The coach rattled to a halt before the large home, and the group disembarked. Morgan’s eyes met hers as he assisted her down the step, and she found an odd reassurance within them. Enough to encourage her to continue on with the evening and make the best of it. As he led her to the side of the house, where stairs rose to a long piazza mobbed with people, greetings hailed the young Rutledge heirs from all around.
Miss Emerald and Miss Caroline ascended the steps before them, leaning their heads together.
“Can you believe what she is wearing?” she heard Miss Emerald snicker.
Miss Caroline giggled and glanced at Adalia over her shoulder.
Their belittling quips might as well have been spears for all the pain they caused Adalia’s heart. She glanced down at her gown. What had been so beautiful in her dressing mirror now appeared like rags beside the luxurious attire surrounding her. Her eyes burned with tears. She’d been a fool to come.
But it was too late now.
Morgan led her through the crush of men crowding the piazza, drinks and cigars clutched in their fingers. Feeling their gazes assail her as she passed, she held her breath against the sting of tobacco and alcohol, until, finally, they entered the house.
Light from dozens of glittering sconces and chandeliers blinded her. She blinked as they greeted the host and hostess, both of whom barely acknowledged her. A servant announced Mr. Morgan Rutledge and guest. Guest. She supposed that was as fitting a name as any, for with each step she took, she felt more and more like a temporary visitor—a peasant passing through a pageantry of opulence that would always be outside her reach. Perhaps announcing her as stranger or foreigner would have been more apropos.
The foyer was ten times the size of the doctor’s and abuzz with chattering people who all glanced her way to see what strange oddity Morgan had brought to the party. From a room to their left, orchestra music drifted atop the beaded and jeweled coiffures. Before she could protest, a butler took her shawl and Morgan’s cape and hat. She didn’t plan on staying that long.
Morgan patted her hand as he led her into the massive ballroom. No doubt he knew how nervous she was. The first thing Adalia noticed was how large the room was, the second, the intricately carved crown molding lining the ceiling above Dutch floral paintings and crystalline chandeliers—such beauty and lavishness she’d never seen. The third thing she noticed was that once again everyone turned to stare at her. In fact, the chattering faded as ladies leaned together behind fans in clandestine whispers. This time, however, Adalia lifted her chin, took in a deep breath, and met their gazes with equal alacrity. If she was to endure their reproach, she would endure it with courage and pride. What made them think they were any better than her? Yet that was precisely what she saw in their eyes as they tore their gazes away, all save a few of the men who ogled her as if she were one of the sweet treats being passed about on silver trays.
In the center of the oblong room, couples twirled over the floor in some sort of country dance. Adalia gulped. Dancing? She’d been so excited to come, she hadn’t realized there would be dancing. But of course there would be. Her blood made a hasty retreat from her head, her heart, to her feet until they began to ache.
Morgan’s friends gathered in a group to the left of the doors. She wondered if they were paired together, yet the men seemed more interested in a line of radiant young girls looking their way from across the dance floor than in their guests. Hadley excused himself to cross over to them.
Adalia’s eyes were drawn to a man in a dark blue suit of fine-ribbed corduroy. Such a bounty of netted silk bubbled from his sleeves and neck, even the most ostentatious lady at the party would be put to shame. She would hardly have given him a second glance save for the intense glare he’d fixed upon Morgan, a glare that if armed would surely have inflicted a mortal wound.
Before she could inquire about him, Miss Emerald spoke up, “Oh look, Morgan, your nemesis is here to taunt you.”
Morgan’s eyes shifted to the man. He sighed. “And here I’d hoped to escape him this season.”
“Who is he?” Adalia asked, wondering when the man would release his blatant stare.
“Fabian Saville. As you can see, he harbors little affection for me.”
“Well, you did cause him undue embarrassment, Morgan,” Emerald said. “In front of all of society.”
“Five years ago.” Morgan sighed. “You’d think the man would let bygones be bygones.”
Drayton snickered. “But he hasn’t lived it down. Once society dubbed him a limp-wrist, he has carried the stigma ever since.”
“I can hardly be blamed for his continued reputation. It would help if he wouldn’t dress like a fop.”
“And his gestures weren’t so … so … dainty,” Caroline added.
Morgan stared back at the man. “Still, I do wish he would quit challenging me to duels in order to prove his mettle.”
“Why not oblige him?” Drayton said with a yawn.
“I have no quarrel with him. And I certainly do not wish him harm.”
Miss Emerald looped her arm through Morgan’s. “I so adore your confidence, Morgan.”
Mr. Saville finally snapped his gaze away and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Adalia to wonder what prank Morgan had played on the man.
But further thought of the matter seemed to vacate Morgan as soon as Mr. Saville was gone. “Would you care for a drink, ladies?”
“I’d love some punch wine.” Miss Emerald smiled, her voice like honey.
“That sounds lovely, thank you, Morgan,” Miss Caroline added, glancing over the crowd as if she were looking for someone.
“And what would Miss Winston like?” One brow arched playfully above eyes so forest-green she could get lost in them—wanted to get lost in them at the moment.
She swallowed. She had no idea what sort of refreshment they served, and she most certainly didn’t want spirits.
“Lemonade, perhaps?” he saved her, easing a wayward lock of his wheat-colored hair behind his ear.
Why did this man always seem to sense her discomfort? “Yes, thank you.”
He released her hand, grabbed Mr. Drayton, and disappeared into the crowd, leaving her with the two women. Two vixens was more like it.
“So, Miss Winston. Word is you are new to our fair city. From whence do you hail?” Emerald fingered the lace bordering her low neckline.
A gentleman passed by, tipping his head at them with an appreciative gaze.
“Jamaica.”
Miss Emerald shivered. “I hear it is nothing but a cesspool of disease and squalor.”
“Actually it’s quite lovely. Beaches with sand as white and fine as powder. And birds and flowers of every imaginable color and shade.” Though Adalia had never been to Jamaica, she assumed it was much like Barbados. Besides, the woman’s impudent tone annoyed her.
Miss Emerald’s eyes turned to ice. “And you came here for what purpose?”
“To make a living.”
“A living?” She giggled and leaned toward her friend. “What on earth is that?”
Miss Caroline joined her mirth.
Adalia tried to keep the anger from her tone. “A living is putting one’s talents to good use in order to provide for oneself.”
“Of all the …” Emerald huffed. “I know what a living is.”
“Oh, leave her alone, Em.” Miss Caroline smiled at Adalia. “I admire any woman who doesn’t have to rely on a man to survive, even if she must work at a trade to do so.”
Speaking of men, two gentlemen emerged from the crowd, primped in silk, lace, and devouring grins.
The tallest man, who seemed to be the leader, kissed Miss Emerald’s hand. “You look stunning as usual, Miss Emerald.” The man to his left seemed to have forgotten his manners, for his bold stare perused Adalia, making her uncomfortable. The tall man followed suit.
“And who, pray tell, is your lovely friend?”
“She’s not my—This is Miss Adalia Winston.” Emeral
d waved her fan toward Adalia.
“Charmed.” The man took Adalia’s hand and placed a kiss upon it. “I am Richard Sharpe.”
She tugged from his grip.
“And this is Melvin Sharpe, my nephew.”
“A pleasure.” Adalia smiled, peering behind them for any sign of Morgan.
“Would you care to dance, Miss Winston?” Mr. Sharpe asked. “That is, unless your card is already full.”
The hair bristled on Adalia’s arms. She glanced at the men, then at Emerald, then over the dance floor. “No, thank you, Mr. Sharpe. Though I am flattered at the invitation.”
Mr. Sharpe frowned. Miss Emerald’s eyes flashed with understanding. “Miss Winston is not accustomed to dancing. Isn’t that so, Miss Winston?” She tapped Adalia’s shoulder with her closed fan as if christening her a bumpkin.
Adalia bit her lip and lowered her gaze, suddenly wishing she could melt into the floor.
Mr. Sharpe ran a finger over his mustache and leaned toward her. Too close. The smell of cedar oil made her feel suddenly nauseous. “I’d be happy to instruct you,” he said.
“Don’t be silly,” Miss Emerald chirped. “I doubt Miss Winston wishes to embarrass herself. Isn’t that right, Miss Winston?”
Not knowing what to say and too angry to reply, Adalia merely gave her a tight smile.
“Besides.” Miss Emerald fanned her face. “Miss Caroline and I are quite available.”
“Very well.” Richard Sharpe grinned. “Come, Melvin.” He held out his hand for Miss Caroline while Emerald slid her arm through Melvin’s. Emerald cast a look of victory over her shoulder as the couples swept onto the dance floor, leaving Adalia alone—alone and wounded like a bird that had just been attacked by wolves. No sooner had one pack left but another made their approach in the form of three more gentlemen.
She was about to make her way to the door and leave when Morgan and Mr. Drayton returned, drinks in hand.
“Away, away, gentlemen. The lady is with me.” Morgan elbowed away the pesky carnivores and handed her a glass of lemonade.
His words and protective manner surrounded her like a battlement, easing her fears.
“Where on earth did Emerald and Caroline go?” He glanced around, saw them on the dance floor, then shrugged and downed the extra drink in his hand before sipping his own.
Mr. Drayton did the same.
“Would you care to dance, Miss Winston?” Morgan asked.
Adalia nearly choked on her lemonade. She coughed, tightening her lips lest she spray it all over his fine silk waistcoat. That would surely be the perfect ending to the evening’s disastrous start.
“Mr. Rutledge,” she began, wondering how to tell him of yet one more reason in a long list of reasons she shouldn’t have accepted his invitation.
“Call me Morgan. I hate Mr. Rutledge.”
“But that is your name…. Oh, never mind. Morgan, I must tell you something.”
“Ah, a secret.” He sipped his drink, his eyes twinkling at her from above the glass. Then leading her aside, he stepped closer. His spicy masculine scent filled the air between them.
Adalia ignored the mischief in his eyes. “I’m serious.”
“Why ever for, Miss Winston? You have a lovely smile.”
“I cannot dance,” she huffed. There, she had said it.
Still he waited as if there were something else she would add. One tawny brow arched.
“Not a single step,” Adalia added with emphasis. “Well, I did learn a reel with my father when I was young. Very young.”
He laughed and fingered the cultured whiskers on his chin. “You are ever a delight, Miss Winston.
“This is no laughing matter, sir.”
He stopped laughing, but his amused smile seemed permanently attached to his lips. “Then we will only dance a simple country set. Besides I didn’t bring you here to dance.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
“Don’t you know, miss?” He leaned toward her, his mouth a mere whisper from her ear, his breath sending shivers across her neck. “Just to be near you.”
Sensing her tentative mood, her nervous reaction, Morgan watched Adalia as she followed his steps in the country dance. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass her or make her uncomfortable. He did his best to lead her through all the steps, and indeed, she was doing a remarkable job. His admiration for her rose yet another notch among the many that had risen since he’d picked her up at the doctor’s home. He’d been concerned at her reaction to his friends’ bombastic behavior, but she seemed unaffected by it. He’d heard the ladies belittling her gown, and still Miss Winston had held her head up with more class than either of them possessed. Now, she risked society’s scorn by attempting an unfamiliar dance.
She gave him a nervous smile as she placed her gloved hand on his outstretched one and they spun about. He found her simple gown refreshing. Simple and alluring like her. The tiny flowers in her hair only enhanced her ebony curls as they bounced across her neck. She didn’t need jewels or pearls or silk to enrich her beauty. Her loveliness shone through her eyes and in her lustrous skin. It exuded from her in an innocent charm he’d felt from no other lady.
As soon as the dance was over, her grip on him relaxed. They made their way to the refreshment hall for cake and libation. Though he tried to encourage his friends to engage her in conversation, they seemed intent on discussing their favorite topic—themselves—while ignoring her altogether. Yet, when he glanced her way, she didn’t seem to care. Instead, she moaned with ecstasy over each bite of cake as she gazed across the room with such wonder and delight, he would have thought she was in the midst of St. James’s Palace in London she was so enchanted. Her eyes roved over the gold-gilded mirrors hanging on floral wallpaper, the bouquets of roses scattered across the mahogany buffet tables laden with all manner of sweet cakes and puddings, the Turkish carpet set before a massive marble fireplace, the mantle, which held antique china figurines. With wide eyes and open mouth, she was like a child seeing the world for the first time.
Adoring all the opulence that had become so droll to him.
He found it utterly charming.
Emerald tapped him on the shoulder and fluttered her thick lashes his way. “Morgan, you’ve not danced with me all evening.” Her bottom lip protruded in a childlike way. A plethora of ivory curls framed her face. She was indeed a beauty. And one sought out by most every man in the city. Then why did Morgan feel nothing when she cast her attentions his way?
“Surely you can leave little Miss Healer for one dance.”
Morgan’s jaw tightened. “Her name is Miss Winston.”
“Yes, yes.” She faced Miss Winston. “Do forgive me. You know I’m teasing you. I truly do admire your skill.”
Miss Winston gave her a cursory smile and returned to admiring her surroundings.
Out of the corner of his eye, Morgan winced at the sight of Lord Demming approaching. The beastly man stopped, his body as rigid as a mast, before Morgan and lifted a quizzing glass to examine Miss Winston. “Morgan. I shall be utterly insulted if you do not introduce me to your guest.”
Morgan released a sigh. “Lord Demming, may I present Miss Adalia Winston. Miss Winston, Lord Demming. He is the speaker of the General Assembly and a descendant of the Earl of Demming.” Though Morgan heard he was the younger son of the late earl and therefore had no right to the title “lord.” But such things were tolerated in America.
The man’s chest swelled at the introduction. “I have not seen you before, Miss Winston. Newly arrived in town? I dare say, I normally hear word of any gentry settling among us.”
To her credit, Miss Winston did not falter beneath the man’s inquisition. “Yes, newly arrived, your lordship.”
“And where, pray tell, is your father’s land?” He studied her once again through his quizzing glass.
Morgan cringed and sipped his drink. He needed to intervene. Distract His Lordship from his line of questioning. Protect Miss Wins
ton. “Lord Demming, I heard an additional ten men were added to the city guard?”
His Lordship shot Morgan an annoyed look.
Miss Winston lifted her chin and swallowed. “I have no father, your Lordship. I am an orphan.”
“Indeed?” Lord Demming lowered his glass. “Then an uncle or brother perhaps?”
Morgan must find an excuse to leave before Lord Demming unleashed his pretentious screed upon the unsuspecting Adalia. Yet part of him wished to see how this courageous lady would stand up to the most pompous man in town.
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