Lisa Bingham
Authors: The Other Groom
“What would you have me telling people? That less than an hour after discovering you were a widow, you were in the arms of another man?”
The heat rushed into her cheeks. “A momentary lapse of judgment, I can assure you. You may attribute my actions to the overwhelming toll of mourning.”
He grinned. “Come now, Louisa. You don’t have to play the grieving widow with me.”
She stiffened, exclaiming, “I beg your pardon!”
He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “Both of us know that you’ve never even met the man.”
Louisa stiffened, her spine becoming ramrod straight, her chin rising ever so slightly. “Sir, you appear to think that your position as my bodyguard allows you to take certain…personal liberties.”
His brow rose, reminding her that the two of them had been about as “personal” as two people could be…!
The Other Groom
Harlequin Historical #677
Praise for Lisa Bingham
“Lisa Bingham breathes life into your wildest fantasies!”
—
Romantic Times
“Lisa Bingham captures perfectly the spirit of late nineteenth-century America.”
—
Affaire de Coeur
“Her characters are delightful, full of dimension and individuality and make you laugh, cry and leave you sleepless while you try to read just one more page.”
—Affaire de Coeur
#675 IN THE KING’S SERVICE
Margaret Moore
#676 WYOMING WILDCAT
Elizabeth Lane
#678 THE KNIGHT AND THE SEER
Ruth Langan
HE
O
THER
G
ROOM
LISA BINGHAM
Available from Harlequin Historicals and LISA BINGHAM
The Other Bride
#658
The Other Groom
#677
Other works include:
Harlequin American Romance
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#602
The Butler & the Bachelorette
#635
The Daddy Hunt
#651
Dana and the Calendar Man
#662
The Princess & the Frog
#692
And Babies Make Ten
#784
Man Behind the Voice
#835
Twins Times Two!
#887
Harlequin Intrigue
When Night Draws Near
#540
To Jane, my agent and my friend.
I will always be grateful.
T
he moment was here.
So much planning and preparation had led up to this moment, Louisa realized. The real Louisa Haversham had long since donned the name Phoebe Gray and headed for the wild and wooly West, while Phoebe—or rather
Louisa,
as she would be known for the rest of her life—had waited for her husband-by-proxy to show himself.
Not for the first time, Louisa felt a burst of pique. When she had agreed to assume the life and destiny of her friend, it had all seemed so simple. The daughter of the Marquis of Dobbenshire, the real Louisa Haversham had been married by proxy to a wealthy American businessman, Mr. Charles Winslow III. That was how the two women had met. Louisa had needed a companion to accompany her on the journey from England, and since Phoebe had been on her way to America as a “mail-order bride,” she’d been hired to take the position.
Her lips twitched in a quick smile. Who would have suspected that the two women had been so unhappy with the intended course of their lives that they would consider switching places? Her friend had longed for a life of adventure, while Phoebe…
She wrinkled her nose. As far as she was concerned, she’d had enough “adventure.” Her mother had died in a typhus epidemic when Phoebe had been but a toddler. Since then, she’d endured a series of orphanages and charity schools, where she’d been trained for service. She’d been a nanny, a governess and, most recently, a paid companion. But when the untoward advances of a wayward husband in London had resulted in her termination without references, Phoebe had been in dire straits. Weary of the life of a servant, she’d impulsively agreed to marry Neil Ballard.
Dear, sweet Neil. They’d been so young when last she’d seen him. How long had they proved to be an inseparable team at the orphanage? Two years? Three? Then, finally, his aunt had sent for him and he’d moved to America to become a farmer in Oregon. Yet even then their friendship had endured, through years of correspondence. Indeed, Louisa would hasten to wager that they had each revealed more about themselves in their letters than they ever would have in person.
Shifting uncomfortably, she pushed away the wave of guilt that threatened to be her undoing. In hindsight, she realized that she never should have agreed to marry her old chum. By the time the travel arrangements to America had been made, she’d begun to regret her hasty action. The thought of living in the untamed wilderness of the American Territories and becoming a farmer’s wife had filled her with trepidation. She was tired of living hand-to-mouth. Moreover, Neil had made it clear that he was looking forward to having a woman to help “take care of his property.”
Drat it all! By marrying him, she would have doomed herself to a lifetime of servitude.
Absently patting her bonnet and smoothing a hand down the front of her bodice, she pushed aside her misgivings about her cavalier treatment of an old friend.
She would have been a horrible homesteader, there was no doubt about that—and the real Louisa Haversham had been equally distressed about being locked into the predictable routine of a woman of privilege.
Was it any wonder the women had stumbled upon this solution? The fact that they both had similar builds, auburn hair and blue eyes had seemed foreordained. It was as if heaven above had planned their meeting.
Briefly closing her eyes, Louisa pressed a hand to her fluttering stomach and offered a quick prayer. Any moment now, her husband would arrive and her new life would truly begin. More than ever, she would have to be on her guard. She couldn’t allow even the tiniest mistake to reveal her original background and identity.
You’re Louisa Haversham Winslow now. You will be Louisa Haversham Winslow until the day you die.
So why was it still so hard to remember that she no longer had to struggle to survive? Even the tardy arrival of her husband had proved no hardship. A note from Charles’s solicitor had informed her that accounts had been set up for her with the hotel and local businesses. At the solicitor’s urging, she’d been able to spend her time augmenting her wardrobe, visiting the theater and ballet—even obtaining a lapdog and a lady’s maid. In an amazingly short amount of time, she had been able to don all the trappings of a wealthy woman.
But her delight in amassing such luxuries had begun to wane. As the days of waiting had become weeks, she’d begun to despair of Charles ever making an appearance. She’d tortured herself with her own imaginings—that Charles had the temperament of an ogre or the age of Methuselah.
Finally, this morning, she’d received a telegram stating that she should meet the noon train.
With the help of her new maid, Chloe, Louisa had dressed in exquisitely embroidered undergarments, had laced her corset to a point where she could barely breathe and had donned a delicate white gown dotted with tiny pink rosebuds and adorned with yards and yards of ruffles. Her hair had been upswept in an intricate coiffure of braids and curls, and a perky straw hat bedecked with lace and ribbons tipped rakishly over one eyebrow. As a final touch, she’d indulged in a pink silk parasol and reticule, and white kid gloves and high-buttoned shoes.
She, Phoebe Gray, was a living, breathing fashion plate.
No. Not Phoebe. She was Louisa now.
Louisa Haversham Winslow.
Her pulse knocked erratically against the stricture of her stays and she took several quick, panting breaths. Dash it all, she shouldn’t have laced the thing so tightly!
What would he be like, Mr. Charles Winslow? Would he be kind and gentle? Handsome and forthright?
More than a thousand times, Louisa had fantasized about Charles—so much so that she’d formed an ideal picture of the person she hoped to encounter. He would be of a certain age—not too old, but not too young. Judging by his attention to business, he would be quiet and studious, with the manners of a true gentleman. Despite the marriage by proxy, he would woo her gently, insisting on a proper church wedding before taking Louisa to his bed.
She felt a warmth flood into her cheeks at the mere thought. Although she’d resigned herself to the physicalities of marriage, she still hadn’t been able to think of her wifely duties without blushing.
If only…
If only…
A disconcerting restlessness rushed through her veins. A sense of foreboding.
Seeking a diversion from her fears, she darted her gaze around the crowd of people who waited for the train from Charleston, then found it fixed on a huge giant of a man.
If only Charles could look like him.
The moment the thought slipped into her head, she pushed it away, scolding herself for being completely unhinged. How could she possibly be thinking of a stranger when her husband-to-be was destined to arrive at any moment? Had she lost all reason and decorum? Charles was bound to be a wonderful man, a handsome man, a kind and considerate…
No. She could not believe that particular flight of fancy. If the truth were told, she already knew enough about Charles to know that “consideration” was not one of his attributes. If it were, he would not have arranged to marry by proxy and she would not have been imprisoned in her hotel suite cooling her heels. And as much as she had comforted herself with the thought that he’d been occupied with important business, she couldn’t help wondering what sort of business would keep a man from his own wedding.
She tapped her toe impatiently on the wooden platform even as she sneaked another peek at the giant. He really was larger than any man she’d ever seen before—though not in a bulky way. No, his body was that of a warrior, all whipcord muscle, much like the heroes that populated the penny novels she loved and hoped one day to write herself. Nevertheless, the breadth of his shoulders and the impossibly narrow span of his hips made him seem that much larger.
Her breath caught in her throat at the thought of being swept into the arms of such a man. What would she have done if
he
was Charles?
Her body was suddenly suffused with chills and then a strange, enervating heat. Feeling a blush rising to her cheeks, she gave a tiny shake of her head and quickly dislodged the disloyal thought.
She was Mrs. Charles Winslow III. She was Mrs. Charles Winslow III….
But the silent reminders merely inspired another rush of anxiety. Would she meet with his expectations?
Biting her lip, she despaired that Charles might be disappointed with her flaming red hair or the voluptuousness of her figure. Heaven only knew that she’d had more than one employer sniff in distaste about the “flamboyancy” of her God-given attributes. After years of service, during which Louisa had been eyed, judged and frowned at over and over again, she couldn’t help feeling a measure of apprehension and dread.
Momentarily distracted by the blast of a whistle, she turned and caught sight of a plume of smoke darkening the sky above the jumble of buildings in the distance.
Once again, her stomach lurched.
He was here.
Her husband was finally here.
Convulsively, her gaze swung to the stranger who had caught her attention. Somehow, in the scant amount of time that she’d been preoccupied with her own thoughts, he’d stepped closer to her.
So close…
Although he was still a yard or two away, she felt his presence in a way she’d never encountered with another human being. It was as if her body was attuned to him in an elemental way. As if she knew him…
Despite the huffing of the approaching train, she studied the man more closely. Why, of all the passengers milling on the platform, was he the only one to capture her attention so completely? There was nothing about him that should have inspired such interest. He was dressed in rough buckskins, with his dark hair left long so that it tumbled across his collar. Indeed, there was something…heathenish about him.
No. That wasn’t right. Not heathenish. Untamed.
Elemental.
Unconsciously, she moistened her dry lips. The man looked as if he had recently arrived from the American wilderness. Undoubtedly, he lived the very life that she had shunned—one that was fraught with hardships.
So why did she find him so intriguing?
For a split instant, their eyes locked. Louisa was stunned by the flurry of sensations that tingled at her extremities and traveled inward to settle with a molten heat deep within her.
In that instant, she felt more feminine and beautiful than ever before. Beneath this man’s regard, she didn’t rue the less-than-fashionable curvaceousness of her body or the brilliant copper color of her hair. Instead, as she watched his eyes warm, she felt a measure of pride in her tightly tailored clothes and elegant appearance. Her only regret lay in a niggling reminder that she wasn’t free to indulge in a bit of harmless flirtation.
A frown crossed her brow at her own audacity, just as a loud bang split the noontime air. Before Louisa could fathom what was happening, the giant in buckskins launched himself toward her.
In a rush, she saw the looming shape of his body, felt the impact of sheer muscle and bone. Then she was falling, falling, her body banging against the rough boards of the platform, the giant’s frame protectively covering hers.
The world seemed to screech into slow motion, each sensation becoming sharp and distinct. Distantly, she heard the startled cries of the other passengers, the screams of fear. Tiny rocks bit into her back and arms.
But most of all, there was the heat, the strength, the power of the manly form stretched over hers. A whiff of something like pine. The gentleness of his breath as he whispered, “Easy, easy.” Even in the terror of the moment, her mind honed in on the weight pressing into her, the scent of soap and the inexplicable wave of possessiveness emanating from this man’s body.
Then time seemed to stop completely. There was only this moment, this stranger. Louisa became suddenly aware of the face looming over hers, the angular jut of his chin and cheekbones, the chocolatey darkness of his eyes.
Those eyes…
Why was there a part of her that seemed to recognize them—as if she’d known him in another life? She felt as if she were melting into their depths. Instinctively, she gripped his arms. And when he began to close the distance between them, she did not resist….
Dear sweet heaven above, how could she resist?
The sudden shriek of a train whistle caused them both to start. In an instant, the noise shattered the intimacy that had twined around them like a spider’s snare.
Horrified at her own reaction, Louisa pressed her hands against the stranger’s chest—only to encounter the hard contours hidden by his clothing.
Was this what a man felt like? So unyielding? So…arousing?
A flush seemed to spread from her fingers through her entire body. The effect was so startling that she began to fight, thrashing beneath him, knowing that if she didn’t free herself immediately, she would…
She would what?
Swoon?
Or surrender?
Just when she feared that what little control she still possessed would vanish, the man rolled gracefully to his feet. In an instant, he’d lifted her and set her upright, his arm lingering about her waist in a too-familiar manner until she regained her balance.
Just as quickly as it had stopped, time rushed forward like a tidal wave. Louisa became aware of a multitude of details—the curious stares of the crowd, the horrified expression of her maid, the shriek of the oncoming train.
What had she done?
Inwardly, she berated herself for being so weak that she had let herself be affected by the first man she’d encountered on her long journey. She mustn’t allow herself to forget who she was. There could be no hint of impropriety or even the smallest weakening of her resolve. She was
Mrs.
Charles Winslow III, and she mustn’t forget that fact.
Louisa wrenched free of the man’s grip. Yet even as she steeled herself against his regard, the warmth she saw in his gaze was so beguiling, so unexpected that she feared he had sensed a portion of her confusion.
