It was so hot and dry that he felt he could scarcely breathe. He was filthy, his clothes were ragged and he didn’t even care. He was too tired to care about anything. But his heart had leapt at the sound of a gentleman speaking in Danish to his body servant.
“I am American!” He shouted at the man’s back. “My father is William Dalton—he’s wealthy; he’ll pay a lot of money to see me sent home.”
The tall, blond gentleman turned and those steely grey eyes narrowed on Alex. He smiled. “American, eh?” Slowly, he approached. Then he stopped and his gaze seemed to tear Alex apart, piece by piece. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
The gentleman rubbed his mouth, examining Alex once more. A little too thoroughly for Alex’s comfort.
“Underneath all that grime, your hair is light blond, is it not?”
“Yes,” Alex answered, wondering why it mattered in a situation like this.
“Open your mouth, boy.”
“What?”
The Nordic-looking man frowned and snapped his fingers.
The bagnio keeper came running over. “Yes, bay1m?”
“This boy is intact?”
“Yes, but we’re soon to fix—”
The gentleman held up a forestalling hand. “No, I want him as he is. But first I wish to examine his teeth. Please have him restrained.”
“Alex, no word of greeting for your dear cousin?”
Cornelia’s voice cut into his memory, pulling him back to the ballroom. His heart was racing and his shirt stuck to his body like a suffocating second skin.
“You haven’t even introduced me to your lovely companion. Such bad manners. I know your mother taught you better, boy.”
He glanced down at her sharp, blue eyes and small build and he forced a laugh. “Cornelia, let me introduce Miss Emily Eliot.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you, young lady.”
All of it from Aunt Rachel and none of it favourable, he’d wager. He smiled his most charming smile, knowing he’d have to work hard to get Emily into Cornelia’s good books. It was necessary that Emily find some acceptance in this world if Aunt Rachel was to fire her off in the marriage market next season…
“Alex.” Cornelia’s voice came through, polite and soft, with that sharp undertone. “You’re drifting again.”
“Pardon me. Emily, this is my cousin, Mrs Hazelwood.” He winked at Cornelia. “She’s going to take you around and introduce you to some people.”
“Now, wait just a moment, my boy—I’d like to get to know the young lady first, if you don’t mind.” She fixed her sharp blue eyes on Emily. “Who are your people?”
“Thomas Eliot was my father.”
“A sea captain, yes?”
“He was during the revolution.”
“Well, if he was before the revolution, he must have been afterwards. What ships did he sail?”
“He lost his ship.”
“But someone else would have paid him to captain their ship, surely.”
“He died in Algerian captivity, Cornelia,” Alex said with a firm undertone.
“I am just trying to place him in my mind. The Eliots of Boston are a very solid family. I want to know what branch she hails from.”
“Actually, we’re not related to those Eliots. My grandfather came here to Pennsylvania from East Anglia when he was a young man.”
“Oh, I see,” Cornelia said with a pleasant smile. “Well, I hope you have a good time tonight, child. Ah, I see Peter has finally come back down.”
She hurried away, leaving a trail of lavender-scented air in her wake.
“I didn’t do well, did I?”
Alex took her hand and enfolded it in his own. Even through her gloves, cold radiated from her to him. She was nervous. He caressed her palm with his fingers. “You did fine. She’s just…difficult. She’ll warm to you in time. I’ll make certain of it.”
“Yes, you always get your way.” She gave him a somewhat sad and wistful smile.
For the first time that evening, he suddenly saw her. Truly saw her as she was with her elegantly coiffed hair and crown of gilded laurel leaves. But he noticed so much more. She had changed since their first night. Her face had filled out. All her sharp angles were gone. Her breasts were the size of small peaches and filled out the bodice of her dark green gown quite nicely, with a delicate refinement that he found very enticing. She looked like a young woman, no longer a girl.
Equal parts of tenderness and lust pressed on him. He had to tell her.
“You are beautiful tonight.”
Emily thought for a moment that she hadn’t heard him correctly. Oh, he’d often called her lovely in that careless, charming way of his. But truly beautiful?
He smiled, his eyes warming. “You’re the most beautiful woman here tonight.”
Lord, such talk would go to her head.
“You needn’t flatter me, Alex.” She snapped the words more harshly than she had intended. But damn it, he frightened her when he looked at her like that. She was afraid she’d believe in it too much.
He leaned away for a moment, frowning at her. “I certainly mean every word.”
Despite his light tone and pleasant expression, darkness shadowed his eyes. She could almost believe she had hurt him.
You don’t really know this man. His family—even the man himself—tells you not to trust him.
He was frightfully handsome in his dark blue, double-breasted coat with a white satin waistcoat and buff-coloured breeches that ended two inches below his knees with white stockings and polished buckled shoes. Excellent tailoring made his clothes cling to his powerful body in a sublime way. His hair shone like spun gold in the light from the countless jasmine-scented candles in the shiny brass candelabra above.
He was every inch her sun god—even more handsome than when she’d first met him in the Blue Duck—and yet he would never truly be hers.
He had told her he loved her and then in the next breath told her his love was meaningless.
He offered his arm and she took it, feeling the whole time the discontinuity between touching him in the here and now, yet never being able to hold on to him. He was like a mirage in her life. Something too extraordinary to be true. They walked through the brightly lit assembly room, which was really two parlours opened onto each other with their usual furnishings removed. A musical quartet began playing in one corner.
He took her around the room, introducing her to a plethora of people. She would never remember their names. He knew them all and their stories. He had a kind, considerate word for everyone. It made her aware of how very different they were. He was so charming, so socially facile. She would never be comfortable in a crowd. Even more proof of how unworthy she was of him. How poorly they fitted together.
Mrs Hazelwood returned to Alex’s side, bringing with her a black-haired woman. She must have been around thirty. She was tall, with a body like a Grecian statue, and her oval face had the classic features of a cameo. Her gown of emerald silk was the height of elegance and not a hair in her coiffure was out of place. Her cleavage was of epic proportions. She smiled, dimples popping out on both sides of her face while her big blue eyes, alight with joy, devoured Alex whole.
The way he seemed to freeze at the sight of the woman, the way his pupils dilated slightly, told her everything. They were lovers.
Yes, of course Emily had known he must have many lovers. She’d not allowed herself to think long on it. She certainly hadn’t been prepared to face one of them in the flesh, especially not such a living paragon of beauty.
“You naughty boy—Brigit tells me you haven’t even called on her yet,” Mrs Hazelwood said, slapping his hand lightly.
“I have been very busy,” Alex said in smooth tones, turning on Brigit a smile of such dazzling warmth that it made Emily’s insides twist. But then again, he’d smiled at everyone like that tonight. Charm seemed to be his habit.
“Too busy to spare an hour here or there?” Brigit laughed, a sound like tinkling bells. “My word, that is busy.” She shifted her gaze critically to Emily and raked her gaze over her. Her eyes hardened even as a relaxed smile crossed her perfect, cupid’s bow mouth. “So, you are Alex’s little artist?”
“Alex is always dabbling in some project or other, if he is not running off on some voyage,” Mrs Hazelwood said.
“Yes—pity that he so quickly grows bored with most of his”—once again, Brigit raked her blue eyes over Emily—“projects.”
A touch on her arm startled her. She turned. Mrs Hazelwood was beaming a smile up at her. “Why don’t you come with me, Miss Eliot, and I shall introduce you to some people.” She nodded at Alex. “And you can dance with Brigit and get caught up with each other.”
There was no way to decline even if she’d wanted to. But she would rather have died than allow Alex to know that she was deathly green jealous of the beautiful Mrs Forbes.
Mrs Hazelwood led her away. “Mrs Forbes and Alex are old friends. They knew each other as children. Now that Mr Forbes has passed on, Mrs Forbes is doing the best she can to run the mercantile business he left her. Alex advises her.”
Yes, Emily was sure he did.
“Child,” Mrs Hazelwood said. “Why did you not tell me that your mother’s father was a Virginia Fletcher?”
“I didn’t think much of it. She was estranged from her family after she married my grandfather.”
“They are a very fine and old family in Virginia.” Mrs Hazelwood beamed a dazzling smile at her and squeezed her arm. “You must show more pride in your origins.”
The ladies were far warmer to Emily now that she was on Mrs Hazelwood’s arm and not Alex’s. They made the rounds of the ballroom and then she returned Emily to Alex and left them there.
Alex was silent, watching the dancers. Emily didn’t know what to say.
A woman was making a beeline for them. Her faddishly short-cropped, strawberry-blonde hair was wisped into a crown of curls, a fetching foil for her delicate features. Her skin was like old ivory and her figure lush. Obviously this was another of Alex’s tea-drinking ladies. Were none of them less than perfect?
“Alexander Dalton, you’re in town two whole weeks and not a word have I heard from you!” Smiling toothily, the woman rapped Alex playfully on the arm with her closed fan and her hazel eyes glittered teasingly.
He laughed nonchalantly. “I’ve been busy.”
“So I’ve heard,” she replied, eyeing Emily archly. “Well, aren’t you going to introduce me to your pretty little propagandist?”
“I am no one’s propagandist. It was only chance that my work coincided with Mr Dalton’s goals. I wrote my book in honour of my father, who died in Algerian captivity.”
“Most people assume the book was Alex’s idea. After all, you’re just a sketch artist, a female, not to mention so very young and timid. Well, no one knows anything about your people—”
“Put your claws away, Maggie,” Alex said, laughingly. “Miss Eliot worked on that book for two years before I even met her.”
Maggie seemed unfazed by Alex’s casual, almost disrespectful demeanour. She fanned her face slowly, batting her lashes as she leaned a bit closer to Alex. “And does your propagandist dance?”
“No, I don’t,” Emily said.
Maggie smiled. “Then you won’t mind if Alex dances with me. He is an excellent dancer and, unlike so many men, he seems to enjoy it. It would be a pity if he had to sit out every set tonight.”
“Maggie, I don’t think—” Alex began.
Emily spoke over him, “Oh please, do dance with her. She’s right—you shouldn’t have to remain on the sidelines just because I can’t.”
Alex’s jaw tightened ever so slightly but he offered his arm to Maggie and escorted her to where the other couples were lining up for another set. It didn’t matter whom he danced with. Truly it didn’t. She would soon be finding a new job and leaving his house. He would simply be a pleasant memory.
Why, then, did her throat burn to see him turn and smile at Maggie? Beautiful, flawless Maggie. Emily could never hope to be in the same class as his other women. She couldn’t hope to hold his attention for long. But she couldn’t stay and watch this scene unfold, either.
She went out onto the balcony to clear her head with the cool, crisp night air. Something rustled in the hedge to her left. She turned to look down and, between the bushes and the window, off to the side of the balcony, a pair of startlingly sky-blue eyes met hers, wide and frightened.
“Elizabeth, what are you doing there?” Emily said.
The little girl took flight, running towards the garden, her pale blonde ringlets bouncing and her flannel nightdress glowing ghostly white in the moonlight.
Emily hadn’t meant to frighten her. And it was such a cold night—she shouldn’t be running about in just a nightdress. She hurried down the stairs to follow the child into the garden. A flash of white flitted into the hedges that bordered the far end of Mrs Hazelwood’s property and she quickened her pace. When she reached the border, she caught another flash of white from the corner of her eye.
She turned.
Elizabeth was standing there looking up at the tall, thin shadow of a man. The man was fishing in his pockets. He handed something to the girl. She took it and studied it.