Of course, he had to admit that the fact that Azema’s open arms would be more readily accessible to him was a pleasant enough prospect in itself. Henri’s sister was a tantalizing wench who knew how to keep a man satisfied, especially in the bedchamber. Although sometimes there seemed to be an almost calculated perfection in her passionate lovemaking—a perfection born of years of experience in the art—there was, nevertheless, always the feeling of a certain challenge… as though each time he made love to her it was a conquest. For Azema was the type of woman who had that independent air about her which made love a sport. No matter how many times he had possessed her in the past, she always made him feel he had to win her anew whenever he wanted her favors again.
She had been furious over his near duel with Roget because of Monique, but, as he reminded her, he had never made any secret of the fact that his two wards would always have to come first with him.
Of course, she had been quite right when she’d observed that he really had no need whatsoever to be spending so much of his time and energy cultivating a plantation when he had more than enough money of his own to permit him to spend the rest of his days doing exactly as he pleased, enjoying his leisure and pursuing more pleasant occupations, preferably with her.
Almonester’s ball presented a problem for Vidal. He knew Monique and Celeste would never forgive him if he didn’t take them, yet Azema had every right to expect him to escort her. She had been fuming ever since he had told her he’d already committed himself to his wards for that occasion.
When he suggested that perhaps she could go along with them, Azema only became angrier, declaring she had no intention of trailing along with him and his troublesome wards as though she were some kind of nursemaid. She reminded him that she could easily find someone else to accompany her from among the many other admirers she had been neglecting of late because of him, and Vidal was becoming so weary of her fussing and fuming that he was about to tell her to go ahead and do so. As a last resort, however, he appealed to Henri to help him out of his dilemma.
Ducole found the whole situation rather amusing and, knowing his sister, readily sympathized with Vidal.
“Go ahead and escort those spoiled brats of yours to the ball,” he said with a laugh. “You can rest easy. I’ll take Zee with me, and we’ll meet there. But you’d better make it up to her once you’re at the ball and attend her well, or there will be the devil to pay, if I know my sister. As for me, I’ll be too busy trying to find myself a partner for the night—and I don’t mean just for dancing, my friend—so don’t expect much help from me once I get Zee to Don Andres’s for you.”
With her brother’s coaxing added to Vidal’s, Azema finally agreed to the arrangement, but meanwhile she insisted that he spend more time with her than ever. As a result, his liaison with Azema became more evident than ever to his observing wards.
Not that he didn’t try to be discreet. Out of respect to Grandmother Chausson and his wards, Miguel never passed a night away from the town house when he was supposed to have been there, leaving his more intimate visits to the Ducoles for either the beginning or the end of each of his excursions to Le Rêve. He felt the subterfuge was justified, although he had no intention of lying about it. If the subject came up, he was prepared to admit with complete openness that he had gone to the Ducoles’, but in the meantime he saw no need to volunteer information. After all, he really owed no explanation to anyone for his personal movements.
Unfortunately, however, his testy little wards were already much more aware of his comings and goings than he could ever imagine. It was difficult for a man like Vidal, accustomed to moving about freely in cities the size of Madrid, Paris, and Rome, to remember how small and intimate New Orleans was by comparison. All it took was the sight of him riding by in the Ducole carriage with Azema by his side a day earlier than he was expected back in town, or a few indiscreet remarks from someone met at mass or while shopping, to keep the girls informed.
His ward’s renewed hostility puzzled Vidal. Monique seemed to have forgotten all too soon her repentance of less than two months before. For a while he had begun to hope that the truce between them might have become permanent. Yet here she was defiant again, and he wondered what could have brought about that latest change in her.
To make matters worse, he knew Maurice Foucher would probably be at the ball, but there was no way he could strike the boy’s name off Almonester’s list as he had done when the girls had given their fiesta at the plantation.
From the very outset, the night of the Almonester ball forecast trouble. As far as Vidal was concerned, he dreaded the entire affair, but there was little he could do to avoid it without making matters worse.
To complicate things further, it was threatening rain, and the girls fretted the whole way to the party that it might be pouring down before the night was over and their elegant new gowns would be ruined.
At least Vidal had to admit that, if there was any pleasant aspect to the evening, it was the way his “pampered darlings”, as Azema and Henri always referred to them, looked that night. He had never seen them lovelier.
Monique looked more desirable than ever with her abundant spun-gold hair spilling into a shimmering cascade down to her shoulders, and the full swell of her ripening breasts boldly pushing past the futile barrier of the discreetly draped neckline of her pale green muslin gown. A tiny bouquet of pink satin roses bobbed coquettishly atop the pert bustle where the full skirt of her gown was caught up by the bow of a darker green velvet sash to mark the delightful curve of her back.
When he saw her like that, hope sprang anew in him. Perhaps he would soon be able to leave off being her guardian and woo her as a woman. How he longed for the day when he could take her boldly into his arms and share at last with her that burning passion he carried deep within his being for her!
Even little Celeste, a copy of her older sister in pale lavender, with a dainty bouquet of satin forget-me-nots set in the bow of her matching velvet sash, seemed several years older than her fifteen summers that night as she proudly held her elaborate arrangement of chestnut-colored curls high for all to see.
Yes, from the look of his wards at that moment, Vidal suspected his days as guardian were numbered. Neither of them would be a child much longer.
Not to be outdone by his elegant young wards, he wore his own dark hair in the male version of the cadogan style, with the shorter side locks neatly framing his face and the fall in the back stylishly held in place by a black satin ribbon. Although some of the older men at the ball still persisted in using powder on such formal occasions, the younger ones like Vidal preferred now to wear their own hair or wigs in natural colors.
Although Monique had instantly begun to fume from the moment she realized that her guardian had arranged to meet Azema and her brother at the ball, she couldn’t help stealing an appreciative glance at Miguel as he walked tall and proud beside her in his elegant frock coat of garnet velvet. She had to admit begrudgingly at the moment that he cut a fine figure from the tip of his high-crowned beaver hat to the soft polished leather of his black top boots. How jauntily his fine Toledo sword with its hilt of hammered gold swung against the molded perfection of his thighs in their sleek white breeches!
Grandmother Chausson had beamed her proud approval on her attractive grandchildren as she watched them go off to the ball. Since neither she nor Mlle. Baudier really cared about attending such elaborate functions anymore, they had readily agreed to stay home and keep each other company while Miguel and the girls went to represent the family.
The large hall on the ground floor of the manor had been turned into a spacious ballroom and it was ablaze with hundreds of candles reflected again and again in the dangling crystals of the chandeliers and the highly polished gold and silver of the countless candelabra. Some of the guests were already dancing, but others seemed to prefer the side of the room where the long tables of refreshments were being kept constantly overflowing with fresh food and drink by e
legantly uniformed Negroes.
Despite the festive atmosphere, however, Vidal’s hopes for a pleasant evening soon dimmed when he noted the manner in which his wards and his mistress greeted one another. From the moment the three of them came face to face, the temperature of that mild September night dropped by several degrees.
Azema, taller by several inches, looked disdainfully down her pretty aristocratic nose at Monique, while the young girl tilted the tip of her button nose all the higher and openly glared back. Little Celeste, like a faithful echo, immediately reinforced her sister with an equally seething stare.
All the while, Vidal stood uneasily to one side, silently cursing his bad luck to have become involved with three such ill-tempered females. Here he had made every effort to juggle them in such a way as to please, if possible, both “camps”, yet he didn’t seem to be succeeding with either one of them!
Chapter Twenty-two
No sooner had the greetings been exchanged than Azema, set off to advantage in a décolleté gown of ice-blue satin, coyly rested her hand on Miguel’s arm and announced she wished to dance the next set.
Feeling obliged to attend her without further delay, Vidal deposited his wards with a group of other young girls near their own age sitting on the sidelines and, with a hasty excuse, allowed Azema to whisk him off to the dance floor.
Bristling, Monique sat watching her guardian adeptly going through the paces of a sprightly cotillion with his disgustingly beautiful partner, while she fanned herself rapidly in frustrated rage and tried to fight back her tears of vexation.
How she detested that pasty-faced, long-nosed witch! Although two young men came up immediately to ask her and Celeste to join them in the next set, Monique refused them without even noting who they were. She kept her attention focused on her guardian and Azema Ducole most of the time, and the longer she watched them, the greater her chagrin. It had been bad enough to know about them, but to see them together like that right before her very eyes was insufferable! To have to sit there and watch her guardian dancing with that horrid woman only brought home the bitter truth more forcibly than ever to her. She could no longer deny the facts.
She tried closing her eyes for a moment, hoping to blot out the sight of them together, but even worse pictures came to her mind—her guardian making love to that woman… kissing her… pressing his body close to hers. They were more vivid than ever now!
When Maurice finally arrived and came over to her, she gave him an especially warm welcome. Resolving to try to forget her obnoxious guardian and his equally obnoxious mistress for a little while, she readily accepted her friend’s invitation to join the dancers.
Before long, however, it was Vidal who sought her out, curious to see how she and her sister were enjoying the ball thus far. He had seen Maurice Foucher dancing the last two selections with her, and now, taking advantage of the fact that he had seen Foucher go off to fetch some refreshment for her, Vidal had come over to talk to her.
“I hope you and Celeste are enjoying yourselves,” he began, thinking how the misty green of her gown had penetrated her eyes as well. “From what I could see, you two have been dancing every set since we arrived.”
“And I see you’ve been doing the same,” she retorted coolly.
“Yes, I’m sorry to have neglected you until now, but I do have to attend Mlle. Ducole. She’s my friend’s sister and—”
“And your mistress!” she finished for him, almost hissing the word as she finally said it aloud to him.
Vidal stepped back as though she had struck him. “What… what makes you say that?” he asked bewilderedly.
Monique tossed her head in an effort to appear nonchalant about it all. “Oh, people gossip, you know,” she replied airily, flipping open her frilly fan of dusty pink tulle and lace and fanning herself rapidly. “Besides, it’s quite obvious… just the way she hangs on to you… that she considers you her personal property.”
“Aha! Is that why you’ve been so belligerent toward me lately, hardly addressing a word to me, and then only snapping when you do?”
The little pink fan continued to flutter nervously.
“I don’t like liars,” she quipped.
“And when have I ever lied to you?”
“You say you’re going out of town and you really just sneak off with that… that fallen woman! I saw you with my own eyes just this past Monday riding by with her in her barouche.”
He flushed, but a twinkle was creeping into his dark eyes.
“Ah, yes, I forget sometimes that there’s nothing more self-righteous than untried virtue.” He smiled. “It’s true I sometimes stop off at the Ducoles’ before going home to the town house when I return to New Orleans from my trips to the plantation, but I don’t recall lying about it. If you’d asked me, I wouldn’t have denied it.”
“But you always led us to believe you’d just arrived when you came home…”
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t realize I had to give a report of my every movement to you. Actually, it never occurred to me you were so interested in what I did every minute of my time.”
It was Monique’s turn to color. “It… it’s not that I’m interested,” she protested. “You can have all the mistresses you want. It’s indifferent to me. What I… what Celeste and I resent is the subterfuge.”
“I only meant to be discreet. Was that so wrong?”
“What’s wrong is that you’re in a situation where you have to hide anything in the first place.”
“Touché!” He smiled. “I concede the point. Had I known you objected so vehemently, I might have been more inclined to mend my ways. Does my personal life really make so big a difference to you?”
She bit her lip and continued fanning herself.
“None whatsoever,” she snapped crossly. “Your private life is your own, Cousin Miguel. Just don’t be a hypocrite about it!”
He sighed and his smile saddened a little. “You’re so young, little cousin. There are so many things you can’t understand yet.”
“I understand enough to know that long-legged carrot stick is your mistress, and that’s more than I want to know already!” she replied scornfully. “Now I think you’d better go back to her before she comes over here to drag you off again.”
He looked at her as one would at a petulant child who required infinite patience. “You probably won’t believe me, but I came over here just now to ask you to be my partner for the next set. It’s going to be a quadrille, and I thought you might remember that afternoon…”
Monique lowered her lids and fanned more violently than ever. Of course she remembered, and it made her furious whenever she thought how she had watched in secret those well-knit thighs flexing as he’d danced just for her and Celeste. How she had thrilled to the touch of those strong masculine hands as he had caught her and whirled her around in the turns! But that had been before she’d learned that those very same hands were caressing another woman and those fine thighs holding Azema Ducole between them!
“I’m sorry,” she replied curtly, “but I’m already promised for the next dance.”
“Then perhaps you can put me down for the next free one you have?”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, “but my dance card is filled. I’m promised for the rest of the night.”
He stood looking down at her defiant little figure in frothy green trimmed with roses, trying to find some chink in that delicate yet impenetrable armor where he might be able to get through to her. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, he acknowledged defeat.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “I’ll leave you, then, to enjoy the evening. I won’t disturb you until it’s time for us to go home.”
He turned and walked stiffly away while Monique sat watching his tall, proud figure, so elegantly etched in the long-tailed frock coat of dark red velvet. She brushed away the cloud of frustrated tears blinding her eyes. Let him go back to that horrid Azema, she thought angrily. After all, what could she expect of
a Spaniard who was a libertine!
Her guardian had stopped now to talk to Celeste, who was still standing off to one side with the pudgy young boy who had been her partner for the last set. Even from across the large salon, Monique could see how delighted her sister was to accept her cousin’s request for a dance. She was immediately extending the little card dangling from her wrist toward him so he could write his name on it. Celeste was too gullible, thought Monique, annoyed with her sister for so readily accepting their guardian’s invitation.
At that moment, however, Maurice returned, holding a glass of punch in each hand. There was an eager grin on his freckled countenance. He had seen Monique’s guardian conversing with her, so he had deliberately waited until Vidal had left before approaching, not wishing to have a confrontation with him if it could be avoided.
“I could see you seemed to be arguing with your guardian,” he admitted as he apologized for his delay in bringing back her refreshment. “It seemed more prudent not to interrupt, knowing how your cousin feels about me. I hope you weren’t having any words because of me.”
With a start, Monique looked at her friend, standing there in his best finery, looking surprisingly aristocratic in his purple-colored swallow-tailed frock coat and nankeen breeches. He’d even made an attempt to comb his shaggy blond locks into some semblance of orderly disorder, and the effect gave him a rakish look that was rather appealing.
“No… no, it wasn’t because of you,” she replied absently. “I was confronting him with what I knew about him and that Ducole woman.”
“I hope you didn’t tell him I was noising it about?” he asked, the smile fading from his face.
“Of course not. Your name didn’t even come up in the conversation.”
Her eyes went back across the hall, singling out the slim, erect figure of her guardian as he made his way back to Azema’s side through the couples milling around the dance floor. Maurice was saying something to her, but she suddenly realized she hadn’t heard a word.
Iron Lace Page 14