by Rose Gordon
“Oh, they're starting the next reel. Let's go,” she said, grabbing his hand.
John's gaze shot to their entwined hands. Hers was small and delicate, covered with a long, white lacy glove, while his was cut up and dirty from a hard day of work at the mill. He tried not to scowl at her or pull his hand from hers, but inwardly he cringed. It was ladies like her, the ones who were too forward and played loose with their affections, who made fools of their husbands.
He sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving that after this dance, he'd be free of her and her scandalous behavior.
John made his way to the center of the floor with her and nearly groaned when he recognized the piece as a slower song, one that didn't allow for changing partners or even a temporary separation from the dancer’s original partner.
The piano player began with a slow minuet, and instinctively, John moved his feet to those familiar steps he'd been made to practice as a boy.
“Why were you exiled?”
John snapped his eyes down toward the boldness-in-a-skirt who was his dance partner. “I wasn't,” he said slowly. He twirled her and then brought her back against him. “Why would you think that?”
She flashed him a smile that nearly stole his breath away. She might be bold, but she was certainly beautiful, too. “I just assumed, that's all. I haven't seen too many English around since the end of the war. I didn't think any would come here, unless they found themselves in a condition at home which was worse than the hatred they'd find here.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. Fortunately, in the northern cities he'd visited, nobody had questioned his loyalties or where he'd come from and why. He'd assumed that was because his accent was similar to theirs, thus they hadn't noticed the difference in his speech as the folks of Charleston had. “But, no, I am not living out the rest of my days in exile.”
“Then why did you come?”
He shrugged. She couldn't possibly begin to understand the heavy weight he'd felt concerning his life and having had it all planned out since the day he was born. Nor did he really wish to tell her. “My brother suggested I come.”
“Has he been here?”
“Not the one who suggested I come. But two of my other brothers have, and both of them returned dressed identically to how I look tonight,” he said with a quick grin.
Her cheery laughter filled the air and an uninvited tendril of desire coiled in his gut. “Did they fight in the Revolution?”
“You mean the Rebellion?” He winked at her when she misstepped. “Yes.”
“I'm sorry,” she murmured.
He heaved an exaggerated sighed. “I suppose I'll have to forgive you. But just don't shoot Jarred in the backside again, please.”
Her brown eyes grew to the size of his sister-in-law's favorite tea saucers, just as he'd hoped they would. If she thought to play the role of cosmopolite by boldly pressing him for an invitation to dance and going so far as to stand close and touch his person, then he'd play right along with her and adopt Edward's tendency to say whatever scandalous thing came to mind for the sole purpose of shocking her.
“Wh-what?” she stammered.
“Two of my brothers, Thomas and Jarred, came to fight in your revolution,” he said, hating the way that word tasted bitter on his tongue. At least his brothers had returned home, he reminded himself. Beaten and weary, they may be, but at least they'd returned. “They returned, but not without their share of injuries. One was the result of Jarred taking a musket ball in the derriere.”
She choked on her laughter. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am,” he said flatly. Did she truly find that humorous? There went his attempt to scandalize her into leaving him alone. Not that he should have actually expected it to work. His words were evidently too mild for a forward young lady like this one. “Still there, too,” he continued. “The physician who came to Watson Estate said it was in there so deep that it'd be best to leave it.”
Her face shone with laughter—or perhaps that was the candles' reflection off her damp cheeks, where tears, presumably borne of laughter, had streamed down her face. She blinked her eyes and sniffled once. “Watson Estate? Is that the name of your...your...whatever you call it back in England.”
“My home?”
She made a show of rolling her eyes. “Yes, I assumed that; but here our large pieces of land are called plantations because we grow crops on them. I didn't know what you called them there.”
“Ah, nothing so fancy, I'm afraid,” he said with a casual shrug. “Watson Estate is just the house and land that's positioned at the seat of my brother's barony.”
Her eyes widened again as he knew they would. “Your brother is a land baron?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, he's a baron. But you're too late; he's already married.”
She knit her brows as if she didn't understand his jest and then forced a thin smile.
“You do know what a baron is, don't you?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said, blushing.
John shook his head. She very clearly didn't know a thing about English titles. Not that it mattered. Most people his age who he'd met here didn't. A few did, but mostly only those who had immigrated here as children. It would seem in their hurry to form a new world, things such as class and peerage were abandoned and not missed.
“What are your reasons?”
She blinked at him. “Pardon me?”
“Since my dancing with you is keeping you from Goliath’s proposal, I think I should at least get to know your reasons for wishing to evade it.”
“Other than him being as tall as a tree and as rough as its bark?”
He nodded.
“It's not him, necessarily...” She shrugged. “The problem is more that I've told him no before. He just keeps asking, and I hate to see that sad look come over his face and know I caused it.”
“I see,” John said, though he didn't see at all. Why would a gentleman ask the same lady more than once to marry him? She was attractive, to be sure, but who wished to subject himself to rejection twice?
A soft humming that went in time with the music floated to his ears. Without even needing to look to confirm it, he knew whence the merry sound was coming. At least it was better than her talking or flashing him her smile, he told himself. This way, he could force himself to stare at something—anything—other than her in order to keep himself distracted and not seem rude.
He danced her around the room in companionable silence until the music came to an end with a grand ringing crescendo.
Relief washed over him like a seaquake. This young lady was extraordinarily beautiful to behold, but she was not for him, and the sooner he could get away from her, the better off he'd be. He offered her his arm like the proper gentleman he'd been brought up to be, then led her to where a little cluster of older women had congregated.
“You're a wonderful dancer,” his former dance partner said without showing a sign of releasing his arm.
He stared at her. What was her game? Did she think if she held onto him and complimented his dancing that he'd agree to keep her company for the rest of the evening so she could escape her lovesick suitor? If so, she was about to be sorely disappointed. He had no desire to be used tonight. He just wanted to find his friend then go back to his rented room and sleep. Dancing with an attractive but shameless young lady was not a priority.
Apparently, according to both this young lady and fate, his plans were unimportant at the moment.
“Thank you,” he said stiffly, trying to remove her hand from his arm without being too obvious.
Her grip tightened and she flashed him a smile. “Don't worry; I shan't expect you to dance again so soon. How about I introduce you to everyone?”
He didn't want her to show him around. He'd scanned the crowds as they'd danced. Gabriel wasn't here. He needed to leave so he could find the man, not chat it up with a room of southern aristocrats who hated him on principle alone.
“Come, I'll introd
uce you to my mother.”
John bit his tongue so he didn’t say something unkind. “Miss—” He frowned. He didn't even know her name! A slow smile spread his lips. “Lead the way.”
She eyed him askance, and he averted his eyes. While he had no strong urge to meet her mother, he was rather curious how this quick to action, but not so quick to thinking, miss would introduce him to her mother given that they hadn't even been properly introduced.
Suddenly, something hard and forceful landed on John's shoulder.
John spun around and met the large green eyes of the man from the corner.
“I believe 'tis my turn with the lady,” he sneered; his distaste for an Englishman escorting his desired lady evident.
John glanced at the lady in question and watched her visibly swallow. A kernel of pity took root somewhere within him, and he instinctively reached for her hand again and mindlessly placed it back on his arm, then covered it with his free hand. “I believe she's still spending time with me,” he said smoothly.
The other man twisted his lips then he ran his purple tongue over his stained teeth. “Is that so?” He moved his eyes to the young lady standing next to John. “Have you forgotten we was supposed to talk after you spoke to O'Leary?”
The young lady's fingers tightened their hold on John's arm as if it were some sort of lifeline she'd been thrown while drowning in the Atlantic. “I'm sorry, Myron, I cannot marry you,” she whispered.
The other man's face fell. “But, why not? I own my own business. It's not too fancy now, but it'll be enough to keep you in town, I think,” he asked; his lower lip holding the slightest quiver.
“I know,” she said, licking her lips. “I just don't think I'd make you a good wife.”
Myron didn't look convinced. “That's not true. You'd be a great wife.”
She smiled. “Thank you, but what I said was that I don't think I'd make you a good wife.”
The other man folded his arms and gave a curt nod to her. Next, he turned his attention to John and let his gaze travel from John's mussed hair to his worn shoes then shook his head.
Frankly, if John were him, he'd be confused, too; there was nothing wrong with that gentleman. She was a fool to let him go.
“What are you doing?” John asked without ceremony as soon as the man was out of earshot. “He may not have a gentle grasp and might lack a few manners, but otherwise, he's quite a catch.”
The addled woman looked at him, shrugged and said, “Just as I'll make a fine wife for someone else, he'll make a find husband for another woman. Besides, I've set my sights on someone else.”
John didn't even pretend to misunderstand her. He couldn't. There was absolutely no way that could possibly be misunderstood, from her blushing cheeks to her not-so-discreet smile to her subtle-as-a-hippopotamus-pulling-a-carriage-down-the-streets-of-London statement. She'd set her cap on him, and God only knew why.
He lifted his free hand and idly scratched his temple. It was merely irritating when he'd thought she was using him to escape the company of another gentleman. But, for her to have formed some sort of attachment to him after only twenty minutes was pure lunacy.
John cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I think we need to discuss something,” he said as calmly as he dared.
“No, I don't believe there is anything left for the two of you to discuss,” a waspish woman with shrewd brown eyes and a deep scowl said, coming up to them.
The raven-haired young lady blushed. “Mother, I'd like you to meet—”
“Do not finish that sentence,” her mother snapped. “I have no desire to make the acquaintance of any vagrant.”
John didn't even try to hide his grin. Her mother had good taste. If he were she, he wouldn't wish to make his acquaintance, either. However, her easy dismissal and obvious disapproval of him provided him the perfect means to escape the clutches of this misguided miss. He removed her hand from his arm and gave her a final nod.
One thing was for certain: she'd been correct when she'd said she'd make someone a good wife. But like Mr. Cale, it wouldn't be John.
~Chapter Four~
Carolina stood paralyzed as the man who just might forever hold her heart walked from the room.
“Stop gawking, Lina,” Mother said in a tone hard as steel.
Despite her mother's edict, Carolina didn't stop staring, as in her mind, the memory of them dancing played over and over.
“Oh look, Lina,” her mother said in a voice dripping with false charm and an overdone smile taking her lips. “Speak of the devil, there is Liam Farnsworth!”
Liam Farnsworth, who was no less than ten years older than her father but wealthy enough for Mother to see him as a young, virile twenty-five, lumbered over. “Good evening, Miss Lina, Mrs. Ellis.”
With a none-too-gentle reminder of her manners by way of a sudden vice-like grip on her arm just above her elbow, Carolina murmured her greetings and agreed to dance with him.
Fortunately, the reel started out more upbeat than the last one had, and Liam wasn't afforded much opportunity to engage her in conversation for the first half of the dance. Not that she'd have been able to pay attention anyway. Her mind was far too occupied with thoughts of her former dance partner to be able to bother with trivial matters such as Liam Farnsworth would like to discuss.
He led her to the dance floor and, like all the other gentlemen she'd met this summer, followed the first half of the dance routine exactly. The music slowed down, indicating it was now time to slow their steps and dance closer together.
“I hope you're enjoying your stay in the city. Did you know it was named Charles Towne because in...”
Carolina was overwhelmed with the urge to pull all of her own hair out. There was no doubting it now; she had to find a way to manage another meeting with her English stranger. Then, when she found him, she'd have to hold onto his arm and never let go.
As if those who influence fate were smiling down on Carolina Ellis and her scandalous dream of being swept away by an Englishman, such an opportunity was afforded her not twenty-four hours later when she saw him while trying to avoid anyone who might recognize her on this side of town.
“What are you doing here?” the handsome stranger asked as if that were a perfectly acceptable way to greet someone.
Carolina mindlessly swept a stray hank of hair behind her ear. “It's wonderful to see you again so soon.”
He grunted and shifted the small pile of logs in his arms, presumably to make them easier to carry. He must have worn his nicest clothes last night, for the ones he wore today were far more stained and ill-fitting than the ones he'd worn to the ball. His tattered, blue trousers had two large holes in the knees, and around the holes, the fabric was fraying. What she could see of his shirt was covered with large brown stains; and as the large muscles in his arms and shoulders flexed to hold the wood, she noticed a split in the arm that looked to be on the verge of tearing more. Oh how she'd like to feel those muscles. Her eyes grew wide at the scandalous thought!
“How did you find me?”
Carolina shrugged and flashed him her best smile, ignoring the jar of butterflies that seemed to be let loose in her stomach every time he spoke to her. “'Twas fate.”
He scoffed and shook his head. “No, it was you stalking me.”
“Stalking you?” she gasped. “And how do you propose I did that? Waited for you to leave the ballroom last night and then walked a safe distance behind you? Oh, then I'd have had to sleep somewhere—on your front stoop, perhaps? Only to wake before dawn to stand in the shadows until you emerged from your home, then crept like a cat behind you and waited in the foreman's quarters until just now to present myself to you? Not only does that sound ridiculous, you've forgotten that I've changed my gown since then.”
His eyes narrowed. “Lady, you know far too much about what would be involved in stalking a man for your own good. It's rather unnerving.” He shifted the logs in his arms. “But just so you know, I'm not dimwitted en
ough to believe you actually did the stalking. I assumed you'd hired someone.”
Carolina waved her hand in front of her face. “Not at all. As I said, it was fate that led me to you—both times.”
The handsome but terribly disheveled man in front of her muttered something she couldn't understand other than something about something being unbelievable.
“It's not unbelievable. I actually have a good reason to be here.”
He shot her a dubious expression. “And what is that?”
“Silas.”
“Silas?” he repeated. “What business does a young lady like you have with him?”
“None,” she acknowledged. “But Bethel seems to like him quite a bit.”
“Bethel?” he asked, frowning.
“She's...uh...” she swallowed her unease. “She works in our house.” Carolina glanced over John's left shoulder to where Bethel and Silas were engaged in conversation. Silas had to be the luckiest man Carolina had ever met. Not only had their neighbor Jacob Reynolds granted Silas his freedom at the end of the Revolutionary War, but he'd somehow managed to win Bethel's heart.
Trips to their Charleston townhouse were rare; so when they came to town, Carolina tried to think up reasons to go to the mercantile as often as she could to give Bethel a chance to see Silas while she took the long way to the store. It was the only relationship the two would ever have. He lived in town. She didn't. He was free. She wasn't. They could never really be more or have more than a passing relationship.
Carolina pushed away her thoughts. There was nothing she could do to change Bethel's fate and wishing she could only led to more sadness. “I'm glad I found you though,” she said. “I've been meaning to talk to you— what is that about?” she demanded when he started shaking his head.
“Do you realize you don't even know my name?”
Carolina started. He was absolutely right. “I'm sorry. Usually—never mind. I shall break custom of a proper introduction and tell you my name is Carolina. Like the state.”
He shook his head again as if annoyed by her mere presence.