Chapter 16 #2
The light from zillions of beeswax candles and gaslights lit from above sought him as if to confer a special favor, burnishing the raw umber of his hair.
He bowed gracefully over a young girl’s hand and kissed it with the girl swooning.
Elizabeth clenched her fists. When he straightened, lifting his eyes–he seemed to beg her to be patient.
“How dare he thinks he’s one of us,” sniped Louise, catching the concentration of Zachary on Elizabeth. “He’s a laborer.”
“He’s trouble,” said her mother. “And way beneath the Spencers. Stay away from him, Elizabeth.”
“I need fresh air.” To stop from weeping from suffocating outrage, Elizabeth took a step forward when Zachary magically stood before her. He leaned into her, dipped a formal bow.
“Good evening, Zachary, I mean, Mr. Rourke...”
His smile broadened, and he bowed his head again—nearer. “I had to perform a series of torturing courtesies to get to you. Don’t tell me you are going to deny me a dance?”
His hot breath touched her ear, sending a delicious shiver across her skin.
She felt like a debutante ensnared in the exhilarating pleasure of her first infatuation.
He was handsome and charming, and for one night she wanted to allow herself to rebel and forget what her parents had portended.
For tonight she desired to imagine that he was entirely appropriate for her.
Zachary shifted beside her, his thigh brushing the silk of her gown.
Her mother cast reproving glances to Elizabeth.
Alva then nodded a tight smile to Zachary.
With dawning realization, Elizabeth grasped the telltale signs of her mother’s warning.
Zachary stood entirely too close to her.
He had dropped his hand from her back, but it rested at his side dangerously close to hers.
She could feel the heat of his arm near hers.
She smiled, listening to O’Reilly’s prattle while soaking up Zachary’s presence.
She raised a brow. “A frontiersman that dances?”
“I can assure you, I will not embarrass you. My mother browbeat us boys into submission when we were young. Dance instruction began in the farmyard. Whoever resisted or failed at the task had to dig out the hog pen. Not a pleasant task.”
On the other side of her father, her mother gasped. Elizabeth put her gloved hand over her mouth and giggled. She needed Zachary’s outlandish behavior like a life raft on an endless ocean. He bowed, and without asking took her in his arms, sweeping her onto the ballroom floor.
“Apologies for appearing late.”
“Whatever do you mean? I didn’t know you were coming.”
He was grinning down at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling attractively. “Mrs. Merriweather informed me that she told you I was coming.”
“Calling me out is hardly appropriate–” she broke off when she realized he was amusing himself at her expense.
The way he moved was memorable, with a controlled and concentrated grace in his dark, conservatively cut double-breasted waistcoat that fit snugly to his broad shoulders, his tall stature, those remarkable dark lashes and cobalt eyes burned indelibly on her mind.
For the next several seconds, she attempted to analyze Zachary’s smell. A delicate cloud of his scent encircled her, subtle, inherent woodsy, lemon bay, but underneath there was something stronger and warm with an almost smoky depth.
She glanced at the other dancers, and the people crowded about the room. Everyone was staring at them. She returned her gaze to Zachary, found him regarding her.
“Let them look their fill. The men are jealous, and the women envious that I dance with the most beautiful woman in New York.”
He was grinning down on her, the corners of his eyes crinkling appealingly.
The gaslight caught the flecks of gold in his deep cobalt eyes, making them appear warmer than usual.
A thrill of pleasure shot through her stomach.
“I feel arrows from your mother and father piercing into my back. What’s wrong? ”
“They look at everyone like that. For me, life is wrong. I’m a prisoner.”
“Family problems?”
“I’m engaged to the Duke of Westerly.”
He missed a step but smoothly accounted for it. “Engaged?”
“Not yet. There are contract arrangements to be finalized.”
“You are in agreement with this business?”
It was the way he asked her that caused her to look up. Because she was irked with him calling her out on knowing he was coming to the ball, she decided to taunt him. “The duke is charming, has a big castle in the clouds and servants aplenty.”
“I saw your intended. I did not fall into raptures over him. Not good enough–”
He looked down on her again, meeting her eyes. She saw his anger and, for the first time ever, observed a hint of vulnerability in their depths. It was all flattering.
Thunderstruck for a moment, she gave a small shake of her head. He was jealous of the duke. The knowledge provided her a sudden buoyancy.
“You would make a lovely couple,” he added.
She missed a beat and managed to step on his foot.
Glaring up at him, she opened her mouth to reply but paused when she saw how he was watching her.
His eyes had narrowed slightly, drawing his brows into the beginnings of that furrow she so enjoyed, but the corners of his mouth tugged upward. “You’re baiting me.”
His expression didn’t change as he led them into a turn. When it was finished, he said, “Perhaps.”
“Why?”
He shrugged, keeping his perfect form. “Because I like how you become extremely proper when you take affront to something. You’re adorable.”
He called her adorable. The term of endearment touched her. “Adorable is for puppies and babies,” she said. “To tell you the truth, I’d rather jump off the Brooklyn Bridge than marry the duke.”
“We could find him a place in the back of the conservatory. Your family might boast two mummies.”
Elizabeth’s mouth dropped with his outrageous suggestion. “Your offer does have appeal.”
He angled his head to her sister, who glared daggers at them. “I take it your sister is part of your betrothal conspiracy?”
“A good sister would jump in front of a carriage to save her sister. Louise would push me in front of the cart.”
“That bad.”
“Worse.”
“Perhaps I should introduce her to the Cheyenne.”
He swept her around and Elizabeth peeled with laughter.
Zachary loved to hear her laugh. “Your sister is resentful for she must compete with the most stunning woman in the room.”
Up close, Miss Spencer was exceptionally lovely.
Best of all were her mouth and her eyes.
Together, they created a sort of wry, amused liveliness, as if whatever occurred to her, she would remain calm, composed and unruffled through it all, and then she would find some value in it to make her smile.
She angled her head up. Her lush mouth mocked him. “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Rourke?”
Elizabeth Spencer was a flower among weeds. The red gown she wore was molded snugly to her narrow waist. Her breasts pushed high enough to spill impressively over the bodice. On any other woman, the gown would be uninspiring, but on Elizabeth, the gown evoked timeless elegance.
“I’m being honest. I wanted to fight every man around you.”
At that moment, another couple bumped rudely into them. The woman trilling with laughter and no apologies.
“Damn.”
Elizabeth missed a step. “Pardon?”
He held her closer and angled his head to the couple.
“Who are they?” she asked.
“Martha and Elias Johnson. Who would have thought they’d be in New York?”
“Acquaintances of yours?” Elizabeth stared after them.
His body grew numb as the Johnsons sniggered and danced away. “More or less. Less would be the crux of it. Stringing them up from the chandeliers might be too kind.”
“I take it you do not like them.”
“An understatement. They are fraudsters in the lowest, most contemptible way. Stole one of my most valued inventions, patented it in their name and made a fortune off my back.”
“Really. Is there any way I can help you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
A man cut in. “I must,” she said, wincing, and angling her head to her father. Pink-cheeked and smiling, she was swept away.
Zachary rolled his shoulders, his coat suddenly tight.
Like dogs baying around the slaughterhouse.
He watched her do several politic sets, whirling around the ballroom.
With each man, he ticked off appropriate Indian tortures.
Burying the walrus-mustached steel heir in the sand up to his neck and letting the fire ants eat him.
The next fellow, a well-dressed dandy, held her too close. How long would it take to cut off his fingers, and then char his soles on hot coals?
The Duke of Westerly let his hand slip from the small of her back to her bottom. Zachary took a step toward her and stopped. Under her hostile glare, she removed the duke’s wandering hand.
Good girl. Except Zachary wouldn’t have been so nice. For the duke, he considered the Apache. They had perfected torture. He’d flay the man alive, starting with his fingers and filleting him to his black heart.
Zachary bored himself with the swirling mass of men in evening dress and women in soft, swishing satin and silk, their talk punctuated with laughter and air around them a heady mix of scents. The smell of success.
Mrs. Merriweather busily escorted Chen and O’Reilly, introducing them to her fellow matrons, and explaining the mystical arts of Chinese medicine. Zachary chuckled. The shy, red-faced Chen abhorred his celebrity.