The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [144]
“It’s nothing like yours,” she said, telling him quickly about Oxford and her father. He was looking at her, puzzled, and she said, “You are probably wondering how I came to be here in New York and a Ziegfeld girl. I … we … we were on holiday when my father died suddenly. I had to find a job to support myself and my little sister.”
“Your sister?”
“Azaylee. She’s six now, and at school at the Misses Beadle’.”
He nodded, “And is she as beautiful as you?”
Missie laughed. “Everyone asks that question, and the reply is always the same. No, she is not. She’s far, far more beautiful. She has spun-gold hair and eyes like pansies, and she’s just … just a dream child.”
His eyes considered her as he drank his wine. “You obviously love her very much.”
“Azaylee is all the family I have,” she replied quietly.
“I would like to meet her,” he said. “My yacht, the Ferdinand A, is moored here on the Hudson. Would you and Azaylee do me the honor of spending the day with me on Sunday? We can sail up the coast, have lunch….” He leaned forward, gazing into her eyes, “Please say yes,” he whispered.
His eyes lured her, yet she was uncertain. Despite his charm, there was something about him that intimidated her. Maybe it was his air of contempt for those beneath him—she had noticed that he never even looked at the waiters, just expected them to jump whenever he snapped his fingers. But she was probably being too hard on him. He was a man born to great wealth and not used to dealing with ordinary people. Life on his level must be like it had been for Misha—though she had never seen Misha treat a servant with anything other than courtesy. And yet he was so attractive and his eyes were begging her, caressing her almost. “I accept,” she agreed breathlessly, telling herself that, after all, Azaylee would love it. Ziegfeld’s note fell to the floor unnoticed as she left the table, blushing and smiling, and every head turned to watch them go.
On the way home he kept carefully to his side of the limousine, watching her as she chatted about Azaylee and about her life as a showgirl. She was exhilarated, alive, filled with a new excitement.
When the car stopped at her apartment he leaned forward and took her hand. “Till Sunday then?” he said, brushing her fingers lightly with his lips.
“Till Sunday,” she promised, shivering at his touch.
The next morning when she awoke the apartment was filled with long-stemmed cream roses, and their scent was giving Beulah hay fever.
“I ain’t seen so much pollen since my childhood in Georgia,” she said, rubbing her reddened eyes, “but whoever he is, Miss Verity, he’s surely stuck on you.”
On Sunday at ten the limousine appeared to drive them to the Hudson River docks and the Ferdinand A, a 175-foot seagoing steam yacht with a full set of sails, polished teak decks, and gleaming brass rails. The captain and a crew of twenty were lined up to greet them, and Eddie Arnhaldt was waiting in the saloon that was filled with cream-colored roses.
Missie burst out laughing, staring around her in amazement. “But where do you find them all?” she asked. “The florists in Manhattan must have run out by now.”
“They have,” he replied. “These are from Washington, brought in this morning by railroad.” His eyes caught hers. “Specially for you,” he added quietly.
“Matiushka, this is wonderful.” Azaylee ran excitedly into the saloon, stopping short when she saw the baron.
“This is my sister, Azaylee,” Missie said, flashing her a warning glance