was long as a horse's tail and twice as thick, strong curly hair that had a mind of its own and adapted only with great reluctance to the demands of fashion.
Jessie held very still as he ran his fingers through her curls to work out the worst of the tangles, then pulled her hair straight back from her scalp, twisting it into a long rope. With what she considered surprising deftness for a man, he coiled it on top of her head.
"Hold this," he directed, taking her hand and laying it flat on top of the coil. Then, when she did as he directed, he strategically inserted what few hairpins remained.
"Ouch!" One stabbed into her scalp, and she jumped. 88
"I said hold still! You'll make the whole thing fall." Jessie held still. "All right, you can let go." Cautiously Jessie let her hand fall to her side, certain that at least half her hair would follow. But to her amazement the coil stayed in place, and felt at least as secure as the topknot had earlier.
"Thank you," she said, sounding surprised as she turned to face him. "Wherever did you learn to do that?"
"I've groomed a few fillies in my time." He grinned wickedly, his expression such that Jessie was not sure whether he meant horses or females. While she looked at him suspiciously, he offered her his arm. The gesture was more automatic than gallant, but still . . . No gentlemen had ever offered his arm to Jessie before. Hesitantly, she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. Her fingers tingled with the feel of smooth superfine overlying hard muscles, but he was already walking her back toward the house as though nothing was out of the ordinary. Of course, he must walk with ladies this way all the time.
To him, such a courtesy was commonplace. But Jessie, for the first time in her life, felt like a real young lady. Not like an unattractive, oversized tomboy at all.
If anyone should be so impertinent as to ask, you can say you slipped away to repin your hair," he was saying. Jessie nodded, once again unable to think of anything to say.
Faint strains of music from the house drifted out over the gardens. The scents of roses and lilacs vied with each other to form a thick, heady perfume. A raindrop fell, then another.
"Let's get you inside. It's going to rain." 89
Ruthlessly hurried, Jessie scarcely had time to worry about how she would react if she came face-to-face with Mitch or Jeanine Scott before he had whisked her onto the portico under the sheltering overhang. No sooner had they gotten under cover than it began to rain. In moments the gentle spattering had turned to silvery sheets, and the smell of rain overrode the perfume of the flowers.
"God, I hate that smell," Stuart Edwards muttered, and with a hand in the small of Jessie's back he urged her through the open French window.
XI
Inside, nothing had changed. Jessie hesitated, moving imperceptibly closer to Stuart Edwards' side as her eyes grew accustomed to the bright glow of the chandeliers. The band still played gaily. In the center of the floor, couples laughed and twirled. The gossiping matrons still sat in their chairs along the wall, the gentlemen held court by the punch bowl, and Miss Flora and Miss Laurel huddled near the opposite wall in the throes of what looked like a spirited argument.
Jessie glanced up at the man beside her. The candlelight played across his face, and for the first time that day she really noticed the scratches she had inflicted. They ran three abreast down each lean cheek from just below his eyes to his mouth, not as raw and red as they had been the night before, but definitely there. She wondered how he had explained them away.
90
He must have felt her eyes on him, because just then he looked down at her. One corner of his mouth quirked up. The skin around those sky-blue eyes crinkled, and he smiled. Despite the scratches, the man was devastatingly handsome when he smiled.
"The rain's made your hair curl all around your face. It looks charming." It was a conspiratorial
Jessie held very still as he ran his fingers through her curls to work out the worst of the tangles, then pulled her hair straight back from her scalp, twisting it into a long rope. With what she considered surprising deftness for a man, he coiled it on top of her head.
"Hold this," he directed, taking her hand and laying it flat on top of the coil. Then, when she did as he directed, he strategically inserted what few hairpins remained.
"Ouch!" One stabbed into her scalp, and she jumped. 88
"I said hold still! You'll make the whole thing fall." Jessie held still. "All right, you can let go." Cautiously Jessie let her hand fall to her side, certain that at least half her hair would follow. But to her amazement the coil stayed in place, and felt at least as secure as the topknot had earlier.
"Thank you," she said, sounding surprised as she turned to face him. "Wherever did you learn to do that?"
"I've groomed a few fillies in my time." He grinned wickedly, his expression such that Jessie was not sure whether he meant horses or females. While she looked at him suspiciously, he offered her his arm. The gesture was more automatic than gallant, but still . . . No gentlemen had ever offered his arm to Jessie before. Hesitantly, she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. Her fingers tingled with the feel of smooth superfine overlying hard muscles, but he was already walking her back toward the house as though nothing was out of the ordinary. Of course, he must walk with ladies this way all the time.
To him, such a courtesy was commonplace. But Jessie, for the first time in her life, felt like a real young lady. Not like an unattractive, oversized tomboy at all.
If anyone should be so impertinent as to ask, you can say you slipped away to repin your hair," he was saying. Jessie nodded, once again unable to think of anything to say.
Faint strains of music from the house drifted out over the gardens. The scents of roses and lilacs vied with each other to form a thick, heady perfume. A raindrop fell, then another.
"Let's get you inside. It's going to rain." 89
Ruthlessly hurried, Jessie scarcely had time to worry about how she would react if she came face-to-face with Mitch or Jeanine Scott before he had whisked her onto the portico under the sheltering overhang. No sooner had they gotten under cover than it began to rain. In moments the gentle spattering had turned to silvery sheets, and the smell of rain overrode the perfume of the flowers.
"God, I hate that smell," Stuart Edwards muttered, and with a hand in the small of Jessie's back he urged her through the open French window.
XI
Inside, nothing had changed. Jessie hesitated, moving imperceptibly closer to Stuart Edwards' side as her eyes grew accustomed to the bright glow of the chandeliers. The band still played gaily. In the center of the floor, couples laughed and twirled. The gossiping matrons still sat in their chairs along the wall, the gentlemen held court by the punch bowl, and Miss Flora and Miss Laurel huddled near the opposite wall in the throes of what looked like a spirited argument.
Jessie glanced up at the man beside her. The candlelight played across his face, and for the first time that day she really noticed the scratches she had inflicted. They ran three abreast down each lean cheek from just below his eyes to his mouth, not as raw and red as they had been the night before, but definitely there. She wondered how he had explained them away.
90
He must have felt her eyes on him, because just then he looked down at her. One corner of his mouth quirked up. The skin around those sky-blue eyes crinkled, and he smiled. Despite the scratches, the man was devastatingly handsome when he smiled.
"The rain's made your hair curl all around your face. It looks charming." It was a conspiratorial
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