Page 12 of The Runaway Heiress (The Gilded West)

Chapter Eleven

T he day of the wedding dawned dark with thunderclouds and a persistent chance of rain, in perfect accord with Sophie’s mood.

She clutched her pillow tighter and stared out the window into one of the clouds as it drifted slowly by, reminding her of Gray’s eyes.

Though she’d done nothing but think about it since he’d brought her back to her room, she hadn’t been able to figure out what he was planning.

What did it mean to trust him? Was he intending to stop the wedding? It would happen in mere hours if he didn’t stop it. Was that part of his plan? Or had he simply been trying to get her to go back to her room? Who was he anyway?

In an attempt to answer that last question, she had peppered Monsieur Sinclair with questions about Gray.

He had been unsurprisingly evasive, which only added to her list of questions.

She had let the matter drop, however, not wanting to interfere with whatever Gray had in mind…

assuming it was anything and she wasn’t a fool for being led back to her room like a good little lamb.

She didn’t know and it left her gripping her pillow with white-knuckled terror.

She’d already determined that, no matter what, her participation in the wedding would be forced.

She could not bring herself to marry Anton willingly.

The words that would bind her to that man forever would never come forth from her lips.

In the end, though, it wouldn’t matter. Jean would pay a bribe and it would be done, but at least she would know she had not married him in the eyes of God.

Her gaze moved from the cloud to the gown hanging in the corner and she felt her heart wrench.

It really was a beautiful piece of work, just the sort of thing she had once dreamed of wearing to her wedding.

White satin, with understated elegance and a few pieces of lace in all the right places.

Now, if only the groom were right. She closed her eyes and without even trying, Gray stood there in his place.

It was a foolish thought. He’d never want to marry her.

Would he? She just didn’t know what he felt and it was making her irrational.

As she was trying to figure it out, there was a soft knock at the door.

Before she could get her hopes up that Gray might have come, Martine walked in. “I brought your breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Martine sighed, but didn’t comment as she set the tray aside. “Well, we should get started then.”

Sophie felt her stomach drop, but she nodded.

The wedding would be at eleven sharp, downstairs in the parlor.

If Gray had something planned, as the small hope flickering in the deepest recesses of her irrational mind insisted he did, then she wouldn’t ruin it by making Jean suspicious.

So she sat demurely in front of her dressing table while Martine fixed her hair, but all the while thinking of the way Gray had kissed her in that very same spot.

“It looks beautiful, if I do say so myself.” Martine smiled and admired her handiwork.

Startled that enough time had passed for her hair to already be finished, Sophie shook herself from her reverie to look in the mirror.

The coiffure did look beautiful. Her golden locks were pulled back from her face and pinned, but a strand of diamonds intermingled with baby’s breath hid the pins and created a sort of tiara.

The rest had been pulled back loosely so several curled strands fell down around her shoulders.

“It’s wonderful.” But her gaze went back to the diamonds and she wondered bitterly if Jean would appear at Anton’s tonight to demand them back.

The thought of the night ahead made her shudder and she caught sight of her face. It was drawn and pale with blue smudges beneath the eyes. She decided then on no cosmetics. Her face looked a horror and it would serve Jean and Anton right if that’s the bride they got.

“We should put on your gown now,” Martine prompted, hesitating. “I’ll get Anne to help.”

“No!” Sophie couldn’t bear the company of anyone else. “We can do it alone.”

Minutes later, it was finished and Martine excused herself to go downstairs. Sophie had half an hour to herself before the wedding.

The front bell had been ringing for the past hour as guests arrived.

All of them important business associates and contacts Jean could finagle to accept the invitation.

He had even invited his nemesis in the copper business, Tanner Jameson.

It was best to maintain the appearance of a civil acquaintance, even though Sophie knew her uncle lamented the fact that he couldn’t get his hands on their mines, and he’d once even considered marrying her to Mr. Jameson’s son, Hunter, to accomplish it.

She wouldn’t put it past him to somehow try to plan an accident for the father and his heirs one day, so he could buy up their land at auction.

As if she needed any further proof that she was simply a pawn in this arrangement. She paced relentlessly, uncertain but hopeful that at any moment Gray would appear in her room and tell her everything would be fine, that she wouldn’t have to marry Anton.

But the clock in her room ticked away without a knock on her door, without Gray, until finally it chimed eleven o’clock. She rubbed her damp palms on her gown, heedless of ruining it. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered if this damned wedding happened, if Gray had betrayed her.

She walked to the window, hoping to see some hope of escape.

There was nothing. A cart loaded with hay was being driven by an old man and pulled by two tired horses on the street past the back wall of their garden.

A woman walked with a child skipping ahead of her.

Out there, life continued, while here inside, hers was ending.

At exactly ten minutes past the hour, a knock sounded lightly on her door.

Sophie’s heart leaped into her throat and pounded out a heavy rhythm.

She approached it cautiously, even timidly, afraid to open it and see that it wasn’t Gray.

But finally her cold fingers turned the knob, and she had to stop her knees from going out, from giving in to the visceral response that instantly threatened to destroy her when she saw Martine’s petite frame standing there.

Not Gray. Her eyes fell closed and she leaned against the door frame as she finally allowed herself to admit his betrayal.

He wasn’t coming. There would be no white knight riding to her rescue, no hero to keep her dragons at bay.

The physical pain that tore through her was worse than she could have imagined.

It was as real as any knife wound and it left her trembling with the aftershocks.

It was made even worse by the knowledge that she’d walked right into the betrayal, had known the danger in trusting anyone and had done it anyway.

Had wanted so much to have someone to hold on to when she had known all along that the only person she’d ever really have was herself.

Immediately her thoughts went to the day, the night, the life ahead of her.

And she knew, without any doubt, that giving herself to Gray had been the worst mistake of her life.

Not because she was ashamed, but because it would make whatever happened with Anton so much worse.

To have a taste of how things might have been and to lose it to settle for something that paled so much in comparison was worse than to have never known it at all.

“It’s time. Monsieur LaSalle requests you to come now.”

Sophie heard the words, but could barely nod a response past the pain that clogged her throat and threatened to cut off her air.

In fact, she couldn’t move at all until Martine reached out to gently take her hand.

She squeezed in reassurance and pulled her into the hallway and toward the stairs.

Sophie followed on wooden legs, barely aware of their progress until they reached the bottom and Jean stood there smiling.

But as he looked her over, his smile faded to a sneer of disappointment. No, this was not the painted doll-bride he had ordered. “Didn’t you have enough time to get ready?” His hard gaze looked around the wide hallway to make sure they were alone.

No one was there except Martine behind her and Monsieur Sinclair standing sentry at the closed double doors of the parlor.

He refrained from meeting her gaze as she looked at him.

She looked past him to the doors, the voices coming from inside telling her it was filled with guests awaiting her arrival.

Her stomach rolled and it was only the fact that she hadn’t eaten anything that kept it from revolting.

“Go back upstairs and finish.” His voice snapped against her like a whip.

“So you think the lamb should go to the slaughter peacefully?” Her voice was raw as it scraped past the lump in her throat.

“Martine, get the flowers.” His fingers bit into her arm as he pulled her toward the closed doors. His voice lowered, but she felt its venom near her ear. “If you do anything to embarrass me, I promise you will regret it.”

She closed her eyes briefly as she thought of all the things she had done recently that would cause him embarrassment. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about her lost virtue but, despite his betrayal, she wouldn’t endanger Gray needlessly. Jean could kill him.

“Here.” The bouquet of white roses was pushed callously into her hands.

She gripped them instinctively to keep them from falling.

Before she could respond, the front door opened.

Her breath stopped and she thought, now, surely now her knight would come.

But it was an older man she recognized from the Nelsons’ ball.

Jean left her to greet him and she heard his explanation of a late train, but then all sound stopped, at least for her, because Gray appeared in the entryway behind the new arrival.

He consumed her, leaving room for nothing else.

He had come! Their eyes met as he stepped around the guest and her uncle and came toward her.

She took in a slow, shallow breath, afraid to hope, afraid to think that maybe now…

maybe now he had come to save her. He was close enough that his scent assailed her, the leather and spice that clung to him, but also that scent she knew as his alone because she’d pressed her face against his naked flesh and breathed it in.

He walked by, close enough to touch. Near enough that the heat from his body reached out to her with airy tendrils that just barely brushed her.

Yet, he did not stop. He simply kept walking until he stood in front of Monsieur Sinclair, his back to her.

He’d gone by without even acknowledging her in any way.

Her gaze took in the breadth of his back, the dark hair that fell past his shoulders and she remembered the solid strength of him beneath her hands, the silk of him between her fingers.

It couldn’t have meant nothing to him.

Whatever he was saying to Monsieur Sinclair was too low for her to hear, but she seriously doubted her ability to understand language at this point, anyway.

She was all sensation and emotion. He turned toward the doors and she knew an insane need to talk to him just once. To remind him that she was there.

“Gray,” the word escaped her lips in a faint, aching whisper.

She almost thought he wouldn’t hear, but his hand stopped on the crystal doorknob. He’d heard. Her heart leaped with joy but then his fingers turned the knob and he disappeared into the room. Words could never have conveyed what his actions had so eloquently accomplished.

She was alone.