All the men she’d known in Virginia before her father had moved them to Philadelphia earlier in the year were the same. They were property owners and intellectuals, well-bred and mannered, certainly not working men. But even so, her father felt Philadelphia was more properly able to introduce his only daughter to a higher and more sophisticated society than what Virginia had been able to. He was sure his gem, his diamond, would be admired and courted and much sought after in the city of brotherly love. And she was! She was courted and admired until she was bored to tears. There was nothing authentic about her swains’ regard, she was a pretty, some said beautiful, prize with scads of money, and a family history of French royalty and influencers. She knew exactly what they were after. Aligning themselves with Henri Vermeal, his tobacco money and his vast properties both in America and in Europe.
This man, this James Thompson, she said to herself, was nothing like any of the other men she knew, probably because they didn’t go around smashing their fists into another man’s nose to support themselves. But there was another difference. He was focused on her in a way she was unaccustomed to. His eyes had not left her face, his intense gaze slightly mocking. Even with the chipped tooth and the stich mark scar she could see near his mouth as she was close enough now to notice, did not detract from how handsome he was. In fact, his beauty was enhanced by those imperfections, turning a perfect face into a wildly attractive one. She felt a little breathless. A little overwhelmed. Not that she’d allow this ruffian to know he’d unnerved her.
The music began and he pulled her closer than she was accustomed as they made the first turn. “A little more distance between us, Mr. Thompson.”
“Not playing the mistreated innocent, now, are we?” he said smiling and taking the sting out of his comment. He raised the pitch of his voice to mock her. “Do you no longer want to dance with me, sir?”
He looked at her directly, raising his brows. She had no excuse for playing the maligned young woman other than to put him in his rightful place which was not holding her this closely in his well-muscled arms. “Careful, Mr. Thompson. High society isn’t a place you can just go about punching people that you don’t like. It calls for a degree of subtlety.”
He barked a laugh, making her feel as if she might enjoy his brand of happiness, if it didn’t make her breathless, as it did now. He pulled his hand holding hers to his eyes, wiping away his tears on the back of his knuckles. It was a startling intimacy. She stared at their joined hands for a moment before bringing eyes back to his. There was a lazy confidence there that she did not care for, although she was certain there was little she could say or do to change it.
“I hear a bit of the south in your speech, Miss Vermeal. Are you new to Philadelphia?”
“I am, Mr. Thompson. My father moved us from Virginia last spring.”
“Business interests?”
“Some,” she replied. “Mostly he wanted me to benefit from the more formal society that Philadelphia had to offer although as I’m dancing a waltz with a common street fighter, it seems his hopes were not fulfilled.”
His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. A hit, she thought, triumphantly.
“I am not a street fighter, miss. I’m a boxer. There’s a difference.”
“Really. How strange. I thought both occupations, if you could call them that, involved bloodying another’s face so the riffraff had something to entertain them and spend their coins on betting instead of on food for their families.”
He whirled her through a series of quick turns, weaving in and out of other couples. She did not miss a step and when he finally slowed, she raised her brows at him.
“Why, Miss Vermeal, it’s almost as if you intend for me to judge you as a snob. Perhaps you’d like to share some of those glittering diamonds at that tall white neck of yours with the poor wives waiting at home for their man to bring home bread when he’s wasted all of his coins on a fight.”
“Gambling is always a waste, Mr. Thompson.”
He hitched the side of his mouth up. “Not true. When the riffraff bet on me, they’re always the winner. I don’t lose.”
The music stopped and he continued to hold her, even as others left the dance floor.
“May I escort you to your family?”
“No,” she said and removed her hand from his shoulder and her other from his grip. “I can find my own way, Mr. Thompson. You are quite superfluous.”
Thompson shoved his hands in his pants pockets, quite an ungentlemanly thing to do, and smiled at her. He was, she thought as she turned away, the most handsome man she’d ever seen.