“But?” she said when I was done. “Why should we trust a word that dancing Delilah has to say?”
“You didn’t see her, Phee,” I said. “I—?I think I believe her.”
“Hmmph. All right, then. Let’s go find Coll and the other lads. We’ll tell them. See what they think, aye? And we’ll need to speak to Bran, too. Is he here yet? Did whatsername say?”
I shook my head, though I knew he must be. I was already feeling lighter from sharing the burden. As we strolled toward the ballroom door, I glanced over at Phoebe. “Oh,” I asked. “So, what was your fortune?”
“Bah.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Waste of money. Just the same old claptrap. ‘You’ll fall in love with a tall, dark stranger.’ Did that when I was seven, didn’t I? Do me a favor though, and don’t tell Collum, aye? I hate it when he gives me that look.”
Chapter 40
THE DECORATIONS IN THE BALLROOM WERE VASTLY different from those in the rest of the manor. It was as though we’d passed through Aladdin’s cave and entered a fairy forest. Above our heads hung garlands of white and pink flowers, twined with ivy and sparkling ribbon. Barefoot girls in gauzy dresses floated between guests, passing out flutes of champagne. A rain of petals drifted down onto bejeweled hair and black-clad shoulders.
We scanned the crowd.
“I don’t see . . . Ah!” Phoebe said. “There they are.”
To the right of the steps, Tesla was embroiled in a conversation with William Vanderbilt and another man whose face I could not see. Collum and Jonathan stood close by, watching their charge closely.
“You go find lover boy,” Phoebe said. “Then I’ll grab our lads and meet you in that far corner behind the ice sculpture of the goat man. I’ll take my time so you can have a few minutes alone with him.”
“Thanks,” I said, grinning. “And . . . I think that’s supposed to be Pan.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“The ice sculpture. Pan’s the god of nature. Son of Dionysus, god of wine?”
“Looks like a bloody goat man to me,” she said, and struck out through the crowd.
From a far corner of the room, I let my gaze roam over every face I could see, but it was so crowded and the partygoers were constantly shifting. Panic began to squeeze my chest.
Too many people. Too many. I’ll never find him. Getting hard to breathe.
As I stood beneath one of the cherry trees that dotted the ballroom, pink petals fell over me in a constant flutter. I cupped my palms, filling them with the velvety blossoms. Then, eyes closed, I raised them to my face and forced myself to breathe in the sweet, tantalizing fragrance.
Slowly, I exhaled. I looked up, and straight into a familiar pair of blue and green eyes a stone’s throw away. For a long instant, everything and everyone else blurred around us.
We had so many obstacles. So many scary things that had to be discussed.
But it was my first, maybe my only, ball. And the boy I loved was standing only twenty yards away.
You’re killing me, he mouthed.
I tried for a casual oh-well shrug, but as he wove through the crowd toward me, the thrill that had begun to thrum through my nerve endings was making it really hard to pull off.
“There you are,” I said as he approached.
“And there you are.”
The tabbed collar and white tie contrasted with his tanned face and neck. A tailed black jacket fit snugly across his shoulders. All the way to the shiny black shoes, Bran looked at ease and natural in his nineteenth-century garb.
His eyes took on that sleepy look I knew well, and a slow, sideways smile began to emerge as he held out a hand. “May I have the pleasure, Miss Walton?”
I glanced across the ballroom. Collum’s and Jonathan’s heads were tilted toward Phoebe. Tesla’s attention was fixed on the tall man standing beside Vanderbilt.
Soon they’d all be here, and my one chance to dance with Bran would be over.
“But Tesla and Collum will be here in a—”
“Hang Tesla and definitely hang MacPherson,” he said. “I think we deserve this, don’t you?”
I paused, but only for an instant. “I would be honored, Mr. Cameron.”
“Not here, though,” he said. “If Blasi notices . . .”
“Where?”
He grinned, and I was lost. “Come with me.”
The room we stepped into was a gallery, lit only by silver moonlight that streamed through three tall windows. At any other time, the historian in me would have stopped to examine the dozens of portraits that lined the long room. But I knew we had only moments, and after that, who could say what would happen?
Bran took my hand and led me into a patch of lustrous light. As we stood there I let my gaze drift down over the arched brows, past high cheekbones, over the too-long nose, to his lips.
As he moved closer, his scent sparked something inside me. I knew—?from reading, of course—?that people often confuse love with what is actually just a chemical reaction that sometimes occurs between two individuals. Was that all this was? Hormones that interacted with and complemented each other?
Then I looked up into his eyes, the blue and green washed in light until they were all but indistinguishable from each other.
And I remembered the first time I’d seen those eyes under the shimmer of the moon.
Bran held out his arms. The grin faded as he spoke in a smoky voice that made my stomach tighten. “Dance with me, Hope.”
The orchestra began the opening strains of the leisurely, somehow sensuous “Beautiful Dreamer,” by Stephen Foster. The music seeped through the walls. The vibrations of violin and cello rumbled through the floor and up my legs.
I stepped into Bran’s arms. His palm settled warmly at my waist. Taking my other hand in his, he slowly began to move me backwards across the room.
Having no clue how to waltz, and with my natural klutziness in full sway, I lost count of the times I stumbled or stepped on his toes. But his movements were patient and measured. As he counted quietly under his breath, I eventually caught the rhythm.
I don’t know how long we spun around the gallery. Time had decelerated into an adagio of shadows and light and heat. On every revolution Bran drew me in closer, until his arm was wrapped around my waist and our bodies were pressed together.
We eased to a stop in the center of the room, bodies half in and half out of shadow as we stared at each other, breathing hard. My head tilted back as he pulled me hard against him. I could feel the flat stomach and the firm muscles of his long legs pressed against me as he leaned down and kissed me.
Soft and unhurried, the kiss soon deepened until we were panting not from dance, but with need. His lips found mine again and we surged together, the heat building until I didn’t even know my own name.
Outside the empty tree trunk, the little girl shivered, even though the little boy had long since removed his own meager cloak to wrap around her thin shoulders.
As he stood next to her, the wind riffled the boy’s tunic, making him shiver.