Waltz with the Lady Page 8

  “Get in a family way?” Lady Jane supplied easily. “Oh, Miss Simms! You having a dress from Paris must surely know about the ‘French Secret.’”

  “The ‘French Secret,’” she echoed uncertainly, then seeing that Lady Jane was looking at her oddly, she realized the girl would think she was naive. “Oh, yes. I’d forgotten about the ‘French Secret.’”

  “I guess you not being in my line of work you wouldn’t be concerned about such things anyway. Why, sometimes a cowboy comes along I can really like and then it can be just as much pleasurin’ for me as him.”

  India disguised her shock by hanging up a petticoat in the wardrobe. The very idea was unthinkable, though she wouldn’t deny that Gat Ransom’s strong hands touching her shoulders as he’d wrapped the blanket around her at the train depot and the warmth that had sparked through her then had been pleasurable. When he’d carried her in his arms across the muddy street she’d felt a tingling of sensation from being next to him, held close in his arms. Was that the pleasure Lady Jane was talking about? The same mysterious pleasures that her companions at school giggled over and poets wrote odes to?

  “You don’t know how it really is, do you?” Lady Jane said. India lowered her eyes self-consciously, for in truth she didn’t know how it really was. Lady Jane smiled. “I could tell you a few things about pleasuring a man that might come in handy when you set your cap for one.”

  India cleared her throat with a nervous cough. “I’m sure you could. If that day ever comes I’ll be obliged.”

  “If you came here with Gat Ransom, the day might come sooner than you think.” Her eye held a mischievous twinkle. “He doesn’t show up very often, but when he does, Contessa favors him. You know,” she took her eyes off her own reflection and gazed at India, “you and Contessa have the same coloring about you. Though between you and me, I think you’re much prettier.” She gave a thoughtful sigh and began, with India’s help, to slip out of the gown.

  “Well, Lady Jane, just between you and me, Mr. Ransom is the last man, not only in the territory but the whole of these United States, that I would set my cap for.”

  Lady Jane looked at India with surprise. “Why, how could you say that? All the girls eye him, he’s that kind of man.”

  “He isn’t my kind of man.” India lied, hoping if she said it enough it would be true. “First, I never intend to marry. I’ve chosen to dedicate my life to work on behalf of all women. And secondly, I don’t intend to spend my life being a mirror for a peacock cowboy.” India bent to gather up the dress and neatly arranged it in one corner out of the way. Lady Jane put her robe back on. India wouldn’t attempt to explain further. Poor Lady Jane. Most women were “Poor Janes.”

  Lady Jane shrugged, as if India was beyond her understanding. “I do love your dress, miss. Not even Contessa has one as fancy.” She suddenly was seized with a fit of sneezes. India quickly fetched her handkerchief and gave it to her.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I think I’ll get cook to give me an oil of camphor rubdown, and then I’ll go to bed.” She sniffed.

  “Oh, there’s one thing more you could do for me.” India hurried over to the desk and snatched up her supply list. “Give this paper to Mr. Ransom. He should be in the dining room.”

  “I’d be glad to. Good night then.” She stepped out the door, leaving it slightly ajar.

  “Good night, Lady Jane,” India returned. She liked the girl immensely. Her youth and innocence. Yes, innocence, though because of her profession some would never think it. As India hefted the kettle and poured the hot water into the porcelain wash bowl on the wash stand, her mind mulled over their conversation.

  She couldn’t help but wonder about the pleasuring things a girl like Lady Jane did with the men that visited her. She remembered her girlhood friend, Annie Ryan. Annie’s father was a notorious miser where his household and family were concerned, but it was common knowledge that he kept a mistress in fine style. Thinking about it, India saw no reason why Annie’s mother shouldn’t have known how to pleasure her husband as easily as the mistress while at the same time enjoying equal pleasure—as well as equal rights—herself. Lady Jane said the pleasuring worked both ways, and India was inclined to believe her. If so, she would never understand why marriageable girls were instructed to fear those mysteries and schooled to believe that only bad women participated in them.

  While she waited for the water to cool enough for a sponge bath, she took off her camisole and silk pantalettes. She reached for Contessa’s silken robe, shrugged her arms into the flowing sleeves, immediately feeling the cool smooth texture against her bare skin encircling her body like caressing hands. A thrill of pleasure shivered through her, and when she turned and caught her reflection in the mirror she was momentarily startled, then embarrassed. The robe clung to the curves of her body, and the opened spaces of the lace insets revealed the whiteness of her skin.

  She thought to look inside the wardrobe for something more modest, but instead quickly worked to fasten the ties down the front opening. After a moment her fingers began to slow and she became intrigued by how much the risque robe changed her outward appearance as well as inner feelings. There was a fine line between decency and indecency, ladylike and unladylike. The robe was definitely indecent and unladylike, but the latent sensuality it triggered within her was an awakening revelation. She pulled the combs out of her hair and threaded loose her plaits until her hair fell in a shining web over her shoulders and down to her waist. Another woman now stood inside the oval of the full-length looking glass—a woman ripe for love, a woman wanton.

  If you give men what they want they won’t respect you. The thought reared up in India’s memory like a guilty thief. Only wild women allow men to touch them “down there.” These warnings from her mother had been the heart of India’s education on the matters of men and women. Early on, India was never quite sure what her mother had meant by “down there.” And when she had asked, she was assured that her future husband would initiate her into those mysteries. And somehow it seemed to her mother India’s ignorance of her body made her more virtuous, while the knowledge in her brothers, who were in constant competition in their amorous conquests, merely improved their reputation.

  It wasn’t fair. Men were thought to be wiser and more responsible and so without losing respect were privy to the mysteries of love. But not women! A bride must lie trembling in ignorance on her wedding night waiting for her man to make all the advances. Well, thought India, everyone else might think it’s all right for a woman to be “taken” and overwhelmed by a man. But not me! If I’m to be overwhelmed I’d expect to have some say in it. And the more India thought about it the more unfair it seemed, especially since she never intended to marry.

  Except for coming West, everything India had done in life was reasonably prudent and proper, but no matter how often she tried to ignore it, she was a woman—a woman of passions. She refused to feel guilty about the feelings stirring within her. Though sometimes she found it completely disheartening being a woman in a man’s world, tonight she found it oddly extraordinary. Brush in hand, she began slowly stroking her auburn tresses to a soft shine, wholly absorbed in her own changeling reflection.

  Gat Ransom pushed his chair back from the dining hall table and put the linen napkin aside. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought India to Contessa’s, but then again, she was the one who said she wouldn’t tolerate bedbugs. That was one thing Contessa’s boasted on not having: bedbugs. Anyhow, Contessa had seemed to settle her in all right. But Gat admitted to himself that India Simms was a different breed of woman altogether—she was a hard one to figure out. If she’d been plain or downright ugly he could understand why she’d go on a crusade like this rather than marry and raise a family. But a more comely woman had not crossed his path. There must be more to it than he could reckon.

  His eyes settled on the gilt-framed painting above the sideboard. A nude reclined on a red velvet sofa, lace draped across her
nipples, tempting the eye with just the round of breast. Her lips seemed to come alive, shimmering and dancing invitingly in the room’s flickering lamplight. For a moment her face wavered and her features became those of India Simms, and that image filled Gat with fierce needs. What would she be like, he wondered? As passionate and loving as she was aloof? He’d like to find that streak of fire in her that could let loose her passions. He knew for a woman like her, lovemaking would be instinctual—he could see it in the line of her lips and the occasional seductive flash of eye. Despite her genteel ideas, how easy it would be to play the different forces of her primness against her own innate sensuality. How easy it would be to keep her off balance.

  But after exploring the possibilities, his own sense of responsibility took over and he dismissed the idea. A woman like her would never fit into his life!

  Now, a woman like Contessa suited him fine. Without wearing a man’s pants, she could be good company and she knew when to let go.

  It was late and he was tired. He stood up and strode out of the room and up the stairway. Passing by Contessa’s room he heard humming, he knocked softly on the door and thought he heard “come in.” She continued humming as he walked in and spied her bent over the porcelain wash bowl, her hair falling down about her waist. Funny, he hadn’t remembered it being that long, but he did remember the soft feel of her skin next to his own. Not being a man to greatly resist temptation, an unleashed desire and fiery warmth flooded through him. He nudged open the door and walked across the thick, twining rose carpet. He leaned over, parted her hair and touched the nape of her neck with his lips. Such delicate softness he’d never tasted and the rapid response within him was inherent in the nature of his masculinity. He felt her warm body sway under his kiss. Wrapping his arms around her he caressed her breasts in his hands and gently swiveled his hips against the softness of her own.

  “It’s been a long time,” he whispered. But at his words she tensed, instead of yielding further as he expected. He felt her intake of breath.

  She swirled around and—too late, he saw the porcelain wash bowl rise up and tip, drenching him thoroughly. He leaped back with a curse. “Damn!” The water dripped from the ends of his dark hair down over his shoulders.

  “And, Mr. Ransom, it’s going to be a lot longer!” gasped India.

  Gat swore under his breath, still disbelieving that the nymph before him was truly Miss India Simms. But one look at the flash of India’s flaming eyes immediately told him his mistake. With unrestrained menace she moved towards him like a she-wolf ready to pounce.

  “How dare you! How dare you bring me here and expect me to fall into your arms like some…some woman! You…you lecherous—”

  “Not just some woman! I mistook you for someone else!” roared back Ransom, not missing that the splashing water caused the robe to cling against her breasts and hips. She waved a lethal fist at him and moved forward. She was so tiny, but her straight back, and the proud carriage of her head gave him the feeling they were eye to eye. He stood his ground, though he knew that once he touched her there’d be no letting go and then he’d only confirm her misbegotten idea that all men were brutes.

  “Should I be offended or flattered?” she spat indignantly. Their eyes held, hers becoming sapphire heavens of swirling contradiction. And then he saw the give-away tremor of her lower lip and realized her indignation was a bluff. She wasn’t afraid of him. She was afraid of herself.

  He didn’t answer for a long moment as he debated with his own lust and the vision of tasting her sweet lips, touching her soft skin and moving between her silken thighs. Her lambent eyes and the moistness of her trembling lips were betraying cues to her own vulnerability to desire. Sure as sunrise he could lower his head and taste her mouth, she’d give in…a spinster woman with love on her mind. How could she not help it? The room was designed for love, the air thick with desire, and she, stripped down to lace and bare skin, was ripe for passion. Sure he could weaken her will, seduce her, compromise her. But no, he wouldn’t. It was crazy, but maybe he wanted her respect…or maybe…he just wanted her too much.

  He simply turned and walked out, leaving them both changed, unfamiliar to themselves and not knowing any longer.

  The lamp flame extinguished, India climbed into Contessa’s bed and luxuriated in the satin sheets. The bed was comfortable, the pillows soft and the sheets clean, but the thought of Gat Ransom kept her in a fever of wakefulness.

  “Not just some woman,” he’d said. Well, she ruminated, he might have meant several women all at once. On the other hand he might have just meant her…or as it turned out, anyone but her.

  A woman’s voice sounded from the next room. Thin walls appeared to be another hallmark of the West, thought India, as she heard an answering low masculine laugh. Had Ransom found “some woman” after all? The idea nudged her over the edge.

  “A little higher,” the woman next door coached. Her voice so clear that India might as well be in the same room.

  “You’re delicious,” the voice was a lusty whisper. India swallowed hard and slapped the pillow over her ears. Unfortunately, pushing out the sounds did not stop the visions and after a time she was suffocating underneath the pillow and covers in the overheated room.

  She lifted the pillow slightly and threw off the top blanket. Through paper thin walls the couple’s breathing had grown more urgent and India’s own body reacted as her cheeks flamed hot and her heart beat with embarrassment.

  “Yes, oh yes…yes…” she heard the woman sigh. India turned over on her stomach, and then, feeling shocked at the sudden warmth firing in her own body, flipped over to her back.

  The woman was moaning now, “ummmm, ummm…” and the pitch of her voice deepened.

  India heard a throaty male groan amid more mumblings and whispers. She flattened the pillow back over her head, forcing away the visions, the concocted images, all the while ruing Ransom’s unannounced visit to her room and her own reaction. Had she hesitated too long before turning on him, before demanding he leave? Or should she have allowed him to speak in defense of his actions? And what of her own defense? His kiss on the nape of the neck had sent the most mesmerizing sensations of pleasure down her spine.

  Next door things became stormier and whispers weren’t whispers anymore. The sounds drifted through the walls, leaving India blushing with mortification. Her stomach twisted as the moans deepened, becoming more urgent. The bed thumped in rhythm against the wall while the woman’s wanton panting fairly stopped India’s own breath. At last, an ecstatic cry joined by a low sigh of release left the late night heavy with stillness.

  India let her breath out, completely dissolved by her own dual nature. The image of the couple bathed in slick perspiration, raw feelings satiated, stirred her with an intensity that left her annihilated. Like most women she’d thought about sexual things, but until tonight she’d only thought about them. Now, vicariously, she’d experienced them. She was a respectable woman who was tempted to break all the teachings of her background and ideologies to be with a man, a man she hardly knew, yet a man she was irresistibly attracted to. Acknowledging her response further threatened her chosen course of self-denial.

  That Ransom wasn’t attracted to her became the most comical aspect of it all—though she wouldn’t die laughing over it. He was experienced with women and she wondered if tonight he’d somehow seen in her eyes that she wanted him. Is that why he’d walked out? Would he choose a harlot over her because he had no desire for a woman who demanded the vote, a woman who wanted to be a man? And on that hinged India’s salvation and her despair. She hadn’t cried herself to sleep since she was a child, but tonight India felt desolate, isolated and terribly alone.

  In the morning a knock at the door woke India. “Come in,” she called, and warily peered around the draped lace curtains of the canopied bed. She’d not forgotten the strange events of the night before. Rays of sunlight filtered through the slits of the velvet-curtained window as Contessa walked in
, her arms filled with string-tied brown paper parcels.

  “Good morning,” Contessa smiled and set the parcels on the brocade loveseat. “Gatlin sent these. He hopes you’ll be ready to travel as soon as possible. However, I told him you must speak to my girls first about the vote.” She was still dressed in the same mauve silk, and her voice held a note of fatigue. India wondered if Contessa had been the one next door? No, she would have recognized her voice.

  Climbing out of the bed, she went over to inspect the packages. “I must officially begin my crusade somewhere, and it might as well be your boardinghouse.”

  “Excellent. You know I am counting on you to convince the territory. It would be history in the making.”

  India looked at her, realizing what a farseeing woman she was. “May I ask you why you have chosen to live out here? What attraction does life on the frontier hold for a woman like yourself?”

  “Freedom. On God’s earth there is no freer place for women than the West. But, I believe what you really want to ask is,” her brown eyes filled with wry amusement, “what am I doing running a cat house?”

  India flushed at Contessa’s straightforwardness. Perhaps that was her question after all.

  “I ask myself the same thing, occasionally. Perhaps it is one of the few ways I can control my own life and make a living besides. I am too strong-willed to bend under the ruling hand of a husband—I’ve had three. Like yourself, I attended finishing school. Unlike my classmates, I opened the books on the shelves and learned that life was more than curtsying, cooking and cleaning. I have traveled the European continent, visited its museums and vaults of history. Ask me anything about the Crusades, and I can answer you. I know as much or more of military strategies as any commander at Fort Bridger. Yet I am a woman. Nor would I change that. I like being a woman and I like the company of men, for they speak of things other than removing blackberry stains from white linen.” She laughed. “Have I answered you?”