Chapter 4 #2
“Whatever you do, please do not trod on my toes,” she replied. “My feet are already in pain from these slippers.”
“I shall endeavor to keep my feet off of yours,” he replied. He glanced around and copied the way the other gentlemen held their partners, one hand at their waist while holding the lady’s hand in the other.
With the first three notes, he knew the music was meant for a waltz, and he felt relief. This was a dance he knew.
So did she, for he knew immediately she had been born for it.
Elegance oozed from her as she followed his lead, her steps sure on the marble despite her apparently sore feet.
Beneath the hand at her satin-covered waist, he could feel the supple muscles of her torso, the fabric acting like liquid gold as they made the intricate turns about the floor.
The skirt flared with every turn and folded when she was back before him.
“May I say you have the most beautiful shoulders?” he asked, his gaze sweeping across her collar bones as one of his gloved hands barely brushed over the smooth skin. Once again, she seemed to unconsciously react, briefly leaning forward as if inviting him to continue to touch her.
“I’ve not heard that particular compliment before,” she replied. “Grazie.”
When he marveled at how effortless the dance seemed, he wasn’t surprised when she said, “You needn’t have worried, Mr. McAdams. You seemed to have remembered how to dance.”
“Indeed,” he replied. “Tell me, mia donna, is dancing your favorite pastime in Roma?”
She tittered again. “Hardly. I prefer walking, actually.”
“From what little of Roma I have seen, I can certainly understand why. No matter which direction you go, there is something of interest to see.” When they completed another turn, he asked, “Have you other interests?”
“Only to see to it my great nipote receives an excellent offer of marriage,” she replied, her gaze suddenly darting about the ballroom as if she was in search of said niece. “And you? What are your interests, Mr. McAdams?”
Patrick considered how to respond. He had recently acquired property for his own company off one of the squares featuring three fountains—one topped with an ancient Egyptian obelisk.
The installation of a shingle soon followed.
Only a fortnight ago, he had moved into the apartment above the office space, hired a valet and a housekeeper, set up his office, hired a secretary fluent in both English and Italian, and now employed a network of caddies—young boys who acted as couriers—to see to the quick delivery of messages.
During the six months he had spent in England prior to his arrival in Rome, he had contracted with the British and North American Royal Mail Steam Packet Company for cargo space on their fortnightly runs from Liverpool to Boston.
For shipments from Rome, he had an agreement with the Nattersley Shipping Company to accommodate his occasional shipments on one of their three sailing vessels that traveled between Rome and either Liverpool or London.
Now he had to fill the cargo space.
Although he had some suppliers in Devonshire and Lancashire, he would require additional sources to make his enterprise profitable.
Italian sources for wool and silk.
Spinners and weavers he had in spades, the women either working in their own homes or gathering in a brick warehouse he owned in Boston to create beautiful fabrics.
There, his grown son, Patrick Junior, would see to the distribution of the textiles to their growing network of shops and drapers.
He was thinking of his son when he remembered Armenia had asked him a question. “I fear I’ve had little time for hobbies given my need to set up my office here in Roma. I am expanding my business to include more product from Europe.”
Armenia nodded. “Hence the need for sheep?”
He chuckled. “Sì.”
“Have you found lodgings?”
“I bought an apartment near the Piazza Navona,” he replied, deciding not to admit he had bought an entire building.
Her eyes widened as if she was impressed, but she said, “When we’re close to the conte, simply dance us out of the circle, and I’ll introduce you.”
Furrowing his brows in confusion, Patrick asked, “I won’t have the honor of finishing this dance with you?”
“Do not take offense, Mr. McAdams,” she stated. “But I fear my slippers have become far too uncomfortable for me to enjoy this waltz.”
“I could carry you,” he offered, his grin giving away his tease. “You’re probably light as a feather.”
Beneath his hold, he felt her entire body shiver, and he secretly thrilled that he had discovered something that unnerved her. He did her bidding, though, and turned them out of the circle of dancers only a few feet from where Edoardo D’Avalos stood holding court with a number of older aristocrats.
The satin-clad men parted their circle for Armenia, and Patrick felt a streak of jealousy at the thought that any of them might have shared her bed at some point in the past.
Odd that in the space of only one dance, he felt more affection for the lady than he had with anyone else since the death of his wife.
“Edoardo, there is someone here you simply must meet,” Armenia said, holding out a hand to indicate Patrick. “Signore Patrick McAdams.”
Patrick bowed deeply before shaking the hand that Edoardo held out. “Mio don, it’s an honor,” he said.
“Ah, you are the American who wished to make a deal with me,” the conte said, grinning.
“About sheep, was it?” Armenia asked, arching an elegant brow as if she didn’t believe the reason Patrick had provided.
“Come. I will speak with you in my study,” Edoardo said, waving for Patrick to join him.
Patrick glanced around at the others and nodded before taking Armenia’s hand to his lips. “Thank you for the dance, mia donna,” he said.
Once again, he felt her shiver, but when he straightened, her attention had gone back to the ballroom.
“Prego, Mr. McAdams.”
From her look of worry, Patrick realized she had lost track of her charge.
Since the conte didn’t seem particularly concerned, Patrick followed the aristocrat out of the ballroom, down a short corridor, and into a study featuring a cluttered desk and a huge marble fireplace.
He would have to look for the conte’s aunt later that evening.