“I’ll see that the girls are ready and dressed appropriately.”
Both women nodded, then Winnie left the parlor and Angie passed through a wall of silence to enter the water closet. When she was certain she was alone, she pressed her fingertips to her forehead and let her shoulders slump.
There had been no winner in her encounter with Winnie Govenor. Each had been publicly embarrassed. On the other hand, it must have shocked the daylights out of Winnie when Angie chased after her. A deep sigh expanded her chest. Her mother would have said such an unseemly response was due to the Italian half of her heritage. And maybe it was. The Italian side of her temperament prompted her to do things that the English side later regretted.
Sam was waiting when she emerged from the powder room, a frown drawing his handsome face. “Winnie Govenor came out of there a minute ago looking as if she could spit nails. What happened?” A humorless smile curved his lips after he’d heard the story. “We’ve spoken to Marsh Collins and we’ve faced down the Govenors. Now the worst is behind us and we can enjoy ourselves.”
Gratefully, she accepted his arm and let him escort her toward the ballroom. “You had a word with Herb Govenor?”
“If I’d gotten close enough to have a word with Herb Govenor, there would have been another fight.” Sam’s eyes glittered. “We exchanged glares from a distance. I’m happy to say he looks as bad as I do.”
If Sam believed he looked bad, then he was oblivious to the sidelong glances directed his way by the women they passed. There was something exotic about a tall, formally dressed man with a black eye and long shining hair tied at his neck. Angie considered calling Sam’s attention to the interest he garnered from the ladies—then decided against it.
The ballroom blazed with mirrors and lights. Tall French doors had been thrown open to the cool evening breeze. Graceful couples circled the room to the sweetness of a lilting waltz, the ladies’ skirts swirling, diamonds flashing beneath the chandeliers.
“Oh Sam. This is the grandest party I’ve ever attended!”
His dark eyebrows rose. “I would have said you had attended dozens of affairs as grand as this one.”
“Sam, my father wasn’t a robber baron. He was a bricklayer. My parents and I attended the masons’ ball and various fund-raising soirees; there were social evenings at the homes of friends, musical events or lectures hosted by my mother’s club ladies. But never anything as lavish or opulent as this.” To underscore her point, she added softly, “Despite what you insist on thinking, I grew up comfortably but in an ordinary household with ordinary parents.”
“It didn’t look that way to me,” he said, gazing down into her eyes. “You were a beautiful princess living in a brick palace. One day I heard you playing the piano. And I promised myself that someday I would have a palace and a piano.”
“And a beautiful princess?” she whispered.
His eyes searched hers. “Do you miss having a piano?”
“Sometimes. Pounding on piano keys is a better way to soothe a temper than chasing someone down the street throwing things at him.”
Sam laughed and offered his arm. “Enough of the past. Shall we explore the terrace?”
“If you like. But aren’t we going to dance?” The musicians were superb. Angie turned a longing gaze to the ballroom floor and the couples whirling in a kaleidoscope of music, color, and movement.
“I have a confession to make.” Sam pressed her arm to his chest as they skirted the floor. “I’m a terrible dancer. I’d only embarrass you.”
“But you filled my dance card!”
“I didn’t want you to dance with anyone else.” He gave her a lopsided grin before he stopped a waiter serving champagne. “I know. That was unforgivably selfish.”
Carrying flutes of champagne, they strolled through the French doors onto a stone terrace romantically lit by strings of Chinese lanterns. The perfume of carnations and dianthus wafted from dozens of pottery urns, and ornately carved benches invited one to sit and enjoy the music and a velvety evening sky.
Angie smiled over the rim of the champagne flute. “So we’ve come to a dance with no intention of dancing?”
“We’re going to dance,” he said, taking her champagne glass and his and placing them on one of the benches. “But not in front of a roomful of people.”
“I have a feeling you’re being modest. You’re probably a wonderful dancer,” she said as he slipped his arm around her waist and took her hand in his.
He paused, waited a beat, then frowned in concentration and stepped forward. “One two three, one two three, one two three.”