Love & War (Alex & Eliza #2)(88)

“Sorry to scare you, Rowena,” he said, ripping at the buttons of his robe. “I just need to freshen up before I go upstairs.”

“You had better look fresh,” Rowena said. “The missus is sorely aggrieved at your tardiness.” She fixed him in the eye. “I do hope you have good news for her.”

“What, is my presence not good news enough?” Alex said slyly, using a pewter tray as a mirror as he styled his somewhat damp hair, which had been buried beneath a wig for more than fifteen hours. Fortunately, anticipating a potentially late day, he had thought to wear his finest suit under his robes.

“How do I look?”

Rowena shrugged. “A little scrawny for my taste, but not much to do about that now.”

“Never change, Rowena,” Alex said with a grin, flicking a little flour on her moist cheeks. “Never change.”

He ran past Simon, who was curled up in a chair like an eel in a barrel, sound asleep, and dashed up the stairs. Just before he reached the door he paused and composed himself, then pushed it open.

A swarm of noise assailed his ears.

“I heard Mr. Burr’s closing oratory went on for more than an hour!”

“That’s nothing! Mr. Hamilton spoke for nearly two!”

“Mr. Burr may be the finest lawyer of his generation. His arguments cut through the sterile logic of the law and went straight to the heart!”

“Hamilton was magnificent! Thrice he was interrupted by standing ovations! People were weeping in their chairs! The judge himself clapped at the end!”

Apparently, word of the trial had reached the party.

Alex squinted against the bright lights. A swarm of odors assaulted his nose, from the delectable smells of Rowena’s cooking (now sadly decimated, to the consternation of his empty stomach) to the cloying perfumes of dozens of ladies and gentlemen bedecked in the finest brocades and jacquards. He did not realize his house could hold this many people. He wondered that the floor didn’t collapse beneath their weight. But his eyes ignored the throng as he searched for one face in particular. The only face that mattered.

“He’s here!” a voice called then. “It’s the man of the hour!”

The voice turned out to be John Church, who grabbed him in a bear hug. “Well done, Alex! You did it!”

Suddenly, other hands were grabbing him. John Rutherford. Gouverneur Morris. Even the painter Ralph Earl. Before he knew it, he was being hoisted in the air on their shoulders.

“Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray!”

Alex rocked back and forth on the shoulders, tilting his head slightly to keep from knocking against the ceiling. So intense was the bouncing that he could not make out the faces in the room, which seemed like so many glazed masks beneath their powder and rouge and wigs. But then—at last!—he spied a single face in the front parlor, seeming to float in the air.

It was Eliza.

Her hair was a silver halo above her head, made all the more ethereal by a gauzy veil draped over it. Her skin was smooth as the flesh of a peach, with just a spot of color at cheeks and lips. Her eyes were two dark coals gleaming out at the world with untold depths of intelligence and strength, her mouth set in the very tiniest of smiles, as if she reserved judgment on all who passed beneath her gaze. She was not just the most beautiful woman Alex had ever seen. She was the most regal.

“My darling,” he said, as if she could hear him across two rooms.

“Yes?” a voice said at his feet. “Alex?”

He looked down, and there she was again: Eliza, only this time she was in a pale green gown and tighter, unveiled wig. Her face was decidedly pinker, too, as if she had been dancing for hours.

He looked back up. Only now did he realize that the first image had been Ralph Earl’s painting.

I get to live with her for the rest of my life, he said to himself in astonishment. He had never realized life could be so fulfilling. And then, looking down at his flesh-and-blood wife, he thought: This beautiful creature is who I get to live with for the rest of my days. No painting could ever compare.

His wife threw her arms around him and he returned the embrace. I get to live with the real woman and the portrait, he said to himself. A more fortunate man has never lived.

“My darling,” he said, looking right into her beautiful brown eyes, the eyes that had so bewitched him from the beginning. “It is perfection. And I am sorry . . .”

“Shush,” said Eliza. “It is enough to have you home for dinner for once.”

Vaguely, he knew there were many people in the room, guests, dignitaries, the most important people in New York, but to Alex, there was only one face, one person, who was the most important. He ushered her into a private corner.

“I want to focus on our family,” he said, leaning to whisper in her ear. “I believe it is about time we were serious about that endeavor.”

Eliza colored prettily. “It is my dearest wish as well,” she replied, melting into his arms.

He kissed her then, because he had to have her right then, wanted nothing more than for the two of them to be alone and putting every effort into this new and exciting project.

They were still kissing when a voice interrupted, rising above the din. The Hamiltons reluctantly pulled away from each other.

“Well, there he is now. The man of the hour. Or should I say, the traitor of the hour?”