“Penelope?” she whispered.
“That young lady will suffer nothing more than a bout of wounded vanity.”
Chauncey moistened her lips again, not wanting to ask, but compelled to. “Your . . . mistress?”
He frowned. “How do you know about that?”
“Penelope told me. She said you would give her up, once you were married to her.”
Delaney thought about Marie’s giving soft body, her French practicality, her basic kindness. He remembered the brooding anger he had felt at himself that night before, when he had thrust into her body, all his thoughts on Chauncey lying in his bed.
“Penelope shouldn’t have told you anything about her,” he said.
“It is something I really don’t understand. Do all men have need of . . . well, mistresses?”
“Indeed so,” he said gravely, his eyes twinkling as his sense of humor came to the fore. “But it’s not quite the same thing as having a wife.”
“Then I suppose it must be all right. Penelope was being selfish then?”
He howled with laughter, unable to help himself. He held his stomach, gasping for breath.
“I do not see what is so funny!”
“You, Chauncey,” he said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He saw that she was genuinely confused, and said very seriously, “I want you for my wife. I don’t want a mistress. I want you to be furious at the thought of my touc
hing another woman. I want you to be quite selfish. Now, my sophisticated girl, will you please say yes and get me out of my misery?”
“Say yes to what, sir?” she asked pertly, enjoying having the upper hand at last.
“Complete and utter surrender,” he sighed. “Will you marry me?”
“Do you know,” she said thoughtfully, studying his face, “I think it just might be a good idea.”
“A quite good idea,” he said. It occurred to him on their ride home that neither of them had mentioned love. He frowned at Lucas’ back. Surely Chauncey must love him, to have gone to such lengths. Why hadn’t she said anything? My sophisticated lady is shy, he thought. All in good time. As to his own feelings, he dismissed the notion of love. He wanted her; she pleased him. Love would come in due course.
13
“All right, Del,” Dan Brewer said, thumping down his frothy mug of beer, “you’ve dragged me out of the bank, twisted my arm to come into the El Dorado, and forced me to drink this damned beer. Will you now tell me what’s going on?”
“Forced? You have foam on your upper lip, Dan.”
Dan swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His eyes suddenly narrowed. “It’s nothing to do with Miss Jameson, is it? She is doing just fine now?”
“Oh yes, she is all pert and sassy-mouthed again, and I’m going to marry her.”
“You’re what?”
“I trust that you aren’t going to be heartbroken, along with a dozen other men?”
“Good God! Congratulations, Del!” He shook his head, bemused. “I’ll be damned. But not surprised, no, not really.” He leaned forward in his chair and cocked an eyebrow at his friend. “Having her in your house did it, huh?”
“I’m certain,” Delaney said softly, only a hint of menace in his voice, “that you aren’t picturing any . . . improper scenes?”
“No,” Dan said, “I’m not. At least, if I was, I’m not now!”
“I knew I could count on you, Dan.”
Delaney sat back in his chair, briefly scanning the group of men in the most flamboyant gambling saloon in San Francisco. It was late afternoon, and the regulars were already hunched over circular tables, their cards fanned out in front of them. A tinny piano was blaring in the background, blending in with jovial male voices at the huge mahogany bar and sounds of poker chips flicked onto the tables. There were only a couple of garishly dressed women present at this time of day. Their efforts were saved for the night.