by Nan Ryan
She might have been wrapping her hands around his own swollen erection from the way Desmond responded to her actions. He could feel her stroking him, arousing him, so excited was he from watching.
His excitement intensified as she continued to toy with the wooden phallus. In a deep stupor, she arched her back and pressed her pelvis to it. She bent her head and kissed the tip. Desmond felt the perspiration beading in his hairline and above his upper lip.
The girl abruptly rose to her feet and stepped directly over the carved object. His breath ragged, his heart pumping fiercely, Desmond stared as the girl stood unmoving for a time, a bare foot planted firmly on each side of the wooden phallus. As it happened, the girl was facing Desmond and Dominique, so Desmond was rewarded with an unobstructed view of the erotic show.
And what a show it was.
The girl masqueraded with the wooden symbol. She danced obscene dances around it, and abandoned herself to prurient play. Her behavior was lustful, lascivious, lewd. The enchanted spectators loved it. Especially Desmond Chilton.
She tossed her head, setting her long black hair to dancing. She spread her hands on her thighs, bent her knees and began to lower her bare bottom down toward the thrusting phallus. Her legs wide open, her undulating body moving ever closer to its target, she stopped just as her shimmering flesh brushed the very tip of the wooden object.
The observers, electrified by what she was doing, urged her on. Shouting and chanting, they begged her to impale herself upon the sexual symbol of their all-powerful god.
“Do it,” Desmond was shouting with the rest of them. “Take it inside you! Mount it, mount it!”
Beside him, Dominique smiled and she too egged the girl on.
For what seemed an eternity, the girl stayed crouched just above the wooden phallus, hands on her knees, head thrown back, bare bottom undulating a scant half inch above the thick smooth tip of the carved erection.
She teased her rapt audience, but never fully delivered. All, including Desmond, loudly voiced their disappointment when she suddenly shot to her feet and moved away from the phallus. But she quickly reclaimed their approval when she began to dance to a wild, fast rhythm of the throbbing drums. She darted out her tongue and crawled on the floor in sinuous movements.
She turned onto her back and moved into a position wherein only her shoulders and the soles of her bare feet were touching the floor. She stayed that way for several long moments while her appreciative audience cheered and applauded. Then she moved and began twisting her body into unbelievable shapes. Desmond was panting now, so excited he was beside himself.
Apparently others shared his excitement because all at once the girl was no longer alone in the circle of light. Electrified by her erotic display, the thralls from beyond the circle of light became participants, sharing the black beauty’s madness and chanting wildly as they took to the floor.
The drum rhythms grew savage as those who were now as possessed as the naked girl began to dance the infamous banda, that well-known dance that was unique for its violent agitation of the hips and lascivious positions.
Desmond fully approved. Clapping his hands and chanting, he watched the pagan dance unblinkingly. He saw things he had never seen before. Things he would never forget.
He continued to drink thirstily of the white rum and he grew so warm that he shed his shirt. Soon rivers of perspiration made his chest and shoulders gleam.
Caught up in the carnal excitement, he wanted to join the dancers, but was afraid to test Dominique. He glanced at her, saw that she too was mesmerized by the uninhibited dancers. She was focused on the young black girl who moved around the floor dancing first with a man, then a woman, then by herself.
The wild dancing lasted for what seemed an hour, ending abruptly when Mama Cecile rose from her throne and clapped her hands loudly. The dancers stopped dancing immediately and returned to their seats.
Moments later the supplicants began to drift away.
At last Desmond and Dominique were alone in the remote chapel with Mama Cecile and the exotic young girl.
Desmond, now very drunk, stayed where he was while Dominique spoke privately with the voodoo queen. He could see Dominique talking rapidly, making her point, asking for the high priestess’s help in casting an evil spell. Desmond knew it was nonsense and a waste of money, but he was glad now that he had humored Dominique.
His attention quickly strayed from the voodoo queen and Dominique to the girl who had so dazzled him with her lewd dancing. She sat now on the throne vacated by Mama Cecile, one long leg casually thrown over the throne’s wooden arm, carelessly exposing all her feminine charms. She hadn’t bothered to put on any clothes.
In her arms, against her naked breasts, she held the coal-black cat. She lovingly stroked the purring feline and the contented cat slowly swished his tail back and forth and nudged the girl’s chin with his head.
Desmond trembled and, with shaking hands, put on his discarded shirt. Then he looped his clasped hands around his knees and continued to observe the girl, glancing occasionally at Mama Cecile and Dominique. Finally, he saw Dominique smile, shake her head, and give the high priestess the velvet bag of coins.
This was his golden opportunity. Dom was in a receptive mood and he sensed that the black girl had aroused her just as she had him. He grabbed up his greatcoat and hurriedly crossed to Dominique.
“We can go now, Desmond,” she said smiling.
He glanced at the girl on the throne, then back at Dominique. “Darling, I was wondering…”
“Yes? What is it?”
“Don’t you think it would be enjoyable to take that beautiful girl home with us?” He gave her a hopeful look. “Just for one night. One time only.”
Aroused by the erotic rituals, hopeful that she now possessed the powerful magic she needed, Dominique said, “An excellent idea, my lord.”
Twenty-Six
Lady Madeleine was disappointed.
She had assumed—and fervently hoped—that with the passing of the Christmas holidays, she would see less of Armand de Chevalier. That had not happened. Much to her annoyance and dismay, it seemed she ran into the impertinent Creole every time she left the town house.
If she went down to the French Market with Montro, de Chevalier mysteriously turned up, to tease and flirt and upset her.
An afternoon with Desmond at the Metairie Racetrack was spoiled because the Creole was there, in a box adjoining theirs. It was evident that he hadn’t been there to see the races. He hadn’t watched them. He watched her, boldly looking at her through a pair of field glasses while everyone else watched the Thoroughbreds round the oval track.
An evening of frivolous gambling had been spoiled when a lean brown hand casually placed a black chip atop hers at the roulette layout. She’d recognized those long tapered fingers and, frowning, had looked up.
Armand de Chevalier had smiled down at her and said, “You’d get a better gamble at my place, Maddie.”
At a late dinner at Antonies, Madeleine lost her appetite when, no sooner was she seated, than she looked up to see the handsome Creole devouring oysters at a nearby table.
And now, even at the opera—the last place on earth where she’d expected to have seen him—de Chevalier was present. Handsome in impeccable evening clothes, he was surrounded by a pride of New Orleans’ most influential doyennes. The regal Baroness de Pontalba, the legendary opera diva, Madame Julia Calve, the formidable Delphine Larie and others encircled him, nodding, laughing, listening to his every word.
Madeleine, taking her seat in the dress circle very near to where Armand was seated, could overhear bits and pieces of his conversation. Armand was regaling the enchanted ladies with tales about last summer’s ill-fated ocean voyage on the S. S. Starlight.
Madeleine’s heart stopped when, in answer to one of the ladies’ questions, he said with a wink and a grin, “Why, there was only one occurrence of misbehavior.”
“Oh, tell, tell,” chimed the ladie
s in unison.
Before he could speak, the lights dimmed. The music rose. And Madeleine released her held breath.
Since the moment Armand had shown up at last autumn’s masked ball, Madeleine had lived in constant dread that sooner or later he would expose her. Ruin everything. Reveal her for the terrible sinner she was.
Added to that nagging worry was the unwanted, steadily growing physical attraction she couldn’t help but feel for him. Where the handsome de Chevalier was concerned, common sense did not dictate. There was no denying that each time she saw him, her heart beat too fast and her hands trembled.
She was, she knew, unquestionably foolish.
But she was not a fool.
She was well aware of the danger the Creole presented and made it a point to never offer him the opportunity of catching her alone and vulnerable. She would be safe so long as she exercised constant caution.
But exercising caution in her normal routine had never been one of Madeleine’s strengths. In fact, one sunny January morning, when her uncle requested she stay at home for the day since he was taking Montro with him to visit one of his many Delta plantations, she had smiled and said nothing.
Madeleine had made plans weeks ago and she fully intended to keep them. She had promised Madame Simone, New Orleans’ most accomplished French modiste, that she would come to the Madam’s shop for fittings of her many trousseau gowns. If she broke the engagement it might be days, even weeks before she could get in to see the renowned dressmaker.
Madeleine wisely waited a good half hour after Uncle Colfax and Big Montro had gone. When she felt comfortable that the pair had left the city behind, she went in search of Avalina. She found her idly dusting the dining table, with an expression of worry on her face.
“Avalina, let the dusting go. You know we’re due at Madam Simone’s in a half hour.”
Avalina looked sharply at her. “Are you forgetting that Montro has gone to the country with the master?”
“No, but it’s broad daylight and Madam Simone’s shop is only four blocks away. Let’s go.”
Avalina nervously twisted the handle of the feather duster and shook her head. “Please, Lady Madeleine, let’s stay home today. I’ve got a bad feeling. Last night I saw a baka in the courtyard outside my window. A baka is an evil spirit that takes on the form of an animal and roams at night.”
Madeleine stared at the superstitious woman. “I see. And what form did this particular baka take last night?”
“The form of a cat. A coal-black cat.”
Madeleine smiled and affectionately put her arms around the shorter, stouter woman. “Avalina, dear Avalina,” she said soothingly, “it was no evil spirit. It was just a stray cat. You know very well that strays roam the city streets.” She released the servant.
Avalina again shook her head and said, “It was no stray cat. It was a baka.”
“Well, even if it was, it’s gone now and the sun is shining and there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Unconvinced, Avalina nonetheless agreed to accompany her willful mistress to the dressmaker’s shop. When the two women walked through the porte cochere and exited the heavy iron gates, Avalina abruptly stopped and anxiously grabbed Madeleine’s arm.
“Look!” said a big-eyed Avalina. “There on the banquette directly in front of the house.”
Curious, Madeleine, drawing the reluctant Avalina along with her, went straight toward the strange-looking bundle resting on the cobblestones.
“What is it?” she asked, and started to pick up the bundle.
“No, don’t touch it,” scolded Avalina, her eyes wide with fear. “It’s gris-gris,” she said, placing a hand on her hammering heart. “Voodoo.” She looked nervously around as if expecting some frightening apparition to appear.
“Voodoo?” Madeleine repeated.
Avalina nodded. “And it is not the first time.”
“What does it mean?” Madeleine asked.
“That somebody out there—” Avalina indicated the bustling city “—wants somebody in this house…dead.”
Madeleine laughed it off. Kicking the bundle away with the toe of her leather slipper, she said, “That’s nonsense. Who could possibly want any of us dead? Besides, I don’t believe in black magic or casting spells or anything foolish like that.”
“Maybe not,” Avalina replied, her expression filled with fear, “but we should stay home since Montro is not here to escort us.”
Out of patience, Madeleine said, “We are going, Avalina, and that’s that!”
By noon the fidgeting Avalina was becoming increasingly bored with sitting in the modiste’s Dauphine Street shop while Madeleine was fitted with an expensive trousseau. Madeleine sympathized with Avalina. The black woman was not one to enjoy idleness. At the town house she stayed constantly occupied.
Taking pity, Madeleine suggested, “Why don’t you go on home, Avalina. I’ll be here the entire afternoon and it’s not fair for you to sit here with nothing to do.”
“I don’t mind, Lady Madeleine,” Avalina said, but did not sound convincing.
“Yes, you do, and I don’t blame you. Go on now, I insist. Uncle Colfax and Montro should be back in town well before three. You know Uncle Colfax, he’ll go straight to his office and Montro will come home. You can send the carriage for me around four.”
Eager to get home, Avalina reluctantly agreed. But she warned Madeleine not to venture out of the salon and to promise never to tell Master Colfax that she, Avalina, had left her there alone.
“I won’t tell.”
“Very well then,” Avalina said.
She left as Madeleine continued the task of choosing various fabrics and trying on half-finished dresses.
By early afternoon the sun had disappeared. Dark, ominous clouds rolled in low over the river. By three o’clock it had begun raining, that driving torrential downpour of the semitropics.
At a quarter of four, a tired Madeleine said, “That’s enough for today, Madame Simone.”
“Ah, oui, oui,” Madame Simone was quick to agree. “You must be exhausted.” She smiled then and said, “But we have made much progress, no?”
“Yes, we have,” Madeleine replied. “Thank you so much.”
Taking the umbrella Madam Simone so kindly offered, Madeleine hurried down the stairs, stepped from the door, but saw no sign of the Sumner carriage through the driving rain.
There was, however, a carriage parked at the banquette directly before the salon. Its rear door swung open and a man holding a huge black umbrella alighted. Madeleine’s borrowed umbrella slipped from her hand and fell to the banquette.
“My apologies, Maddie, but your uncle and Montro have not yet returned from the plantation,” Armand said. “Luckily, Avalina informed me of your dilemma.”
Furious with Avalina, Madeleine said, “If you think I’m getting into that carriage with you…”
Ignoring the statement, Armand firmly took her arm and when she balked, he effortlessly lifted her up inside the carriage and climbed in over her.
It was dry and dark and warm inside the roomy conveyance. The side curtains were tightly drawn. Madeleine couldn’t see out. No one could see in. Nervously she settled herself back onto the softness of the seat, as far away from Armand as possible.
Her mind racing, she decided that she should get out of this dangerous situation as quickly and as diplomatically as possible.
“Mr. de Chevalier,” she said calmly, “I do so appreciate your giving me a ride on this rainy afternoon.” She cleared her throat needlessly, and added, “You know where I live, it’s just—”
“Yes, I know,” he interrupted, his deep, rich voice rising above the fierce pelting of the rain peppering the carriage’s roof. He moved closer to her, let his knee fall against her thigh and asked, “Do you know where I live?”
Madeleine swallowed with difficulty. “I understand that you have more than one abode,” she replied.
“I do, indeed,” he stated, “and I want t
o take you to every one of them.”
Her head snapped around and she stared at him. “You, sir, will take me nowhere but home! Is that clear?”
Armand grinned. “Crystal clear, my lady.” But he raised an arm, placed it along the seat back behind her head and added, “You know what that means though, don’t you?”
Flustered, she said, “No, I…what on earth are you talking about?”
The Creole edged closer still, lifted and spread his hand across her delicate throat, gently urging her head back. He looked directly into her eyes and said, “We’ll have to make love right here.”
“Make love?” she gasped. “You are mad! Totally insane! I have told you repeatedly that I am an engaged woman and I…”
“You told me,” he whispered, then kissed her.
At first she manfully fought it. She turned her head from side to side in an attempt to free her lips from his. She pushed forcefully on his solid chest. She stomped on his foot with her heel. She made whimpering sounds in the back of her throat.
But, oh, his marvelous, breath-stealing kisses. So passionate. So penetrating. So hard to resist.
Surely it couldn’t do any real or lasting harm to share just a few stolen kisses.
Twenty-Seven
Armand immediately sensed what was running through Madeleine’s mind. He knew that if he continued to kiss and gently coax her, she would surrender to him.
His lips brushing butterfly kisses to the sensitive hollow of her throat, he raised his arm and tapped three times on the carriage roof. He’d instructed his trusted driver to take the longest possible route to the Sumner town house.
The rain, hammering the carriage roof and windows in great cascades, continued and so did Armand’s blazing, probing kisses. Heart racing, wits scattered, Madeleine finally tore her puffy lips from his, laid her head back against the velvet seat and closed her eyes.
“Armand, Armand, we—we mustn’t,” she murmured breathlessly. “I mustn’t.”