The Countess Misbehaves

by Nan Ryan

  The sight of that thick triangle of dense black coils gleaming with oil almost pushed him over the edge.

  With a wicked smile on her lovely face, Dominique reached up and withdrew the combs holding her hair in place. It spilled down over her shoulders and reached to her waist. Some of the tiny satin bows fell to the floor, others stayed snagged in the long black locks.

  At last, she went to him.

  “Turn and sit sideways on the chair,” she instructed and he quickly complied.

  Then she very slowly, very sensuously rubbed her oiled body on his. She stood before him, leaned down close and let her pendulous, well-greased breasts brush back and forth against his naked chest. She moved around in back of him, agilely lifted a long leg, draped it over his shoulder and slid it up against his neck and face and then out over his shoulder and down his arm. She put her foot back on the floor, turned about so that her back was to his back, and slithered up and down against him several times.

  She came around in front of him, climbed astride his left knee, and ordered him to move to the edge of the chair and straighten his long legs out before him. He eagerly did as he was told. She let herself slowly slip and slide all the way down his straightened leg to his bare foot, leaving a residue of oil in her wake. She repeated the exercise on his right leg. Then she came to her feet and searched for spots of flesh on his body that had not been oiled.

  As she had done with herself, she saved his groin until last. A wildness shining out of her big, dark eyes, she indicated that he was to return to his former position, with his back flush against the chair’s back. He did so hurriedly. And then sighed with pleasure when she slid down astride his lap with her legs open wide. While she clung to his neck, Dominique thrust her pelvis forward, pressed her slippery groin to his, and squirmed and rubbed and slipped against him until his thrusting masculinity and the blond coils surrounding it were shiny with oil from her hot body.

  Sliding his oil-covered hands beneath her slick buttocks, Desmond said, “You’re a witch, a cruel enchantress.”

  “A complaint, my lord?”

  “Never,” he assured her with a kiss.

  The eager lord rose with her in his arms and sank down to the carpet. He anxiously laid her on her back beneath him. He rose to his knees to look down at her. She was a witch, a beautiful, dangerous witch with tan satin skin and big tempting breasts and wide shapely hips and strong young thighs meant to hold a man and drive him half-crazy.

  And he couldn’t live without her.

  The well-oiled lord excitedly flipped Dominique onto her stomach, then drew her up onto her hands and knees. He roughly thrust his throbbing flesh deeply into her from behind. He was so aroused, he came almost instantly. He knew she wouldn’t complain and she didn’t. They had all night and both knew that before he was finished with her, she would be begging him to stop.

  Her task, right now, was to arouse him again. Dominique wasted no time. She went to work on him and within minutes he was hard and ready again. There on the carpet, they made wild, lusty love.

  Deep in the stillness of that same chill November night, while Lord Enfield and his quadroon mistress romped naked on the floor of her Rampart Street cottage and the rest of the city slept, a darkly cloaked figure stole silently through the thick mist along the riverfront toward an elegant French Quarter mansion.

  A pale white moon had risen above the bayous beyond the city. It slowly sailed over the rooftops and cast patches of silver and black into the empty, silent streets. A coal-black cat slithered from one side of the cobblestone street to the other.

  The ghostlike invader quietly approached the Royal Street town house of Colfax Sumner, looked up at the iron lace gallery above, and started toward a sturdy pilaster that supported the veranda.

  He never reached it.

  Big Montro silently stepped out of the deep shadows.

  The intruder turned and fled.

  Fourteen

  The last day of November was extraordinarily mild and sunny. It might have been spring, so warm and pleasant was the air. A gentle breeze off the Gulf leisurely nudged billowy white clouds across an azure sky and from the waterfront came the sounds of laborers singing as they loaded cargo.

  Madeleine hummed happily as she descended the stairs shortly after 10:00 a.m. She had been invited to the home of Melissa Ann Ledette to help plan the upcoming holiday bazaar. Since it was such a beautiful day, she insisted on walking to the Ledette’s, which was only a few blocks away.

  Big Montro, materializing the moment she skipped down the outside stairs into the courtyard, greeted her with a boyish grin, followed her through the heavy wrought-iron gates, and fell into step beside her.

  Madeleine didn’t mind his shadowing her. She liked this gentle giant who was unfailingly there when she needed him. Avalina had confided that it wasn’t only in the daylight hours that this conscientious strong man guarded the Sumner household. She had seen him from the bedroom window of her garçonnière in the middle of the night, quietly patrolling the shadowy courtyard and slipping out the heavy iron gates to check the darkened street.

  Madeleine had, from the beginning, been curious about this big man who seemed so dedicated and content to be a bodyguard. She wondered where he came from, if he had a family, why he had chosen to attach himself to her.

  He was a private man, so it had taken a while, but she had, in the past days and weeks, managed to draw him out, to question him, to learn something of his background. To gently probe into his past.

  She was fascinated when finally he had opened up and told her that he had been raised in an orphan’s asylum in Birmingham, Alabama. He had never known his mother and father, nor if he had brothers and sisters.

  At thirteen, he ran away from the asylum. He had walked all the way to Mobile where he found work loading and unloading cargo down on the docks. He had saved almost every cent he made, because his dream was to own a little piece of land, to have a home just like other people.

  At twenty, he saw a pretty young woman with flaxen hair step off a paddle wheeler in the bright Alabama sunshine and he’d fallen in love at first sight. Against her parents’ wishes, they soon married, and when they’d saved enough, he bought a small piece of property across the bay. Heavily timbered and miles from the nearest neighbor, it was a private paradise to the newlyweds. There on his land, Montro had built a log cabin and it was the first home he had ever had.

  Soon the couple had a child, a baby girl, and life was sweet indeed.

  But when the baby was two years old, she came down with a touch of fever. Montro was instantly worried. His wife told him it was nothing, babies occasionally ran a fever. But when she, too, developed a temperature, Montro was beside himself.

  He had no choice. He had to leave his feverish wife and daughter alone while he went for help. He ran every step of the way into the village of Spanish Fort. When he returned to the cabin with the doctor in tow, both his wife and baby girl were dead. Scarlet fever, the doctor said, shaking his head.

  Montro blamed himself. He should never have left them alone.

  With them gone, their cabin was no longer home to him. He buried his loved ones, burned the cabin down, and walked to Louisiana. There he drifted from one odd job to another until he saw a handbill advertising Le Circus de Paris which was coming to New Orleans.

  He hired on to help the troop unload and set up for the show. The promoter saw him and offered him a position as the show’s strong man. He took it and spent the next ten years traveling abroad and throughout America with the circus.

  “Montro, why did you decide to leave the circus?” Madeleine asked him now as they strolled leisurely along the banquette toward the Ledette’s house.

  “I had a dream,” he said, totally serious. “In the dream I was shown that my place was here guarding you and Master Colfax.”

  “But, Montro,” she countered, smiling, “you didn’t even know we existed when you left the circus.”

  Montro grinned, li
fted a huge hand, smoothed down the unruly cowlick at the back of his head and said with calm authority, “I knew. I saw you in the audience at the circus. You were with Lord Enfield. Later that night, I had the dream.”

  “And the very next morning you saved me from those horrible ruffians.”

  “That I did,” he said with pride. Then frowning, he added, “New Orleans is a very dangerous place, my lady. You must never forget that. It is city unlike any other. As you know, rowdy grog shops and cheap bordellos and gambling hells are not a stone’s throw from some of the most aristocratic streets in New Orleans, including the one on which we live.”

  “I know,” Madeleine said, “but then that’s what gives New Orleans its unique charm and flavor.” She smiled and said, “Ah, look, Montro. We’re here.” They stood before the magnificent mansion of Dr. Jean Paul Ledette. Madeleine touched Montro’s forearm and said, “I’m late so I’ll hurry on in. See you this afternoon.”

  “At what hour shall I come for you?”

  “Mmm. Make it three. I’m sure I’ll be ready to go home by then.”

  “As you wish,” he said and then stood there unmoving on the banquette until his mistress was safely inside.

  “You’re late, Madeleine!” the pretty, dark-haired Melissa Ann Ledette good-naturedly accused.

  “I know and I apologize,” said Madeleine as Melissa linked their arms and ushered her into the spacious drawing room.

  There, a dozen well-dressed ladies—half young women in their twenties and early thirties, the other half matrons with graying hair and spreading waist-lines—awaited. Some Madeleine knew. Others she met for the first time. All were cordial and friendly. All knew her Uncle Colfax and all had heard that she was the fiancée of Lord Enfield. They remarked that she was a fortunate young woman, that her intended was one of the finest gentleman in New Orleans.

  Madeleine graciously agreed, took a chair, and the group spent the morning planning the upcoming holiday bazaar.

  “I think we should have the bazaar outdoors,” said the young woman seated beside Madeleine. “We could use the booths in the French Market and rope off the street for the dance that evening.”

  “No, no,” one of the older ladies quickly vetoed the idea. “You don’t know what kind of weather we’ll be having in mid-December. It could be pouring rain or freezing cold. I say we engage the Orleans Ballroom for the event.”

  “My stars, that’s where they have those scandalous quadroon balls, Harriet!” said an incensed Letisha Bradford.

  “So what if they do? I’m told it is a large, beautiful ballroom with the finest dance floor to be found in America. It will be perfect for our needs.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree, Harriet,” offered the aging Grandmère Douglas, bobbing her white head in approval. “That way, if the weather is nice, we can serve wines and cordials down in the back courtyard.”

  The talk turned to decorations and games and contests and who would work what booth at the bazaar before it drifted into spirited feminine gossip. Madeleine pretended nonchalance and disinterest when one of the ladies gleefully confided that she had it on good authority that the rich, recently widowed Raphelle Delion had set her cap for New Orleans’ most charming scamp, the handsome Creole, Armand de Chevalier.

  A lively conversation followed in which he was the topic. It seemed to Madeleine that the genteel ladies had an unhealthy interest in de Chevalier’s escapades. They all laughed when old Grandmère Douglas stated, “No doubt about it, any woman who dallies with de Chevalier is asking for heartbreak. Still, if I were fifty years younger…”

  She was interrupted when a uniformed butler appeared to announce that lunch was ready. The ladies were ushered into the huge dining room where a light meal was served. The talk, much to Madeleine’s relief, turned to food.

  By one o’clock the ladies began leaving. By two all had gone home.

  “Is Montro waiting for you?” Melissa asked Madeleine.

  “No. I told him to come for me at three.”

  “Good!” said the smiling Melissa. “We’ve a whole hour. Let’s go to that fancy new coffee shop that just opened around the corner.”

  “By ourselves? Just the two of us?”

  Hands going to her hips, Melissa said, “Yes, by ourselves. Good heavens, it is broad daylight and I’m told it’s a very ritzy café where unescorted ladies are more than welcome. Let’s go.”

  The Sans Souci was all Melissa had promised and more. It was an intimate room, richly appointed, immaculate and cozy. The clientele was clearly New Orleans’ uppercrust and at more than one round marble-topped table were ladies without male escorts.

  Madeleine and Melissa chose a table on the wall and had just ordered their favorite, café brulet, when the shop’s front door opened and through it stepped Armand de Chevalier. He looked devastatingly handsome in a pair of fawn-colored trousers that clung to his lean hips and long legs and a white linen shirt with no jacket.

  Every head turned. Every eye fastened on the tall, dark Creole. Electricity seemed to crackle in the air as he effortlessly took command of the room and everyone in it. It was evident that more than half the patrons in the café hoped that he would join them.

  Melissa excitedly raised a hand and waved to Armand. Madeleine, horrified, reached across the table and pinched Melissa’s arm.

  “Ouch.” Melissa frowned, puzzled. “What did you do that for?”

  Madeleine never got the opportunity to answer. Armand, having smoothly weaved his way through the scattered tables, smiling and nodding to friends and acquaintances, stood looming above her. At once she felt the male power emanating from him, stirring her blood, making her nervous, frightening her.

  “Ladies,” he greeted them, his voice low, calm. “May I join you?”

  “Why, certainly!” Melissa said and patted the empty chair beside her.

  But Armand slid down onto the chair beside Madeleine. He smiled at her and, beneath the table, reached for her hand. No one but the two of them knew when he took her hand in his. His touch instantly filled her with indescribable excitement. It was wrong and incredibly foolish, but she sat there allowing him to secretly hold her hand beneath the table as he talked.

  Fear and guilt and pleasure swept through her as his little finger teasingly stroked the length of hers. He could, she realized with alarm, make simply holding hands thrilling, almost erotic. As if he read her thoughts, Armand’s hand closed possessively over hers and she felt her fingers crushed in the warmth of his palm.

  Madeleine suddenly flushed at the recollection of how the hand that now imprisoned hers had once intimately touched every part of her bare trembling body. His beautiful hand with its long, tapered fingers and square, short-clipped nails had given her such exquisite pleasure she grew breathless at the memory.

  Cursing herself for being a fool, Madeleine quietly attempted to free her hand from Armand’s. But he refused to let it go and she was forced to sit there pretending nothing was going on while he sensuously rubbed her fingers, one at a time, and tickled her palm with the tip of his middle finger, and brushed the pad of his thumb back and forth over the inside of her wrist where the pulse was now hammering.

  She shot him a mean look, but his black eyes were flashing with pure devilment and she knew he was enjoying her discomfort.

  “…and it’s going to be the best bazaar ever,” Melissa was saying. “You’ll be there won’t you, Armand?”

  He squeezed Madeleine’s hand. “Why, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Good!” Melissa said. “There’s going to be all kinds of food and games and dancing and…”

  Madeleine, only half listening to Melissa chatter on, cast a sidelong glance at Armand and noticed a narrow band of fabric encircling his upper arm, barely visible through the fine linen of his white shirt. She frowned, puzzled. What, she wondered, was around his arm? A bandage of some sort?

  Curious, she raised her eyes to his face and caught him grinning wickedly. Almost impercep
tibly, he nodded his dark head and abruptly it registered. Her heart stopped. Then raced out of control. She knew instinctively what was around his bulging biceps. Her garter! The lacy blue satin garter he had taken off her leg during their lovemaking. She was at once angry and flattered. Annoyed and surprised. Irritated and thrilled.

  He had kept her garter all this time.

  Madeleine felt light-headed. The conversations going on around her became an indecipherable buzz until she heard Armand saying, “Melissa, that lady in the lavender dress is motioning to you.”

  Melissa turned her head, smiled, and said, “Yes, that’s Mrs. Foster, a good friend of my mother’s. I must go over and say hello.” She rose and Armand promptly released Madeleine’s hand and got to his feet. “If you two will excuse me…” And with that Melissa was gone.

  Armand sat back down to face an upset Madeleine. Her emerald eyes snapping green fire, she said under her breath, “Are you totally insane?”

  “What would give you that impression?” he replied with a crazy grin.

  “I know what that is on your upper arm!” she hotly accused. He smiled, said nothing. She raged on, “How dare you wear my garter for all the world to see!”

  “Now, Maddie, no one but you and I know that it’s your garter.”

  Unconvinced, she charged, “You are bent on ruining my life simply because I…because we…”

  “Made memorable love in a summer storm?” he softly finished her sentence.

  “Shh!” she hissed. “You give that garter back to me!”

  “Can’t do that,” he said, lifting then lowering his wide shoulders. “It’s my good luck charm. Besides, it’s all I have of you.”

  “Yes, well, it’s all you’ll ever have of me, de Chevalier!”

  “Ah, you’re wrong there, Maddie,” he said with irritating cockiness. “You know you are.” A sudden warmth radiated from eyes when he added, “One day we’ll be together again.”

  Madeleine swallowed with difficulty. Then she narrowed her eyes and promised him in a soft, acidlaced voice, “You’re the one who’s wrong, Creole. The day will never come!”