The Horsemaster's Daughter (56 page)

“I
don’t know what’s lining up faster,” Ryan Calhoun said to his half brother at the ball that night. “The mares for your stallion’s stud service, or the belles for your hand in marriage.”

Hunter lifted his glass in salute to the bevy of ladies who paraded past, their sharp-eyed mamas trying to direct his attention to their daughters. “A couple of years ago, everyone declared Albion was a ruin. Now look at them.” He beamed at his guests, all vying to be seen at the victory ball. Men and women who would not have deigned to be caught here when the place was bankrupt now crowded the dance floor. Even his father-in-law, Hugh Beaumont, had made an appearance, and had offered cordial—if not heartfelt—congratulations on the success of the auction.

“This is sweet,” Hunter admitted. “My my, but this is sweet.”

He felt Ryan’s gaze as he drained his glass of whiskey and held it out to a hired servant for more. But Ryan said nothing. Half brothers, they were too far apart in age and distance to be truly close. Hunter was the elder by twelve years, and Ryan’s address, most of the year, was in the realm of Neptune. Still, Hunter knew him well enough to feel his disapproval.

“Your Yankee wife must be dragging you to too many temperance meetings,” he joked.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. You’re staring at me as if I just farted in church.”

Ryan straightened the tie of his puce silk neck cloth. “It’s not my place to judge you. Lord knows, I have enough flaws of my own. But if you don’t slow down on the whiskey, you’ll miss your own party.”

The servant arrived with another drink. Hunter took an unapologetic swig. “I’m celebrating, little brother.”

“There was never any question of that. I always knew you could make a success of horse racing. Finding that lady trainer was surely a stroke of luck, wasn’t it?” Ryan had never mentioned meeting Eliza on Flyte Island the night she’d helped the escaping slave. People of the Underground Railroad never spoke of their doings.

“I’d have shot Sir Finnegan if it wasn’t for her.”

“Everything got better once you brought her to Albion,” Ryan pointed out. “Funny how that works.” Then he bowed from the waist. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go dance with my Yankee wife.”

Hunter watched him find Isadora in the crowd and take her hand. She turned and smiled at him, and that smile had the power to light the world. What an odd match those two were—red-haired Ryan oozing Southern charm, and tall, straitlaced Isadora, whose intensity and ruthless intelligence intimidated most people. But when they were together, the match seemed perfectly right.

Hunter wondered if Lacey had ever regarded him with that depth of affection. He couldn’t recall, but he supposed that if she had, he’d remember it.

He tossed back the whiskey and set aside his glass. Enough woolgathering. The tides of fortune had turned for him, and brooding about the past was no way to celebrate. As he strode toward the dance floor, he ran a gauntlet of eligible ladies. There were the daughters of Se
or Montgomery’s agent, neighbors and visitors from all over the Tidewater region, and Lady Margaret Stewart from England. Like the Thoroughbred in his stables, these elite young ladies had been selectively bred and trained for a specific purpose—to marry well and to carry on the way of life that was so cherished by them all. Two years ago, women of their class had recoiled from Hunter with scandalized whispers. Now they preened and strutted to get him to ask for a dance.

He chose Tabby Parks because she had dark hair.

She giggled as he bowed before her, and he wondered if there was a polite way to let her know he’d changed his mind. It was too late. What was one waltz anyway? He’d had enough whiskey to make the identity of his partner cease to matter.

“What a wonderful night for you,” Tabby said, and he had to admit her voice had the smooth warmth of honey. “How very proud you must be.”

“I reckon I am,” he said. “I’ve put a lot of hard work into this.”

“You’ll be wanting to restore Albion soon, then,” she said.

“Restore it?”

“Of course. Replant the tobacco fields, refurbish the house, buy some new darkies—”

He laughed, cutting her off abruptly. “God Almighty, I just got rid of that way of life.”

She ran her tongue lightly over her bottom lip. “But think of your children, Hunter. They’ve been raised like wild Indians. It’s time they settled down. Theodore’s old enough to be sent away to school, and Belinda needs to learn her needlework and deportment…”

At that point, he stopped listening. Tabby had no notion of what his children needed, and no inkling of his plans for Albion. Neither did her sister Cilla, nor Lady Margaret, nor Miss Martin of Williamsburg. He danced with each in turn, favoring no young lady over the others.

As the evening wore on, Hunter had to force himself to make the terrible admission that his success wasn’t enough. The money, the fame, the admiration of women, the esteem of his peers—none of it meant anything to him. He had always thought that if he saved Albion, his life would be complete. He had set out to build a horse farm, and to do it without slave labor or becoming beholden to any other man. He had accomplished that—but now what?

His thoughts kept drifting, as they so often did, to Eliza. What was it Ryan had said about her?
Everything got better once you brought her to Albion.
It was so true. Quietly, without really explaining what she was doing, perhaps without even meaning to, she had turned his life around. She had tamed the madness from his horse, but, more importantly, she had brought his children out of their mire of despair. Blue and Belinda would always bear the scars of losing their mother, but the joy was back again. They embraced each day with an exuberance Hunter had not seen in them since before Lacey had left.

Could he ever thank Eliza for that? Was there any way?

He supposed not. A simple thanks would sound too trite and inadequate. He wished there were something he could give her, offer her, say to her, to let her know how important she was to him.

But what?

As he danced with a beautiful, smiling woman in his arms, he wished Eliza had come to the ball. It startled him, how much he wished that.

The only thing she had ever asked of him was the freedom to travel to distant California in search of a dream. Now he could afford to buy her passage to the distant Pacific coast. He should want her to have what she wished for, even though the thought of sending her half a world away simply emptied him. For once in his life he had to look beyond his own selfishness. He had torn Eliza from her world with the promise that he would help her embark on a new life. It was time to let her go.

The decision didn’t please him, yet having it settled in his mind had a certain calming effect. He put more effort into making small talk with his dance partners, even coaxing a smile from Miss Bondurant, who was petrified of him.

In the middle of the dance, she peered over his shoulder and asked, “Who is that with your cousin Charles? I don’t recognize her.”

Hunter led his partner in a turn that allowed him to see Charles dancing with a petite young woman in an ice-blue gown. He wasn’t the only one craning his neck and staring. Practically everyone in the room was.

He tried not to stumble and tread on his partner’s feet, but the shock made him clumsy. “Sorry,” he muttered, moving to the edge of the dance floor. “I’d best get you to safety.” With a self-deprecating grin, he delivered her to her mother and then turned to gawk at the newcomer.

It was Eliza Flyte, of course, but an Eliza he had never seen before.

Festooned in a blue satin gown, she was an enchanting creature, small and slender, with glossy black curls caught up in fancy combs. She wore long white gloves and carried a lace fan on a ribbon at her waist. Blue slippers showed occasionally beneath the full, shimmery gown. Everything about her was remarkable, from the vivid beauty of her face, to the sound of her laughter, to the compelling energy of her dance step.

She was the sort of vision adolescent boys conjured in their minds when they thought about the girl they’d like to marry. She was the woman grown men dreamed of when the girls they did marry turned out quite different from their adolescent fantasies. She was the beauty little girls pictured when they wondered what they would be once they were all grown up.

She was Miranda, daughter of Prospero, a creature of myth and air, stardust and seafoam.

He had definitely had too much to drink. He went to the punch bowl and gulped down several cups of mint lemonade to counteract all the whiskey he’d consumed. Then he ran a hand through his hair, straightened his neck cloth and walked across the dance floor to Charles and Eliza.

“Pardon me,” he said in his most charming drawl. “But I do believe I’d like to break in.”

“Go away,” Charles said, never taking his eyes off Eliza.

“That’s hardly the polite reply, cousin,” Hunter said, trying to be good-natured.

“Who ever said I was polite?” Charles twirled sharply, presenting his back to Hunter.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Eliza said, laughing. “You’re like a pair of little boys.” She extracted herself from Charles’s grasp and turned to Hunter.

She fit in his arms as if she had been specially fashioned for his embrace. They moved well together, her small steps easily keeping up with his. The fancy dress offered a dazzling view of her bosom, the cleavage deep, the tops of her breasts prominent above the scalloped neckline.

“You’re staring,” she said with laughter in her voice.

“Do you blame me?”

She laughed again. “I really don’t think it’s considered proper.”

“I assure you it’s completely improper, but I can’t help myself.” He splayed his fingers over her back, amazed that his hand was able to span her waist. “Who the devil did this to you?”

“Your cousin Charles. The one you just accused of being impolite. The one you just banished from the floor.”

“Charles did this? He must be a man of hidden talents.”

“It was Charles and Willa, with some help from Belinda and Blue. The dress belonged to your late wife, and Willa altered it and added some trim.” She bit her lip. “I hope you’re not vexed about the dress.”

“Hell no, I’m not vexed. Lacey had enough dresses for five women.” He didn’t recall his wife in this blue dress. But then, he didn’t recall her in
any
particular dress. Yet he knew he’d never forget the way Eliza looked tonight. “I had no idea you were this—” He hesitated, trying to rephrase the comment.

“You had best stop there,” she said. “Anything you say will surely get you in trouble. You’re so charming when you don’t speak.”

Lord, but he liked her. Liked this laughing, teasing, beautiful girl.

“You have to admit,” he said, “you do look different.”

“I feel different. My father used to play tunes on his mouth harp or hum them, and he taught me some dance steps, but I had no idea it was like this.”

“Like what?”

“So beautiful,” she said, her eyes sparkling with wonder. “So…magical. Everyone looks lovely. The music sounds like nothing I’d ever imagined. It fills this room. Every corner of this room, all the way up to the rafters. Why didn’t anyone tell me music was like this?”

The ensemble—on a dais at the end of the room, under the shell-shaped half dome of the ballroom—put out a sound that was liquid and full and sweet. It stunned him to realize she was hearing music for the first time. He and the other guests took the simple country tune for granted.

“From now on, and forever after, I’ll always imagine the angels in heaven when I hear music.” She tilted back her head, exposing the arch of her throat, and laughed aloud as they turned swiftly together. “No wonder dancing was invented,” she said exuberantly.

He speculated about how long it would take her to realize she had become an object of speculation. Already, after only this one dance, he could feel the attention of everyone in the room. The men, of course, could barely contain themselves, their eyes hard and avid as they awaited a chance at her. The women stared too, though with a different sort of sharpness.

“Miss Flyte, I think it’s only fair to warn you,” he said.

“Warn me about what?”

“I think you’re going to be very popular with the gentlemen tonight.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Only if you let someone take advantage of you.”

“You’ll have to explain that one.” Mischief glittered in her eyes.

“Compromise you.”

“Ah. You mean like you did on the roof that night.”

The mere reminder created an uncomfortable heat between them. “Goes to show you that even a man you trust can’t be trusted.”

“And you’re saying there are others like you?”

“There are others worse than me.”

She laughed again. It was remarkable, amazing and slightly appalling to see her blossom with self-assurance like this. From wide-eyed recluse to society belle was a giant leap, but she seemed to be taking it in stride. “Don’t worry about me. I really don’t think I could be taken advantage of or compromised without my consent.”