The Davenports(18)

She was having fun.

Her face felt warm and sweat gathered at her temples. And though her calves burned and her toes smarted, she didn’t want to stop.

“When I asked you to dance,” Mr. Lawrence yelled over the music, “I pictured something a little slower.”

“We can slow down if this is too much for you,” she said, an eyebrow arching in a challenge.

“And lose?” He shook his head and stared into her eyes. “When I set my mind to something, I mean to win.”

His words made her blush deepen.

Faces blurred around them. Their steps grew clumsy as the pace increased and another couple bowed out. Olivia missed a step, her feet tangling with Mr. Lawrence’s. They stumbled from the dance floor, his arms around her waist and his face merely inches from hers. They broke into laughter.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed.

Mr. Lawrence considered the last couple celebrating on the floor. “We gave it a good run. And there will be a next time.” He smiled. “I’ll get us some drinks.” She nodded and watched him walk across the ballroom.

“Olivia.” Mrs. Davenport stepped quickly toward her daughter and squeezed both her hands. “You two make such a lovely couple,” she whispered.

Olivia smiled as her mother lovingly pinched her chin and walked on.

Jacob Lawrence had barely left Olivia’s side since he’d arrived at the party. He was gracious as she carried out numerous introductions, and he made her laugh several times. He was witty and charming. Handsome. Everything she was looking for in a match. And, she was quite positive he felt the same way about her. After a year of wondering how she would find a match, could it truly be this easy?

She watched him at the bar, two champagne flutes in hand, talking to Mr. Tremaine. He glanced in her direction and smiled.

“Of course this is where I would see you again.” A familiar voice shook Olivia out of her reverie. She turned.

Washington DeWight was standing behind her, a smirk on his face, dressed in a simple dark suit and all the confidence he’d had onstage. His hands were in his pockets, shoulders thrown back as he lazily looked around the room. “You do look more at home here, don’t you?”

Her stomach flipped and her mouth felt dry. “What are you doing here?” she asked. Her voice was rougher than she’d intended.

He laughed. “Well, it’s lovely to see you too. The Tremaines invited me.”

“Oh?”

Mr. DeWight pursed his lips. “Any candidate for public office knows how important it is to get the support of the working class.” He nodded to himself. “I was right about you.”

“How so?” she asked, her eyes narrowing, picking up on his tone.

He gestured to the room. “Rich girl, slumming it on the poor side of town.”

“I was not slumming it. I was bringing donations to the community center. I—”

“My apologies, a philanthropic rich girl—”

“You don’t know anything about me,” she said. Olivia found herself closer to him than she was before, her fists clenched at her sides.

“You and that gentleman of yours have been the talk of the ball,” he offered, switching topics so quickly, Olivia found herself blinking dumbly in response.

Out of the corner of her eye, Olivia caught Mrs. Johnson, a friend of her mother’s and an intolerable gossip, watching them, a slight frown on her face. A few others were looking in their direction too, whispering. Olivia gave them her widest smile and kept her chin level.

Mr. DeWight’s smile grew wider too as he took in her visible frustration. “Curiosity may have led you to the meeting, but I think compassion kept you there. This is a beautiful world you live in.” He took in the room around them before bringing his eyes back to hers. “But now you know what’s at stake.” He held her gaze.

Olivia’s breathing slowed. His words had left an impression on her, hard as she’d tried to push them out of her thoughts. She’d nearly asked Hetty to fetch her a copy of The Defender the next morning, but . . . what would that accomplish? Her father had spent his life working to protect her from the horrors of the South. He wanted her to live exactly the life she was so lucky to have.

The band started up a new song and the Tremaines’ guests scrambled to the ballroom floor. Their half-eaten delicacies and empty champagne flutes littered every flat surface. A sea of silk, tulle, and satin, the guests moved to the current of the rhythm. She looked down at her own dress and thought of the neat, threadbare frocks worn with fiery confidence by some of the women she saw in that crowded basement. None of the young ladies in her set attended rallies. They threw charity galas and fundraisers, they donated money and goods to acceptable causes.

Mr. Lawrence suddenly appeared beside her. “Are you all right?” he asked. He handed Olivia a glass and searched her face.

“Yes!” she said, shaking her head free of these thoughts. “Mr. Lawrence, this is Washington—Mr. Washington DeWight.” She practically inhaled the champagne as the two men roughly shook hands.

A muscle in Mr. Lawrence’s jaw twitched. “How do you two know each other?”

Olivia looked to Mr. DeWight for help. Mr. Lawrence’s reaction to her use of his first name did not go unnoticed. Now it had her flustered and scrambling for words. Mr. DeWight stood silently, his hands hidden again in his pockets, an almost amused look on his face. He was deliberately staying quiet while she squirmed in the too hot, too loud room, under the scrutinizing eye of the English gentleman. “We—” she started, then stopped. What should she say?