Veil of Pearls Page 9

  “On the contrary, Miss Winston. I’m fascinated.” And he was. With her intelligence, her enthusiasm, her kindness. “And where is your mother now?”

  Wind howled against the brick wall of a building as they turned a corner onto Calhoun Street. “She is with the Lord. A hurricane took her life.” Her voice broke slightly. “And my father’s.”

  Morgan scowled, clamping his jaw. Of course. Why else would she have come to Charleston alone? Morgan couldn’t imagine being an orphan, much less having to earn a living. What a brave girl. “Now, it is I who must ask your forgiveness, miss. I pry too much. It is a fault of mine.”

  Moments passed as they walked in silence, save for the clap of their shoes on the cobblestones and the distant rumble of thunder.

  “I hear you volunteer at the orphanage at St. Mary’s,” he asked, hoping to recover her jovial mood.

  She smiled. “I do. They are wonderful children. But I am at a disadvantage, sir, for you seem to know much about me while I know nothing of you.”

  “There is not much to know, Miss Winston. For one thing, I’m not nearly as charitable as you. Your devotion to those in need puts me to shame.”

  “Charity begins in the heart, Mr. Rutledge. And hearts can change.”

  He pondered her words as they walked on in silence. Wise as well as gracious.

  “Do you enjoy working with Doctor Willaby?” he asked.

  “Yes, he’s a kind man.”

  “How wonderful it would be to have such purpose. To use your skills to help others. You are most fortunate, Miss Winston.”

  “And you, Mr. Rutledge”—she gave him a coy grin—“what do you do besides attend soirees and rescue ladies in distress?”

  Morgan frowned, embarrassed that he had no answer. Embarrassed for the first time in his life that he had no answer. “You have found me out, miss. I fear those are my only talents.” He forced a chuckle.

  But she did not join him. “Surely you assist in running your plantation, managing the slaves?” Her voice turned suddenly spiteful, though he couldn’t imagine why.

  “My father handles things well enough, and it is my brother who will succeed him. I have naught to do with the slaves. My mother treats them quite well, I understand.”

  “And your father?” The spite remained.

  “He can be a difficult man.”

  She stared down the dark street as if in deep thought. Streetlamps cast cones of golden light on the slick cobblestones. Her fingers shifted, and Morgan placed his hand on them to keep her from releasing his arm. He was enjoying her touch far too much.

  They continued walking.

  “If you will not manage the plantation in your father’s stead, what will you do? Do you have no ambitions, no dreams?” she asked.

  Morgan glanced toward the bay. Though he could not see them, he could hear the crash of waves beckoning him to the sea. To a place where he felt alive and had purpose. But that would never be.

  “None that are possible, miss. For now, I will continue to rescue fair maidens.” He grinned.

  Sorrow passed across her eyes. No, not sorrow, it was something akin to pity. No one had ever looked at him that way before, and he found the feeling it invoked unsettling.

  He opened the iron gate to the doctor’s home and ushered her up the porch stairs.

  Releasing his arm, she faced him.

  He stepped closer. If only to get a better look into those tempestuous eyes. She smelled of rosemary and sweet rain. And he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her. Tell her he’d protect her forever.

  If she’d only give him the chance.

  She sniffed, and her face tightened in a frown. “You’ve been drinking.”

  He shifted his stance and looked away. “I had a drink or two.”

  “Or three?”

  He shrugged. “Am I forgiven for earlier today?” One of her dark curls matted against her cheek. It took all his control to not brush it away.

  She graced him with a tiny smile, all spite abandoned. And that smile was like sunshine breaking through a storm. “Yes, Mr. Rutledge, I forgive you. If you’ll forgive me for all the names I called you.”

  Morgan chuckled and rubbed the rain from the back of his neck as he recalled the colorful titles. “I would rank your degrading litany among the finest I’ve heard from Charleston’s learned.” He grinned and she smiled in return. Certainly his odds with this lady improved by the minute. “But there is one name I’d prefer you call me.”

  She cocked her pretty head, awaiting his next word.

  “Morgan.”

  Suspicion clouded her eyes. “That would not be proper.” Easing the coat off her shoulders, she handed it to him then turned to the door.

  Morgan sighed. He had been doing so well. He halted her with a touch. She jolted and faced him. How could he make her understand that he wished her no harm? Quite the opposite, in fact.

  “Will you do me the honor of accompanying me to the Ashley estate for a soiree this Friday?”

  Her forehead crumpled. “I’ve already said no to your invitations, Mr. Rutledge.”

  Flinging his coat over his arm, he planted a boot on the step above where he stood. “I’ve proven to you I am no monster, Miss Winston. And I assure you, I can be quite chivalrous.”

  Quite chivalrous indeed. And handsome and courageous and witty and charming and capable.

  And so much more—sensitive, caring, and warm.

  Adalia could stand it no more. Risking his touch, she plucked a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed the blood spilling from his lip. Blood spilled on her account. Perhaps there was more to this man than she first assumed. He gave her that grin again—that half-devilish, half-charming grin. Placing his hand over hers as she tended to him, he brought her fingers to his lips and placed a kiss upon them. Her bare fingers!

  Instead of fear, warmth flooded her belly. She should pull her hand back. She should …

  “What do you say, Miss Winston?” His green eyes absorbed her.

  She retrieved her hand. “You should put some comfrey on your wound.”

  “I meant about this Friday.”

  “I say yes, Mr. Rutledge.” The words floated in the air between them before she had a chance to check her sanity.

  But his resulting smile was so wide and bright, she didn’t have the heart to take them back. “Very good. I and my friends shall come for you at eight.”

  Adalia sighed. What harm could it do to attend one silly party? “Until then, Mr. Rutledge.”

  He leapt down the stairs, nearly slipping on the wet flagstone. “You have made me a happy man, Miss Winston,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  She resisted the urge to giggle. “It is only one party, Mr. Rutledge.”

  He stopped at the gate and bowed. “Ah, but it will be a grand affair with you in attendance.”

  Shaking her head, she entered the house. The man was a charmer, a Casanova.

  Even worse, a slave owner.

  What was she thinking?

  As quietly as possible, she ascended the stairs, but the aged treads squeaked as loudly as a pack of frightened mice. She barely made it into her chamber when Joy scampered in behind her.

  “Are you all right, miss? I was worried ‘bout you.”

  “Yes, I’m well.” Though her hand trembled as she lit a candle. Turning, she saw the concern on Joy’s sweet face and felt horrible that she had been the cause of it. “I’m sorry you were distraught. I stayed late at the orphanage.”

  “But you tremble, miss.” Joy scanned her. “And you’re all wet. Somethin’ happened.”

  Adalia swallowed, unsure how much to disclose. “A man assaulted me.”

  Joy threw her hands to her mouth, her eyes as wide as full moons.

  “But Mr. Rutledge came to my rescue,” Adalia blurted out before the girl became overwrought.

  “Mr. Rutledge, miss?”

  “Surprising, isn’t it?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I sees th
e way he looks at you. Oh, you’re soaked through. Can I get you some tea, miss?”

  Adalia smiled. She imagined her sister, Delphia, would have been much like Joy had she lived. “No. Please go back to bed.” Without warning, she drew the girl close and hugged her. Though stiff, Joy gulped with emotion.

  “Thank you, Joy.” Adalia withdrew and saw Joy brush a tear from her face before she scrambled away.

  An hour later, Adalia, dressed in nightdress with sleeves rolled up, stood over a basin, scrubbing her arms where Aniston Mulberry the Third had gripped her. A ritual she had performed every time and on every spot Sir Walter had marked her with his touch. The rough sponge grated over her skin, turning it red and raw, but it couldn’t be helped. It was the only way to remove the filthy stain that branded her as debased and ignoble.

  The only measure of control she’d ever had.

  As she scrubbed, she thought of the ease and skill with which Morgan had dispatched the knave. He might be pampered and rich, but he was certainly no blubbery ninny whose muscles had grown soft from fine food and lazy living. The thought sent a thrill through her, sparking memories of fairy tales where a dashing prince swooped in to rescue the fair maiden. Trouble was, she was not fair. Nor a maiden. Finally, she tossed the sponge down.

  Oddly, the hand that had perched in the crook of Morgan’s arm and been kissed by his lips did not bother her at all.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  You look beautiful, miss.” Joy stepped back to admire the pink sash she’d tied around Adalia’s waist.

  “Truly? Do you think so?” Adalia laid a hand on her throat. Her pulse beat a nervous cadence against her fingers. “What is wrong with me? I’m acting like a silly schoolgirl.”

  Joy adjusted the tiny flowers pinned in Adalia’s hair. “I would be nervous too, miss. I’s never been to such a fancy party.”

  “Neither have I.” Adalia turned to gaze at her own reflection in the dressing mirror. When she’d accepted Morgan’s invitation, she had forgotten that she had nothing appropriate to wear. Neither did she have the funds or time to have a proper gown made. The best gown she had—her Sunday best—was nothing but plain, white muslin. But with Joy’s help they had added a festoon of paste beads about the hem, a gold pin that belonged to the housekeeper, and a lace ruche around her collar. Adalia had considered wearing her mother’s pearls, but she didn’t want to draw attention to them. In addition, the housekeeper had aided Joy in pinning up Adalia’s hair with sprigs of fresh flowers. A dab of beet juice on her lips and cheeks completed the transformation.

  Transformation, indeed. For Adalia nearly gasped at the lady looking back at her from the mirror. In all her life, she had never hoped to look so elegant.

  “Now, go and have fun, miss.” Joy smiled warmly.

  “Thank you, Joy. Pray for me, will you?”

  “God don’t listen to me, miss.” Then at Adalia’s look of censure, she added, “But I’ll try for you.”

  Grabbing her gloves and shawl, she kissed Joy on the cheek and headed downstairs. Morgan would be here any moment. She only hoped her heart would settle once she arrived at the party, or she feared she’d faint in the middle of the festivities and embarrass herself to no end. Flickering light poured from the drawing room into the foyer. She halted before it, not wanting to disturb Dr. Willaby. Or see the disapproval in his eyes once again. He’d made his feelings regarding her plans with Morgan quite plain, and his censure now would only add to her unease.

  “Is that you, Miss Winston?”

  Drat. He’d heard her. Sheepishly, she rounded the corner.

  His brows raised at the sight of her then lowered into a glowering line. He tapped the open Bible in his lap. “The good Word says ‘Be not deceived: evil communications corrupt good manners.’ Do you know what that means, Miss Winston?”

  Regardless of whether she did or not, she knew he would soon inform her.

  “To associate with those who do evil may very well pull you down with them. I trust you will keep that in mind tonight?” His spectacles slid down his nose.

  “You have my word, sir. It is only a party.”

  “Humph. A party of nincompoops, if you ask me.” He released a sigh, but then a smile wiped away his frown. “However, you do look lovely, Miss Winston.”

  “Kind of you to say, sir.” She knew he only meant well. In truth, it felt good to have someone care for her welfare.

  A rap on the door jolted her heart. She turned as Mr. Gant opened it and Morgan Rutledge filled the entryway. If Adalia were the swooning type, she surely would have collapsed on the tiled floor, for she’d never seen a more handsome man. His silk-embroidered waistcoat peeked from beneath a long black tailcoat of fine broadcloth. Tight gray pantaloons disappeared within knee-high boots. A white silk stock graced his neck. He removed his cocked hat and smiled, but it was the way he looked at her—as if she were a precious jewel—that set her heart tumbling in her chest.

  “Sir.” Mr. Gant blocked his way. “Doctor Willaby requests that you enter no farther.” The footman gave Adalia an apologetic look.

  Morgan’s perplexed expression transformed into a chuckle. “Very well.” He held out his arm for her.

  “I shall pray for your safety,” the doctor shouted from the sitting room. Adalia turned to smile at him before she stepped out onto the porch and slipped her arm through Morgan’s.

  Beyond the gate, a coach pulled by four horses awaited, complete with lanterns perched on either side of the driver’s box and serviced by three footmen dressed in fine liveries, one of whom held the door open for them.

  Adalia drew in a breath, feeling very much like Cinderella attending the prince’s ball.

  That breath clogged in her throat when she saw a woman and a man gaping at her from within the coach. Only then did she remember Morgan mentioning friends accompanying them. Her heightened nerves knotted. How could she pull off this charade? She had barely left the doctor’s home, and already she felt like a lump of coal among jewels.

  Or worse, a slave among masters.

  But it was too late to turn back now. Morgan held out a hand for her, and she climbed into the carriage, taking a vacant spot on the right. After he eased beside her, the coach rumbled on its way as all eyes scrutinized her.

  “Allow me to introduce my friends, Miss Winston. This is Miss Emerald Middleton.” He gestured toward the stunning blond sitting across from her—the one who stared at her as if she were a pesky gnat. And the one she’d seen twice before with Morgan. “A pleasure,” the lady said, her tone stiff.

  “Beside her, Mr. Joseph Drayton,” Morgan continued.

  Adalia nodded at the dark-haired man. He smiled her way, but it seemed to strain the permanent anguish that lined his face.

  “Miss Caroline Johnson.” Morgan waved a hand toward the woman on the end, a regal-looking brunette. “And you’ve met my brother, Hadley.”

  Adalia leaned forward to nod at the other Rutledge son, equally as handsome as Morgan, but darker, lankier, and clouded in pomposity. “I am pleased to meet all of you,” she said.

  “Indeed.” Miss Emerald gave a bored huff. “Hadley, you were telling us about your recent winnings at the races,” she said, brushing aside Adalia’s greeting.

  Forcing down the rejection, Adalia glanced out the window, focusing on the passing shops and inns, the Charleston Theater, the library, and the people strolling about. A distant bell tolled, and a hint of sea breeze reached her nose, wiping away the sting of expensive perfume and cologne that filled the coach. With each jostle of the carriage, Morgan’s leg brushed against hers. He didn’t appear to notice the contact as he continued to talk with his friends, but every touch sent a jolt of heat through her. Not fear, as she expected.

  As they rounded a corner and came in view of the Ashley home and Adalia saw the lavishly attired people clustering around the doorway and heard the orchestra playing, she considered bolting from the carriage and running home. What was she doing with these people? Two months ago
she had been a slave on a plantation! None of them would have given her even so much as a glance. She nearly laughed. Morgan’s friends barely gave her a glance now. Perhaps there was something about her that marked her as unbefitting, beneath them—an inherent quality hidden beneath her skin that would always brand her as a slave, no matter her physical freedom.