They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I know. I—I’m just a little edgy.”

  “Reckon it’s th’ weather,” she said. “When it gets all sultry like this, you cain’t help feelin’ a stirrin’ in your blood. When that quarter moon’s sailin’ in the sky tonight, I’ll be wigglin’ in Jasper’s arms, moanin’ like a she-cat as he loves me. Reckon you’ll be readin’ another one of them books.”

  “If you’ll just help me put this on, you can go on about your business,” I said crisply.

  “You’se gonna wear that dress?”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it—reckon it’s right sumptuous. It just looks like th’ kinda dress you’d wear to a ball or somethin’, not just for dinner, an’ no one but Mister Charles to see you in it—”

  Kayla cut herself short, her eyes widening as realization dawned. I cursed silently. Kayla grinned then, pleased and approving. I longed to push her over the balcony. I started to tell her that she was completely wrong, but I doubted she would believe me and it would only make matters worse. Silent now but still grinning, she helped me into the gown and told me I looked like a vision, said I could cast a spell over any man, lookin’ like I looked now, and then, grin widening, she finally left.

  I stepped over to the full-length mirror, examining myself carefully. The gown was of rich rose brocade, embroidered all over with flowers in deeper rose. It had full, off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves, a very low-cut neckline and a form-fitting bodice that accentuated my slender waist, the extremely full skirt belling out over half a dozen tissue-thin red silk underskirts. It was a sumptuous garment, far too opulent and formal for dinner at home, but it made me feel older, made me feel very much a woman. I might not look like a vision, but I knew I had never looked better. All traces of the girl had vanished. I was looking at the reflection of a woman, sensuous, voluptuous, created for love. It wasn’t just the dress, I knew. Without realizing it, I seemed to have passed over some invisible threshold into full-blown womanhood, leaving the girl behind. I wondered if others noticed it as well.

  Sitting at my dressing table, I smoothed faint mauvish-tan shadow on my eyelids and applied a subtle pink blush to my cheeks. I used lip rouge, too, sparingly, the cosmetics merely pointing up my natural coloring. I brushed my hair some more until it gleamed with rich honey-blond highlights and decided to let it fall to my shoulders in natural waves. I removed the stopper from the crystal bottle of perfume I had bought at Corinne’s and smelled the scent. It was a subtle, tantalizing smell evoking sun-drenched fields of poppies, extremely sensual, and I hesitated a moment. I had never used it before. Was it too tantalizing, too sensual? Perhaps my regular lilac perfume would be better. No, that was a proper young lady’s perfume. Tonight I was a woman. I applied the poppy-rich perfume to my wrists, my throat, behind my ears. I felt like … like one of Balzac’s courtesans preparing for an assignation and, in a sudden crisis of nerves, almost decided to skip dinner entirely.

  My nerves were still on edge as I went slowly down the graceful white staircase, full rose brocade skirts rustling. The house seemed still and quiet, dozens of candles bathing it in a pale golden glow. Windows were open, and curtains billowed with the sound of soft whispers. I could smell night-blooming jasmine and rich loamy soil and, in the stillness, hear the soft patter of the fountain. Moving across the foyer, I stepped into the front parlor where we always met before dinner. Charles had not come down yet. I ardently longed for one of the mint juleps he and Julian sipped before meals. I ardently wished I weren’t wearing this dress, wished I had never laid eyes on Charles Etienne, wished life were not so hellishly complicated. My nerves were so taut I thought they might actually snap when I heard his footsteps in the foyer.

  He stepped into the room. He was wearing his dark blue breeches and frock coat and a sky-blue satin waistcoat embroidered with white silk leaves and a perfectly folded white silk neckcloth. His hair was brushed to a high chestnut sheen, but already that errant wave was beginning to tilt forward. His lean face was all hard planes and angles, his mouth set in a full, firm pink line, and his eyes were so deep a blue they seemed black in the candlelight. I looked at him, and I seemed to feel a shock going through me. My knees felt weak. I actually thought I was going to faint. It seemed impossible that another person could stir emotions so completely overwhelming.

  Charles seemed as ill at ease as I was. He didn’t look at me at first. He stepped over to the liquor cabinet and made himself a mint julep, taking ice out of the silver bucket sitting atop it. He turned then and sipped his drink, and his eyes darkened even more with disapproval. He didn’t like my gown. I felt like a fool. I felt like a little girl playing dress-up. Balzac’s courtesans were worldly, opulent creatures who would have laughed heartily at my pretenses. Charles was probably laughing to himself at this very moment. Perfume and a low-cut gown could not take the place of experience. I felt as gauche and naive as a newborn colt under his stern gaze.

  “Did—did you find your lunch basket?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Raoul told me you brought it by. It wasn’t necessary, Dana.”

  “Jezebel was afraid you’d have lunch at one of the places nearby where they fry everything in hog fat.”

  “Jezebel thinks no one can cook a decent meal but her.”

  “Did you enjoy the angel cake?”

  “It was delicious,” he said.

  He took another sip of his mint julep. He seemed disinclined to talk. He seemed bored, and indifferent to me. I sensed that this was because he was every bit as uncomfortable as I was, and I cast around for something else to say before the silence grew even more unsettling.

  “Did you buy the chairs?” I inquired.

  He shook his head. “They were fakes. Amelia was crushed when I told her. She roundly cursed the dealer who sold them to her. I did, however, purchase an eighteenth-century writing desk from her, an exquisite piece.”

  “It’s a pity she has to sell her things.”

  “It’s an occupational hazard for women in her profession. She’s lucky she has nice things to sell. Amelia is too amiable, too casual, too easygoing and too kind to be truly successful. She lacks the venality and the killer instinct of the true professional.”

  “You—you like her very much, don’t you?”

  “She is a charming, sophisticated woman, and she was very good to my brother during their time together. She was genuinely fond of him. For that matter, she still is.”

  I wished I had some of her sophistication and charm. I could think of nothing else to say, and Charles made no effort to keep the conversation going. He finished his mint julep and set the glass down. The curtains stirred. The air was warm, laden with heady fragrance. I was relieved when, a few moments later, Pompey stepped in and announced that dinner was served. Charles condescended to escort me into the dining room, holding my arm stiffly, helping me into my chair with cool formality.

  The table seemed much larger with only the two of us at it. The fine damask cloth was gleaming white, and there was a centerpiece of delicate purple and mauve iris. Silver and crystal and fine china sparkled in the candlelight. How I wished Delia and Julian were here to ease the tension. I had looked forward to this all day, and now I was acutely uncomfortable. Pompey served the soup from a white porcelain tureen. It was turtle soup, rich and savory. I hardly tasted it. The silence dragged on and on. Charles was utterly remote. We might have been complete strangers who just happened to be eating at the same table.

  Pompey removed the soup bowls and, with assistance from Elijah, brought the main course in, Jezebel’s special chicken breasts served on a bed of brown rice, with steamed artichokes on the side. The chicken was delicious, butter and spices flowing out as you sliced the meat, but I still had no appetite. I stripped a plump leaf from my artichoke, dipped it into the dish of melted butter sitting beside my plate. I looked up. I caught Charles studying me, his dark eyes full of conflicting emotions. He frowned and looked away and continued to eat, taking no mor
e pleasure in the wonderful food than I did. Tension seemed to crackle in the air, and I could see that it was getting to him, too. When, finally, he broke the silence, it took a visible effort.

  “I hope you’re feeling better,” he said.

  “I-I’m fine.”

  “I know you were terribly upset over what happened at Conti Street, but you should never have gone there.”

  “I realize that, but—at least now I—I know where I stand, and I can get on with my life.”

  He nodded curtly and sliced his chicken.

  “I don’t suppose I’ll ever know who my father was,” I added.

  “It’s not important,” he told me.

  “I—don’t suppose it is. I don’t intend to try and find out. I—I don’t want to be hurt again.”

  “A wise decision,” he said.

  “How—how are things going at the store?” I asked, frantic to avoid another long stretch of silence.

  “We’re doing well enough. Raoul’s precious little help, but—.”

  He frowned and shook his head. “Speaking of business, Dana, I’m going to be away for a few days myself.”

  “Oh?”

  “I need to go inspect our cotton crops. I’ve been putting it off too long as it is. As Julian might have explained, our real income is from the cotton we buy and export.”

  “He said something about your purchasing crops in advance.”

  “Instead of waiting for auction, I purchased the entire output of Ravenaugh and Belle Mead before the crops were even planted. My competitors thought I was insane to take such a risk, but in the long run I will have saved a great deal of money.”

  “I see.”

  “I need to visit the plantations and see how the crops are doing. I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning.”

  I didn’t say anything. I toyed with my rice.

  “I’ll have to spend several days at each plantation,” he continued, “and I don’t know just how long I’ll be gone. I would imagine I’ll be back a day or so after Delia returns from Grande Villa.”

  Pompey came in and I motioned for him to remove my plate. Charles was finished as well. I folded my napkin and placed it on the table and told Pompey I would have neither coffee nor dessert. He scowled, knowing he would face Jezebel’s wrath when he delivered the message. I would apologize to her later. I couldn’t take any more of this. I stood up and started toward the door, afraid I might break down if I didn’t escape immediately.

  “Dana …”

  I didn’t turn. I didn’t answer. I hurried out of the room and turned into the foyer and hurried up the stairs. Tears were spilling down my cheeks when I reached my bedroom. What a fool I had been. What an ass I had made of myself, wearing this red gown, painting my face, using the exotic perfume. I knew nothing about seduction, nothing about love, nothing about men. I knew only that I was utterly miserable and that I would never be able to face Charles again. How foolish I had been to … to think that he wanted me, too. He couldn’t stand to be alone in the same room with me. He was going to go away and leave me here with the servants because he couldn’t bear being in the house with me. Charles despised me. He had every right to despise me. I was a complete ninny to think I could interest him.

  I brushed the tears from my cheeks and sat down, nursing my misery. A long time passed, and the candles were beginning to burn down and splutter when I finally stood up, stiff and sore now, feeling empty inside. I moved out onto the balcony and rested my hands on the wrought-iron railing and gazed up at the sky. The quarter moon was sailing like a ship of silver amidst a sea of ashen clouds. It was still warm and sultry and the night air seemed to caress my bare skin and the fragrance of flowers was dizzying. Kayla was in her lover’s arms, writhing and moaning and relishing delight forbidden to me, and I had rarely felt so desolate, so alone.

  I heard a low rumble of thunder in the distance. It was followed by a sudden rush of wind that caused leaves and plants to shiver in the courtyard below. We were going to have an evening shower, one of those light, pattering rainfalls that lasted an hour or two and lessened the heat not at all. I stepped back inside as the first warm drops began to splatter. Four or five of the candles had already burned out, the others spluttering wildly and throwing frantic gold shadows on the wall. I saw by the clock that it was after eleven. I was bone-weary, so weary I scarcely felt like undressing. The rain was falling faster now, making loud splattering noises. Another candle spluttered out, only four burning now. Wearily, I slipped off my shoes and kicked them aside, then lifted my skirts and rolled down my stockings.

  I didn’t hear him coming up the metal staircase outside, nor did I hear him walking down the gallery. I heard only the monotonous splatter-splatter of the rain. I sighed and, barefooted, stood up, and I saw his shadow stretching over the floor and I whirled around, gasping. He stood between the open French windows with his hands resting lightly on his thighs. He had removed his frock coat and waistcoat and neckcloth. His tall black boots were shiny with wetness, and his snug blue breeches were spotted with rain. The thin white shirt, opened at the throat, clung damply to his skin, and his hair was a cluster of dark, wet curls. Rain dripped from his brow and down his cheeks. He didn’t say anything. He looked at me, unhappy, hesitant, burning with desire.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” he said. His voice was tight.

  “I suppose you shouldn’t.”

  “I couldn’t stay away.”

  “You’re wet.”

  “I tried to stay away.”

  “You’re here, Charles.”

  “You knew I’d come.”

  “I-I hoped.”

  Another candle spluttered out, leaving the room in semidarkness. The rain blew over the railing, wetting him even more. He didn’t seem to notice. I felt resigned. I felt defeated. I felt afraid, too, and beneath it all a wild elation began to surface, eclipsing everything else. He had come. He wasn’t able to stay away. The desire burning in those dark eyes was like some savage force, devouring him from within. I saw the bulge swelling between his legs, pressing against the blue broadcloth of his breeches. I knew and I was afraid and I was delirious with joy.

  He stepped inside. I took a handkerchief and dried the raindrops from his face and he didn’t speak, he just held my eyes with his own. More drops spilled down his face from the wet tendrils of hair on his forehead. I smoothed the wet hair back and dried his face again and rested my palm on his lean cheek, fingertips touching one broad cheekbone. I stood up on tiptoe then and touched that full pink mouth with my own, and his arms flung around me and crushed me to him, holding me so tightly I thought I might snap in two, but I felt no pain. I felt only that wild elation, surging through me now, soaring, singing in my blood. I clung to him, my palms running over the strong musculature of his back and shoulders as he kissed me with passionate urgency.

  When, finally, his mouth freed mine, I gasped for breath, trembling inside, my knees so wobbly I could hardly stand. Rain continued to splatter noisily and sweep over the railing, making damp spots on the edge of the carpet, but neither of us cared. I ran the ball of my thumb along his lower lip, feeling the moist, firm flesh. My body rested against his. I could feel the throbbing pulses of his manhood through the layers of cloth. The ache and the honied warmth I felt when I awakened from the dream were a living torment now, demanding surcease, and I knew I would swoon any moment now, knew I couldn’t endure much more. He took hold of my upper arms and held me away from him, looking down into my eyes.

  “I want you, Dana,” he murmured hoarsely.

  “I know.”

  “I’ve wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you. I hated you because I wanted you, because I knew I wasn’t going to be able to help myself, no matter how I tried.”

  “I love you, Charles,” I whispered.

  “I wanted you to be everything I first believed you to be. I wanted you to be a scheming little hoyden, a clever trollop who had taken in my gullible older brother. When I discovere
d you weren’t, I hated you even more because I couldn’t throw you out and—remove the temptation.”

  “Charles—”

  “I’ve fought it. God knows I’ve fought it. Tonight was sheer agony. I know I was cold and remote, but—I was still fighting it, still telling myself I could find the strength.”

  Another candle spluttered wildly, casting frenzied shadows before it finally went out. The room was filled with a blue-gray haze broken only by the weak, flickering golden glow of the three remaining candle flames.

  “It’s all right,” I said softly.

  “You don’t know how I’ve suffered.”

  “I—I’ve suffered, too. I—even before I met you, I felt—I knew—this was meant to be.”

  He didn’t say anything. He lifted his hand and stroked my throat and moved his palm up over my jaw and along my temple, then smoothed my hair back, fingers entwining in the silky strands. I tilted my head, my lips parting, and he made a moaning noise in his throat and kissed me again, tugging gently at my hair and crushing me to him with his free arm. I felt the honied warmth flowing, spreading throughout my body, and the torment was divine and impossible to endure much longer. He kissed me for a long, long time, his mouth working over mine, eager, demanding, and when he finally stopped my head was reeling and I was faint, felt sure I couldn’t stand were it not for the support of that steel-strong arm holding me up.

  Reaching behind me, he slowly began to unhook the bodice of my gown, and it loosened and fell forward, my breasts swollen and straining against the frail red silk of my petticoat. He caught hold of the full puffed sleeves of my gown and pulled them down over my arms and, leaning forward, shoved the gown down. I wiggled, helping him, and the gorgeous rose brocade crackled and made rustling music and finally fell to the floor like a huge fallen petal. I stepped out of the circle and kicked the dress aside with my bare foot. Charles caught one of the thin straps of my petticoat and tugged it, and my right breast popped free of its silken prison, full and round, the nipple extended and pulsating with sensations like tiny pinpricks. He spread his hand over my breast, his fingers squeezing, kneading the flesh, and I cried out, reeling.