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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.
