The Other Bride. Lisa Bingham
to the man.”
Reluctantly, the women made their way down the walk, leaving Phoebe to wonder how she’d managed to become embroiled in such a mess.
Anger swept through her as she realized how the careless edicts of one man were responsible for her current dilemma. Emboldened by the emotions bubbling within her, Phoebe strode in the direction of the Golden Arms.
Golden Arms. She should have known something was wrong by the name alone. But she’d thought that…
Never mind what she’d thought. She had to keep her mind on Gabriel Cutter.
As she neared the hotel, Phoebe heard the faint sound of music—not the tinny raucous sort that she had read about in penny novels, but an elegant piano arrangement. She snorted softly to herself, wondering if the proprietors thought that a bit of Mozart would add a note of respectability to the hotel. As far as she was concerned, a full-scale orchestra couldn’t hide the fact that this building housed men and women who—
No. Despite the fact that she would be marrying soon, she couldn’t even think about it. She wouldn’t.
Whispering a prayer under her breath, Phoebe resolutely climbed the stone steps to an ornate door inset with colored, beveled glass. The brass knob turned easily beneath her fingers, and before she quite knew what had happened, Phoebe found herself moving into an elegant foyer. Rich black and white marble floor tiles gleamed at her. The shiny surface reflected the twinkling candles of a chandelier lit even in the middle of the day. To one side, rich maroon draperies were drawn back from the threshold of a reception room, where dapper gentleman spoke in low voices with women in various stages of undress.
Phoebe felt her face flame. She couldn’t imagine what would possess a woman to entertain a man wearing little more than her chemise and pantalets.
“May I help you?”
Phoebe jumped. The voice was so soft-spoken and cultured that she was taken aback. A glance at the elegantly dressed woman who had silently appeared at her side did little to settle her nerves.
“I’m looking for Gabriel Cutter,” Phoebe blurted, then wished she’d tamed her tongue and had led up to the subject more gradually. “We have business to discuss.”
The woman seemed amused by Phoebe’s quick reply, but she waved a hand toward a settee positioned against one wall. “Would you care to sit while I get him?”
Phoebe eyed the velvet-tufted sofa. After the difficult day she’d already had, she wanted nothing more than to sit, remove her shoes and rub her aching feet. But she couldn’t allow herself to relax until after she’d met with the trail boss.
“No, thank you,” she said primly.
The woman smiled and glided away.
Curious glances were being cast her way, but Phoebe refused to reveal her discomfiture at her surroundings. With what she hoped appeared to be a bored casualness, she turned away from the reception room with its scantily clad women and debauched gentlemen and stared instead at the painting hung over the sweeping staircase.
She had been given very few opportunities to study art while at Goodfellow’s. Even then, the subject matter had been strictly confined to portraits of sober Elizabethans and bowls of Flemish fruit.
But this…this was lovely. Such vibrant colors, an exotic woodland realm and…
Bit by bit, Phoebe became aware of the prickling of the hairs on her nape. In the same instant, her eyes suddenly registered the content of the artwork in front of her.
Sweet heavens above, she thought in shock as she absorbed the nubile young woman clad in nothing more than a diaphanous silk scarf being ravished by a creature that was half man, half beast.
In shock, her hand encircled her throat, and her gaze leaped to the small brass plaque that read Rosalind and the Satyr.
Gasping, Phoebe whirled to escape the startling lasciviousness of the picture. But her shock was compounded when she found herself face-to-face with a man.
And heavens, what a man.
He was tall, with an angularity to his features that was both harsh and intriguing. Eyes the color of cold silver gazed at her with a piercing intensity that made her hands curl around the strings of her reticule. He was forbidding, of that there was no question. Yet even as she would have jumped to the conclusion that he was completely heartless, she hesitated. The shadows lingering in his eyes, the strain around his mouth and the tense set of his jaw bespoke a pain that was at once eloquent and foreboding.
Before she could gather her scattered wits, the man’s eyes dropped. His gaze raked over her with insolent thoroughness, making her acutely conscious of her rumpled traveling costume and the ever-present dust that clung to her skin.
“You’re very lovely, but I don’t recall asking for your business.”
Chapter Three
Phoebe gasped at the man’s effrontery. Her hands balled into fists, but she strove to control her temper.
So this was the great Gabriel Cutter. The same man who had decided to deny the mail-order brides their rightful passage on his train.
Her anger seethed anew.
“It is I who have business with you, Mr. Cutter.”
He didn’t seem impressed by her statement. Instead, he began circling her, scrutinizing every inch of her frame in a way that reminded her of a hungry lion she’d once seen being fed at the London Zoo.
“You’re a bit on the scrawny side.”
A choked “oh” burst from her lips before she could stop it. “Mr. Cutter,” she said indignantly, then quickly lowered her tone to a whisper when she captured the attention of those in the adjoining room. “Mr. Cutter, I would appreciate it if you would step outside so that I could have a word with you.”
He stopped, placing his hands on his hips. “There isn’t anything outside that can’t be said inside.”
“I wish to have a private conversation.”
“I’d be happy to have a cup of coffee with you.” He gestured to the room beyond the draped arch.
Phoebe felt her face flame at the mere idea. “Mr. Cutter, I couldn’t…I won’t…I—I…”
“Then good day to you, ma’am.”
As he offered her a mocking salute, Phoebe resisted the urge to grind her teeth. Of all insufferable, ill-mannered…
“Mr. Cutter, my name is Phoebe Gray and I have come to speak to you about a matter concerning the Overland Settlers Company.”
Cutter folded his arms and regarded her through half-lowered lids. The intense scrutiny had the ability to make the skin on her arms prickle with gooseflesh. “Ahh. So you’re one of the brides.”
The tone he employed made it clear that the news wasn’t particularly welcome.
His eyes narrowed. “What was your name again?”
“Phoebe Gray.”
“Phoebe Gray?” The intensity of his gaze seemed to harden ever so slightly—and if she didn’t know better, she would have thought that he’d known she was unused to the name herself.
Before she could think of something to say, Gabe stated tightly, “The answer is no. It was no last week, no this morning, and it will be no tomorrow when the train leaves the station.”
“Mr. Cutter—”
“No, Miss…”
“Gray.”
“No, Miss Gray. No, I will not change my mind. No, I will not allow nine unescorted women to accompany us West. And no, I don’t really care that you weren’t informed of the change