Chapter Twelve

 

Win jammed his hands into his pockets and stood looking down at Belle, feeling helpless. Worse, his feelings were hurt, and that was plain crazy. What reason had he to feel bad? After all, it had been he who’d deceived Belle.

Naw. Deceive was too strong a word. He’d manipulated her a little bit. So what? It had been for a good cause. And he’d given her the hundred dollars, hadn’t he? Before he’d even earned it back again. So really, she oughtn’t be so damned furious with him.

It was no use. He still felt like a worthless, deceitful, underhanded cad. With a sigh, he removed his hands from his pockets and sat down next to her on the bench. She gave a start and jerked away from him, hugging the money to her breast as if she expected him to try to snatch it back. Again, his feelings gave a big, painful twang.

This was nuts. “Listen, Belle, I’m sorry if you didn’t understand the deal.” His conscience slapped him upside the head, and he amended his statement at once. “That is, I’m sorry if I—if I— Damn it all, why had his conscience taken this, of all times, to start acting up? “I’m sorry I misled you.”

There. He’d said it, although he wasn’t honestly sure he was sorry. He was definitely sorry she was mad at him, so he guessed it wasn’t too much of a lie.

She sniffed. Win pressed his lips into a sour line and knew he should have expected as much. “But I paid you the amount we agreed upon, so you shouldn’t be too angry.”

Her gaze slid from the stack of greenbacks she clutched, to his face. “I appreciate the money.” Her voice was low and strained. “But I wouldn’t have agreed to take it if I’d known my likeness would appear on the front page of a big-city newspaper. Or—” She stopped speaking suddenly, her chocolate-brown eyes opened wide, and she gasped.

Fearing she was about to suffer a spasm of maidenly distress or something equally southern and beyond his ken, Win put a hand on her shoulder. “Say, Belle, what is it?”

The look she gave him then was so accusatory, Win feared she’d mistaken him for Jack the Ripper or somebody like that. “What’s the matter?” he demanded again, more harshly.

“Oh, my land, what if my parents get wind of this?”

“Of what? I thought they already knew?”

She waved a hand in the air. “Oh, they know I’m posing for photographs, but they don’t know about this.” She gestured toward the cabinet photograph of her displayed in his window.

“Ah.” Damn. “Um, where did you say you’re from?”

Belle had sunk her head into her hands—after she’d tucked the bills away in her tiny pocketbook—and moaned, “Blissborough. It’s not very far from Atlanta.”

“Ah.” For the life of him, Win didn’t know what to say now. The truth of the matter was that H.L. May’s articles, accompanied by whatever photographs went with them, were syndicated in newspapers everywhere. He decided Belle didn’t need to know that yet.

“They’ll think I’ve sunk beyond anything if they see that picture of me in a Georgia newspaper.”

Forgetting he was trying to placate the wench, Win said, “That’s plain stupid, Belle! The more places that picture shows up, the more I’ll get paid.”

She eyed him with what looked a good deal like loathing. “Lucky you.”

He instantly started backpedaling. “And you! You—you should get a percentage of every placement.”

Her lovely dark eyes gazed at him in clear disbelief for long enough that Win got edgy and started fidgeting. “I, um, never heard that,” she said at last.

“I guess we never discussed it,” he muttered. “But it’s the way these things work. You see, every time a photograph of mine appears anywhere—as long as I know about it, or my agent does.” He scowled, thinking about the unfairness of life. “So many unscrupulous people try to steal a man’s work, and don’t want to pay—” Glimpsing Belle’s altered facial expression, he decided he’d better not go in to unscrupulous motives. “I mean, I’m supposed to get paid every time another newspaper or other venue picks up one of my photographs for publication. It’s sort of like books.”

After several tense seconds, Belle said, “Ah.”

What the hell did that mean? Ah. Ah? Damn it, Win as getting fed up with this conversation. That being the case, he stood, reached down, grabbed Belle by the arm, and hauled her up off the bench. “Come with me. I’m going to talk some sense into you.” And he was going to do it somewhere they couldn’t be interrupted.

“What are you doing?” Belle cried.

“You heard me.” Win snatched his hat on the way out of the booth without releasing Belle’s arm.

# # #

Belle figured the thrill she experienced from Win’s forceful treatment of her was only further indication of her fallen nature. It was her bad luck that her fallen nature seemed to have beaten the rest of her nature into submission. The thought of that hundred dollars in her reticule had obviously softened her moral character.

Nevertheless, she did manage to dig in her heels. Since that didn’t stop Win’s forward motion appreciably, she only succeeded in scuffing her shoes. “Where are we going? What are you doing?”

“I’m taking you somewhere to talk some sense into you.” He continued to haul her along.

She saw a gentleman in a tweed suit, accompanied by a stout lady in plaid, lift his hand to shade his eyes and stare at them. The tweed man frowned at Win, who scowled back. Fellow appeared taken aback, turned at once, and hurried his stout companion on. Some gentleman he was, Belle thought bitterly. Damned Yankees.

“You’re making a spectacle of yourself,” Win growled. “I thought you didn’t want anyone noticing you.”

“It’s not I who’s making a spectacle of me!” she whispered indignantly. However, she did stop resisting. Not only was resistance bad for her shoes, but she couldn’t catch her breath.

A group of young man stood idling beside one of the beautiful statues set up on the grounds of the Exposition. They were dressed in the height of fashion, and looked to Belle as if they were practicing languor as an art form. One of the young men lifted a—good heavens, was that thing a monocle? How affected!—to his eyes and ogled Belle. Nudging his nearest companion, he nodded toward Belle and Win. His companion grinned and winked at Belle. The rest of the young men turned to stare at them, too.

She lifted her nose, thinking those ill-bred, though evidently well-off, fellows wouldn’t dare to do such a thing to a lady whose photograph hadn’t appeared on the front page of the Chicago Globe. “Drat you, Win Asher! Did you see that?”

“Yes.” Win turned to the group of young men and bellowed, “Who are you staring at, you filthy louts? My lady friend doesn’t appreciate your obnoxious attentions. Mind your own business or I’ll level the lot of you!”

The young men clearly had never been called to account for their rudeness before this. The first man dropped his monocle and retreated a step. The second fellow stuttered, “S-s-sorry, sir. We didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Humph,” Win growled. “A likely story.”

The young men turned as if they were connected by a string, and started walking away from Belle and Win. Win sneered. “Cowards.”

“That was your fault,” Belle said furiously. “They probably think I’m a—a—” She couldn’t say the word. Figuring it wouldn’t hurt, and might just help, she tried yanking her arm from his grip. As she’d suspected, that didn’t work, because his hold on her was firm. So firm, indeed, that she’d probably have bruises on the morrow. She wondered how well they’d photograph.

“Applesauce. They were only strutting their stuff and trying to be sophisticated.”

“It’s still your fault,” she muttered.

“Just be still for a minute, and we’ll be able to talk this thing out.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. You misled me, and now I’ll have to pay the consequences.” She added a sniff. It wasn’t a very potent one because of the corset situation, but it demonstrated her displeasure.

“You’re being unreasonable, damn it.”

“Don’t swear at me, drat you!”

He didn’t respond, but came to a precipitate halt in front of a boating dock, causing Belle, who hadn’t been able to keep up with him after he stopped pulling on her, to bump into his back. He turned to give her a hideous scowl, which wasn’t fair.

“It’s your fault for dragging me,” she panted, worried that she might faint. Her mother was always fainting. Belle had heretofore chalked up this aspect of her mother’s character to her dramatic tendencies, but now she wondered if she swooned all the time because she laced her stays too tightly.

Win didn’t bother with a rebuttal. He didn’t speak to her at all, in fact, but rather to a young lad who was grinning at the two of them like an imp. Belle felt herself flush with embarrassment. “Taking your lady on a boat ride, Mr. Asher?” the lad said, tipping Win a wink.

“Right.” Win thrust some money at the boy. “I don’t know how long we’ll be on the canal.”

Pressing a hand to her bosom in hopes of stilling her wildly beating heart, Belle looked around. She hadn’t been paying attention to where they were headed, but now that they were here, she realized Win was renting a boat.

The World’s Columbian Exposition had been built on what had basically been a swamp. Since water was plentiful, they’d taken advantage of it and created a series of waterways that threaded the Exposition grounds, interspersed with numerous lovely lakes. The landscaping surrounding the rivers and lakes was breathtaking, even when one hadn’t laced ones corset too tightly. Belle realized Win expected to take her out on one of the rowboats being rented to take advantage of the waterways, and yanked at her hand again.

“I can’t go out there with you!” she hissed, thinking of her already tarnished virtue.

“Hush. Here, Buster. I’ll take the oars.”

“Sure thing, Mister Asher.” With a laugh that sounded too lascivious to be coming from a boy his age, Buster took up a pair of oars.

Before taking them from the boy, Win lifted Belle into the small rowboat. She was too shocked to struggle, although she might not have struggled had shock not been a problem. She was already a spectacle. She didn’t much care to become a waterlogged one. The boat rocked wildly as soon as Win plunked her down on the bench. Belle uttered a soft shriek and gripped the sides of the boat.

“Thanks, Buster.” Win grabbed the oars from his collaborator in crime and deftly climbed into the boat. To Belle he grumbled, “No need to scream, Belle. I know how to row a boat.”

“Blast you, Win Asher!”

“Yeah, yeah.” His mouth closed and his lips pressed together until white encircled it in his tanned face.

He was furious, Belle realized. As furious as she. And for no reason. At least she had a reason for her wrath. If she’d dared let go of the sides of the boat, she’d have crossed her arms across her chest and stared off into the distance, as there didn’t seem to be any other way to express her anger and disapproval. Since that option was denied her—she’d never been on a boat before, didn’t know how to swim, and wasn’t fond of being on the water—she settled for turning her head and staring at the shore, trying to ignore Win.

He didn’t speak for what seemed to Belle like hours, but was probably only several minutes. He was rowing fast. The little boat seemed to zoom through across the lake. In spite of herself, Belle enjoyed the view.

The entire Columbian Exposition was beautiful. The buildings, most crafted in the Beaux Arts style—Belle had read a little bit about the school of art—were gorgeous. The landscaping, which she could see better from the water than from on the walkways, was lush and beautiful. She realized that Win had rowed them to the Wooded Island because she saw the magnificent rose garden. She sighed with pleasure before she could catch herself.

One day, she promised herself, she was going to have a rose garden. Even if she remained impoverished and had to move back to Blissborough and live in her parents’ dilapidated home, there was no earthly reason she had to forego the pleasure of roses. The disloyal thought niggled at her that her mother had deliberately denied herself some of life’s inexpensive pleasures for no better reason than that she wanted people to feel sorry for her.

“Phooh,” she muttered under her breath, irked that she should be thinking such things in the present circumstance. She shot a glance at Win. Sure enough, he was staring straight at her. Vexed, she said, “Don’t you have to look where you’re going?”

“No.”

Since he didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, Belle guessed he didn’t have to look. Drat it. It was uncomfortable to be stared at, especially since his expression was odd. It wasn’t long before she gave up looking at him at all, but turned her head to view the scenery, which was lovely. They were on a waterway that bore a resemblance to pictures Belle had seen of rivers in the Belgian Congo, with thick vegetation growing everywhere. She’d have been surprised, but not very, if a hippopotamus suddenly showed up.

She grabbed the sides of the rowboat and uttered a gasp of alarm when the boat came to a bumpy stop. Glancing around wildly, Belle realized Win had pulled into a tiny indentation in one of the islands. “What are you doing? Did we run aground?” She thought that was the right terminology.

“On purpose,” he said shortly.

Good Lord, he wasn’t going to drown her, was he?

He seemed to sense her fear. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you, dash it. I just need to talk to you. We need to get this straightened out.”

She sniffed. “I want to be taken back to—to—” Drat it, she couldn’t remember where Gladys and Amalie were. Ah, yes. “—to the balloon ascension.”

“You can’t get in without a pass, and I don’t have any more passes.”

He did whatever oarsmen did with their oars when they weren’t in use. Belle vaguely recalled that there was a term for it, but she didn’t know what it was. Eyeing him suspiciously, she said, “What are you doing now?”

“Damn it, Belle Monroe, you’re driving me crazy.”

She goggled at him, even though she knew goggling was unladylike. “I! Driving you crazy?”

“Yes.”

Since he’d taken to glaring at her savagely, Belle guessed he meant it. Still, she didn’t understand, and her own temper blossomed like a rosebud on a hot day. “How dare you? I’m the one who’s been lied to and misled and—”

“Damn it, you’ve been paid!”

His roar was so loud, Belle clapped her hands over her ears. Shooting him what she hoped was a hideous frown, she snapped, “Money doesn’t make up for the humiliation of having my likeness plastered all over the United States!”

“Humiliation! Humiliation?”

“Yes! I know you told me it would only appear in Germany! I know it, blast you Win Asher!”

“Humiliation, my foot! You’re being completely unreasonable. You’re a beautiful woman, damn it! You ought to be proud of yourself, not hollering at me because I discovered you like—like—like a swan in a herd of ducklings!”

“Flock,” Belle muttered. She felt sort of as if he’d thrown a blanket over her temper with that comment about her alleged beauty. Belle tried at all times to look her best, but she’d never thought of herself as particularly beautiful. Her swooning mother was the beauty of the family. Belle was too independent, too stubborn, and too unlike the rest of her family to be considered . . .

“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 resented 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.