Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

“She’s so very pretty,” Byrony said as she watched Penelope flounce away from their table. “She seems to have everything a girl could want. Why is she so very nasty?”

“Saint thinks she needs to be beaten every morning. Clear her of evil humors, he says.”

“Oh no, not that.”

Chauncey frowned. “It was just a jest, my dear. Now, we must plan a small dinner party. I’m not bragging, mind you, but I fancy I have just as much social power as Mrs. Stevenson and her little group. And of course Agatha Newton could sway a battleship. Indeed, I’ll never forget—”

Byrony listened to Chauncey ramble on, not really attending, her thoughts on her very bizarre situation. She still didn’t know what to do about her mother. The money would continue to be sent to her father, of course. Ira had promised. She supposed she must write and tell her at least some of the truth. Dear Mother, she thought, I have a new husband, but I never really had a husband before, much less a child. No, you aren’t a grandmother, not really. . . .

“Everything will work out.”

Byrony tried to manage a smile. “Yes, of course.” She shrugged. “I think I should have left San Francisco. Brent really didn’t want to marry me, as I’m certain you realize. Perhaps I should simply—”

“Stop it, Byrony. You’re being a simpleton. Brent Hammond does nothing he doesn’t choose to do, believe me. He wanted to marry you.”

“He has a mistress.”

That drew Chauncey to a halt, but she said, “So did Delaney. Her name is Marie.”

That gave Byrony pause. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand how things work. Men are expected to dally about, but if a woman does it, she’s a miserable, dishonest—”

“Yes, all of those things. It doesn’t make any sense, does it? How do you know about this mistress of Brent’s?”

“I heard him talking to Maggie—on our wedding night. When I rather heatedly asked him about it, he told me she had nothing to do with me. In short, it’s none of my business.”

Chauncey frowned. She liked Brent Hammond, found him charming, and he had saved her life. But he didn’t seem to be dealing well with his new wife. What on earth was the matter with him? Byrony was a lovely girl whose disposition seemed as sweet as her face. She knew that many wives simply ignored such behavior, but Byrony wouldn’t. “It is your business,” she said. “He is your husband.”

“And I am his wife, as he so kindly informed me. It’s like I’m some sort of possession. I don’t like it.”

Chauncey leaned over and patted Byrony’s hand. “Do you love him, Byrony?”

Byrony went utterly still.

“Forgive me, it’s really none of my business.”

“No, it’s just that I haven’t thought of love.” Liar. To be loved, to belong, is something you’ve wanted all your life. “All I know is I wanted to kill him when—Well, I’m rather a fool, aren’t I? Oh, damn, Chauncey, I suppose I do love him. But it doesn’t make a whit of sense.”

“Good,” said Chauncey. “He will come around, you’ll see.” And he would, she was certain of it. Del had told her that Brent was something of a womanizer and a loner. “But,” Del had said, grinning at her, “I think for the first time in his life, Brent has been fairly caught.” Chauncey chose to believe Del. “Shell we visit Monsieur David now?”

Chauncey said as they left the pastry shop, “I shall have to tell Saint that his prescription of mint tea and lemon worked well.”

It was a foggy, damp night. Byrony shivered and moved closer to the fire. Brent was downstairs in the saloon. Maggie had visited her earlier in the evening, and given her an enthusiastic response to her two new gowns.

Where was Brent? It was past midnight. I’ve been married three days, she thought, and smiled. Married for the second time for three days. She closed the volume of Voltaire and stared into the leaping flames. “The best of all possible worlds,” she said softly. Byrony sighed. She had to write to her mother. She was a cow

ard.

She started up at the sound of the office door opening and closing.

“Not in bed yet?”

She turned to face her husband, and drank in the sight of him. His coat and trousers were black as his hair, his shirt a startling white. “No,” she said.

She rose and walked quickly to him. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, and flung her arms around his back.

“Me too,” he said, his hands caressing her through her dressing gown. He breathed in her special scent, feeling himself drawn to her. It was a scary feeling, and he didn’t like it. Suddenly his hands were gripping her arms and he was gently pushing her away. “I’m sorry, Byrony, but I must leave again, just for a little while. I’ve got to go to the El Dorado and see James Cora.”

She wondered wildly if he made love to her if he would still have the strength or desire to visit his mistress. She didn’t believe for a second that he was going to see James Cora. “Can I come with you?”