The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [143]
She realized suddenly that they were in a private dining room and took a surprised step back toward the door.
“But I can’t have supper here, alone with you,” she exclaimed, shocked.
He shook his head, smiling. “Our table is ready in the dining room next door, Miss Byron. I just thought you might prefer our initial meeting to be in private, in case you wished to change your mind.” He smiled. “And in case I don’t match up to your expectations. After all, you have never seen me before.”
She stared at him, relieved. He really was very handsome, thin-faced and firm-lipped, lean and fit, with that confident air of a man in control of his emotions. And his life. “Oh,” she said, smiling consideringly, “I think I could bear to have supper with you.”
He took her arm in a courtly fashion as they walked to the door, “In that case,” he said, giving her that smile again, “shall we join the other diners?”
She watched anxiously as the waiters helped him into his chair, aware of the curious glances from the other tables. “It’s nothing really.” He dismissed his injury. “I pulled a ligament playing polo yesterday. The damned foolish pony wanted to go one way and I wanted him to go another.” He grinned. “I won, of course, but at a cost.”
She stared across the table at him, fascinated. Half a dozen waiters hovered around their table anxious to fulfill his smallest command. He said, “I have taken the liberty of ordering our meal. I like to know in advance what I am eating so that the wine can be decanted. I am by way of being a wine connoisseur, and my cellar at home, at Haus Arnhaldt, has more than twelve thousand bottles, each a superlative vintage. I hope you appreciate good wine, Miss Byron, because tonight we are having some of the best.”
She shook her head and he went on. “Even with Prohibition, it seems everyone is continuing drinking as normal.” He shrugged contemptuously. “A ridiculous idea, of course. If a man wants to drink himself to death then he should be allowed to do so. And if he wants to savor the nectar made by man from the humble grape, then he should be allowed that pleasure.”
A waiter approached and, excusing himself, said, “A note for you, Miss Verity.”
She opened it, read it quickly, then looked up at Arnhaldt, surprised.
“Everything all right?” he asked a touch impatiently.
“Oh, yes, yes … quite all right, thank you. Just that Mr. Ziegfeld saw me come in and he wanted to say hello.” She blushed. Of course it wasn’t true. What his note had said was “Verity, take care.” She wondered what he meant.
The baron leaned across the table and said quietly, “I must tell you, Miss Byron, that I have not stopped thinking about you since I first saw you, four nights ago on the stage of the New Amsterdam Theater. It is unlike me; I am a busy man. I am here in New York on business but I have not been able to get you out of my head.” His eyes burned into hers as he added, “I cannot pretend with you. I have known many women in my life, but there has not been one that I have felt about so immediately the way I did you. You were not merely a star to that diamond moon on stage that night, Miss Byron, you were far more beautiful than the real thing.”
Missie bit her lip, blushing modestly. No one had ever said things like that to her before and she did not know how to respond, but deep inside she was thrilled. She wondered if all the stage-door romeos talked this way, or if he was sincere. “Thank you, Baron,” she said, fixing her eyes demurely on the damask tablecloth. “It’s very kind of you to say so.”
He laughed as the waiters swarmed around them bearing silver platters and said, “Not ‘kind,’ Miss Byron, just truthful.” The waiter poured a pale wine and he sipped it, nodding approvingly. “I want you to taste this,” he told her as the waiter filled her glass, “and tell me if it’s not nectar from the gods.”
She took a sip and her eyes rounded with pleasure; it was delicious.
As they ate he told her about himself, about