George Washington on his own army
When Rhys saw Mae, all the other comely women in the noisy room faded to the far reaches, and he drank in all the details like a parched man at a well. Her garden-like gown held a lustrous sheen in the candlelight, and the pearls encircling her throat reminded him how far removed she was from his reach. Though their feelings for each other contradicted the notion, doubt still riddled him.
Mae was without doubt the belle of the ballroom—and gaining considerable attention. Jealousy, ever a poor companion, gnawed at him, though he tried to put it down. No matter his doubts, she was his in his most private thoughts, her lock of hair proof, and no other man dare trespass.
Coralie, in a scarlet gown seeming to mirror her British loyalties, doubled the sisters’ attention once the music began. Two officers claimed them for a country dance immediately. Rhys stayed where he was, his back to a papered wall, content to bide his time—for the moment.
If Washington’s aim was to fool the enemy with reports of awell-endowed fete, he’d certainly accomplished his mission. Morristown’s residents had taken the ruse and risen to the occasion too. Decorations and confections abounded, even cake, and punch brimmed in a silver bowl that promised replenishing.
“Sir, with all due respect, why are you not dancing?” Bohannon’s deep voice upbraided him from behind. “Rather, why not partner with my eldest sister?”
“Because I’ll have to wait in line to do it,” Rhys replied, now shoulder to shoulder with Mae’s brother. “Besides, I’m content to simply watch the festivities and pretend all is well.”
To his chagrin, Mae showed no sign of declining even one dance as she spun and stepped up and down the large room. When she passed by him, their eyes met briefly, ending his wondering about whether she’d seen him.
Overfull, the frolic pulsed with heat and high spirits. Soon the room turned stifling. Tugging at his snug stock nearly sprang the buckle at the nape of his neck. Rhys lifted a sleeve to dry his upper lip before turning around and tugging open a window.
After another heated quarter of an hour, an older woman fainted. For a few flustered moments, the dancing ground to a halt as someone revived her with a vial of something vile. The temporary lull brought Mae to his side. Standing close, she fluttered her fan and he was grateful for its wind.
“Do you not dance, sir?” she teased.
“I’d hate to wait in line for you,” he half jested. “Or start a duel.”
She smiled. “You Virginians are known for your fine stepping. General Washington and his lady are proof.”
The two mentioned led out—the topmost couple—but Rhys stole a long look at an enthralled Mae instead. Half of her hair was caught in an elaborate knot at the back of her head, the rest loosed into a fall of pale curls that framed her shoulders. He fisted his hands behind his back to keep from touching her as she turned those chicory-blue eyes on him, her skin pink. Amid all the scents wafting about, not all of them pleasant, her rosemary essence reached him.
Bohannon excused himself and partnered with a Morristown miss, leaving the two of them alone—as alone as a couple in an overcrowded ballroom could be.
Mae leaned in, her words a caress near his ear. “I much prefer a firelit kitchen in the quiet of the night, General Harlow.”
He could barely hear her above the raucous fiddles. “You’re not supposed to make this harder, Miss Bohannon.”
“I’ve missed you.” She looked wistful. “Why not make the most of the hour given us?”
He turned toward her with a surrendered half smile. “Are you asking me to dance?”
She simply smiled back at him, further whittling him down like a knife on soft wood. In light of her willingness, he felt hard-hearted, miserly with his time and affections, living a lie when his feelings for her knew no bounds. His vow to keep his distance began to collapse. She put a hand to her bodice, and he knew his lock of hair hid beneath. He wanted nothing more than to hold her, enfold her in his arms. But a dance would have to suffice.
A country dance was struck, and it mirrored his emotions. Calm one moment, careening the next. When the dance ended and they were near the ballroom door, he took her hand and she followed without a word.
Mayhap his need of her would lessen if he kissed her. Just once. He knew better but was willing to believe the lie.
The adjoining rooms across the tavern’s wide second-floor hall held couples in conversation, the doors open. No privacy to be had except a linen closet. He opened the miniature door, half expecting another couple to have gained the trysting place, but it was blessedly empty, one small window letting in moonlight.
Once Mae entered on his heels, he shut the world out. The music and chatter faded as her softness and scent filled his senses instead. She turned toward him and his hands spanned her waist. The punch he’d drunk utterly failed to inebriate him like she did.
“Mae...” Even saying her name made him woozy. The thudof his heart was surely felt beneath her hands as she placed them against his waistcoat.
“Can we dispense with Miss Bohannon and General Harlow forever?” she whispered as her arms encircled his neck.
His lips met hers softly in answer and then more surely, hardly the chaste, hurried kiss he’d envisioned. Sparks seemed to fire, the tumult inside him intensifying. She had him, body and soul.
He lost count of their kisses in the crush of emotion he’d battled since he’d first crossed her threshold. It didn’t help that her response was just as searing, lit by her own long denial. It took an iron will to rein himself in and simply hold her, her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder.
“Who thought a linen closet could be so”—her breathless voice held amusement—“beguiling?”
He kissed a loosened strand of hair by her ear. “Marry me, Mae.”
