The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  Simone’s chin shot up proudly. “Paying my father’s debts—all of them—is my duty.”

  “Be reasonable, chère.”

  “Even if I allowed it, Marcel wouldn’t.” Simone’s shoulders slumped, and she said sadly, “My aunt wanted to repay him, but he threatened to charge me with attempted murder unless I became a servant in his house.”

  “Don’t you mean his mistress?” Lisette asked.

  “Oui.” Simone nodded glumly. “So you can see, I’m better off where I am for now. I hope he will find someone else to interest him soon and abandon his search for me. Then I can pay my father’s gambling debts and be free of Marcel.”

  Lisette pondered the matter, but she could see no ready solution to the girl’s problem. The Baudin heir was as powerful as he was cruel. He had been banned from her house after he beat one of her girls for accidentally scratching his flawless face. What would he do to Simone if he found her now?

  “Très bien.” She shuddered delicately. “I’ll keep your secret, ‘Jean-Paul.’ Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “There is one thing,” Simone answered wistfully.

  “Name it, ma petite.”

  “May I come here one day and take a bath, a real bath?”

  “You may come here every day and take a bath,” Lisette smiled.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, but I’d like to come soon, if you don’t mind.”

  “Come tomorrow. I’ll make sure you have privacy, and some time to be Simone.”

  “Merci. You are kind.” She smiled in anticipated pleasure,

  The very next day, Jean-Paul sauntered into the house on rue Dauphine and, in the seclusion of the madam’s suite, was transformed into pretty Simone Devereaux, if only for a few hours.

  She lingered in the tub until the water was cold and her skin white and puckered. She lathered herself several times for the sheer, luxurious pleasure of it, and she washed her hair at least five times.

  “Oh dear,” Lisette fretted when she saw the dingy tinge to the water, “you’ve been darkening your hair with café. We must do something about that.” She hastened from the room and returned with a bottle of dye. Simone allowed her to apply it, grateful she would not have to worry about her hair lightening day by day. It was a wonder, she realized, that no one had yet noticed the faint aroma of coffee that clung to Jean-Paul.

  Stepping into the bedroom, Simone found the drapes drawn to guard against prying eyes. On the bed was spread a feminine robe. With an excited cry, she put it on and went into the parlor for supper with Lisette.

  In the days that followed, Simone’s visits became a habit both women enjoyed. During the suppers that followed her baths, they laughed and talked, the difference in their ages forgotten, as if Simone were not seventeen and Lisette, thirty. Simone listened to her new friend’s story with the same compassion the madam had shown her.

  When her entire family was wiped out by yellow fever, Lisette had found herself, like Simone, at the mercy of an unscrupulous man. She, too, had decided to live life on her own terms. Unwilling to be any man’s mistress, she had opened the house of assignations in order to be her own. Her bordello, discreet and elegant, catered to some of New Orleans’s finest citizens. While Lisette did not entertain customers herself, she candidly admitted she had no illusions about her profession and no regrets.

  “Why should you?” Simone asked. “You are a good person. That is what is important.”

  And, indeed, as unlikely a pair as they were, Lisette was becoming the mother Simone had never had.

  Rapping lightly on the dressing room door, Lisette thrust an arm in. “Here’s a lamp so you can see what you’re washing,” she teased, setting it on a table near the tub. In the flickering light, Nicholas’s ring blazed with green fire.

  “Merci,” Simone replied, opening drowsy emerald eyes. “I’ll hurry and finish. I did not realize it was so late.” The evening sun’s last rays angled over the garden wall outside the tiny window and filtered softly through the lace curtains.

  “You needed the rest.” Lisette frowned in concern at the exhausted girl. “You work too hard at the salle. Take your time with your bath. I must check a few things before my guests arrive for the evening. We’ll have supper when I return.”

  “All right.” Simone eased even deeper into the water, its lulling warmth making her sleepy. She heard Lisette lighting the sconces in the bedroom, but she hardly knew when the woman slipped out of the suite.

  She must have dozed for a time, but she awoke when she heard a noise from the other room.

  “I’m coming,” she cried, rising at once, dripping water as she reached for a towel. Stepping from the tub, she wrapped the towel around herself and gathered it over her breasts as she hurried into the bedroom, where her clothes awaited her on the bed. About to let her scanty covering drop, she called, “I’ll be ready in just a moment.”

  “Don’t hurry on my account,” a deep, rich voice teased.

  Simone whirled with a gasp, clutching the towel more tightly. In the doorway, Alain de Vallière slouched, one broad shoulder braced against the jamb as he watched her.

  He had no idea where Lisette had found her, the tall Creole thought appreciatively, but the girl was magnificent. Flickering light from the sconce beside the door gilded her ivory skin, and her short black hair curled in damp tendrils around a delicate, heart-shaped face.

  Before she looked away, he saw her blush. Now, there was something you did not see every day, he mused. And the warm color had only enhanced her loveliness. His gaze lowered to where droplets of water from her bath sparkled like diamonds in the hollow of her throat. His eyes dipped to the shadowed cleavage at the top of her towel before drifting down to her shapely legs.

  Simone’s breath quickened at his leisurely perusal, but when his dark eyes rose to meet hers, he showed no sign of recognition. She was perplexed to find disappointment mingling with her relief that he did not know her.

  “What . . . what are you doing here?” Finding her voice at last, she drew herself up to confront the intruder.

  “I thought to find my old friend, Lisette.” A lazy smile lurked at one comer of his full lips. “But suddenly I find I want more than a friendly chat over a cup of tea.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right place, m’sieur,” she retorted mockingly, wondering why she should care that Alain visited a brothel.

  “I believe I have,” the man drawled flirtatiously.

  Simone looked away, flustered, her eyes falling upon her clothes folded at the foot of the bed. If she had not wanted him to recognize her as his ward, she wanted him to realize she was Jean-Paul even less. To block his view of the garments, she stepped around the bed. “Won’t you make yourself comfortable in the parlor, m’sieur?” she invited Lisette’s guest politely.

  “I am very comfortable here.” Crossing one ankle over the other, he shifted contentedly in the doorway. “I think I’ll stay, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind,” Simone snapped, glaring at him. “I would like to get dressed now.”

  “Be my guest.” He nodded accommodatingly but made no attempt to move.

  The nerve of the man, she seethed inwardly. Perhaps if she went about the business of laying out her wardrobe and ignored him, he would go away, she mused. But she could hardly reveal Jean-Paul’s costume. Ever her father’s daughter, Simone decided to bluff. Clutching her towel around her, she turned a haughty shoulder toward Alain and sidled between the bed and the chiffonier in the corner. Opening the wardrobe, she chose one of Lisette’s day gowns and laid it on the bed.

  “It seems a shame to cover those enticing curves,” he commented.

  “It would be a greater shame if I caught my death of cold because you did not allow me to dress,” she responded tartly.

  “I wouldn’t mind keeping you undressed,” he said with a mellow laugh, “until I had time to get to know you... very well.”

  Her face flushed crimson, but she refused to l
et him have the upper hand. “I can see you wouldn’t mind if I suffered discomfort at your hands,” she accused from her corner.

  “Discomfort is not what you would suffer at my hands, chère.” Alain stepped into the room and faced her. His broad shoulders blocked the light from the lamp behind him, and she could not see his face, but his voice, husky with desire, thrilled her. He reached out and ran his hand down her arm, feeling the gooseflesh his touch brought.

  “Go away,” she beseeched, retreating a step, holding her towel tightly in place.

  “Why so coy, ma petite?” One muscular arm snaked out and caught her by the waist, pulling her against him, trapping her arms against his hard chest.

  “You don’t understand,” she said, panicking. She had felt an odd excitement when he had not recognized her, but now she realized with shock that he thought her one of Lisette’s filles de joie. She looked around desperately, but she had unwittingly worked herself into a position from which there was no escape. “Please, I have to get dressed.”

  “A waste of time. I would just have to undress you again,” he murmured, his mouth dipping to claim hers.

  Her beautiful face pale in the dimness, the girl stiffened in his arms, her hands straining against his chest. But after a moment, Alain felt her resistance slip into tremulous uncertainty. And as her response shifted like a dazzling kaleidoscope into passionate intensity, he felt an explosion of desire such as he had never experienced before.

  Her head dropped back into his cradling hand, her short curls feathering over his fingers, as her lips parted beneath his, inviting his tongue to plumb the sweet, warm depths of her mouth.

  Alain drew a ragged breath and looked down at her in amazement. Her lips were slack and slightly parted, her eyes closed, the lashes a dark fringe against cheeks now colored a delicate pink. Her arms, no longer trapped, slid up instinctively to wrap around his neck, releasing the towel, which fell to the floor, unnoticed.

  “You are lovely, chère,” he whispered against the pulse that pounded in her throat, matching the beating of his heart. He had intended this kiss as a promise of the things to come when she would take him to her room, but now, as she filled his arms and his senses, he thought only of the here and the now.

  Simone shuddered with each new wave of white-hot sensation Alain’s touch brought. Though his kisses were demanding, they were strangely gentle, not harsh and cruel like Marcel’s. Neither were they shy, chaste kisses like the ones Fabrice had stolen on occasion. She tilted her face unthinkingly toward his, her lips seeking more of what he offered.

  With a groan deep in his throat, he cupped her buttocks in his big hands, lifting her from the ground to mold her against his long, hard body as he trailed kisses along her bare shoulders.

  Held halfway between heaven and earth, Simone suddenly realized she had lost her towel, and his shirt studs now bit into her naked breasts. Feeling his need jutting so firmly against her very core, she came abruptly to her senses, shocked at her intense response to his kisses. She had to escape the frightening firestorm he ignited in her.

  “Let me go, m’sieur,” she insisted shakily, pushing at his broad shoulders. Her knees felt weak, from panic and something more, and she hoped she would be able to stand when he released her.

  “Non.” His voice was muffled as he buried his face between her breasts.

  “Please!” she nearly sobbed as his mouth found the peak of one breast, his lips fastening on it with tender purpose. She squirmed wildly at the unfamiliar sensation, trying to escape his grasp. “Put me down.”

  Her contortions only brought a tortured moan from him. “Enough games, girl,” he said hoarsely, his hands tightening as he draped her on the edge of the bed, leaving her legs dangling over the side. Watching her with smoldering intensity, he leaned against her, his powerful thighs bracketing her legs so she could not escape.

  “I am not playing games,” Simone countered desperately, futilely trying to tug herself free.

  “No?” he said, smiling wickedly as he stripped off his jacket.

  She stared up at him in fascinated dread, far more frightened of him now than she had been at thirteen.

  “Alain de Vallière, what do you think you’re doing?” Lisette snapped from the doorway.

  Her eyes wide with horror, the girl froze while Alain swung to look at the woman with a perplexed frown.

  The moment she was free, Simone rolled on her shoulder, landing on her feet on the other side of the bed. Snatching up her clothes, she scampered into the dressing room and slammed the door behind her.

  Alain frowned toward the noise, but he bowed politely and said, “Lisette, please accept my apologies. This is my fault.”

  “I have no doubt, you scoundrel,” she said coldly.

  Her words took him by surprise. “I said I’m sorry, ‘Lise. I’ll even say it to her if you like.” His eyes rested on the closed door. “I realize I’ve committed a great breach in etiquette, trying to take one of your girls in your own bed. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “I know what came over you,” Lisette exploded. “You saw a pretty girl and had to prove your prowess. You men are all alike.”

  He winced. “Bitter words from an old friend, but I probably deserve them.”

  “Probably? You try to seduce an innocent guest in my house, and you say ‘probably’?”

  “A guest,” he repeated dumbly. “But I thought--”

  “I know what you thought,” she cut him off, “if you thought anything at all.”

  “Mon Dieu,” Alain said, sitting on the edge of the bed, “what have I done? I must have scared her to death.”

  “You must have,” Lisette answered, slightly mollified by his obvious remorse.

  “I must apologize.” Striding to the door, he rapped softly. “Mam’selle.”

  When there was no answer, he knocked again. “Please, open the door. I’m terribly sorry. What’s her name, Lisette?”

  “I will not say.”

  Alain glowered at her, but he spoke persuasively through the closed door. “Mam’selle, what I did was inexcusable. I . . . I didn’t know you were a guest, and I’ve seldom seen such a vision of beauty.” He waited, but no sound came from within.

  “Say you’ll forgive me,” he coaxed, again meeting silence. “Say something,” he tried with dwindling patience.

  “Mam’selle!” he roared through the door. “I am trying to apologize, and I would prefer to do so face to face.”

  “That should allay her fears nicely,” Lisette said with a withering look. “Let me see if she is all right.

  “It’s me, ma chère,” she called softly as she rapped on the closed door. Trying the knob, she found it unlocked.

  Alain watched as the woman opened the door slightly and peered inside. Without a word she threw the door open so he could see. The room was empty.

  “She’s gone. But how?” Suddenly the curtains, waving gently on the night breeze, caught his eye. “She went out the window” he answered his own question wonderingly.

  “Oui, she went out the window,” Lisette echoed flatly. “Come into the parlor, Alain, and I will give you a drink. Though why I should, I don’t know.”

  As she marched from the dressing room, Alain did not notice her hand furtively sweeping the top of the table beside the bathtub and pocketing the ring Simone had left. He lingered to thrust his head out the tiny window and stare at the moonlit garden, but there was no one to be seen. As he pulled back inside, he cracked his head smartly on the sash.

  “Zut,” he swore. The little vixen had gotten away, and he did not know who she was or how to find her. As he rubbed his head, he watched Lisette speculatively through the open door as she settled in the parlor.

  “Lisette...” he began.

  “No, Alain, and that is that,” she replied, implacable.

  Knowing she would not tell him what he wanted to know, he followed her, in a foul mood.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  When Alain appeared at
the salle the next day with a forbidding frown on his handsome face, Simone waited nervously to see if he would recognize her as the girl from Lisette’s bedroom. Even worse to contemplate was the possibility that he would recognize Jean-Paul as his wayward charge. When he did not, her relief gave way to anger at the events of the night past.

  Alain had stared at her as if she were a plum ripe for taking, she seethed, conveniently forgetting where he had found her. He had touched her where no man had ever touched her. And he would have bedded her whether she wanted it or not.

  She had not wanted it, she told herself firmly. But the memory of his caresses—and her wanton response to them—brought a stain of color to Jean-Paul’s cheeks as he went about his tasks. Who knew what might have happened if Lisette had not interrupted them. Thank le bon Dieu the woman had shown her the hidden gate in the garden wall so she could come and go without detection.

  Throughout the afternoon, Alain engaged in loose play with one opponent after another, leaving them breathless and exhausted. When he had taken the edge off his anger and was dripping with sweat, he stripped to the waist and went to the water bucket. He drank from the gourd ladle, then sluiced some of the water over his shoulders and splashed the remainder in his face. But when he reached for the towel that hung on a peg nearby, it was gone.

  “Jean-Paul!” he grumbled, his irritation not as dull as he had thought. “Bring a towel, boy, and be quick.”

  “Get your own damn towel,” Jean-Paul grumbled. “I’m busy.”

  The man’s fury turned into wry amusement as he observed the boy marking off the piste for a match. What had gotten into the lad? Jean-Paul’s face was set and angry, and he seemed to be muttering under his breath. Shaking his head, Alain decided to leave him alone. One day he would teach the maître’s assistant a lesson, but today was not the day.

  That evening, as Simone walked through Exchange Alley, Claude summoned from a banquette café. Because she could see no way to avoid it, she ambled to where he, Eugène, and four other young men lounged at a table, its top cluttered with heavy white cups and the crumbs of the beignets they had consumed.