Ducole had assured Miguel that there were literally hundreds of such potential mistresses around town to choose from and had even gone on to offer to take him to one of the famous quadroon balls so he could judge for himself, firsthand, the merits of such “dusky-skinned wenches.”
Miguel, however, had surprised his friend by refusing his gracious invitation. Although he had tried to explain to Henri that he didn’t like to feel a woman was with him simply because she had to be in order to survive, he doubted that Ducole really understood. But, as the Frenchman himself had laughingly pointed out, it wasn’t in his nature to “split hairs over such things”!
Miguel smiled inwardly as he wondered what his rebellious wards might have said if they could have heard Ducole accusing him of being a “radical” in some of his ideas.
As things had turned out, however, it hadn’t been necessary to look any further than the Ducole household itself for his needs, since Azema had made it clear that she, too, had some needs of her own, which she felt he could fill to perfection. Since she seemed to offer what he wanted—a liaison with very light strings attached to it—he had gone along with it and looked no further.
Miguel thought it best not to invite the Ducoles to the fiesta his wards were planning for that Tuesday afternoon. In the first place, the affair was really for the girls, and Vidal doubted the sophisticated Ducoles would have fit in very well. Also, out of respect for Grandmother Chausson and his young wards, he thought it wiser to keep the more intimate aspects of his life apart from them. After all, it wasn’t as though he were going to marry Azema.
If only Monica were more mature, or at least more receptive to him, there would be no need to concern himself over mistresses and the like. Fortunately, Azema had proved to be a pleasant companion both in bed and in the drawing room and was without commitment, so it made the waiting until his little ward grew up at least more tolerable.
From early Tuesday afternoon on, the guests began to arrive for the party. Although the majority were youngsters like Monique and Celeste, there was a wide range of ages, since older or younger brothers, sisters, and cousins, as well as parents and guardians, also came to swell the ranks of the invited guests.
The main rooms of the raised manor were gaily adorned with colorful paper lanterns and clusters of gilded pinecones, and the dining-room table was laden with an appetizing assortment of refreshments, from roast beef, baked ham, and fried chicken to sweetmeats of all types—dried fruits, sugar candies, and a wide assortment of bonbons. There were liqueurs for the younger people and a choice of imported wines for the older guests.
Between the proficiency of Celeste and two young men on string instruments such as the guitar and mandolin and the dexterity of one of the chaperons, as well as Monique’s, on the harpsichord, there was more than enough music to keep the party lively.
The odor of citronella burning in little braziers hung heavy in the air throughout the rooms, so that the large double doors leading out onto the gallery that circled the house might be left open to invite the evening breezes without bidding welcome to the mosquitoes as well.
Monique and Celeste had perked up considerably by the time the guests had begun to arrive, and the two sisters flittered about prettily in their new summer gowns—Celeste in a flounced organdy of sunflower yellow that brought out the highlights in her honey-colored hair, and Monique in a whispering multiskirted silk of soft blue-gray that echoed her eyes to perfection. There had been a few brief moments when Monique had first sallied forth from her room that she had looked so alarmingly pale that Vidal and her grandmother had feared she might have been coming down with something, but once Mlle. Baudier appeared on the scene lamenting over the amount of rice powder her charge had piled on her cheeks, everyone breathed a sigh of relief and the young girl was simply sent back to her room to wipe off some of her “fashionably pale complexion”.
“I can’t imagine what comes over the child sometimes!” Grandmother Chausson had exclaimed as Monique had stamped off under protest to obey their dictum. “One minute she wants to go around half naked and the next looking like a clown! Merciful heavens! What will the girl come up with next?”
Although Monique was annoyed over the reaction she had received for her efforts to cover up the pronounced rosiness of her cheeks, she did find some consolation in the fact that the décolletage of her new party dress was a little more provocative than usual.
As long as it was daylight, the guests ambled about the grounds, strolling arm in arm or playing games under the trees and in the garden. Only occasionally would they go inside to the dining room where neatly uniformed servants busily kept two huge tables, covered over with embroidered white linen, constantly replenished with tray after tray of fresh food and drink so that the guests could serve themselves whenever and as often as they wished.
As the afternoon waned, however, and dusk began to fall, the party moved indoors. The colorful lanterns hanging from the sturdy cypress-beamed ceilings swung gently now in the welcome currents of air wafting through the open gallery doors lining both sides of the large double parlor and dining room that spanned the width of the raised house, riding high on its massive brick pillars.
Two magnificent crystal chandeliers, pride of the plantation since Grandfather Chausson had imported them from France forty years ago, were lit, together with the many wall and floor candelabra scattered throughout the rooms, so that the main salons were aglow with myriads of candles and, as glimpsed from outside through the open gallery doors, gave the appearance of an island of light shining in the darkness… a shimmering fairyland hanging suspended in midair.
Miguel Vidal discreetly remained in the background, not coming out of his back bedroom to mingle freely with his cousins’ guests until the party had moved indoors and little musical recitals and extemporaneous dance groups had begun to replace the outdoor games. For the most part, he deliberately kept himself among the older guests, trying to relieve Grandmother Chausson of some of the burden that had fallen on her to play hostess to the chaperons who had accompanied the younger guests. But there were several mothers who persisted in pushing him into the company of their eligible daughters, since it was obvious they considered the Chaussons’ newly arrived relative from Spain to be one of the best catches of the season. Before long, therefore, Vidal found himself being forced to take a more active part in the festivities and, on several occasions, even compelled to participate in the dancing as the partner of some charmingly persistent young lady.
Monique’s eyes followed her guardian’s tall, lithe figure as he moved about the fiesta, begrudgingly noting how he looked more striking than ever in his olive-green frock coat and those clinging nankeen breeches that showed off to such advantage the hard, lean muscles of his thighs as he deftly went through the paces of a quadrille. Fleetingly she remembered how he had once taught her and Celeste those very steps during one of their music lessons…
But even as she watched him, anger stirred in her again. First, that carrot-topped Azema Ducole, and now, those horrid little coquettes Camille LeBlanc and Emmaline Dossier hanging on to him like that all night! If she had needed any further evidence to back up her conclusion that her guardian was a woman chaser, that evening was proof enough for her!
At that moment she lifted her eyes to thank the owner of the white-gloved hand extending a glass of anisette toward her. It was Claude Roget, the older brother of one of her young friends at the party. Claude was the same age as Miguel, yet he didn’t find her too young to treat like a full-grown woman. She could tell by the look in his dark blue eyes that he found her desirable. She had sensed his gaze fixed curiously on her all afternoon. Of average height, but well built, with his light brown hair neatly caught back and clubbed at the nape of his neck, he was clad in a lime-colored frock coat and sleek white breeches, set off by a matching vest of striped silk. There wasn’t a marriageable girl in the colony who didn’t want to snare Claude Roget, for he had been one of the most sought-after bachelor
s in New Orleans now for a number of years.
Not that she had any ambitions to be the one to snag him, but it did flatter her that he was showing so much interest in her. She hoped her guardian was duly noting that she was every bit as much a woman as that Azema Ducole or any one of those giggling girls fluttering around him at that moment.
With as enticing a glance as she could manage from over the top of her rose-scented lace fan, Monique rose, determined now to do a little flirting herself.
Chapter Nineteen
The full moon hung huge and heavy against the darkened skies, casting a pale silvery streak down the length of the shadowy gallery. There at the far end of the raised porch, where the shuttered doors leading to the rear bedrooms were closed at the moment, a warm breeze gently stirred the midsummer night.
“Monique… you’re so lovely… so lovely…” Claude was murmuring softly in her ear. His arm was easing about her waist.
The sounds of the fiesta seemed distant now as they wafted out through the open doors of the brightly lit front rooms. Monique wondered whether her guardian had seen her come out on the gallery with Roget. Perhaps he had been too busy being charming to that flighty little coquette he was dancing with even to notice what she was doing.
Claude was pressing her closer to him, trying to persuade the curves of her body to mold themselves all the better to his.
Suddenly Monique realized they were alone out there in the night and had strayed much farther away from the others than she’d really wanted to. After all, if she were too far away from her guardian’s eyes, how would he know that Claude Roget was trying to court her?
“Please, Claude, we should be going back with the others,” she told him, trying to disengage herself from his embrace.
But he was not to be put off.
“Wait, my dear, not yet,” he insisted. “Come here… behind these palmettos. No one can see us back here. Come, don’t be afraid.”
His arms were locked around her, and he was pulling her slowly but firmly into the shadowy niche behind the cluster of potted palmettos adorning that corner of the porch, all the while whispering meaningless phrases in her ear: “my little dove… my sweet cabbage…”
Although his breath was heavy with wine, there was that same masculine scent emanating from him… stirring her… reminding her of Miguel. Lavender and tobacco… it filled her nostrils and brought back memories… awakened desires… If she closed her eyes she could almost imagine she was in her guardian’s arms again…
Passionate lips were clamping over hers now and swift, eager hands were beginning to explore her body. Oh, Miguel! Miguel! This is the way it always happens in my dreams. She began to tremble and instinctively parted her lips to that persistent tongue trying to push its way past them. There was heavy breathing in her ear… a hand was searching for her breast…
But no, somewhere in the midst of that wild confusion she knew something was wrong. That touch was wrong… that pulsating body pressed against hers was beating to a different rhythm… a rhythm she didn’t recognize or want to follow!
Her eyes flew open and she saw the eager face of Claude Roget, moist with the heat of the summer night and his mounting passion, hovering above her with half-closed lids. The sight of him jarred her back to reality.
“Oh, no, Claude! No, I… I don’t want… please, let me go!” She tried to push him away, but his arms only tightened all the more around her.
“Don’t be a tease!” he chided. “You know you want me as much as I want you.” His breathing was coming faster, and the strength of him suddenly frightened her. The tiny fists flying against his chest were as ineffective as falling raindrops on a mountainside.
“Come now, my dear, don’t make me beg for it,” pleaded Roget, pressing his loins harder yet against her and stifling her protests with still another kiss.
The potted palmettos quivered violently as she struggled with him in that crammed space where he held her trapped in his arms.
Suddenly the huge fanlike leaves parted and there, staring down at them like an avenging angel, was the dark, contorted face of Miguel Vidal.
For a moment both Monique and her overly amorous admirer stared back in complete confusion at the cold fury looming above them. Claude Roget’s jaw dropped even as his arm dropped from the struggling girl.
Free at last, but wide-eyed and trembling, Monique broke away from the confinement of the potted plants and ran quickly to her guardian. She had never been so glad to see him as she was at that moment. But he only seemed to have eyes for Roget.
“Monica… go into the house,” he told her acidly, without so much as a glance at her. He was like a dark panther ready to spring, not wanting to take his sights off his prey even for a second.
She stood there, however, paralyzed with an even greater fear now, for she had never before seen her guardian so furious. Even Roget was visibly shaken, his olive complexion ashen, as he saw that Vidal had donned his sword and was clutching its hilt restlessly.
“Now, now, Vidal… I… I hope you understand that your ward came out here of her own volition,” he stammered.
“I suppose the young lady thought she could step out on her gallery with one of her guests without being mauled,” retorted Vidal icily.
Despite the fear that obviously gripped him, Roget drew himself up as best he could and decided to brazen it out.
“I think you’re misjudging this situation, senor,” he insisted. “Your ward here gave me every indication that my advances would be most welcome…”
Vidal’s knuckles whitened on the hilt of his sword. “Senor, take care. You’re talking about my ward, who, as you well know, is not of age yet and, therefore, under my protection.”
Roget smiled meaningly. “Mlle. Monique may be very young, as you say, senor, but she’s woman enough to let a man know what she wants.”
Monique gasped indignantly. “I told you to stop!” she exclaimed angrily. “I didn’t think you’d… I never meant for you to…”
Vidal still didn’t take his eyes off Roget, nor his hand from his sword hilt. “I told you to go into the house,” he told her sharply. Then once more he addressed Roget, who continued to stand there cornered behind the palmettos.
“Let me make myself clear, senor,” he said with calculated calm. “When a man takes advantage of a young, inexperienced girl, no matter how foolish she might be, it’s called seduction.”
The Frenchman gave a nervous laugh. “Aren’t we making a mountain out of a molehill, Vidal?”
“That molehill happens to be my ward’s reputation, senor, which you seem to take much too lightly.”
Roget was growing increasingly uncomfortable with his back pressing against the plaster wall and the pointed tip of a palmetto leaf tickling his cheek.
“If I do, it’s because the lady in question seems to place little value on it herself.”
Livid now, Vidal swayed as though he had been struck. “I should run you through on the spot!” he exclaimed, his voice throaty with rage, as he began to unsheathe his sword.
Roget realized he had gone too far. The blood drained from his countenance. “I… I’m not armed, senor,” he reminded Vidal feebly.
Even Monique held out a pleading hand to detain her guardian, but Vidal had already regained control of himself and, with a grunt of disgust, let his half-drawn sword drop back into place by his side once more.
“Bah! I see where there’s no sense discussing anything with you,” he growled angrily. “You’re a boorish clod, senor, without even the conscience or sensitivity to apologize for your rude behavior to my ward while a guest in her home. You leave me no recourse except to send my seconds to you tomorrow morning.”
Roget bowed stiffly and stepped out at last from behind the potted palmettos, trying to preserve what little dignity he had left.
“I’m at your disposal, senor. Since I’m the challenged and have the right to choose weapons, I would prefer pistols.”
The Frenchman ey
ed Vidal’s blade apprehensively, obviously afraid that his adversary would be too formidable an opponent with the rapier that he seemed so eager to use on him at that moment.
“We can discuss the details in the morning,” Vidal replied curtly. “For now I’ll thank you if you just vacate the premises.”
Roget bowed again with exaggerated pomp to both Vidal and his ward and then, turning rigidly on the heel of his boot, walked away.
For a few seconds there was an awkward silence on the gallery as Monique stood beside her irate guardian watching the retreating back of her would-be lover.
“Oh, Cousin Miguel, are… are you going to have to fight him?” she asked suddenly, her tearstained cheeks whiter now than the rice powder could have ever made them.
He turned his dark, smoldering eyes at last to her.
“Yes, I am,” he replied tartly. “For, in spite of your obvious determination to rush down the road to total ruin, I’m still your guardian and must answer for your reputation. But he has la razón, you know. I saw you flirting with him like the silly, thoughtless child you are, without any concern for the tragic consequences your reckless behavior could bring about. Well, I hope you’re satisfied now!”
“But… but I never thought—”
“Of course not! When do you ever think, you foolish child?” he interrupted impatiently. “Do you realize that, because of your folly, two men are in peril now of losing their lives? Your thoughtless actions have provoked a senseless duel that will prove nothing except that you are a scatterbrained girl who puts no value on her reputation. Unfortunately, as your guardian, I have been placed in a situation where I am nevertheless obliged to defend it. Bien, perhaps this will be your way of finally ridding yourself of me. Now go back to your guests, and please try to behave yourself at least for the rest of tonight. I can only fight one duel at a time!”
Iron Lace Page 12