Magnolia Nights

by Martha Hix

  Packert screamed in pain when his skin made hard contact with the knife handle. “Damn you, Rousseau!”

  Paul stepped back and reached into his coat pocket. After counting out the required number of bills, he ordered, “Get the brooch.”

  Packert lumbered over to Kathryn and wrenched the brooch from her bodice to fling it toward Paul, a diamond popping from its setting when it landed on the floor.

  Two minutes later Paul rode away from Carondolet Street, the piece of jewelry in his possession. He supposed he should tell Emma of its recovery; it was the decent thing to do. On second thought he decided against it.

  Now that he had some firm information, it was unnecessary to press her regarding her uncle’s doings.

  Instead he would turn his attention to Emma Oliver, the woman, and tonight at the masquerade ball he would have the perfect opportunity to do so.

  Chapter Six

  The last Saturday evening before Lent was a night of gaiety in New Orleans. While music flowed as freely as the champagne fountain, a thousand candles cast dazzling lights throughout the crowded ballroom and over the fun-seeking revelers. The tunes were lively, befitting the occasion that was almost the zenith of New Orleans social life.

  Emma had a difficult time enjoying herself. Though Betsy’s infant was improving, she had other matters on her mind. Most of the ball attendees spoke the crescent city’s Gallic tongue, but her French was poor, Latin being her interest. Oh, the entourage of eligible bachelors who swarmed around her, like flies to watermelon, had graciously spoken English, but they meant nothing to her.

  For the third time in the space of ten minutes, Emma lost track of the conversation. Her escort to the masked ball, Howard O’Reilly, was saying something to her. She didn’t reply. Not that she wished to be rude to her mother’s brother—Emma just wasn’t paying attention. Her thoughts, her line of sight, were squarely on Satan.

  Dressed in a red hood, a matching cape, and scandalously close-fitting tights, the devil was swinging Venus through a reel. No one but Paul Rousseau would have the gall to wear such a disguise. Emma seethed with disgust and vowed for the hundredth time that evening to erase him from her mind.

  Pasting on a smile, she turned to her escort. “Pardon me. I didn’t hear your question.”

  “Might I fetch you a cup of punch?” Howard inquired. He was dressed as a hyena.

  “Yes, please,” she replied politely, her eyes returning to Satan. “On second thought, I could use a glass of champagne.”

  The reel ended. Marian, frocked as Venus, headed toward the table at which drinks were dispensed. Cozying up to the hyena, she smiled into his furred face. Satan struck up a conversation with a medieval queen and her court jester. Then—Oh no! The devil left the queen and strode toward Emma.

  Paul’s gaze never wavered as he crossed the room. He wasn’t deceived by the gold demi-mask she wore. Emma, sabre-tongued Emma, was dressed in flowing white silk, and emeralds twinkled amid the honeyed locks of her hair. Her gown, which was fastened at one shoulder and left the other tantalizingly bare, was adorned with embroidered metallic-green leaves across the bodice. In the guise of Daphne, Emma was the most comely female in the ballroom. No, Paul corrected that thought, she was the most comely female in the world. He longed to breathe in the fragrance of her fair skin, to touch and to taste it as well.

  He knew she was doing everything in her power to disregard him. She laced her fingers, her arms pointed downward. Her demeanor spoke of innocence and vulnerability. But looks could be deceiving, Paul’s brain reminded his heart.

  He had promised himself that he wouldn’t dance, not even once, with Emma. Until that moment he had done an admirable job of pretending not to see her. Outwardly, at least. He was well aware of the scores of panting admirers who had danced attendance on her all evening, and he couldn’t blame them.

  A sorry excuse for the god Neptune stepped in front of Paul, and sidled up to Emma, a grin splitting his face. “I believe you’ve promised this dance to me, mademoiselle.”

  Paul cut in front of him and snarled, “Weigh anchor, Jolly Roger.” He captured Emma’s hand. “She promised this dance to me.” Without giving either party a chance to protest, Paul whirled Emma onto the dance floor, leaving Neptune gaping like a flounder.

  “It’s a shame—” he said.

  “Yes, you are shameful,” she interrupted, “holding me so close.”

  “Granted. But, my beautiful goddess, it’s more of a shame I didn’t wear the disguise of Apollo. What a joy it would’ve been to pursue Daphne, thus causing the fair nympth to turn into a laurel tree.”

  “Oh, you would love to rest on a laurel, wouldn’t you? But that won’t happen. Besides, I think your devilish disguise fits you quite well.” She held herself slightly away from him; her gaze moving down his physique. “Yes, you are shameful,” she said again.

  Paul’s body responded to her closeness and to her bold perusal. He was drunk on her, and he wished never to sober up. Yet he disliked, distrusted, and damned his recalcitrant heart. He wanted to hate her, wanted to hate himself for falling easy prey to an Oliver.

  “And what of you?” Still stepping in time with the waltz, Paul pulled her even closer, his loins growing hot with passion. “Don’t you know better than to leer at a man’s private parts?”

  “I did no such thing!” She glared up at him, but he read her embarrassment, sensed the wildfire of excitement sweeping through her. “I hate you,” she spat out.

  “Yes you did. And no you don’t.”

  Fighting fire with fire, she said, “Well, sir, as you stated the other night, perhaps I’m not a lady.”

  “Have you known many men in your life, Emma Oliver?” he asked quietly, wondering about her former fiance.

  “Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t.” She lifted her chin haughtily. “It’s really none of your concern. And I’m warning you, stay out of my business!”

  “I’m thinking you have,” he stated, uncowed by her first words. “Tell me about your broken engagement.”

  Her green eyes widened, and she missed a step. “How do you know about Franklin Underwood!” When Paul didn’t reply, Emma darted an angry look at Marian. “Never mind answering!”

  “Franklin Underwood.” He pulled out each syllable as if it were a nasty taste in his mouth. Teasing her was a habit that was growing on Paul. “Oh, sweet vixen, it tears at my heart to think of you giving your beautiful body to someone called Franklin Underwood! I promise to banish all memories of that beast from your mind.”

  She stomped on his toe, but Paul wasn’t about to let on that it hurt.

  “I despise you, Paul Rousseau!”

  “You’re beginning to sound redundant, chérie.” His next words were down-soft. “Must you always fight me, sweetheart?”

  “I’m not your sweetheart!”

  “Ah, now, I’d rather love you than fight you.”

  “Love?” Her voice was tight. “You don’t know the word’s meaning. And for your information, I’d rather swallow belladonna than dance with you, much less let you love me.”

  “You didn’t protest, amoureuse,” he reminded her, pleased that he’d called her sweetheart in a language she didn’t understand.

  “You didn’t give me the opportunity.”

  “And that, my temptress, is the way you need to be handled.”

  Emma didn’t reply. When was this waltz going to end? Parrying with Paul was futile. She decided to finish the dance with as much dignity as possible, and then promptly request that Howard take her back to Magnolia Hall.

  Yet the moments turned into heavenly minutes as Paul led her around the streamer-festooned ballroom. She gave up her anger, her resentment, as she allowed herself simply to enjoy the dance. For a tall man Paul was amazingly light on his feet, and he moved with easy grace, as though he had waltzed a thousand times or more. His body was strong and stirring—more intoxicating than champagne. And when his palm slid to her bare shoulder, she knew she should deman
d he remove it, but she didn’t. He danced her toward an exit, and she considered protesting as they entered the shadows. But she didn’t. The final notes of the waltz crested, then faded. Yet he didn’t release her, and that was going too far!

  “Let me go,” she exclaimed. He didn’t obey, and she declared, “You’re being quite disgraceful.”

  “It’s quite disgraceful what you’re doing to me.”

  “I’m doing nothing to . . .” Her voice trailed off. Through the thin folds of her gown, she felt what she had done to him, and crimson dotted her cheeks. “Oh . . . no.”

  “Don’t be ashamed. It’s a natural reaction when a man holds a woman. Didn’t Frank—”

  “Do hold your tongue about Mr. Underwood. And as for your ‘natural reaction,’ have you said that same thing to my cousin?”

  “Emma! You’re jealous.”

  Saints preserve her, she feared he was right. Nevertheless, she answered, “You’re mistaken.”

  “Rest assured, I’ve never been in a position to utter those words to your kinswoman.” His hands moved to caress her shoulders, to pull her closer. “I hope you are jealous, little vixen. Then I’ll know you have feelings for me.” His voice lost its sarcasm, and assumed the mellow tones of a lover. “You’re the only woman I desire. What I’m feeling right now is just between you and me.”

  That’s not all that’s between us. “Please leave me be,” she whispered raggedly, warring against the mesmerizing effect he had on her.

  “I can’t. I won’t.” Their eyes met and held. “Don’t fight this attraction we both feel. I want to make love with you. And when I hold you in my arms, as closely as two people can hold each other, I won’t relish the idea of having blackmailed you into them. When you’re in my bed, it would pleasure me no end to know you want to be there.”

  “If that’s what you want, you’re going about it the wrong way.” She cringed at her own words. What had made her say that? She had Marian to consider.

  “Tell me then, Emma, what approach do I need to take?”

  “Just leave me . . . and Mrs. Oliver . . . in peace,” she whispered. “That’s what I want you to do.”

  “Impossible. I can’t leave you alone.”

  His words were the fruition of her girlhood dreams. To be desired beyond reason was a heady thing. Oh, if the situation were different . . . If Paul were different, and free of a former attachment . . . But he wasn’t.

  “It’s very possible,” she said. “I’m not going to meet you Tuesday night.”

  With a tug, he pulled the ribbon of her mask. “Can you look at me and deny you want what I desire?” His gaze flowed over each of her features in turn, then amber brown eyes welded to leaf green ones. “Can you?”

  “No, I cannot deny it,” she murmured finally, truthfully, as the tip of her finger touched the scar on his jaw.

  Marian forgotten, Emma was caught up in the magical web he had woven around her. She wanted nothing more than to experience his lovemaking. She was wicked and wanton, and she didn’t care. He wasn’t the man of her dreams; he had a shadowy past. He was a blackmailer—and worse! Suddenly those things didn’t matter. Though she both wanted him and hated him, she was filled with a pagan desire for Paul Rousseau.

  He stepped back, a tender smile touching his features as he brought her fingertips to his lips and his warm breath fanned across her skin. A delicious shiver ran the length of her spine when he said, “Until we meet again.”

  Drawing his cape around him, he turned on his heel, moving toward the shadows. Then he stopped. “You’ve won, my love. Tonight I cease my attentions to Marian Oliver.” And he was gone.

  Emma wilted in thankfulness. No longer would she worry over Marian’s welfare. Instead she’d revel in these heady moments, enjoying the primitive urges he’d evoked within her. And she would see him again.

  Feeling empty without Paul nearby, Emma returned to the ballroom. Her previous determination to leave the festivities early was squelched, and she yearned for the feel of his arms around her once again.

  “Emma, Emma,” Howard said as he walked up to her and cut into her thoughts. “Where have you been? Your champagne’s growing tepid. Are you ill, dear girl? You look as if the devil has possessed you!”

  Oh, yes, Satan has possessed me. She thought of Tuesday evening when she’d be in the arms of the devil himself.

  By dawn Paul hadn’t slept a wink. As he had tossed and turned on his big bed, visions of Emma had crowded his thoughts. Ah, comely Emma! The beautiful witch had cast a spell over him, and it had taken every ounce of his willpower to ignore her after they had parted at the masked ball. But he had. He was proud of himself.

  He also gloried in his strategy for next Tuesday evening. Taking all the time in the world with Emma, he would feed her from his fork and they would drink champagne from one fluted glass. Or better yet, a fine French wine, he decided as he remembered teasing her on the night they’d met.

  He’d make love to her slowly, tenderly, gently, and they would savor each moment of their lovemaking. Ah, yes, the night would become a memory both would cherish a lifetime, he thought confidently as a thin ribbon of smoke curled from his cheroot toward the hotel ceiling. He would bury her memories of past lovers forever.

  But he must never forget she was his enemy’s beloved niece. Between now and Tuesday Paul intended to keep an eye on the Oliver cotton-factoring house and an ear tuned for a clue to the operative’s identity. Tuesday night, however, was going to be devoted to matters of the heart.

  Drawing his brows together, Paul remembered Howard O’Reilly’s words on the previous night. The attorney had called Paul aside at the masked ball, saying he had business to discuss.

  “Another time,” Paul had replied, keeping Emma in sight. She was surrounded by a cadre of admirers, and he was experiencing an unhealthy amount of jealousy.

  Howard lifted the hyena mask from his face. “I say, old chap, you can’t put me off forever.”

  Since Paul had no intention of joining Emma’s faithful corps, he turned his attention to the lawyer. “What is it?”

  “It’s about your grandfather’s estate. As you know, I’m the executor of Remi Rousseau’s will, and it must be settled. You’re one of the beneficiaries.”

  Paul frowned as he thought of his grandfather who had passed away the previous September. “Old Grandpère didn’t say a kind word to me in more years than I care to remember. Strange he should leave me a legacy.”

  “I daresay it carries stipulations.”

  “No doubt.” The Rousseau patriarch had disinherited his only son, Étienne, over bad judgment at the gaming tables. Upon catching Paul in a compromising situation with the old man’s young mistress, Remi Rousseau had banished him from the family sugar plantation. His parting words to his sole heir had been a threat to disinherit him. But that was years ago—in 1829—not long after Étienne had lost his life. Paul had attempted to atone for his indiscretion, had written his grandfather; but old Remi had ignored the letters. Eventually, Paul had given up, and he had never returned to St. Martinsville.

  “Would you care to hear the stipulations?” Howard asked.

  Paul lifted a shoulder in an offhanded manner. “Not particularly. His crumbs don’t interest me.”

  “It’s more than crumbs, actually. Quite a bit more. It’s a sizable estate.” As Marian started toward the two men, Howard said, “Please come by my office Monday morning, and we’ll discuss this further.”

  Remembering he’d promised Emma to break off his relationship with Widow Oliver, Paul gave in. “All right. Monday morning.”

  Marian grabbed each man by an elbow. “Shame on the two of you! This is a party, not a men’s social! Paul, I do believe you owe me this dance.”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “And, you—you naughty hyena,” she continued, releasing Howard’s arm and turning into Paul’s. “Go see about your niece. Emma told me she’s anxious to leave.”

  Taken back, Paul made no move
to dance with Marian. Emma was Howard’s niece? Then his attorney and Rankin Oliver were of the same family. Damn. If that bit of information had been available to him before he’d started the whole mess with Marian, the situation would be different. He could have asked Howard about Rankin Oliver’s activities, and he could have met and pursued Emma in the normal fashion.

  “You never told me you’re related to the Olivers,” he said.

  “You never asked.” Howard, who was starting across the ballroom, waved a hand at Paul. “See you Monday!”

  Suddenly a knock sounded against Paul’s hotel-room door, yanking his thoughts away from the previous night and back to the St. Charles. He heard again the incessant beating of fist against wood.

  Was it Emma? Considering her honeyed reaction at the costume ball, he wondered if she had decided to advance the timing of their meeting. Paul certainly hoped so. Not wishing to appear too eager, he took his time grinding out the cigar, then wrapped a towel around his middle and cut across the rug.

  He was disappointed when he caught sight of Captain Throckmorton, hand poised in the air as if to knock again, in the hallway.

  “Oh, there you are!” James Throckmorton dropped his arm. “Thought I might’ve missed you.”

  “Where did you think I might be?”

  “With my sister, I suppose. It is a glorious morning—weather’s warmed up a bit, I might add.”

  “As you can see, I’m not with Marian.”

  “Yes, yes.” The man brushed past Paul, tossing his gloves onto a table. “We’ve got troubles on the San Antonio, Mr. Rousseau. Bad troubles.”

  Paul slammed the door, then strode over to the sea chest to grab his breeches. “What happened?” he asked while pulling them up over his hips.