The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  Anne recognized the slightly complaining tone of her voice and tried to correct it. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful. More bracingly, she added, “He’s not grown accustomed to the climate yet, the poor dear. Sometimes I wish I were a man and could go and do precisely as I pleased. Then I wouldn’t be a trouble to anyone!”

  “I don’t blame your uncle,” said Delacroix, flicking an infinitesimal speck of lint off his jacket sleeve, then returning his penetrating gaze to her face. His black eyes had a provocative glint; his smile was lazy and sly. “Such a charming bit of English fluff as you wouldn’t last ten minutes on the streets of the rough-and-tumble Vieux Carré.”

  “I say, Delacroix—” Jeffrey began to object. Indeed, Delacroix’s use of language was a bit out of line, but Anne almost liked the bluntness of it. She laid a gently restraining hand on Jeffrey’s arm.

  “What do you suggest I do, then?” she asked Delacroix.

  He cocked his head to the side and studied her. The firm line of his masculine jaw was limned by candlelight. “I would offer myself as escort, but I’m sure you know that in my debauched company you would be in more danger than ever.”

  “Indeed,” she murmured, a strange thrill running down her spine.

  Their eyes held for a lengthy moment, then he seemed to recollect himself, assumed a bored pose, and drawled, “My advice to you, Mademoiselle Weston, is to mind your elders.”

  Again she bristled. “If I were a twenty-three-year-old man, I’d certainly be allowed outside my house without an army of escorts. It’s not fair!”

  “But you obviously are not a man—a fact for which I, for one, am most thankful.” Delacroix splayed his right hand over his ivory brocade waistcoat and bowed, his eyes closed as if in homage to her fair sex, the long lashes black and beautiful against his skin.

  Another instinctive, unwelcome response to the arresting beauty of the man made Anne’s heart race. Furious with herself, she turned to look at Jeffrey, hoping to be diverted by comparing the two men—one so honorable, the other such a scoundrel. Standing slightly back, as if removing himself from the “scoundrel’s” polluted presence, Jeffrey eyed Delacroix with a mixture of anger and … envy? No, he was no help at all.

  “Miss Weston is a suffragist, Delacroix,” said Jeffrey. “In our discussion during the first act, she revealed that she believes women should have all the freedoms and rights of men.” He turned and smiled at Anne. “But I do think your uncle has a point. Voting in the elections is one thing—and I fully support your views on that matter—but allowing you to go about town without the protection of an escort is another thing.”

  Anne conceded this point with a tiny sideways inclination of her head and a chagrined smile. She found it much easier to accept advice when it came from someone other than Delacroix. He had a way of raising her hackles without even trying.

  “Why am I not surprised that Mademoiselle Weston believes that women should be allowed to vote?” said Delacroix, gazing down at her with a sort of idle curiosity that was insufferably patronizing. “She is very different from the Creole man’s ideal of womanhood.”

  “You wound me, sir,” said Anne with sweet, biting sarcasm. “For, as you must know, it is my fondest wish to be the Creole ideal of womanhood.”

  Anne was surprised by the deeply masculine rumble of amusement that came from Dandy Delacroix. Wide-eyed, wondering how such an energetic sound could come from such a lazy fellow, she studied the strong column of Delacroix’s throat while his head was thrown back in laughter. She marveled at the show of straight white teeth, the expanse of broad chest, the black hair falling forward onto his forehead. The vital image was fascinating and pleasing. And—as it finally occurred to her—very insulting.

  What she’d said wasn’t that amusing. But he wouldn’t stop laughing. She realized that he must be laughing at her modern views on women’s rights, which ranked with her deepest convictions about rights for all human beings. How easy it is for him to laugh at my convictions, she thought indignantly, since he has none of his own.

  He thought her an oddity, a British buffoon. She thought him very rude.

  Suddenly the three women at the back of the box made their way to the front and gathered around Delacroix. Feeling suddenly suffocated by full skirts of taffeta and silk, Anne stood up and drew closer to Jeffrey, unconsciously grabbing hold of his hand.

  “Delacroix,” cooed one dashing young blond, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow, “do tell us what makes you laugh so deliciously!”

  “Oui, Lucien,” said another clinging female, this one a brunette. “What is so impossibly funny? I love your humor, you wicked man!”

  The third woman hovered close, looking ready to dive in and claim another arm if Delacroix should happen to sprout one. It was obvious none of the women had come to Katherine’s box to be introduced to Anne. They were there to see Delacroix.

  Seeming momentarily to stifle his laughter with some difficulty, he patted the gloved hand of the blond woman and said, “We’re disturbing the elegant tranquillity of Madame Grimms’s opera box, ladies. I suggest we repair to the hall where we can be as merry as we choose.” He leaned close to the brunette and whispered quite audibly, “Or as we dare.”

  “Darling Lucien,” she replied, caressing his arm, “with you I would go anywhere!”

  Delacroix smiled wickedly, then nodded and winked at Anne as a sort of farewell as he breezed by with the two females clinging to his arms and the other less fortunate one trailing adoringly behind. They had barely gone through the door when he let loose with another hearty laugh.

  “Good God!” said Reggie in an appalled undertone as he sidled up next to Anne. “What deplorable manners!”

  “Nothing more than one might expect from Delacroix,” said Jeffrey, his voice dripping with scorn. “I don’t understand what all those females see in the fellow—except his money, of course.”

  Anne was sure she still detected envy in Jeffrey’s voice, despite his disapproval of Delacroix. She wasn’t certain how she felt. Insulted, yes. Summarily dismissed, yes. A little hurt, yes. But how could such a man have the power to hurt her?

  “Anne, dear, I’ve a host of people to introduce you to.” Katherine’s voice broke through Anne’s troubled thoughts, and she realized that a veritable army of dapper-dressed, smiling gentlemen was descending upon her. She also realized that she was still clinging to Jeffrey Wycliff’s hand.

  She was embarrassed. She darted a look at Jeffrey, found him grinning down at her, and hastily untwined their fingers. “You must excuse me, Mr. Wycliff,” she mumbled, so low only he could hear. “I forgot myself in the confusion of the moment.”

  “I like you best of all, Miss Weston, when you forget yourself,” he whispered back.

  Anne couldn’t help smiling, which was just as well, since politeness required that she look agreeable while being introduced to society’s best.

  “What’s wrong, cher?” Micaela’s golden-brown eyes were full of sober inquiry and compassion. She reached up and pushed a lock of hair away from Lucien’s forehead. They sat together on a sofa in her small, elegantly decorated parlor. Micaela’s voluptuous figure was draped in an alluring diaphanous dressing gown Lucien had carefully picked out for her, but she might as well have been wearing a gunnysack.

  Lucien leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees, and cradled his head in his hands. “Nothing’s wrong, Micaela. I’m just tired.”

  There was a long pause. Finally, gently, she suggested, “You are tired very much lately, Lucien.”

  “Yes.” What else could he say? It was a good excuse. At first he’d tried to forget Anne by spending more time in bed with Micaela, but that had proved fruitless. And in the past week—even before he had seen Anne and talked to her tonight—he’d entirely lost any desire to be with Micaela sexually. How did one tell his mistress he only wanted to … talk?

  After that scene at the opera, leaving Anne so rudely, he felt like an absolute villain.
He’d hurt her. He had seen it in her eyes. But he’d felt himself slipping, slipping … slipping into the grasp of something he didn’t want to face at this point in his complicated life. He liked Anne Weston too damned well, and a few more minutes in that opera box with her and he might have wrestled her to the floor for wicked purposes. He’d acted in self-defense. He got out of there as fast as he could, leaving a trail of insult and hurt in his wake.

  Micaela’s hand slid down his arm. “You are full of anger tonight, Lucien. At me, cher?”

  Lucien stirred himself, caught Micaela’s caressing hand, and absently held it “No, not at you. At me.”

  “Why? Did you do something bad?”

  Lucien lifted his head and smiled wryly at her. “Yes. Are you surprised?”

  She smiled back, encouraged. She snuggled closer to him. “I can make you forget…” She twined her arms around his neck and kissed him. Lucien felt nothing.

  She drew back, a look of puzzlement on her face. She was exotic, incredibly beautiful, and wonderfully primitive in her lovemaking. But she wasn’t Anne. He closed his eyes for an instant and imagined she was. He went further and imagined Anne’s golden hair scattered on a pillow, her blue eyes hazed with passion, her sweet, sly tongue silenced by his kisses…

  “Lucien?”

  He opened his eyes. Micaela drew back and settled into the crook of the sofa, studying him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last, feeling the inadequacy of the word but not knowing what else to say.

  “It’s all right, cher,” she answered. “Tell me about her.”

  He made a sound of surprise, laughing softly. “Is it so obvious?”

  “Oui. So … tell me about her. I will listen.”

  Lucien shook his head. “No, I don’t want to talk about her.” Anne was the last thing he should be talking or thinking about. He made an effort to smile at Micaela and said, “Thank you, Micaela, for being so understanding. Right now, though, the thing I need the most is a good strong cup of coffee.”

  Micaela smiled back. “Whatever you want, cher.” Then she rose and went to the kitchen.

  Anne sighed and stared out of the carriage window as they drove slowly home through the Vieux Carré. It was raining, and the roads were thick with mud, the gutters swirling with dark brown water. The city was well-lighted by the oil lamps that hung by chains at each streetcorner.

  Reggie had made it clear to Anne that he disapproved of the way she’d behaved with Wycliff, allowing him to monopolize her throughout the evening. Anne had no ready excuse to offer her uncle because she knew she had behaved irresponsibly. She’d paid far too much attention to Jeffrey Wycliff.

  She’d probably encouraged him to think romantically of her by impulsively grabbing his hand during Delacroix’s rude exit. And earlier she’d touched his arm with her hand, keeping it there far too long for propriety. But she’d left her hand on Jeffrey’s arm for so long only to irritate Delacroix. Now Anne couldn’t imagine why he incited her to behave against her own good judgment just to spite him. She couldn’t explain it to herself, much less to Reggie.

  Her behavior with Jeffrey was much easier for Anne to understand. Reggie’s snobbishness about Jeffrey’s orphaned background and his distrust of Jeffrey’s ambitions and intentions toward her had conspired to make her more determined to get to know him better.

  For once Katherine stayed out of the fray, and, after several minutes of heated discussion with her uncle, Anne decided to put the subject to rest. Laughing, she fell back against the plush squabs of Katherine’s well-sprung carriage. “I’m flattered by all this vigilance on my account, Uncle Reggie, but you’re jumping to conclusions. You act as though I’m ready to marry Jeffrey Wycliff. I do like him—very much—and I do admire him, but I’m not mad to marry him! Don’t worry, I don’t intend to be hasty about anything as serious as that.”

  These few heartfelt words seemed finally to reassure Reggie. He, too, relaxed against the cushions, his face disappearing in the shadows. They continued their slow drive to the Faubourg St. Mary in noncontentious silence, allowing Anne to drift into private speculations about the most interesting of the men she’d met so far in America. Jeffrey, Renard, and Delacroix. Yes, Delacroix.

  But first Jeffrey. He seemed to Anne to be exactly the sort of man she’d hoped to meet in America. He was self-made, ambitious, and involved in meaningful work. He was attractive, too. But the thing that most drew her to Jeffrey was something she was wise enough to keep from Reggie. They were both avid fans of Renard. On that basis alone, Anne knew they could be good friends. Whether something romantic was possible between them, she didn’t know. So far he hadn’t made her heart leap into her throat as Renard had.

  Renard. He was her romantic ideal. Their chance meeting on the Belvedere had become to Anne like a sharply focused, golden dream. She had no hope, certainly no expectation, of ever seeing Renard again. But once in his arms was better than never, even though, after her brief but thrilling encounter with Renard, she would always compare other men to him. With such daunting competition, would a regular fellow ever be able to win her heart and hand?

  Then there was Delacroix. Anne shook her head and smiled, but it was a bittersweet smile after the way he’d behaved tonight. He was an enigma. There was something about him that stirred her. Was it curiosity? He was clever … Was she charmed by his wit? Or was she really so shallow that she could disregard his conceit, arrogance, bigotry, and loose morals, and simply be enthralled by his physical beauty?

  She didn’t know. But something about Delacroix had made her heart race more than once…

  She closed her eyes. American men were a diverse lot, she thought sleepily. Diverse indeed.

  Chapter Six

  Midmorning sunshine slanted across the ruby-red and peacock-blue Persian rug covering Katherine’s drawing room floor, the light that streamed through the tall French windows illuminating the exotic art that hung on the walls and the strange artifacts and barbaric-looking sculptures that littered the tabletops.

  A vase of roses stood on a wrought-iron stand next to the sofa, the deep yellow buds exactly matching the color of Anne’s walking gown. She was reading Jeffrey’s latest article in the Picayune, and he was watching her. All was quiet except for the occasional rustle of paper and the muted tick of the ormolu clock on the marble mantel.

  When she finished, she folded the paper and set it down, drew a long breath, and smiled at Jeffrey. “Isn’t Renard wonderful? Did he really do all that? How is it that you’re always the first reporter to know what the Fox does, Jeffrey?”

  After three weeks of almost daily association—either at public functions and private parties, or at the Grimms mansion—Anne and Jeffrey were now the best of friends and called each other by their Christian names.

  “Which question shall I answer first?” he asked her, grinning.

  “All of them, and in order, you tease,” said Anne.

  “Well, yes, Renard is wonderful. We’ve always agreed about that. And, yes, he did orchestrate the escape last night of five slaves from the Latrobe house on Bourbon Street, getting them out of the very heart of the city without being apprehended. As to how I know about these things before anyone else…” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “You won’t tell me? How rude of you, Jeffrey.” Anne playfully slapped him on the shoulder. “I thought we shared everything.”

  “Not everything, Anne.” He glanced toward the entryway and lowered his voice. “We’ve never kissed, and certainly not because of a lack of interest on my part. Perhaps we’ve just lacked the opportunity? Where is the old watchdog, anyway?”

  Anne laughed. “If you mean Uncle Reggie, I’m just as surprised as you are that he’s not here. I’m sure he would be if he knew that Aunt Katherine had left us alone to fetch her bonnet. I’d almost believe she planned this. She’s been gone several minutes.”

  “She likes me.”

  “Yes, I know. She’s always liked men of the literary persuasion
. But more than likely she’s having the servants pick flowers at the last minute to take to the cemetery. She has three husbands’ tombs to decorate for All Saints’ Day, you know. It’s a beautiful day, and the place will be awash with fresh-cut blooms. You’re welcome to come with us, Jeffrey.”

  Jeffrey grimaced. “No, thanks. I don’t like cemeteries, even when they’re decorated for a party. Having no relatives at least saves me from obligatory postmortem visits to them.”

  Anne winced and smiled, amused by his phraseology but still rather shocked by his lack of sentiment. “That’s rather callous of you.”

  “No, just honest. Now, back to the matter of the kiss…” He darted another look toward the entryway and scooted an inch closer to her. “Your aunt likes me, but do you like me?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “More to the point, do you like me well enough to kiss me? If you do, this would be the perfect time to tell me … and to show me.”

  Anne looked up into Jeffrey’s eager face. His brown eyes were clear, his intentions direct and sincere, his expression ardent. She liked him, she really did. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to kiss him. He took her hand and chafed it between his two. His palms were cool and rough. She looked down and studied his square-tipped fingers, the wide knuckles, and the clean, close-clipped nails. There was an ink stain on his thumb. For some elusive reason she found herself mentally comparing his honest workingman’s hands to Delacroix’s, whose hands were more like those of an artist or a musician—lean, sensitive, strong yet graceful.

  “Anne,” prompted Jeffrey in a gentle but urgent tone, “you’ve given me reason to hope that I’m something more to you than a friend.”

  He was right. She’d been flirting with him since the night of the opera when they’d met for the first time. She had supposed all along that when the opportunity presented itself, she’d happily give him the kiss he was asking for. But now she wasn’t so sure it was the right thing to do. She didn’t know if Jeffrey could ever be more than a friend. Maybe it was just too soon.