Love’s Betrayal

by DiAnn Mills

  Georgette turned to run, but the man’s arm slipped around her waist. He pulled her away from the bonfire toward the dark streets. Squealing, she beat both fists against his forearm. “Let me go. You are no better than he to accost a lady so!”

  “You need not fear; I intend you no harm,” the Frenchman said, setting her on her feet in the shelter of a large tree. “Do you not know what manner of business is conducted on the ‘holy grounds’ just beyond the common? Crazed, I think the lady must be, to wander alone in the wicked city, and more so on this night when men’s blood runs hot.”

  Georgette shook her head in confusion. “Business? Do you mean the church?”

  His laugh lacked humor. “Innocente.”

  Understanding dawned. Georgette’s entire body burned with shame. “Are you saying those women are …? That man thought I was …? That you—no, never!” Horrified, she struggled to escape.

  Her captor restrained her. “No, never!” he mocked in falsetto. But then his voice deepened. “And yet perhaps mademoiselle craves romance.”

  Gooseflesh prickled Georgette’s arms. She sought a glimpse of the man’s face but caught only an occasional glitter in his eyes, the reflection of a street lamp. “If—if I yearned for romance, it would be with a gentleman, not a ruffian. You Frenchmen are infamous for perfidy and … and passion.”

  When he chuckled, she regretted her suggestive choice of words. His grip on her upper arms seemed effortless, yet she was powerless to escape it.

  Lifting her chin, she tried to sound confident. “Do you know who I am? My father will have you flogged if harm comes to me.”

  “Should harm come to you tonight, I would deserve such penalty, ma fille.” With one fluid motion, he again wrapped his arm about her waist and hauled her close. Her hooped skirts ballooned behind her. Although she held herself rigid and put up both hands to prevent her body from contacting his, Georgette made no vocal protest beyond a gasp.

  “Regardez-moi, s’il vous plaît, ma belle fille.”

  She recognized enough French to know he had called her beautiful. “Let me go.” She pushed at his chest. Her elbow bumped what proved to be a large pistol shoved into his belt. Whip. Gun. What other weapons did he wield? Might he be a soldier? Not with that accent. A French-Canadian trapper perhaps, come to the city for excitement and liquor.

  His waistcoat felt soft beneath her hands, pleasant to touch. Or was it a shirt? Puzzled, she slid her hands over the thin fabric. Fringe. He wore buckskin. She heard the man suck in a breath, and a flurry of French followed, none of which she understood. He trapped her hands in an iron grip.

  “So free with the touching you are. And you would return the favor?” His thumb traced her jawline.

  She flinched in pain as he touched her cheek. “What are you doing?”

  With a soft exclamation, he turned her toward the streetlamp. Georgette blinked, cringing when he hovered too near.

  “Eh, what has happened to your face?” His caress circled the welt on her cheek. “Did that dog strike you? I should have killed him.”

  “No—he did not do it.” She recalled her father’s cruel blow, and her breath caught, sounding much like a sob.

  “Then who?”

  Georgette felt her lips move, but no sound emerged. Feeling lost, she reached both hands to his chest as if to push him away. His thudding heart against her palms seemed familiar. His breath brushed her face—no hint of alcohol or tobacco there. What manner of man was this?

  He released her and backed away. “Mille pardons.” The hooded head bowed. “Such liberties are not mine to take.”

  Trembling, she searched for something intelligent to say. “Who are you?”

  He caught her by the hand, turned, and began to walk along the street toward her parents’ rented town house. “Promise you will never again venture into the city alone at night.”

  Regret pricked her conscience. “I was foolish to behave thus. I am a lady. You must believe me!”

  Once more he exclaimed something indecipherable in French, and he slowed his pace. “I doubt not your purity of heart.”

  “What may I call you? I am Georgette Talbot.”

  “I know.” His voice was quiet. “Did you like the dog?”

  “The dog? Caramel! You gave him to me? But why? Who are you? Where have we met?” All too soon she recognized the brick town houses and storefronts of Broad Street. Had her parents noticed her absence?

  “I first saw you dip your feet in the river and swing on a tree branch until I feared you would drop into the water.”

  “You saw me?” Georgette whispered. Like a child she had played that summer day, for once free of adult supervision. Or so she had thought. “The day my hat blew away.”

  “Your hair, it catches the sun and captures my heart. Your dog, he will remind, each time you look at him, that your devoted slave worships the earth beneath your feet. Nuit et jour, I dream of you.”

  “Oh–h–h–h!” Georgette’s feet seemed to float well above the paving stones.

  He stopped at the garden-gate and released her hand. “Carriages still wait out front. You might yet slip inside unnoted.”

  “You are leaving? Will you not come inside? I wish to see your face.”

  He backed away. She caught the edge of his cloak. “Will I meet you again?”

  “Assuredly, yes.”

  “When?”

  “Ma petite Georgette.” His features remained shrouded in darkness. “So desperate you seem. Pourquoi?”

  “My father gave me the welt on my cheek because I refuse to marry an evil man.”

  “Your father seeks an evil man to marry his daughter? Pray, tell why.” Satire laced his voice.

  “He has already chosen one, although I am uncertain the evil man is yet aware of my father’s plan. Papa has extensive gaming debts, you see. He did not gamble when we lived in England; it is the influence of this wicked city. I suspect Papa might—” She fell silent rather than reveal suppositions that put her father in an even worse light.

  “And who is this evil man?”

  “You must know of him, a Mr. LaTournay.”

  “I know the name. In what way is this man evil?”

  Angered by his mocking tone, she snapped, “He pursues the wives of other men.”

  “You know this as fact?” His tone was equally sharp.

  “His reputation is foul. My mother advises me to overlook such behavior in a man, but I cannot.”

  “Nor should you,” he said. “A philandering man makes a poor husband.”

  The adamant statement warmed her heart, obliterating his former irony from her memory. “Are you married?”

  “Not as yet, but when I wed, my heart will belong to my wife alone for as long as I live.”

  Releasing her hold on his cloak, Georgette covered her mouth with one hand.

  He stepped forward and gently pulled her concealing hand away. She felt his breath upon her face, then the quick pressure of his fingers upon hers. “Bonsoir and adieu, Georgette,” he whispered and strode away into the night.

  Chapter 3

  But the LORD said unto Samuel, Look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature; because I have refused him: for the LORD seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the LORD looketh on the heart.

  1 SAMUEL 16:7

  The hired carriage stopped before a mansion on the outskirts of town. Lifting her skirts, Georgette followed her parents up the broad front steps. A fine mist fell, and the entire world seemed gray.

  “Everyone of importance in the province will be here tonight,” her mother predicted. “Remember to smile and be genteel, Georgette.”

  “Yes, Mum.” Georgette’s interest in social events had waned.

  After handing their wraps to waiting servants, Georgette and her mother hurried to the ladies’ chambers to repair damages to gown or coiffure. When they returned, they joined her father in the queue of guests and shook hands with their hosts, retire
d Colonel Weatherby and his wife.

  “Is it true this Whig pretense of a congress threatens to outlaw dancing and parties?”

  “How dare they attempt to force such bans upon the law-abiding public?”

  Snatches of disturbing conversation reached Georgette’s ears as she picked her way through the crowds and joined a fluttering bouquet of young ladies near the refreshment tables.

  Marianne waved her fan. “Gigi! Over here.”

  “Marianne, how are you?” Georgette slid into an open place against the wall.

  “Well enough. You look lovely!”

  “This is a remake of one of my mother’s old gowns, and it is too small for me. Mother had Agnes tighten my stays until I feel ill.” Georgette covered her mouth with her fan. “Alas, I am complaining again. I shall never learn to be content, Marianne. How do you do it?”

  Marianne smiled. “Give yourself time to grow in God’s grace, Gigi. You are a newborn babe in Christ; you cannot expect perfection from yourself.”

  Georgette sighed and pursed her lips. “My parents wish to hear nothing about my faith in Jesus Christ. They tell me I have been a Christian since I was baptized as an infant.”

  “That is what they were raised to believe. Just keep speaking the truth in a loving, respectful way, Gigi. Your interest in the Bible might inspire them to search for answers, too.”

  “People must acknowledge questions before they see a need for answers,” Georgette said. “And it is difficult to point out fallacies in my parents’ beliefs without sounding disrespectful. Had I not always been such a difficult child, they might be more willing to listen to me now.”

  Marianne patted her friend’s arm. “You cannot change the past, Gigi, but the changes God has made in you since Christmastide, no one can ignore.”

  Guilt swamped Georgette. “You would not think so if you knew what I did last Sunday night.” The secret of her escapade seared her conscience. “I can scarcely believe it myself.” She longed to tell Marianne, yet a crowded ballroom hardly seemed the proper setting for a confession.

  “No matter what you do, I shall always love and admire you, Gigi.”

  Georgette gripped Marianne’s small fingers. “You are my first real friend aside from my sister. Most women are spiteful and insincere, but you? Never.”

  “You are good for me as well,” Marianne said.

  A tall figure loomed over them. “Good evening, ladies.”

  “Mr. LaTournay, how nice to see you back in the city! A good evening to you.” Marianne extended her hand in greeting. He bowed over it, then turned his gaze upon Georgette.

  “I trust each of you ladies will honor me with a dance this evening.”

  Georgette couldn’t force herself to smile, but she managed to acknowledge his greeting with a nod before realizing he would interpret the movement as an agreement to dance. While she struggled to think of an excuse, one of Mrs. Weatherby’s daughters settled at the piano and played the introduction to a reel.

  “I should be honored, Mr. LaTournay,” Marianne answered after a brief silence. He took her hand and led her to line up with several other couples at one end of the crowded room.

  LaTournay’s claret-colored coat fit his shoulders perfectly. Georgette looked away, determined to find nothing admirable in the man. Dainty Marianne seemed a child beside that lanky scarecrow of a man, she decided.

  Two figures blocked her view. “Georgette, this is Mr. Lester Pringle.” Her father indicated a smiling young man. “I hear from reliable sources that he is a fair dancer.”

  Georgette stammered through a “Pleased to meet you.” Her father moved on, leaving Georgette alone with the attractive young man.

  “If we hurry, we may join this dance. Will you?”

  She nodded. He led her to the dance floor and bowed as the music began.

  “I understand you are come to New York from England a year ago. If that is so, you have already endured one summer’s killing heat,” he said as she rotated around him.

  “And who spoke of me to you?”

  Light sparkled in his eyes. “My friend LaTournay. It seems you have made a fair impression upon his sensibilities. He does not usually come to town early in the year, yet here we find him in April.”

  Georgette’s smile faded. “I have no wish to impress Mr. LaTournay.”

  Mr. Pringle’s brows lifted as he displayed healthy teeth in a grin. “Better and better.”

  “Do you like dogs?” She tried to imagine Pringle cloaked in the dark.

  He laughed. “Once I was presented with a harrier pup, but I gave it away. Dogs are bothersome creatures—especially lap dogs. Utterly useless. Horses are my passion. LaTournay rides a brown mare I would give my eyeteeth to own. Have you seen her?”

  “No.”

  He proceeded to wax eloquent on the finer points of this unknown horse. Georgette concentrated on her dance steps. The small floor seemed crowded with couples, and she noticed a stitch developing in her side. Mr. Pringle danced with more enthusiasm than grace.

  “I see LaTournay observing us with something less than approbation,” he confided against her ear, pulling her so close that their bodies nearly touched. “Shall we make him burn with jealousy? Do you long for my kiss as I long for yours?”

  “No.” Georgette jerked away in confusion. Again Mr. Pringle laughed aloud, causing stares of disapproval from nearby matrons. Georgette wished he had kept his mind on horses.

  The ladies and men changed partners for a moment, and Georgette found herself curtsying to Mr. LaTournay. He took her hand. The room seemed uncomfortably warm. She was relieved to switch back to Pringle despite his impertinent behavior. For the duration of the dance, Georgette had trouble focusing on her partner due to her constant awareness of Marianne’s partner.

  When the dance ended, Pringle excused himself. Georgette caught the roguish twinkle in his eye as his hand brushed the length of her bare arm. Fanning her warm face, she settled upon a vacant chair. Another touch on her arm made her jump.

  “Gigi, I saw you with Mr. Pringle. Does he dance like a dream?” Marianne’s bright eyes begged for information.

  “Mr. Pringle? He is pleasant enough, though forward. He laughs too loudly.” Georgette flicked her fan. “Did you enjoy dancing with Mr. LaTournay?”

  “He was polite, although I think he would prefer you as a partner, Gigi. He asked many questions. I told him about your puppy, Caramel, about how you like to read novels, and I even told him about your accepting Jesus as your Savior last Christmastide. I hope you do not mind.”

  Georgette sprang up. “My side aches. Would you care to stroll through the garden with me?”

  Marianne laughed. “It is pouring rain out there, you goose! I may be warm, but I am not afire. I should think you would want to stay here where Mr. Pringle can ask you for another dance. At present, he is talking with Mr. LaTournay. I think his face expresses real depth of character.” Marianne looked dreamy-eyed. Perhaps her personality held a touch of romance after all.

  Pringle turned, caught them watching him, and approached, smiling. “LaTournay tells me you are to dance the next with him, Miss Talbot. Since this is the case, I would be delighted to meet your friend.” He turned his gleaming smile upon Marianne.

  Georgette made the proper introductions, and Mr. Pringle requested Marianne’s next dance. “If you are available,” he added.

  Color flooded the girl’s face. “Yes, Mr. Pringle,” Marianne said. “I have no engagement.”

  He bowed, winked at Georgette, and walked away. Stunned, the two girls exchanged looks. “Gigi, this is my fondest dream come true! Does my hair look well?” Marianne fanned herself until her curls flew about her face.

  So I am to dance the next with Mr. LaTournay, am I? Georgette brooded. I shall show him.

  The pianist concluded a minuet. Dancers left the floor, and Mr. Pringle arrived to claim Marianne. Georgette saw him trail a finger down Marianne’s arm, bring her gloved hand to his chest, and look deeply
into her eyes. Georgette shook her head. The man was far too confident of his own allure. Nothing like her mysterious rescuer.

  “Miss Talbot.”

  That stilted voice lifted the hair on the back of her neck. Mr. LaTournay offered his arm, and Georgette accepted it. In his presence, all thought of defying his wishes vanished. “Remarkable weather we are having,” she blurted.

  “So it must be, since you have remarked upon it.”

  She swallowed hard and tried again. “Do you always come to town when the ships arrive from England?” She curtsied to begin the dance, thankful that her feet seemed to know the steps without her conscious direction.

  “Usually. I also trade with the other colonies of course. But, as you know, many items can be obtained only from your homeland.”

  “I wonder if Boston and Philadelphia are cities of culture and refinement. New York is rustic, in my opinion. We were surprised by the pigs that scavenge in the streets. I was told the beasts keep the streets cleaner, but I suspect my source spoke in jest. Pigs?” She winced. “Oh dear, do you raise pigs on your estate? Or was it sheep? I should think sheep would be cleaner beasts to have roaming the streets.”

  Her nervous chatter held his attention, and she thought one side of his mustache twitched. She now realized that the raised mark just below his left cheekbone was a reddish birthmark, not a mole. “No doubt you are correct,” he replied, “but sheep prefer clean grass and fresh air to rubbish. I share their distaste for city life.”

  “I should think a man of your refinement would find country life dull.” Unless he kept a collection of female admirers in the country as well.

  “I have always before found town life dull, yet this spring I could scarcely wait to return. You have brought life to this dreary city, Miss Talbot. Perhaps someday I shall be privileged to show you the delights of rural living.”

  She would prefer to have his penetrating eyes focused elsewhere. Was it fear that raised gooseflesh on her arms each time he touched her hand? It must be!

  “You have traveled nowhere in America outside this city?” he inquired as they traversed a circle.