Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

“Do you know something?” he asked after a moment, laughing.

“Many things, sir, but likely this is going to be at my expense!”

“No, not really. It’s just that I haven’t asked you properly to marry me. I discount asking you while we wallowed in the sand at the beach. Will you marry me, Chauncey?”

“May I assume that you are metaphorically lying prostrate at my feet?”

“A dead fox, ma’am. Or at least a collapsed one. You have run me to ground.”

She frowned at him. “You make me sound like some sort of Amazon. I am not, you know.”

“What are you, Chauncey?”

“I, sir?” She raptly studied the fine linen napkin in her lap. “I am merely a woman who . . . wants you, above all other men.”

“Want, Chauncey? Such an staid word, quite functional as a matter of fact. And I, my dear, am a romantic. You might remember that.”

And I am a realist! She felt a strange emptiness as she gazed at him beneath lowered lids. There was humor in his eyes, and tenderness. Directed at her. Surely, she thought, he did not expect her to tell him that she loved him! She said very softly, “Yes, Del, I promise to remember.”

“Excellent. Now, my dear future wife, would you like me to teach you how to play poker?”

Delaney finally settled on his back in his temporary bed, pillowing his head on his arms. Life was damned odd, he thought, frowning into the darkness. A month ago he was contemplating marriage to Penelope Stevenson. Without love. Lord, but he had been an utter fool even to have considered it. Elizabeth Jameson. Chauncey. She was everything he wanted in a wife. What he’d said to Dan was true. She satified the imagination. And she wanted him. Words he said in passion to Marie. Functional words. He told himself again, his mind sliding into sleep, that all would come in time.

14

“She looks skinny and pale, like a frumpy old lady!”

Tony Dawson raised a pained brow at Penelope’s ludicrous comment. Surely soon she would run out of nasty things to say about Miss Jameson. His mind froze on that thought. No, now she was Mrs. Delaney Saxton. Tony sighed, wishing Pene

lope would somehow disappear and leave him to his misery. But of course she didn’t.

“I can’t believe Del would be taken in by the likes of her!”

“Likes, Penelope? What do you mean by that?” Keep your damned mouth shut, he chided himself. Here he was asking for more virulent remarks.

“Some English lady,” Penelope hissed, aware that that old bitch Agatha Newton was staring down her nose at her. “No one really knows who she is or where she comes from. All she has is money.”

Tony looked pensively into his champagne glass. “She does have money,” he said finally in a noncommittal voice, then added, “If one listens carefully to her speech, I venture to say that England is the only place she could come from.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Penelope said, “and you know it!”

Tony ignored this accusation, looking around frantically for help, but saw none forthcoming. The bride and groom were being toasted by Sam Brannan and Reverend Barkeley by the wide bay windows. Chauncey did look pale, he thought, his heart wrenching slightly at the sight of her. He sighed, hearing Penelope’s shrill whisper.

“You do know, don’t you, Tony, that she slept here, in Delaney’s bed, for the past two and a half weeks? He was forced to marry her!”

“I think it was more a case of Del being a Good Samaritan, Penelope, don’t you? After all, she was quite ill.”

“Ha!” Penelope said, sniffing. “She will learn soon that Del is like all the other men in San Francisco. A tomcat with a mistress!”

Agatha Newton shook her head, feeling sorry for Tony Dawson, his disappointment as well as his obvious trial in Penelope Stevenson’s company. Ridiculous little snit! Didn’t she realize that she was but making herself look foolish? As for all the other guests, they were warmhearted and full of good wishes for Del and Chauncey. The small wedding at St. Mary’s, she and Horace and Dan Brewer the witnesses, had been quite elegant, Reverend David Barkeley having managed to stow all his hellfire and brimstone for the ceremony. Here in the Saxton home at least one hundred people had strolled through during the afternoon to wish the couple the best. A magnificent buffet had been set out in the dining room, compliments of Lin Chou and Armond Arnault’s catering service. Agatha met her husband’s eye and nodded slightly. It was getting late and Chauncey looked ready to drop from weariness. Agatha’s gray eyes softened with memory as she gazed at the lovely white satin gown, designed and sewn by Monsieur Daneau himself, all in one short week. The bodice fit snugly and was heavily trimmed with exquisite white Brussels lace. A half-dozen petticoats supported the endless rich yards of the heavy satin skirt. The long white veil was sewn with delicate seed pearls and fell gracefully down Chauncey’s back. It was fixed to the crown of her head with a circle of orange blossom. Around her slender neck was a beautiful single strand of pearls, similar to those Agatha had worn twenty years before at her own wedding.

“Ready, my dear?” Horace asked quietly, coming to stand beside her.

Agatha sighed. “Doesn’t she look glorious, Horace? Ah, how all this makes me remember our own wedding day.”

Horace Newton scratched his gray head. “Lord, Aggie, you remember that far back? And here I’ve tried to forget all of it.”

Well used to her spouse’s teasing, Agatha ignored his drawing words and asked, “Do you think, Horace, that I should perhaps speak to Chauncey?”