Page 8 of Now Comes the Mist

“Yes, I think so,” I say breathlessly, and that beautiful smile widens even more. I do believe I would have said yes to anything he asked.

“Ah, Arthur! Come join us,” Dr. Seward says loudly, not bothering to hide his relief.

Once again, Arthur Holmwood comes to stand beside me, and I struggle to suppress my delight. So, the sight of me with two other interested men was enough to send him over. The doctor introduces him to Mr. Morris and the two shake hands.

“How long will you be staying in England?” Arthur inquires.

“I originally planned to stay a month or two with my friend Jack here. But I wouldn’t be averse to staying longer, if I felt inclined to do so for some reason,” the cowboy answers, with a sly little glance at me that makes the doctor scowl. I feel a pleasant little flutter in my stomach, because Quincey Morris is apparently a man after my own flirtatious heart.

This would have been the perfect opportunity for Arthur to acknowledge me at last. Instead, he gestures to the flash of weaponry beneath Mr. Morris’s coat. “I assume you’re an excellent shot, sir? Jack will be joining me on my estate for a hunt next month, if the weather favors us, and I’d be glad to have you along if you’re interested.”

“Now that’s a kind offer I’d be glad to take, Mr. Holmwood,” the American drawls, and then he and Dr. Seward politely look at me, ready to turn the conversation so that it includes me.

But Arthur presses on. “What is your experience with rifles? I have a few that were given to me by my grandfather. Rather large, unwieldy affairs, but they are reliable and—”

The sound of violins interrupts his speech and my returning annoyance. Arthur seems bent on ignoring my existence, aside from following me around. He has yet to even look at me tonight.

“Ah, the dancing is about to begin,” I say, watching as the guests begin filtering into the ballroom. Deliberately, I move forward and offer my hand to the cowboy. “May I be so bold as to claim you as my first partner, Mr. Morris? I hesitate to ask Dr. Seward, as it would no doubt shock him to be invited by a woman. But I believe you, with your New World sensibilities, might be somewhat more adventurous in this regard?”

A deep furrow forms between Jack Seward’s brows, but Mr. Morris is grinning from ear to ear. “You can read me like a book, little lady,” he says, and the endearment is captivating from him when it might sound condescending from any other man. He places my hand on his arm. “Who am I to say no to a dance with the most glorious woman in the room?”

I smile up at him as we glide away and spare a glance for Arthur, expecting him to look calm and politely bored as usual. Instead, his expression is one of hurt and surprise, and a strange ache tugs at my chest.He could have claimed me if he had wished to, I tell myself,instead of going on about that silly hunt.I place my other hand on Mr. Morris’s arm as well and lean against him, determined to enjoy myself. What have I to be guilty for?

“Do you waltz, Mr. Morris?” I ask as the elegant sound of Strauss fills the air.

“For you, Miss Lucy, I reckon I would dance the mazurka if I had to,” he says, his eyes twinkling down at me. “So I can most assuredly exert myself to the waltz.”

“How absurd you are,” I say, laughing. We turn heads as we enter the ballroom together, and I stare pointedly at the people who are glaring at the cowboy. They avert their eyes, unwilling to displease the hostess’s daughter. “Are all Americans this prone to hyperbole?”

He leans down, and again, his eyes flicker to my mouth. “Let me answer your question with another question. Are all English women as utterly enchanting as you are?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere with me,” I say lightly.

“I’m glad to hear it.” He sweeps me into the throng of dancers and executes a perfect waltz, much more gracefully than I would have expected.

“Where did you learn to dance like this?” I ask, amazed. “I thought a man who spent his life herding cows on horseback wouldn’t know much about a ballroom.”

Mr. Morris’s cheeky wink is as irresistible as his laugh. “They have ladies in America, too, you know. Some of the ones who weren’t so bothered by the color of my skin taught me to dance, so I could cross the ocean and impress you.”

“You have the most beautiful skin I’ve ever seen,” I tell him honestly.

“Now, ma’am, you need to stop complimenting me or I’ll completely lose track of the dance.” He twirls me, my pink skirts sailing around us. “On second thought, I don’t really mind. Go on and keep complimenting me.”

We laugh, and I catch sight of a group of matrons whispering. No doubt my name and Mr. Morris’s will be entangled in much of the night’s gossip, but I am enjoying myself so much, I truly don’t care what the old hens are clucking about.

“My great-grandmother came from Southeast Asia. Vietnam,” I say before I can think too much about it. “My great-grandfather swept in and took her back to London with him. The other French and English officers cared about riches, but the only treasure he wanted was her.”

I am not certain why I am revealing this, not when my family has taken pains to keep it quiet. Even Papa, who had looked like any other English gentleman with a full beard, had never spoken of his ancestry in society. There had been whispers once that my great-grandmother had not been a royal lady but rather a lowly brothel girl who had bewitched an innocent young English lord. Papa had wanted to avoid feeding the gossip, and Mamma—always conscious of status and propriety—had agreed never to speak of Vanessa. But somehow, I have an instinct that Quincey Morris will understand. Perhaps it is the way he had stood in that room of unfriendly eyes earlier, defiantly turning his uniqueness into armor the way I do my own.

And indeed, the American’s gaze on me is kind, as though he can hear everything I am not saying out loud. “That explains why you have the loveliest tint to your skin,” he says, charming to the last. “Like the sun is following your face, even at night.”

“Aren’t you the poet?” I squeeze the hand that envelops mine. It is big and rough, nothing like Dr. Seward’s clever, elegant ones, but I am glad to hold it just the same. It feels friendly—though the look in his eyes is anythingbutmerely friendly. A fire burns there, promising delicious warmth if I find the courage to approach. He pulls me slightly closer, and the nearness of him is daring. Another inch more and it would be scandalous.

“There are Asian folks who live around my homestead. They work on the ranch and the railroad, and I’m lucky to call some of them my friends.” Mr. Morris’s eyes shine down at me. “And I hope I winyouresteem as well, Miss Lucy Westenra. You’re a diamond in the rough, like I said, and I don’t tell many women that, I promise you.”

“I don’t believe you,” I say gaily. “A man like you must know many special ladies.”

“None I’d want to ride across an open plain under the night sky with. A great moon up above. Stars shining down. Wolves howling.” His voice is as soft as a bed I would happily sink into. “But you don’t need to be afraid of them, ma’am. Not with me around.”

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