of her corset as she fought the awareness that pooled between them.
“You are a beautiful woman.”
“Hardly,” she said with a grimace. “I’ve always been told I was plain.”
“No. You’re beautiful—and anyone who told you differently was a fool.”
The tips of his fingers slid along the delicate column of her throat to the hollow behind her ear. “You have a classic beauty, an exotic beauty.” He felt her trembling against his caress. “Very tempting.”
His hand slipped to her shoulder again, then down her arm to slide around her waist and draw her against him.
“Which is why I will not leave you. Not today, not tomorrow. Not until I’ve finished with the job that I’ve come here to do.”
Although he’d told himself that he would not kiss her again, he could not prevent himself from turning her in his arms.
“You don’t deserve to be a widow,” he whispered, even as his heart silently added, You should be my bride.
Her fingers curled around his arms, the warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt.
“Please, Mr. Smith.” Her voice was rife with desperation. “I don’t need a bodyguard. Please go away.”
If she’d used that same tone to ask him anything else, he wouldn’t have been able to resist. As it was, he could not find the strength to go. This woman had woven a spell around him from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, and he wasn’t ready to abandon his original intent.
Especially not when she looked up at him with dark, rich eyes. Eyes that reflected a portion of his own wants and desires.
Crooking a finger under her chin, he tipped her face up. Slowly, lingeringly, he bent toward her, noting each nuance of expression that crossed her features. When finally his lips touched hers, she shuddered against him, her fingers digging into the muscles of his arms.
A heat grew within him, steadily, insistently, bidding him to forget where they were or how easily they could be discovered. Nevertheless, he could not release her until he’d deepened the kiss, parting her lips and tasting the sweetness to be found there.
It was Bitsy’s return that caused them to part, and none too soon. Within seconds, Mrs. Eddleton and Chloe appeared, carrying several brightly colored hatboxes.
As Louisa rushed to meet them, John scooped the dog from the floor and purposely hung back.
Louisa displayed such a complex mix of emotions—being passionate but reserved, impulsive but wary. And yet… He knew she was determined to ensure that no one ever discovered her masquerade.
Somehow, he would have to find a way to change her mind.
Chapter Eight
Dearest Diary,
After the stolen embrace I shared with John Smith in the milliner’s shop, I have grown increasingly desperate. John Smith needs to go. Now! If he doesn’t leave, I am sure he will be my undoing. Whenever my bodyguard is near, I forget everything but the awareness that he inspires in me and the irresistible pull of my desire.
I cannot believe that I allowed myself to lose control—and in a public establishment, no less! If anyone had seen us…
I am desperate to have the man quit. I am even more unwilling to spend hours and hours sequestered with him in my hotel room. To that end, I have insisted on discreet appearances at the ballet, the opera and countless museums, all without effect. I even renewed my efforts to find a suitable paid companion, forcing John to sit with me as I interviewed a dozen prim and proper women who vied for the position.
Unfortunately, it was I who grew weary of the task first. And rather than chasing John away, I fear that I have merely given him more reason to think that I need a keeper. As it is, I am weary. Weary of living in a hotel suite, weary of holding myself in check, fearing that I am being judged and observed. I want to read my books and devote myself to my writing.
But most of all, I long to be “home.” I want a place where I can “nest” and feel completely at ease.
In truth,
“You are a beautiful woman.”
“Hardly,” she said with a grimace. “I’ve always been told I was plain.”
“No. You’re beautiful—and anyone who told you differently was a fool.”
The tips of his fingers slid along the delicate column of her throat to the hollow behind her ear. “You have a classic beauty, an exotic beauty.” He felt her trembling against his caress. “Very tempting.”
His hand slipped to her shoulder again, then down her arm to slide around her waist and draw her against him.
“Which is why I will not leave you. Not today, not tomorrow. Not until I’ve finished with the job that I’ve come here to do.”
Although he’d told himself that he would not kiss her again, he could not prevent himself from turning her in his arms.
“You don’t deserve to be a widow,” he whispered, even as his heart silently added, You should be my bride.
Her fingers curled around his arms, the warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt.
“Please, Mr. Smith.” Her voice was rife with desperation. “I don’t need a bodyguard. Please go away.”
If she’d used that same tone to ask him anything else, he wouldn’t have been able to resist. As it was, he could not find the strength to go. This woman had woven a spell around him from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, and he wasn’t ready to abandon his original intent.
Especially not when she looked up at him with dark, rich eyes. Eyes that reflected a portion of his own wants and desires.
Crooking a finger under her chin, he tipped her face up. Slowly, lingeringly, he bent toward her, noting each nuance of expression that crossed her features. When finally his lips touched hers, she shuddered against him, her fingers digging into the muscles of his arms.
A heat grew within him, steadily, insistently, bidding him to forget where they were or how easily they could be discovered. Nevertheless, he could not release her until he’d deepened the kiss, parting her lips and tasting the sweetness to be found there.
It was Bitsy’s return that caused them to part, and none too soon. Within seconds, Mrs. Eddleton and Chloe appeared, carrying several brightly colored hatboxes.
As Louisa rushed to meet them, John scooped the dog from the floor and purposely hung back.
Louisa displayed such a complex mix of emotions—being passionate but reserved, impulsive but wary. And yet… He knew she was determined to ensure that no one ever discovered her masquerade.
Somehow, he would have to find a way to change her mind.
Chapter Eight
Dearest Diary,
After the stolen embrace I shared with John Smith in the milliner’s shop, I have grown increasingly desperate. John Smith needs to go. Now! If he doesn’t leave, I am sure he will be my undoing. Whenever my bodyguard is near, I forget everything but the awareness that he inspires in me and the irresistible pull of my desire.
I cannot believe that I allowed myself to lose control—and in a public establishment, no less! If anyone had seen us…
I am desperate to have the man quit. I am even more unwilling to spend hours and hours sequestered with him in my hotel room. To that end, I have insisted on discreet appearances at the ballet, the opera and countless museums, all without effect. I even renewed my efforts to find a suitable paid companion, forcing John to sit with me as I interviewed a dozen prim and proper women who vied for the position.
Unfortunately, it was I who grew weary of the task first. And rather than chasing John away, I fear that I have merely given him more reason to think that I need a keeper. As it is, I am weary. Weary of living in a hotel suite, weary of holding myself in check, fearing that I am being judged and observed. I want to read my books and devote myself to my writing.
But most of all, I long to be “home.” I want a place where I can “nest” and feel completely at ease.
In truth,
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