What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being.
~ Kate Chopinfrom The Story of an Hour
“The Reformation Club,” the driver called out as the carriage pulled to a halt.
That’d been a short ride, but then the trip from east side to west was a quick one across the park. Prim patted her hair and tried to catch her breath while James leapt out to pay the driver. In a moment, he was back, taking her hand to help her descend.
“The walk is slippery. Take care.”
A nice excuse for her to cling tightly to his muscular arm, she thought. Her shaky knees appreciated the assistance. The brick building before them was an innocuous one. Nothing special at all. Prim was a bit disappointed. Though, not as greatly as she’d been when the carriage had jerked to a stop.
A doorman held open a thick wooden door for them. Massive brass chandeliers lit the lobby, revealing simple wood paneled walls. The only thing that made it different from the hundred other buildings she’d been into was the thick, crimson carpet beneath her feet and the muffled thrumming of lively music coming through the walls.
They approached another set of doors, which opened magically before them. The music grew louder, clearer. Here, an inner lobby of sorts, people milled about. A group of laughing young men. A few couples talking. One, a woman in a form fitting red dress with lips painted to match, was smoking a long, thin cigar. Prim tried not to stare at her and everything else around her or act as utterly gauche as she was.
But the woman wasn’t paying Prim any attention. Her eyes were lazily documenting James from head to toe and not missing a single detail, she was sure.
Getting a firmer grip on his arm, she followed along beside him to the coat check, where he helped her with her cloak and muff before relieving himself of his outer coat, hat, and gloves. Beneath the jacket, he wore black tie like few men could. His jacket molded to his broad shoulders and snug about his lean hips.
She certainly approved.
Tucking the check card into his pocket, James surprised her by taking her by the hand and guiding her to the next set of doors. Inside, he was greeted by a maître d’ who knew him by name. They shook hands, James slipping a few folded bills into the host’s palm.
He’d been here before, she realized, as they were led to a table near the edge of the dance floor, but not too close to the band where conversation might prove impossible. Had he been here with other ladies? Maybe even the one in red who’d watched him so familiarly?
“Should we have a bottle of champagne?” he asked, pulling out a chair for her and tucking her in. The maître d’ hovered and a waiter rushed to join him. “Or would you like to try something else?”
Something else? She didn’t think he meant tea.
“Wine? A cocktail?” he prompted.
“Whatever you think,” she braved, wondering where the allowance might land her. Still, it was better to act like she was just letting a gentleman choose for her rather than admit she’d never had a cocktail.
James winked at her as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. “A Delicious Sour for the lady and a Whisky Fix for me,” he told the waiter, who hurried away with a nod.
“Will you be needing menus this evening, Mr. MacKintosh?”
“No, thank you.”
When the maître d’ was gone, James grinned wolfishly at her. “But maybe some dessert later on?”
Prim smacked James’s arm. “You are terrible. What a thing to say in public.”
“Nobody can hear us, but I’m not sure what you’re implying.” His eyes twinkled. “You might have had dinner but I haven’t. I’m starving.”
Regret flooded her. “I apologize. I only dined because…”
“Go on.”
“I hadn’t yet decided to come,” she confessed. “Please eat something. I don’t want you to be hungry.”
James leaned forward, his lips close to her ear. “A bite of food won’t change that, lass.”
With another roguish grin, he leaned back in his chair as their drinks were delivered. He waited as she lifted hers and took a cautious sip. It was at once bitter and sweet, the sugar softening the blow of the whisky but offset by the tang of lemon. It burned a path from tongue to gut but settled there, spreading a delicious heat.
“It’s wonderful.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
