The Texan's Courtship Lessons. Noelle Marchand

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Lawson’s brothers-in-law were the other two.

      Lawson winked at Ellie. “She’s already dangerous enough without it.”

      Rhett glanced away, feeling decidedly uncomfortable as Ellie sent her husband a look that was warmer than Texas in the spring. Once they were finished staring into each other’s eyes, Rhett presented Ellie with the arrow. “I believe this is yours.”

      “You can keep it, Rhett. I have plenty of them left. Look, it says ‘Happy New Year’ on the shaft.”

      He handed it back to her anyway. “Thanks, but—Wait. How do you know who I am? I thought my costume disguised me pretty well.”

      Lawson nodded. “It does. Ellie, how did you know it was Rhett?”

      “I have my ways.”

      Her cryptic answer didn’t fool him. “You saw me, didn’t you? You saw me try to ask that woman to dance.”

      Lawson frowned. “What woman?”

      “Cleopatra,” Ellie answered, then winced. “I mean, what woman?”

      “What happened, Rhett?”

      “Same old, same old,” he said. The couple had witnessed his limitations when it came to communicating with the opposite sex on numerous occasions. “Who is she, though, when she isn’t Cleopatra?”

      Ellie shrugged. “What makes you think I would know? Midnight isn’t too far away. Stick around for the unmasking and find out for yourself.”

      “Actually, I think I’m going to head home.” He hadn’t decided on that until he said it, yet he knew that was probably the best idea he’d had all evening. They both protested, but Rhett knew it was the right decision. There was no point in sticking around. He’d probably only find some way to make a fool of himself again. It would be far wiser for him to go home. Of course, he’d be alone on New Year’s Eve. But how was that different than any other day?

      He pushed away the loneliness and disappointment that threatened him. It was going to be a new year. Perhaps it was time to put old dreams aside and move on.

      * * *

      Tonight, she was a woman of intrigue, sophistication and mystery—Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile.

      At least, she would let herself pretend to be that until the stroke of midnight when the masks would come off, and she’d turn into a pumpkin. Or, more accurately, she’d go back to being practical, boring and uninspiring Isabelle Bradley. There were only fifteen minutes left before that would happen. That mean meant the only person who knew her true identity, besides the four male boarders who’d escorted her from her family’s boardinghouse, was Marc Antony.

      He smiled down at her. “You look beautiful, Isabelle.”

      She feigned disinterest. “What makes you think my name is Isabelle?”

      “Because you’re the only one who ordered a wig like that from my family’s mercantile.”

      Her dance partner was Chris Johansen, then. She’d suspected as much. She didn’t even bother to hold back her frustrated huff. She’d gone through a lot of trouble to disguise herself from her older sister’s former suitors. Apparently, her efforts hadn’t worked. “Sophia promised she wouldn’t tell anyone that I’d ordered the wig.”

      “Don’t worry. My little sister refused to answer a single one of my questions about who it was for. I figured it out on my own by looking at your account records.”

      Why he’d go through all of that trouble was beyond her. She simply couldn’t get used to the tenacity or attentions of Chris and her other so-called suitors. They’d never paid her any mind before her sister’s elopement. She could hardly take them seriously now when, despite their best efforts to prove otherwise, it was obvious they were only seeking a replacement for Amy. Isabelle aspired to few things in life, but allowing herself to become a faded tintype in the eyes of a man who should cherish her for herself was not one of them. She’d try to make that clear by avoiding the men altogether. They didn’t seem to be getting the message. Perhaps she ought to try being a bit more assertive. Starting with “Mark Antony.”

      Isabelle pinned him with an accusatory stare as he whirled her around the crowded dance floor in a waltz. “Well, all I have to say is you’ve got a lot of nerve, Chris Johansen, dressing to match me. What exactly are you trying to achieve by doing this? Because the only message I’m getting is that you’re a cheater.”

      He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve been trying to get your attention for weeks. You won’t stay still long enough to listen.”

      No, she hadn’t, but perhaps he’d leave her alone if she let him say his peace. After a long-suffering sigh, she nodded. “All right, I’m listening now. What is it you want to say?”

      “You and I have been friends a long time, haven’t we?”

      “Uh-huh.” She found refuge from his too-intense eyes by scanning the crowd of onlookers. It wasn’t until her gaze landed on the tall, powerfully built pirate who’d approached her earlier that she realized she’d been looking for him all along. He stood at the edge of the dance floor talking to a couple. They must have been saying their goodbyes for he shook the man’s hand and received a quick hug from the lady. He turned. For one intense moment, their eyes caught and held across the distance. But then the steps of the waltz spun her around and she lost sight of him.

      “Isabelle, did you hear me?”

      She forced herself to refocus on her partner. “Hmm?”

      “I was trying to ask you—” He froze, which was probably a good thing since he looked downright exasperated.

      It was only when he turned slightly away from her that she saw the man at his heels. Dressed in a costume fit for a drawing room in Regency England, he gave a shallow bow. “May I cut in?”

      Chris scowled. “No.”

      The gentleman stroked the curves of his immaculately shaped auburn mustache as he affected a very poor English accent. “Mr. Johansen, it is common courtesy to yield in such occasions.”

      Chris’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know who I am?”

      “As an artist always knows his own work, a barber recognizes every haircut he gives.”

      As Chris slid his fingers through his blond hair, Isabelle barely withheld a groan of recognition. She should have recognized Amy’s childhood sweetheart the second she saw his mustache. “John Merriweather.”

      “Miss Isabelle, I presume.” He bowed again. “May I have this dance?”

      Chris kept hold of her hand. “Now, see here, John. You’ll just have to wait—”

      “Absolutely, you may cut in, Mr. Merriweather.” She glanced between two men—one dejected, the other gloating. Lifting Chris’s hand, she placed it squarely in John’s. “It might look a little strange, but you gentlemen enjoy yourselves.”

      She lingered only long enough to watch their mouths drop open as they jerked their hands back and glared at each СКАЧАТЬ