by Cindy Nord
Chapter Eight
Champagne flowed like water as crystal goblets sparkled in the partygoers’ hands. Tapers and glass-globed oil lamps cast an elegant glow across the bustled silks and satins worn by the ladies, the soldiers decked out in blue wool, and the few men dressed in civilian attire. Glasses of whiskey and wine were raised high as oft-told tales were once again shared. In the far corner, the musicians struck up another melodious tune. And like moths to a flame, the ebullient couples fluttered out onto the dance floor.
Peering over the shoulder of her first dance partner, Alma scanned the hallway teaming with guests.
Still no sign of Dillon Reed.
The nerve of the man.
Her companion, a scrawny lieutenant, cleared his throat. “May I say you dance quite well, Miss Talmadge?”
She smiled, ignoring the cow-eyed adoration he’d bestowed upon her since the moment she’d accepted his invitation. “Why, thank you...” Oh dear, I’ve already forgotten his name. “I love to waltz and if given the chance would do so from dusk until dawn.”
A commotion sounded near the entry, and a newly-arriving couple sashayed into the party.
Alma thinned her lips, glancing at the mahogany case clock anchored near the stairway in the hall.
Fifteen minutes late. He’d been told precisely seven o’clock.
The front door opened, and the oil lamp in the entry hall flickered once more.
A tall, well-built man entered the room, ambling straight into Alma’s view. His back toward her, she admired his dark hair, the pleasing shade of brown falling to his shoulders. Individual strands caught the lamplight.
She stifled a grin. Maybe Libby knows him. Regardless, he wasn’t wearing a uniform. She liked his black, well-cut frockcoat pulled taut over broad shoulders. Matching pants tapered to an expensive pair of Wellingtons. Even his fingernails were trimmed. Perhaps he was a government buyer from back east? No. His hair is too long, and no mutton chops.
Excitement slid through her veins.
Now this virile man she approved.
And yet, from his confident stance, he seemed out of place in this group of dandified men. The foppish face of her fiancé flitted through her mind. Alma shuddered and shoved away the image of Lord Green.
Then this Johnny-come-lately turned to face the crowded parlor.
Alma gasped – Holy Mother! It’s Dillon Reed!
“I’m sorry, Miss Talmadge,” the lieutenant said. “Did you say something?”
Stunned, she tore her gaze from the handsome features of her unwanted escort, and back to the officer whose arm wrapped her waist. “N-No,” she stammered, struggling to calm her thudding pulse. “But I do believe I must stop dancing now. I’m feeling rather…faint.”
Worry creased the young officer’s brow. “Of course.” He guided her over to Libby. “Would you like me to bring you a glass of water?”
“No.” Alma gave him a reassuring smile. “I am certain after a moment’s rest, I shall be fine.”
He nodded. “Well, thank you for the first dance, Miss Talmadge.” He drifted back into the crowd.
“Are you ill, my pet?” Libby inquired.
“No. I just need to…catch my breath.” She shuddered at the lie that slipped past her lips. Unsettled by the turn of events, Alma dropped open the slats of her ivory fan and moved air over her burning face.
She refused to look. Refused to confirm her upheaval. Refused to admit the shock of seeing Dillon Reed in such fine form. He looked incredible. And would turn any woman’s head. Worse, he’d deliberately hidden this specific detail from her!
Alma spun on the heel of her satin slipper.
She swept her gaze across the ever-growing crowd and spotted Dillon with a group of men. He loomed above them all, shaking hands with Custer, then several others. His cordial nods intrigued her. His pleasantries sanguine and relaxed. Then, he tipped back his head and laughed. The impact of his boyish charm rescrambled Alma’s comportment.
She thrummed the blades of ivory faster.
How dare he hide such…such…cleanliness beneath an odious layer of grime. I had every right to know…
She stilled the fan. From his actions, how could she have known her sullen traveling companion exuded a virility other men could only dream of possessing?
Control yourself, you dolt! He’s just a man.
“I see Mister Reed has arrived.” Libby motioned toward him. “See? Right over there. And goodness me, how remarkably handsome he looks.”
“He’s here?” Alma resumed her fanning. “I really hadn’t noticed.”
Libby smiled. “I’ll wave them over.”
“No.”
“But, he came to be with you tonight. ‘Twould be impolite to leave him standing alone.”
Looking so…approachable, he won’t be alone long. Not that she cared a whit. He could dance with every woman at Fort Riley. Mattered little to her.
Custer nodded in their direction, then moved through the crowd toward them, Dillon on his heels.
Alma fought to steady her composure.
“A wonderful gathering, isn’t it Autie?” Libby said as her husband sidled up next to her.
“Indeed it is. Why, I’ve talked with chaps I haven’t seen in years,” Custer replied.
Libby’s attention glided to the scout. “And Mister Reed, how nice to see you again. I must say you do look dashing.”
Dashing? Alma nearly snorted.
Dillon issued a smart bow before Libby, then turned. “Good evening, Miss Talmadge.”
She continued to stare at the twirling revelers on the dance floor. “Good evening, Mister Reed. I see you’ve…tidied up.”
Good heavens, I actually mentioned it.
He chuckled as George reached for Libby’s hand. “Would you do me the honor of this waltz, my love?”
“Why, I thought you would never ask.” She smiled and moved past Alma, whispering behind her fan, “And you both ought to join us out there, too.”
***
One song came and went. The musicians struck up a second tune. Alma’s obvious snub rubbed Dillon raw. And she called him stubborn? This woman had him beat in spades. “The Custers sure are nice folks, aren’t they?”
Her gaze remained on the dancers, but the breeze from her ceaseless fanning skimmed his face. “Yes.” Her reply almost became lost amid the noise. “They’re very nice.”
Another couple glided past them toward the dance floor.
Dillon again glanced at Alma. “May I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
Bloody hell. She demanded they attend this cockamamie gathering and now she refused to even look at him. Dillon’s jaw tightened. If he had his druthers, he’d saddle a horse, choose a trail, and blow for home faster than a plains tornado.
A perturbed huff reached his ears.
“Do you even know how to waltz?” Alma blurted.
Her clipped question caught him by surprise. She’d been stewing on that one a while. “I don’t dance.”
“You don’t? Or you don’t know how? There is a difference, you know.”
His heart ramped into a hellish beat. “As I mentioned before, tracking for the army doesn’t leave me much time for niceties.”
“So you say, but you are obviously educated. And I noticed you can carry on a conversation.” The flapping of her fan ceased, and she collapsed the ivory blades into her palm. A burgundy ribbon secured the flimsy gadget to her wrist.
The side-swept cluster of curls draped her bare shoulder as Alma lifted her gaze to his. “I believe dancing would be an excellent addition to your scouting arsenal.”
His mouth dried into a wad of cotton as his stomach knotted.
A servant holding a tray of drinks brushed past.
Dillon snagged the closest glass.
“I could teach you, Mister Reed, to dance, I mean. The steps of a waltz are quite simple.”
He swirled the amber liquid, then lifted the wh
iskey, pausing before the tumbler touched his lips. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” He downed the shot. The generous swallow blistered the back of his throat and joined the half a bottle he’d drank earlier.
Dillon refocused on the twirling couples. Soft lights illuminating the dancers. Women clad in satin, their breasts threatening to spill from low-cut gowns. Women so full of their guises.
“And, by the way, from here on out, I insist you call me Alma.” A thin laugh trickled from her lips. “After all, we are traveling together, so we mustn’t remain strangers.”
The scent of her rose-infused essence drifted over him, straining his already taut nerves. Her form materialized in his mind. Alma. Small breasts. Rail-thin. Dillon blew out a long breath, then lifted the tumbler and pulled in another swallow.
Before the burn on his tongue had even dissipated, Alma stepped before him and whispered, “Come with me.”
A moment later, she skirted the room. With each determined footstep, the bustle on her back end bobbed at Dillon as if to underscore her demand he follow. She headed straight toward the rear of the house.
What the hell? He deposited the empty tumbler on a side table, then pushed through the crowd after her. Hadn’t she wanted to dance? He shook his head, his chest hurting. This damned woman changed directions in mid-stream faster than a trout swimming up Angel Creek.
Dillon followed her down a hallway and through the summer kitchen. A second later, she disappeared out the back, the side-spring, wood-framed door whapping shut behind her tolling her exit.
Sonofabitch. Where’s she headin’ now?
The cool breeze brushed his face as Dillon stepped onto the bricked courtyard. Moonlight entwined with oil lamps to lay a gossamer cloud across the terrace. An array of empty white-iron chairs and tables served as silent witnesses to his search. He spotted Alma on the far side of the patio. She stood beneath the branches of a colossal cottonwood, the tree so ancient it probably welcomed the territory’s first inhabitants.
She turned to face him, her gloved hands primly clasped before her. The evening gown she wore, a deep shade of burgundy, shimmered around her like a fine bottle of port.
He ambled up to her, refusing to let her see she’d thrown him off kilter–again. Blue eyes widened as he dwarfed her in his shadow. “What new trick are you pulling on me now, Princess?”
She raised her arms into a dance position. “No trick, Mister Reed. I am going to teach you how to waltz.”
Her chin lifted in that way he was beginning to know all too well.
“I thought you would feel more comfortable out here away from the crowd,” she added with a smile.
Her words, bright and bewitching, wove through Dillon, destroying his every reserve. Did she now? The combinations of too much whiskey, too little food, and a too-good-to-be-true breeze joined forces to discombobulate his logic. He’d dallied with women his entire life, mostly whores and a favored squaw or two, but this female tangled up his well-guarded defenses and drove a spear through his best laid plans. What the hell. One quick dance won’t matter.
With his next breath, Dillon swept his arm around her corseted waistline. His other hand seized her outstretched palm.
An easy pull crushed her against him.
She gasped.
His gaze burned deep into hers. “I already know how to waltz thank you very much.” His breath moved the golden wisps of hair against her cheek.
In the past thirty minutes, her trivial annoyances somehow had breathed into life, immersing him in an urgent need to…prove. Why it mattered, Dillon couldn’t quite grasp. But, lurking in the back of his mind where he’d obviously shoved his sanity, he knew touching Alma Talmadge with such intimacy was wrong on so many levels.
And not a damned bit part of the job.
And yet, that flash in her eyes had scrambled him up six ways from Sunday ever since he’d met her.
She shot him a withering look. “My intention is only to teach you dance steps, Mister Reed. I assure you, coming out here meant nothing more.”
Her words brushed hot against his neck. Damn her spunk. “I think you’re safe with me.”
He moved her into an easy waltz.
Nearly two decades had passed since his dancing days as a growing lad in Texas, yet the flexibility in his steps returned. The remembrance of his family’s parlor. The plucking thrum of his father’s guitar. His mother’s instructive steps as she patiently taught him how to waltz. He hadn’t thought about those happier times in years. Life had a hellish way of slinking on through the pain.
Alma’s sweet giggle nudged him to the present. Her lips parted on a sigh. “You do dance divinely, Mister Reed. And certainly in no need of instructions.”
A chuckle rolled from him. “I aim to please.”
He relished their unexpected harmony. Satisfied he’d surprised her, he twirled her around the patio as the muted strains of a melody bound them with invisible threads. Each spin more comfortable than the last. Each lilting laugh she offered, more rousing. Each heartbeat swamping Dillon’s resolution to finish what he’d begun. One more turn, and I’ll stop. And then, he gazed into her blue eyes illuminated by moonlight; they twinkled so bright he was reminded of stardust.
The rhythm of their steps slowed.
The redolence of roses bedeviling.
Driven by too much whiskey and too little sleep, he tightened his hold and drew her even closer, molding her curves against him. My God, woman, you feel so good.
He slowed his steps, his hand pressing against the small of her back. This frustrating and feisty little minx drove him mad with anger, and yet his hold on her involuntarily tightened. He searched the softness of her half-opened mouth, tasted her sweet breath mingling in raspy puffs around his.
God help him, he wanted more. Before he could stop himself, Dillon dipped down. And a heartbeat later, he captured her lips…the press of his mouth a growing demand against hers. He’d kissed more women than he could remember, and yet the heat of her mouth blistered through him in an unchecked aching wave. Desire for her flashed hot in his veins as deep inside his arousal grew.
A ragged sigh of frustration rattled from him as he finally broke apart their kiss. His breath escaped in a long hiss. He peered down at her. Her breath caught as her cheeks flushed an even deeper red. Her eyes, framed by long, inky lashes, widened. Wrapped around her splendor and the stardust in her eyes, Dillon realized he had completely lost his mind. What the hell am I doing? She belongs to another.
He sucked in a breath and instantly sobered, the muscle in his jaw jerking taut. His heart pounded with enough ferocity to disperse the stardust entrapping them into a vaporous web of frustration.
Son of a damn bitch.
Shock at his body’s traitorous response wrenched logic and reason into place. He released her and pushed back, yet the throbbing ache in his groin demanded more. His words growled out with all the weight of a sledge-hammer. “Lesson’s over.”
He did not belong in the moonlight with this woman, not here and not like this, and he certainly didn’t have any right to kiss her. The only thing that kept Dillon from bolting for the door was the strength of her glare…sharp enough now to chisel through the luminance shimmering around them. He flexed his hands, the ache to touch her still burning hot.
A single, sharp oath fell from his mouth.
He wrapped his hand around her upper arm, his fingers holding tight to prevent her escape. Turning, he pulled her with him, his boot heels grating against bricks. Three strides plowed them past a decorative table. His hip grazed the iron as he surged past, knocking the closest chair to the ground.
The heavy clatter only underscored his asinine…response.
Don’t touch her again.
Not ever again.
He hoped he had the strength to follow his own advice.
***
Dillon’s firm grip around her upper arm shoved Alma’s temper up another blistering notch. Corseted so tightly, she could scarcely catch her br
eath under his fast-paced strides. He swung wide the door and the music and gaiety smacked them full-on. Surging across the threshold, he pulled her along behind him. The closing door slapped into her bustle, pushing her into him.
Like an unbending oak, the scout remained ramrod straight.
Alma shuffled several steps to keep her balance. He…kissed me! Her mind reeled. What had begun as a simple plan to teach him dancing had somehow spiraled into a clash with … What? She struggled to identify the emotion coursing through her veins.
This…manhandling baboon.
Calling him names at least made her feel better.
How dare he keep secret the fact that he could waltz. Worse, just as she was enjoying the flowing turns around the patio, he kissed her and responded in…that manner. And then, to drag her into the house as if she were a miscreant. The rutting beast. She should ignore him and his maddening, vulgar ways. What did she care anyway? She was engaged, had many admirers.
So why did this man’s kiss…or his response agitate her to such a degree?
The unspoken truth screamed volumes about something she’d rather not contemplate. She came to an abrupt stop between the back door and the arched opening into the parlor.
“Unhand me this instant!”
His hold lessened.
Alma jerked from his grasp, then stumbled backward, bumping up to a kitchen table stacked with delicacies. Cast in the wavering light from an overhead lamp, several glass jars of pickles wobbled like marionettes, then toppled. With horror, she watched them roll around the center of the wooden plane, thunking into one another. She shuffled around the table and stopped the jars from moving, placing a barrier between herself and Dillon.
He kissed me! Without permission! The breadth of his shoulders, his build, all screamed of stamina and persistence. He loomed well over six feet, yet his body moved with a panther’s grace. She swallowed, but the lump in her throat refused to move.
Turning to face her, his expression hard, Dillon stopped at the table’s edge. Nothing about him reflected idle time. The fleeting tenderness revealed earlier in his eyes while they’d danced in the coolness belied the burning coldness etched there now.