Elizabeth turned to the doorway, expecting to find a scion of great wealth or foreign nobility who seemed to have traveled everywhere with their affluent waistcoats and stentorian voices. Footmen fanned to the side, and in the pompous timbre that the host insisted gave the proper grandiose effect, uttered, “Mr. Zachary Rourke.
The room full of women went uncharacteristically silent as Zachary appeared at the door…a communal intake of feminine breath at the sight of him.
Like everyone else, Elizabeth stared in astonishment. Zachary’s spine was straighter and his gaze more direct even though he cultivated a pose of well-bred indifference.
Elizabeth caught herself in the middle of it, but not before Zachary Rourke looked straight at her, an instant’s lock of glances: hers paralyzed, his deep and burning beautiful, absolutely stunning in a face of masculine flawless transience…perfect…perfect equivalent to the perfection of her powerful Achilles warrior, and beyond anything but dreams.
The light from zillions of beeswax candles and gaslights lit from above sought him as if to confer a special favor, burnishing the raw umber of his hair. He bowed gracefully over a young girl’s hand and kissed it with the girl swooning. Elizabeth clenched her fists. When he straightened, lifting his eyes–he seemed to beg her to be patient.
“How dare he thinks he’s one of us,” sniped Louise, catching the concentration of Zachary on Elizabeth. “He’s a laborer.”
“He’s trouble,” said her mother. “And way beneath the Spencers. Stay away from him, Elizabeth.”
“I need fresh air.” To stop from weeping from suffocating outrage, Elizabeth took a step forward when Zachary magically stood before her. He leaned into her, dipped a formal bow.
“Good evening, Zachary, I mean, Mr. Rourke...”
His smile broadened, and he bowed his head again—nearer. “I had to perform a series of torturing courtesies to get to you. Don’t tell me you are going to deny me a dance?”
His hot breath touched her ear, sending a delicious shiver across her skin. She felt like a debutante ensnared in the exhilarating pleasure of her first infatuation. He was handsome and charming, and for one night she wanted to allow herself to rebel and forget what her parents had portended. For tonight she desired to imagine that he was entirely appropriate for her.
Zachary shifted beside her, his thigh brushing the silk of her gown. Her mother cast reproving glances to Elizabeth. Alva then nodded a tight smile to Zachary. With dawning realization, Elizabeth grasped the telltale signs of her mother’s warning. Zachary stood entirely too close to her. He had dropped his hand from her back, but it rested at his side dangerously close to hers. She could feel the heat of his arm near hers. She smiled, listening to O’Reilly’s prattle while soaking up Zachary’s presence.
She raised a brow. “A frontiersman that dances?”
“I can assure you, I will not embarrass you. My mother browbeat us boys into submission when we were young. Dance instruction began in the farmyard. Whoever resisted or failed at the task had to dig out the hog pen. Not a pleasant task.”
On the other side of her father, her mother gasped. Elizabeth put her gloved hand over her mouth and giggled. She needed Zachary’s outlandish behavior like a life raft on an endless ocean. He bowed, and without asking took her in his arms, sweeping her onto the ballroom floor.
“Apologies for appearing late.”
“Whatever do you mean? I didn’t know you were coming.”
He was grinning down at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling attractively. “Mrs. Merriweather informed me that she told you I was coming.”
“Calling me out is hardly appropriate–” she broke off when she realized he was amusing himself at her expense. The way he moved was memorable, with a controlled and concentrated grace in his dark, conservatively cut double-breasted waistcoat that fit snugly to his broad shoulders, his tall stature, those remarkable dark lashes and cobalt eyes burned indelibly on her mind.
For the next several seconds, she attempted to analyze Zachary’s smell. A delicate cloud of his scent encircled her, subtle, inherent woodsy, lemon bay, but underneath there was something stronger and warm with an almost smoky depth.
She glanced at the other dancers, and the people crowded about the room. Everyone was staring at them. She returned her gaze to Zachary, found him regarding her.
“Let them look their fill. The men are jealous, and the women envious that I dance with the most beautiful woman in New York.”
He was grinning down on her, the corners of his eyes crinkling appealingly. The gaslight caught the flecks of gold in his deep cobalt eyes, making them appear warmer than usual. A thrill of pleasure shot through her stomach. “I feel arrows from your mother and father piercing into my back. What’s wrong?”
“They look at everyone like that. For me, life is wrong. I’m a prisoner.”
“Family problems?”
“I’m engaged to the Duke of Westerly.”
He missed a step but smoothly accounted for it. “Engaged?”
“Not yet. There are contract arrangements to be finalized.”
“You are in agreement with this business?”
It was the way he asked her that caused her to look up. Because she was irked with him calling her out on knowing he was coming to the ball, she decided to taunt him. “The duke is charming, has a big castle in the clouds and servants aplenty.”
