Almost a Lady (15 page)

It was his turn to look belligerent. His arms went back across his broad chest and he glared at her. “I don't understand. It's not every day that I ask a woman to marry me and it damn well irritates me when she says no.
Especially when I see no clear reason for her refusal."

His tone irked her once again.
Just when she'd begun to weaken toward him, too.
“I've told you my reasons. And I don't owe you any more of an explanation than I simply
don't want to marry.
"

"Fine.”
He turned and grabbed a pillow and the top coverlet from the bed. “I suppose this means I'm dispatched to the sitting room."

"I didn't say that,” she said softly.

He gazed at her, eyes narrowed, the rumpled bedding clutched beneath his arm. “You won't marry me, but you're not sending me away either. Just what game are you playing here?"

"I'm not playing any game. That's what I'm trying to tell you. One of the reasons I let myself become involved with you in the first place is that I thought we could be together without either of us getting caught up in any misguided sentiments about love and marriage, which is certainly not what I want."

One dark brow winged up with interest. “Are you telling me that after all of this"—he threw out an arm to encompass the room and, she assumed, their rather vehement argument—"I'm still welcome in your bed?"

She grinned at him. He looked so adorable when he was befuddled. “Yes, I suppose it does. As long as you cease any talk of marriage."

He frowned. “I'm not sure I like this any better than your refusal to marry me. Do you mean to say that you have no qualms about continuing to make love without a hint of commitment in our future?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying,” she answered, hoping he was finally coming round to her way of thinking. “And what's wrong with that? I would think you'd appreciate the freedom of such an arrangement. Most men would love it."

"Well,
I don't,
” he bit out. The blankets fell to the floor as he stood there stiff, hands on hips, as he glowered at her. “I damn well dislike the idea. It would make our relationship feel . . . common . . . base . . .
cheap.
It's one thing to carry on with a mistress, knowing the arrangement is nothing more than a series of encounters based solely on physical pleasures. It's quite another to continue a sexual association with a woman you wish to marry."

"Stop saying that,” she ordered. “You're making this entirely too complicated. There's nothing wrong with simply enjoying one another's company while we're working together on Charlie's case."

"And what of children?” he demanded. “Have you thought about that? You can't expect to lie with a man for long without finding yourself in a family way."

"Really, Brandt,” she replied lightly, almost amused. “I would expect you to be a bit
more well
read on such matters. I'm a grown woman; I know how to protect myself. Besides, you can't spend long at the Silver Spur without learning a thing or two about preventing pregnancy. That's something you needn't be concerned about."

He remained silent, and she feared she'd lost the battle. That he would storm out and she would lose not only the touch of his warm body against hers, but a person she was becoming quite fond of—as a friend, as a lover, as a man.

"I won't stop you if you choose to leave,” she told him softly. “In fact, I'll understand completely. But I'd rather you decide to stay. The only thing I ask is that you not bring up the topic of marriage again. That subject is definitely closed."

She watched him thinking, his face a careful blank while he weighed his options.

"So you think this is a situation any man would be delighted to find himself in,” he commented.

"By all accounts, and given what I know about the male of the species, I would have to say yes."

He took a step forward, and then another. A strange light entered his eyes as he cupped her face in the palms of his hands. “Then I suppose I do my gender proud. I won't plague you further with talk of marriage,” he agreed, “but I won't promise not to try luring you over to my way of thinking.” A small smile lifted his mouth. “You can't fault a man for attempting to charm a beautiful woman, can you?"

Anticipation shivered through her. “I could,” she said softly, already
succumbing
to his smooth seduction, “but I won't."

"Good.
Because I have a plan."

"A plan?” she repeated, distracted by the touch of his lips on her cheek and the corner of her mouth.

"
Mmm
-hmm.
To woo you.”
His kisses moved to the other side of her face, tormenting the lobe of her ear and the long line of her mandible.

"How do you . . . intend . . . to do that?” she asked breathlessly.

"I thought that I would start here. . .” He placed a kiss in the hollow of her neck. “And move down.” He dragged his lips to the opening of her silk robe and the swell of one breast.

"Oh, yes,” she moaned, her fingers clutching at his hair. “That could work."

He gave a low chuckle and backed her up to the bed. And then he proceeded to show her the rest of his plan.

The next few days were spent tracking down and following Virgil Chatham, the evenings at assorted events set up by James and Mary Xavier, and the wee hours of the night . . . those were spent at the most pleasant of activities while Willow and Brandt did their best to convince the world they were newlyweds—in and out of the bedchamber. And, as promised, Brandt didn't bring up the topic of marriage to her again.

They sat now in Robert's office, giving what had turned into a weekly report of their progress, which at the moment was practically nonexistent.

"I don't know what else to do. We've spent every moment we can watching him. He barely leaves his house unless it's to attend religious services.” After spying on him for a full week, Willow had told both Brandt and Robert that her instincts pointed more strongly than ever toward Chatham. The man went to church nearly every day, and she didn't think it was a coincidence that his town house was located only a few blocks from the wharves where all of the bodies had been discovered. “We've even followed his valet,” she added.

"A frightening fellow,” Brandt put in. “Seven feet if he's an inch, shaves his head down to the skull, and has never spoken a word in public as far as I can tell."

"What do you suggest we do next?” Robert asked, and Willow could feel his impatience. They all wanted to catch the murderer, and none of them were very good at waiting.

She hadn't discussed this option with Brandt, but she cast him only a darting glance before announcing her newest plan. “We're obviously getting nowhere by following Chatham, and just in case we're wrong about him, I think the best next step would be to bait the killer."

"How?”
Robert asked.

Brandt scowled.

She took a deep breath, preparing herself for the opposition she was about to face, and rushed on. “I'll dress as a prostitute and walk the docks."

"No! Absolutely not” Brandt was out of his chair in a shot, towering over her and firing a glare so hot, it nearly singed her eyelashes.

"I think it's our best option,” she stated calmly. “If the murderer is going to continue killing young women, he's going to eventually come to the dock to choose a new victim."

"No."

"Brandt's right,” Robert said from behind his desk. “It's too dangerous. We don't have the resources to keep men at the docks round the clock, but if you want the docks watched a little more closely, I can assign a few additional agents to the area."

"You're not going to get anywhere that way,” Willow persisted. “The most the agents will see is a man—or men—paying women for their services. If they move to another location, or the woman gets in a carriage as we suspect, the agents will have to follow them. And what if Chatham isn't our man? The agents will
either follow him and
risk missing the real killer, or they'll follow each man who appears and risk missing Chatham.” She met Robert's eyes. “I doubt you have enough men to cover the docks
and
chase down individual customers."

Robert didn't respond, but his lips pinched in displeasure.

Brandt wasn't so cooperative. “And what do
you
suggest we do? Allow you to parade the wharf and get picked up by God knows who? Possibly dragged off somewhere to be raped and murdered? Or are you willing to cooperate with the men if it means eliminating suspects?"

"Of course not.”
She shot him a chilling gaze, even though she suspected his animosity stemmed more from worry than anything else. “Don't be vulgar. The most I'll have to do is get in a carriage with some of these fellows. And if you're willing to have agents there, as you said, they won't have to follow
everyone,
they'll only have to follow
me.
Besides, it may not go that far,” she added when she still met with opposition. “We may happen upon something quite helpful with me doing no more than walking around for an hour or two."

"I don't like it,” Brandt put in doggedly. “I won't have it."

She sat back in astonishment. She turned to Robert for support, but he seemed content to let her fight this battle on her own. “You won't have it?” she repeated. “You won't
have
it?” She rose to her feet and stood nose to nose with the man who had shared her bed these past several nights. Apparently, that had given him some erroneous views about how much say he had over her life. “I'm sorry to have to point this out to you, but you are not my father. Nor are you my brother or husband. You have no say over what I can or cannot do. I'll do what I feel is best for the investigation, with or without your consent."

When a muscle low in his cheek jumped from the pressure he was applying to his jawbone, she expected him to argue further. Instead, he spat out a gritted, “Fine. But I'm going with you."

"Fine,” she agreed. That had been easier than anticipated. “I already told you that I think it's a good idea for agents to be around. And having attended so many parties the past few weeks, you would be the one most qualified to identify Virgil Chatham, or any other Society gentlemen who find their way down to the docks."

"Oh, no.”
A cruel grin spread across Brandt's lips. “I'm not going to hide in the shadows while you're putting yourself in danger. I'm going to be right there beside you."

"You can't,” she said simply, falling back into her chair in frustration. “No one will come anywhere near me if they think I'm already entertaining a customer. And if Chatham or anyone else recognizes you, it would destroy our entire case."

"Where you go, I go,” he asserted stubbornly.

"Might I remind the both of you,” Robert spoke from behind his desk, “that I haven't approved this idea
yet.
It may be too perilous for either of you."

"I can handle this, Robert.” Willow had to cock her head to see around Brandt's rigid, unyielding figure, hands jammed angrily on his hips. “I've been in tighter situations than this, and your men will be there in case I run into trouble. I'm not worried."

A frown turned down Robert's mouth. “I am, but I'm going to give you permission anyway.” Brandt turned on him, apparently redirecting the aim of the daggers he'd been shooting at her these past five minutes. “You'll go with her,” Robert addressed him calmly. “You'll stay as close to her as possible, provided you two can come up with some way for you to remain nearby without either being recognized or jeopardizing the operation."

He shifted his gaze from Brandt's hard countenance to Willow's much softer, approving expression. “Anything else?” he asked, even though the tone warned them not to get into another argument in front of him. Neither of them said a word. “Good. Let me know what your plans are and how many agents you'll need. We'll be ready when you are."

"No. Absolutely not” They were becoming Brandt's three favorite words.

"I think it's a splendid idea,” Mary Xavier put in. “It may be a bit awkward, but it's sure to work."

He glowered at the two women and resumed shaking his head. They were insane, both of them. Willow with her outlandish
ideas,
and Mrs. Xavier for going along with them. And Mrs. Xavier had only been brought into the plan because Willow needed her help coming up with the right accoutrements for tonight's masquerade.

"Cook is sure to have some things we can borrow,” Mary continued. “And anything else, I'm sure we can alter."

"We have to hurry.” Willow moved around the room, collecting articles of clothing and assembling them on the bed. “We have to get our ensembles ready so that we can take them along with us this evening and change right after the play. We won't have much time, so everything has to be nearly perfect before we leave for the theater."

"I'm not doing this,” Brandt argued again. “I know what I said back in Robert's office, but this is going too far. I'll stay back with the other men."

A sparkle of amusement entered Willow's violet eyes and a dimple creased her cheek. “Oh, no,” she practically crooned. “You promised Robert that you would stay with me every moment, and I'm holding you to it."

Brandt sat back on the bed with a plop and crossed his aims mutinously. He wouldn't go through with this. He wouldn't.

"I'll go down and see what I can get from Cook,” Mrs. Xavier said, obviously ignoring Brandt's wishes altogether. “You start getting ready and we'll have him suited up in no time."

She moved to the door and had already opened it a crack when she turned back. A flash of pain fluttered over her face for a moment. “I can't thank you enough for this,” she told them quietly. “It means the world to us that you're working so hard to find out who hurt our Yvonne.” Her voice broke on the last few words of her statement and she quickly left the room.

When Willow's gaze met his, he saw sadness there, and an iron determination. At that moment, he knew all of his arguments were for naught.
His pride, his resolve, the fear that someone would see him . . . None of that mattered when he recalled Mary's declaration and looked into Willow's eyes.

He was going to do it, despite his earlier blustering.
Please, God, let it be quick and painless.

"So what do we need to do?” he asked.

Willow's face brightened at his resolve. “Get undressed and we'll see what I have that will fit"

He unbuttoned his shirt, kicked off his boots, and began shrugging out of his pants while she gathered several items from the pile on the bed. With him standing in nothing but his drawers, she studied him.

He pulled the muscles of his abdomen in a fraction. He knew there wasn't an inch of excess to be found on his hard, lean frame. But with Willow perusing his nearly nude body like a shank of beef at the meat vendor's, he wanted to present his very best form.

Her detailed scrutiny sent a bolt of desire rippling from the marrow of his bones out in every direction. His hunger
rose
another notch as he watched a tinge of pink darken her cheekbones and knew she was feeling the same deep longing as he.

"We have a few minutes before Mrs. Xavier gets back,” he hinted. Though he knew the suggestion was futile; Mary was just downstairs running a quick errand and liable to return at any moment. If she hadn't been, Brandt would have plucked Willow up by the waist, deposited her on the bed, and kept her occupied well through both acts of the play they were supposed to attend that evening, as well as the lengthy intermission.

Willow shook her head and answered in a thick, passion-laden timbre. “We can't."

She cleared her throat, apparently hoping to douse the
firelike
sparks of sexual awareness flying between them—that
always
flew between them—and quickly returned her focus to the matter at hand. But not, he was pleased to note, without a great deal of effort.

"I don't think we should worry about stockings and shoes. You can wear your socks and boots and we'll try to be sure the skirt is long enough to cover them."

Being brought back to the task before them—rather unpleasantly, at that—Brandt fought a snort.

"We have to do something about your chest, though."

She came at him with the most frightening object in her collection and he took a step back. “What are you going to do with that?"

"Your shoulders are too broad and your hips are too narrow; we need to even things out a bit. Add curves in all the right places."

She fiddled with the strings until the material was as loose and wide as possible, then she held it near the floor and tapped the back of his bare calf. “Here, step in."

He muttered and cursed beneath his breath but did as she ordered. The sides caught on his drawers, but she tugged it the rest of the way up until the stiff material rested around his waist and rib cage.

"All right, now hold it here,” she said, and moved behind him. “Take a deep breath.” She waited. “Now blow it out and suck in your stomach."

He did, and she pressed a knee to the base of his spine and gave a yank that nearly toppled him over backwards. “Jesus,” he gasped.

Willow laughed. “Don't be a baby. Women go through this every day."

He didn't know how. The one time he'd seen the marks the whale bones left on Willow's skin, he'd condemned the blasted feminine undergarment. Now he was wearing one. And she was right; no one could draw a full breath while wearing a corset. “In case you haven't noticed, I am not a woman,” he pointed out very succinctly.

"Oh, I noticed,” she cooed with a laugh and let her hand brush the curve of one taut buttock as she readjusted her hold on the corset strings.

"Take another breath,” she told him. When he exhaled, she yanked again, and again he swore. “There,” she said, circling around to inspect her work. Moving to a drawer, she pulled out several pairs of his thick, woolen socks and began stuffing them into the loose front fabric high on his chest.

"Careful, sweetheart,” he said with a drawl, “or mine might end up bigger than yours."

Her laughter tinkled through the room like chimes as she tucked in another pair of socks. “Don't worry, as long as your bosom is in proper proportion to your size, I promise not to turn competitive.” She threw him a saucy grin. “Besides, if I become too envious of your generous attributes, I can always make use of my newly patented bust-improver.

"Now turn around,” she said, shifting him in front of the full cheval glass arranged against one wall.
“Very nice.
Very nice, indeed."