Miss Emerald touched Lord Demming’s arm, drawing his gaze. “Perhaps you have not heard, My Lord, but Miss Winston is Doctor Willaby’s new assistant.” Her tone gloated.
Morgan’s anger simmered.
Lord Demming’s brows drew together forming one long row of bristling gray hair. “Morgan, may I have a word?” He dragged Morgan aside.
With the cake turning to pebbles in her stomach, Adalia watched the way the elderly man spoke with Morgan like a schoolmaster scolding a child. His livid glances in her direction allowed her no doubt as to the content of his rant. Miss Emerald lifted her nose in the air and excused herself, while a gentleman claimed Miss Caroline for a dance.
Only Mr. Drayton remained. He sipped his drink, swaying slightly on his feet. Adalia resisted the urge to ask why he too was not repulsed by her company.
“You do not seem as joyful as your friends, Mr. Drayton.”
“Indeed. I loathe these idiotic affairs.” His voice was nearly as dark as his mood.
Adalia studied him. If it weren’t for the scowl on his face, he’d have been quite handsome—tall, commanding, with dark, short-cropped hair, cultured sideburns, and gray eyes that swirled like a tempest. “But surely you do not have to attend such events if you do not wish.”
He sighed. “As heir to the Drayton fortune and son of Samuel Drayton, my wishes are of little consequence.” He sipped his brandy.
“I do not understand.”
He looked at her as if she’d told him his hair was on fire.
“Refreshing indeed.” He gave her a sideways grin. “We must put on airs, you see, Miss Winston. We must be out and about in society, mingling with those in power. It comes with our status, for not only do we rely on our wealth, but on the good opinion of others to keep our position.”
As he spoke, Adalia sensed a hopelessness about the man. As if he were bound by chains heavier than the ones that had shackled her ankles. “It seems a ridiculous requirement to me.” She set her empty cake plate on the tray of a passing servant.
“Humph. It does, doesn’t it? In truth, I am bored of it all.” Mr. Drayton glanced over the sea of bobbing silk, feathers, and jewels. “The parties, horse races, plays. It all seems so trite and useless.”
Though these lavish entertainments were indeed trivial in importance, they were also luxuries many people in the world never had a chance to experience. Wasn’t it just like the wealthy to not appreciate what they had? “Perhaps you should be grateful for God’s blessings.” Adalia cringed at her harsh tone.
He laughed. “God?” He waved his drink over the crowd, sloshing brandy over the side. “God has nothing to do with any of this, miss.” For a moment she wondered if he was right.
Morgan’s brother approached, ending any chance Adalia had at rebuttal.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Winston?” Hadley asked.
Aside from the charming grin he now regaled upon her, Hadley looked nothing like his brother. Where Morgan’s hair was light, Hadley’s was coal black. Where Morgan was thick muscled, Hadley was thin. Where Morgan’s attire was within the boundaries of refinement, Hadley’s was a garish display of silk and lace.
She smiled. “Indeed. It is a grand party. And you, Mr. Rutledge, are you enjoying yourself?”
“Hadley lives to see and be seen.” Mr. Drayton drained his cup.
“Don’t be so droll, Joseph. What is there not to enjoy?” Hadley winked at a passing lady.
Adalia sighed. Well at least one of these pampered fops seemed pleased with his lot in life. Though perhaps a bit too pleased.
Morgan excused himself from Lord Demming and finally approached. The anger lining his face softened when his eyes met Adalia’s. He proffered his arm. “I believe this is our dance.”
A Scottish reel drifted in from the ballroom. Adalia shook her head. “No, I cannot.”
“Nonsense. Just follow me. It is quite easy.” He led her onto the floor, and they lined up within a circle of other dancers. Adalia’s chest heaved. She glanced behind her, seeking an escape, but instead saw Miss Emerald, Miss Caroline, and a few other ladies hunched together, claws drawn, and catlike grins on their faces as if waiting to pounce on her first mistake.
The partners bowed, took hands, and spun in a circle. They stopped, and a lady and gentleman to Adalia’s right performed a set of fancy steps then twirled around each other. Adalia’s mind grew numb. A third person joined their jig. Across the way, Morgan winked at her. A man stepped into the center, and the group held hands again and spun in a circle. The cake in Adalia’s stomach rose into her throat.
The group halted, and a man faced her, shifting his feet on the floor. She froze, her eyes seeking out Morgan, who gave her an encouraging nod. She copied his steps, clapped, and then took his hands as he twirled her around. Laughter burst from the pack of felines on the edge of the floor.
Mortified, Adalia felt a flood of heat redden her face. More laughter pricked her from behind. Morgan was before her then and whirled her around. “Ignore them,” he said as he passed, so graceful, so cultured in his steps, he put her to shame.
She tripped over someone’s shoe, stumbled, and nearly fell. If not for Morgan’s arm around her waist, she would have fallen—would have plopped to the floor, skirts sprawled about her, or worse, hiked immodestly above her ankles, looking much like the boorish bungler she was. Without hesitation, Morgan led her from the floor. Laughter followed them all the way to the foyer, where she tore from Morgan’s grip.
“I wish to leave.”
He drew her to the side and lifted her chin with his finger. “Why? Because you misstepped on the dance floor?” Admiration poured from his eyes.
“No, because I don’t belong here. Please, Morgan, Take me home.”
Emerald stood beside Hadley, watching as Morgan escorted Miss Winston away. Inside, her stomach felt as though it had been twisted and wrung like a washed garment. Outside, she pasted on a smile. “What on earth does Morgan see in that common tart?”
Hadley clicked his tongue. “Jealousy does not become you, my dear.”
“I’m hardly jealous,” she spat. “I’m ten times the lady she’ll ever be. More beautiful, educated, refined … wealthy.”
“And don’t forget simply delectable.” He gave her a steamy look.
She slapped him with her fan and smiled. “You are incorrigible.”
The dolt must have taken her playfulness as encouragement, for he leaned in closer. “If Morgan’s infatuation with the girl doesn’t fade soon, you could always take me up on my offer.”
Emerald pushed him away. “Hadley, you are as handsome and charming as ever, but you know I’ve set my cap for Morgan, and I intend to have him.”
He sighed and tugged on his cravat. “You wound me, dear lady. Am I never to have a chance? Am I always to be alone, brokenhearted?”
“You hardly pine away from lack of affection.” She nodded toward Miss Sordenson, who was eyeing Hadley from across the room.
Hadley shrugged. “Either way, this Miss Winston will simply not do for a brother of mine. He’s an absolute fool. Bed her if he must, but bring her into society? Egad, she behaved like a barbarian at court. A sheer embarrassment.”
Pain spiked through Emerald at Hadley’s comment. She turned it into anger. “My word. She couldn’t even dance a simple reel. Clumsy, ill-bred chit. She’s no doubt after your family’s fortune.”
“My thoughts exactly. If Morgan continues this behavior, he will besmirch the Rutledge name.”
“Then, we will have to put a stop to it.”
“How, my dear?”
“Easy. We will ruin her, of course. We will make Morgan see her for who she really is—a shameless, wearisome hussy.”
Hadley grinned. “That’s what I love about you, Emerald. Your devilish heart.”
CHAPTER NINE
Adalia clung to Morgan as he shoved his way through the horde crowding the porch. If not for the strength and warmth of his arm beneath her fingers
, she feared she would not be able to restrain her tears. A noxious cloud of cigar smoke joined fumes of alcohol in an assault on her nose. Coughing, she clutched her skirts and allowed Morgan to lead her down the stairs, battling his way through besotted partygoers until finally they exited the front gate. A fresh breeze from the bay swept away the stink of fustian excess. She wished it would sweep away her humiliation as easily. She wanted to disappear into the darkness. To sink into the mud beneath her feet. Anything to drown out the laughter trickling from the stately house as if everyone within was sharing a joke at her expense. Drawing in a deep breath, she batted a runaway tear from her cheek.
Morgan placed his hand on hers in a gesture so tender, it threatened to unleash more tears. “I’ll call for the carriage.”
She looked down, not wanting him to see her shame. “I’d rather walk, thank you.”
“Very well.” He led her down the street.
But she wanted to be free of him. She didn’t want his pity. Never wanted pity from his kind. Adalia tore her hand from his arm and faced him. “Go back to your party, Mr. Rutledge. I’ll be quite all right.”
He leaned toward her and raised his brows. “That worked out so well for you last time.”
She tightened her lips as a shiver followed the memory of Aniston Mulberry’s assault on her nearly a week ago. With a huff, she slipped her gloved hand into the crook of Morgan’s elbow once again.
He’d left his hat, and the evening breeze spread fingers through his hair even as moonlight stroked selected strands in gold. He smelled of brandy and spices.
Gravel crunched beneath their shoes as the sounds of revelry faded behind them. “I’m sorry they laughed at you,” he said.
She tried to respond—to tell him it didn’t matter, but her throat tightened.
“I shouldn’t have forced you to dance.”
She swallowed. Despite the behavior of his friends and associates, Morgan had been kind to her all night. A perfect gentleman, in fact. “I can hardly blame you, Mr. Rutledge.” A landau passed; the rattle of wheels, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, and laughter spilling from within rose in a melodious tune.
They turned down Church Street. The scent of Mrs. Dither’s famous rose garden swirled around Adalia, helping to ease her nerves. Nerves that shouted to her that she’d had no business attending the soiree tonight. What had she expected? That Charleston society—families who owned every plantation beyond the city, whose members sat on the City Council, whose grandfathers and great-grandfathers had been the Lord Proprietors of the realm—would welcome a simple woman like her with open arms?
Morgan drew a deep breath and glanced down the row of houses. “My friends behaved like stuffed prigs. I am ashamed of them.”
“They behaved as they were trained to behave.” Adalia felt the muscles in his arm tighten.
He gazed at her. “How so?”
“I know my station, Mr. Rutledge.” Adalia stepped over a loose brick that had fallen from a garden wall. “I have no esteemed pedigree, no education, no fortune. I am but a common worker—a tradeswoman. I’m sure Lord Demming informed you as much.”
Halting, Morgan faced her. “I care not what that bloated buffoon says.”
“Well, you should. If you wish to stay in the graces of society …” She blinked at the intensity firing from his eyes. “At least that is what Mr. Drayton informed me.”
Morgan snorted and gazed into the darkness. “Drayton knows nothing but how to dampen everyone’s mood.”
Without thinking, Adalia reached up to straighten his troubled cravat but quickly withdrew her hand. “Surely you can see the damage any courtship between us would bring to your standing.” Drat. Had she actually said the word courtship?
She must have, for Morgan smiled and lifted her hand to his lips. “If you’d wish to discuss a courtship, you have my attention, milady.”
“Do not call me that.” She tugged from him. “I am anything but.” If he only knew who she truly was, he wouldn’t be speaking to her. Touching her. Making her entire body quiver. Another reason to end their association. That and the fact that he was a slave owner. Or at least the son of one. “I assure you, your standing would become vastly important to you should it be in jeopardy.”
He shook his head, his lips slanting in that alluring way of his. Yet he did not deny her statement. Adalia tore her gaze from the adoration in his eyes—adoration that would be her undoing if she gave it any encouragement. Adoration she didn’t understand. She started walking. He joined her, head bowed and hands clasped behind his back as if deep in thought. They walked in silence. A comfortable silence—odd for two people who were but strangers. Music from a nearby theater floated on a chilled breeze. Yet she was anything but cold walking beside this man.
They turned the corner. He touched her elbow to help her cross the street. Their eyes met in the light of a lantern, and she thought she saw a hint of sorrow in them. He smiled and she took his arm again and proceeded, implanting each precious second within her memory—the final seconds of her fairy-tale evening. For all except the final dance, it had been a fairy tale. But soon the clock would strike midnight, and she’d wake up a mere servant girl, an ex-slave, not the princess she saw reflected in Morgan’s eyes.
Up ahead, Dr. Willaby’s house came into view. The charade was at an end. Now, all Adalia wanted was to crawl into bed and hide beneath her coverlet—forget what a fool she’d made of herself tonight. Forget this charming man beside her, who made her insides melt and who treated her as though she were precious. At the gate, she stopped and faced him. Better he did not escort her to the porch. Better to end things here.
He rubbed the dark whiskers on his chin, so at odds with his light hair. “I hope you do not let tonight’s events trouble you any further, Miss Winston. I shall never allow anyone to treat you with such dishonor again. You have my word.”
“You cannot promise that, Mr. Rutledge.” For some reason, she longed to reach up and caress his cheek, to see if his jaw felt as firm as it looked, to feel the bristle of his whiskers on her glove, to brush that rebellious strand of hair from his face. Instead she lowered her gaze.
“We don’t have to attend any more silly parties,” he said. “I tire of them anyway.”
“Those parties are your world, Mr. Rutledge. They will never be mine.”
“They are not my world. They are an obligation I grow weary of. Besides, they don’t have to—”
She placed a finger on his lips. His breath warmed her skin through her glove, sending a thrill swirling in her belly. She withdrew her finger before the feeling inflamed her hand, her resolve, and caused her to touch his cheek, as she so desperately longed to do. “Thank you for your kind invitation. I truly did enjoy the soiree. Well, the décor and the food at least.” She tried to smile, but in light of what she knew she must do, it faltered on her lips.
Morgan’s grin slipped from his face as well, as if he could sense her next words.
Adalia swallowed and gripped the iron gate for support. “Mr. Rutledge, I must insist that you never call on me again.”
A mortal blow struck Morgan. He lowered his eyes, not wanting her to witness the pain—the weakness—on his face. He ran a hand through his hair and stomped his boot on the dirt, trying to shake it off. Two night guards marched by, tipping their hats at Miss Winston.
During their walk home, Morgan had tried to curb his anger toward his friends and Lord Demming, but at her dismissal it rose with renewed fervor. How could they have been so cruel to this precious creature? If they hadn’t spurned her, if they’d accepted her, she wouldn’t be tossing his affections aside.
He gazed into her eyes—dark and luminous like the sea at night. “My friends’ opinions are of no consequence to me.”
“It’s useless, Mr. Rutledge.”
His heart shriveled at her determined tone. “Please call me Morgan.”
Releasing a sigh, she lowered her lashes. They fluttered like black silk over cream. Then sq
uaring her shoulders, she gripped her skirts, spread them out, and released them. “I have no proper gowns. I cannot dance, and I am not skilled in the art and nuances of society’s repartee.”
Morgan wanted to grip her arms, shake some sense into her. But he dared not lest this beautiful bird take flight. Desperation set in. He felt it clench his stomach, squeeze the life blood from his heart. Adalia was the only bright spot in his otherwise dismal existence. He could not let her go. He took her delicate hand and rubbed her fingers through the cotton. “That is what I admire so much about you, Miss Winston. You are nothing like them.” He reached to touch her cheek. She flinched, her eyes shifting between his. He eased his fingers over her skin. Soft. So soft.
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