The Invitation (Montgomery/Taggert 19)

She turned on him. “What is wrong with me wearing that dress? Do you think that town carries a selection of dresses for women to wear to church? And besides, what business is it of yours?”

Already angry, Cole found that that statement made him even more furious. “I don’t want the whole town looking at you!” he shouted. “You’re my wife!”

To his disbelief, Dorie’s face dissolved into a smile. He seemed to have pleased her very much. “Give me the dress,” she said softly, holding out her hand.

How could something as small as she was drive a man so close to the edge of insanity? Or maybe it wasn’t insanity but tears of frustration that were flooding his mind. He wasn’t a fool; he knew when he was defeated. He’d never get her on the horse wearing that nightgown, nor would he be able to buy her a respectable dress.

With resignation on his face he handed her the dress, and Dorie went behind the nearest boulder to put it on.

Once out of his sight she was elated at the feel of the velvet. She had wanted something decent to wear, but this was much, much better than what she’d expected to get. This was the kind of dress a woman dreamed of wearing, a dress that would make men notice her. It was the kind of dress she’d never been allowed to wear in her father’s house. He had always inspected her, making sure her hair was pulled back tightly, that every inch of her skin was covered. He got angry when she didn’t wear gloves to cover her hands from the sight of men.

She stripped off the virginal nightgown and began the long, intricate process of dressing from the skin out: chemise, drawers with pink bows at the knee, pretty black stockings with only one tear in them, lacy garters, a corset that her father would have considered indecent—black satin with pink ribbon at the edges—corset cover, two petticoats, both edged with eyelet, and finally the dress. Holding her breath, she slipped the velvet over her head.

The gown was dark red velvet, but running vertically, every six inches or so, were inset stripes of crimson satin. When the dress floated over Dorie’s head, she knew it was going to fit. And fit it did. She would, of course, have to give up breathing to make her waist fit the dress, but what did a little thing like breathing matter? The bodice of the dress was indeed half missing, cut so low that her breasts nearly spilled over the top. And even to Dorie herself, the dark red against her ivory skin, untouched by sun in all her life, was a rather pleasant contrast.

To her delight, the dress fastened in the front with what seemed to be a few hundred hooks and eyes. She didn’t have any idea why the fastening, usually in the back, was in the front, but it did occur to her that the dress was much easier to get in and out of this way—which was, of course, the reason for the front closure.

When the pretty little shoes were on her feet, she stepped out from behind the rock and looked into the faces of four speechless men.

And her heart soared.

How many thousands of times had she seen Rowena enter a room and the men turn to stone? Every voice had gone silent, and women as well as men had stared. She had even seen large groups of children stop moving at the sight of her beautiful sister.

But never had such a thing happened to Dorie. She could have ridden into a room on a white elephant behind a brass band, and no one would have noticed. At least that was what she’d always thought.

“Do I look all right?” she said in a shy tone of voice she’d heard Rowena use all her life. She, as well as everyone else, had always thought Rowena was modest—as in “Isn’t she adorable? She’s so beautiful, but she has no idea she is. Just like everyone else, she asks if she looks all right.” At that moment Dorie understood how nice her sister really was. Rowena didn’t need to ask how she looked; people’s eyes were mirrors, they told her how wonderful she looked. When she asked if she was presentable Rowena was trying to put people at ease so they weren’t completely in awe of her beauty. She was letting people believe that she had no idea that she was breathtaking.

So now, for the first time in her life, Dorie was getting to play this very enjoyable game. “Isn’t anyone going to say anything?” she asked with all the innocence of a four-year-old in her first party dress. But the difference was that Dorie wasn’t four years old.

Cole couldn’t move; he just stood there and stared at her. She wasn’t beautiful in the way her sister was, but Dorie was, in her way, more arresting. Her hair, released from its bondage and subjected to long hours of wind and sun, floated around her head like a cloud, soft, full, and alluring. Her little heart-shaped face was a combination of innocence and great intelligence. The sparkle in her eyes was not from sunlight but from that prodigious brain that churned da

y and night. A pretty mouth, small but full-lipped, curved above a determined chin, and below that…

Cole’s hands tightened into fists. He was not a possessive man. He’d never owned anything in his life and never wanted to. He’d certainly never regarded another human being as his property. But now Dorie was, well, making him think that what she was showing to these other men was his—and she was showing it in public before he got to see it in private.

When he’d first met her, he’d thought she had no figure. A nice bosom, yes, but what he was seeing now was a great deal more than “nice.” She had a long, graceful neck that was made to be swathed in diamonds, then shoulders of perfect shape and slope. Everything poured down to beautiful breasts that mounded exquisitely above the velvet that narrowed into a tiny waist.

If he could have used one word to describe her, it would have been “elegant.” She’d put on a dress that would have made any other woman look like a tart, but Dorie managed to look as though she were about to have tea with the queen. He wasn’t sure how she’d done it, but maybe all those books she’d read were reflected in her eyes. Maybe it was the way she carried herself. Maybe it was that she knew she wasn’t a hussy so she didn’t allow others to see her as one.

On the other hand, maybe all that creamy skin was blinding him so he couldn’t think clearly.

“Isn’t anyone going to say anything?” Dorie asked, wanting to stand there with the men gaping at her for about a year or two. However, she longed to hear a few words that no man had ever before thrown her way—words like “beautiful,” “exquisite,” and “divine.” Actually, plain ol’ “pretty” might have served well for a start.

Cole knew too well what she wanted, and he was damned if he’d give it to her. At least not in front of these slavering men. Hadn’t he heard that in some countries men made their women wear veils that covered them from head to toe? The men of that country were very wise.

Within seconds, Cole had removed the blanket from the back of his horse and was trying to drape it about her shoulders.

“Really, Mr. Hunter, it’s much too hot for a cape,” Dorie said, sliding away from him while looking innocently over her shoulder.

When the men around them began to chuckle, Cole was sure that if he hadn’t wanted to kill them before, he did now.

“Could someone help me mount?” Dorie asked in her best southern belle tone, fluttering her eyelashes. “I think this velvet is just toooo heavy.” She didn’t say the words, “too heavy for little ol’ me,” but they were there.

Amazingly, considering he had the use of only one arm, Cole managed to swoop her off the ground and slam her into the saddle so hard her teeth jarred. Dorie didn’t so much as lose her smile.

Nor did she lose her smile during the thirty minutes it took to ride down to the town, during which time Cole lectured her nonstop. He talked to her “for her own good” about the way she was displaying herself, making a public spectacle of herself. He even said the sun was going to ruin her complexion. He talked to her about the way men were going to think of her. When he said, “What would your father say?” Dorie began to laugh. Never in her life had she inspired jealousy in anyone, and she had to admit that it felt rather nice to have a man like Cole Hunter jealous because other men were looking at her.

“What will the men in town think when they see me?” she asked softly, leaning back against him.