in town only a few weeks and folks treat me as if I broke off my engagement to Gabrielle yesterday. Tell me, Liam. Have you ever been in love?”
“Of course. As many times as there are days in a week, maybe even a month. But you’ve loved as many as . . .” He paused and scratched his head. “How many countries did you visit?”
Bret grabbed his chest in feigned pain. “You wound me to the quick. Have I not served my penance, suffered the ostracism of polite Galveston society long enough, all for the crime of misplaced affection?”
“I believe Arley Caldwell is of a different opinion about what you misplaced in his daughter.”
Bret laughed and slapped the side of his suede knickerbockers. “Never going to let me live down my one indecorous moment, are you, Dawson? Climb aboard, and I’ll give you a ride wherever you’re going. My Parisian cherie is getting skittish.”
Liam raised his hands and stepped back. “Not on your life. I wouldn’t—” He stopped and tipped his hat to someone approaching from behind the vehicle.
Bret turned and saw the exquisite back of a well-dressed young woman in pink and white strolling around the front tires. The lady planted the tip of her parasol in the dirt and spun around.
Bret jerked back in his seat, shocked by Gabrielle’s presence. His mouth dangled open as he searched for an enchanting greeting, but his quick tongue failed him, and he could not fill the awkward space. She was even more beautiful than he imagined she would be.
“After two years, I guess I should expect a man like you to be making a loud, showy display upon his return,” She parted the folds of her hat veil and crinkled up her nose and eyes at Bret. “And I see you’re not above conducting your shady business in the open street like a vulgar Yankee money bag.”
The faint shadows under her eyes were the unmistakable marks of tears. Bret had forgotten how many times he had seen her like this, which was usually the result of some selfish, pig-headed thing he had done.
Gabrielle fanned her face rapidly as if trying to prevent him from noticing. “Lord, your horseless carriage makes more racket than a hen house and fouls the air so it’s not fit to breathe.”
Her attendant, a colored girl no more than fifteen, came up behind them. She giggled and turned away, covering her mouth with her apron hem.
Bret swallowed, trying to moisten a dry throat as Gabrielle strode up beside his door.
Whatever he might say to her now would sound like playful jesting compared to the damning silence behind her scornful glare. “Well, if this isn’t a huckleberry above a persimmon,” Bret finally said, unable to bear the scrutiny of her probing stare. “Gabrielle, or should I say Miss Caldwell, as your father would prefer.” He bowed his head and nodded politely to both of them. “Ladies. It’s been so long since you’ve graced me with your presence.”
Upon his leaving, Gabrielle’s virtue was still intact at twenty-seven, though her pride may have been frayed around the edges. Now, judging by the determination of her stance, she could still hold her head high anywhere in Galveston society.
The colored girl turned and smiled. “P’shaw, Mister McGowan. You always say the nicest things.”
Gabrielle cast a stern look at her impetuous servant girl. “Did you know, Verna, that in Europe the word ‘Lady’ is usually reserved for women of the aristocracy?” She turned back to face him. “Sweet talk always flows from you like honey, doesn’t it, Bret? I had hoped you would have learned something of cultured life while you were away, but you still look and sound like the same reckless fortune-hunter.”
The porcelain splendor of her skin was the smoothest and softest Bret had ever touched and kissed. The mere sight of the black beauty mark on her neck forced him to make an extra effort at presenting a disinterested demeanor. “Yes, Miss Caldwell. European high society made a valiant attempt to reform my boorish manner. But alas, there will always be some necessary coarseness in a man’s character that even the most sophisticated woman’s gentle touch will never smooth away.”
Gabrielle huffed and looked away from him. Bret lowered his gaze and forced himself not to smile. He liked the thick curls of Gabrielle’s new French twist hairstyle. A few loose, long tendrils brushed against the soft, blushing rose of her cheek. She pushed the tresses back and looked up, seeming