He shook his head. “You are never to go away from this house alone.”
Her mouth dropped open and she gaped at him. “Since when?”
“Since I said so, right here, today. You’ll go with Sally or Nancy—and Cato can accompany the two of you.”
“And what if they happen to be busy?”
“Then you’ll wait until they aren’t.”
She stiffened her spine. “You have no authority over me. You can’t tell me what to do.” She jerked the doorknob, opened the door and walked out into the crisp air and brilliant sunshine.
She hadn’t gotten very far down the street before she heard someone call her name. She turned and saw Cato, Mrs. Webbs’ husband, waving to her. He was walking as fast as his legs would carry him. She stopped and waited while anger burnt in her blood. Cato was an old man. He didn’t have the energy to go running down the street; Alex should never have made him follow her. In consideration for the old man, she ended up not venturing to Main Street but taking a brief stroll up and down Chestnut instead. She returned to Alex’s house without any wine.
* * * *
Emily sat with Alex in a rather uncomfortable silence. They had come early to this ball, hosted by Mrs. Cornelia Hazelwood, a second cousin on Alex’s father’s side. Peter, her much younger brother, stood close by. He’d tried several times to draw Alex into conversation but Alex wouldn’t be coaxed. He’d been in the most sullen, quiet mood for days. He’d also remained a tyrant over Emily. She couldn’t leave the house without poor Cato chasing after her. Twice she’d bought herself some wine and twice Sally had taken it to the kitchens and locked it up.
This evening, Alex had even come by Emily’s chamber and inspected her to make sure she was wearing her stays. It was too much. Simply too much. She was going to find herself some employment, and soon. She wouldn’t stay in a house with a man who wanted to take away her newly found liberty.
A little girl came running into the parlor, screaming at the pinnacle of her vocal range. She had the palest blonde hair Emily had ever seen. A harried-looking maid immediately followed her. The child hurled herself into one of the empty chairs to the left. As the maid approached, she crossed her arms over her chest and thrust her bottom lip out. “I won’t!”
“Elizabeth, please.” The maid looked quite desperate as she approached. “You must come to bed.”
“No!” The girl’s startlingly blue eyes sparkled with defiance. Then she turned to Van Moerdijk and flashed him a dazzling smile. “I want Peter to carry me.”
Peter grinned and walked towards Elizabeth, holding his arms out. “Well, come on then, you bad little wench.” He lifted her into his arms, and then Emily couldn’t help but notice how the child appeared to be a small, more feminine replica of Peter.
After Peter had carried Elizabeth away, Emily turned to Alex. “That was Mrs. Hazelwood’s daughter?”
As soon as the words left her lips, Emily smiled tremulously, embarrassed, for Mrs. Hazelwood was, of course, an aged woman. A widow of many years. She couldn’t possibly be the child’s mother.
“Elizabeth is the child of her servant.” Alex’s expression was pleasant but his tone sounded clipped.
“But—”
He held up his hand. “We never talk about it—at least not while in this house.” He raised his brows. “Understand?”
She bristled under his commanding tone. “Yes, perfectly.”
He touched her arm, leaned close and lowered his voice. “It’s very important that you pass muster with my cousin Cornelia—she’s a very influential woman. She has very definite ideas of propriety.”
“But to deny a child’s true parentage. It seems rather callous.”
“It is the world we live in, Emily. I didn’t make the rules.”
The shadows in his eyes put a pang into her heart. A thrill of fear. The darkness there was so fathomless, like staring into a pit of hopelessness.
Or was she allowing her imagination run away with her?
He turned away to gaze at the fire in the hearth. What the devil had just happened?
That thrill of fear intensified within her. Underneath it, arose a strong urge to pry, to force him to face her again.
But the memory of that bleak, hopeless darkness held her back. He hurt. She knew it. She sensed it in every part of herself. She didn’t have the heart to press him in such a vulnerable moment.
The last thing Alex had wanted to do tonight was to attend a ball. Two desperate relatives of men now held in Algerian slavery had approached him, requesting that he provide ransom money. He knew he had to refuse. It would only result in an explosion of abductions upon the high-seas. The Barbary threat would be magnified far beyond anything it was now. But it wasn’t easy to deny the requests.
He, of all people, knew what their sons and fathers were going through. He stared through the flames.
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 gray 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, bayim?”
“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 of the Turkish slave market where he had once been a captive, a young man of eighteen for sale on the block. Her voice pulled him back to the ballroom. His heart was racing and his shirt stuck to his body like a suffocating second skin. He forced himself to focus on the bright candelabras, the swirling colorful skirts, the dyed feather plumes of his cousin’s turban.
“You haven’t even introduced me to your lovely companion.” Cornelia’s voice rang with dramatic, playful disapproval. “Such bad manners. I know your mother taught you better, boy.”
The past faded to a dim vignette on the horizon, farther away than a moment ago but not gone. He glanced down at her sharp, blue eyes and small build and he forced a laugh. “Cornelia, allow me to introduce you to Miss Emily Eliot.”
Cornelia fixed her gaze on Emily. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, young lady.”
All of it from Aunt Rachel and none of it favorable, 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 in 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 splendid 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 skin had changed from the sallow, yellowish tone to a rich, pale cream. Her cheeks glowed with rosy color. 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.
And she was the most gorgeous sight he’d ever seen.
Equal parts of tenderness and lust pressed on him. He had to tell her. There were other things that he must say to her, but they would have to wait until later, after the ball.
But this couldn’t wait.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he said.
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.”
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.
But there was no need to behave in a punishing manner toward him. No need to make things uglier between them than they had to be. She needed to keep taking small steps away from him.
Even whilst loving him.
Even whilst she wanted desperately to believe in his charm, his flattery. Her heart ached with how desperately she wanted to believe.
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.
However, he’d been so distant of late.
Gone from the house.
Gone from her life.
She’d begun to forget what it had felt like when they had shared their infatuation. When they had been lovers.
It was hard to feel close to him now.
It couldn’t have been real love then, right? True love couldn’t be forgotten in such a quick span of time. He’d been a stranger since the day the news broke about the Algerian situation.
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-colored 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 could be gone from her side for days. Days that turned into weeks. And then he could simply walk back into her life and have the same devastating effect on her will. Her determination.
He was every inch her sun-god—even more gorgeous 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.
She saw love in his eyes.
And then in the next breath, he told her his love was meaningless.
What was she supposed to make of that?
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.
With her hand on his arm, she let him lead her through the brightly lit assembly room, which was really two parlors 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 had been lovers.
Yes, of course Emily had known he had many lovers. But facing one of them in the flesh, especially such a living paragon of beauty, was a harsh strike of reality.
“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 a smooth tone, 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 was 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 attention 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 grandmother’s father was a Virginia Fletcher?”
“I didn’t think much of it. Grandmother 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 the shade of old ivory and her figure lush. Obviously this was another of Alex’s tea-drinking ladies.
Were none of them less than absolutely perfect?
“Alexander Dalton, you’re in town all this time 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 honor 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 and a half years before I even met her.”
Maggie seemed unfazed by Alex’s casual, almost disrespectful demeanor. 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. “Do you know in England, they do things quite the opposite of what we do here in Philadelphia?”
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