Luck of the Wolf

by Susan Krinard

  Cort glared at the nearly empty bottle of vodka in his hand, regretting that he hadn’t accepted a drink when Babette had offered it. “I fear for your mind if you continue to indulge yourself as you have been, my friend.”

  Yuri’s chair banged to the floor. “You assured me that there is nothing between you and the girl, and I was fool enough to believe you. What have you done?”

  Cort was careful to set the bottle down gently instead of smashing it as he wanted to do. “What is wrong with you, Yuri?” he demanded. “You’ve been like a bear with a sore head ever since we arrived.”

  Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Yuri reached for the bottle. “I want it over with,” he said. “Over and done.”

  “Then we are in perfect agreement.”

  Cort didn’t wait for Yuri’s reply but went directly into the drawing room. Babette was sitting alone on the sofa.

  “Lucienne has gone upstairs,” she said when Cort joined her. “In spite of her questionable behavior at the table, I believe she has made considerable progress. Do you not agree?”

  Her words suggested that she had overheard at least part of his argument with Yuri and was courteously pretending she had not. “You have worked a miracle, madame,” Cort said.

  “No miracle. Once Lucienne has set her mind on a thing, she is not easily turned aside from it.” Babette ran her hand over the heavy brocade fabric of the sofa cushion. “You have spent much time away from the lodge. May I ask why?”

  Cort had already prepared a plausible explanation, though he had been too angry to use it with Yuri. “A precaution,” he said. “I have no doubt that you and Yuri threw off any pursuit, but it seems wise to keep watch for intruders, particularly as we are uninvited guests in this house.”

  “Bien sûr. One cannot be too careful. Nevertheless, it would be most helpful if you could remain closer to hand. I will need your assistance in teaching Aria how to behave with a gentleman of her own class. I can think of no better example of a true gentleman than yourself.”

  Cort parsed her words for mockery and found none. Yuri had known better than to speak of Cort’s true origins, and Babette’s opinion of him was better than he deserved. He found he wanted to keep that good opinion as long as possible.

  And if this were yet another test…

  “I am honored by your confidence, madame,” he said, “and am happy to oblige.”

  “Excellent.” She rose. “If you would make yourself available after luncheon tomorrow…”

  “It will be my pleasure.”

  He waited until Babette had gone upstairs, and then went outside. The mountains were filled with night noises, hoots and calls and distant howls. True wolves still roamed the Sierra Nevada, though the encroachment of man and his resentment of any predator other than himself had thinned their numbers.

  Still, they persisted. And Cort felt their song pierce his very being and tug at the other self that was becoming more difficult to control with every passing day.

  The wolf would not be silenced. The wolf wanted his mate. These mountains had become a trap, and the only way out was through the complete and total transformation of the girl he had known into a lady who would be forever beyond his reach.

  ARIA WAS FURIOUS with herself.

  She had been so certain that she could be indifferent to Cort. He had made it easy enough for her by staying away from the lodge for most of the past several days. Even when they’d been in the same room together, he’d barely glanced at her, let alone acknowledged how much she had accomplished.

  Accomplished exactly what he’d wanted. Shouldn’t he be glad? As she should be, because it was what she wanted, too—wasn’t it?

  Then why was she anything but happy? Why did she keep wondering what Cort was doing, what he was thinking, how he felt when he—

  “Are you ready, my dear?” Babette asked.

  No, she wasn’t ready. She didn’t want to see Cort again so soon. Even a restless night’s sleep hadn’t lessened her self-disgust. Or her silly, childish anger. But she couldn’t admit any of that to Babette.

  “I am ready,” she said, and followed Babette to the stairs. As she had feared, Cort was already in the drawing room. He scarcely looked at her as he bowed and waited for the women to enter.

  “Thank you for attending us, Monsieur Renier,” Babette said. She held out her hand to Aria. “Lucienne is eager to begin today’s lesson.”

  Aria smiled mechanically. “Merci, monsieur, for your assistance.”

  Cort’s glance flickered to her face. “De rien, mademoiselle.”

  Nothing. That was exactly what it was.

  “We discussed introductions yesterday,” Babette went on. “One does not simply introduce oneself to strangers, nor should one introduce one’s friends to just anyone. An introduction is a social endorsement.” She smiled as if with secret amusement. “One addresses all but one’s closest friends and family members by their titles. Were Monsieur Renier your brother or fiancé, for example, you might call him ‘Cort’ in private. As an unmarried woman, however, in public you should address him in only the most formal way.”

  That’s fine with me, Aria thought. I doubt I’ll be addressing him at all once we get to New Orleans.

  The thought raised a lump in her throat that refused to be budged.

  “As a gentleman,” Babette continued, “Monsieur Renier would never introduce one of his acquaintances to you unless he was certain that you would find the connection agreeable.”

  An odd expression crossed Cort’s face. Aria wondered if he was thinking of people he might have introduced to her if things had been different. His mysterious family, perhaps?

  “If you should wish to avoid further dealings with one to whom you have been introduced,” Babette said, “you may avoid meeting that person’s eyes when he or she approaches you.”

  Just the way Cort was avoiding her eyes.

  “As a lady, you must not give your hand to a gentleman unless he is a friend of a member of your family or an intimate acquaintance. A gentleman never offers to shake a lady’s hand unless she offers first.” She gestured toward Cort. “Let us try it.”

  Hesitantly, Aria put out her hand. Cort was slow in taking it. Though both of them wore gloves, the spark Aria felt was immediate. Burning heat penetrated deep into her skin.

  Cort snatched his hand away much too quickly. He dropped his arm to his side, and his fingers worked as if he were trying to rid himself of her touch.

  Babette pretended not to notice. “The kiss is another form of greeting that must be used only among family and dear friends,” she said. She took Aria’s shoulders and turned her around, kissing the air to either side of Aria’s face. “This is how it is done among Europeans. In America, it is considered somewhat vulgar to greet even a friend this way in public.”

  Aria felt Cort’s gaze on her back. She was remembering a very different sort of kiss. Was he remembering, too?

  “Of course, a lady never leads a man to believe he should be permitted a greater familiarity than society deems correct,” Babette said, her voice growing dim in Aria’s ears. “Formality is seldom an error with any male acquaintance. True intimacy should exist only among close family members, or between a husband and wife.”

  Or two people who lie together without being married, like Babette and Yuri, Aria thought.

  Babette turned Aria to face Cort again. “You must continue to practice such formality with Monsieur Renier and Baron Chernikov,” she said, “so that you do not lapse into bad habits when you are introduced to New Orleans society.”

  If only she’d been enough of a lady to begin with, Aria thought, none of this would have happened.

  “I understand,” she said. “I will practice very hard.”

  Babette smiled approvingly. “I am certain you will. It will also be helpful to remember that a lady should never reveal too much, or discuss personal or controversial subjects, with strangers or recent acquaintances. A certain frankness is admired, but
it must be tempered with discretion. For instance, you should not gossip or introduce subjects such as the intimate relations between a man and woman.”

  Aria knew Babette was referring to their conversation at the kitchen table and wondered why she had mentioned it in front of Cort. Cort seemed to be wondering, too. He was looking straight at Aria again, his dark brows drawn into a frown.

  Was he afraid that she’d spoken to Babette of what they’d done on the way to the lodge?

  “A true lady is modest in all things,” Babette said. “She always strives to maintain her poise. Too great a show of any emotion is discouraged.”

  “Is the same true of a gentleman?” Aria asked, meeting Cort’s gaze.

  “It is even more true for them. Is that not so, monsieur?”

  Cort didn’t answer, but he looked very uncomfortable. Aria was glad.

  “If you have other business to attend, Monsieur Renier,” Babette said, “Lucienne and I will continue our discussion of dinner menus. Will we see you at luncheon?”

  He looked slightly startled at the dismissal. “Yes. Of course.”

  They left Cort standing alone in the drawing room. After a moment Aria heard him walk out the door and close it with a slight but noticeable bang. She found herself shaking as she joined Babette in the dining room, and even Babette’s praise at the end of the lesson didn’t make her feel any better.

  For the next week Aria practiced and learned everything from how to manage a conversation to making social calls. Babette placed particular emphasis on the specific obligations of an unmarried woman of good breeding, though she never again brought up their talk on the subject of mating. And neither did Aria.

  Aria’s encounters with Cort were coolly formal, just as Babette had advised. She gave him a shallow curtsy every time they passed each other, and he bowed in return. Their eyes, if they met at all, did so only briefly. By the end of that first week, Aria felt as if she had turned to ice, as unfeeling and transparent as glass.

  At the beginning of the second week, Babette mentioned a ball.

  “Naturally we cannot have a real one,” Babette said, “but we can make two couples and imagine the rest.”

  “Are you going to teach me to dance?” Aria asked, a sharp stab of worry catching her under her tightly compressed ribs.

  “That is a rather essential part of a ball, n’est-ce pas?” Babette said with a smile.

  “So I will dance with you?”

  “The entire point of the exercise is that you learn how to dance with a man.”

  “Yuri is a man.”

  “The Baron is not a very good dancer. Monsieur Renier, given his nature, must be graceful as a matter of course. As you will be.”

  There was no getting away from it, Aria thought. And when Cort joined her, Babette and a slightly unsteady Yuri in the drawing room, she could see he hated the idea as much as she did.

  “First, the host or hostess will generally see to introductions,” Babette said. “A ballroom acquaintance seldom extends beyond the ball itself, unless the individuals meet frequently on other occasions. Therefore a young lady cannot accept more than two dances with the same man, or others may misconstrue their relationship.”

  No one could misconstrue my relationship with Cort now, Aria thought bitterly.

  “A true gentleman will always accommodate a lady’s reasonable request, whether it be to take her into the ballroom when she is without an escort or retrieve a glass of punch.” Babette nodded to Cort. “I am certain that Monsieur Renier has been in much demand as an escort at those events he has attended.”

  “You do me too much honor, madame,” Cort said.

  But Aria could hear something wrong in his voice, as if Babette had said something that made him want to laugh.

  “A ball usually begins with a waltz,” Babette said, “so that is what I will demonstrate first. Though we have no music, I will endeavor to hum a tune. Anna, watch me and Baron Chernikov.”

  Her heart sinking even lower than before, Aria watched Yuri place his right hand rather clumsily on Babette’s waist and take her hand with his left. They both wore gloves; Babette had been firm in explaining that bare hands must never touch at a ball.

  Humming softly, Babette nodded to Yuri. He took an awkward half step, caught himself and then slowly swung Babette in a circle. He was certainly not graceful, but when she glanced at Babette’s face Aria could see that Babette didn’t mind at all. She was smiling faintly, and her eyes were half-closed in pleasure. Even Yuri looked happier than he had in days.

  Aria didn’t want to think about what they felt when they touched each other. But trying to avoid those thoughts only brought her back to Cort and his touch.

  She glanced quickly at his face. He, too, was watching Yuri and Babette, avoiding Aria’s gaze with such determination that she knew he was thinking of her, too.

  You’re made of ice, remember? she told herself.

  Imagining herself as an icicle helped a little when Babette and Yuri stopped dancing and Babette indicated that Cort should take Aria’s hand. Even when she felt his heat through her glove, she told herself that she was in no danger of melting.

  But when he put his other hand on her waist, all the layers she wore, from her chemise to the ball gown itself, seemed to peel away and slide to the floor.

  Cort didn’t look at her. He only smiled stiffly and waited until Babette indicated that they should begin. The other woman counted out the steps as Cort guided Aria with his movements. It didn’t take very long for her to catch on. The speed of Babette’s humming increased, and so did the pace of the dance.

  “As a rule,” Babette said, as Cort swung Aria around the room, “there would be much more space for dancing. A ballroom can generally accommodate anywhere from a few couples to several dozen, perhaps more. The dancers take care not to bump into each other, and once a rhythm is established the effect is quite beautiful.” It felt beautiful, Aria had to admit. Her body seemed to be flying, her feet barely touching the ground.

  And Cort was flying, too. He was just as graceful as a man as he had been as a wolf, each effortless motion sweeping her along until she could barely remember what it was like to walk. It was magic, just like in the fairy tales Franz had read to her when she was a child.

  And just like magic, something happened on the fourth circle around the room, something Aria hadn’t dared expect. Cort looked down into her eyes. And smiled.

  It wasn’t a distant smile, like before. His body had lost its rigidity, and the tension had gone out of his face.

  “You dance very well, Lucienne,” he said softly.

  “I…I do?”

  “Yes. I should have told you before how much I…admire you for what you’ve accomplished.”

  “I’ve done my best,” she said, trying not to let him see just how confused she was.

  “I know you have.” He squeezed her hand. “I am proud of you.”

  Aria could see much more than pride in his eyes. And then the ice cracked. It sloughed away from Aria’s soul and left her warm all the way through.

  He still wanted her. He could pretend and pretend, just as she did, but his eyes didn’t lie. Neither did his hand holding her waist so tightly, or his body brushing hers. She could feel his arousal when the dance brought them close, could hear his breath coming faster than such mild exertion would cause. The wolf was there, barely hidden, and her own wolf howled with joy.

  The wolf she was afraid to trust.

  “Tell me,” she said, smiling up at him, “did that other woman, the woman you loved…did she dance as well as I do?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CORT’S STEP FALTERED. Babette’s humming stopped suddenly, and the dance came to a halt. Cort seemed to shake himself, and soon there was nothing left of his smile but a shadow.

  He released Aria and bowed. She returned the courtesy, and when she straightened again, he had already stepped away.

  How could she have been so stupid?

 
“Very good,” Babette said with forced cheer, “but I can see that you will need a little more instruction, chérie.”

  “Yes, madame.” Aria looked out the window, where the late-afternoon sun was casting the woods in shadow. “May I…speak to you privately?”

  Cort took the hint with alacrity. Once he and Yuri had left the room, Aria took Babette’s arm.

  “I would like to take a walk in the woods,” she said. “There is something I’d like to discuss.”

  “This sounds most serious,” Babette said, peering into Aria’s eyes. “Has this anything to do with our previous conversation?”

  “In a way.”

  Babette sighed. “Very well. Let us go upstairs and change into something more suitable for walking.”

  For Aria, “suitable” meant the shirt and trousers Cort had reluctantly bought to replace the clothing that had been destroyed when she had Changed for the fight in the alley. Babette clearly didn’t approve, but she agreed to let Aria wear them when Aria promised she would never consider donning such garments in New Orleans.

  “It would be scandalous,” Babette said. “And a terrible blow to your reputation.”

  Neither scandals nor reputations were of any interest to Aria now. She couldn’t even bask in the freedom of an unencumbered stride and lungs that could expand all the way.

  There was far too much at stake for anything else to matter.

  She listened carefully when she and Babette stepped out the door. The usual woodland noises and scents were evident, but Aria couldn’t hear or smell Cort at all. He, too, had probably left the lodge.

  Nevertheless, she led Babette some distance away from the building, moving downslope as fast as Babette’s dress would permit.

  “Please!” Babette called out behind her. “I beg you, let us rest. I am neither loup-garou nor machine.”

  Aria stopped and looked back. Babette was leaning heavily against the trunk of a tall pine, bent at the waist and breathing hard. It was the first time Aria had ever seen her perspire.