Silken Promises

by Lisa Bingham

  “No indeed.”

  “But Jacob told me that you could help me to become proper.”

  Hmph. The sound came from both women at once.

  “He’s a fine man,” Alma began.

  “Quite adorable.”

  “Tall.”

  “Handsome.”

  “Devoted.”

  “But he’s spent so much time hiding behind a badge and a gun, I’m surprised he knows what to do with a woman.”

  Fiona felt the heat of a blush begin to stain her cheeks and damned the telltale reaction. Especially when Alma pointed a finger in her direction and waggled it teasingly.

  “Just as I suspected, Amelia.”

  Amelia clapped her hands together in glee. “They’ve kissed.”

  “No!” The word burst from Fiona’s lips.

  “No sense in lying, girl. It’s as plain as day that the two of you—”

  “Share certain intimate emotions.”

  “I was going to say that.”

  “So sorry, Alma.”

  Alma took a deep breath. “I’m pleased.”

  Fiona could not fathom why—unless it was because they had known Jacob for some time.

  “Your behavior will make our job easier.”

  The fire settling into Fiona’s cheeks intensified. Did that mean the women thought she was loose? That she and Jacob… that they’d… that she would…

  “The secret to being a lady of quality,” Alma broke into her thoughts, “is feeling like a lady of quality.” Leaning closer, she lowered her voice to a confidential murmur. “It’s not something that is taught, mind you.” She waved her hand dismissingly. “I’m not saying that it doesn’t help to know how to speak, to keep your knees together when you sit, or the simple common courtesies. But that’s simply the polish.”

  Amelia nodded. “The polish.”

  “I said that.”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  Alma patted Fiona’s hand. “Being a lady is indulging in the feel of silk on your skin—even if no one ever knows you’re wearing it. Being a lady is smelling good, appearing pretty, and putting people at ease because you are at ease. But most of all…”

  Both women smiled at each other, then at her.

  “Being a woman is enjoying making a man stare at you when you walk into a room—”

  “Finding a way to make his eyes kindle—”

  “Moving and talking in such a way that he can’t tear his glance away—”

  “Making him want to spend more time with you than with his horse—”

  “Amelia!”

  “Well, it’s true!”

  “Nevertheless, such a thing didn’t need to be said.”

  Fiona had been watching the two open-mouthed, as if following the trail of a bouncing ball. She wouldn’t have guessed that these two elderly maiden sisters with their bluish-colored hair and wrinkled features would even know of such things, let alone speak of them so freely.

  “No need to appear so shocked,” Alma stated.

  “We may be getting on in years—”

  “But we’re not dead.” Alma nodded emphatically to herself. “Get your bonnet and your shoes. We’ve got work to do.”

  “Work?”

  “You can’t possibly feel like a goddess in that getup. We’ll need to do some shopping.”

  “Immediately.”

  Fiona reluctantly pinned her bonnet to her hair. “But I’m not supposed to leave the room.”

  “Horsefeathers. You’ve got a mourning veil to wear with that awful costume, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put it on. Nothing gives a woman more privacy—”

  “—and allure—”

  “—than a veil. It drives a man to distraction.”

  Fiona draped the veiling over her face, feeling a twinge of excitement, but one pang of unease still remained. “Jacob won’t like it if we leave.”

  “A man should never be indulged too much with things he likes. Especially if it interferes with a woman’s buying habits. That’s why we intend to charge the expenses of the afternoon to Mr. High-and-Mighty Grey himself.”

  Fiona was quite sure that she would carry the memory of the shopping expedition with her for years. After explaining Mr. Peebles’s role in her transformation, she found herself being sandwiched between the two women on the seat of Lettie McGuire’s carriage. They hustled to Oak Street, Alma erupting into full steam as she charged down the brick steps to the grim little room where Mr. Peebles worked.

  “Stop!”

  Alma threw open the door, swinging out an imperious arm. Mr. Peebles was nearly struck with a fit of apoplexy. A pair of scissors flew from his hand to clatter against the brick wall.

  “Madam?”

  “You must stop this work at once.”

  Amelia drew Fiona in behind her, the two of them entering much more timidly.

  “Stop your work.” Alma pointed to the yards and yards of black cloth flooding the floor and the cutting tables.

  “But—”

  She flipped the veil from Fiona’s face. After being apprised of the situation with Mr. Peebles and the stories he’d been told, Alma was more than willing to play along—indeed, she appreciated the drama involved. But she had refused to hear of any more widow’s weeds being worn.

  “This woman has been put in my charge.” She took a self-important breath.

  “Mine too,” Amelia reminded her.

  “Yes, yes. We have come to correct a grave error.”

  Mr. Peebles clearly had no idea what the Beasleys had in mind.

  “Look at this child. Just look.” She pulled Fiona forward. “Isn’t she beautiful?” When Mr. Peebles didn’t answer, she prompted, “Well?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “Would you doom her to a life alone?”

  He clutched a bodice piece to his chest. “Why, no.”

  Alma beamed at him. “Marvelous.” She whirled, spying Mr. Peebles’s hat and cane. Grabbing them, she slapped them on his chest. “Come with us.”

  Within minutes, the four of them were barreling down Michigan Avenue. For most of the day, they darted in and out of boutiques, millinery shops, glove-makers, cobblers, fabric warehouses, and department stores. The Beasleys selected parasols and hosiery and underwear—stating the last was a necessity, since true ladies wore nothing harsher than lawn on their delicate skin. The elderly women also purchased bolts of satin and silk and batiste, instructing Mr. Peebles on how they should be constructed. Whenever possible, they bought a few pieces of ready-wear that would require only minor alterations.

  At midday, the Beasleys drew a halt to the frenetic pace, taking Fiona and Mr. Peebles to a small tea room for a light repast. Then they returned to work.

  By the time the sun was beginning to set, the carriage was heaped with feminine frippery.

  “Mr. Peebles, I fear that we will bury you alive if we store all these materials in your shop.”

  Mr. Peebles, whose face was barely visible beneath a heap of hatboxes and frilly mantles, blew a flounce away from his lips, saying, “Yes, madam.”

  “Call me ‘Alma,’ please.”

  “Very well… Alma.”

  “I think we should see that you’re boarded at the hotel as well.”

  Mr. Peebles’s eyes widened.

  “Don’t you agree, Amelia?”

  “Yes, I do, Alma.”

  “Do you have any objections, Fiona?”

  Fiona couldn’t even summon the energy to speak. Her feet throbbed, her head ached, and the black suit made her itch all over.

  “Very well. It’s settled. You will be returning with us.”

  A veritable army of hotel bellboys and cleaning staff helped carry Fiona’s bags from the curb into the hotel. She was just emerging from the revolving doors when she glanced up to see Darby Kensington stepping from the elevator. His attention was immediately drawn to the parade of boxes an
d bags with their exclusive labels. He immediately began searching for the source of such luxuries. Upon seeing Fiona and her chaperones, he tipped his head, smiling.

  Fiona’s posture straightened bit by bit. Beneath the veil, her chin adopted a regal angle.

  So that was what impressed this man. Yesterday, dressed in these same widow’s weeds, he hadn’t bothered to offer her a glance when she’d nearly tumbled into his arms. But this evening, at the blatant display of her supposed wealth, he couldn’t make contact fast enough.

  “Let’s get you upstairs, dear. You’re tired and in need of a nice long soak.” Amelia took her hand while Alma frowned intimidatingly at the gentleman who’d had the audacity to stare at her charge.

  Fiona complied. But as she walked past Kensington, she momentarily paused. He reacted immediately, his interest quite obvious. But before he could speak she averted her head and began to climb the stairs.

  Alma and Amelia were right: The secret to being a true lady lay in one’s power over men. Yet, with this man, rather than feeling like a goddess, she’d felt more like a spider. A black widow, she thought with great irony. Glancing over her shoulder at the man who overtly watched the twitching of her bustle, she thought:

  I will trap you. I’ll trap you like a fly in my web. Then Jacob will have to admit that I’m a woman to be reckoned with.

  Chapter 9

  After retiring, Fiona didn’t sleep at all. At first her dreams were restless and overanxious, filled with cards and gamblers and midnight trains. She didn’t know why, but suddenly, after a day of shopping and fussing, this entire situation was becoming far more real. For the first time, the depth of her situation stared her square in the face. She was about to confront an alleged criminal, a reportedly dangerous man. And it was her job to snare him so completely in his own worst nightmare that he couldn’t escape.

  That thought led her to another, and another, and another, until she invariably began thinking of Jacob. She hadn’t seen him at all that day, and she found that the thought disturbed her no end—far more than it should. Drat it all, why did the mere thought of him consume her so? He’d done nothing but annoy and frustrate her for days—years, if the truth be told. But somehow those emotions had altered, intensified, become something else. Something far more dangerous. More sensual.

  The hall door snicked shut and Fiona was instantly awake, knowing that Jacob had finally returned. Her heart began a slow, deliberate beat. Her breathing became mysteriously shallow. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to fall asleep, to ignore him, to forget he even existed. But she could no more deny his existence than fly. She needed to see him. Just once. She told herself it was simply to make sure that he was safe and well, but even she didn’t quite believe such an excuse.

  Grabbing the wrapper Amelia Beasley had brought early that morning, she padded into the doorway of the sitting room, watching Jacob as he wearily made his way to the settee and began to remove his boots. He looked so tired. Weariness etched his face and hung heavily on his shoulders. She felt the irresistible urge to approach him and smooth away all signs of exhaustion with a sweep of her hand. To cradle him against her, to…

  Dear sweet heaven, what was she thinking of? Jacob wanted nothing of that sort of response from her, and she shouldn’t even entertain such nonsense.

  The thought of just how far her emotions were beginning to stray from their usual track filled her with a twinge of fear, then a wave of pique. Marching into the sitting room, she lifted her chin to a proud angle. “Where have you been?” she demanded.

  He barely looked at her. “I do have a job to do, Fiona. Some of the success you will hopefully have will be due to the arrangements for railway cars, meals, and payroll for my men.”

  “What about my father?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “I want to see him. Now,” she said without preamble.

  “No.” He looked up at her, his eyes dark. “It wouldn’t be safe.”

  Their gazes locked. Held. An uncomfortable tension began to soak into the room around them. Fiona felt it creeping into her bones and lodging there like the cool lick of slow, white lightning. Once again, her breath came shallow and quick. She became conscious of the slight gleam of sweat on his skin, the dark curls she could see at the neck of his shirt.

  “Please, Jacob. Please let me see him.”

  He grew still, and the evening shadows stroked his form like a mantle of dusky feathers. The effect served to soften his features, add a vulnerability. A sadness.

  “If someone were to follow—”

  She rushed forward, kneeling on the floor and gripping his arm. As her fingers dug into the muscles of his forearm, she sensed his weakening resolve. “No one will notice. No one will care. Please. The Liberty Hotel is only a few miles from here. Take me this evening, while it’s still dark. This will probably be the only chance I’ll have to see him for some time. Please.”

  Jacob turned her to face him. She appeared so very young in the moonlight. So very fragile. The thought brought him up short. Fragile? Fiona? The same woman who would have wrestled him to the ground at any given moment and beat the living tar out of him?

  But seeing her shrouded in a silken wrapper that was so very appealing, her soulful eyes, her breathy anticipation, she appeared entirely irresistible. He felt the unaccountable urge to touch her, just once, to confirm that her skin was really as soft as velvet.

  When had she grown so sweet? So appealing? Had the Beasleys done something to her? Had they cast some mystical spell that made her look so soft, so womanly in the shadows?

  The tip of his thumb stroked down the line of her cheek, causing her to blink in astonishment. Emboldened by her reaction, wanting to see how far she would let him go, he cupped her jaw, absorbing the shape, the angles, the heat. The nudging of her chin against his palm was the only reaction she offered. After a day of worrying about her safety, about her activities, he found that even the simple caress was not enough.

  Slowly, he bent, giving her every opportunity to back away. When she remained still, quiet, he touched her lips with his own.

  The kiss was little more than one friends might exchange, but the sensations that rippled through him were far less simple and he broke free, shuddering slightly. But her wide-eyed stare only seemed to invite him to reaffirm what he’d experienced, so he bent again, his lips brushing, then growing more bold, more intimate.

  As their kiss deepened, intensified, Jacob couldn’t account for his behavior. He only knew he couldn’t deny this instant, this embrace. All day he’d been tormented by the thought of what it would be like to hold her, touch her. He’d tried to drive such ideas from his head, but they’d only returned, much stronger than before.

  Lifting his head, he struggled to breathe. She stared at him with eyes that were dark and molten.

  Cursing himself for his behavior, Jacob drew back, summoning a stern frown. “I won’t offer you an apology for that.” His voice was far too rough, far too strained to offer much credence to his words.

  She touched her fingers to her lips and he saw the way they trembled slightly, even though her retort was tart. “I didn’t plan to ask for one.”

  Jumping to her feet, she took two steps away as if returning to her room, paused, then faced him again. “What’s come over us?” she asked, somewhat feebly.

  He shook his head, unable to offer her a comforting answer.

  “I never expected that you… we… would ever… kiss or…” She shook her head and said firmly, “It isn’t real. It’s a trick of the night. Such… yearnings will vanish with the sunrise.”

  “Perhaps they will.”

  His answer failed to comfort her. In fact, she looked slightly wounded. She retreated into the darker puddle of shadow to be found by the wall. “I think ye should know that I’m not the sort to… I mean, I’ve never… I haven’t…”

  He stood, crossing to touch her arm. For some reason, he couldn’t bear
for her to think that he’d found her to be a woman of easy virtue. “I know, Fiona.”

  Her chin tilted proudly. “It isn’t that I haven’t been attracted to men—or they to me. There just hasn’t been… too much… time… in one place.”

  He touched her wrist. Her skin was cool, soft, smelling slightly of lilacs. “I know.”

  “What about you? Have there been many women you’ve… kissed?… loved?”

  He released her and moved away, scuffing his toe on the carpet, uncomfortable that he’d opened the way for such admissions. “Some. A few.” But when he thought about it, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent an evening with a woman for the sheer pleasure of her company and conversation. There had been a few brushes with passion, little more.

  “I would have thought that ladies all over the country would’ve been beating down your door.”

  “The nature of my work tends to discourage them.”

  “Then they’re fools, Jacob Grey.” The statement was but a whisper, obviously expressed with some reluctance, but spoken all the same.

  When he would have tugged her into his arms again, she stepped away. Slightly ashamed by his boldness, he slid his hands into his pockets, watching her as she stood in the glow of the gas lamp.

  “I’ll just be getting dressed. Then you can take me to my father.”

  He waited until she was nearly in the bedroom. “It won’t happen again. The kisses, I mean.”

  She looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes dark with meaning. “I wouldn’t be making any promises you don’t intend to keep.”

  Her words crouched in the darkness like a living thing. Pulsing. Gnawing at his limited control.

  Jacob’s mouth went dry. This woman, this child, this irresponsible creature, knew him much better than he had ever known himself.

  Lettie McGuire shifted from within her nest of pillows, yawning and stretching her arms over her head. For the first time in weeks she’d slept, actually slept. True, it had simply been a series of catnaps strung together, but her pregnancy had been so uncomfortable of late that any real rest at all was welcome.