Dorothy Clark - An Unlikely Love

A crowd blocked the intersection of paths ahead. People milled about waiting to get into The Hotel. Others came out and walked across the clearing to the path.

He swept his gaze over the moving lines, frowned and looked to the side of the building. Marissa was talking with an older woman. She glanced around and their gazes met. His heart slammed against his rib cage. He yanked his hat from his head and started toward her, an eagerness to be with her driving his steps.

She said something to the woman, lifted her hems and came toward him, a picture of shyness and dignity that stole into his thudding heart.

“Good evening. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting, Marissa.” Pink flowed into her cheeks when he spoke her name. His fingers crunched the brim of his homburg. He put it back on his head out of danger.

“Not at all. I only arrived a few minutes ago.” She looked down, brushed at the front of her long skirt.

He pulled his gaze from the mass of blond curls that fell to her shoulders from under the small excuse for a hat she wore, and looked toward the building. “I didn’t have time last night to make proper plans. Would you like to get something to eat?” She looked up, and his mouth went so dry he’d have choked on a bite of food.

“Thank you, but I was uncertain about our...plans, also, so I dined earlier with my tent mate.” She took a breath. “Mr. Winston, I—”

“Grant.” The pink spread across her cheeks again. He made a manly effort to ignore her blush. It was either that or give up breathing. “We seem to be blocking the exit route standing here.” He smiled and offered her his arm.

She looked up at him, started to say something, then glanced at the people coming out of the hotel and slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow.

He had the distinct impression she’d been about to refuse his company. He started across the clearing toward the downhill path before she could change her mind. “I’m afraid our choice of entertainment is sparse. We can go to the drawing class being offered by Mr. Paul Frank. Or perhaps go for a walk.” He looked down at her and grinned. “I’m doubtful you would like to go rowing on the lake.”

“You are correct, sir.” She tugged him to a halt, a small frown creasing her brow. “Grant, I need to—” Her frown deepened. He watched fascinated as she nibbled at her lower lip with her teeth. “Did you say the artist conducting the drawing class is Mr. Paul Frank, the famous caricaturist?”

“That is my understanding.” He’d never known God made eyelashes so long...

She sighed, seemed to come to a decision. “Then I should very much like to attend his class. Do you know where it is being held?”

“I do. But that knowledge is not necessary. All we need do is to follow the largest crowd. And that would be this way.” He guided her off the downhill path and they followed a long line of people to an enormous canopy ringed with posts capped by blazing torches.

A large blackboard, a small table covered with crocks and boxes and a wooden chair were on a platform in front of long rows of benches. Posts with lanterns atop them lit the platform and shone on a small, portly gentleman standing in front of the blackboard and speaking.

“—call out as soon as you recognize what or who I am drawing.”

Grant looked over the filled benches and frowned. “I’m afraid we’re too late to find a seat under the canopy. But I see something that might serve. Be careful of the uneven ground.” He took her elbow and led her to a small rise off to the side of the structure.

“It’s a chicken!” A man in the audience shouted out the guess.

They paused, looked toward the platform.

“A chicken?” The artist stepped back from his work, raised his hands into the air and gave an exaggerated shrug. “Is my drawing that bad?” Laughter erupted.

Grant glanced at the disconnected lines on the blackboard, shrugged and started forward again. “It looks like a chicken to me.”

She shook her head. “If it’s a chicken, what is that wavy line at the bottom?”

He stopped himself from taking a deep sniff of the lavender scent that rose from her hair, glanced at the blackboard again and grinned. “A broken branch?”

“A branch ? Is that the best you can do, O ye of little imagination?”

He pulled his eyebrows down in a mock scowl. “You cast aspersions on my artistic sensibilities?”

“Not at all. There’s no need. Your lack thereof is evident.” She grinned and nodded toward the blackboard. “Mr. Frank is drawing a woman’s hat. That wavy line is the brim.”

He stopped, gave a soft cackle and flapped his elbows. “Chicken!”

Her laughter was like music. She patted her head. “Hat!”

“We shall see.”

“Indeed, we shall.” She looked back toward the canopy. “This is much better than if we had stayed in the back. I can see over the heads of everyone.”

“Good.” He removed his coat, spread it over the leaf-strewn ground at their feet and made her an exaggerated bow. “Your seat awaits—if you don’t mind sitting on the ground, that is.” He held his hand out to her. She looked at it, caught at her lower lip with her teeth. The impression came again that she was about to refuse. He braced himself.

“As long as the ground doesn’t quiver.” She gave a little laugh and placed her hand on his.

It was trembling. The slight tremors traveled all the way to his toes. Blushes. Trembling. Miss Marissa Bradley was not as calm and detached as she acted. So why was she feigning disinterest? He curled his fingers around her soft, delicate hand, helped her seat herself on his coat, then lowered himself to the ground as close to her as he dared.

“It’s my hat!”

A woman on a front bench shrieked out the words.

“You’re right, madam. And this...is you.” The artist connected two lines, and the face of a woman appeared beneath a hat trimmed with feathers. The audience burst into applause.

Marissa shot him a smug look from the corners of her eyes and grinned.

His pulse leaped. He returned her grin and shrugged. “I’ll get this next one.” He pulled his face into a mock frown, stared at the new lines on the blackboard and stroked his chin. “I’ve got it!” He leaned forward and placed his lips close to her ear. “It’s a chicken.”

She burst into laughter.

He sat and drank in the sight of her. He could look at her all night.

“It’s amazing how Mr. Frank does that.” She tilted her head, studied the blackboard, then looked at him and shook her head. “I believe, this time , your ‘chicken’ is a man.”

He narrowed his eyes at the blackboard. “And I believe you may be right.” He pulled his eyebrows into another mock scowl. “It’s beginning to look like President George Washington—with a chicken feather in his hat .”

She glanced over at him, her eyes twinkling. “A plume straight from his plantation no—”

Two quick blasts from a steamer’s whistle rent the air. A few people rose from their seats and made their way into the aisles between the rows of benches.

“Alas, we shall never know. That’s the warning from the Colonel Phillips .” He looked up at the sky and frowned. “The lanterns make the canopy area so bright I lost track of the time.”

He rose and helped her to her feet. His pulse raced at the feel of her hands in his. He locked his gaze on hers and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to make you miss the rest of the entertainment, Marissa, but I’ve only time enough to walk you to your tent before I leave.”

“That’s not necessary.” She lowered her gaze and gave a little tug. He relaxed his grip, and she slipped her hands from his, stepped back and shook out her long skirts. “You’d best hurry.”