aware that Ira preened under their attention to her. I do look nice, she thought, straightening her shoulders and sending a smile to the balding Ezra Lacy.
“Gentlemen,” she said, “please continue your conversation. I am content to listen and learn.”
The dining salon was brilliantly lit; the tables were covered with white linen, the cutlery was silver, the plates fine china. She took a tentative taste of the broiled scallops and found them delicious. She heard a man laugh behind her and turned slightly in her chair toward the captain’s table.
She nearly dropped her wineglass. Staring at her, his eyes narrowed and so dark they appeared nearly black, was the gambler. She felt cold and hot at the same time. She shook her head, closed her eyes a moment. It was he, she was certain. She met his gaze again, and smiled. He raised his hand in salute.
Dear God, she thought. She believed her imagination had probably enhanced his male beauty, but it wasn’t so. He was wearing black, a pearl-gray vest over his white shirt. His hair glistened as black as his coat beneath the chandelier, and he sported a thick black mustache.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Butler?”
She got hold of herself and said easily, “Of course, Mr. Lacy. May I ask, sir, who is that gentleman there, at the captain’s table?”
“Ah, that is Brent Hammond. He’s a new businessman in San Francisco. He’s opening a saloon next week, the Wild Star.”
“I see,” she said. In the same city. Of course she knew he lived in San Francisco. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t he look like a troll? Why did he have to stare at her with those dangerous, beautiful eyes?
She forced her attention back to her table. She heard Mr. Lacy mention something about the “duchess” and her house in conjunction with Hammond. His wife? His mistress? What was this house they were talking about?
Brent continued to stare; he couldn’t help himself. It was her, but the difference in her looks astounded him. She was gowned beautifully, quite expensively in fact, and he recognized Monsieur David’s handiwork. Her smooth shoulders met the soft white lace of her gown, hinting at the breasts beneath. Her honey-colored hair was piled high on her head and one thick ringlet fell lazily over her shoulder. Her neck was long, slender, exquisite as the rest of her. He glanced at the four men at the table with her, recognizing three of them. After a few moments he turned to Captain O’Mally. “Who is the lady, sir, over there with Ezra Lacy?”
Captain O’Mally turned from Delaney Saxton. “That is the new Mrs. Butler, sir.”
Brent, who had been flirting outrageously with Delaney Saxton’s bride, Chauncey, felt himself grow cold. Ira’s bride. God, the man was nearly old enough to be her father. He stared at the aristocratic, chisel-featured Ira Baines Butler, and felt a surge of sheer hatred for the man. Why the hell should he be so amazed, so disbelieving, after all? He’d known what she was; the filthy old man in San Diego had told him all about her. She’d married a rich man, just as he’d known she would. Another Laurel. His fingers tightened about his wineglass. He wanted to wrap his fingers around her neck. Perfidious bitch. The depth of his anger amazed him. Why the hell should he care what she was? It had nothing to do with him. Nothing at all.
Byrony. Byrony Butler.
Old cold-blooded Ira Butler probably made love to her in the dark.
Brent wanted nothing more now than to finish the damned dinner and get out of the dining salon. Why? To go lick his wounds in private, that was why.
Byrony ate nothing more. She tried to pay attention to the occasional gallant comments laid in her path by the gentlemen. She was aware the instant Brent rose from the captain’s table and strode from the dining salon. She watched every step he took. He was larger than she remembered, yet so graceful.
“My dear, are you feeling just the thing?”
“Oh yes, Ira. I guess I’m just a
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