Nan Ryan (26 page)

He huddled with Miss Annabelle to discuss the gown they should choose for the upcoming palace affair and he promptly accepted when Miss Annabelle asked if he’d like to accompany Nevada and her when they shopped for the dress.

Discerning, extremely hard to please, his taste impeccable, Johnny accompanied them to London’s West End. There he ushered them from one Regent Street couturière to another, determined to find the extraordinary fabric, the right hue, the exquisite design to best drape Nevada’s small, youthfully curvaceous body.

Dozens of bolts of satins and brocades and folice and sultane were spread on his bent knee, examined by his lean brown lingers, examined with his keen black eyes. And discarded. Numerous designs and sketches were poured over, discussed, considered. And turned down.

“
Monsieur
, you have seen all there is in zee shop!” The short, plump little French couturière at Rassac’s threw up her hands in dismay. “
Mon Dieu
, I have such a headache!” She slammed the heel of her hand to her forehead.

Unbothered, Johnny asked, “Have you velvet the exact color of the mademoiselle’s eyes?”

Frowning, the dressmaker took Nevada’s arm, looked into her eyes, then hurried into the back room, muttering in French. But when she returned, she was smiling and she carried a huge bolt of sky-blue velvet, the exact hue of Nevada’s large, lovely eyes. She walked straight to Johnny and dumped it onto his lap.

Hands going to her wide hips, the little woman said, “I suppose you wish to design zee gown as well?”

His palm gently running over the supple velvet, he said, “I’ll trust you to do that, Madame de Kerlerec. Something extraordinary,
s’il vous plaît.
” He rose and smiled at her. “And, the mademoiselle will need a cape. Perhaps the same blue velvet lined with ermine, what do you think?”

And so it went.

Johnny couldn’t have paid more attention to Nevada during those golden days if she had been his adored intended. And she couldn’t help but hope that soon that’s just what she would be. Johnny’s sweetheart. Johnny’s fiancée. Johnny’s wife.

Even Miss Annabelle began to think that maybe the worldly Cap’n Roulette had actually begun to care for the dark-haired young beauty. He’d hardly spent any time with Lady Ashley lately. And it was Nevada, not Lady Ashley, he was taking to the Queen’s formal dinner.

The prospect made Miss Annabelle smile. Nevada, so young, so romantic, desperately needed to be loved. And Cap’n Roulette, though he didn’t yet realize it, surely needed love as well.

The older woman sighed wistfully.

Everyone needed love.

25

They all waited.

Miss Annabelle was seated primly on the English Chippendale sofa, her pale eyes lifting every few seconds to the walnut-cased clock on the mantle, her hands twisting a lace handkerchief in her lap. King Cassidy sat stiffly on a blue-and-rust patterned wing chair, nervously stroking his silver goatee as he stared into the flames blazing in the marble fireplace.

And Johnny, smiling, relaxed, and sure of himself, looked strikingly handsome in black swallowtail coat and matching trousers, white shirt, white vest, white tie.

With easy, catlike grace he moved to the tall front windows and looked out at the London night. Over his shoulder he said, “The rain has stopped. The stars are out. It promises to be a clear, perfect night.”

“It will be perfect,” he heard a pleasing feminine voice declare softly. Johnny slowly turned and his smile broadened.

Nevada stood across the room, a dazzling vision in sky-blue velvet. The new gown was magnificent. Fashioned in the latest style, it tastefully accentuated her charms and revealed her figure. Long, snug sleeves hugged her slender arms, coming to a point atop her small hands, and the gown’s tight bodice dipped appealingly low over her pale, exquisite bosom.

Her waist appeared unbelievably tiny, the curve of womanly hips and firm little bottom only hinted at by the gown’s clever ruffles and draperies. The flowing velvet skirt spread out into a long, supple train of yards and yards of soft blue velvet pooling around her small feet.

Her gleaming black hair was dressed in elaborate puffs and braids, and one long, shiny curl fell attractively onto a bare creamy shoulder. The shimmering sapphire-and-diamond necklace rested on her white, perfect bosom. Gilttering with blue fire, the necklace’s large center teardrop sapphire nestled and winked appealingly from the shadowed valley between her high, full breasts.

Nevada stood, poised, serene, her sparkling blue eyes aglow, her heart beating a slow, regular rhythm beneath the soft blue velvet bodice. She smiled sweetly when Miss Annabelle, the first of the awed admirers to speak, said breathlessly, “You’ll be the most beautiful woman at the palace tonight.”

“The nobility will claim you for their own,” exclaimed a proud King Cassidy, coming to his feet, his eyes crinkling with pleasure. More softly he said, “My dear child, you are truly a regal lady, through and through.”

Pleased, Nevada never noticed the quick, self-satisfied expression that flashed across Johnny’s dark face. Johnny crossed to her, came to stand directly before her.

Grinning down at her, he reached out with thumb and forefinger to pluck the huge, fiery teardrop sapphire from between her perfumed breasts. He held it in his palm.

“The exact color of your eyes,” he said and the back of his lean hand gently brushed her bare flesh. Nevada felt a sweet warmth spread through her body. The heart beneath Johnny’s hand doubled its beating when he looked into her eyes and said, “My dear Miss Hamilton, I’m extremely honored to be your escort on this memorable evening. I daresay no more beautiful young lady has ever been presented at the Court of St. James. You will dazzle them all, just as you dazzle me.”

He smiled lazily at her. Then his hand released the heavy blue sapphire and his low-lidded eyes watched it fall back into place on her creamy, flawless flesh. Nevada saw him swallow anxiously and she suddenly felt giddy with an unfamiliar female power.

A premonition struck her, its force amazing. This was to be the night of nights! And being presented at court was only a small part of the whole. Before the lovely evening ended, her life, she knew, would be forever changed.

Ready for the glorious adventure to unfold, Nevada said, “Johnny, we really should be going. We’d not want to keep Her Majesty waiting.”

A closed landau plus four waited downstairs at the curb. Nevada’s happy laughter carried on the clear night air when Johnny, helping her up into the roomy carriage, lifted the flowing train of her skirt and carefully arranged it around her feet.

Once seated beside her, Johnny took off his silk top hat and white gloves, dropped them on the seat between them, and put a gentle hand to the back of her velvet cape’s high collar.

“Will you be warm enough?” he asked, turning to her, his black cashmere cloak falling open over his bent knees.

Cuddled snugly within the folds of lush white ermine that lined her long velvet cape, Nevada smiled. “Yes, thank you, Johnny.”

And so the handsome pair fell into their roles for the evening. Nevada, the beautiful genteel lady, her voice soft and modulated, her back erect, her deportment tranquil. Johnny, the good-looking gentleman, his manners quite polished, his conversation cultivated.

Yet underneath the composed exterior of the lovely lady and handsome gentleman, each experienced a growing measure of excitement. A building exhilaration that had little to do with Queen Victoria’s reception.

Giant bonfires lit up the cold London skies as the landau traveled across the giant city. Shouts of joy and jubilation came from happy revelers dancing in the cobblestone streets. Nevada turned questioning eyes to Johnny.

“They’re celebrating Guy Fawkes Day.”

“Who is Mr. Fawkes?”

Johnny grinned. “An unbalanced Englishman caught setting explosives beneath the House of Lords.”

“My heavens, I hope he’s locked up!” said Nevada.

Johnny chuckled good-naturedly and took her hand in his. Twining his long dark fingers through her satin-gloved ones, he said, “Fawkes was arrested and hanged back in the early sixteen hundreds.” He absently pressed her hand to his trousered thigh. “They burn him in effigy every November 5th.”

Mortified by her display of ignorance, Nevada felt her self-assurance suddenly slip alarmingly. “Oh, Johnny, what if I embarrass you before the—”

“You won’t,” he cut in smoothly and squeezed her hand. “Ask no questions and pretend you have the answers. They’ll never know the difference.” He grinned and added, “We’re almost there, Nevada.”

“Marie,” she reminded him. “Miss Marie Hamilton.”

“I stand corrected.”

The landau rolled along the Embankment and through the Queen’s Horse Guards. The Beefeaters, in full dress, were in their places. Lights blazed from every window of the huge yellow palace and Nevada took a long, deep breath and smiled nervously at Johnny when the carriage came to a stop before the royal dwelling.

Footman in scarlet and gold sallied forth—and then it was all like a lovely dream for Nevada.

She was swept up into the majestic palace where the furlined cape was whisked from her shoulders. Her hand on Johnny’s arm, she climbed the grand staircase decorated with flowers and lined with Yeoman of the Guard.

She was ushered into the reception room, where the great officers of state as well as the ladies and gentleman of the court were assembled, including the inventor, Alexander Bell. Everyone in
gala
.

Mr. Bell was speaking enthusiastically of his latest invention, one he intended to demonstrate for the Queen. Something he called the telephone.

Before Nevada had time to catch her breath, they were all moving into a magnificent hall. The Supper room. There she and Johnny sat down to dinner at a huge round table with dukes and duchesses, foreign royalty, special ambassadors and envoys. A seven-course meal was served on plates of gleaming gold, while a string quartet played in the background. Nevada, drinking champagne from crystal bearing the royal crest, made easy table conversation with the Duke of Connaught on her right and with the Prince of Naples to her left.

The dreamlike quality of the glamorous evening and the freely flowing wines helped put her at ease. That, and the warmth and approval she saw shining in Johnny’s dark eyes each time she looked at him.

And so from the
crème d’orge
to the
baba au curaçao
, Nevada handled the long sumptuous meal and her aristocratic table companions with effortless sophistication and charm.

When dinner ended, the guests went into the Queen’s vast marble-floored ballroom where Nevada and Johnny joined the presentation line. At the head of the line was the honored guest, Mr. Alexander Graham Bell. Then the colonial premiers and their wives were presented. Then the special envoys. An Indian prince and the officers of the Indian escort, who held out their gleaming swords to be touched by Her Majesty.

Then suddenly there she was, standing before Britain’s reigning monarch. She, Nevada Marie Hamilton, child of the Mississippi River, was being presented to Her Majesty, the Queen. Curtsying deliberately slowly, just as Miss Annabelle had demonstrated over and over, Nevada knelt before Her Royal Highness, Victoria, the Queen of England.

When she rose, Nevada smiled at the middle-aged woman with the round childish face who did not look the least bit noble or elegant, although she wore a gown the whole front of which was embroidered in gold. There were huge glittering diamonds in her cap and a wide diamond necklace hugged her fleshy throat.

Despite all the royal trappings, the Queen was tiny and dumpy. Her mouth was pursed and her eyes were slightly bugged. But those unattractively bulging eyes held a warm, friendly expression that made Nevada feel welcome and completely comfortable in this historic palace.

And when the pudgy little sovereign said, “Miss Hamilton, you and I are the same height. You must tell me the name of your couturier,” Nevada felt faint with triumph.

“Your Majesty, I shall be most happy to do so.” So the short dumpy Queen and the tiny beautiful American discussed gowns and dressmakers while the procession of guests waited for their turn to be presented.

The Queen’s band was playing as Johnny led Nevada onto the dance floor. She had never danced with Johnny before and the experience was such a pleasant one, Nevada never noticed when Queen Victoria, in less than an hour, took her leave.

Johnny did.

Bending, he whispered against Nevada’s perfumed curls. “Her Majesty has left. Let’s slip away.”

Outside, the night had grown much colder. The sky, for a change, was clear. Stars glittered in the inky blackness. And in Nevada’s happy blue eyes.

As their landau drove away from the palace, Johnny praised her impeccable behavior. Everyone thought she was a great lady. And if that was not enough to make her glow, he wrapped his long arm around her and pulled her close, saying, “Ah, sweetheart, you’re cold. Let me warm you.”

Nevada was happy.

She was in the arms of the man she loved, riding in a grand carriage through the cold London streets after a splendid evening at Buckingham Palace. And she still had that feeling that more incredible surprises were in store before the cold winter night was over.