The Last Rose Pearl: A Low Country Love Story (Low Country Love Stories Book 1)

by Grace Walton

  He lifted her gloved hand to his lips and kissed it quite fondly for the benefit of the onlookers. He said, “I don't think that will pose a problem. This is the last time you must suffer me as your escort.”

  He drew her up to the head of the Wingates’ impressive receiving line. And that effectively ended their conversation.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Rory, I adore that gown. Really,” gushed Rebekah as she languidly moved her lace fan back and forth in front of her perspiring face.

  The ballroom wasn't merely hot. It was positively stifling. Men's starched cravats were wilting. Ladies’ intricate coiffures supported by dried sugar water were sliding down satin covered backs. It was too hot to talk. But Rebekah seemed intent on carrying on a conversation much to a distracted Rory's sorrow.

  “Who is your seamstress? No one here in Savannah, I'll wager?” The small dark girl sipped daintily from her sweating punch cup and waited expectantly for the answer. None was forthcoming. Her beautiful friend seemed totally involved with watching the room.

  When the minutes stretched uncomfortably silent, Rebekah tried again. “No one in this provincial backwater could cut a gown like that. I'll vow it puts me in mind of some of the dresses I brought back from London. Now tell me who you found in Savannah that can sew as well as a London modiste?”

  “She's just a woman on the island.” The answer was low and preoccupied.

  Rory’s irritated eyes searched the milling crowd for Dylan. The collective noise of the voices drowned out the delicate melodies the string quartet on the small dais in the corner was playing. People were speaking louder and louder as they tried to make themselves heard above the din. She wondered how the dancers could hear well enough to stay in step.

  Rory wished someone would open a window, just one window, and provide blessed relief from the heat generated by so many folks confined in the room. Granted, it was a chamber of kingly proportions, but she estimated there must be upwards of two hundred and fifty people circulating. Well trying to circulate, she told herself glumly.

  They were really just slowly shoving each other around. But in a politely acceptable way, of course. The dance floor was as crowded as the pretty groups of spindly gilt chairs lining the perimeter of the ballroom. And the people moved like one leviathan creature as they mingled and socialized.

  A frown marred her delicate face as she scanned the twirling pairs of dancers looking for him. It took the better part of an hour for them to get through the Wingates’ introductions. They stood not speaking to each other in the long snaking reception line. Cheerful pandemonium reigned around them. But Rory and her betrothed maintained a stony silence. He had kept a strong proprietary hand at her waist so at least there was no danger of them being separated again. But he didn't talk. Neither did she.

  After she had introduced him to their hostess, the knave had partnered her for one quadrille and promptly disappeared into the mass of party guests. Her last sight of him was of wide shoulders somehow gracefully knifing through the throng. Since then, another long hour had passed, the last time the clock chimed she’d counted ten strikes. Two more hours until the midnight supper. Drat the man. Where was he?

  “Rory?” Rebekah couldn't get the other girl's attention. “Rory?”

  Her name called so loudly, almost in her ear forced Rory to turn toward her friend. “I'm sorry Rebekah, what did you ask me?”

  “I asked where your duke might be?”

  She grimaced at the title. It was an innocent enough question after all. Everyone who’d approached her tonight wanted to know more about Dylan St. John. The mighty Duke of McAllister, she was sick to death of the subject. If one more person inquired who he was or asked her to elaborate on his title, she just might expose him for the rascal he truly was.

  “The card room, I imagine.” Rory was just guessing. “If I gambled, I'd be there too. Anything would be better than this crush.”

  The cool and quiet of a game room sounded rather appealing at the moment. Just a few tables and a little low voiced conversation. It sounded like heaven compared to the ballroom.

  “That's very true.” The other girl sighed. “I think I did see him leading that strange Arab toward the card room. Did you see Mrs. Wingate's eyes when your duke introduced the Arab to her? I swear they purely bulged out of her head.” She giggled maliciously. “She clutched her bony old chest like she was having fatal heart palpitations. Lord, it was funny.”

  Rory recoiled at the meanness in her friend's tone. She was about to speak to it. But at that moment, Reverend Washburn strolled up to them through an opening in the throng.

  Rebekah tossed back her dusky curls and smiled invitingly in his direction. “My, my, my, Reverend Washburn, you do set a girl's heart all aflutter tonight.” Her voice was a grating titter as she boldly inventoried his tall muscular form and attractive hawkish features.

  Rory had enjoyed or endured, it was dependent upon the man, the company of almost all the men in attendance tonight. All the ones who could squeeze through the crowd to gain her side anyway. The combination of a stunning body clad in white satin, masses of auburn hair, and a face fashioned by the angels were a powerful magnet to the masculine members of the party. Yes, Rory was in the center of a constantly swelling whirlpool of men.

  Rebekah had not. It wasn't a question of her religion that held the dance partners at bay. It was the simple fact that the Jewish girl had not left Rory's side all evening. And the comparison between the two was not kind to Rebekah. She was tiny with a neat figure. But her dark hair and plain features were nothing out of the ordinary. And her silly giggles made more than one man turn tail and run.

  But surely this one would offer to squire her. What hope could a poor itinerant preacher have of gaining the favor of the evening's Incomparable. Even if he looked as arrogant as a lord. He would remember his place. He'd have to. Men of God occupied a social status in Savannah slightly higher than the upper servants, but lower than the poor relations.

  Besides, all Rory's dances were bespoke before she’d made it out of the foyer and into the ballroom. Every man who could toddle, even those leaning heavily on ornate canes requested a dance from her. Curiosity about her fiancé and her own arresting looks found her swamped by masculine interest.

  But just like all the others, the good Reverend ignored Rebekah after a polite word. He bowed deeply to the Titian haired beauty.

  “Miss Windsor would you honor me with this dance?” His voice was a seductive baritone.

  Rory looked up into his handsome tanned face and smiled in spite of herself. There was something so appealing about Connor. She wouldn't trust him any further than she could see him. But he could charm the birds right out of the trees. Or the pantalets right off a woman. He had that much in common with his insufferable brother.

  They must have taken rakehell lessons together as children, she thought spitefully. On second thought, they probably gave rakehell lessons. Some things, after all, were purely inbred. She was positive they’d been a menace to every female who had crossed their paths since they were old enough to know the difference between girls and boys.

  Dylan had marked this dance earlier on her dance card. But he was nowhere to be seen. Rude man, she fumed. He's probably in some darkened cloakroom with Milady Spider again. With all this in mind, Rory laid a hand upon Connor's arm.

  “Reverend I'd love to dance with you.” She lowered her lashes and cut her eyes to one side as she'd seen Celeste Avansley do. Then she peeked up at Connor to see if he’d been affected as the men swarming around the blond spider had earlier in the evening.

  He raised both her gloved hands to his lips in a mock salute. “Brava my dear, very nicely done. If you only knew what you were offering me, I might be willing to play your game.” He sighed heavily and tucked her small hand into the crook of his arm as he led her onto the crowded dance floor.

  “Notice the word might. But since you haven't the slightest idea and I don't have a death wish. I bel
ieve I'll pass on your charming invitation.”

  He placed a hand firmly at her waist, pushed her a good twelve inches away from his hard lean body, and began leading them in the slow easy circles of the waltz.

  “For your own sake Rory, don't ever let my brother see you try that on another man. I don't know if you've noticed, but he's rather possessive where you're concerned.”

  “So possessive he deserts me in the middle of a party.” Her sarcasm made him smile. “And that was no invitation,” she murmured, and ducked her head.

  Suddenly she was insecure. Had that look been so scandalous? Rory had no way of knowing. She pretended an intense interest in her moving feet. A flush of embarrassed rose colored her face. She couldn't make herself meet his steady green eyes.

  “If Dylan cared at all, he'd be here to dance with me instead of haunting the card tables. This was supposed to be his waltz,” she said in her own defense.

  Connor groaned at this information. He stared up at the ceiling. “You're telling me I stole a march on him by asking you to dance?”

  Worried, Rory raised her eyes and shook her head in denial. “As far as I'm concerned, you haven't done anything wrong. He's the one who didn't have the common decency to show up for a dance he'd already marked on my card.”

  Connor's level eyes drank in the fragile loveliness of the girl in his arms before he answered, “Rory, he's not going to see it that way.” Why didn't his idiot brother make this pretend marriage real, he asked himself for the hundredth time?

  “Well, I don't really care how the dratted man sees it.”

  There was a stubborn gleam in her eye that Connor should have noticed, if he'd known her better. But he unfortunately didn't.

  “Anyone who has manners that poor deserves whatever he gets, and I'll be glad to tell him so myself.”

  “Tell who what sweetheart?” There was no mistaking the deep raspy voice behind her.

  Rory stopped in confusion, breaking out of Connor's arms abruptly to turn. That left the tall blonde man standing awkwardly alone in a sea of dancers. This caused a hiss of whispering slowly to spread along the length of the ballroom like a marsh fire.

  “Tell you that you have the morals and manners of a polecat, that's what.” There was a mutinous set to her perfect lips.

  Dylan ignored the angry young woman and her rude appraisal of his character. He spoke to his grinning brother. “Why are you dancing with my fiancée during my waltz?”

  “I'm not your,”

  Dylan looked down as she tried to interrupt. Hard granite eyes prevented her from saying any more. This was not the time and place for a revelation of that sort, they chastened. Don't act like a foolish child, they warned. When I leave, you can crow your opinions to the housetops, but until then you're still bound by your word, they informed her.

  Rory crossed her arms. She clamped her furious lips together. And she intentionally stared off in defiance across the room.

  “Why?” Dylan asked Connor again in that deceptively pleasant tone.

  “I like her,” the blonde man shrugged and answered grinning.

  Dylan pulled the resistant girl into a waltzer's embrace. “Go like someone else,” he advised his brother. Dylan gracefully moved her into the churning crowd on the dance floor.

  “Now about my manners and morals.” He pulled her intimately up against the hard muscled length of his body. He rested his chin possessively on her shining auburn curls.

  “As far as I can tell, you don't have either,” she hissed seeing the shocked faces of a group of dowagers they danced past.

  His hold on her was gentle but inflexible. So moving away from the man was out of the question. The pulsing energy that seemed always to emanate from him was taking hold of her senses again. They really fit perfectly together, she thought. She lay her head against the strength of his shoulder. In shock, she realized her right hand had crept up behind his shoulder, where it should have been anchored, to play in the thick black hair resting against the collar of his evening jacket. This had to stop, she warned herself biting her lower lip. It had to stop right now, and it was all his fault really. He was holding her too close. She couldn't think rationally when he held her like this. And he knew it. The insensitive barbarian knew it. All her inner turmoil came pouring out in a brusque rush of words.

  “If you won't dance decently, I swear I'll swoon right here. I mean it Dylan. I'll faint right here and now.” It was the ultimate threat. Rory was sure it would work. Men hated limp, sick females.

  “That would be quite impressive sweetheart.” He smiled down into her stormy eyes. “It's not very original. I believe you could do so much better. But I'll grant it’s usually effective. The timing is important,” he began to goad in a teacher's voice she found especially offensive. “If you fall too fast you risk appearing cloddish, too slow and the reality of the swoon is questionable.”

  He stopped them in the center of the huge ballroom. He pressed a tender, lingering kiss to her temple for the benefit of their audience. The hissing sounds started making another revolution around the dance floor.

  “Don't,” she said.

  “Don't what?” he murmured as his lips teased a curl at the other temple.

  Lord help me, he thought. She was sweet enough to become addictive. He hadn't meant to steal the second kiss. He'd admit the first one had been a calculated risk. He'd stayed as far away from her as possible until he thought people would talk unless he sought her out. The first kiss was for the benefit of the crowd. But the second one had just happened.

  “Don't kiss me again or I swear on my life, I will drop to the floor like a stone,” her lips were stiff as she replied.

  “I hate to put a damper on what would certainly be a riveting performance.”

  Before she could summon up a scathing reply he continued, “But if you decide to honor us all with a dramatic display. I'll be forced to play games too. I'll do my best to catch you as you slide gracefully to the floor. Then I'll have to carry you off to a suitably darkened chamber, one with a bed, so you can recover of course. I'll be sure to close the door. We'll engage in light conversation for about an hour. Then I'll leave. Alone,” he emphasized the solitary word. “That ought to generate enough gossip to fill several years’ worth of long boring evenings in Savannah, don't you think?”

  She stiffened in his arms at the mocking words. She was relieved to hear the last strains of music come to an end. He bowed formally to her and offered his arm. Rory had no choice but to take it. She had to be escorted off the floor, after all.

  Once she got to the relative privacy of the gilt chairs, she fully intended to give him a piece of her mind. But as they threaded their way out of the dancers, she heard a raucous commotion from the punch table. It was her brother Gray. He was trying to command the party to silence.

  Lord, what now, she wondered?

  “Laaa-dies and gennulemen.” His booming words were somewhat slurred.

  Where in the world had he found spirits in this house? The Wingates were staunch Baptists and did not allow any kind of intoxicating drinks at their parties. They even frowned on dancing. But knew if they eliminated that activity no one would make the long trip out to Isle of Hope to attend their lavish balls.

  “Friends!” The inebriated voice carried over the deepening silence as people turned in surprise to see what Graham Windsor had to say.

  His face was red, his cravat a tangled mess as he raised a punch cup high above his head. He began addressing the assembly. “Friends, I have the honor of announcin’ the betrothal of my sister Rory Windsor to Dylan St. John, his Grace the Duke of MacAllister.”

  She shot a worried look up to the man at her side. His face was inscrutable. Was this somehow part of the plan, she wondered? It seemed awfully odd. Why the formal announcement? After their charade of the past week, surely everyone had to know they were to marry.

  “Please join me inna’ toast to the loving couple's health and happiness.” Gray lifted the punch cup h
igher sloshing its contents onto his waistcoat. He waited for the crowd to join him.

  Trays of punch were quickly circulated by harried unprepared servants. Rory found two frosty cups being pushed into her hands by Rebekah. They were silver and speckled with condensation.

  “For you and your beau,” the dark girl teased merrily. “You must drink too. Or it might be bad luck.”

  Confused by the odd turn of events, Rory turned to Dylan. She gave him one of the cold drinks. Not knowing what was unfolding, she looked at him for direction. He stood watching her with one eyebrow cocked. A lazy smile played on his lips. Since he didn't seem to find Gray's announcement strange, she decided he must have asked her brother to make it. Just another part of the game, she decided. She cautiously sipped from the cup.

  It was a cool mixture of juices. There was an odd sweetish aftertaste. With so many fruits mixed together, it was hard to tell where the strange flavor came from. True to their convictions the Wingates were serving nothing with liquor. Rory watched Dylan as he quickly tossed back the punch in his cup. He placed it on the silver tray of a passing servant. She got the feeling he was trying to free his hands for what might be coming. He didn’t even pause to taste the drink.

  They were immediately surrounded by a group of well-wishers and spent half an hour dealing politely with this crowd. Women came forward to press her cheek. In her peripheral vision, she watched as men he didn't know slapped Dylan heartily on the back. He seemed unconcerned. He responded with faultless courtesy as always.

  But for Rory, there was a distinctly forced quality to the whole exercise. She hated deceiving all these people. How does one smile and accept well wishes for a marriage that will never take place? And she positively would not force herself to finish the drink. Dylan might be able to choke the wretched stuff down. But she absolutely could not.

  There was a heavy sweetness to the punch. The last sip almost caused her to gag her. It made her stomach lurch. Looking for a way to get rid of the noxious stuff, she set the cup discreetly down on a table behind her. She forgot it and tried to keep up a bland social patter with the increasing number of people who wanted to congratulate her.