follow her. She looked at me once or twice, and smiled, and batted her eyes as young ladies do. I was sure we were madly in love. Then I overheard her laughing with her mammy about that dirty bowery boy who followed her everywhere. I slunk off like a whipped pup. I can still remember how much that hurt. But as you see, I survived, and quite handily too." It was nice of him to share that long-ago humiliation with her, though Jessie doubted that it was true. First, it was inconceivable to her that any female in her right mind would give a man who looked like Stuart Edwards the cold shoulder. Even as a boy he must have been extraordinarily attractive. Second . . .
"That's a lovely story, but you're bamming me, I know. How could any girl mistake an Edwards for a dirty bowery boy?" For the barest moment, he looked almost startled. Then he laughed, and took another drag on the cheroot. "I have no idea 83
how she could have made such a mistake, but she did, I promise you. Perhaps in my jaunts about the streets I got a little dirtier than she might have expected an Edwards to be." His hand holding the cheroot dropped to his side, and he turned so that he stood with his shoulder to her, looking back toward the house. His expression was thoughtful. After a moment he glanced her way again.
"You're going to have to go back in, you know." It was said mildly, but the very image he conjured up made Jessie shudder.
"Oh, no. I can't."
"You have to. Otherwise people will talk about you, and that's never pleasant for a young lady. You were having such a good time dancing, and then you disappeared. How does that look?
Your beau might even have enough brains to put two and two together and figure out that you overheard him talking to that fish-faced young lady. You surely don't want him to know that he hurt you enough to make you run away?"
"No!" The idea of that was even worse than the idea of facing the ballroom full of people again. Then the rest of his words registered. Despite her misery Jessie had to grin, though it was a trifle wobbly. "Do you truly think Jeanine Scott is fish-faced?"
"Absolutely. And believe me, I've had enough experience with ladies to know fish-faced when I see it."
"Oh, I believe you!" Her grin firmed, and as it did, some of her heartache eased. Though he was probably saying it just to be kind, of course. Still, it was what she needed to hear.
"Do you, now? And you're laughing at me to boot. Come on, then; on that cheerful note it's time to take you back inside." He threw his cheroot away and held out his hand to her. Jessie looked at that long-fingered hand and felt her stomach turn over. 84
The idea of going back inside—back to where people were spreading lies about her and laughing behind their hands and pitying her—made her feel physically ill.
"Please, can't we just go home?"
She asked the question in a tiny, shamed voice that said volumes about how hard it was for her to admit to such weakness. Her eyes rose to his beseechingly. If she hadn't bit down hard on her lower lip, it would have trembled.
"Jessica." He said her name in a way that was both impatient and impossibly gentle.
She just looked at him without speaking. With a lithe movement he hunkered down in front of her and took her hand in both of his. His hands were large, far larger than hers, and strong, and warm. Jessie hadn't realized how cold her hands were until she felt the warmth of his.
"What do you want me to do? Go in there and fetch Celia away from the party while you hide out here, then bundle the both of you home?"
"Please don't—tell Celia." It was a wretched whisper. His mouth tightened, and Jessie thought for a dreadful instant that she had made him angry with her. It was surprising how much she suddenly disliked the idea of making him angry. For a few minutes, out here in the dark, they'd almost become . . . friends.
"If I fetch her away from the party, I'll have to tell her something."
"Couldn't you just say that
"That's a lovely story, but you're bamming me, I know. How could any girl mistake an Edwards for a dirty bowery boy?" For the barest moment, he looked almost startled. Then he laughed, and took another drag on the cheroot. "I have no idea 83
how she could have made such a mistake, but she did, I promise you. Perhaps in my jaunts about the streets I got a little dirtier than she might have expected an Edwards to be." His hand holding the cheroot dropped to his side, and he turned so that he stood with his shoulder to her, looking back toward the house. His expression was thoughtful. After a moment he glanced her way again.
"You're going to have to go back in, you know." It was said mildly, but the very image he conjured up made Jessie shudder.
"Oh, no. I can't."
"You have to. Otherwise people will talk about you, and that's never pleasant for a young lady. You were having such a good time dancing, and then you disappeared. How does that look?
Your beau might even have enough brains to put two and two together and figure out that you overheard him talking to that fish-faced young lady. You surely don't want him to know that he hurt you enough to make you run away?"
"No!" The idea of that was even worse than the idea of facing the ballroom full of people again. Then the rest of his words registered. Despite her misery Jessie had to grin, though it was a trifle wobbly. "Do you truly think Jeanine Scott is fish-faced?"
"Absolutely. And believe me, I've had enough experience with ladies to know fish-faced when I see it."
"Oh, I believe you!" Her grin firmed, and as it did, some of her heartache eased. Though he was probably saying it just to be kind, of course. Still, it was what she needed to hear.
"Do you, now? And you're laughing at me to boot. Come on, then; on that cheerful note it's time to take you back inside." He threw his cheroot away and held out his hand to her. Jessie looked at that long-fingered hand and felt her stomach turn over. 84
The idea of going back inside—back to where people were spreading lies about her and laughing behind their hands and pitying her—made her feel physically ill.
"Please, can't we just go home?"
She asked the question in a tiny, shamed voice that said volumes about how hard it was for her to admit to such weakness. Her eyes rose to his beseechingly. If she hadn't bit down hard on her lower lip, it would have trembled.
"Jessica." He said her name in a way that was both impatient and impossibly gentle.
She just looked at him without speaking. With a lithe movement he hunkered down in front of her and took her hand in both of his. His hands were large, far larger than hers, and strong, and warm. Jessie hadn't realized how cold her hands were until she felt the warmth of his.
"What do you want me to do? Go in there and fetch Celia away from the party while you hide out here, then bundle the both of you home?"
"Please don't—tell Celia." It was a wretched whisper. His mouth tightened, and Jessie thought for a dreadful instant that she had made him angry with her. It was surprising how much she suddenly disliked the idea of making him angry. For a few minutes, out here in the dark, they'd almost become . . . friends.
"If I fetch her away from the party, I'll have to tell her something."
"Couldn't you just say that
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