Lisa Bingham (6 page)

Now you can afford any book your heart desires.

Grinning, she wrapped her arms around her body and hugged herself in delight.

The first thing she intended to see to was a proper library of—

“Would you like to dine in the restaurant below or have your supper sent up?”

A squeak of surprise burst from her throat. Louisa’s eyes flew open and she focused on the man standing on the threshold, grabbing a blanket to cover herself.

“Mr. Smith!”

“Yes, Mrs. Winslow?”

“I thought I made myself perfectly clear. You were to leave my employ at once and not come back.”

John leaned nonchalantly against the jamb, his arms crossed. She saw a glint of humor in his eyes, which she was sure came at her own expense.

“You were incredibly succinct.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“This is my job.”

“But—”

He pushed away from the door.

Louisa abruptly closed her mouth and shrank beneath the covers.

“You’ve made your wishes more than clear, Mrs. Winslow. But as I stated before, I was employed by your husband to do a job and I intend to do it. You can argue and bully and bluster and cry all you want, but it won’t change my mind.”

Louisa opened her mouth, then realized that any efforts on her part would be ignored. For the time being, she was stuck with John Smith as her bodyguard.

But that didn’t mean she had to like the arrangement.

Nor did it place her under any real obligation to be nice.

“Would you care to dine in or out?” John asked.

As much as Louisa would like to leave her hotel suite, she truly didn’t have enough energy to cinch her body in a corset and don the many layers required by society. Moreover, she realized with a rush that she was hungry—embarrassingly so. Women of quality were supposed to have the appetite of birds. But Louisa had been so concerned about the arrival of her husband, her upset stomach had forced her to limit her meals to tea and an occasional sandwich.

Now she was famished.

“I’ll dine in.”

“Good. I’ve already got your dinner set up for you in the sitting room.”

She glared at him when she realized that it hadn’t mattered a jot what
she
had wanted. One way or another, John would have seen to it that she’d eaten in her own hotel room.

Nevertheless, when he appeared poised for argument, she merely smiled sweetly and murmured, “How kind of you to anticipate my wishes.”

Just don’t do it again,
she wanted to add, but she didn’t. The time would come for her to rebel against this man’s high-handedness, but she refused to jump into the argument precipitously. After she’d had something to eat and a decent night’s sleep, she would have her wits about her.
Then
she would see to dismissing Mr. Smith.

When John didn’t move, she lifted her brows and tipped her chin. “If you would be so kind as to withdraw, Mr. Smith.”

He didn’t move for a very long time. The room grew quiet enough to echo the ticking noise of Bitsy’s nails as she hurried across the room to yap at the imposing stranger.

“Five minutes,” John said tightly, then stepped from the room.

As soon as he’d gone, Bitsy scrambled toward the bed and jumped into Louisa’s lap. Wriggling in search of comfort, she whined disconsolately until Louisa scratched her behind the ears.

“So, Bitsy…what do you think of our Mr. Smith?”

The dog seemed to understand, because she offered a short growl, then a pair of high-pitched yips.

“I quite agree. He thinks he’s a step short of the Almighty.” Louisa’s lips pursed together. “I suppose it’s up to us to convince him he’s mistaken in that opinion.”

The dog barked again, her tail wagging in feverish delight.

Some of the dog’s enthusiasm was contagious, because Louisa grinned—a naughty grin that would have made the matrons at the orphanage scowl in disgust and Neil Ballard smile in delight.

“Mmm. Finally, it seems that we have something constructive to do to pass the time.”

T
he moment Louisa joined Neil in the sitting room, he realized that he might have made a tactical error in insisting they dine together.

He had expected her to dress to the hilt, encasing herself in the feminine armor provided by petticoats, corsetry and layer upon layer of clothing.

Instead, she emerged wearing a concoction of lawn—a soft ruffled skirt that had more the appearance of underwear than a proper garment, with a loosely fitted jacket made of white cotton, ribbons and lace. Her hair was unfettered and fell around her shoulders in waves of fire that reached far down her back.

Louisa paused, acknowledging his gaze. Even though he knew he’d been caught staring, he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

“I can send for Chloe if you want help to dress,” he finally muttered, his voice emerging gruff and a bit harsh.

She raised one of her eyebrows. “I
am
dressed, Mr. Smith.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t you think you should entertain a gentleman in your hotel suite in something more than your shimmies?”

He thought he caught a hint of pink touching her cheeks, but she brushed past him with the imperious hauteur of a queen.

“First of all, I am not ‘entertaining’ anyone. I have been forced to endure your company for a short while.” She sat on one of the delicate chairs that had been pulled close to the table by the window. “Second,” she continued as she shook out her napkin and spread it over her lap, “I hardly think that you can lay claim to the term ‘gentleman.’” She surveyed the array of dishes set out on the table. “And lastly, I cannot be accused of wearing little more than my…shimmies?…since I happen to be adorned in the latest fashion in tea wrappers.”

With that, she patently ignored him for the next hour.

Knowing that a cautious amount of distance would not be out of order, Neil took a seat on the chair he had pulled in front of the door. Yet even with the extra breathing room, he was not able to remain as detached as he would have liked. As he watched Louisa spoon small portions of food onto her plate, he was struck by the elegance of her profile and by the voluptuousness of her form. To her credit, the tea wrapper covered her from neck to toe. But the delicacy of the cotton and the intricacy of the full lace cuffs and beribboned placket still reminded him far too much of underwear. Fine ladies’ underwear, like that worn by women who made a profession of arousing a man’s interest.

This
should have been his.
She
should have been his. Damn it, this woman had agreed to marry him—he’d all but
begged
to marry him. Then, at the first provocation, she’d decided she would rather ally herself with a stranger.

His lips pressed into a narrow line as Neil fanned his anger.

How could he have been so wrong about this woman’s character? The two of them had been corresponding for years. In all that time, he had pictured her so differently. When he’d thought of his old schoolmate, he’d envisioned her to be a woman of the highest integrity. Proper. Giving. Sincere.

And yet he’d been with her less than a day before discovering that she had a very real taste for fine food and clothing. At the first hint of money, she’d abandoned an old friend in favor of…

Of what?

A dead man.

Neil’s lips twitched at the irony.

“Is something funny, Mr. Smith?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled.

“Would you care to share your amusement with me?”

“No, ma’am.”

It was clear that she thought he was mocking her, but he wasn’t about to confess his thoughts or anything else about his incursion into her life. Not just yet. He would give things a few more days. Then he would either claim her as his bride and demand she live up to her promises….

Or he would leave and consider himself lucky for having avoided her none-too-subtle marriage trap.

“Did you wish to see me,
madame?
”

Louisa jumped when Chloe appeared in the doorway, and quickly slipped her diary into a drawer. She hadn’t yet sent for the maid. Since John had stepped into the outer room for a moment, she’d been filling her starving lungs with air and staring absently out the window.

“I—I didn’t send for you, no.”

Louisa stifled her impatience. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that Chloe had come to her room before being called. Within hours after she’d hired the girl, it had become obvious to Louisa that the young lady was terribly inexperienced. Although Chloe had claimed during her interview to have had experience with two other positions, Louisa now doubted the claim. Chloe’s manners were rough, her tone too familiar at times. She pulled Louisa’s hair when she dressed it and failed to pull Louisa’s corset strings tight enough. Added to that were the times when Louisa was sure that her items had been moved—as if someone else had been trying them on. Worse yet, Chloe seemed to hover over Louisa. She smothered Louisa in her effort to please—so much so that Louisa often felt exhausted by her maid’s attentions by the end of the day.

In any other circumstances Louisa would have given the girl notice and tended to her own personal needs. But she’d known that the daughter of a marquis would never travel without a lady’s maid. She’d feared that the lack of a servant would call attention to her in all the wrong ways.

In the end, Louisa had put off any thought of firing the girl just yet. She’d told herself that Chloe was merely young and eager to do her best. With some training, the French girl could be an asset—and who else would bother to train Chloe if Louisa dismissed her without references? Moreover, having a servant that was so green could prove an asset. Veteran lady’s maids could often be as snobbish as their mistresses. If Louisa hired a woman who was fully trained, that woman would probably determine in a heartbeat that Louisa’s social graces weren’t as polished as they should be.

Yet even as she told herself that she would give Chloe more time, Louisa fought a rising tide of irritation. Chloe’s earnest expression was far too much like a mother hen guarding her baby chick.

And heaven only knew, Louisa didn’t need someone else guarding her person.

“Are you ready to dress?”

“No, I don’t…”

Chloe’s face fell, assuming an expression of near panic, so Louisa gestured for her to come in. “Yes, you’re right. I may as well begin my regimen. Will you help me?”

It took more than an hour for Louisa to finish her toilette. She was forced to endure the painful pulling of her hair when Chloe proved overly eager at the task. Then, after a search of her wardrobe, she found only one appropriate costume for mourning—black shoes, hose, skirt and basque.

Grimacing at her reflection, Louisa rued the loss of her beautiful new clothes. She would have to keep to the hotel for a few days in order to display an appropriate amount of grief, but sometime soon she would need to augment her wardrobe again. She would require black, unadorned petticoats, an assortment of shoes, hosiery and accessories, as well as a traveling costume, daywear and eveningwear.

Her head spun at the mere thought of acquiring everything she would need before her trip to Boston. Once there, beneath the prying eyes of neighbors and friends, she would want to remain at home as much as possible.

“What will you do with the other things,
madame?
” Chloe’s eyes darted to the pretty clothes that had been set aside as inappropriate as they’d packed her things.

Louisa felt a pang of very real pain. If she were to obey the true conventions of mourning, she would not be allowed to dress in such things for years. Years and years.

Her sigh was laden with regret—a sigh that she hoped Chloe would attribute to the passing of Louisa’s husband and not to the loss of her wardrobe. She was flooded with the memory of her mother’s death and the neighbor women who had huddled over pots of black dye so that they could properly adjust the few pieces of clothing Louisa had to her name.

“They can be dyed, I suppose.”

Chloe uttered a soft cry. “What a shame!” She immediately covered her lips with her hand to stifle her outburst. “I am sorry,
madame,
” she whispered contritely.

Louisa offered a small smile and patted the maid’s hand. “Perhaps we could…” About to suggest that they could begin the dyeing process here at the hotel, Louisa stopped.

She was a wealthy woman. A
very
wealthy woman. Why should she ruin these beautiful things when she had money enough to burn?

“We’ll sort through everything later today, Chloe.” She eyed her maid assessingly. “With a few alterations, several of my things should fit you well enough.”

Chloe’s eyes widened, her mouth moving soundlessly. Unconsciously, Louisa fingered the delicate silk of a gown that had been thrown over the end of the bed. Taking it and another, she handed them to Chloe.

“You cannot possibly mean to give them to me,
madame,
” the maid breathed.

“Yes. I do,” Louisa said decisively. “There are a few things I’ll keep out of sentimentality—” such as the delicate undergarments, her first silk suit, the gown she’d worn to her first opera “—but it would pain me to see them dyed black. We’ll simply have to make another trip to the shops.”

“No.”

The women whirled at the dark, masculine voice.

Seeing that John had been eavesdropping again, Louisa tipped her chin and stared haughtily at her bodyguard.

“You won’t be going into town, and you won’t be doing any shopping,” he said, folding his arms over his chest.

She stiffened. “And who are you to say what I will or will not do?”

“I’m the man who intends to keep you safe.”

“Safe from what?”

Her challenge was clear. She wanted John Smith to prove that such measures were necessary. But if she’d hoped he would rise to the bait, she was sadly disappointed. He merely responded, “From yourself, it would seem. It isn’t wise for you to be traipsing about town—especially so soon after the news of your husband’s death.”

She was about to argue with him, but quickly reconsidered. As much as she hated to agree with him, she had already decided for herself that it would be in poor taste to be caught shopping the day after she’d been informed of her husband’s demise. Nevertheless, she was determined to have the last word on the matter.

“In time, I fear that even you will not be able to prevent me from joining polite society, Mr. Smith. Although I wouldn’t dream of dishonoring the memory of my beloved husband…” she paused to squeeze her eyes shut and press a handkerchief against her lips as if grieved “…eventually, there are purchases I shall need to make so that I can be ready for the trip to Boston.”

“Tell me what you need, and I’ll arrange for it to be brought to you.”

“You will not!” Her cheeks grew hot at the very thought of this man knowing her measurements, let alone ordering pantalets and hose and petticoats.

“That’s my only offer.”

She huffed in indignation. “You seem to forget who is the employer and who is the employee, Mr. Smith.”

He straightened from his negligent pose against the door frame and took a step toward her. His eyes grew dark, piercing. “And you seem to forget that I have been hired to keep you safe.”

“From what?” She gestured at the room around them. “So far, you haven’t proved that my husband even hired you, let alone that there is a need for your services.”

Without looking away, John said, “Chloe, will you leave us please?”

Chloe’s gaze bounced from Louisa to John, then back to Louisa before she whispered,
“Oui, monsieur,”
and darted from the room as if being chased.

“There’s no need to frighten her,” Louisa said, planting her hands on her hips.

“At least she has the good sense to feel a measure of fear. You would do well to follow her example.”

“Why? What should I fear?”

“Me, if nothing else.” The words were low and dark, shivering with sensual overtones rather than menace.