her away, toward him. The woman lifted her head, and her thick, dark hair danced against those satiny shoulders.
And then she did something so completely unexpected he wondered if he was dreaming. She shut her eyes tight and stretched out her hand toward him.
“Miss Leora Mayfield,” Mrs. Whipple intoned.
“Please, please,” she whispered. “Hold on to my hand. I am having a nervous reaction.”
Kellen clasped her hand in both of his and peered into her face. The woman was attractive. Extraordinarily attractive. He studied her wide mouth, the dark lashes against her cheeks. My God, she’s beautiful.
“Reaction to what?” he managed.
“To…this. All of these people.” Her lids opened and her eyes locked with his. They were so blue and clear they made his throat ache.
“Crowds terrify me.”
“Your nervous reaction is not to me, then?”
She shook her head. “Oh, no. At least not yet.”
Relief coursed through him, followed by a gut-tightening unease. Not yet?
Kellen stood motionless, steadying her trembling hand in his. The receiving line broke up, reforming in twos and threes at the refreshment table to his right.
“I was about to have a glass of something to drink,” he said gently.
“Oh, thank heaven. Could you possibly bring me one, as well? I’m so glad this is over, I feel like celebrating.”
He laughed without thinking. His opinion exactly.
“But it is not over. It has just begun.”
“For me it’s over. The hard part, anyway. The rest is up to the Ladies Helpful Society.”
Kellen winced. At this moment he didn’t want to be reminded of the corner Dora Mae Landsfelter and her cadre of Helpful Ladies had backed him into. All he wanted to do was enjoy this moment for as long as he could.
“Come.” He turned her toward the refreshment table. “I think we’ll both need a drink before this evening is over.”
Chapter Four
At the refreshment table, Kellen watched Ruth Underwood pour fizzing champagne into two glasses while her husband glugged dark gold applejack from a ceramic jug into teacups. He reached for a glass of the champagne for Miss Mayfield. Miss Mayfield, however, lifted a brimming cup of the applejack and brought it to her lips.
He kept his eyebrows from rising by sheer force of will. “You ever taste applejack before?”
She looked at him over the rim of the cup. “Never.”
“Would you care to sit down first?”
“Most definitely. As soon as I drink some of this.” She downed a big swallow, and he watched her eyes widen and then tear up. He lifted the cup from her fingers and steered her to the green velvet settee against the wall.
She sat down. Then jumped up. Sat down once more and bent forward as if to inspect the hem of her skirt. When she raised her head, Kellen presented the glass of champagne. She reached instead for the cup of applejack in his other hand.
A single-minded swan. “It’s pretty potent,” he cautioned. “More than ninety proof the way Josh Bodwin makes it.”
“Good,” she said. She took another swallow. “You’re quite right—lots of proof.” Her voice sounded raspy. Kellen drank half the glass of champagne while she gulped another mouthful of the brandy.
“Do you do this often?” he inquired. The only woman he’d ever known who could put away liquor like this was Great-Aunt Henrietta, and she’d had years of practice.
“No, I have never taken spirits before. It tastes rather like—” she thought for a moment “—crushed oak leaves.”
He couldn’t let her swill down any more; she’d fizzle out like a spent match. He had to think of something to distract her.
“Would you care to dance?”
Lolly looked up at him. She would give the moon to dance with this man, tall and elegant in his black dress coat and knotted silk tie. He moved without making a single extra motion, like a mountain cat. A panther, that was it. And his eyes were positively hypnotic, an odd gray-green, and twinkly, as if he were amused at something.
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Can’t?” His dark brows arched upward for a split second. “As in, you don’t know how? Or you are already spoken for? Or…you don’t wish to?”
“Oh, I do wish to, but…” No, she couldn’t possibly tell him the truth. He would think her a complete ninny.
Or would he?
“The truth is,” she heard her voice say, “I cannot raise my arms that high. My…that is, the top half of me will come undone.”
Colonel Macready stared at her. Completely unnerved by her admission, Lolly fiddled with the loose knot at her bosom. He swept his gaze over the gauzy lace covering her chest and shoulders, and suddenly his face changed.
“Your trunk went on to the next stop! Is that it?”
“How on earth would you know that?”
“Happens all the time. The Russell Steam Engine Line prides itself on two-minute station stops. They’ll bring it back tomorrow afternoon.”
“I am relieved to hear that. In the meantime…” She sent a surreptitious glance down her front.
“In the meantime, you could waltz without raising your arms. I will simply lower mine.”
She took another gulp of the interesting-tasting cider and rose unsteadily. “Very well. If you will promise not to laugh if, well, if shomeshing…that is, something…untoward occurs.”
Kellen swung her away to the band’s raucous rendition of “The Blue Bell of Scotland.” Not a waltz, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to put his arms around her and keep her talking.
They danced in silence for half a chorus, and then his black swan opened her mouth. What came out shocked him into a complete standstill.
“Colonel Macready, do you really, truly want to get married?”
He tightened his hand at her waist. She felt warm and soft under his fingers. No corset. Interesting.
“You want an honest answer, I assume?”
“Honest? Why, of course I want an honest answer. It is an honest question.”
“Well, then, yes.” He swallowed hard. “I do want to marry.”
“But why?”
“Why!
