
lips. "Odd that you should mention the Elizabethan period," she
said. "You have a certain look about you, rather reminiscent of
Queen Elizabeth. Has anyone ever told you that?"

Priscilla fought an almost overwhelming urge
to laugh out loud. She hadn't expected Lady Whittington to pick up
on it so quickly. "Well yes," she replied. "I've been told that I'm
a direct descendent of Henry VII through my father, though it
couldn't be substantiated as the family Bible was lost in a fire.
But my family called me Bess when I was growing up because I looked
so much like the queen." That part was not a lie. She had a cameo
to prove it.

Weldon, who was pushing a toy canon across
the rug, commented, "Mr. Avery told us Queen Elizabeth had black
teeth and was bald. He read it in a history book."

"Mr. Avery did not say she was bald," Alice
argued, from her stance in the doorway, "he said she wore a
wig."

"She was bald!"

"She wore a wig!"

"Children!"
Lady Whittington snapped.
She shot a glare at Weldon and said, "One cannot believe everything
written in the history books. Now, both of you return to your rooms
and prepare yourselves for bedtime."

After the children left, Lady Whittington set
her fork on her plate, raised her spectacles to her eyes once more,
studied Priscilla at length, and said, with newfound interest, "You
do not need your family Bible to prove you're descended from the
Tudors, Miss Phipps. You are clearly of that lineage." The woman
all but bowed to Priscilla.

Adam looked at Priscilla in amusement, but
said nothing. And Priscilla got the distinct impression that he'd
seen through her ruse.

She had no time to dwell on that when Lady
Whittington said, "Elizabeth was the greatest monarch England ever
had. When she ascended the throne, England was an impoverished
country torn apart by religious squabbles. But Bess was a dedicated
queen who listened to the advice of those around her, and by the
time she died, England was one of the most prosperous countries in
the world."

Priscilla glanced at Adam, who tipped his
wine glass toward her in a silent toast. Her face flushed, and she
quickly averted her eyes. She really didn't want to expand on her
trumped-up story. But before she could direct the conversation to
the recent posting of
The Town Tattler
, Lady Whittington
said, "I think it would be admirable if you'd go to the school and
talk to the children about being a descendant of the Tudors."

"But that has not been established,"
Priscilla insisted.

"One only has to look at you to see that you
are a direct descendant. I don't know why I didn't pick up on that
when I first saw you."

Priscilla's lips twitched in a tentative
smile. The last thing she wanted was to explain to a room full of
school children, or anyone else, how she was descended from King
Henry, when it all started with a color plate, and a wish to
deceive a classroom of children into believing she was someone
important. "I do not feel comfortable making any claim to the
Tudors," she said, and hoped that would be the end of it.

"Then at least come to our Garden Club Tea
next week and let the women take a look at you. It's really uncanny
how much you look like the queen. You'd be my guest, and we would
say nothing about your ancestry. But if someone were to bring it
up, you could tell them what you told me," she said, eyes gleaming
with enthusiasm.

"I really have nothing to wear," Priscilla
said, to the young woman, hoping to put an end to this nonsense and
get on with her reason for coming to Cheyenne.

"What you are wearing will be fine," Lady
Whittington insisted.

"Mother," Adam interjected. "I believe your
Garden Club meeting is on Tuesdays, if I am not mistaken."

"Well, yes," Lady Whittington replied.
"Why?"

"Because that's the day I promised to take
Miss Phipps around Cheyenne and introduce her to some of the
merchants in town,' Adam said. "She wants to solicit advertisers
for her newspaper, and I have arranged for her to meet several
merchants."

Lady Whittington gave Adam a dark look. "Can
that not wait?"

"It's very important to Miss Phipps to get
advertisers," he explained, though Priscilla had no idea Adam had
gone to the trouble of contacting merchants. She also wondered why
he would do such a thing, without first consulting her.

Lady Whittington drew in a long breath. "Very
well then," she said. She turned to Priscilla, and added, "But we
will do the garden club another time."

Before Priscilla could respond, Adam said,
"Miss Phipps, would you care to go for a buggy ride after
dinner?"

Priscilla looked at Adam with a start. He was
on to her, she was certain, and she did not feel like trying to
explain to him either. Nor was it advisable to be alone with him in
a buggy. She couldn't trust him, or herself. Definitely not
herself. She shook her head. "I believe I'll retire to my room and
read my book. But thank you for asking."

"Actually I had another reason for asking
you," he said. "Mr. Jenkins at the drug store asked that I bring
you over so he could talk to you about placing a rather large ad in
your paper. He was talking about a quarter-page ad."

Priscilla stared at Adam. A quarter-page ad
would pay for the next issue of paper and be an invitation for
others to do the same. But in order to visit the druggist, she'd
have to be alone with Adam in the buggy. The thought brought those
odd feelings below her belly.

"Priscilla," Adam said. "This is
important."

Lady Whittington glared at Adam. "Have you
forgotten your manners?" she said. "You just addressed Miss Phipps
by her given name."

"Priscilla and I have long since dispensed
with the formalities, Mother," Adam said. "We are very good friends
now, and that's the way it is." He turned to Priscilla. "I think we
should leave. Mr. Jenkins is expecting me to bring you around in
fifteen minutes, which is about how long it will take to get
there." He turned to Lady Whittington. "If you'll excuse us,
Mother."

"Well, I suppose, if the man is expecting
you," Lady Whittington said. She turned to Priscilla and added,
"but I do hope you'll join me at a later Garden Club tea, perhaps
consider becoming a member. With your bloodline going back to the
king, there would be no objections to having you in our group."

Priscilla gave her a cautious smile. "Perhaps
at a later meeting." She dabbed her mouth, rested her napkin beside
her plate, and allowed Adam to pull her chair out. But as she
started across the room, with Adam close behind, Lady Whittington
called out, "In the meantime, I'll check
Burke's Peerage
and
see if I can locate the Phipp's family. They are certain to be
listed. Then we can trace your bloodline."

Priscilla glanced back at Lady Whittington,
wondering how she was going to get around this debacle, living
under the same roof with the woman as she was. It was obvious the
subject would not be shelved, now that a possible line of descent
from King Henry had been introduced. It had been so uncomplicated
when she was in school. She'd simply shown her classmates the
picture of the queen and claimed her ancestry, and that was that.
Of course, once Lady Whittington checked
Burke's Peerage
and
learned there were no Phipps descended from King Henry, that will
be that.

Once inside the buggy, Adam called up to his
driver and gave him directions to start driving, then settled next
to Priscilla, and said, "Is it true what you told my mother?"

Priscilla glanced up at him. "Do you think
I'd lie to her?"

Adam let out a short laugh, and said,"I
wouldn't hold it against you if you did. I just lied to her."

"You did?" Priscilla looked at him, curious.
"About what?"

"Mr. Jenkins." He gave her a wry smile. "He's
not expecting us. That was the only way I could think to get you
out of a sticky situation with my mother, and have you alone with
me." He covered her hand with his. "So, are you descended from King
Henry? I have to admit, your resemblance to the queen is
uncanny."

"I don't know whether I am or not," she said,
candidly. "There was speculation when I was growing up that I had
to have been descended from the Tudors because of the way I looked,
and it gave me a lance to hurl at a lot of spiteful, mean-spirited
children who teased me mercilessly about my bright red hair and
freckles. None of them could claim to be descended from royalty,
and they were wary of crossing me after that. Unless one has bright
copper hair, one does not know what it's like. But after claiming
royalty, I no longer felt a need to put my hands over my head and
tell them to stop looking at my hair."

He lifted her hand to his lips and placed a
kiss on her palm. "You are a whole lot prettier than the queen," he
said, continuing to hold her hand.

Priscilla let out a little snicker. "I know.
I'm not bald, and I don't have black teeth."

Adam kissed her lightly. "But you do have the
prettiest smile I've ever seen, and beautiful eyes that change
color with your moods, like a chameleon, and a mouth that is more
kissable than any I have ever tasted, and a womanly shape that
demands a man's touch—" his palm glided down her chest, then curled
into a fist that he rested on his knee. "I will not venture there.
Yet. To sum it up, Miss Priscilla Phipps, who may or may not have
descended from the Tudors, you are a very desirable woman."

For the first time in her life, Priscilla
felt desirable. And when Adam tucked his hands beneath her legs and
lifted her onto his lap, she wrapped her arms around his neck,
sending him tumbling against the buggy seat, and kissed him the way
she had at the picnic. While her fingers tangled in his hair and
her tongue explored his mouth, his hand glided up her bodice and he
began unfastening the buttons of her dress. Slipping his palm
inside her corset, he cupped her breast. Priscilla let out a little
sigh of pleasure, making no effort to stop the deliciously
exciting, incredibly titillating, amazingly wondrous things his
fingers were doing. Nor did she protest when he broke their
sensuous kiss and clamped his lips onto the tight nub he'd just
been teasing, while his other hand slipped beneath the hem of her
drawers and move up her bare thigh...