Page 37 of The Queen of Roses

“Do you enjoy dancing, Miss Pearce?” asked Mrs. Gorman.

“Very much,” she said honestly.

“So does my Cynthia. I expect all the gentlemen will be delighted to dance tonight.” Mrs. Gorman’s smile was coquettish.

“I shall not be dancing,” blurted out Mr. Thomas, the ornithologist.

“Mr. Thomas,” Mrs. Gorman gasped. “Why ever not?”

“I never had the skill for it,” said Mr. Thomas.

“Dashed waste of time, if you ask me,” grumbled Mr. Carter from under his bushy mustache, before catching himself. “Begging your pardon, ladies.”

“And what of you, Mr. Whitley?” asked Mama.

“I believe that life is too short not to enjoy oneself,” said Mr. Whitley. “A man should eat well, drink the best wine he can, and dance with a beautiful woman as often as he may.”

Mama shot Adele a significant look. “Well, then, this should certainly be an enjoyable evening.”

chapter fourteen ADELE

Adele had to admit that being led out of the private dining room by Mr. Whitley after dinner and promenading deeper into the grand hotel by its proprietor was certainly a memorable experience. In addition to the guests staying at the Andalusian, those who had dined elsewhere had begun to filter in, and it felt as though every few feet Mr. Whitley was stopped by someone wanting to say hello or pay their respects by complimenting their venue.

During supper, she had had the chance to observe Mr. Whitley in his capacity as host. He was skilled at the role, propelling the conversation forward and making them all laugh with his stories of running the Andalusian. He was boisterous and enthusiastic, acting out stories with his hands, but never rude. As gregarious as he was, Adele also observed his manner of leaning in, his focus solely on the person who was speaking, as though what they were saying was the most important thing in the world.

As Mr. Whitley paused again to speak to someone—this time to an older gentleman from San Francisco dressed in somber black and his wife, whose neck was draped in an extraordinary collar of diamonds—Adele said, “I am not certain we shall make it to the ball by midnight, Mr. Whitley. You seem to know everyone here.”

He chuckled. “It is always good to know and be known, but there are a few people who should feel privileged to know you, Miss Pearce.”

“But I am hardly anyone interesting,” she said, demurring prettily, just as she always had in London.

“I shouldn’t say that at all. In fact, I would like to know very much what you think about everything.”

His eyes flicked down, catching hers and holding them. He was intrigued by her—she was certain of it—but did she feel the same? Could she imagine herself on the arm of this man, so clearly respected by the people of this community? If he was the king of the Andalusian, could she see herself gliding through its lobby as its queen on her way to meet him for whatever party was about to be underway?

And then there was the question of their home. Mama had told her that Mr. Whitley lived in a spacious apartment within his hotel, but when he married he would no doubt purchase one of the grand houses on South Orange Grove. What fun it would be to outfit one of those mansions and create a home where friends from the great and good of Pasadena would join them for lavish dinner parties and intimate afternoon teas. She could mold that life into whatever she chose, bringing a touch of the English refinement she found missing from her surroundings.

“The orchestra is playing,” said Mr. Whitley, pulling her away from her thoughts.

Adele dipped her chin, again playing the shy debutante men seemed to enjoy so much. “You have distracted me too much, Mr. Whitley. I have been neglecting my dance card.”

The right corner of his mouth kicked up. “Perhaps that was my plan all along, so that no other man could dance with you.”

“How can you claim all of my dances when you have not asked me to dance even once yet?”

With an exaggerated bow, he held out his hand. “Would you do me the honor of this dance, Miss Pearce?”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “I would be delighted.”

Mr. Whitley gathered her up in his arms, and together they deftly joined the flow of dancers spinning around the floor.

His love of dancing seemed to be founded on considerable skill. He moved with ease, commanding her movements without pulling or jerking her around. Twice, as they made their first turns, he steered her clear of less adept leaders attempting to bring their partners onto the floor, and when he spun her for the first time with controlled ease, she could feel the lightness of heart of partnering with a truly confident man.

“I can see why you enjoy dancing, Mr. Whitley. You are an excellent partner,” she said.

“That is quite the compliment from an Englishwoman. I’m certain you have been asked to partner with men who have been dancing since they were in short pants.”

“I suppose there is an expectation that young men learn,” she said. “Is there not here?”