Rory stepped cautiously across the threshold, schooling her jaw not to drop open at the sight of the mauve and gilt bedchamber sprawled before her. An array of paintings, which would have looked more at home in an art gallery, hung on the walls. At the room’s center stood a massive four-poster bed raised up on a dais. It could have been the state chamber of a king.
“Listen,” Rory said. “Isn’t there any place in this house a little less overwhelming? Maybe I could go down and sit by the fire in the kitchen.”
But she discovered she was talking to herself. Wellington had already disappeared, discreetly closing the door behind him. Rory could only shake her head over the behavior of Zeke Morrison. One minute the fellow had been threatening to throw her into the street, and the next he was having her ushered into a chamber like this as though she were an honored guest. Well, she had always heard that millionaires were eccentric.
Before Rory had an opportunity to take further stock of her surroundings, the door opened again to admit two maids in starched aprons. Rory assumed they had come merely to light the fire in the grate for her, but she quickly realized the young women had other plans.
One bobbed into a brief curtsey and then moved to deal with the hooks on the back of Rory’s gown. “Let me help you out of your wet things, madam. Maisie will draw your bath.”
Madam? Her bath?
“Wait a minute,” Rory ducked away from the girl. “I didn’t exactly bring a change of clothing with me.”
“We will provide madam with a robe while your gown is dried and mended.”
“But I’m not one of the guests here.” Rory’s protest died as she caught her first glimpse of the bathroom. The girl called Maisie was laying out thick towels while a cloud of steam rose from the largest clawfoot tub Rory had ever seen. Two people could have stretched out in it, side by side. And the water poured forth from a golden tap.
It was a far cry from her own chipped enamel basin, where she sat with her knees practically tucked up to her chin. Rory fretted her lower lip.
No, she couldn’t. She should only be thinking of packing up her balloon and getting out of here. After the way she had wreaked havoc on Morrison’s lawn and then quarreled with him, it wasn’t right to be accepting any favors from him.
Yet what could a bath matter to him? He was clearly as rich as Diamond Jim Brady. He probably had tubs like this in every room. And who knew when Tony would get here? They could not get the balloon aloft anyway until the storm passed.
Rory inched nearer the tub, trailing her fingers in the water. The steaming hot liquid felt as seductive as a caress. Every one of her aching muscles seemed to cry out to her, urging her on.
“Oh, what the hell,” she muttered.
She permitted the maid to help her undress without further argument. The two girls gathered up her discarded clothing and left. But Rory hardly noticed their brisk departure as she eased herself down into the bathtub, closing her eyes in pure ecstasy.
“Ahhh!” Rory leaned her head back, resting it against the porcelain rim. She stretched out for a time, enjoying a blissful soak. Even her ankle began to feel better. With great reluctance, she forced her eyes open and reached for the bar of soap.
As she lathered her legs, she still marveled at the size of the tub. Her toes couldn’t even touch the other side. Morrison probably had everything in the house designed to fit his own towering proportions.
She had no difficulty picturing him sprawled in the depths of a tub like this one, the way the dark damp hair would curl on the expanse of his broad chest, the water lapping against the tautly honed muscles of his belly and lower?—
Rory checked her wayward imagination with a hot blush. What was the matter with her? She didn’t usually go about conjuring up images of naked men. She began to scrub herself more vigorously, attempting to blot all idea of Zeke Morrison from her mind. But once she had allowed him to invade her thoughts, she couldn’t seem to be rid of the man.
What a strange fellow he was. He didn’t fit her notions of a millionaire, the kind Angelo was always reading about to her from the newspaper, who had a house on Fifth Avenue, racingyachts at Newport, a box at the Opera. With his quick temper, his hearty laugh and his burly shoulders, Zeke reminded her more of a stevedore or a wagon driver, rubbing down his horses, hanging about Tony Pascal’s music hall, getting into fights of a Saturday night.
From his snapping dark eyes to that rock-hard jaw, the man bore an intensity about him that had made all those sedate guests of his seem as faded as last summer’s flowers. And what was his connection to that Van Hallsburg woman, an icicle if Rory had ever seen one?
Obviously some sort of intimacy existed between them. Could she possibly be his mistress? Rory found the thought disturbing, even more than that—repulsive.
But the woman must be well acquainted with Zeke to attempt handing out orders in his house. Mrs. Van Hallsburg might be belowstairs even now arguing that Rory should be turned over to the police. Perhaps Zeke might listen. No. Quick-tempered Morrison might be, but somehow Rory could tell there was nothing mean-spirited or vindictive about him. On the other hand, that Mrs. Van Hallsburg?—
A shudder coursed through Rory and her bath no longer seemed quite so soothing. The water had grown tepid. Clambering out of the tub, she toweled herself dry. Gingerly she tested her ankle, putting her full weight on it. It was still sore, but at least somewhat better.
She reached for the satiny robe the maid had provided and shrugged herself into it, belting the sash about her waist. The garment, with its batwing sleeves, was in pristine condition, likely never worn and purchased solely for the intention of entertaining the casual overnight guest.
Imagine anyone being that rich they could hand out spare robes like bonbons. For a moment, Rory felt a twinge of wistfulness. Not that she envied Morrison the splendors of hismansion or even that fantastic bathtub. But she bet what he had spent furnishing this one room alone would have been enough to save her company.
Morrison could probably finance a dozen balloon companies if he wanted to. Pity she had made such a terrible first impression on him. She could well imagine what his reaction would be if she attempted to sound him out as a possible investor in the Transcontinental Balloon Company.
Now that you have seen exactly what balloons can do, Mr. Morrison.
He would either laugh in her face or toss her into the street for sure. With a rueful grin, Rory banished the absurd notion from her mind.
Making certain the robe was secured, she crept out into the bedchamber. Neither of the maids had returned, but it was unreasonable to expect them to have dried out her gown so soon.
