by Gina Welborn
“You can take Worth out when he needs to go,” he continued. “For your safety, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
She blinked, stunned. “At all?”
“Obviously during sleeping hours, and when you need to, uh...attend to, uh...” His cheeks reddened. “Other than that, at all hours, unless I need to leave you in Grandfather’s care. I’ll set an alarm to wake me up at three o’clock, so you don’t have to take Worth out alone.”
She continued to stare.
“You can be the dog governess, and I’ll be the witness nanny, if that’s all right with you?”
He quirked a brow. Grinned. Gave her a look that made her legs feel rather liquid, and she needed to sit down. Only she was. Sitting, that is. And she knew now why Irene had warned her not to look at him when he grinned; she knew why. At the first bloom of his devastating smile, she’d begun nodding in complete agreement as if he was giving her the world.
And this man was insisting on not letting her out of his sight.
Splendid.
Day eight of twenty-one
2:42 p.m.
Two coffee mugs in hand, Frank stepped into the library. Malia stood at the top of the three-step library ladder attached to a railing on the cabinet. Clad in her strangely alluring maid’s getup, she stretched to reach a book on the upper shelf, left foot perched precariously on a step, while her other leg provided balance. Worth sat in the corner at the feet of the parlor maid, who should have been the one procuring the book but was knitting instead.
He wasn’t surprised.
Malia Vaccarelli did not expect others to serve her when the deed was something she could do herself. She truly was the kindhearted soul Anne Morgan had described her as, beautiful inside and out. When he questioned the staff, they all praised her effortlessly...with one exception. Her dog-training skills were lacking, but, of course, they all blamed Worth for being “probably unteachable.”
There was no “probably” about it.
Grandfather finally looked up from his book. “Ah, Frankie, glad you’re back.” To Frank’s chagrin, he dog-eared the page he was reading. “What did Dr. Rushmore say about your broken toe?”
Frank walked to the two oversize chairs seated behind an octagonal table and set on each side of the unlit fireplace. For all the masculinity of the room—mahogany wood, evergreen papered walls, animal-skin rugs—his grandmother had chosen to center a crystal chandelier above the table, as if to remind the room’s inhabitants that the library wasn’t for men only.
The bright sky and warm weather called to him. But since he had to keep Malia inside until the ladies who were there for Grandmother’s tea departed, the cathedral-ceiling library in the Queen Anne tower was his favorite place to be. After his divorce, he’d spent many hours on that window seat under the leaded-glass windows, staring out at the lake.
Windows didn’t condemn.
He handed his grandfather a mug, then turned to Malia to see how she would react to his spurious announcement. “Rushmore mentioned amputation.”
Her lips twitched, yet she continued to focus on loosening the book.
“You don’t say,” Grandfather mused.
Frank settled in the other seat, which gave him a prime view of his favorite witness. He was feeling too jaunty to not say, “In the end, instead of removing the splint, he suggested waiting another week to see if the gangrene goes away. I could die. But he gave me four-to-three odds.”
Grandfather’s brows rose. “Of living or dying?”
“In my elation to have such favorable odds, I rather forgot to ask.” Frank felt his head tilt as he watched Malia, now standing on the tiptoes of her left foot, although with her right hand, she wisely clenched a shelf. “Do you think what you are doing is safe?”
Her fingertips pinched at the book. “Your grandfather said it was.”
Frank looked to his grandfather.
“I may have said that.”
“May?”
Grandfather drank his coffee. His beard hid any possible grin.
Malia grunted, drawing Frank’s attention again. Her nails scraped at the book’s spine, yet it didn’t ease free of its close-knit neighbors. “Almost...got...it.”
“You could ask for help,” Frank offered before sipping his coffee. He’d move to help her, but the library chair was a leather-covered cloud, and she appeared to have it under control. “Or you could move the ladder, since you are quite determined to do this yourself.”
“Yes,” she said gravely, “I could.”
Frank drank his coffee and waited for her to say more. She didn’t.
Grandfather placed his mug on the table. “She has a point there.”
“How is that a point?” Frank asked.
Neither his grandfather nor Malia proposed an answer.
“Sir, pardon me,” the parlor maid said in a low voice. “Worth is licking my hands. Does this mean something?”
Grandfather looked to Malia. “Well, Governess?”
She released a loud sigh. “I’ve decided it is his means of communicating his desire to go outside. Let me get this book, Ernestina, and then I’ll take him.” Her fingertips continued to scrape against the spine.
“He could want a drink,” Frank supplied. “Or one of Grandfather’s socks.”
Grandfather gave him a look, the one that said don’t argue with the governess.
“I should take him.” The parlor maid scooped the dog up into her arms. “Madam’s guests won’t notice me.”
Grandfather put down his book, claimed his mug then grabbed his cane, standing. “I’ll walk with you. Josie is sure to be serving cake, and her lady friends are sure to not be eating any.” He stepped around the table. “I’ll return shortly. With cake.”
Frank stared at him. This was the same man who had complained over breakfast of the aching in his knee. “You can have food brought to you.”
“Yes. I could,” he said in the same monotone Malia had used. He continued to the opened door, a step in front of the parlor maid. “Don’t let her fall.”
Frank looked from the departing back of his grandfather to Malia shooting ocular daggers at the wedged book. He put his mug down then walked over. “What’s this book you’re so desperate for?”
“It’s called Practical Dog Training.”
A chuckle burst forth. “Grandfather has pulled the wool over you. There isn’t a book in this room with that title.” If there were one, Frank would know because...well, he’d know.
After another scrape of her nails failed to gain purchase of the book, she straightened on the ladder. She grabbed the shelf with both hands and rested her forehead against it, sighing. “I should have just moved the ladder.”
He raised his hands in the air. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Yes, why didn’t you?” With a droll sideways glance, she started down a step.
“Wait,” he rushed out. “Allow me to be of assistance.” He placed his hands on her waist. “I’ll steady you, and you grab the Book That Doesn’t Actually Exist.”
For the longest moment, he didn’t think she was going to move. He didn’t mind. With her tobacco-brown hair piled atop her head, nothing obscured the smooth line of her neck or the soft golden tone to her skin. After a week of shared meals, dog walks, chess and domino matches, and lots of conversations during, after, and in between, he knew her political and religious leanings (same as his), favorite books (not the same as his) and worst childhood experience involving a sibling and scissors (could have been the same if his mother hadn’t rescued him).
His fascination with her had only been compounded upon discovering that Malia Vaccarelli had a sense of humor and wicked competitive streak. The woman had to be his twin. Shadow. Match.
A loss, she’d repeatedly said, is only one att
empt closer to a win. And that had been her means of consoling him. Him!
Frank grinned, even though she wasn’t looking at him. Even more so because she wasn’t looking at him. If he managed it right—and he knew how to manage it right—with a little shift in his hold, she would be in his arms. He could do it. He wanted to do it.
His fingers flinched, and that jolted her.
Malia leaned to the side, putting her weight literally in his hands. She snatched the book off the shelf then settled, feet flat, onto the ladder step before dropping down to the bottom step, at eye level. “Voilà.” She held the book before her rising and falling chest, the blue cover facing forward.
Sure enough, in white embossed lettering were the words—
Practical Dog Training:
Or, Training Vs.
Breaking
Stephen Tillinghast Hammond
He met her gaze. “Is this where you gloat?”
Her brows raised a fraction, chin dipped. “Frank Louden, I would have you know,” she lectured in a stern voice that reminded him of his sisters’ old governess, “gloating is, um—” Her lips pinched, trembled. Her face reddened, and he wasn’t too sure she was breathing. She burst out laughing. A lovely, throaty sound, it was elegant yet unrestrained to the proper mores of Society. Nothing could capture her spirit more.
Frank did the only logical thing a situation like this dictated. He moved close. He placed his shoe on the lower step, against hers, and gripped the ladder frame so that in no way could she descend without tripping over him. Unless she was, say, a kangaroo. Or a frog.
He leaned forward a touch. “I believe you’re laughing at me.”
She moistened her lips, schooled her smile, amusement gone. Then her brows rose dubiously. “Is that so?” She glanced around. “Peculiar that you say so, for I hear no laughter.”
“Now who’s too smart for her own good?”
A little hmmph. A little shrug. Then her lashes lowered over her eyes, lips curved mischievously. She met his gaze and—
The ladder, the books, the walls floated away, and all there was, was him and her and this moment. Frank stopped breathing. He wanted to kiss her. He needed to kiss her. From the way she was looking at him, he knew she wanted it too. She wouldn’t instigate it; she was too proper to do anything so bold. Yet her lips parted. A little sigh escaped on her sweet breath. All he had to do was lean forward and draw her achingly close to him. One kiss. One. One touch of his lips to her pink, moist and not particularly unique ones until her Creator, like a master artiste, had added the dot above her lip. Ordinary into extraordinary. But one kiss wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough.
A kiss wasn’t his to have. If he did kiss her, he wouldn’t be able to let her go. He was a marshal. She was a witness. She had to leave New York and start a new life, which meant he had to do the best thing for both of them, even if it meant dying to all he’d wanted. There wasn’t anything more he wanted in this moment than her.
Jesus, I am weak. Be strong in me.
Frank stepped back. He assisted her to the floor. “Why the book?” he said and found solace in the superficiality of the question.
* * *
Malia nipped at her bottom lip. She turned from Mr. Louden and walked to the chairs by the table. He’d almost kissed her. Her heart was still flittering about from the way he’d been looking at her mouth. And she’d done nothing but stand there in hopeful anticipation, practically begging for him to kiss her. Which he didn’t because he wasn’t weak as she was. Splendid. How embarrassing.
With a sigh, she sat in the chair that Mr. Grahame had vacated. Her mind sought what it was that Mr. Louden had asked her, and her gaze fell to the book she clenched to her chest.
Mr. Louden reclaimed his seat and his coffee.
“Your grandmother adores Worth.” She silently cheered that her voice sounded normal. “In gratitude to her, I feel I should at least attempt to teach him proper etiquette, even if it is only to sit upon command. I went to your grandfather for advice, and he said he’d look into finding me a book.”
He relaxed against the back of his chair, his left leg stretched out before him. “He did train his hunting dogs.” Instead of looking at her, he stared absently at the window across from them. He seemed distracted, maybe a bit unsure. And from what she knew of Frank Louden, he wasn’t a man to wallow in self-doubt.
Since he said no more, Malia opened the book and forced her mind to focus on the words.
The minutes passed slowly. With each turn of the page, her pulse returned to normal, and she forgot about what could have happened and the awkward aftermath. Mr. Louden found a book to read too.
Eventually Mr. Grahame returned with Ernestina and Worth, and without any cake. Malia insisted he take the nicer chair. After settling on the window seat, and in the warm rays of the sun, she resumed reading. The occasional turning of a page was the only sound in the room. Her pupil was a bit older than the puppy age recommended best for training, but for the first time since being volunteered to be his “governess,” she felt more equipped for the task.
Minutes passed in companionable silence.
“Oh, Mr. Louden, listen to this.” Malia held the book to chin level. “You should also speak to him using intelligent, rational language, such as you would use in talking to a ten-year-old boy, and you will be surprised at how soon he will understand your conversation. Why ten? Why not nine or eleven or fifteen? Shouldn’t one talk to a dog as one does to any age boy? Or a man for that matter?”
She turned to him. His eyes were closed, head resting against the back of the chair, open book flat on his chest. She could imagine him just like that except with a wheat-blond child asleep on his lap. His wife would replace the book with a blanket and then caress the child’s cheek before leaving a kiss on his. Her heart ached.
“Are you asleep?” she asked.
An easy grin returned to Mr. Louden’s face. “Woof. Woof, woof.”
Chapter 11
[The perfect guest] has merely acquired a habit, born of many years of arduous practise, of turning everything that looks like a dark cloud as quickly as possible for the glimmer of a silver lining.
—Emily Price Post, Etiquette
Day fifteen of twenty-one
9:16 a.m.
Malia’s fingers nipped at the bits of jerky and crackers in her apron pocket as she stood just inside the entrance to the French drawing room. A week’s worth of study and training prepared her for adding a second pupil. “Madam, before we begin, it is imperative you understand that Worth is cunning and obstinate.”
Mrs. Grahame in a teal day dress sat with her back turned to her desk. She said nothing, nor did her stately expression communicate any emotion except unabashed interest in what Malia had to say next.
Mr. Louden, sitting in a chair next to her, though, leaned against his grandmother’s shoulder. In a loud whispered voice, he said, “You’re paying her how much to tell you something everyone in this house already knows?”
She shushed him. “Go on, Miss Carr.”
Malia dipped her head. “Thank you, madam. Being that he is cunning and obstinate, Worth will persistently refuse to obey, which is why it is imperative that you exercise firmness, patience and kindness.”
She glanced down at Worth, who still sat as she’d commanded him. After seven days of lessons, he had one trick down.
“Good sit,” she said sweetly and gave him a treat. She looked to her human pupil. “Dogs do not by instinct understand the English language.”
Mr. Louden held a hand up. “How about French? Grandmother knows French.”
For all his sassy looks, alluring cedar cologne and fine-tailored suit, Malia ignored him. “A dog obeys a certain command given by a particular person because he has learned that sounds uttered are to be followed by some act o
f his own. When a dog loves his master, his greatest pleasure will be the sense that he is pleasing you.” She looked to Worth, sweetly repeated, “Good sit,” and then gave him another jerky.
“Is it necessary I carry treats on me?” Mrs. Grahame inquired.
Mr. Louden opened his mouth, and Malia cut him off with a look.
“No, madam,” she answered. “While you are training Worth, be unstinting with your praise. When he has behaved creditably, your adulation will be his chief reward.” She paused. She needed to be serious. Indeed, she did. This was, after all, a serious moment of instruction for Mrs. Grahame’s benefit. But a minute in Frank’s presence brought out her cheekiness.
She kept her voice level. “Although, common to those of the male sex, a bit of some food he likes should often accompany the kind words, and you will win his devotion.”
Mr. Louden’s smile turned positively serene. “I’m in love.”
Mrs. Grahame gave him a look, one Malia didn’t find hard to interpret: Oh, Frank, hush.
“Lessons,” Malia continued, “should be given two to three times a day, and should be short. Madam, if you would please approach—”
“Frank!” Mr. Grahame’s deep-chested voice came from the foyer behind her.
Malia looked over her shoulder as he strode into the drawing room, gripping an unfolded newspaper, another in the hand that maneuvered his cane. He looked unnerved.
“A photograph finally made the dailies.” He handed a paper to his grandson.
Malia hurried to Frank’s side. Her eyes widened. Sure enough, on the front page was a black-and-white image she’d never seen before or even remembered being taken. Edwin Daly in a dress jacket. Her in the yellow-and-black Jeanne Paquin gown, the one she’d worn to the fund-raiser for the Museum of Art. That was ten months ago. The headline—
Oh, she felt sick.
It said—
ASSISTANT D.A. FIANCÉE MISSING
Mr. Louden’s fingers tightened around the paper. “A $1,000 reward is offered for anyone with information leading to her whereabouts.”
