“You are too kind,” Hamilton said, with facile glibness. “But all sentiments are beautiful when spoken by a beauty.”
I didn’t believe that. I also had the impression that he expected me to say something witty or clever or flirtatious. But all I managed was, “I found the sentiment beautiful on its own merit. An inspiring reminder of the righteousness of our cause and the good we’re trying to accomplish in this world.”
Hamilton started to say something—perhaps something witty and clever and flirtatious—but for the first time in our short acquaintance, his mask of esprit slipped away. “You make me feel a pretender, Miss Schuyler, for these days I am disgusted with everything in this world and I have no other wish than to make a brilliant exit.”
As the daughter of a general, I’d met some soldiers who seemed to crave such an end, if it were possible, and now I feared Hamilton was one of them. “What has shaken your resolve, sir?”
He took a breath, then stared off into the distance. “I begin to hate the country for neglecting us. Our soldiers are left to suffer. Our ideals of true equality are scorned. And men without talent or integrity are unjustly advanced. Schemers and slanderers—” He blinked, as if remembering himself. “None of which, of course, is proper conversation for a ball.”
“It seems entirely proper, given that my family is well acquainted with the evils of which you speak.”
He blinked again. “Of course. I’ve made the unpardonable error of forgetting whose daughter you are. It is a rare man who can, like your father, continue to serve his country without complaint or self-interested motive in the face of such unmerited abuse.”
I smiled. “Surely it is a little self-interested to wish to avoid the king’s hangman.”
At my altogether too honest reply, Hamilton barked out a laugh that seemed to take us both by surprise. “Miss Schuyler, your candor is most unexpected. You may be the only lady present tonight with such a saintly virtue.”
He said this in a way that made me think he didn’t quite approve of saintly virtue. Perhaps it was for this reason, and not my own humility, that I replied, “I assure you, sir, I am no saint.”
He glanced at me, then seemed to put a great deal of concentration into his glass of punch. “In such company as we have tonight, I would strongly advise you against making such declarations lest a gentleman demand proof.”
“What proof should I offer that might suffice?”
With that, Hamilton set aside his cup, and seemed to lose some sort of struggle with himself. At length he turned to stare, and I thought perhaps the candlelight played tricks with me, because beneath his pale lashes were eyes so intensely blue as to give the impression of violet.
Those extraordinary eyes drifted to my bosom, which was delicately covered with my fichu, then to my neck, as if he did wish to nibble it. And I fell silent because I’d never before been given such an openly lascivious look. In fact, his open appraisal made me acutely aware that I’d never felt the sensual gaze of a man upon me before at all. Stolen glances of lustful boys, possibly. Respectful attention of gentlemen, certainly.
But there was nothing gentle, playful, or boyish in Hamilton’s expression now. And I was suddenly, and thrillingly, made to feel as if every other flirtation of my life had been but child’s play. “Until this moment, Miss Schuyler, I had not realized the disservice done to you by your admirer.”
“My admirer?” I asked, wondering if it was the strength of the rum punch that left me so dizzied.
Hamilton smirked. “Don’t look now, but he’s finally mustered his courage.”
Yet, I did look. And from a crowd of swaggering officers, wives, and daughters in rustling petticoats and delicate-heeled shoes, emerged a man in dress uniform. Quite a well-formed man, in truth. Broad at the shoulders with strong stocking-clad calves, wearing a dignified powdered wig. “Why Colonel Tilghman,” I said, blushing unaccountably, as if I’d been caught in some manner of undress. “How good to see you after all these years.”
“Years in which you’ve blossomed from a wildflower into a rose,” Tilghman replied, with a bow. “I remember our picnic, and how easily you—a perfect nut-brown maid with the eyes of a Mohawk beauty—clambered over rocks while the other ladies needed assistance. I’ve often regaled my companions with the story.”
“That he has,” Hamilton said, drily, as I blushed hotter. “In detail that would be tiresome were his subject not so worthy.”
I recognized a friendly rivalry when Tilghman pointedly turned to make the hilt of his dress sword poke Hamilton in the side. “As I was saying, Miss Schuyler, I recall you with great fondness and owe you a debt of kindness.”
Genuinely surprised, I said, “And here I believed I’d left you with a decidedly unfavorable impression.”
Tilghman’s cheeks colored beneath the white of his powdered wig. “Quite the opposite. In fact, I was wondering if you would honor me with—”
“No,” Hamilton said.
“No?” Tilghman was taken aback. I was, too.
“No,” Hamilton repeated, more firmly, rising to his feet. “You’re too late. Miss Schuyler owes me this dance.” Hamilton touched my elbow, prompting me to rise. And with a glee nearly unbecoming, Hamilton crowed, “My dear Tilghman, let this be a lesson to you on what comes of being timid with a lady fair.”
As he led me away from a sputtering Tench Tilghman, I whispered, “But I didn’t promise you a dance.”
“Didn’t you?” Hamilton asked, mischief twinkling in his eyes. “You offered to furnish me sufficient proof that you are not a saint. And the dance master is calling an allemande.”
“But I gave my last dance to you,” I protested.
“I believe two consecutive dances are permitted during war.”
“I don’t think that’s the etiquette at all, sir.”
“Only a saint would give a care for etiquette,”
