Susan Johnson Read online

  Blaze watched the liquid sunset from the window of her private parlor; her father was downstairs discussing business, while her mother, as usual, was taking an hour more than anyone else to dress. A servant delivered a glass of champagne with her father’s compliments and, as she lounged before the window on a red plush armchair, Blaze sipped the wine and enjoyed the close of the day and the beginning of the night.

  Yards of creamy lace and ivory silk hand-sewn with thousands of seed pearls spread luxuriously over her crinoline and flowed to the floor in soft crushed folds. The snug, revealing bodice of her gown was supported by whalebone stays, so the filmy lace draped below her bare shoulders was purely decorative. The pale fabric and lace spectacularly set off her peach skin and golden apricot hair. Long earrings of diamonds and pearls dropped from her ears, shining against the delicate texture of her skin. But reality defied the picture of perfection. Wayward tendrils were already altering her carefully arranged coiffeur. To the despair of her hairdresser, sent away in a fit of pique, Blaze’s curls had a rebellious bent no amount of effort could control, and her stylishly smooth hairdo was regaining its natural tendencies.

  A pendant of matching diamonds and pearls suspended from a delicate chain hung tantalizingly in the shadowed cleavage of her voluptuous breasts. Since a state of studiously controlled half undress was formal style for evening dress, Blaze failed to recognize how provocative her dress was, her breasts pushed high over the low décolletage of the gown brought west for just such an evening. Shoulders were extremely bare this season, and the drape of lace between shoulder and elbow served a multiple purpose. With the contours of the female form below the waist virtuously swathed in volumes of petticoats and fabric, the area from the waist up was left to remind men what a female was. The ruffle—so stylishly new—set off the sheer nakedness of the female shoulders while drawing equal attention to the soft breasts swelling above corseted silk.

  Slender, long-legged, arrayed in pale silk like a Renaissance bride, with the satiny skin of her shoulders and half-revealed breasts lushly inviting, Blaze was guaranteed to turn heads at the territorial ball.

  ONE male head denying any such intention was lying back against the headrest of a large porcelain tub drawn up to the west window of his second-floor room in The Planter’s House, Virginia City’s newest hotel. Stripped of the dirt and fatigue of several weeks of solitary mining, Hazard rested in the tub, leisurely enjoying a large glass of brandy. Life had become more gratifying. Disquieting images of autumn gold hair had been displaced by more palpable carnal realities in the shape of several Virginia City hostesses of various descriptions who had passed more or less time in room 202 in the past few days. Hazard’s sense of pressing social duties had consisted largely of entertaining ladies in bed. In fact, he was expecting one of them to return in less than ten minutes. There’d be time before the ball, Lucy had insisted, and after the long, lonely weeks at Diamond City, Hazard wasn’t about to say no.

  All in all, he was enormously content. The rare yearning, for the unusual red-haired woman, was gone now, submerged by satisfying sexual abundance in the three days in Virginia City. Transient cravings based on prolonged abstinence were all the fantasies had been, Hazard rationalized; they had nothing to do in particular with the woman in tight trousers. And now that the abstinence was assuaged, she could be dismissed from his thoughts.

  At the soft knock, he drained the brandy and called out, “Come in.” As he turned his head toward the door, his dark eyes swept the elegant brunette dressed in pink mousseline de soie with ribbon flounces of Belgian embroidery precariously holding her full breasts from spilling out of the bodice. Hazard became suddenly attentive as Lucy Attenborough entered the room, shut the door, and leaned against it.

  “Should I get out,” he asked softly, his eyes meeting hers, “or do you want to get in?”

  “I can’t, Jon … my clothes … my hair.…”

  “Take off your clothes, pet. I’ll be careful with your hair.” His glance held hers in predatory thrall. “Take everything off slowly,” he said in a low, sensual rasp. “I’d like that.”

  She hadn’t moved from the door, but her eyes glittered with hidden excitement as she surveyed her lover. Hazard was the most magnificent man she’d ever known, his scandalous eyes lured her with a dangerous attraction, his aquiline face was so beautiful he turned heads. Seated now in the bathtub—naked, bronzed, glistening with droplets of water across his broad-shouldered frame—he was more of a man than ten of her husbands combined. Arching her back, she held his level dark gaze and felt the smoldering heat linger, then caress her body like licking flame. “How do you do it? How can you make me feel this way?” she asked, breathy, taut, flushing with pleasure.

  “Charm of personality,” said Hazard with a lazy smile, “together with lucid recall of the last four weeks without a woman,” he teased. “Come, Lucy, you’re too far away.…”

  Any woman in town would tumble for him and he knew it. How many had already this trip, she didn’t dare wonder. Taking a step closer, she shivered at her urgency. “I never know, Jon,” she said with a trembling, ingenuous smile, “whether I want you to rape me or treat me like a virgin bride.”

  The seductive black eyes, slowly moving in speculative appraisal, stared at her. “Why not both?” Sliding deeper into the steaming water, he paused, almost completely submerged, his midnight hair drifting on the surface of the water and his heavy-lashed eyes slanting upward. “Decide,” he said invitingly, “which you want first.”

  Short moments later, two dark friendly hands reached up, held and steadied the impatient slim, nude body, as the chief justice’s wife, dipping first one dainty foot, then the other, joined Hazard in the warm silky water. And he was very careful. That’s why women adored him, because he was slow and gentle and … careful. Much later, when every part of Lucy’s body was taut with longing, when every inch of her smooth flesh had been bathed in warm sensation, she opened her heated interior to the slippery water and to something else as well. Peaking exquisitely, she whimpered for release.

  “Patience, sweet,” Hazard murmured. “I haven’t started yet.” And the soft intensity of the statement silenced her. The floor became alarmingly wet after that, as small charged waves crested over the tub’s rim, but the lady’s hair, as promised, remained untouched.

  An hour later, they helped each other dress and before leaving, kissing him fiercely, Lucy unexpectedly pleaded, “Please, Jon, if you’re really going back up mountain tomorrow … once more?”

  He hesitated.

  “Don’t you want me?”

  “I’m only thinking of preserving your clothes from”—his mouth smiled—“the rude savage.”

  Lucy’s lashes came up to reveal heated desire. “Meaning you?” said the young matron in a hushed voice.

  “Meaning me,” Hazard echoed softly.

  It was what she most adored in him, his wildness and unorthodoxy. Her eyes, holding his, were passionate, full of need. “Damn the dress,” she whispered.

  His smile, warm and rakish, was celebrated. “Your servant, ma’am.”

  So Hazard had the Chief Justice’s wife despite petticoats, mousseline de soie, lace-trimmed drawers; and, he noticed later, her silk-slippered feet left only slight marks on his black evening jacket.

  When Lucy left to join her husband at the ball, Hazard adjusted his clothes in a haze of contentment, and poured himself another brandy. He’d give Lucy time to make her excuses before he arrived. A half-hour later, he gently closed the door on the strewn, damp-carpeted room, stepped out onto Main Street, and set out for the Chief Justice’s Territorial Ball.

  AN OPEN carriage arrived for the Braddocks and they were driven the short distance to the large stone building serving as temporary quarters for the legislature. It was the only structure in Virginia City with a space suitable for a ballroom.

  Their driver proudly pointed out the more resplendent dwellings and businesses. “That there is McBundy’s Emporium; b
rought the stone three hundred mile on ox cars. Purty, ain’t it? Past those willows is Forsyth’s. See the one with the tower? And over yonder, on that rise, is Chessman’s place. Took him a full two years to build.”

  While Millicent sniffed disdainfully at the Gothic three-story jumble of gingerbread, Blaze politely said, “It’s lovely, like a white palace.”

  “Ain’t that jus’ so. A palace, sure ’nuf.”

  And Chessman’s mansion was very like a palace, gleaming pale in the sunset glow, an example of the curious juxtaposition of wealth and squalor so prevalent in the mining boomtowns. Side by side existed log cabins, shanties, tents, prosperous business blocks, and elegant homes. With the strike-it-rich possibilities of gold mining, an impoverished miner could find himself wealthy overnight. And when that happened, many spent their new riches in lavish extravagance.

  Virginia City offered anything money could buy, from ice-packed oysters to couturier gowns. All merchandise was brought overland or up the Missouri, and though the freight charges forced prices high, there was always someone willing to pay. It wasn’t like farming, where one worked and waited and finally eked out a modest living. Gold mining cast its lure out to people who craved instant fortunes. And it obliged many a gambling-minded man. Fortunes were made and lost and made again and money was spent on a princely scale. Virginia City may have been only three years old, but it offered opulence and luxurious living to anyone who could afford it.

  “Really, how can anyone actually live out here? Everything is so … tasteless,” Millicent complained. “And dusty, now that the mud has dried,” she irritably went on.

  “Can’t expect a settled town right away. Takes time,” the Colonel replied, smiling his apology at the driver, who’d turned his head around at Millicent’s rude comments.

  “There’s no excuse, William, for that sort of thing, no matter how unsettled,” and she lifted her silk fan a scant inch in the direction of a nearby tent with a roughly painted sign proclaiming Montana Belle its occupant. A line of men standing outside the gunny sack door flap were joking and passing a bottle of whiskey around while waiting their turn.

  The Colonel cleared his throat gruffly. There’s so few white women, he wanted to say, but thought better of it in front of Blaze. “They’re a long way from home,” he replied instead.

  “It’s one of the main thoroughfares. You’d think at least,” Millicent peevishly continued, “they’d find someplace—”

  “Have you heard how large an orchestra will be playing tonight?” Blaze interjected, stepping in as she had so many times over the years when her parent’s conversation turned discordant.

  “They’re from Chicago, I hear,” her father quickly answered, relieved to change the subject. “Remember to save me a dance, sweetie. I know how fast your dance card fills up.”

  “Take care with your skirt, Venetia. They’ll probably all wear their spurs,” her mother cuttingly decreed.

  “Yes, Mother,” Blaze obligingly replied. The driver was stopping to let them down, and it was too fine an evening to argue about anything.

  Colonel William Braddock, Mrs. Braddock, and Miss Braddock were graciously greeted by the territorial chief justice and his young wife who were acting as hosts for the evening at the governor’s request. Lucy Attenborough was looking remarkably attractive tonight, as everyone who knew her would agree. Flushed, vivacious, she smiled warmly at everyone, including the elderly man at her side, her husband. It must be the summer air, several guests remarked; a night like this would bring a glow to anyone’s cheek.

  “Next thing you know,” one elderly matron remarked to her companion of equal years, seated beside her on the perimeter of the dance floor, “we’ll be hearing of a blessed event in the Attenborough family. That young bride of his was smiling up at George with something like adoration. Now when I was eighteen, mind, no one could have talked me into marrying a sixty-year-old man. I don’t care how much gold he had.”

  Small towns being what they are, with everyone’s business being everyone’s business, her companion remarked with a smug, insinuating air, “One can only pray if she has a child, its skin won’t be too dark.”

  Having gained the full and undivided attention—in addition to a wide-eyed look of astonishment—from the matron beside her, the smirking woman observed, “But the child would be gorgeous, undoubtedly gorgeous. Lucy visits the oddest places in the course of the day.” But no amount of cajoling would wring another word from her.

  Unsubstantial as these facts were, the perfume of sin was irresistible and before an hour passed, a current of intrigue had passed like wild fire throughout the room.

  Leaving Millicent in a small parlor to sip sherry and gossip with the other wives traveling west with their husbands, Colonel Braddock escorted Blaze into the ballroom to claim her first dance. The music was a gay mazurka, lilting and merry, and those dancing threw themselves into the energetic steps with a high-spirited pleasure. Even in the midst of a room, crowded with guests, Blaze stood apart, her skin glowing warmly, her opulent pearl-studded gown a silken foil to her beauty. She was immediately besieged with suitors and dance partners, drawn to her startling loveliness with a certain predictability. The Colonel graciously gave way to his daughter’s cavaliers, and she swung off in the arms of a tall, fair-haired gentleman who’d introduced himself with the soft drawl of a Texan. He danced well, told her she was more beautiful than the bluebells back home, and suggested they get married in the morning with a sincerity she found momentarily disconcerting. She smiled a polite refusal and was saved from further explanation by her next partner importuning for his turn.

  She enjoyed herself, for dancing was always a pleasure, the people were open and engaging, and the talk, when she could turn it away from compliments, was often about the mining which so fascinated her. In the normal course of events, it might have been some time before she noticed the tall, dark-haired man in elegant evening dress among the hundreds of animated guests. Tonight, however, the moment he entered the room—cool, slender, expensive, with that swift, easy walk which bespoke ease and self-confidence—all conversation stopped, heads swiveled, and an uneasy silence settled over the large ballroom.

  Not privy to the night’s succulent item of gossip, Blaze had no idea why everyone was staring at the striking man, other than the fact he was beautiful. Perhaps he never walked into a room without the talk dying around him, she mused. He was distinctly a man of the outdoors, even in diamond studs and evening dress, and a closer look revealed he was undoubtedly an Indian. With a jolt Blaze recognized her Indian. Her heart raced. But palpitations aside, his beauty and heritage aside, why did every guest in the room continue staring at him? Watching from the dance floor, for her partner had abruptly stopped in his tracks, Blaze watched the conspicuously attractive man pause for a moment, taking in the silence, the expectancy, the rising hum of whispered comment.

  His extraordinary black eyes swept the room casually, rested on Lucy, then moved with perfect equanimity along the haphazard grouping of officials making up the receiving line. Walking over in a wink of diamond studs, he calmly greeted some minor bureaucrats first. “Good evening. Pleasant weather. Yes, unusually warm for June,” he remarked with consummate social ease. The dignitaries, by contrast, seemed edgy. Pretty, dark-haired Lucy Attenborough, next in line, looked up with a flash of a smile, and the elderly man standing beside her, his bald head glistening with sweat, followed her glance with a murderous scowl.

  Hazard smiled back, ignoring the scowl, and extended his hand to the Chief Justice’s wife, who unexpectedly blushed. With smoothly turned compliments he took her fingers briefly in his, then, passing along, put his hand out to the Chief Justice. “Good evening,” said Hazard pleasantly. “I hear the legislative session finally ended. A relief to you, I expect.”

  “Yes, I’ll have more time to spend at home now,” the Chief Justice replied with cold-eyed resentment.

  “I’m sure, sir, your wife will be grateful.” Hazard’
s eyes were calmly open.

  For the space of a heartbeat, the older man hesitated while Hazard absorbed the shock of his anger. But this was the man, everyone had heard, including Judge Attenborough, who’d killed three men last month. One did not carelessly annoy a man reputedly able to draw and fire five times in three seconds. Having made the decision, Attenborough’s hand reached out and gripped Hazard’s slender bronzed hand. “Enjoy yourself, Mr. Black.”

  Hazard’s voice was steady. “Thank you. I will.”

  Collective breaths were exhaled throughout the room in sufficient volume to cause a gentle sigh to waft about the vaulted ceiling. The musicians who had been playing an indistinguishable tune in an indistinguishable tempo, so softly as to be scarcely audible, promptly resumed their rhythm and volume. The guests resumed dancing. Conversation erupted, deliciously agitated over the barely averted public scandal.

  The tall Absarokee with glossy black hair just brushing his neck exchanged a few more polite phrases with the judge, who, with justice, treated him with suspicious reserve. His young wife foolishly regarded Hazard with doting eyes, which he studiously avoided while he bade husband and wife a good evening.

  From the receiving line he went directly to the gaming room. Hazard Black didn’t return to the ballroom until shortly before midnight, and when he did, his brow was creased with a frown. A note interrupting his card game was cause of the brooding look. As if rumor wasn’t damned near tinder point already tonight (and he had smoothly brushed off enough pointed allusions during his gambling to know what was consuming everyone’s thoughts) Lucy, apparently having lost all discretion, had sent a note in with one of her servants. She was one of the most sexually aggressive women he’d ever known. No doubt being married to a sixty-year-old man influenced that disposition; but Hazard Black never knowingly looked for trouble, and the only reason he was meeting her on the veranda per her written request was to avoid the more daunting prospect of having her march into the gaming room in pursuit.