Читать книгу The Mistress - Сьюзен Виггс - Страница 10

“Absolutely not,” Kathleen whispered after a long, awkward silence. She was aghast that this person would even consider such a thing. Letting a man put an earring on her, in a roomful of the best people in Chicago, would expose her as a fraud entirely. No proper lady would ever allow such a liberty. “Thank you for retrieving my earring. I shall retire to the powder room to put it back on.” She held out her gloved hand.

His smile, and the merry gleam in his eyes, should have warned her. “My dear young lady,” he said, “where is the fun in that?”

“Fun?” she squeaked.

“Isn’t that why you’re here?” He lifted an eyebrow, a dark curve that made him look more intriguing than ever. “For fun?”

Kathleen tried to gather her composure. In her fondest imaginings, she’d had clever conversations with dozens of men, had bantered and matched wits with people of breeding and quality. When no one was looking, she had practiced smiling, flirting, laughing, offering quips and amusing anecdotes. For the life of her, she could not think of one clever thing to say at this moment. But she was not about to let herself be struck dumb by a handsome man.

“I thought saving souls was on the agenda tonight,” she said. “That should be fun enough for you.”

“I’m a Catholic,” he said smoothly. “Not a sober, pinch-mouthed Protestant. They don’t believe in having fun. Not in this life, anyway.”

His admission stunned her. The highest ranks of society normally looked down upon those of the Catholic faith. Only a certain privileged few could admit to it and still keep their place in society. That was one reason Lucy had picked Baltimore as Kathleen’s fictional hometown. There, some of the oldest families were descended from venerable Catholic clans from centuries ago, which made them acceptable to socialites.

“Do I shock you?” he asked.

“Certainly not. Sir.” She deliberately emphasized the formal address. She knew that in this society, a person kept certain things secret. What could his blunt admission mean? That he knew the mass card for what it was and saw through her ruse? Or that he felt a genuine affinity for her because they had something in common?

His laughter was low and rich, a sound she thought she would never tire of hearing. “I beg your pardon. It’s unforgivable for me to indulge in an intimate conversation with you before I’ve even introduced myself.” His bow was perfectly correct. As if posing for a photograph, he leaned forward from the waist, one hand behind his back and the other held out palm up, as if in supplication. “Dylan Francis Kennedy, at your service.”

She wondered if it was better to pretend ignorance or to admit she had known who he was all along. No, she couldn’t do that. He’d ask where she had seen him before and she’d be forced to admit that she had been spying on him at the Sinclair mansion. “How do you do,” she said. “I am—”

“Kate.” He winked at her. “Your friend Miss Hathaway gave me permission to call you Kate. She said you were far too modest to demand a formal address.”

She narrowed her eyes, skeptical of his dashing charm. “For all the gossip I’ve heard about you, I would expect informality.”

“Now I am intrigued. What gossip?”

“That you are heir to a Boston shipping fortune, just back from a lengthy tour of the Continent,” she said.

“You must have seen that in the Tribune.”

“And that you are looking for a wife,” she added.

He laughed. “Ever since that nonsense was published, I’ve been inundated by ambitious matrons trotting out their rich daughters. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy a parade of maidens, mind you—” he winked at her “—but I think I’ve narrowed the scope of my search.”

She sniffed. “Then I shan’t tell you the rest. You’ll get a head swelled full of pride.”

He chuckled. “Did your gossips say what manner of wife I’m seeking?”

“No, but I heard you’ve left a trail of broken hearts scattered across half the continent.”

“Patently untrue. I am the one who is brokenhearted. In all my travels, I have been asking for the unattainable.” He smiled sadly. “A woman of rare accomplishment and depth,” he said. “One who has red hair, flashing eyes and knows all the words to the Ave Maria.”

“You are an unforgivable tease, sir,” she choked out, thoroughly intrigued.

He touched her elbow, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “I never tease. But don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Which secret?” she blurted out. She was usually in control of her tongue, but his touch, even the light cradle of his hand at her elbow, disconcerted her.

“There’s more than one?” He had the most alluring manner.

She bit her lip, thinking fast. Then she gave him the most dazzling smile she could muster. “Every woman has secrets,” she said. “The more, the better.”

He constantly seemed as if he were on the verge of laughter. “My dear Kate, I was speaking of your true identity.”

She gasped. “If you know my true identity, why do you still deign to speak to me?”

“Because I want to put this earring on you. And if there’s any deigning to be done, then it is you who has to deign because it’s clear to everyone in this room that you outrank me.”

“Outrank?”

“I knew you’d be too modest,” he gently chided her. “Lucy warned me.”

“She did?”

“Yes. She said you’d never flaunt your family tree nor the wealth that shakes from its branches like autumn leaves.” He chuckled. “You see? I am insufferably vulgar, mentioning bloodlines and money in the same sentence.”

“This is America,” she said, hoping her relief didn’t show. “We’re free to talk of anything we like.”

“And we do, don’t we?” Still seeming to hover on the brink of laughter, he gestured at the exalted company in the room. The men wore custom-tailored suits and boiled collars so crisp that the edges seemed to cut their necks, and the women progressed through the conversation groups as if in the midst of a competitive sport.

Dylan Kennedy’s suit, Kathleen observed, had the distinguished gentility of several seasons of age and wear, which made him look far more comfortable and natural in his role as lord of the manor. Not for him the spit shine and polish of new money, but the honored ease of generations of wealth. Next to him, even the English lord appeared bourgeois.

Then he did a most unexpected thing. Placing his hand under her elbow in a proprietary fashion, he guided her through an archway of the big salon to a smaller room with French windows flanked by garish faux marble pillars.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Sightseeing.”

“But I—” She broke off as he opened one of the tall, hinged windows, revealing a view that stopped her in her tracks. “Oh, my,” she said when she could breathe again. “That is quite a sight.” She took a step out onto the small, curved balcony. The windstorm that had been chasing through the city all evening blew even stronger now, howling between the tall downtown buildings and whipping up the surface of the lake like buckwheat batter.

From this perspective, facing south and east, she could see the curve of the river as it widened to join the vast, churning lake. Only a block or two distant, she noticed the dome and spires of the ornate courthouse, and beyond that, the gothic steeple of St. Brendan’s, the church of her girlhood. There, in a pious, sincere whisper, she had taken her first communion, accepted her confirmation and confessed her weekly sins. She expected that one day she would be married there under the gazebo in the little prayer garden, and buried there as well.

Tearing her mind from the moribund notion, she examined the perfect parallel lines of the streetlamps along Lake, Water and Randolph Streets. At the mouth of the river, giant grain elevators made ghostly silhouettes against the night sky. Every few seconds, the lighthouse at Government Pier lazily blinked its beam in her direction. And far to the south and west, the day seemed to linger, as if the sun had forgotten to set.

She smiled at the fanciful notion, thinking of her family in the West Division. Her mother would probably use the extra daylight to do chores. She was that industrious.

“Why do you smile?” Dylan Kennedy asked, his voice low and intimate.

“It’s a beautiful sight, Mr. Kennedy. No wonder Chicagoans are so proud of their city.”

“It’s called the Queen of the Prairie,” he said. “And you must call me Dylan.”

A shiver of the forbidden passed over her. “I mustn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I scarcely know you.”

“You can’t be so formal with me after I do this.”

“Do what?”

“This.” Without further warning, he stepped very close to her, moving in so that she was trapped between a marble balustrade and his tall form. “Hold very still,” he whispered.

“But—”

“Sh. Be still.”

Her senses filled with the nearness of him. He had the most delicate touch of any man she could imagine. With the finesse of a gifted musician, the light fingering of a master violinist on the neck of his instrument, Dylan Kennedy placed one hand under her chin, turning her face to one side. She didn’t know if it was her imagination, or if it was real, but she felt the fine brush of that delicate finger across her jaw as she turned her head.

“I confess I don’t have much practice applying jewelry to a lady,” he whispered, “but I am a willing pupil.”

“Mr.…Dylan, please. If you would hand me the earring, I could—”

“And spoil my chance to be near the most beautiful woman in Chicago?” His mouth was very close to her ear. She could feel the warm eddy of his breath over her skin. The sensation was so pleasant that, just for a moment, she closed her eyes. Then she felt his fingers gently manipulating her earlobe. Sweet Mary, what was happening to her? A man was touching her earlobe and she could do nothing but let her insides turn to melted butter. She held perfectly still, in a state of rapture, as he worked the tiny screw of the earring so that the teardrop-shaped jewel hung once again from her ear.

Then, all too soon, he stepped back. “Beautiful,” he said, his bluer-than-sky eyes shining.

“You,” said Kathleen in her haughtiest voice, “are a wicked man.”

“True,” he said. “That’s why you find me so interesting.”

“What makes you believe I find you interesting?”

“Let me think.” He stroked his chin, pretending great concentration. “You followed me to this private balcony, as if for an assignation.”

“I most certainly did not. You—you commandeered me as if I were a prisoner of war.”

He laughed. “A prisoner of love, my dear.”

“You’ve proved nothing except that you’re even more wicked than I thought.”

“Sweet Kate, you are fascinated.”

She couldn’t help herself. She laughed. “You are the most arrogant, conceited—”

“But I’m right about you.”

“You have not the first idea about me.” She left the balcony, edging back toward the carpeted room.

He took her arm to stop her retreat. “My first idea was that you blushed the moment you met me.”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh, Kate. It wasn’t just a blush.” Bolder than ever, he touched the neckline of her gown, tracing the wide, U-shaped décolletage with a slow, deliberate caress. “You were seashell pink from here—” he traced his finger over the tops of her breasts and then upward, mapping the rise of her collarbone, the dip at the base of her throat, and then the side of her neck, up to the crest of her cheek and temple “—to here,” he concluded with a low, liquid laugh. “I swear, I never saw a woman blush like that.” He leaned forward and blew the whispered words into her ear. “Do you blush all over, Miss Kate? Do you blush with your whole body?”

Finally, finally, he had pushed her over the edge. Forgetting the drawing room manners she had donned along with the Worth gown, Kathleen drew back her arm and walloped him one. It was not an openhanded, ladylike slap designed to put him in his place, but a full-fisted roundhouse punch of the sort used in saloon brawls in Conley’s Patch.

He went down like a heap of unmortared brick. The thud of his body brought several people rushing over from the main salon.

“What happened?” Mr. McCormick asked, his walrus mustache twitching as he sank down beside Dylan Kennedy.

Kathleen braced herself. Now Dylan would reveal her for exactly what she was—a lowborn immigrant’s daughter, with crude manners, no sense of humor and a wicked punch. A fraud.

But he surprised her. Shaking his head and running an exploratory hand along the length of his jaw, he stared straight at Kathleen and said, “I fell.”

McCormick stepped back. “So I see.”

Dylan took his proffered hand and stood up. “I swear, I never fell so hard in my life.” As he spoke, his gaze never left Kathleen.

And to her mortification, she felt herself heat with an uncontrollable blush. She didn’t speak, and neither did Dylan Kennedy, but her thoughts rang loudly through her head: He’s right. I do blush with my whole body.

“Can you believe it?” Lucy Hathaway said excitedly, later in the powder room. “It’s you.”

“What’s me?” asked Kathleen.

“The woman Dylan Kennedy is interested in.”

“Fiddlesticks.” Kathleen took a clean linen towel from the brass serving tray on the counter and dabbed at her overheated face.

“She’s right.” Phoebe spoke with grudging admiration. “It is you. Dylan Kennedy wants you.”

“How can you know that?”

Phoebe gave her a tight smile. “I have made a careful study of him since he arrived in Chicago.”

Lucy laughed. “You mean you inspected his pedigree to see if he’d be a suitable husband for you.”

“I most certainly did. Is there something wrong with that?”

“Well, is he a suitable husband?” Kathleen demanded. Discreetly, she studied the hand that had just socked Dylan Kennedy. The knuckles were bright red. She put her one glove back on before the others noticed.

Phoebe fussed with the organza rosettes on her gown, then turned and fluffed out her bustle. “He is certainly rich enough. They say he has two million from his family’s shipping fortune. And he is stunningly handsome. I suppose you noticed that right off.”

He is a god that walks the earth, thought Kathleen. She bit her lip to keep from saying it aloud.

Phoebe ticked off his attributes on her fingers. “He comes from the East Coast, attended Harvard, traveled abroad. People say he is involved in shipping down the Saint Lawrence to Chicago. One of the most lucrative trade routes there is. No wonder he’s such a catch.”

“So you marry him,” Kathleen suggested.

Lucy shook her head. “She’s holding out for a duke, though Lord only knows why.”

“Then you marry him,” Kathleen said, amazed to be having this conversation.

“I shan’t be marrying anyone,” Lucy said. “I intend to devote my life to the cause of equal rights for women.” She grinned at Kathleen. “You’re elected.”

Kathleen laughed to cover a sudden jolt of ungovernable yearning. “I’m a maid,” she reminded her friends. “I hang Miss Sinclair’s clothes in closets and do her hair for a living. My mother milks cows.” She spoke flippantly, but underneath it all she felt a familiar mortification. She had always harbored the secret belief that she’d been born into the wrong life. Being in the company of Chicago’s best people tonight was a delight beyond compare, yet at the same time it held the razor sharp edge of frustration. The night gave her a taste of a life she could never have. Meeting a man like Dylan Kennedy merely twisted the knife.

“Not tonight,” Phoebe insisted. “Tonight you are a privileged young lady from Baltimore. Your ancestors were the founding fathers of the colony of Maryland.” Lacking her customary meanness, Phoebe took both of Kathleen’s hands in hers. “I didn’t think this would work, but so far you’ve made people believe our story. Initially I wanted to win my bet with Lucy, but I’ve changed my mind.”

“You have?” Kathleen was amazed. This was a side to Phoebe she had rarely seen. She wasn’t sure she trusted it.

“Tonight, Kate, I want to see you win. Don’t tell me you forgot about the invitation to the opera. That was the wager, or have you forgotten?”

He made me forget my own name, Kathleen thought wistfully.

The door to the powder room swished inward. Mrs. Lincoln, whose father-in-law had been the Great Emancipator, bustled in. A maid followed behind her, eyes cast down to the floor.

Phoebe pretended to be helping Kathleen on with her other elbow-length glove. “These are simply too cunning,” she said loudly. “Did they come from Paris as well? I’ve heard you get all your gowns and gloves from the Salon de Lumière.”

Before Kathleen could answer, Mrs. Lincoln put out her plump arms like a pair of wings. “My wrap,” she said to the maid. “And do hurry.”

“Is something amiss, Mrs. Lincoln?” Lucy asked.

“We’ve been hearing rumors of a great fire all evening. Robert wishes to go home early and secure the house.”

Kathleen felt no alarm about the report. Fires were a common occurrence, especially during the current drought. The city engineers always managed to contain them eventually. She and the others wished Mrs. Lincoln a good evening, then returned to the party.

“Remember your goal,” Lucy whispered to Kathleen. “You must get yourself invited to the opening of the opera house tomorrow night. If you do that, we’ll never be plagued by Phoebe’s snobbery again.” She hastened away to the main salon to hear the lecture, finding a seat that was suspiciously close to Mr. Higgins.

Time was running out, Kathleen realized, edging into the back of the room. While it was perfectly true that everyone here was cordial to her, she had yet to secure the invitation that would prove…She frowned, taking a seat on a divan across the room from where Reverend Moody was preparing to hold forth. Just what would it prove?

That she looked becoming in an expensive gown?

That Chicago society lacked a discriminating sense of who was worthy and who was not?

That the entire social structure upon which America was founded was a lie?

She smiled privately at the thought. Lucy would certainly love that conclusion. The truth was probably closer to her first thought, which was fine with Kathleen. Invitation or not, she intended to enjoy the rest of the evening. Tomorrow—and reality—would come soon enough.

She observed a group of men discussing the effect of the current drought on grain futures, and wished she could join in the speculation. Matters of commerce fascinated her, and she knew plenty from her shameless eavesdropping on her employer’s financial advisors. It was yet another way she had turned herself into a misfit, for the world didn’t need a woman from the labor classes who understood high finance. Yet she couldn’t simply stifle her interest or quiet her mind.

Reverend Moody spoke in a loud voice, and his words discomfited her. He preached of humility and honesty, and here she was, the greatest of liars.

Pretending to need a breath of fresh air, she slipped through the archway to the smaller salon. In one corner, a group of men stood smoking cigars and speaking in low tones. They didn’t notice her. The door to the balcony where Dylan Kennedy had practically seduced her stood ajar. She stepped out, and was struck by two impressions.

First, the wind had picked up strength and a curious heat, while moonlight imbued the scene with pearly blue magic.

And second, she was not alone.

“I just knew you couldn’t stay away,” Dylan Kennedy crowed.

She stepped back toward the door. “I had no idea you were out here.”

“Of course you didn’t,” he said teasingly, blocking her retreat. “But now that you’re here, I’m ready for you.”

She blinked. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I’ve been waiting for your apology.”

She flexed her hand unconsciously. “I am sorry you gave me cause to hit you.”

“Is that as close as you’ll come to apologizing?”

“It’s more than you deserve.”

“Then I accept.”

A gust of wind lifted her skirts, causing the green silk to bell out like a hot air balloon. Kathleen pressed her arms to her sides, not so much out of modesty as fear that he would catch a glimpse of her rough muslin bloomers. She did not want to explain why an heiress would wear such a thing under a Worth original. The strong draft tampered with the twisted silk cord of her reticule, and she felt it slip down her shoulder.

“I am going inside now,” she informed him, intending to escape before he addled her head by touching her as he had done before. She didn’t trust him. She didn’t trust herself with him. Never had she felt so strong an attraction for a man.

She considered herself to be a woman of some experience, for she did not lack for suitors. Expressmen, railroad workers, lumberjacks and day laborers often came to call. Some of them, like Barry Lynch, a dockyard clerk, were quite nice. But she had never felt the magic of true attraction…until now.

It wasn’t just that he was handsome—though he most certainly was.

It wasn’t just that he was amusing—though he was that as well.

Maybe it was because he was rich. Although, now that she thought about it, so were the other young men in the grand salon. And she didn’t feel this hugely magnetic and thoroughly confusing attraction to any of them. Just Dylan Kennedy.

He pressed the French door shut with the palm of his hand. His arm reached across her line of vision. He smelled faintly of bay rum and wood smoke.

Wood smoke? That was unexpected. Most men smelled of cigars or cheroots, but—

“Something’s burning,” she said suddenly, swinging her gaze out across Chicago.

“I call it desire,” he quipped.

“Please, stop joking. There is a fire somewhere. People were talking about it earlier.”

The wind crescendoed to a truly frightful howl, and even in the protected shelter of the balcony, Kathleen felt its power plucking at her skirts and carefully coiffed hair. Scattered sparks streamed past, tossing and flickering like live snowflakes.

“Look at that,” she said. “There is a fire.”

“Those are probably just embers from someone’s chimney pot,” Dylan said dismissively. “Even if it’s a fire, the engine crews will have it under control before you know it.” He pressed close to her, and the intimate heat that passed between them thrilled her. He seemed determined to pick up where they had left off before she had hit him.

And to be honest, Kathleen was interested, too. For the first time in her life, she had the feeling that she “fit” with this man. She felt at ease with him, even though he was a tycoon, rich and sophisticated beyond anything she could imagine. But he didn’t know that. He would never know that. For after tonight she would never see him again. There was no harm in this flirtation, she told herself. No harm at all.

He seemed to sense her growing acceptance of him. “Is it true your family owns a controlling interest in Hibernia Securities?”

She caught her breath, but tried to act unsurprised. “You’ve been gossiping behind my back.”

“I wouldn’t call it gossiping. I’m interested in you, Miss Kate. I find you completely enchanting, even if you do wield a mean right hook.”

At his words, shivers coursed over her. “I’m not sure you should be speaking to me in such a frank and familiar fashion,” she said.

“Are you offended?”

“No.” She allowed herself a small, speculative smile. “Intrigued.” She dared to push at the boundaries a little more. “The gossip about you is that you are in need of a wife.”

“Desire,” he said softly, stepping close. He spoke the word with silken precision.

Inside her, something seemed to melt. “What?”

“Desire,” he repeated. “I desire a wife. I’m not sure that is the same as need.”

“I see.” How had he wound up standing so close to her? She could smell the clean starchy scent of his shirt, could see the precision with which his valet had shaved his cheeks and jaw.

“Don’t you want to know why?” he asked, practically whispering.

“Why what?” Her mouth felt cottony and dry.

“Why I desire a wife.”

She cleared her throat, trying to make sense of the moment, of the sweet, compelling feelings flowing through her as she looked up at him. “Very well. Why do you desire a wife?” She couldn’t help the spark of devilment that made her suggest, “Did your mother finally put you out of her house?”

He caught her against him and laughed heartily. “My dear Miss Kate, you are a caution. It is a privilege to know you.”

Now, she thought, moving in for the kill. “Do you truly feel that way?”

“From the bottom of my heart.”

“Then I wonder—” She stopped. “Oh, I am too bold.”

“Go on. What were you going to say?”

“I was hoping you would invite me to the opening of Crosby’s Opera House,” she said. “I was hoping you would be the one.”

“I will, Kate. I’ll be the one. I am, after all, looking for a wife. Escorting you to the opera seems a good way to begin the hunt.”

For a moment, Kathleen felt dizzy with her victory. She had won. She had proven she could fool a society gentleman into escorting her to the opera. But the moment came to a cruel and swift end. She wanted to take pride in her cleverness, but instead, she felt empty. Deceitful. Here was this perfectly nice man, innocently offering her an evening’s entertainment, and she thought only of the wager. An apology hovered on her lips, but something—the expression dancing in his blue eyes—held her silent. In the matter of his quest for a wife, she couldn’t tell whether he was joking or not. She speculated about the real reason for his interest in matrimony. Family alliances, convenience, sometimes even appearances. Occasional expedience, for accidents did happen even in the best of families.

“We have managed to have an entire conversation, and neither has revealed the least little thing about the other,” she commented, stepping back.

“You find my air of mystery alluring,” he said.

“What—” She swallowed. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the howl of the dry, blowing wind. “What gives you the idea that you are so alluring?”

“Ah, but I didn’t say that. I said that you find me fascinating. It’s not my fault, but you do.”

“I certainly do not.”

“Sweet Kate, when you punched me in the jaw with such ardor, I could only conclude that I arouse a strong passion in you. And then when you sneaked out here to be with me, I felt even more certain of your feelings.”

“You are insolent,” she said, grateful for the many hours she had spent studying with Deborah. She could stand up to this clever, clever man, just see if she couldn’t. Long after her mistress had lost interest in her studies, Kathleen had absorbed all the lessons of the best tutors money could buy. “You are arrogant,” she said to Dylan. “You are manipulative, sly and completely wrong about me.”

He had a swift and elegant way of moving, and he employed it now, pressing her against the figured stone balustrade. He filled her field of vision—snowy white shirt and a white silk cravat framed by the beautifully tailored, slightly worn lapels of a dark frock coat.

“We like each other, Kate. We both felt the attraction.”

She tossed her head, trying to appear unintimidated by his nearness. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do, and it matters not at all.” Very lightly, shockingly, he put his finger at the base of her throat, brushing the emeralds and diamonds of her necklace. “I know your game, Kate.”

“And pray, what is that?” She spoke playfully, enjoying this far too much.

“I know what’s under your dress,” he said.

Saints alive. He knew about her muslin underclothes.

“Beneath this gorgeous milk-white breast beats the heart of a guilty woman—”

“Sir, you forget yourself.” Letting a man speak of one’s breasts was absolutely taboo. It was so taboo that no one had even told her such talk was forbidden. She just knew.

“Tell me, what would your family think if they knew you were here?” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken.

Heavens, but he was right about the guilt. She pictured her simple, loving family and felt like the ingrate of the world for pretending to be something she was not. They would see it as a rejection of their way of life, their values, when in fact, it had nothing to do with them and everything to do with Kathleen and a dream inside her that refused to die. But for the moment she was more concerned with fending off this man who seemed to see right through her.

“My family loves and supports me in all I do.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Sounds promising. And unusual for the heiress to a fortune. So they would not worry that you had come to hear an evangelist, a good Catholic girl like you?”

She tried not to show her relief. “Sir, my family would be far more worried about your attentions.”

“Don’t you want to know how I guessed your secret?”

“How?” she asked cautiously, though she knew it was the holy card.

“Because I am just like you, my sweet.”

She nearly laughed at how wrong he was. How shocked he would be if he understood what that truly meant—that she came from a poor family with no property, no prospects. “Catholic, you mean? You’ve already said so.”

“I am anything you want me to be. What do you want, Kate? What do you want?”

Every word dried, unspoken, on her tongue. Every thought flickered and disappeared like the sparks flying through the night sky. It was extraordinary. In all her life, no one had ever asked Kathleen O’Leary what she wanted. She was told with great frequency what she should do or must accomplish. But never had anyone posed the simple, straightforward question to her. No one waited so avidly to hear her answer.

And she discovered, in the long breathless moments that stretched between them, that she did not know the answer.

Until now, her life had been about what she didn’t want. She didn’t want the hardscrabble workaday life her parents endured. She didn’t want to marry a dockyard clerk and crank out baby after baby, year after year. She did not want—and saints in heaven preserve her—to be ordinary.

Now here was this extraordinary man, promising her anything.

“You haven’t answered me, Kate,” he reminded her, gently prodding. “What do you want?”

“For this night to go on forever,” she blurted out, and even as she spoke, she realized it was the most honest thing she could have said. From the moment she had donned the Worth gown, she had felt like a different person. Someone better, more important. Of course, it was all an illusion. She knew that. But the magic was as strong and seductive as Dylan Kennedy himself.

“I like that answer.” He whispered the words into the shell of her ear.

He was going to kiss her, she realized. He moved slowly, deliberately. Not with the clumsy urgent hunger of other men who had tried to kiss her. He knew what he wanted and took his time getting it. He placed his knuckles softly beneath her chin and directed her gaze to his. Then he bent from the waist, almost formally as if making an elegant bow. His lips touched hers lightly, so lightly she wasn’t sure she had felt it at all. She sensed the subtle warmth of his breath, scented with brandy, and an exquisite intimacy thrummed between them, so poignant that all of their lighthearted banter could not mask the fact that she grew suddenly thick-throated with yearning.

He kissed her as though nothing existed but her. As though she were the only other living soul on earth. As though he existed for the sole purpose of kissing her.

She had never believed she could be moved by a man’s touch, or even by his kiss. Certainly on rare occasions there might have been a flash of excitement when a suitor stole a peck on the mouth, but what she experienced in Dylan Kennedy’s arms went far beyond mere titillation. Her heart was engaged by this man, and he roused emotions more poignant and moving than anything she had ever felt. A longing seared her, and even as she reveled in his kiss, she knew why this experience was so overwhelming.

He was showing her, in this single, perfect crystal of a moment, all that she wanted, and all she could never have.

She surrendered to him utterly, softening and growing pliant in his arms. Here was a man who had probably held royal princesses in his embrace, handled blooded horses and business deals worth a staggering fortune.

In one single moment she wanted it all. She wanted to experience his life of bold, glittering excess. She imagined awakening in an airy, light-filled chamber with a gentle swish of organdy curtains. Breakfast would be served on bone china by white-gloved servants, and they would spend the day surveying their beautiful estate. In the evening they would attend a musicale, visiting with friends who laughed easily, made lighthearted conversation and admired the famous Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy.

Long after he stopped kissing her, she kept her eyes closed and her face angled toward his. Only the silken rustle of his laughter startled her back to reality. She blinked like a dreamer, awakening to find him laughing down at her.

“Where the devil are you, Kate?” he asked.

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because I want to go there.”

Feeling sheepish, she stepped away from him. He tilted his head, peering shamelessly down her bodice. She smacked him on the shoulder.

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound at all contrite. “I was just checking.”

“Checking what?”

“To see where that blush of yours starts. I’m having all sorts of ideas.”

This was how wealthy, privileged people behaved. This delicious flirtation with an edge of the forbidden. And she wanted it. Oh, how she wanted it.

A spark drifted past, alighting on her bare arm, and she brushed away the hot sting. A frisson of fear touched her like the ember. “I don’t think that strayed from a chimney pot,” she said.

“Could be a leftover from last night’s blaze at Conley’s Patch,” he remarked.

She frowned. Conley’s Patch was known as the devil’s acre, a lowly ramshackle neighborhood of saloons and brothels on the south side. How would a man like Dylan Kennedy know the first thing about the Patch?

Disconcerted, she turned to look out at the city. The sun had set hours before, but an orange glow painted the sky to the west.

“I think the fire’s spreading fast,” she said, worried.

At that same moment, the French door banged open. The wind slapped it against the building and one of the panes shattered. Lucy blustered forward and grabbed Kathleen’s arm.

“We’ve got to go,” she said. “We must get back to Miss Boylan’s before the bridges get too clogged with traffic.”

Kathleen pulled her arm away, and the cord of her reticule slid off her shoulder. “But—”

“There are rumors of a fire.”

“The fires aren’t just rumors,” Dylan said calmly. “There’ve been six a day and more because of the drought.”

Lucy regarded Dylan with narrowed eyes.

“Don’t worry, Miss Hathaway,” he said smoothly. “I was not behaving offensively.”

“Why not?” she asked. “All men do.”

Kathleen guessed she’d had a run-in with Mr. Higgins. “We really must go,” she said, reluctantly agreeing with Lucy.

“Yes, we must be getting back. Miss Boylan was quite insistent,” Lucy said. “Our curfew is ten o’clock.”

Even Cinderella had her midnight, Kathleen thought. But Cinderella was nothing but a story in a book, a dream of a magical evening that could never come true. Kathleen lived in Chicago, fires were troubling the city and it was foolish to cling to the masquerade any longer.

But she did have her private fantasies. She wanted Dylan Kennedy to think back on this night and remember the mysterious, sophisticated young woman who had kissed him with forbidden intimacy.

And so, in full view of Lucy, she wound her arms around his neck and planted a long, impassioned kiss on his mouth.