“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,” Hamilton replied with a wink. “So far, your proofs in that regard are sadly lacking, Miss Schuyler . . .”
The words were designed to ensure I gave way, which I did, and the dance became a flirtation set to music. A series of figures, handholds, and passés that had Hamilton turning beneath my arms before twirling me into his. When we interlaced hands, I felt the heat of him. And when I turned again, his hand brushed the nape of my neck—a shocking sensation.
Was it merely a slip, or had he intended it?
Then it happened again. This time, as he turned, his palm stroked the small of my back, and then a little lower. The rules of this dance precluded all touch except for linked arms and hand clasps, so it was no mistake. Perhaps I ought to have put a stop to it, but I’d foolishly agreed to prove I wasn’t a saint.
And then there was the problem that I liked the stolen touches.
Round and round we twirled until I felt as if I were falling, falling into his arms. And in his extraordinary eyes, I sensed the Nix, a figure of Dutch legend whose sweet songs lure maidens to dangerous depths for a kiss . . .
I shall not dissemble or hide behind virtue and claim that I wasn’t tempted. Hamilton was a winsome man with captivating eyes. He might have charmed me entirely if he hadn’t known himself to be so charming. And if I hadn’t known this dance meant nothing.
It was only to inspire jealousy. It was all play pretend. Except of a very grown-up variety.
*
THE NEXT MORNING was impossibly more frigid. But inside, I burned.
As Kitty groaned about having consumed too much rum punch and Angelica complained that her ink was frozen, I was still dreaming of the ball. I’d finally danced with Tilghman, whose courtly manner did him great merit; with another of Washington’s aides, Lieutenant Colonel McHenry, a medical doctor who made me laugh by reciting the worst poetry I’d ever heard; and with the stately Baron von Steuben, whose shiny military medal caught upon my lace sleeve, entangling us briefly to the amusement of all. I’d even sat a spell with the now married Benedict Arnold, who asked me with genuine fondness to thank my father for his help in trying to secure him a new post at West Point, now that his ruined leg left him unfit for active service.
But there was something about Hamilton that lingered beyond the impression of any of these men, and it was not merely those captivating eyes or the heat of his hands when he touched me during our dance. His intelligence, wit, and devotion to duty were plain for all to see, but it seemed to me that Hamilton had built around himself a sparkling citadel of courtly manner and playful flirtation. He’d allowed me, for just a moment, to glimpse past it. And I thought I’d seen wounds. Wounds that perhaps couldn’t be healed, but I had the ridiculous notion that given the opportunity, I’d like to try.
And it was a ridiculous notion, because while Hamilton had made a powerful impression upon me, I didn’t believe I had made any upon him. He seemed to give no thought to me beyond my acquaintance with Kitty, with whom he engaged in some manner of hot-and-cold courtship.
“Ladies,” Hamilton said later that morning, doffing his cap to us where we sat with mending work. He’d come to escort us to religious services. “Seeing you seated at the fire with your spindle, thread, and scissors, I cannot help but think of the three Fates.”
Angelica playfully snapped her shears. “Do you imagine that we’re measuring out the length of your life and deciding where to snip it?”
Feeling at quite the disadvantage when it came to ancient stories, I left it to Kitty to scold, “You should rather think we are the Three Graces.”