He raised the porcelain cup to his lips, inhaling the steaming fragrance of the coffee before he sipped it. “I cannot fault your parents. Though I myself like Carter, many regard him as the worst sort of slippery English rascal.”
“He’s never seemed a rascal to me,” I said mildly. John Carter had first come to our house in 1776 as a commissioner appointed by Congress to audit the accounts of the army while my father in command of the Northern Department. Papa had liked him then, judging him to be thorough, fair, and hardworking, but he’d never considered him as a suitable addition to our family. I’d thought him pleasing enough, if a bit phlegmatic, yet Angelica had been intrigued by his clever intelligence. I’d known there was an attraction between them, but I’d been as surprised as anyone when they’d eloped, and I still silently marveled that he’d snared my fiery sister’s heart. He was dark and intense, and known as a gambler, a gentleman who took great risks. He was rumored to be profiting from the war through various business arrangements that many thought weren’t entirely honorable, and I think that the aura of wickedness and mystery about his past in England had also held a powerful allure for my sister. “And it’s not his fault that he was born in England.”
“He’s an Englishman who fled his native land after an ill-fated bankruptcy,” Alexander said. “I know his primary income comes from provisioning contracts, but I’ve heard he’s also indulging in some tidy speculation that will either make him very rich, or very much in debt, which is bound to unsettle your father. In his eyes, matters must be going from ill to worse with you choosing a pauper. Though at least I have come to my poverty honestly, and as a gentleman should.”
“Hush,” I said again, and more sternly, too, for the coffee had not helped his humor as I’d hoped. “You are not at all like Mr. Carter. My parents have found you agreeable from the moment you first appeared on their doorstep, and you have only risen in their estimation since then. I’m sure they will bless our marriage, as sure as I am of anything under Heaven. What other assurance can I offer you?”
He glanced down at the delicate cup in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, and deliberately set it on the table between us. When he looked up again, I saw the deep sorrow in his eyes that he seldom revealed to anyone but me. I saw the loneliness of that long-ago boy who’d lost his parents and his home, and the aching fear of abandonment that haunted him still.
I dropped my knitting in the basket beside me and rose swiftly from my chair. I looped my arms around his neck and bent to kiss him, determined to make him understand the depth of my feelings for him. He answered by curling his arm around my waist and drawing me forward on his knees, and kissing me with an urgency that bordered on desperation. It was all done with haste and need, not grace, with my petticoats flurrying around my ankles, my knee bumping his sword awkwardly against the chair, and his half-empty cup rattling in its saucer on the table, yet we took no notice of anything except each other.
At any moment we could be discovered by another of our household, and we both understood that this bold display of emotion would have tested my aunt’s new tolerance. We didn’t care. He kissed me more deeply, his hand sliding along my leg beneath my tumbled petticoat as if by accident, until he’d reached the back of my bare knee above the ribbon of my garter. There he settled his palm quite happily, nor did I protest this impulsive caress; far from it. I’d already discovered how much I enjoyed the feverish pleasure Alexander’s touch could inspire, and risking the discovery by others only made the enjoyment more thrilling. I’ll admit that this was not the demeanor of a lady as I had been taught, and I had never granted such freedom to any other gentleman. But with Alexander, these freedoms, these kisses stolen and freely given, these small, teasing games were all part—an exciting part—of loving him.
“My own Alexander,” I whispered breathlessly, my face close to his. “If you wish it, I’ll wed you now, tomorrow, however and wherever you choose. We needn’t wait for my parents at all.”
“Oh, Eliza,” he said ruefully, smoothing my hair back from my face. “Nothing would bring me more joy than to hold you in my arms as my wife. But as much as I long for that day, I won’t ask you to make that sacrifice. You’re Eliza Schuyler, and you deserve a proper wedding, surrounded by your family, and I wouldn’t rob you of that.”
Reluctantly I nodded, realizing how foolish I’d been to suggest such a giddy plan. Another elopement would break my poor mother’s heart, and I wouldn’t wish Alexander to be forced to face my father’s wrath. The rashness of an unexpected marriage could even compromise his position in the army; His Excellency expected his officers—especially one as trusted as Alexander—to behave with measured decorum, and not to run off with a general’s daughter.
“Perhaps it is for the best that we wait, but I wish it could be otherwise,” I said wistfully. Still perched on his lap, I smoothed his neck cloth and straightened the collar of his coat with would-be-wifely concern. “There is so much that is unsettled in our lives because of the war, that if we could only be wed . . .”
I let the words drift off, because they didn’t really need to be said. I’m sure he understood as well as I. The war was a constant pall over all of us, with no guarantees of what might happen next. When the army broke camp in the spring, all the wives and families of the officers from Lady Washington downward would return to their homes, and the men would head to battle. Alexander complained of being desk-bound as an aide-de-camp, but once the fighting resumed, he would be in as much danger as any other soldier. The reasons for waiting to marry were undeniable, yet still I feared that I could lose him before he’d ever truly been mine.
“In time, my angel, in time,” he said softly. “I’ll go to Amboy, and you shall remain here to welcome your father. We’ll both have our orders, won’t we? I’ll be thick in tedious negotiations with the British, while you’ll be persuading your father of the wisdom of our match.”
I tried to smile. “You’ve told me yourself that the negotiations aren’t so very arduous, and how in the evenings you’ll be expected to dine every night with the British officers as if they were your boon companions.”
“That is true,” he admitted. “The British like nothing more than to drink themselves into a stupor every night. I will endure it, of course, if it means I can bring even one more of our men back to our side. You know that Congress is responsible for paying the keep of our own men in British hands, and God only knows how much of our payment ever reaches the poor wretches. To have as many of them returned to their regiments before the spring would be a benefit to everyone.”
“They couldn’t ask for a better champion.” It didn’t feel appropriate to discuss prisoners of war whilst sitting on his lap, and I eased from his knee, intending to return to my own chair.