The Rose of Birmingham | ᴘᴇᴀᴋʏ ʙʟɪɴᴅᴇʀꜱ

Twenty-Seven | ᴇɴꜱᴇᴍʙʟᴇ

Heads turned when Lizzie strode through the ballroom doors. Fashionably late, of course. The rich forest green of her taffeta gown caught the light at all the most attractive angles. A tuxedo-clad man who could have been her father by age — and almost certainly had been a past client by the look of him — nearly missed his mouth with his hors d'oeuvre, so bewitched was his gawk.

Lizzie graced him with a knowing smile, but kept walking. There was only one man she desired to see react like that tonight.

When she spotted Tommy, he was in the midst of an intense conversation with some red-headed tart. By his close proximity and the incline of his head, he was either trying to intimidate her or coax her into bed. Lizzie's gut twisted with envy at the thought of the latter, but after another few tension-filled seconds, the tart walked away. Her parting with Tommy was cordial but chilly.

Good. So, she was no one. Despite her impressive rack.

Lizzie's footsteps were muted into silence by the music from the small orchestra as she approach Tommy from behind. Resisting the urge to touch him, she paused immediately to his right. "'Evenin', Tommy," she murmured.

He gave her a brief sidelong glance, his focus on the horde of attendees. "Lizzie," he said.

"Brilliant turn out," she remarked. "And I doubt this'll be the end of it. The night's still young. Plenty of time for more guests to arrive." She leaned in closer and lowered her volume to a purr. "Plenty of time for all manner of happenings."

"Aye," Tommy said in monotone.

Lizzie's eyebrow twitched at his disinterest. What did she need to do to get his attention? Cartwheels? In the nude?

This is an important night, and he's on edge thanks to James Gallagher, she silently reminded herself. Cut him a bit o' slack.

"So..." she said, a subtle amount of suggestion coating her voice. "What d'ya think?"

"What do I think?" Tommy repeated. He still had not looked at her.

"Aye. What d'ya think?"

"'Bout what?"

Lizzie let out a little sigh. "The dress, Tommy. My dress? O'course, formin' an opinion will require ya to actually look at it."

She swished the floor-length skirt and pivoted this way and that, striking a pose she felt was quite vogue.

With a tilt of his chin, Tommy gave her an impassive glimpse, then his eyes returned to the ballroom at large. "Ya look nice, Lizzie. Green's your color."

Nice? Lizzie frowned. She'd hoped for something far more provocative than 'nice.' But then again, it wasn’t like Tommy to shower her — or anyone else — with compliments. Especially in public. Especially at a stuffy affair like this.