“Do you really think I’m beautiful?” Her voice was tiny, and she was ashamed of herself as soon as the question hit the air.
Win stared at her as if he’d never heard a more idiotic question in his life. Belle’s lips pinched, and her hands balled into fists. Dagnabbit, why did she always say the wrong thing to this frustrating male person?
He pounced so fast, she didn’t have time to leap out of the way, even if she’d dared to do so. Leaping in a rowboat was impractical, however, and when he grabbed her up in his arms, the boat rocked wildly from side to side. So shocked was she by his precipitate move and the rocking of the boat, that she released her grip on the sides of the boat and flung her arms around him.
Oh, my, but it felt good to be held like this. Belle was only briefly conscious of the impropriety of the embrace before sensation took over, and rational thought fled.
“Damnation, Belle, how can you even ask such a stupid question?” The words spread over her warm skin along with his breath, and exquisite tingles erupted inside her.
“What question?” Had she asked a question? Mmmm. She couldn’t recall.
“Are you beautiful,” Win grumbled against her throat. She obligingly let her head fall back so that he could have a broader grazing range. “Damn, of course, you’re beautiful.”
“Mmmm.” Wasn’t that just the sweetest thing? If Belle had access to her voice, she might have said so.
“What’s more, you’ve got depth.” He demonstrated his own depth by yanking the hat pins out of her bonnet, pulling the bonnet off, removing the hair pins from her carefully coifed hair, and burrowing his fingers through it. His touch was delicate and precious.
“Mmmm?” Depth, eh? My, my.
“I thought you were an idiot when we first met.”
Now that wasn’t very nice. Belle would have frowned if she’d been up to it. Since she wasn’t, she whispered, “I didn’t like you, either.”
“And then I saw you with the kids, and I realized there was more to you than lame Southern platitudes and euphemisms for the Civil War.”
That caught her attention—almost. Although her heart wasn’t really in it, she murmured, “It wasn’t a civil—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. It wasn’t a civil war. It was the war of Northern Stupidity.”
Ah. Belle decided she’d forgive him his sarcastic tone of voice because he’d used an appropriate word for the dreadful Conflict.
“You love those kids, don’t you, Belle?”
“Mmmm.” She hoped that would suffice as an answer because it was all she could manage under the influence of Win’s hands surveying her body.
“And then you saved Kate Finney’s life.”
She had done that, hadn’t she? She’d thought Win had forgotten that heroic act on her part. Belle was pleased to learn he hadn’t.
“With your damned parasol.”
His deep, low chuckle caused all sorts of unseemly sensations to break out in her. She felt his hand on the calf of her leg, and sucked in air. Before she could do anything, he covered her mouth with his again, and she forgot she was supposed to be protesting his improper advances. It was just as well, because she didn’t really feel like protesting, and since she couldn’t speak, she didn’t have to. When his tongue crept out to caress hers, Belle almost emulated her mother and swooned.
“Why the hell are you wearing a corset?”
He pulled away from her so suddenly, Belle nearly went over the side of the rowboat and into the waterway. His grip on her shoulders was intense, and his scowl was as black a one as Belle had ever seen. She couldn’t comprehend the question. She couldn’t have comprehended any question at the moment, because her wits had scattered like chaff in the wind several moments earlier. She said, “Um . . .”
“I thought you’d left off wearing that damned instrument of torture.”
She squinted in his direction, unable to reconcile the sweet sensations still ricocheting through her body with the frightful scowl on his face. “Um . . .”
“Corsets are bad for your health, damn it!”
She really wished he wouldn’t swear at her every other second. She blinked at him some more.
“You’re likely to pass out from lack of air if you keep wearing the damned thing.”
“I . . .” She what? Fiddlesticks.
“Oh, to hell with it,” Win snapped, and drew her to his chest again.
Belle was awfully grateful, since she hadn’t a clue what to say in defense of corsets, and was unhappy that he’d interrupted the blissful interlude. She sighed against him, feeling weightless and boneless and delicious.
“You drive me crazy,” Win whispered against her ear.
“Mmmm,” she said, recollecting she was supposed to be irked by this statement, but not recalling why.
“This is just one more instance of it.”
Of what? Belle didn’t know, so she only said, “Mmmm” again.
“And I want you so badly, I’ve been aching with it for days now.”
“Good.”
Oops. Belle guessed she shouldn’t have said that. Oh, well.
“Good, is it?” Win’s hand discovered the buttons at the throat of her shirtwaist and his fingers fumbled with them. “Hell, maybe you’re right.”
And maybe she wasn’t. Somewhere deep down inside, Belle knew she shouldn’t be allowing this assault—if it was an assault—to continue, but it felt so good. Win shoved the fabric aside.
“Aha. There’s the offending rascal.”
“Hmmm?” Belle, realizing Win was staring at her bosom, glanced down. “Oh. You mean my corset.”
“Yes. I mean your damned corset.”
“It is a little uncomfortable,” she admitted.
“A little?”
She shrugged. “It’s not a long-line corset. I could remove it, I suppose.” She didn’t know why he was gaping at her in that incredulous manner. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“What I wanted?” he said faintly. “But . . .”
He didn’t finish the thought. As she started unlacing her corset, Belle murmured, “I’ve been on the verge of swooning all day long because of this thing. I laced it especially tightly this morning because I was ashamed of myself for succumbing to your embrace last evening.”
“Submitting to my—”
She glanced up from her unlacing because he’d let her go suddenly, and the boat started rocking. His expression conveyed a wealth of emotions, none of them pleasant. Belle swallowed, and the fog in her head started to lift. Her fingers hadn’t stopped pulling ribbons, and all of a sudden her corset gave way, slipped from her waist and settled onto her hips, the whalebone holding it up like a cage.
Win stared at her, hard, and swallowed. “Um . . .”
She stared back. “Um . . .” Then sanity returned with a burst of light and a dawning horror. “Oh, my land! What have I done?”
“No. What have I done?” Win’s voice was shaky.
“Oh, my land. Oh, my land.” Belle clutched at her shirtwaist, trying to draw the two sides together. Her corset got in the way, and she yanked it out of her bodice. Her hand shook like she had palsy when she gazed with disbelief at the undergarment. What in the name of heaven was she supposed to do now?
“Um, Belle?”
Her gaze flew from the corset to Win’s face. He looked more serious than she’d ever seen him. “What?” She barked the one word, feeling abused, misunderstood, and manipulated.
“Um, here. I’ll take it.”
She flung the corset at him and attacked the buttons on her shirtwaist. Her hair, which had been totally disarranged by Win, got in her way. Furious and frustrated, she grabbed a hunk of hair and tossed it over her shoulder. She heard Win groan.
“Oh, God, Belle, I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”
“I do,” she said bitterly. Drat it, her buttons were giving her fits. Probably because her hands were shaking so hard. “You’re a damned Yankee and a man.” She resen
ted his sigh of resignation.
“My being a Yankee has nothing to do with it. It’s the being a man part that did the damage.”
Frowning hard, she glanced from her buttons to his face. He looked relatively miserable. As well he should, she thought angrily.
“But any man would want you, Belle. It’s not just me. You’re special. You’re— Oh, hell, I don’t know.”
She was surprised when he buried his face in his hands, raking his fingers through his own hair this time instead of hers. She’d finally managed to get her buttons done up, so she grabbed her thick, heavy hair, wadded it into a bun, held it at the back of her neck, and surveyed the bottom of the boat for hairpins. She found enough to keep her hair out of her way for a little while. Her bonnet had somehow or other gotten stepped on. She picked it up and gazed at it mournfully. “It’s ruined.”
He peeked at her through is fingers. “What’s ruined?”
“My bonnet.” For some absurd reason, seeing her poor bonnet in this condition made tears burn Belle’s eyes. She knew her lips were trembling and felt stupid. “It’s ruined.”
“Buy yourself a new one,” Win said unfeelingly. “Hell, I’ll buy you a new one. It’s probably my fault.”
“Yes,” she said, trying to sound firm. She didn’t. She sounded pathetic. “It is your fault.” Then, even though she’d rather have shot herself, Belle burst into tears. It was her turn to bury her face in her hands.
“Aw, hell, Belle, don’t do that. Please.” Win sounded pathetic.
Belle was pathetic. She hated herself for succumbing to what she’d always considered a last resort of feminine wiliness. She didn’t feel wily at the moment. She felt awful. Pitiful. Miserable. Horrid. “G-go away,” came muffled through her hands. “Leave me alone.”
“Damnation.” The word was both prayer and imprecation.
Belle didn’t care. She’d humiliated herself enough for one day; she wasn’t going to add to her load of shame by trying to speak any more. Huge sobs racked her body. She felt so stupid.
When Win’s arms went around her this time, she tried to resist.
“Stop that,” he said mildly. “You’ll swamp the boat. I’m sorry, Belle. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
He sounded so tender that Belle’s last remaining vestige of control snapped. With a ragged sob, she threw herself into Win Asher’s arms.
Chapter Thirteen
Under other circumstances, or with any other woman, Win would have known exactly what to do. They were plenty private enough to do it, too, thanks to his understanding of the fairgrounds and his skill with the oars.
With Belle, and even though he was primed and as ready as he’d ever been to consummate an act of procreation, he couldn’t make himself take advantage. Not of Belle, who was so—so—Southern, he guessed was the right word, although it didn’t seem to cover everything. Too proper? That was sort of right, too.
He feared he respected her too much, and that’s what stayed his lust, although he didn’t want to think about it now. Respecting a woman could be damned inconvenient.
“Listen, Belle, I’m sorry I got carried away. It’s just that you’re so—” He couldn’t blame his actions on her southernness. It was Belle herself he couldn’t seem to resist. No matter how hard he tried. “—appealing to me.”
A huge, undignified sniffle smote his ears. “M-me?” she whispered. “Appealing?”
Sexual frustration and guilt buried Win’s under-developed gentlemanly instincts for a moment. His words were crisp as burned toast when he responded. “Don’t sound so surprised, Belle. You probably had every gent in Blissborough panting at your heels, what with your winsome ways and big brown eyes.” He felt low as a snake as soon as the words smote the muggy air.
She wrenched herself away from him. “You wretch!”
“Oh, God, Belle, I’m sorry. It’s not you. It’s me. I can’t seem to keep my hands to myself, and all I do all the time, every damned day, is think about you. That’s not your fault.”
She gasped as she fumbled for her little reticule on the floor of the boat. Finding it at last, she grabbed it with shaking hands and groped in it for a handkerchief with which she mopped her eyes. “I—I should say it’s not my fault. A-appealing? Oh, never mind.”
She blew her nose with a frenzy Win hadn’t anticipated. He elected not to explain why he found her appealing. It had become painfully obvious that his condition was going to remain frustrated for the time being, so he sighed heavily. “We’d better get you fixed up and take you back to Mrs. Richmond, Belle.”
She jerked her face up from her handkerchief, her aspect stricken. “Oh, my land, I’ll never be able to face them looking like this.”
Another sigh. “That’s why we’re going to fix you up.”
“How?” She tried hard to glower at him, but her face couldn’t effectively accommodate a glower. “I’m a mess.”
“Even as a mess, you look better than most women,” Win acknowledged, and not merely because he wanted to soothe her shattered feelings, but because it was true. “Do you have a mirror in that thing?” He gestured to her reticule.
Belle glanced down at her reticule and then up at Win. “No.”
“I thought women always carried primping mirrors around with them.”
“I,” said Belle glacially, “do not primp. I am a gainfully employed working woman, and I don’t have time to primp.”
“Right, right. I know. I know.” He raked his hands through his hair again. He wished he were still holding Belle in his arms. She’d felt good there. Right, somehow. If only she weren’t such a damned difficult female and so blasted Southern, with a capital S, they might just be able to work out some kind of profitable partnership.
The notion had no sooner entered his head than it struck him all of a heap, as his English grandmother might have said. His hands finished raking his hair and dropped to his lap. “Good God.”
He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Belle said suspiciously, “I beg your pardon?”
“Huh?” Win shook himself out of his sudden daze and found Belle staring at him, looking as suspicious as she’d sounded. He opened his mouth to tell her the brilliant idea that had just occurred to him, but his better sense made him hold his tongue. He cleared his throat. “Oh. Nothing. Here. Let me row us to shore. I can dock near Kate’s booth. She’ll help us out.”
“I am not going to appear in public looking like this, Win Asher!” Belle sat up as straight as an iron rod and glared at him. She was much better at glaring than she was at glowering, he noticed unhappily.
“Dammit, I don’t have a comb or brush or mirror on me, Belle. Be reasonable for once, will you?”
“Be reasonable? For once!”
Her shout startled the birds that had been poking around in the bulrushes. They left off searching for comestibles and exploded from the scenery with a noise like a bomb blast. Both Belle and Win jumped, thereby rocking the boat. Win caught up the oars and, with a good deal of trouble, stabilized the craft. “For God’s sake,” he muttered, “quit hollering, will you?”
Belle clung for dear life to the sides of the boat. “Blast you, Win Asher,” she said after the boat stopped rocking. “I am reasonable and I am not hollering. It’s not my fault you’ve ruined my life.”
“Ruined your . . . ? Good God.”
She sniffed and turned her face away from him. He had to admit that she looked pretty mussed up, with her hair all tumbling down, and her shirtwaist wrinkled. He couldn’t see an appreciable difference in the size of her waist now that the corset was gone, but he imagined she felt sort of vulnerable. Damn all southern maidens to the pit, anyhow. It was as if they didn’t dare face the world without armor.
But that was neither here nor there. No matter what Belle wanted—and Win expected she wanted to be whisked via magic back to her safe little poverty-stricken home in Georgia—he knew what they had to do. Kate Finney was the answer to this problem. Kate wouldn’t think twice about he
lping Belle fix herself up. Good old Kate. Although it was a pity her life had been so rough up until now, at least Kate wouldn’t waste time in questions or recriminations, which was an advantage Win could appreciate, even if Belle couldn’t. He shoved away from the bank against which the boat had been lodged, annoying another several dozen birds, and started rowing.
Belle’s hands flew to her hair. “Stop rowing! You can’t take me back to the Exposition looking like this! I can’t be seen in public this way!”
Win heard his teeth grinding and made his jaw relax. No sense ruining his teeth because he’d made a mistake with a Southern belle. “You’re not going to be seen in public that way. I’m taking you to Kate. She’ll fix you up.”
“No! I can’t be—
“Damnation, will you stop screeching? Unless you want to face Mrs. Richmond looking like that, I’m taking you to Kate.”
“Mrs. Richmond. Oh, my land.” She shrank down in the boat as he rowed away from the privacy of their little waterway and neared the lake. “I don’t want people to see me like this.” Her voice had shrunk to a pitiful whimper.
“Nobody will see you like that,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’ll pull up to within a dozen yards of Kate’s booth.”
“I’ll still have to walk to the booth,” she pointed out, sinking even lower in the boat.
“Certainly, but you won’t have to walk any farther than that.”
“Oh, my land.”
As Win pulled out onto the lake, which fed directly into the Grand Basin, Belle crunched down onto the bottom of the boat, curling herself into as small a ball as she could. Win would have rolled his eyes if he didn’t feel so guilty.
# # #
Although the walk from the boat to Kate’s booth didn’t take more than five minutes, to Belle it dragged on like eternity. She felt like a pure fool the whole time. Win had reluctantly agreed to let her borrow his jacket, which she threw over her head.
Just North of Bliss Page 19
