Page 123 of Savannah Royals
“Yes, he made sure I had plenty of options. We both agreed—only the absolute best for you.” Matthew steps closer and turns me back to the mirror. I take in my flushed, happy face. Bright eyes. He traces his fingers around my neck, dancing over the rubies. “That is why you’re wearing this tonight,” he says. “Not for Paul. For me. Because I love you, and you are the next Mrs. DaMolin.”
I nod.
“I’m assuming, of course, you have a plan?”
“I do.”
“Do you need me?”
“I just needed you to put these around my neck. Which you, very graciously, have. And then some.” I glance down at the engagement ring before reluctantly twisting it off my finger. “But, Matthew? I’m not sure tonight is the best time to announce this news.”
“I understand. I came prepared.” He reaches inside the lining of his jacket and pulls out a pair of black silk, elbow-length gloves. “I know how you like to hide your secrets, Kat.”
I smile, pleasantly surprised. I take the gloves and pull them on. The lump of the ring protrudes slightly, but unless someone’s looking, they’ll never notice.
“You look positively grand, darling.” He twirls me for emphasis. “Now let’s go celebrate the Ides of March. I want to show off my devastatingly gorgeous, clandestine fiancée.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Thepartyhasalreadybegun when Matthew and I arrive. I glide into the clubhouse on his arm—on myfiancé’sarm—like we own the joint. I’m convinced there’s a bullseye on my left hand beneath the glove, but nobody glances at it twice. All attention is focused on the DaMolin rubies dripping from my neck.
I’m immensely popular with the guests at the ball. Everyone wants to see the reclusive rubies, drool over them, dance with them. I’m separated from Matthew again and again to take to the outdoor dance floor with donors, friends, and strangers alike, but I always drift back to his side as soon as I’m free, a pair of magnets snapping together.
“Is it finally my turn for a dance?” he asks after our fifth separation.
Not that I’m counting. Not that I’m counting every minute I spend apart from him tonight. That doesn’t sound like me at all.
I move with Matthew to the beat of the band. They’ve set up an outdoor stage in the central courtyard of the club. Bejeweled partygoers step and twirl beneath lamplight and low-swooping moths while friends cluster both around and above, leaning over porch railings, smoking cigars, swapping gossip, and sipping endless refills of whiskey and gin.
As expected, the Jekyll Island Club would never be so gauche as to fall victim to a matter as commonplace as Prohibition. In a rather impressive display of audaciousness at the start of the evening, Johnnie Rockefeller and his new bride poured out Pol Roger, bottle after bottle, over twotowering pyramids of crystal glassware, creating twin champagne fountains at the edge of the dance floor. High color graced the new Mrs. Rockefeller’s cheeks, and a raucous giggle erupted from her lips as the foam overflowed with abandon.
Merriment abounds in every corner of the club, and Matthew spins and dips me across the floor until I’m laughing and dizzy. The stars swirl and blur overhead with every twirl, sweeping me into the infinite expanse of the universe, which has never felt nearer than tonight. One song fades into a second. Matthew pulls me close; I tuck my head on his shoulder and sway. My gaze lazily peruses the party, noting the discreet presence of several well-dressed security officials interwoven through the crowd. They sip clear drinks—an old trick, likely tonic water and lime—as they try to blend in, but their stiff posture and surveying eyes don’t fool me. I’m surprised there are so few, perhaps only three or four. Their presence seems more cursory than truly threatening.
Paul was right, I begrudgingly admit. This party is carte blanche.
Matthew and I complete another slow revolution. Harry Astor appears on the veranda, elbows propped on the railing as he chats with a petite redhead. I snort lightly when I notice a bruise above his eye, right where Matthew hit him. I look around for a few more minutes, but I don’t see Florence or Daniel anywhere, though I’m certain they’re here together. Florence is chasing her own engagement ring, and according to Matthew, she’ll be taking her bounty within the month. I do locate a Mellie-free Ethan, hovering at the bottom of the porch stairs. He waves cheerfully, sloshing whiskey over the rim of a tumbler.
“Your brother is watching us.” I point him out to Matthew.
“Let him watch. It’s good for him to be on the sidelines. Healthy.” He bends down and kisses me.
When I pull back, I spot something over Matthew’s shoulder that wipes the relaxed smile from my face. I stiffen as I meet Paul’s eyes across the party.He raises an eyebrow, then returns his attention to the statuesque woman he’s conversing with. My hand flies to my neck as I realize I haven’t been to the bathroom yet. I lost track of time.
“Matthew, would you excuse me? I need to visit the ladies’ room.”
“Certainly.” He moves to escort me, but I shrug him off, weaving through the crowd with single-minded determination. Ethan waylays me at the base of the stairs.
“Katarina.” He slips his arm through mine and glides up to the veranda with me. “How are you? Having a pleasant evening?”
“I’m exceedingly well, Ethan,” I reply. “Whereabouts is Melinda? You haven’t lost her, have you?”
“Quite the opposite.” Ethan nods to the dance floor where Mellie prances and spins happily in the arms of a tuxedoed gentleman. “She’s quite the dame, your farmgirl friend,” Ethan teases. “Her dance card is full.”
“You don’t say?” My eyebrows raise.
“Indeed, arriving on a DaMolin arm will do that for a lady. Speaking of, you and Matthew make quite the pair,” he says. “A matching set, perhaps? The grapevine is positively abuzz with speculation, and it got me thinking…what are your plans when you depart from Telfair?”
“My plans?” I repeat, steering Ethan into the club. “I’m not certain what you mean.”
