Her Own Prince Charming. Eva Rutland

dinner. Gotta pick them up at ten.”

      “Did you see any of the game?” Paula asked as she set leftover meat loaf in the microwave oven and set the timer.

      “Wouldn’t waste my time. Bunch of horses with bandages on their legs, all getting in each other’s way. Guys in fancy helmets whacking at a ball.”

      “All for sweet charity, Lew! Lots of money,” Paula said. “Anyway, it’s a game. For fun. Like a rodeo.”

      “Rodeo’s a hell of a lot more than fun. It’s . . . well, how to rope a calf, break a horse. Teaching people how to do things, not just showing off.”

      Paula grinned. “Seems I often saw you showing off. Remember that rodeo where you—”

      He gave a satisfied smile. “Yeah, I was good, huh? Expert at that stuff.”

      “Sure, sure. I remember,” Paula said, as she fashioned cold mashed potatoes into cakes, sprinkled paprika and set them sizzling in a frying pan. “But I’ll have you know that these polo players are considered experts, too.”

      “Humph!” Lew unfolded the newspaper.

      Paula turned the potato cakes, set muffins to warm in the oven. “Some are quite famous, renowned for their expertise all over the world.”

      Lew shrugged.

      She removed the soda can, set out silver and napkins and bent to whisper in his ear. “Wanta hear a secret?” At his wary look, she gave him a conspiratorial wink and added, “I danced with the most famous one of all last night.”

      Lew’s head jerked up. “You’re joking.”

      She chuckled. It did seem like a joke. “The one they call the polo prince. He’s very rich, very famous and very handsome. And I danced with him. I really did.”

      “You’re joking,” Lew said again, staring at her as she set out salads and filled two glasses with iced tea. “At least I hope to hell you are.”

      “No, I am not joking. It was so funny. I was working for Harry at the Moodys’ costume ball, like I told you, remember? Well, I was in the pantry arranging canapés, and this man came in. I knew him immediately, in spite of his mask. Lord, I’ve heard him described a million times and I had seen his picture. Anyway, I was kinda dancing, like I do sometimes, and he...” She related the episode as she finished the dinner preparations. “He’s a real good dancer, and . . . oh, golly, I hadn’t danced in so long.... I guess I got carried away. I didn’t realize we were actually in the ballroom until—”

      “My God! Mrs. Ashford . . . she’s gonna skin you alive.”

      “Don’t be silly. Nobody saw me.”

      “Hang on a minute—you were in the ballroom, dancing with the big shot every gal in creation’s got her eyes on, and you think nobody—Paula! Everybody saw you!”

      “They didn’t know who I was. I told you. He put a mask on me,” she said, placing their filled plates on the table. “When some guy yelled ‘Masks off I hotfooted it out of there.”

      “You’re crazy. How could they miss you? You didn’t have on a costume.”

      “Oh, yes, I did. You should have heard Whitney and Rae this morning, trying to figure out who came dressed as a maid!” Paula almost choked on her iced tea. Now that the danger was past, it seemed very funny.

      Lew wasn’t laughing. “That was a damn fool thing to do.”

      “Oh, stop glaring at me like that. Nothing happened. The only thing is...” She touched her bare throat. “I lost my necklace, the one you gave me for my birthday. Remember, with the little gold horseshoe? I looked for it afterward, but—”

      “You gonna lose more than that, fooling around with them high-society muck-a-mucks. Of all the damn fool shenanigans! Don’t you know the old lady don’t like nobody outshining her gals? And I don’t like you messing around with them empty-headed, do-nothing, high-society folks.”

      “Oh, for goodness sake! I wasn’t outshining anybody, and I certainly have no desire to associate with the likes of Whitney Ashford even if, heaven forbid, I should ever have the chance to do so.”

      “Well, seems to me you’re all gaga about messing around with that pretty polo fellow.”

      “I wasn’t messing around with him!”

      “I’d like to know what you call it.”

      “An incident. One dance. Done. Over and out!” She spread her hands in a gesture of finality.

      But there was a dreamy smile on her lips as she cleared the table and stacked the dishes. She was unaware that Lew watched her with anxious eyes.

      

      The Green Acres polo field was a colorful sight as the players rode in and lined up for the first game of the Classic. But Brad Vandercamp was not looking at the field.

      “Which is the Moodys’ box?” he asked his friend Carl.

      Carl pointed it out.

      Brad started to move toward it, checked. He turned to Carl. “What’s the daughter’s name?”

      Carl gazed thoughtfully at him. “Sheila. But that’s not a good idea.”

      “Oh?”

      “When the well-padded Brad Vandercamp glances in her direction, a lady gets ideas.”

      “Cut it out, Carl! Simple courtesy. Thank you for the ball, and—”

      “Uh-huh. And, yes, thank you for the dinner invitation. I’m itching to come and meet that fascinating maid of yours, and oh, yes, by the way, return this thingamabob that she dropped when she danced with me at your ball. Damn it, Brad! You want to lose the woman her job?”

      “Nothing so crude as that. I just want to—”

      “I know what you want. And you’d do better to hang around the house somewhere near the servants’ entrance.”

      “Like a stage-door johnny! Not on your life.”

      “Okay, okay. Do it your own way, chum. But...” Again Carl squinted thoughtfully. “What’s the big deal? One dance. Why are you so hell-bent to find her?”

      Brad shrugged but didn’t answer. He didn’t know why.

      He fingered the necklace in his pocket and wondered. Why did he feel that if he let the woman with the saucy smile slip out of his life, he would lose something precious?

      It was crazy, but there it was. He moved toward the Moody box and didn’t hear Carl’s last admonition. “Careful, buddy! Women get ideas even when you don’t glance their way!”

      CHAPTER THREE

      THE Ashfords arose late the Sunday after the game. After all, it had been an exhausting week, with one social gathering after another. It was raining steadily and was a little chilly outside but warm and cozy in the cheerful breakfast room. The ladies lingered long over the delicious brunch Paula had prepared.

      Sunday was officially Paula’s day off. But if she had nowhere to go, which was often the case, the Ashfords considered her at their disposal. Even if she retreated to her uncle’s quarters over the garage, she was easily on call. This morning she didn’t mind. She wanted to hear about the game. She had never seen one, and knew nothing about polo. But she knew horses. It must take exceptionally skilled horsemanship to play a game in which horses were engaged. Her ears were alert as she replenished the basket of hot homemade rolls and poured cup after cup of coffee. But it was as if they had not seen the game. The conversation centered on who sat with whom in which spectator’s box and who danced with whom when they retreated to the clubhouse.

      “I don’t think he saw me,” Whitney complained. “Aunt Sally’s box is in that far corner, next