secretly he did want to own her.
o a woman, the ladies who entered the Grande Salle à Manger that night, sauntering slowly down the stairs as people watched, would have made any man proud. Their hair and makeup were done to perfection, they were impeccably turned out by the maids they had brought along, and most of their gowns had been designed in Paris. The jewels competed only with the brilliant lights in the room, equal to the brilliance of one hundred and thirty-five thousand candles and reflected in the endless walls of hammered glass sixty feet longer than the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. The room, three decks high, seemed filled to the rafters with ruby taffetas and sapphire velvets and emerald satins, and here and there a gown of gold. Liane herself looked exquisite in a black strapless taffeta dress she had bought at Balenciaga. It cascaded behind her in a sea of ruffles. But it was when Hillary Burnham came down the stairs that everyone seemed to stare at her clinging Grecian gown of the palest mauve satin. It molded to her exquisite form in a way that made everyone hold their breath, including the captain. Around her neck she was wearing pearls the size of very large marbles. But it wasn't the rope of pearls that caught the eye, but the raven-black hair, the creamy skin, the brilliant black eyes, and her body as it swayed slowly down the stairs to the captain's table.
The captain's table was just in front of the enormous bronze statue representing peace, which stood tall among the diners, her head held high, though not as high as Hillary's as she reached the table, with Nick just behind her, impeccable in white tie and tails, with mother-of-pearl studs in his starched shirtfront, diamonds circling them and at their center. But it was the diamonds at Hillary's ears, peeking from behind the shaft of black satin hair, which set off the dancing lights in her eyes.
“Good evening, Captain.” Her voice was deep and husky, and in spite of their best efforts, everyone lost the thread of their conversations at the table. Captain Thoreux stood up, bowed in well-executed, almost military fashion, and bent to kiss her hand.
“Madame … bonsoir.” He stood to face her again and introduced her to the group. “Mme. Nicholas Burnham,” and then he introduced Nick. The group at the captain's table was considerably older than were they, except for Liane. But most were of the captain and Armand's generation. Their wives were elegant and well dressed but slightly overstuffed, and heavily bejeweled, as though if they counterbalanced their portly shapes with an equal quantity of jewels, one might not notice their excess weight. But no one looked at them once Hillary arrived. The men's eyes were riveted to Hillary and her gown, which seemed to flow over her like water, straight across her shoulders in the front, and then down to a point just below her waist in back, revealing the delicious flesh every man who saw her longed to touch.
“Good evening, everyone.” She made no effort to remember their names, and awarded a second glance only to Armand, looking extremely handsome tonight, wearing his decorations with his white tie. She made no effort to talk to Liane, although they sat across the table from each other, but Nick seemed to make a special effort to make up for her, chatting pleasantly with two older women on either side, and an elderly man who turned out to be an English lord. Liane noticed that Nick glanced frequently at his wife, not so much as an affectionate sign, as Armand had done two or three times since the dinner began, but rather as though he were checking up on her. She saw him appearing not to strain to hear what Hillary said, but she had the feeling that Nick Burnham did not trust his wife, and between the plateau de fromages and the soufflé Grand Marnier, she began to suspect why. Hillary was speaking to the elderly Italian prince on her left, and had just told him that she always found Rome
o a woman, the ladies who entered the Grande Salle à Manger that night, sauntering slowly down the stairs as people watched, would have made any man proud. Their hair and makeup were done to perfection, they were impeccably turned out by the maids they had brought along, and most of their gowns had been designed in Paris. The jewels competed only with the brilliant lights in the room, equal to the brilliance of one hundred and thirty-five thousand candles and reflected in the endless walls of hammered glass sixty feet longer than the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. The room, three decks high, seemed filled to the rafters with ruby taffetas and sapphire velvets and emerald satins, and here and there a gown of gold. Liane herself looked exquisite in a black strapless taffeta dress she had bought at Balenciaga. It cascaded behind her in a sea of ruffles. But it was when Hillary Burnham came down the stairs that everyone seemed to stare at her clinging Grecian gown of the palest mauve satin. It molded to her exquisite form in a way that made everyone hold their breath, including the captain. Around her neck she was wearing pearls the size of very large marbles. But it wasn't the rope of pearls that caught the eye, but the raven-black hair, the creamy skin, the brilliant black eyes, and her body as it swayed slowly down the stairs to the captain's table.
The captain's table was just in front of the enormous bronze statue representing peace, which stood tall among the diners, her head held high, though not as high as Hillary's as she reached the table, with Nick just behind her, impeccable in white tie and tails, with mother-of-pearl studs in his starched shirtfront, diamonds circling them and at their center. But it was the diamonds at Hillary's ears, peeking from behind the shaft of black satin hair, which set off the dancing lights in her eyes.
“Good evening, Captain.” Her voice was deep and husky, and in spite of their best efforts, everyone lost the thread of their conversations at the table. Captain Thoreux stood up, bowed in well-executed, almost military fashion, and bent to kiss her hand.
“Madame … bonsoir.” He stood to face her again and introduced her to the group. “Mme. Nicholas Burnham,” and then he introduced Nick. The group at the captain's table was considerably older than were they, except for Liane. But most were of the captain and Armand's generation. Their wives were elegant and well dressed but slightly overstuffed, and heavily bejeweled, as though if they counterbalanced their portly shapes with an equal quantity of jewels, one might not notice their excess weight. But no one looked at them once Hillary arrived. The men's eyes were riveted to Hillary and her gown, which seemed to flow over her like water, straight across her shoulders in the front, and then down to a point just below her waist in back, revealing the delicious flesh every man who saw her longed to touch.
“Good evening, everyone.” She made no effort to remember their names, and awarded a second glance only to Armand, looking extremely handsome tonight, wearing his decorations with his white tie. She made no effort to talk to Liane, although they sat across the table from each other, but Nick seemed to make a special effort to make up for her, chatting pleasantly with two older women on either side, and an elderly man who turned out to be an English lord. Liane noticed that Nick glanced frequently at his wife, not so much as an affectionate sign, as Armand had done two or three times since the dinner began, but rather as though he were checking up on her. She saw him appearing not to strain to hear what Hillary said, but she had the feeling that Nick Burnham did not trust his wife, and between the plateau de fromages and the soufflé Grand Marnier, she began to suspect why. Hillary was speaking to the elderly Italian prince on her left, and had just told him that she always found Rome
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