by Janet Dailey
In the last two weeks Adrienne had made a few, very discreet inquiries of her own about Brodie Donovan and learned that he had earned the respect of several leading businessmen in the Vieux Carré, all of whom remarked on his courtesy, his patience, and his business acumen, always adding, "If only more Yanquis were like this one."
But her few encounters with him had made her aware that while he may have adapted to their ways, he hadn't adopted them. He was not at all like the young Creole men she knew, never fawning in his attention like the limp-wristed ones, never swaggering with his chest thrown out expecting to be noticed like the strutting cocks of the walk, never leering like the self-styled Lotharios whose looks gave her a crawling sensation wholly unlike the excitement she drew from the quick, amused eyes of Brodie Donovan.
No, there was a directness about Brodie Donovan that he never tried to disguise, as evidenced by the way he looked at her—the way a man looked at a woman he desired and intended ultimately to have.
"With your permission, M'sieu Jardin, I would like to have this dance with your sister," he said, and fixed that look on her.
She felt Dominique's gaze on her and turned to meet it, unaware of the dark glow in her own eyes as she gave a barely perceptible nod to indicate her assent to the request. His expression immediately became thoughtful, probing, with a trace of frown appearing. But he smiled and nodded his consent to Brodie Donovan.
"You have my permission," he said, surrendering her.
When Brodie offered her his arm, Adrienne placed her hand on his sleeve and let him lead her onto the dance floor. As he moved to face her, she was confronted by the wide set of his shoulders and the white expanse of his cambric dress shirt. She felt the strong curl of his gloved fingers on her hand and the warm press of his hand on the curve of her waist, guiding her into the first steps of a waltz, the bulk of her skirt keeping a distance between them. She lifted her gaze higher—to the smoothly hewn line of his jaw and chin, then to his mouth, faintly curved in a warm, lazy line.
"You dance well, M'sieu Donovan." She met his stare, conscious of the pleasant disturbance it created within her.
"For a Yankee, you mean." The corners of his mouth deepened into a smile that brought the carved lines in his cheeks into play.
Adrienne laughed softly at the phrase he'd probably heard a thousand times, which he had now turned onto himself. "You dance well—for anyone," she insisted.
"A compliment from the beautiful Mademoiselle Jardin." He tipped his head to her in silent acknowledgment, amusement glinting in his eyes. "I can think of only one thing that would give me greater pleasure this evening."
"And what is that, m'sieu?" She matched his bantering tone, making the question half serious and half jest.
"A kiss from your lips."
Unconsciously she lowered her glance to his mouth, for an instant imagining. . . . Aloud, she wondered, "How do you have the boldness to speak to me this way?"
"How do you have the boldness to listen?" he countered, his hand tightening its grip on her waist as he whirled her into a series of concentric turns that robbed her of her breath and gave her no chance to respond. When he finally resumed their former pace, it seemed inappropriate to allude to either of his remarks.
The song ended, yet the phrase would not leave her—"A kiss from your lips," "A kiss," "kiss." The words echoed over and over again in her mind each time she met his gaze that evening, each time she danced with him, each time she thought of him.
Again he came to claim her for a waltz, and again she took to the dance floor with him, the pressure of his hands, the length of his gliding steps, the sight of his face before her all now familiar to her.
"Do you realize, m'sieu, this is the twelfth time we have danced together this evening?" she said, aware of the speculating looks currently being directed their way.
"You've been keeping count," he observed, then smiled that slow smile she'd come to expect. "So have I."
"People are beginning to notice."
"Let them. Whatever they're thinking, it's probably true." He slowed their steps and stole a quick glance around. "Are you tired of dancing, Mademoiselle Jardin?"
"Why?" she asked, startled by the unexpected question.
"Come with me," was all he said as he calmly led her off the floor, as if to stop dancing in the middle of a waltz was the most natural thing to do. Unhurried, he guided her through the ring of onlooking guests. Adrienne saw they were heading in the general direction of the exit onto St. Louis Street. She said nothing when his fingers pressed down on her arm to check her steps, as if they were about to linger. He cast another surreptitious glance around them, then drew her toward the exit. He exchanged one conspiratorial look with her, and then they slipped from the domed ballroom and moved quickly down the long arcade of fashionable shops. Her aunt would be shocked that Adrienne had deliberately eluded her chaperoning eye, but she didn't care, not now.
Halfway down the arcade, the music and the susurration of voices became muted. Again the pressure of his hand checked her steps. She swung around to face him, feeling wonderfully wicked, especially when she saw that look in his eyes. They were near a recessed entrance to one of the shops. Adrienne wandered over to peer in its window and then turned, drawing her hands together behind her back and leaning against a corner of the entrance.
"You should not have brought me here," she said.
He rested a hand on the framework above her head. "You shouldn't have come. Why did you?"
Adrienne answered him honestly, directly. "I wanted to be alone with you."
She heard the faint sound of his indrawn breath as his gaze fastened on her lips. She watched his mouth move closer, her eyelids slowly lowering until her lashes closed with the first warm touch of his lips against hers. The initial contact was light and exploring, a brush here, a faint pressure there, her breath slipping out to mingle with his. Then his mouth came the rest of the way onto hers, covering all the surfaces of her lips in a tender yet stirring kiss.
When he lifted his head, regret quivered through her. Slowly she opened her eyes to look at him, stunned to discover that he hadn't taken her into his arms. Their lips had met, but that had been the only contact. There was still space between them. She searched his face, seeking some answer to this heady tension that held her. His eyes did their own searching of her.
"Adrienne," he rumbled her name.
Almost simultaneously his hands moved onto her, pulling her to him as his mouth came crushing down again. Some remote part of her mind noted that she hadn't given him permission to use her given name. But this Yankee wasn't the kind to wait for permission. He took what he wanted— as he was taking this kiss. She gave him all he asked for and more, her hands winding around him, her fingers curling through his hair. Heat flowed through her, but she made no effort to identify its source. There were too many other revelations claiming her attention as his delving kiss unlocked all her closely held hungers and exposed to her, for the first time, the deep and passionate values she held within.
When he broke it off, she looked at him wordlessly, conscious of the unsteady beat of her heart and of an inner trembling that had nothing to do with weakness—rather, it was evidence of the powerful effect of his kiss.
His smile seemed a little unsteady too. "I think it's time I spoke with your grandfather."
"Yes," she said in absolute and full agreement. "He is away. We expect him to return the first of the week." Reaching up, she traced a finger over the curve of his mouth, remembering the sensation of his lips on hers. "You've had your kiss. Your pleasure in the evening should be complete."
"Yes, but now my life isn't." He caught her fingers and pressed them to his lips. "We'd better go back to the ball before I behave like a Yankee and spirit you away from here."
As they retraced their steps to the rotunda, Adrienne unconsciously held her head a little higher, secretly pleased by how womanly she felt. When Brodie suggested a glass of champagne on their return, she ag
reed, glad of the opportunity to have a few moments to herself to explore these new feelings. But her time alone seemed all too brief as Dominique joined her.
"You look very happy about something," he said.
"I am," she admitted. "M'sieu Donovan is going to ask Grandpère for permission to call on me.
He looked at her in shock. "Adrienne, have you taken leave of your senses? He is a Yanqui"
"I know."
"Grand-père will—"
"—will storm and stomp about, call upon all the saints, glower indignantly for a day or two, and then ultimately grant permission," Adrienne concluded confidently.
"How can you sound so sure of that?" Dominique shook his head, harboring his own doubts of the outcome.
"Dominique," she chided with a reproving smile. "When has Grand-père ever denied me anything I have wanted?"
"But you have never wanted to see a Yanqui,” he reminded her.
15
The very walls of the house on Royal Street reverberated with the fury emanating from the library on the second floor—which, following the Continental style, was the structure's main story. The chandelier in the room quivered with the force of voices raised in anger. It had begun within seconds after Brodie Donovan was summarily ordered from the premises.
Emil Jardin stood in front of the library table, his silvery head thrown back—not with pride for the young woman who was now before him, but with outrage. His deep-set eyes were not bright with love for his granddaughter who was the delight of his winter years; they were burning black with ire. His hands didn't reach out to stroke her hair or caress her cheek; they flailed the air in indignation. His voice didn't croon to her in affection, each sentence punctuated with "ma petite" or "ma mignonne"; it lashed out in full Gallic temper.
Adrienne had seen her grandfather angry before, even furious, but never like this, consumed by a rage that purpled his face and made the veins in his neck stand out. She didn't flinch from him. Instead she let her own temper rise to clash with his.
"You could have had the simple courtesy to listen to him!"
"Listen to what? More of his offensive declarations of interest in you? Non, never! I would rather God strike me dead than hear him speak your name, Non!" he repeated forcefully, gesticulating with his hands. "The doors of this house are forever shut to that Yanqui barbarian!"
"You have no right!" she protested, just as loudly.
"I have every right. This is my house."
"It is my house too."
"And you are my granddaughter. You will do as you are told, and I forbid you to speak to this man again!"
"You forbid?! Why?" Adrienne demanded, her hands clenched in fists at her sides. "Because he is a Yanqui? This prejudice of yours toward the Americains is archaic. They are here. They have been here. Even you do business with them."
"Oui, I do business with them. And my grand-père, he did business with Indians. But he would no more have allowed them into his house than I will have that Yanqui enter this one!"
"You are not being fair!"
"Chut!" He demanded silence from her. "I have made my decision. There will be no more discussion on this, do you hear? Now, go to your room."
"I am not a child to be ordered to my room, Grand-père. I am a woman."
"A woman who has foolishly allowed her head to be turned by a quick-tongued Yankee. That your Tante ZeeZee allowed you to speak to this —this—man is an outrage, and that she failed to inform me is unforgivable. You will see him no more, Adrienne. This is the end of it!"
"Non, you are wrong!"
"Do not defy me in this! I will not permit it."
Glaring at him, Adrienne recognized that she was too angry to reason with him, and he was too angry to listen. She turned sharply on her heel and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her, the loudness of it rebounding down the side hall. She hesitated, feeling the silence of the house, its quiet reminding her of the eerie stillness that preceded a violent storm.
There was a movement at the end of the hall. Turning, Adrienne saw her black maidservant Sulie Mae peering cautiously around the corner. Hastily she caught up her skirts and ran quickly and noiselessly down the hall—in the opposite direction from her room. The young brown-skinned woman stepped out to meet her, glancing anxiously past her toward the library door. Adrienne took her by the arm and drew her into the main salon, out of sight, then whispered urgently. "Sulie Mae, when M'sieu Donovan left, did you see which way he went?"
"Oui, Missy." She bobbed her head in quick affirmation. "He turned like he was goin' to Canal."
Adrienne tried to remember how long ago that had been. Five minutes? Certainly not more than ten. "I want you to go after him, Sulie Mae, and bring him back here."
"Here?" She drew back in alarm. "But Michie Jardin, he say—"
"I know what he said," Adrienne cut in sharply. "But you do as I say. Bring him here. I will meet him in the carriageway. Now, go. Vite"
Like all the homes in the Vieux Carré, the Jardin house was built flush with the banquette, its galleries of iron lacework extending over it, but it kept its back turned to the street and faced the courtyard within. Two entrances provided access to the house. The first was a formal doorway set between half-columns and crowned by an arched fanlight, up a short flight of steps from the banquette; the second was a carriage entrance, marked by heavy double doors with a smaller opening cut into one side. Behind the doors was a tunnel-like passage paved with flagstones. At the end of it stood a pair of tall, scrolled iron gates that led into the sun-splashed courtyard with its lush greenery and weathered fountain.
In the middle of the darkly shadowed porte cochère there was another arched opening, and a wooden staircase that curved up to the main residence on the second floor. At the foot of the steps, within the arching frame, Adrienne waited anxiously, impatiently, hearing the clatter of mule-drawn drays in the street and listening for the creak of the small gate that would signal Sulie Mae's return.
Just as she stole a glance around the corner, the dark-green gate swung inward and Sulie Mae stepped cautiously into the passage-way, pulling her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, her head bound in a kerchief, the pointed ends poking into the air like a pair of horns. She saw Adrienne and looked back over her shoulder, motioning for someone to follow her inside. A second later Brodie ducked his tall frame through the gate and stepped to one side, letting Sulie Mae close the gate behind him. He seemed to resist Sulie Mae's attempts to hurry him down the passageway to the opening where Adrienne waited. As he came toward her, she noticed the stiffness—the erectness—of his posture, hinting at tautly controlled anger, but it wasn't until he was closer that she saw the hardness in his expression and the cold look in his eyes. She hesitated, guessing how insulting, how contemptuous her grandfather must have been when he'd ordered Brodie from the house.
He stopped in front of her, the muscles along his cheek and jaw standing out in sharp ridges. "Your Negress said you wanted to see me." His voice was as hard and cold as the rest of him.
"I do." She moved aside to let Sulie Mae scurry past her up the stairs. "You spoke to Grand-pere—
"He has refused permission for me to call on you."
"I know. He has forbidden me to speak to you." She searched his face, looking for some glimmer of the warmth she'd once seen in it. "Do you intend for this to be the end of it? Will you stay away, as he has ordered?"
His gaze bored into her, dark and angry. And Adrienne recognized that hardness as pride.
"No," he said. "Never."
Then his hands were reaching out to drag her to him, and she went eagerly into his arms, tilting her head up to receive the satisfying crush of his mouth. Again she felt shocked alive by his kiss, and more certain than ever that this was how it should be between a man and a woman.
"There's a way," he muttered against her cheek. "There has to be."
"Yes." She drew back, needing to see his face. "My grand-père is a ... a stubborn man
. But he means well. He thinks he is protecting me, and I have yet to make him understand that I have no wish to be protected from you, Brodie."
A corner of his mouth lifted in a near smile. "You make my name a melody."
"Do I?" She laughed softly, breathlessly, exhilarated by the look of desire that had returned to his eyes. Then she heard her aunt's voice coming from the courtyard, and she tensed in alarm. "You must go—before someone sees you." She cast an anxious glance over her shoulder. "I will speak to Grand-père. Not now. In a day or two, when he will be more reasonable," she said as she hurried him toward the small gate.
"Do you know the blind fiddler, Cado?" He stopped at the gate, not yet opening it. "He plays on the corner of Royal and St. Philip."
"The Negro with the violin? I have seen him," she admitted. "But I never knew his name."
"If you need to reach me, leave a message with him, and he'll see that I get it." He opened the gate, then paused halfway through it. "If I don't hear from you, I'll be back."
"A week," she promised. "No more than that."
Thunder rumbled low and ominous as rain fell in slanting torrents, filling the garbage-strewn gutters, turning the dirt street into a quagmire, and inching over the sidewalks. Only those who had to ventured out, and they hugged the buildings, seeking what little protection the overhanging galleries offered from the wind-whipped rain. The rest stayed inside and waited for the deluge to pass.
From the shelter of the covered carriageway, Adrienne watched the street, a full-length cloak of Burberry cloth covering her dress and hooding her face. Few vehicles plowed through the deep mud on Royal Street, and still fewer pedestrians scurried along its banquette. None noticed the small gate held partially ajar, or the woman on the other side, silent, calm, and determined.
A closed carriage approached, pulled by a team of matched bays, their ears flattened against the rain. The driver swung the team close to the banquette and brought the carriage to a halt next to the cypress-lined ditch. The door to the carriage swung open. Adrienne darted from the shelter of the porte cochère and climbed inside before the driver could alight to assist her.