Lisa Bingham (7 page)

At that moment, she did fear him. Not for his size or his strength, but for the way he could melt her inhibitions with a single glance.

“You presume far too much. Have you forgotten that I am newly widowed?”

“No.” His eyes narrowed. “Although at times you seem to forget the fact yourself.”

Again she felt a betraying flush seep into her cheeks.

He took a step closer. “Did you love him, Louisa?”

She knew she should reprimand John Smith for using her given name, but she feared that any sound she made would emerge as a croak, so she merely glared at him.

“You don’t have the air of a grieving widow. Indeed, you seem almost…relieved.”

Dear heaven, how had she given so much away? If this man had been able to guess a portion of the truth, how many others would soon realize her perfidy?

“I wish to be alone,” she whispered.

“Have I touched a nerve?”

Her stomach flip-flopped with a new bout of anxiety, and she prayed she wouldn’t embarrass herself. Not here. Not now.

“I wish…to be left…alone,” she said, more emphatically, measuring her words with great care as if John didn’t have all of his wits about him.

Moisture pricked at the backs of her eyes and a thick lump welled in her throat. She had been so sure she could carry off her charade, and now this man threatened to ruin everything.

Tears gathered and a wave of despair washed over her. She really would be thrown into the streets if her bodyguard had anything to do with it. And why? Why did he feel that he needed to bait and torment her? What had she ever done to him?

John paused, clearly taken aback by her weeping. His eyes narrowed as if he feared they were little more than crocodile tears summoned for his benefit. But when she fought to control the shaking of her chin and the jagged breaths she took into her lungs, he finally murmured, “I’m sorry. I was out of line.”

“Please,” she sobbed, her anguish becoming more overwhelming, the tension of the past few weeks taking its toll. “Leave me. Just leave.”

Whirling, she threw herself on the bed, burying her face in the pillow and crying as if her heart had been crushed. Long bitter moments of weeping followed until the linen beneath her cheeks grew wet. When she finally dared to look up, she realized that for the first time, John had obeyed one of her commands. The room was vacant, the door carefully closed.

A new burst of sobs racked her body.

But this time, she didn’t know why she cried. She knew only that a nameless sense of loss hovered over her like a dark cloud.

In the next few days Neil grew amused by Louisa’s attempts to get rid of him. After that morning when she’d cried, she’d seemed to make it her personal mission to convince him to quit. She’d argued, been perverse and difficult and ordered him about as if he was the lowliest servant.

Through it all, he’d steadfastly resisted the urge to respond in any way other than with utter calm. Indeed, he was beginning to enjoy those times when he was able to provoke her. But what surprised him most of all was his own reaction to her.

He hadn’t anticipated the purely physical response he’d experienced upon their first encounter. Louisa was slightly shorter than her sister, but more curvaceous. In the past few days, she’d proved to have a feisty temper, but with a hint of mischief to her nature as well—just as he’d remembered from their days at the orphanage.

Midway through his journey east, Neil had nearly convinced himself that he was a fool to chase after his old chum. But his pride had demanded it. Didn’t she realize that he’d made plans since agreeing to marry her? He had a home that needed a woman’s touch. And the time had come for him to begin raising some sons to carry on the legacy he’d carved out of the wilderness.

That idea had taken root in his brain and blossomed to the point where he had a half-dozen names ready and a cradle started. Then there was the money he’d doled out for the woman’s journey, and the improvements he’d made to the master bedroom on her behalf.

Once again his impatience at the entire situation resurfaced. Soon he would need to move the cattle to summer pastures. He didn’t have time to invest in finding and courting another wife—nor did he care to do such a thing. He knew from the letters he and Louisa had exchanged that their relationship would be agreeable enough. Damn it, they already had a long history together, and he didn’t intend to go home empty-handed!

Especially after he’d discovered that she was a passionate creature.

“Mr. Smith.”

He turned to find the object of his thoughts glaring at him from the bedroom doorway. At her side stood that tiny dog—if it could be called a dog. In Neil’s opinion the animal was little more than a fluffy rat.

“Mr. Smith, I
must
begin looking for more appropriate mourning attire and I cannot do that successfully from inside this suite!”

“All right.”

His agreement took her by surprise. She had lifted a hand to shake her finger at him and now it hung in midair.

Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Then you’ll allow us to go to town?”

It was clear she detested having to ask his permission.

“If you feel the trip is necessary.”

For a moment, her eyes sparkled with unguarded glee. Then, whirling, she called, “Chloe! I need your help! Quickly!”

Neil couldn’t account for the way that her simple pleasure warmed him. Glancing down, he found Bitsy regarding him with dark, suspicious eyes.

“What are you looking at, dog?”

After offering a sharp, disapproving yip—one that seemed to convey that Bitsy sensed Neil’s ulterior motives—the dog turned and scampered back into the bedroom.

Leaving Neil to his own thoughts.

His own desires.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Louisa grinned and hurried to gather her gloves, parasol and reticule.

Just because she’d been forced to humble herself enough to ask Mr. Smith’s permission to go shopping did not mean that she had conceded the war. She still didn’t understand why she needed a bodyguard. No threats had been made against her—indeed, as far as she could tell, no one had paid her any attention at all. Other than brief visits by Mr. Pritchard—who had patiently explained the details regarding her inheritance and Evie’s trust—Louisa had been exiled to her suite with no company but Bitsy, Chloe, and…

And Mr. Smith.

A man who had only to enter the room to steal the breath from her body.

In the past few days, she had tried in every way she could to convince the man to leave her. She’d been perverse, sickly sweet, stubborn, unreasonable, condescending and rude, all to no avail. If anything, the fellow seemed amused rather than discouraged.

Eventually, she’d been forced to admit that her bodyguard would not change his mind due to a display of female histrionics. In truth, he seemed to expect her dramatics. Therefore, Louisa had decided to make one last attempt to show John that she had no need of his services.

She would take her bodyguard shopping.

In her experience there wasn’t a man on the face of the earth who could endure a woman bent on a day of shopping. Louisa intended to bore him with “feminine preciousness.”

She could only hope that her efforts wouldn’t be wasted. The sooner Mr. Smith realized he had no place in her life, the better.

W
hen Neil had agreed to Louisa’s shopping expedition, he’d had no idea what an ordeal it would become. By lunch, he’d been to three dressmakers, two milliners and a shoemaker. Through it all, he’d been privy to Louisa and Chloe’s heartfelt discussions about the merits of this shirtwaist and that skirt, a parasol opposed to a bonnet and veil, kid gloves or silk, slippers or boots. Holy damnation! The women had even minutely evaluated the different shades of black they’d encountered!

To add insult to injury, Neil soon discovered that he was going to be forced to join the process. Rather than being allowed to distance himself and watch the door for suspicious characters, Louisa dragged him along like a pull toy, insisting that he hold her dog, bags, wrap and reticule.

And what had they managed to buy so far?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Scowling at the pair of females who huddled over a table filled with scraps of fabric, ribbons and lace in yet another millinery shop, Neil clenched his jaw.

If the women weren’t so heartfelt in their deliberations, he would have thought that Louisa was purposely trying to annoy him.

She wanted him gone, but even with the torture this day had become, he didn’t intend to go anywhere. Not just yet.

As if sensing his thoughts, Louisa suddenly turned to regard him with indigo eyes. The shopkeeper excused herself to check on something in her storeroom.

“I think you’re holding Bitsy a trifle too tightly, Mr. Smith.”

Neil had forgotten about the dog.

He hated dogs. No, that wasn’t quite true. He liked dogs.
Real
dogs. Those that were large enough to be seen and smart enough to keep out of the way.

Bitsy was neither. She was too small, too furry, too anxious and too obnoxious to be considered anything but a nuisance.

Neil instantly loosened his grip enough to cease the animal’s growling, but not enough to encourage it to jump free. He’d already had the pleasure of chasing the pet through several shops.

Bitsy glared at Neil and offered a sharp growl of reprimand.

“I don’t think Bitsy likes you very much, Mr. Smith.”

“The feeling is mutual, I can assure you.”

He wasn’t sure, but he thought her eyes twinkled for a moment in rich humor, adding to his suspicions that she was purposely baiting him.

Standing, she made a soft tsking sound with her tongue. “For shame, Mr. Smith. Don’t you know that a man of true heroic character adores children and small animals?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Heroic character? That sounds like something from a penny novel. Surely a woman of your social rank wouldn’t be caught reading such questionable literature. With your background, one would assume that you would stick to the classics.”

A spot of pink touched each of her cheeks, but other than that, she didn’t react.

“I
was
speaking of the classics, Mr. Smith—Chaucer, Plato, Shakespeare.”

“None of whom ever mentioned enduring the company of a nasty-tempered mop.”

She closed the distance between them, the silk of her skirts rustling like paper money, her perfume enfolding him, as rich as the scents of a garden. If he hadn’t known the truth about her, Neil would have assumed that she’d been born into wealth, instead of inheriting it in a sudden windfall.

“And if I recall
my
reading correctly,” he stated, “Chaucer had more than one nonheroic character, Plato was a philosopher and Shakespeare rarely had animals in any of his plays.”

“Then you obviously didn’t read carefully enough,” she murmured vaguely, but the pink in her cheeks deepened.

She took a bonnet from a nearby hook and placed it on her head. “What do you think, Mr. Smith?”

“What do I think about what?”

“The bonnet.”

“It’s fine. They’re all fine.” But he wasn’t looking at the bonnet, he was looking at the delicate sweep of her brow, her deep blue eyes, the soft curve of her cheek.

She shook her head in disappointment. “You don’t seem to be grasping the severity of my situation, Mr. Smith.”

He felt the warmth of her body seeping into his skin and attempted to ignore it. “Which situation is that, Mrs. Winslow?”

“As a widow, my wardrobe must reflect my grief—”

He raised an eyebrow, but she continued on, ignoring his reaction.

“—but I must pay homage to my husband’s success as well.”

“Do you really think it’s necessary to waste so much…energy on such decisions?”

“Absolutely.”

He couldn’t prevent a snort of disbelief.

Her shoulders stiffened in injured pride, and when she spoke, her words held a ring of sincerity.

“You would be surprised, Mr. Smith. Maybe in your world people aren’t judged, but in mine, life is a constant trial of merit. One is rated and deemed worthy or unworthy by adhering to a rigid set of standards. Hems, cuffs, colors, fasteners—each has its proper place and time of day. A slight deviation can mean ostracism.”

“Aren’t you being a little dramatic?”

“No, Mr. Smith. I have seen women cut off from polite society for the slightest infraction of these unspoken rules. It isn’t enough merely to be of a good family, one must also display an innate understanding of such matters. Appearance is everything.”

He searched her features, realizing that it was “the marquess” who spoke, not Phoebe Gray, a woman who had been fired from her position as a companion because she had been attractive enough to capture the attention of her employer’s husband.

“I should think that if your world of privilege is so narrow-minded, you would consider one with far more freedom.”

“And where would I find such a place?”

He pretended to think, then said, “The American West, perhaps? Somewhere like… Oregon.”

Although he thought she flinched slightly, he couldn’t be sure.

“Are you so certain that… Oregon is such a paradise?”

“I can guarantee that in a place where women are still outnumbered two to one, the fabric of a woman’s bonnet strings hardly matters.”

“I’m sure that even the American Territories have their own brand of prejudices. If a woman’s décolletage was too low, her clothes too new, her shoes too dainty… I’m sure any of those elements could cause talk, even in the wilderness.”

Sadly, Neil had to concede that she was right.

“So what do you think, Mr. Smith?” She held up the bonnet again. “This one?” She pointed to a bonnet Chloe held. “That one?” The shopkeeper, an elderly rotund woman with pink cheeks, entered, and Louisa motioned her closer. “Or this one?”

Neil glanced at each of the hats. They were small and black, and he could see little difference between them.

“That one.” He pointed to the hat that Louisa held, caring little which one she bought as long as she completed the task as soon as possible.

“Do you really think so?” She frowned, her gaze bouncing from one bonnet to the other. “Perhaps I would have an easier decision if I could see them modeled.” She turned to the shopkeeper. “Would you mind, Mrs. Eddleton?”

The shopkeeper offered a girlish giggle. “Not at all, my dear.”

She set the bonnet on her silvered curls, anchored it in place with a long hatpin, then tied the ribbon beneath her ear.

“Very lovely,” Louisa murmured as Mrs. Eddleton turned in a circle.

“Chloe?”

The maid eagerly pinned the second hat to her own golden curls.

“Mmm. I like that one, too.”

Louisa stared at the bonnet in her hand, then at the two being displayed. “I really can’t decide. Unless…”

Neil knew what she meant to do the moment she stepped toward him.

“No.”

She gazed at him with utmost innocence. “Really, Mr. Smith, there’s no cause for worry. I simply need your assistance.”

She reached up.

“No.”

Her frown was coy. “Are you afraid that helping me will prove a threat to your masculinity?” She turned to the other women. “We won’t tell, will we?”

The shopkeeper giggled again. “I never whisper a word of what happens in my shop.”

Louisa moved toward him again and Neil opened his mouth to speak, then stopped.

Louisa wanted him to argue. She was so certain that by pinning that blasted hat on his head she would cause a row, and that row would lead to a confrontation. Then she would have an excuse to demand his resignation.

Why should he give her such satisfaction? Especially since she would be forced to lift herself up on her tiptoes and place a hand against his chest to steady herself.

“By all means,” he said quietly. “Use me as you will.”

Clearly, she’d expected anything except his acquiescence. Momentarily flustered, she paused in midmotion, her hand warm against his sternum.

Dropping his voice so that only she could hear, he said, “Far be it for me to refuse the entreaties of a desperate woman.”

At the word
desperate,
her eyes suddenly flashed and her body stiffened. Bit by bit, she lowered herself to the floor and backed away.

“No, now that I’ve thought about it again, I don’t think I’m interested in this one. I prefer the braid to the feathers.” Without another glance in Neil’s direction, she turned her back to him and added, “I’ll take the larger bonnet and veil, Mrs. Eddleton, as well as the supplies to make three more bonnets like those we chose in the catalog. I will enjoy a millinery project to keep my mind off…things.”

Mrs. Eddleton clucked in sympathy even as she unpinned the bonnet and motioned to Chloe. “If you’ll allow me to take your maid into the back room, Mrs. Winslow, I’ll assemble the materials right now.”

“Thank you.”

The two women stepped through the curtain, leaving the room in a tension-filled silence.

Neil knew the exact moment when Louisa realized she’d made a mistake. By sending both women into the other room, she had left herself without a chaperon. He could see the muscles of her spine tighten infinitesimally, her shoulders draw back. He felt the awareness fill her body as if it were a current that stretched between them.

“You shouldn’t have done that, you know,” he murmured.

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Come now, I haven’t bruised your male spirit by attempting to place a bonnet upon your head.”

“I’m not talking about the hat.”

He bent to set the dog on the floor, instinctively knowing that Bitsy would run into the other room to investigate. As the dog’s ecstatic yips and scrabbling toenails grew faint, the intimacy of the showroom grew more pronounced.

“You shouldn’t tempt me, Mrs. Winslow.”

“Tempt you?” The words were breathless.

“Mmm.” He walked up behind her, coming close enough to press against her bustle and cause it to collapse.

Louisa started, her lungs filling with a quick gasp, but since she was pinned in place by his thighs on one side and the glass display counter on the other, she was unable to escape.

“Yes. You’ve been tempting me all afternoon.”

“I honestly don’t know what you mean.”

He touched her shoulder with his index finger, tracing the line of the braid at her neck.

“I think you do. You’ve done little all day except sashay in front of me, trying on jackets and gloves and shoes—”

“Necessary actions if one is to buy clothing.”

“Ahh, but I think you’ve enjoyed it. I’m fully aware of your tactics.”

“Tactics?”

“You think that by overwhelming me with the minutiae of your errands you will bore me into leaving my post.”

Her silence was answer enough.

“Little did you know that your plans would backfire.” His finger dipped, following the back seam of her jacket down between her shoulder blades, then lower and lower still.

“I find it hard to believe that a married woman—a widowed lady—could be so unaware of her innate attractions.”

She was breathing hard now. From his vantage point behind her, he could see over her shoulder. The sweet curves of her breasts pushed tightly against the ridge of her corset as she fought the awareness that pooled between them.

“You are a beautiful woman.”

“Hardly,” she said with a grimace. “I’ve always been told I was plain.”

“No. You’re beautiful—and anyone who told you differently was a fool.”

The tips of his fingers slid along the delicate column of her throat to the hollow behind her ear. “You have a classic beauty, an exotic beauty.” He felt her trembling against his caress. “Very tempting.”

His hand slipped to her shoulder again, then down her arm to slide around her waist and draw her against him.

“Which is why I will not leave you. Not today, not tomorrow. Not until I’ve finished with the job that I’ve come here to do.”

Although he’d told himself that he would not kiss her again, he could not prevent himself from turning her in his arms.

“You don’t deserve to be a widow,” he whispered, even as his heart silently added,
You should be my bride.

Her fingers curled around his arms, the warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt.

“Please, Mr. Smith.” Her voice was rife with desperation. “I don’t need a bodyguard. Please go away.”

If she’d used that same tone to ask him anything else, he wouldn’t have been able to resist. As it was, he could not find the strength to go. This woman had woven a spell around him from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, and he wasn’t ready to abandon his original intent.

Especially not when she looked up at him with dark, rich eyes. Eyes that reflected a portion of his own wants and desires.

Crooking a finger under her chin, he tipped her face up. Slowly, lingeringly, he bent toward her, noting each nuance of expression that crossed her features. When finally his lips touched hers, she shuddered against him, her fingers digging into the muscles of his arms.

A heat grew within him, steadily, insistently, bidding him to forget where they were or how easily they could be discovered. Nevertheless, he could not release her until he’d deepened the kiss, parting her lips and tasting the sweetness to be found there.

It was Bitsy’s return that caused them to part, and none too soon. Within seconds, Mrs. Eddleton and Chloe appeared, carrying several brightly colored hatboxes.