by Renee Ryan
What was she up to?
One way to find out. He would let her play out her charade awhile longer. Jackson tapped into his renowned patience and waited for her to take the next step. She brazened it out for several long heartbeats and then slowly broke eye contact.
The next move was his.
He took a step in her direction. She lifted her chin at a haughty angle. Hoping to intimidate her, to force her hand, he took another step, stopped, frowned.
What did he care if Miss Caroline Harding belonged at this party? Unless she was here to hurt his future bride, her presence was of no consequence to him.
Turning purposely away from the woman, Jackson motioned Luke to join them. “Elizabeth, I assume you know Lucian Griffin.”
Elizabeth’s eyes twinkled in recognition. “Well, yes, we are acquainted.”
Luke stepped forward and took his time addressing both Elizabeth and her new friend.
Jackson found his gaze settling on Caroline Harding’s face once again. The stutter in his heartbeat urged him to look closer.
She was dressed more elegantly than when last they met. Her blue gown was cut in the height of fashion. With her hair piled on top of her head in a loose style that left tendrils framing her face. She had an air of innocence and propriety, appearing to be the very image of a young woman navigating her way through the labyrinth of New York society with great success.
The woman standing before him was no regular society miss—that much he knew. But neither did she appear to be a down-on-her-luck immigrant.
Who was the real Caroline Harding? This elegant, perfectly coiffed creature, or the more humble version he’d met on Orchard Street? And why was she befriending Elizabeth?
The best way to find out was to keep the woman close. Jackson liked that idea. He liked it a bit too much.
Chapter Six
Caroline attempted to settle her raging pulse. From the moment she’d caught sight of Jackson Montgomery entering the drawing room, she’d been aware of his uncompromising masculinity. Even dressed in elegant evening attire, he had the aura of a sly predator. Most of his acquaintance would probably consider it harmless. Not so Caroline.
A shiver navigated down her spine. She could not allow herself to be afraid of him. Jackson Montgomery was just another man at just another party among the New York elite. Except . . .
Nothing could be further from the truth.
He’d recognized her. That much she was able to deduce from the cool, narrow-eyed gaze he had fixed on her. At any moment, he would call her out for being a fraud.
Montgomery chose a different route, determined silence. Clever man. Caroline felt a stab of surprise but would not allow him to gain the upper hand.
This scenario was no different than any of the high-stakes card games she’d joined in the past year, where losing was not an option. Better than anyone else in this room, she knew that Jackson Montgomery was a dangerous man.
Lucian Griffin said something that made Elizabeth laugh. The sound was a pleasant, sweet melody similar to Mary’s tinkling amusement. Caroline bit her bottom lip in dismay. She missed Mary and made a mental note to visit her friend soon. But, for now, Caroline must focus on her cousin. Nothing could be allowed to distract her from getting to know this young woman.
Elizabeth St. James was nothing like she’d expected. There was no subterfuge or playacting in the girl, no indication she was the spoiled heiress Caroline had expected to meet here tonight. Her obvious goodness, so much like Mary’s, made Caroline suffer an unbearable churning of guilt and regret.
Unfamiliar longing touched her heart, a longing to be the kind of person she sensed in Elizabeth and Mary.
“Miss Harding.”
Caroline steeled herself as Jackson Montgomery moved into her line of vision, subtly cutting her off from the rest of the occupants in the room. He was standing too close, the pleasing scent of his spicy shaving soap drifting into her nose.
“Your name is vaguely familiar.” He spoke in the same flat, emotionless tone he’d used right after he’d slammed George Smythe up against the tenement house wall. “Have we met before tonight?”
Caroline swallowed. He was baiting her, daring her to reveal her hand. It was far too soon for that.
A master at bluffing, she knew what she had to do next, knew how to play this game. “That’s hardly likely. I only just arrived in America a few weeks ago.”
“I see.” He shifted again, all but creating an intimate fête for two. “I missed where you said you were staying.”
“At the Waldorf-Astoria.” Her unspoken message: go on, check for yourself. She’d rented a room in the hotel for this very purpose. All part of her meticulous plan to become a part of her grandfather’s world.
“The Waldorf-Astoria,” he repeated, his dry tone hiding none of his suspicion. “A prudent choice.”
Tread carefully, Caroline. Give him as little information as possible.
If Mary were here, she’d suggest Caroline pray for guidance. Caroline preferred to use her own wits, a much more tangible commodity in situations such as these.
Trapped in Montgomery’s stare, she felt her palms turning moist and hot. Oh, no. She would not be cowed into making a mistake. “Have you been to the famous hotel, Mr. Montgomery?”
“I have dined there a few times.”
A none-too-subtle challenge hovered in his words, daring her to prove—or perhaps disprove—her story, much as a proficient gambler might toss out an important card to see how far his opponent would go.
Now they were on familiar ground.
“What do you think of the turtle soup?” She posed the question with a jerk of her chin, fully aware the hotel was known for the delicacy.
“Personally, I found it rather bland.” A slow smile spread across his lips as he spoke, while his gaze turned dark and volatile. She knew that look well enough. The cat toying with the mouse.
What Montgomery failed to realize was that she was no mouse. She was a cat as well.
“I found the soup utterly horrid,” she said in a conspirator’s whisper.
He laughed at that. A low, deep chuckle that slid across the small amount of exposed skin on her arm. Caroline looked away for a moment, squared her shoulders, then landed her gaze on a spot just over Montgomery’s right shoulder.
“Miss St. James, would you care to dance?”
Caroline started at the request, then quickly realized the words had come from Lucian Griffin, not Montgomery. Both men had the same deep tone and spoke with similar American accents.
She opened her mouth to respond, or rather to refuse, but caught herself just in time. You are Caroline Harding, she reminded herself, not Caroline St. James. Not yet.
Lucian Griffin had been talking to Elizabeth, which was confirmed by the becoming blush spreading across her cousin’s cheeks. “I’d be delighted to dance with you, Luke.”
Smiling in a charming manner, the man took Elizabeth’s hand and gently led her away. Heads bent together, they fell into quiet conversation. Elizabeth, clutching his arm tentatively, seemed a bit nervous in the man’s presence. He covered her hand with his, and she visibly relaxed. Their interaction was really very . . . sweet.
Elizabeth was the enemy, she reminded herself, though the sentiment fell flat.
With an unreadable gaze, Montgomery stretched out his hand to her. “Dance with me.”
Caroline had stalled long enough.
All her planning had led to this night, to this next step in her well-thought-out plan. There would be no getting close to her grandfather if she didn’t first get past Jackson Montgomery.
Smiling with the perfect blend of shyness and naïveté, she took the offered hand. “I’d be delighted.”
He tucked her hand through his arm and turned her in the direction of the ballroom. They didn’t speak as he led her through two more drawing rooms.
Still, Caroline was aware of the man’s hand resting lightly atop hers. She could feel his heat through
her gloves, could feel the firm pressure despite the thin barrier between them.
Against her best efforts to control her reaction, she shivered.
His gaze snapped to her. She gave him nothing to look at but her serene profile.
The ballroom itself was one floor below them. As they drew to a stop at the top of the grand stairway, she was reminded of her entry into America through Ellis Island. Though the twirling dancers made quite a different sight than the sea of desperate immigrants.
She shoved aside her trepidation and focused on this one moment, this one man. “What a lovely ballroom.” She cast a serene smile in Montgomery’s direction. “A bit small, but lovely all the same.”
Very softly, almost as a goad, he gave a partial explanation. “We are not in the habit of building houses with ballrooms here in America. Griffin Manor is one of the few homes in New York that possesses one.”
Caroline already knew this piece of information from her research. She’d also discovered that her grandfather’s home possessed a ballroom as well. There was only one other in Manhattan. “That must present few opportunities for balls.”
He nodded, his austere profile unreadable in the low, flickering light. “There are only a few balls a season, which makes each one that much more special.”
“How very . . . American,” she said, putting a slight note of censure in her tone.
His jaw tightened. “We handle many things differently here in America than you do in England.”
She’d hit a nerve. Remembering the way this man had handled George Smythe, Caroline sucked in a sharp breath.
Montgomery gestured toward the stairs. “Shall we?”
She nodded.
As one, they began their descent of the stairs.
Considering the limited size, the ballroom was relatively spacious, with shiny parquet flooring and a chandelier so grand Caroline was sure it would eclipse the entire apartment where Mary and her family lived. Such a disparity of situations, no different than in England.
“Do you attend many balls back in London, Miss Harding?”
“At least ten a season,” she said without a hint of irony in her voice.
“How about on Orchard Street?” He leaned in close, his voice low and deadly. “Attend any balls down there lately?”
Caroline went very still, the taunt hitting its mark. Her throat tightened as a touch of ice-cold fear made swallowing impossible. Just as quickly, she put a leash on her emotions.
“I . . . no, I have not attended a ball on Orchard Street, as you well know.”
“Indeed.” Turning her into his arms, he began leading her through the complicated three-part steps of a waltz.
“I say, Miss Harding, you dance very well.” His lips curved in a predatory grin. “For an immigrant just off the boat.”
Caroline felt a flush of heat creep across her cheekbones. “You think you know me.” She forced her jaw to relax. “But you have no idea who I am.” Or why I’m here.
“No?” He spun her through a complicated series of turns. “Then, please, Miss Harding, enlighten me. Why would a woman like you, one of impeccable manners and dress, take up residence in a tenement house on the Lower East Side of Manhattan?”
Before answering, Caroline looked at Montgomery with deliberate condescension, as if she had every right to be in this home, as if her heart weren’t pounding in a chaotic rhythm, as if her nerves were completely under control.
He returned her glance with an innocuous one of his own, patience personified, his hold around her waist casual and relaxed.
She wasn’t fooled. The man was ready to toss her out of this home at any moment.
Considering her options, she decided to go with the truth, or at least a portion of the truth. Something in the way Montgomery held her stare, the cool, measured gaze, told her he would accept nothing less.
“I met a girl of limited means on the journey across the ocean.” True. “We became friends, of sorts.” Again, true. But now came a bit of embellishing. “When I found out she needed money, I hired her to become my maid. I then—”
“You mean to tell me”—Montgomery’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits—“you set off for America alone, without a chaperone or a maid in attendance?”
Oh, he was a clever one. No woman of the British upper classes would ever travel alone. She’d nearly given herself away. No more stretching the truth, Caroline decided. Too dangerous. “Of course I already had a maid with me. But Mary needed the money. She was really more a companion than a maid.”
“I see.” Moving them through the dance at a moderate, controlled pace, Montgomery executed a slow turn, and then another, and one more, sliding them across the floor with expert ease.
Throughout the dizzying dance, Caroline became acutely aware of the man’s broad shoulders, lean waist, corded thighs.
And yet. And yet.
And yet, she must remain focused on their conversation.
“Unfortunately, we hit a bad patch of weather halfway into the voyage. The poor girl took ill and never truly recovered. I knew she would have difficulty successfully navigating the registration process at Ellis Island, so I . . . assisted her.”
And that, Caroline decided, was all she was going to say on the matter. Let the man draw his own conclusions. The fewer details she presented at this point, the better.
“How very kind of you.”
Caroline bristled at the patronizing tone. Sweet, compassionate, gentle Mary hadn’t been in need of Caroline’s friendship. And despite Caroline’s attempts to ignore the girl, they’d made a connection, deeper than Caroline had been willing to admit until now.
Careful, careful, she thought, holding herself in check.
She smoothed her expression free of all emotion. “Mary is not a charity project. She is my . . .” Her chin rose in cool defiance. “Friend.”
“This girl, was she—”
“She is not a girl. Her name is Mary.”
“I stand corrected. This . . . Mary, she was the one I saw with you on Orchard Street a few weeks back?”
“Yes, she lives in your tenement house with her aunt and cousin.”
“And you were with her that day . . . because . . .”
“I couldn’t very well leave her to find her way to her aunt’s home alone. Not while she was still ill.”
His hand flexed on her back. “No, you couldn’t.”
The sincerity in his gaze, the hint of admiration, made Caroline nearly gasp with relief. He believed her story. She was definitely . . . practically . . . almost sure of it.
His next words told her otherwise. “That doesn’t explain why you chose to move in with her for two weeks.”
“I told you, she’d taken ill. Someone had to nurse her back to health.”
“Her own family wasn’t up to the task?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Mr. Montgomery. We both know you are smarter than that.”
He didn’t respond. He simply held her stare, waiting for her to continue. She sighed. “You’ve been down to Orchard Street on several occasions. You of all people know the living conditions there, and the necessity for your tenants to work every day in order to survive to the next.”
When he still didn’t respond, she reached for a calm that did not exist. How could he not know what she was talking about; how could he be so thick? Had she underestimated him? Was he as coldhearted as the rest of his kind, as her own grandfather?
Caroline suffered a moment of total disappointment in the man, which was the biggest surprise of the night.
But then Montgomery’s expression softened, and he spoke with a slow, steady voice. “Your friend’s family could not afford to take off from work to nurse her back to health. That is why you stayed with her.”
His grasp of the situation confused her all over again. “Yes, that is correct.”
“You are a rare woman, Miss Harding.”
The compliment sent her pulse pounding in her ears and her heart lurching against her ribs. F
or one dangerous moment the man had made her forget why she was there. A deadly prospect. Caroline couldn’t afford to grow complacent.
Jackson Montgomery sent her mind spinning and made her heart yearn for something more. This put her at a large disadvantage. To deal with her grandfather she would need every available weapon in her arsenal—her wits, nerves of steel, and a heart of stone. Mary had already penetrated the latter. No one else must be allowed to breach any of her defenses.
As if sensing her moment of vulnerability, Montgomery pulled her a fraction closer. Her breath hitched, and a powerful sense of safety warmed her blood.
Now, she decided, would be a good time to pray.
Chapter Seven
For several long heartbeats, Jackson stared at the woman in his arms. He’d never met anyone quite like Caroline Harding. On the surface, she looked like every other young woman at the party. And yet, she didn’t fully fit in, either.
The same could be said of the woman he’d met two weeks ago near the Bowery, a woman whose humble clothing had done nothing to hide her regal bearing.
Who was she?
Her story about nursing a frail immigrant she’d met aboard ship rang true. He’d seen her with the girl in question and had witnessed the care with which she’d guided her friend through the labyrinth of Orchard Street.
Who was she?
“I have never met anyone like you,” he admitted.
His bluntness seemed to amuse her. “I’m afraid, Mr. Montgomery, I have heard that many times before.”
He wanted to believe she was at this party for harmless reasons. He could not. “Who are you?”
His tone came out more lethal for its softness.
Her eyes widened a tiny fraction, enough to tell him he’d caught her momentarily off guard. She recovered quickly. “I am Caroline Harding, as I’ve already said.”
He’d meant the question rhetorically. But her reaction had Jackson wondering if he’d been right to question her identity. “In a little over two weeks I have met two Caroline Hardings.”