as she stood there, she knew that no one could deny the massive amounts of money it must have taken to decorate this suite. Everything was of the highest quality.
What had been ridiculously funny only moments before was not funny any longer. It was a sad example of stupid waste and opulence. Worse yet, a cockeyed sense of values.
She straightened and left the room quickly, feeling oppressed, uncomfortable, and suddenly rather pessimistic about her chances of ever being able to teach D.L. Stewart anything.
Once in the bedroom, she just stood there and stared around her. Every piece of furniture, every painting, every bit of the room from the fireplace to the bric-a-brac was coldly flawless. Expensive. Priceless.
The minutes passed, one by one, time revealing what she hadn't understood before. The man who owned this house, this room, needed to learn more than just how to give from his heart. He was so lost, had his values so skewed, that she wondered if he could ever find any joy or happiness in just living. If he even understood the human spirit or the things that truly mattered in the world.
She lay back on the bed, with its plush down bedding, expensive silk drape, and hand-carved posts. She stared up at the canopy with a sense of grief so very deep it touched her in a way nothing had before.
And she began to cry. She turned over and buried her head in her arms, sobbing painfully and pitifully. Not for herself, a fallen angel, but for Daniel Lincoln Stewart, a fallen soul.
Chapter Seven
D.L. closed his carriage door and looked up. Lilli was watching him from an upstairs window. The drape drifted back and he watched it for a moment longer, then went up the snowy steps, fighting another smile—his second that day.
The front doors swung open wide and early.
Gage must be looking for a raise, he thought before he recalled it was near Christmas—that time of year when every servant, delivery boy, and elevator operator began to fawn, hoping for a large tip.
But to his surprise it was Lillian who met him at the doors. Standing in the doorway, she was wearing her jacket and gloves, her hat tied beneath her chin in a shredded velvet bow.
He frowned, leaned back and glanced back up at the window. "Weren't you just upstairs?"
She nodded.
He looked down the front steps. There were eight of them. He knew the main staircase had to have at least forty steps. How in God's name had she managed to meet him at the front door? Had she sprouted wings and flown?
She was flushed and perhaps a little out of breath.
He shook his head, then gestured to her clothing. "Going somewhere?"
"Yes. We both are."
"I see. Why?"
"You said I'm supposed to prove my theory. Well, I'm ready."
"For what, exactly?"
"Your entertainment."
He gave her a long, pointed look.
She stared back at him from eyes that were a little too red.
"Have you been crying again?"
She looked down. "I had something in my eye."
"Both of them?"
She raised her chin, a sign of defiance. "Yes."
He crossed his arms with equal stubbornness.
Unfazed, she held out an old cloth valise. "Here."
"What's this?"
"It's a surprise."
He took the valise.
She stood there, silently waiting.
He stood there, silently amused.
It began to snow again, and she looked up at the sky. "Come," she said finally, and she threaded her arm through his, all but dragging him down the front steps. They reached bottom just as his brougham disappeared around the corner and down the drive to the carriage house.
"Wait here,” he said. “I'll call for the carriage."
"Oh, no." She tugged on his arm. "We'll walk."
"It's snowing."
She smiled up at him. "I know. That's the best part. It's snowing. Now come along."
A few minutes later he was walking down the sidewalk, valise in one hand, her arm holding his, while she chattered about the snow and the scenery and the sleighs that passed them by. She hummed a Christmas tune and smiled at people, wishing perfect strangers "Happy Christmas." She grasped his hand and pulled him across the street to the park.
Singing about bells and angels, she led him down a snowy path to a clearing, where a pond had frozen and the surrounding trees and bushes were heavy with white snow. She plopped down on a park bench up a hill across from the pond and patted the spot next to her. "Sit here."
He bent down and dusted off the snow, then sat. "Is sitting on a snowy park bench your idea of