The Mistress. Сьюзен ВиггсЧитать онлайн книгу.
I—” She broke off as he opened one of the tall, hinged windows, revealing a view that stopped her in her tracks. “Oh, my,” she said when she could breathe again. “That is quite a sight.” She took a step out onto the small, curved balcony. The windstorm that had been chasing through the city all evening blew even stronger now, howling between the tall downtown buildings and whipping up the surface of the lake like buckwheat batter.
From this perspective, facing south and east, she could see the curve of the river as it widened to join the vast, churning lake. Only a block or two distant, she noticed the dome and spires of the ornate courthouse, and beyond that, the gothic steeple of St. Brendan’s, the church of her girlhood. There, in a pious, sincere whisper, she had taken her first communion, accepted her confirmation and confessed her weekly sins. She expected that one day she would be married there under the gazebo in the little prayer garden, and buried there as well.
Tearing her mind from the moribund notion, she examined the perfect parallel lines of the streetlamps along Lake, Water and Randolph Streets. At the mouth of the river, giant grain elevators made ghostly silhouettes against the night sky. Every few seconds, the lighthouse at Government Pier lazily blinked its beam in her direction. And far to the south and west, the day seemed to linger, as if the sun had forgotten to set.
She smiled at the fanciful notion, thinking of her family in the West Division. Her mother would probably use the extra daylight to do chores. She was that industrious.
“Why do you smile?” Dylan Kennedy asked, his voice low and intimate.
“It’s a beautiful sight, Mr. Kennedy. No wonder Chicagoans are so proud of their city.”
“It’s called the Queen of the Prairie,” he said. “And you must call me Dylan.”
A shiver of the forbidden passed over her. “I mustn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I scarcely know you.”
“You can’t be so formal with me after I do this.”
“Do what?”
“This.” Without further warning, he stepped very close to her, moving in so that she was trapped between a marble balustrade and his tall form. “Hold very still,” he whispered.
“But—”
“Sh. Be still.”
Her senses filled with the nearness of him. He had the most delicate touch of any man she could imagine. With the finesse of a gifted musician, the light fingering of a master violinist on the neck of his instrument, Dylan Kennedy placed one hand under her chin, turning her face to one side. She didn’t know if it was her imagination, or if it was real, but she felt the fine brush of that delicate finger across her jaw as she turned her head.
“I confess I don’t have much practice applying jewelry to a lady,” he whispered, “but I am a willing pupil.”
“Mr.…Dylan, please. If you would hand me the earring, I could—”
“And spoil my chance to be near the most beautiful woman in Chicago?” His mouth was very close to her ear. She could feel the warm eddy of his breath over her skin. The sensation was so pleasant that, just for a moment, she closed her eyes. Then she felt his fingers gently manipulating her earlobe. Sweet Mary, what was happening to her? A man was touching her earlobe and she could do nothing but let her insides turn to melted butter. She held perfectly still, in a state of rapture, as he worked the tiny screw of the earring so that the teardrop-shaped jewel hung once again from her ear.
Then, all too soon, he stepped back. “Beautiful,” he said, his bluer-than-sky eyes shining.
“You,” said Kathleen in her haughtiest voice, “are a wicked man.”
“True,” he said. “That’s why you find me so interesting.”
“What makes you believe I find you interesting?”
“Let me think.” He stroked his chin, pretending great concentration. “You followed me to this private balcony, as if for an assignation.”
“I most certainly did not. You—you commandeered me as if I were a prisoner of war.”
He laughed. “A prisoner of love, my dear.”
“You’ve proved nothing except that you’re even more wicked than I thought.”
“Sweet Kate, you are fascinated.”
She couldn’t help herself. She laughed. “You are the most arrogant, conceited—”
“But I’m right about you.”
“You have not the first idea about me.” She left the balcony, edging back toward the carpeted room.
He took her arm to stop her retreat. “My first idea was that you blushed the moment you met me.”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh, Kate. It wasn’t just a blush.” Bolder than ever, he touched the neckline of her gown, tracing the wide, U-shaped décolletage with a slow, deliberate caress. “You were seashell pink from here—” he traced his finger over the tops of her breasts and then upward, mapping the rise of her collarbone, the dip at the base of her throat, and then the side of her neck, up to the crest of her cheek and temple “—to here,” he concluded with a low, liquid laugh. “I swear, I never saw a woman blush like that.” He leaned forward and blew the whispered words into her ear. “Do you blush all over, Miss Kate? Do you blush with your whole body?”
Finally, finally, he had pushed her over the edge. Forgetting the drawing room manners she had donned along with the Worth gown, Kathleen drew back her arm and walloped him one. It was not an openhanded, ladylike slap designed to put him in his place, but a full-fisted roundhouse punch of the sort used in saloon brawls in Conley’s Patch.
He went down like a heap of unmortared brick. The thud of his body brought several people rushing over from the main salon.
“What happened?” Mr. McCormick asked, his walrus mustache twitching as he sank down beside Dylan Kennedy.
Kathleen braced herself. Now Dylan would reveal her for exactly what she was—a lowborn immigrant’s daughter, with crude manners, no sense of humor and a wicked punch. A fraud.
But he surprised her. Shaking his head and running an exploratory hand along the length of his jaw, he stared straight at Kathleen and said, “I fell.”
McCormick stepped back. “So I see.”
Dylan took his proffered hand and stood up. “I swear, I never fell so hard in my life.” As he spoke, his gaze never left Kathleen.
And to her mortification, she felt herself heat with an uncontrollable blush. She didn’t speak, and neither did Dylan Kennedy, but her thoughts rang loudly through her head: He’s right. I do blush with my whole body.
“Can you believe it?” Lucy Hathaway said excitedly, later in the powder room. “It’s you.”
“What’s me?” asked Kathleen.
“The woman Dylan Kennedy is interested in.”
“Fiddlesticks.” Kathleen took a clean linen towel from the brass serving tray on the counter and dabbed at her overheated face.
“She’s right.” Phoebe spoke with grudging admiration. “It is you. Dylan Kennedy wants you.”
“How can you know that?”
Phoebe gave her a tight smile. “I have made a careful study of him since he arrived in Chicago.”
Lucy laughed. “You mean you inspected his pedigree to see if he’d be a suitable husband for you.”
“I most certainly did. Is there something wrong with that?”
“Well, is he a suitable