She wanted tonight to be everything she had imagined so many times. And Sam, she thought with a strange ache in her heart, wanted to give her an evening to remember.
Snapping open her fan, she drew a breath and followed his lead. Peeking over the top of the fan, she fluttered her eyelashes in a parody of bottomless pity.
“Oh my dear Mr. Holland. I’m afraid I have the most terrible news.”
He took her gloved hand in his and pressed her fingers. “And what would this terrible news be, Mrs. Holland?”
“It’s so dreadful, so distressing that I can hardly bring myself to tell you.”
“Will I have to leave the county?”
She nodded, eyes sparkling above the lace edge of her fan. “You’d better go home at once and start packing, because your pink underwear spent an afternoon on the clothesline flapping in the breeze for all the neighbors to see.”
“I’m destroyed.” He buried his face in his hands. “I’ll be a laughingstock. Men will sneer when I pass. Women will snicker.”
They were both laughing when Sam handed her out of the carriage and onto a red carpet that ran from the street to the frosted glass doors of the new hotel. Pausing a moment, Sam tucked her arm in his and gazed into her eyes before leading her forward. Anyone watching would have assumed they were lovers.
Enormous gilt-framed mirrors, lit by immense crystal chandeliers, reflected gleaming cherry wood and columns and floors of polished marble. Fountains of greenery filled every niche; magnificent bouquets perfumed the air.
Angie and Sam passed through the receiving line. They congratulated Stratton Miles, the hotel’s owner, and murmured a word to his flushed, jewel-bedecked wife. Then someone took Angie’s cape, and they were free to join the crush of people thronging every room off the shining lobby.
“Oh my,” Angie breathed, her eyes bright.
A string quartet played near the grand staircase, and music from a larger ensemble could be heard wafting from the ballroom.
“Champagne?” Sam asked, lifting two flutes from the tray of a passing waiter.
“Champagne!” Almost giddy with a surfeit of sensation, Angie tasted the champagne, then wrinkled her nose and laughed at the tickle of bubbles in her mouth.
What a strange and wonderful world it was. A few days ago she had been down on her knees bent over a washboard scrubbing Sam’s underwear, and now here she was surrounded by silks and satins and flashing earrings and stickpins, and sipping champagne while a handsome and exciting man with an interesting black eye smiled down at her.
“Shall we tour the premises?” Sam inquired, extending his arm. “I’m told the upstairs gallery has paintings all the way from Europe.”
“While we’re touring, keep an eye out for things we can take back as souvenirs for Molly and the girls.”
They were interrupted a dozen times on the way to the grand staircase. Sam introduced her to wealthy mine owners, to powerful men who operated far-flung syndicates, to the mayor of Willow Creek, and to the governor of Colorado. It was almost a relief when he introduced her to Marsh Collins, his lawyer and an ordinary citizen.
After Collins bowed over Angie’s gloved hand, Sam raised a suspicious eyebrow. “How much is this encounter going to cost me?”
Collins smiled. “Well, we do have one small item of business.”
“Which is?”
“Whittier’s attorney says Whittier won’t sue if you agree to rebuild his house at no charge.”
Sam swore and turned aside to stare across the lobby. “Tell him to sue. The fire was not my doing, and damned if I’ll go into debt for something that wasn’t my fault.”
Collins nodded and Angie caught a whiff of the pomade slicking back his hair. “The good news is that the union is not going to sue you.”
“Excellent!”
“And so far Herb Govenor isn’t clamoring to have you arrested for assault and battery, and so far we haven’t heard from his attorneys.” Marsh Collins smiled at Angie. “Surely this charming lady isn’t the wife you intend to divorce?”
Pink flooded Angie’s cheeks and throat, and she covered the lower part of her face with her fan.
“Marsh, you ass. This is not the time to discuss a divorce.”
Collins’s eyebrows rose. “Your plans have changed?”
Anger stretched Sam’s jacket across his shoulders. “As I told you before, the divorce won’t happen until after Daisy’s surgery.” He took Angie’s arm and led her to the stairs. “You wanted to know who Marsh Collins is? He’s a lawyer with no office and no sense of timing.” At the landing, he placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Is talk about lawsuits and divorce going to spoil our evening?”