The Duchess And The Desperado

“Your grace, I’d feel better if we got inside,” Morgan said in a low voice.

“By all means, your grace,” McCook said, offering his arm even as he flashed a disapproving look at Morgan. “We’ve assembled the cream of Colorado society to greet you, madam. Everyone’s quite excited at the prospect of meeting an actual duchess.”

“Then let’s not keep them waiting further, gentlemen,” Sarah said, taking McCook’s arm with regal ease.

The crowd on the lantern-lit porch parted to let them through as the governor led them into the house.

“We’ll have a receiving line in the ballroom first, your grace, if that’s agreeable to you,” Morgan heard the governor say as he led the duchess and the rest of them up a long stairway.

They came to a large room with chairs and settees lining the walls, interspersed at intervals with large potted plants. At the far end a woman was playing a huge golden harp, her soft music reminding Morgan of clear green water running over the limestone bed of a Texas river. Here and there paintings hung on the wall, portraits of Washington and Lincoln and one of the Founding Fathers signing the Declaration of Independence.

The room hummed with chatter, and held even more people than had been out on the porch and balcony. Silence fell, however, as the invitees stepped aside to allow the host and his important guests to form a line at the entrance to the room. Morgan observed from the side of the room as they assembled, with the mayor first, followed by the governor, the duchess and finally Lord Halston.

“Mr. Calhoun?” called Sarah Challoner, looking around for him and sounding a bit uncertain.

He crossed over to her and said softly, “I’ll be right over there by the door, Duchess.” He nodded his head in that direction. “I can keep an eye on who’s approaching you from there.”

She nodded, apparently reassured, and then the guests began coming through the line. Morgan saw her turn with a brilliant smile to meet the first of them.

He watched as she was introduced to mine owners, bankers, speculators in real estate. Then came half a dozen men in the dress uniform of the U.S. Army.

Morgan nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t seen them as they had entered the governor’s residence, and the sight of those blue-uniformed officers in their gold-braid-trimmed uniforms made his heart thud beneath the borrowed white shirt. He didn’t take his eyes off them as they waited to meet the duchess. If just one of them looked at him a bit too long or pointed at him to one of his fellows, Morgan knew he was going to have to run for it—and though he’d hate himself for abandoning her, the duchess would just have to look out for herself.

None of them seemed to have eyes for anyone but Sarah Challoner, though. It was almost as if Morgan were invisible. If those soldiers only knew that the very man the army wanted for robbing the stage that had carried the troops’ payroll was right here in the room with them, they wouldn’t be so concerned with bowing over the duchess’s hand, he thought grimly. What a difference his shaving and wearing some fancy duds made! They didn’t recognize him as the desperado whose face was on all the Wanted posters.

The women at the sides of the men coming through the line were each more gorgeously dressed than the last, in silks and satins, feathers, flowers, ribbons and lace, in a rainbow of colors and accented by a blinding array of jewels.

He smiled at the irony of being in the same room with all those jewels. The ladies wearing them would have been jumpy as cats on ice if they had known how many lovely baubles he’d taken at gunpoint off the necks of wealthy women like themselves.

He wasn’t here to rob anyone, though, so he studied the ladies’ faces. Some of them were attractive, some merely well-dressed and groomed, but none was as lovely as the duchess. She shone like a gleaming diamond among fool’s gold.

He felt a pang of regret as he took in the entire scene. Once, as a Calhoun, descended from one of the original settlers of Texas and owner of the finest ranch for a hundred miles, Morgan had belonged in such a world. He had been dressed as well as any of them, not wearing rented clothes. He’d had a beautiful belle on his arm.

But that was a long time ago, before the war, and now he was a breed apart from those chattering, fancily dressed people. He was an outlaw, no matter what his temporary role was with the Duchess of Malvern.

“Hello,” he heard a husky voice say as the last few guests were going through the line, and then he was startled to feel a hand on his wrist.

Morgan looked down to see one of the ladies who had gone through the receiving line, a short brunette whose garnet brooch drew attention to the scandalously low neckline of the dark red gown she was wearing.

“I know it isn’t conventional for a lady to introduce herself to a gentleman,” she said, “but I kept waiting for you to leave the wall you seemed to be holding up and come through the line, and you haven’t moved. So I decided I’d have to be unconventional and introduce myself. I’m Helen Wharton. My brother William over there—” she jerked her head in the direction of a ginger-headed young man talking to a group of businessmen underneath the chandelier “—owns the Double W Mining Company. You’ve heard of it? I haven’t met you at any of these gatherings before, and I thought I knew everyone in our social circle.”

Morgan breathed in her perfume, and was aware of a quick flaring of lust as his brain appreciated the musky scent that surrounded the woman like a cloud. At another time or place he’d have enjoyed a dance of seduction with this woman, for her bold eyes told him she’d be more than willing to partner him in that particular waltz.

“Morgan Calhoun, ma’am,” he said, inclining his head politely, “and I reckon we haven’t met because I’m not exactly in your social circle. I’m just here to guard the duchess.” Deliberately he cut his eyes back to the receiving line, expecting the woman to stalk off in search of more prominent prey.

He was wrong, it seemed. She was still there when he looked back down. Excitement flashed in her brown eyes, and she removed her long-nailed hand from his wrist to stroke down his biceps.

“Ooh, you’re a bodyguard?” she breathed. “How very exciting. Why don’t we get some punch and step out on the balcony? You can tell me all about your experiences....”

He narrowed his eyes in what he hoped was a discouraging manner, and shook his head. He couldn’t afford to let her distract him. “I’m here to keep my eye on the duchess,” he said, returning his gaze to Sarah Challoner. “I’ve got to stay by her.”

Helen Wharton pouted for just a moment. “Ah, I can see you’re devoted to duty...very commendable, I’m sure. But you’re entitled to a little refreshment, aren’t you? Why don’t I go get us both some punch and bring it back here? You can keep your eye on your duchess, and I’ll keep you company.”

Morgan gave a wary okay to her offer, then went back to watching the duchess.

The dark-haired Helen was back within moments, somehow managing to bring two cups of punch and a plate full of finger sandwiches through the crowd without mishap.

“Much obliged,” Morgan said, taking a grateful sip, and blinking in surprise as he tasted liquor mingled with the fruity liquid. Rum, he guessed.

“This is rather...potent,” he said, his eyes leaving the duchess for a moment to rest on Helen Wharton and the cup she was raising to her lips. “I hope there was something a little less...strong for you, ma’am?” He’d better limit himself to one cup, and sip that sparingly, or soon he’d be too blind drunk even to see the duchess, much less protect her.

Helen laughed merrily. “There is a punch for the ladies, but I’m drinking the same thing as you are. I’m afraid I find the other stuff rather insipid. Here, have a sandwich.”

He accepted the morsel from her, then searched and found Sarah Challoner in the crowd. The receiving line finished, she had joined the same group of businessmen that Helen Wharton’s brother had been standing among. Just then William Wharton returned, bearing punch and sandwiches, which he offered to the duchess.

“Hospitality seems to run in your family,” Morgan observed.

“Yes...I ran into my brother at the refreshment table. He’s quite taken with your duchess. Says she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.”

Morgan sure couldn’t disagree with that, so he said nothing, just kept his eye on the duchess as the mining magnate went on chatting with her. His conversation was evidently very stimulating, for Sarah Challoner was animated, her color high, her blue eyes sparkling. Then he saw that something Wharton said had amused her, for she tipped back her head and laughed. The sound was lost in the noisy room, but Morgan fancied he could hear its silvery music.

Lord, he wished he were a rich man so he could stand talking with Sarah Challoner like this, and have her laughing at some clever thing he said.

Then he saw Wharton gesture toward the balcony, and Sarah’s narrow-eyed stare in its direction before she nodded.

From here he could see that the balcony was empty of other guests, and someone had blown out the torches that had illuminated it at their arrival. So the rich fellow imagined he was going to lure Sarah Challoner out into the darkness?

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he growled to the woman beside him, handing her his cup without even looking at her and striding forward to intercept the couple heading for the balcony.

“Pardon me, Du—your grace,” he amended, planting himself in front of the couple. The duchess had her hand on Wharton’s arm, a fact that fueled his ire.

The two halted, Wharton blinking at him as if Morgan had two heads. “Mr. Calhoun, is something wrong?” Sarah Challoner asked.

“No, ma’am, but I can’t have you...I don’t think...that is, you shouldn’t go out on the balcony.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. It’s dark out there. No one who’d want to harm me could even see me.”

“Harm you? What do you mean?” Wharton asked. Then, when he received no answer, he glared at Morgan, his face reddening, a pulse beating in his temples. “Now, see here, fellow, just who do you think you are to be ordering her grace around?”

Morgan ignored him. “Ma’am, there’s a full moon, and your dress is a pale color. A sniper wouldn’t need much more.”

Sarah Challoner lifted her chin—always a sign of imminent rebellion, he’d discovered—and her lips thinned. “Oh, don’t be tiresome, Mr. Calhoun. I’ll be fine. Mr. Wharton merely thought I might like some air.”

I’ll just bet he did, Morgan thought, fixing his piercing gaze on the mining magnate until the other man’s eyes fell.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to agree with Mr. Calhoun, your grace,” said Lord Halston, who had suddenly appeared at Morgan’s side in time to hear the last exchange. “It would be most unwise.”

“My dear duchess, what on earth are they talking about? Have you been threatened?” Wharton demanded.