1798

A few hours later, I hardly recognize myself. Charlotte has scrubbed, plucked, and slathered me within an inch of my life, treating me like her own personal plaything, and if I do say so myself, the results are pretty spectacular. My long hair is parted into delicate sections, cascading down my back in waves of auburn curls, and my hazel eyes appear almost green against the fine forest-colored dress she's loaned me for the evening. The garment was originally a few inches too short, so Charlotte ingeniously had one of the maids sew in layers of lace at the bottom to camouflage the slight flaw.

I stare down at my hands, buffed clean, without a speck of dirt left behind from the work I was doing earlier. If you didn't know me, there's no doubt I could pass for someone from an entirely different station in life, and for a moment I'm led astray by the thought, absentmindedly fidgeting with the emerald choker placed around my neck. I've never worn something so fine, and am filled with apprehension about Charlotte lending me the piece, but she insisted.

"Stop squirming, Ellie! If you lose that thing my mother will have my head... after she's had yours."

"I shouldn't wear it. It's far too ex—"

Charlotte cuts me off. "You've got to play the part. The more affluent you appear, the more suitable men you'll attract," she explains with a tinge of exasperation as she laces up the back of my dress.

"You better mind yourself," I tease. "You're beginning to sound like your mother."

She fluffs my skirts, and steps back, clasping her hands together with pride. "Yes, well, all of her useless chatter finally has come in handy because just look at you!" Charlotte beams with pride. "You'll be fighting them off tonight!"

I turn around and stare at my reflection, almost seeing what she sees. Perhaps if you didn't know me, you might believe I come from a much finer stock. A nagging voice at the back of my head reminds me that I just might have, so I stand up a little taller, finding a faint silver lining in my whole ordeal.

When we finally make it downstairs the orchestra is in full swing and the guests are already mingling. The whole town seems to have been invited, and the evening is buzzing with potential. We take our time walking through the crowd, stopping to say hello to folks we know, and pulling each other aside in fits of giggles and gossip.

Charlotte has always been generous enough to include me in many functions over the years, much to her mother's displeasure, but I've never fit in here. I've always felt like an outsider, and tonight isn't any different. I let Charlotte pick which groups we stop and chat with, and stand quietly beside her as she lights up every conversation.

Being the hosts' daughter, and a lovely one at that, it isn't long before she's whisked away to dance and I find myself standing alone with a group of men in the middle of a heated debate about the Sedition Acts Congress recently passed. I try to appear interested in their opinions, but it isn't proving particularly easy, especially when Mr. Rothchild, keeps arguing that President Adam's was acting in his full authority.

Ambrose Myers stands across from me and I can sense his budding frustration. I've known Ambrose since I was a child. He runs the general store in town, and I've practically grown up there, making deals and bartering with him for the items we've needed but couldn't afford. He's wonderful—the kind man who will always allow you to get the better end of the deal when you need it, and he's always gone out of his way to look out for me.

His son Tobias is standing next to him, at about his same height with broad shoulders and a mess of brown hair that curls above his collar. Tobias has always been soft spoken, and usually keeps to himself, but it's clear that he's inherited all of his father's best qualities. I've even had the chance to benefit from some of his kindness over the years.

Pushing up his spectacles, Ambrose starts to challenge Mr. Rothchild, and for the first time I notice a gentleman hanging back behind the group. It takes a moment before I recognize him. Charlotte had pointed him out earlier. Mr. Cissell. Honestly though, there's no way I wouldn't have noticed him on my own. His isn't the type of face you come by too often in these parts. Finely chiseled and perfectly structured, it's framed in by light brown hair that has a natural wave to it.

My curiosity gets the better of me, and I forget about the conversation unfolding, and take a moment to study this man. There's a worldly sophistication to him that I've never encountered before. He exudes money in his expensive-looking waistcoat with shiny brass buttons. He's only in his early twenties, but there's a certain cavalier confidence about him that makes him appear much more sophisticated and mature. Standing behind everyone else, he appears slightly aloof, and maybe even a bit bored as he takes a sip of his drink.

Something pulls his attention, and he glances over in my direction, and catches me staring at him. His lips turn up into a smile and he lets his gaze lazily work its way down my body, taking his time, like he's not worried if anyone sees.

I turn away, my cheeks tingling with embarrassment as something in the atmosphere feels off. My skin prickles, and I blink up at the rest of the group only to find all the men staring back at me. They've stopped talking and are now patiently waiting for me to say something. It's obvious I was asked a question, but I was so distracted by Mr. Cissell I have no idea what it was.

Toying with my necklace, I rub the emerald between my fingers and my thumb, trying not to perspire. In a moment of shear desperation, I go with the only escape from this horrifying situation that a lady can use at all times. I daintily draw my gaze down and bat my eyelashes up at the men, whispering meekly how I don't have the head for such things as politics.

Beguiled by my girlish innocence, the men all nod understandingly, except for Ambrose. He catches my eye and shakes his head.

The rest of the men go back to their debate, and I let out a silent breath, grateful to have the focus off me, but then Mr. Cissell suddenly steps up to the group.

"Miss. Blackwell," he rudely interrupts, talking over the other men without a moment's concern. "I can absolutely appreciate if you don't care much for politics." His eyes meet mine, and a smirk plays at his lips. "But I wonder if you'd at least managed to form some sort of opinion in that pretty little head of yours on the President's acts?" He cocks one of his thick eyebrows, his dark-blue eyes sparking with interest, almost like he's challenging me to some sort of game.

The warmth in my cheeks spreads over my entire body as all the men turn to me again, waiting for some sort of response. I take a shallow breath and swallow down my mortification, forcing myself to speak before they all determine me some kind of ignorant fool.

"Well, Mr. Cissell, I believe any government that attempts to dictate what its people can and cannot write about, well, that isn't a true democracy now, is it?" I take in another small breath and continue on before I lose my nerve. "I imagine our president might have forgotten that when he approved these Acts. Don't you think?"

The men continue to stare. Some even look genuinely surprised, but none of them say anything. My eyes swing over to Ambrose, seeking approval, and he's glowing with pride.

"Well, bravo to that!" A voice from over my shoulder booms.

I whip around and bump straight into a gentleman standing directly behind me, spilling his drink all over him.

"Oh dear!" Without thinking, I pull the handkerchief from the bust of my dress and fuss at the stain on the front of his jacket, spouting my apologies in an endless stream.

From behind me I hear Mr. Cissell laughing; the other men join in, and that's when I remember where I am and the kind of people I'm surrounded by. My movements come to a jerky halt, and I stop dabbing at the wet stain. I clutch my handkerchief in my fist, and pull my shoulders back, straightening up.

"I—I'm sorry," I stammer as I slowly find myself staring directly into a pair of warm, gray eyes. They're the color of the skies before a summer storm, and my body instantly reacts. My heart flutters and I'm rendered suddenly speechless, standing there, staring at this beautiful stranger before me like a complete idiot.

The man runs a hand through his shaggy black hair and an easy-going, lopsided grin stretches across his handsome face. "Now, what would you have to be sorry for, Miss...?"

My mind goes blank as I scour my brain for my name. "B-Blackwell," I somehow manage to get out.

He takes my hand in his, and gently brushes his lips against my knuckles, not letting go as he speaks. "Well, this is a pleasure, Miss Blackwell. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Levi. Levi Harrington."

I gaze back at him, unable to tear my eyes away. He's simply splendid: strong, rugged, and attractive. "I can't apologize enough for my clumsiness, Mr. Harrington," I whisper, almost not recognizing my own voice.

He releases my hand as if he just realized that he's held it for a beat too long, and his languid smile grows, exposing a set of fine white teeth and a deep dimple on his left cheek. "Miss Blackwell, what kind of gentleman would I be if I just stood here and let you shoulder all the blame? After all, it was clearly my fault for standing in such proximity to you."

Winking, he lets me know that he's only teasing, but my pride still stirs. My ego is extra sensitive tonight. I'm out of my element, and it embarrasses me that other people seem to be picking up on that too.

"Don't concern yourself with it," a pretentious voice pipes up from behind us.

I swivel around to see Nora Potter, the daughter of one of the richest men in town, slide up to the group and insert herself into the conversation. She looks stunning in a dark violet dress that's the exact same shade as her exotic eyes, and her dark hair is pinned up in ringlets and tied with dark ribbons. Most of the gentleman turn to gaze in appreciation; all except for Mr. Harrington whose eyes haven't left me.

"You haven't been in town long enough, but everyone here knows about the notorious Blackwell luck!" Nora lets out a haughty laugh, and to my great humiliation a few of the other men join her.

My spirits plummet, but I command myself to hold it together. Ever since we were little girls Nora has been doing her best to get under my skin, but I will not allow her to drag me to her level, not tonight. Not now. I struggle to keep the humiliation, which is rapidly turning into rage, out of my voice, but I've reached my limit.

"Perhaps Miss Potter is right," I say, turning my attention back to Mr. Harrington. "Let me save you from any further injury tonight, sir, by taking my leave."

Stiff with irritation, I dip down into a rigid curtsey. "My apologies again," I mumble before turning on my heel and walking away with as much dignity as I can spare, but from the sounds of Nora's repressed giggles behind me, it's pretty clear I don't pull it off.