Cinderfella Read online

  “Do what?”

  Nathan sighed and threw his hands into the air. “Leave you here with all the work while they go off to dance and court Miss Haley!”

  Ash shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t mind.” He started toward the barn to get the tools necessary to repair the fence. He really didn’t mind. He was just grateful for an entire evening without Verna and her boys in the house. It was all he wanted. It was enough.

  Nathan was silent for a moment, and Ash almost allowed himself to believe that his godfather had given up. How very foolish.

  “Can’t you just see it, my boy?” Nathan said in a purposely enticing voice. “Charmaine Haley, dressed in her fanciest gown. I imagine she’ll go in for the French fashion, a low-cut bodice to reveal white skin that will positively gleam in the bright lights of a ballroom. That golden hair, piled atop her beautiful head in the most fashionable style, soft curls of silken tresses to catch the light. And to top it all off, a dazzling smile to tempt any red-blooded man. What a vision she’ll surely be. She’ll dance with everyone I suppose, even those oafish stepbrothers of yours, but she’ll be incredibly bored.” Nathan lowered his voice. “Unless, of course, a mysterious stranger comes in to sweep her off her feet.”

  Ash stilled with his hands on the hammer he needed. Nathan was too good at this. He could see it, in agonizing detail, and it was tempting as hell. “I’m no mysterious stranger.”

  “You can be.” Nathan said with a touch of humor. “This is a masked ball, after all.”

  “I’ve still got the cows to milk and the fence to repair and the dishes to wash. . . . ”

  “I can milk the cows and wash the dishes, and I suppose the fence can wait one more day.”

  It was tempting, not just because he wanted to dance with Charmaine Haley in his arms, just once, but because he wanted to see the look on her face when she discovered it was him. She might not believe it was possible, but Ash’s mother had taught him to dance well. He wanted to dance with Charmaine, he wanted to dazzle her, to make her laugh. He wanted to sweep her off her feet . . . and then he wanted to watch those blue eyes widen in horror when he took off his mask.

  “I suppose it can,” he said as he put the hammer back in its proper place.

  “I never wear a corset,” Charmaine insisted again, as she glared at the contraption on the bed. “It’s an instrument of ruin, the greatest cause of female troubles. . . . ”

  “Just for tonight,” her mother said tiredly. “The gown won’t look right without a properly laced corset.”

  Charmaine grimaced at the laces and buckles on the apparatus that was placed beside her gown. As a physician, Howard railed against the corset. Of course, Howard railed against many things.

  “Please.” It was her mother’s simply uttered please that convinced Charmaine to comply.

  Ruth was there to assist with the torturous device that would push Charmaine’s breasts high and force her waist to an unnaturally small circumference. Charmaine gripped the bedpost while Ruth tightened.

  After tonight, she would be her own woman. An opinion voiced with certainty over a cup of punch, an unbending criticism of this backward lifestyle . . . she’d make sure that there wouldn’t be a man for a hundred miles who would have her.

  After tonight, she would be free. Her father would surely despair of ever finding her a proper Kansan husband, and allow her to return to Boston.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a vigorous yank. Ruth was especially strong and evidently dedicated to her chore this evening. Charmaine took a deep breath, and the pressure around her torso tightened.

  “That’s too tight,” she insisted, casting a glance to her mother. Maureen sat on the edge of a chaise, dressed already for the evening ahead.

  “It’s properly tightened, Miss,” Ruth said in a clipped voice.

  “I can’t breathe!” Charmaine Cast an angry glance over her shoulder.

  There was no visible reaction from the ladies’ maid. No chagrin or triumph. Still, Charmaine was sure this was some sort of punishment for dragging the unwilling servant to the wilderness.

  “Take shallow breaths,” her mother advised. “From here.” She patted high on her own chest.

  Charmaine did as her mother directed, taking a series of shallow breaths that felt unnatural and were too much of an effort. But she could breathe.

  After tonight, she would never wear a corset again.

  Her mother waited until Ruth had assisted Charmaine into the magnificent white gown and arranged her hair atop her head with a spray of white and peach flowers artfully placed in the soft knot.

  When Ruth was finished, Charmaine stepped back to study her reflection in the cheval glass. This wasn’t her, not really. But the gown was magnificent, and her hair was perfect, and the torturous corset did give her a tiny waist. Of course, it also forced her breasts up and into an unnatural state. There was much too much skin revealed above the peach trim. Howard would be mortified.

  Still, Charmaine smiled. After tonight, she’d never again be this beautiful.

  “My baby.” In the mirror, past her shoulders, Charmaine saw a smile grow on her mother’s face. “You look very little like my baby girl at this moment.”

  Charmaine returned her mother’s smile.

  After tonight.

  * * *

  “Stop squirming!” Nathan ordered, and Ash was immediately still. The scissors snipped quickly, and another strand of damp, dark hair fell over Ash’s shoulder and onto the floor. “You won’t be very dashing if you’re missing an ear.”

  This was a mistake, and Ash knew it already. Nathan had insisted that a pitcher of water and a bar of soap wouldn’t do. A full tub bath with Nathan’s own special soap was called for. Ash had mumbled to himself constantly as he scrubbed in the tin tub that sat in the middle of the kitchen. He did not think it was a good idea to walk into the Haley house smelling like a flower, but Nathan had insisted.

  A close shave followed, and now the haircut. Sitting before the fire in nothing but his underwear, Ash allowed the old man to snip and shave.

  “You have a wonderfully thick head of hair,” Nathan said with apparent joy. “What I wouldn’t give for such a crowning glory.” Another long strand fell to the floor.

  Ash felt naked, vulnerable, as the chilly air touched his neck. This was a terrible mistake. He wasn’t going to fool anyone with a haircut and a shave. Charmaine Haley would laugh him out of her house and out of town for pretending to be something he wasn’t.

  With fingers cradling his scalp, Nathan turned Ash’s head this way and that, studying his work carefully. A few careful snips, and he declared the job finished.

  “And now for the clothes,” Nathan said with a flourish. “I’ve placed an outfit on your bed.”

  Ash looked over his shoulder as he rose. “I’ll wear my own clothes.”

  Nathan shook his head, short quick bursts of negativity. “Even your Sunday best won’t do, not for tonight. I have trunks full of costumes in that old wagon, and Richard was about your size.” Nathan’s smile disappeared. “That traitorous ne’er-do-well.”

  “Costumes?”

  “Well, this is a masked ball.”

  “A masked ball, not a costume party,” Ash snapped. “You want me to make a fool of myself?”

  Nathan gave Ash a shove toward the stairs. “Of course not. Just have a look at what I laid out for you.”

  Ash climbed the stairs with a dread he usually reserved for Verna and her boys. This was a mistake. He’d allowed Nathan to push and cajole and tempt him to this point, but he could call it all off right now. . . .

  But then he had the vision again. Dancing with Charmaine Haley in his arms, her hair spun-gold in the bright lights of the Haley house, her body close to his, her smile just for him.

  And then, of course, unmasking himself at the end of the evening, preferably with Stuart Haley close by.

  The clothes across his bed made him forget even those pleasant thoughts.

 
“What is this?” Ash shouted from the top of the stairs.

  Nathan stood at the foot of the stairs and frowned. “You don’t like it?”

  Ash shook the red coat toward the stubborn old man. “I can’t wear this! And what are these?” He waved the bright blue breeches before him like a flag.

  “Too much?” Nathan asked softly. “I did think that crushed crimson velvet would look wonderful on you with your coloring. . . . ” He stopped his protests, the words trailing into nothing.

  “I’ll wear my gray suit,” Ash said as he turned away.

  “No!” Nathan shouted. “Give me one more chance. I promise I’ll be more conservative this time.”

  Ash glared down the staircase. “No red.”

  Nathan nodded somberly.

  “No crushed velvet.”

  This time Nathan sighed. “If you insist.”

  “And I couldn’t even get my big toe in those shoes you put on the bed. I’ll have to wear my boots.”

  Nathan brought a hand to his chest and struck a pose of revulsion and alarm. “Not those horrid things you wear to slop the pigs and wallow in the dirt.”

  Ash was ready to call this off here and now, when he remembered what Charmaine Haley had looked like when she’d ridden to the farm on her white horse. He’d likely never see anything to compare with the way she’d look tonight. Maybe it would be an image to lull himself to sleep with on restless nights. “I have a pair of good boots,” he said softly. “And just because I’m a farmer, that doesn’t mean I wallow in the dirt.”

  “Sorry, this is just very stressful for me.” Nathan spun on his heel and made his way quickly out the front door, mumbling something lowly. All Ash could hear, as he lowered himself to the top step, was the single word conservative. He gripped the ridiculous outfit in one hand and waited to see what Nathan would come up with this time.

  The house had been transformed. The largest rooms on the ground floor had been cleared of furniture, but for the chairs placed along the wall in the dining room. Every room was brightly lit, and decorated with flowers and expertly placed swags of fabric shot with gold. The orchestra was warming up, the dining room was bustling with servants who added last-minute hot foods to the long table, and Maureen was directing it all.

  She was always beautiful, but tonight she looked like a girl again. The girl he had married twenty-seven years ago. It was the sparkle in her eyes and the color in her cheeks that did the trick, not the fancy gown and the new emerald necklace.

  “You’re not wearing your mask, Stuart,” she said as she passed him on her way from the dining room to the newly transformed ballroom.

  “Neither are you,” he said, falling into step behind her. “Besides, no one’s arrived yet.”

  “The first guest will be here any minute. I think everything’s ready. Goodness, I hope I didn’t forget anything! The masks are in a basket by the front door, and Jane’s niece will pass them out as the guests arrive.” Her voice was a little high and excited, as she started one by one to list the foods that would be served.

  Stuart grabbed her arm gently, turned her around before she entered the ballroom, and kissed her.

  “Stuart!” she said as she pulled slightly away. “What on the earth. . . . ”

  “A man can’t kiss his wife?”

  “Not right now,” she scolded, but she was wearing a smile and she didn’t step away.

  He kissed her again, deeper this time, and she relaxed in his embrace and returned the kiss.

  “Have I told you today that I love you?” he asked as he broke the kiss.

  “No, you haven’t,” Maureen answered with a complacent smile. “I love you too, you know, in spite of the fact that you’re a man who will go to extreme measures to get what he wants.”

  “That’s what you love about me,” he said huskily. “Admit it, darling.”

  She laughed, a clear peal that warmed his heart.

  Seven

  What an oaf! Charmaine smiled as her dance partner prattled on, but only because her father was watching closely. Let him imagine, for a few minutes, what it would be like to have this fool as his son-in-law. That would teach him to meddle.

  She hadn’t gotten in a single word since this dance had begun, because her partner — one of Ash Coleman’s inept stepbrothers — had complained constantly about his head and his back and his infected toenail that made dancing so difficult.

  Surely she had danced with every man in East Kansas tonight, and the evening was young. Her father had introduced his obvious favorites with a transparently satisfied wide smile, and there were a number of cowboys from neighboring ranches who’d crashed the party. Old acquaintances, her father’s friends’ sons, complete strangers, she’d danced with them all.

  On more than one occasion she’d tried to voice her opinion — a modern and shocking conviction that would scare off even the most persistent suitor — but it was a waste of time. Not a one of the men even bothered to listen to her.

  Their eyes glazed over, and they stared at her exposed cleavage or the other dancers or the lavishly appointed room that had been cleared for dancing. That’s what they were interested in, she reminded herself. The Haley house, the Haley Ranch . . . not her and her opinions. She could be a raving lunatic and they’d continue to dance and smile like the louts they were. What a fool she’d been to think she could spoil her father’s plans!

  She practiced the art of not listening herself as Elmo March went on and on about his disgusting infected toenail.

  Apparently assured that she was behaving herself, her father stepped into the dining room where the food was laid out. There beef, chicken, and pork weighed the tables down, and there were potatoes prepared in several different ways, as well as soft rolls and corn pudding. A separate dessert table was crowded with pies and cakes and cookies. The fare wasn’t as fancy as what was normally served at a society affair in Boston, but it was good food and there was plenty of it.

  At least it smelled good. Charmaine hadn’t been able to take so much as a bite, this darn corset was tied so tight. All evening she’d breathed as her mother instructed, shallow breaths that caused her exposed cleavage to rise and fall softly. Elmo with the infected toenail was staring down at that cleavage as he prattled on. Ninny.

  If the intent of the masked ball was to disguise the appearance of the dancers, it was a dismal failure. A mask covering half of someone’s face didn’t disguise their identity. It was ridiculously simple to spot the townspeople. Doc Whitfield with his potbelly and canted walk. Eula, with her dark hair in sculpted curls. Delia, smiling and flirting shamelessly. Every unmarried man for miles, doing their best to be charming.

  A small mask was a poor disguise, but there were moments when Charmaine felt as if she were actually hiding behind hers, the white creation resplendent with pearls and lace. She smiled and spoke and danced, but behind the mask her thoughts were her own.

  This particular song had to be nearing its end. Surely she had been dancing with this dolt for hours. He was already red-faced and huffing, and she wondered if he might not drop to the floor without warning, blessedly dead from exhaustion and his infected toe.

  At last, the music ended. Gratefully, Charmaine stepped away and gave a small curtsey to her partner. She would not dance with Elmo March again. If he presented himself she would come up with some excuse.

  “May I have this dance?” The voice came from close behind her, a husky whisper near her ear, and she spun around with every intention of begging off. She was hungry, she could barely breathe, she was tired of having her feet stepped on. . . .

  But no excuse left her parted lips as she stared up at the tall man who was dressed entirely in black but for the stark white shirt beneath his frock coat. He was bareheaded, thick dark brown hair gleaming in the bright lights of the ballroom. The coat was finely cut, and the trousers were tucked into tall boots. His silk necktie was as coal-black as the rest, and was adorned with a very small diamond stickpin. Even his mask was blac
k, a plain, soft leather mask that covered three-quarters of his face.

  She hadn’t noticed him earlier, which meant he surely hadn’t been here. Even in the most crushing crowd, she would never have overlooked such a striking figure.

  “Of course.”

  Who was he? She studied the small part of his face she could see beneath the mask, a strong and sharp jaw, a finely shaped chin not too prominent or too weak, lips full and perfectly sculpted — not too firm or too soft. She tried to look past the small holes in his mask to his eyes, but there was nothing familiar in what little she could see beyond the shadows of the leather mask.

  “I don’t believe we were introduced,” she said as he spun her around. At last, a competent dancer. This man moved gracefully, and he hadn’t stepped on her toes once. “I’m Charmaine Haley.”

  “I know.” Those finely shaped lips almost smiled.

  “And you are. . . . ” she pressed.

  “A stranger passing through town,” he whispered.

  A tremor passed through her body, a deep and surely imperceptible trembling she immediately attributed to hunger and exhaustion and the darn corset.

  Charmaine quivered in his arms, a quiver so soft it couldn’t be seen — only felt. She was gorgeous, more beautiful than in his wildest fantasy. Her white mask didn’t hide much. It wrapped around the upper half of her face, and dripping pearls danced against her pale cheeks as she moved. There was a strand of pearls at her throat, and more tiny pearls sewn into her gown. The lustrous gems suited her.

  “The waltz is a decadent and barbaric ritual,” she said sharply, and his eyes snapped up from the pearls at her throat to blue eyes that flashed behind the mask.

  “Is it really? And you waltz so well.” He smiled at the surprise on her face. “I always thought the waltz was just a bit of harmless fun.”

  “Harmless fun?” Her lips twitched, as if she might smile herself but was trying very hard not to. “Look around you, sir. What do you see?”