An Heiress to Remember (The Gilded Age Girls Club #3) - Maya Rodale Page 0,43

examining the damage up close. Which was just as well since it was A Look that asked, Who wants to thwart our success?

And A Look that answered, The man standing right next to you.

And another look that said, This will not be tolerated.

“I’m going to call the police,” Beatrice said. “We can’t have anything interfere with my mother’s party. As scary as this is, there’s nothing I fear more than the thwarted ambitions of my mother. Nothing.”

Chapter Eighteen

Goodwin’s Debut Ball

Three weeks later

Obviously Dalton avoided Beatrice until he could not avoid her any longer. And then the invitation arrived and Dalton could not avoid her any longer.

The occasion was the debut ball celebrating the relaunch of Goodwin’s. A “grand reopening” sounded desperate and old, but a debut party sounded like a fresh, bright young thing was about to be unleashed upon the world. Smart. New York society would be besides themselves to attend.

It was essential that he attend, for professional reasons.

But he was just one guest in a big crowd.

The sidewalk was mobbed with hordes of people who had come to gawk at the building, which had finally been unveiled and lit up, to say nothing of the party guests arriving in all their finery. But even the famous faces from Broadway and the fashionably dressed, jewel-bedecked members of the Four Hundred could hardly compete with the display in the windows.

He didn’t want to push through the crowds, like some newcomer to the city. But it was in his best professional interests to take a close look. So he did and he felt something twist in his gut because what she created was good. Maybe even great.

The windows had been enlarged to take advantage of large plates of glass which, thanks to advances in technology, could now be made. The scene within was newly illuminated with electric lights that would likely stay on through the night, a beacon in the darkest hours.

The scene in the windows took his breath away.

Real women and men rode bicycles that somehow remained stationary, while painstakingly painted backgrounds on some sort of mechanical device gave the impression that they were moving through a forest, the seaside, the city. As they pedaled away, these real models laughed and chatted and gave the appearance of living their very best lives.

They wore the latest, most daring fashions.

He saw ankle.

He saw red lips.

He saw women having fun.

And damn, if he didn’t want to join in. Damn if he wasn’t ready to buy a bicycle right on the spot.

He pushed his way into the store, where a waiter handed him a flute of champagne. He took a sip and let himself get swept farther into the store, where crowds marveled at the shiny new version of a Manhattan legend. They oohed and ahhed at the light, the airy space, the arresting and colorful displays of scarves and gloves and perfumes and a million other things.

Dalton had just one thought: Fuck.

She had mastered another one of his inviolable rules: surprise and delight. Astonish the customer.

He who had invented the rules, who had created retail as the world knew it, found himself taking a longer look, surprised by the way she had counters of cosmetics openly on display, allowing women to sample them under the supervision of trained technicians in white coats, lending an air of respectability to the still slightly scandalous product. He saw color everywhere, from the wall of spinning umbrellas to tables of gloves and cascades of silks and tulles. The space she had created was exactly what he had expected but completely novel, all at the same time.

And just like that he was drawn deeper into the store.

Familiar landmarks were noted—those distinctive pink marble pillars—but they were polished, brighter, and finally allowed to let their beauty shine. Heavy wood had given way to delicate glass, mirrors, all of which reflected the warm glow of massive, electric crystal chandeliers. Massive bouquets of flowers adorned the space and scented the air.

In the center of it all, on the grand central staircase, Beatrice stood like a queen.

She wore red.

A red dress that simply stated, Look at me. On her mouth, red lip paint. He wondered what it would be like to kiss her red, arresting mouth. Once upon a time he had known.

Behind her on the mezzanine was another dazzling display of bicycles, an array of shiny black steel steeds hanging from the ceiling like they were in flight. Nearby mannequins modeled the new styles of cycling attire. Upon a table was