Reckless Seduction

by Jane Feather

  “I took the liberty of informing the kitchen that you would dine in the courtyard, monsieur,” he informed his master. “ ’Tis a fine evening, and you’ll be glad of the fresh air, I’ll be bound.” There was a faint note of longing in his voice and Dominic chuckled.

  “We’ll be back at sea soon enough, Silas. I’ve just this one matter to tie up, then we’ll be off in search of a prize or two.”

  “And the new anchorage, monsieur?” Silas asked the question casually, as if the answer were a matter of supreme indifference to him. It was the most sensible attitude, he had discovered long ago. Since he could not be sure such questions would receive an answer, it was wise to cultivate indifference.

  Dominic shrugged. “That, Silas, is the very matter I have in hand.” He strolled out onto the gallery and down the outside staircase to the courtyard where a candlelit table was laid beneath a tall magnolia tree, its waxen blossoms in full, fragrant bloom. The attentive manservant drew back his chair, filled his glass, and served him from the dishes brought from the kitchen at the rear of the courtyard to be placed in readiness upon a side table.

  It was a delightful evening with the moon hanging full in the sky and the scents of verbena and yellow jasmine heavy in the air. Dominic ate in a leisurely manner, deliberately controlling his impatience to be off about the evening’s business, and equally deliberately refusing to allow himself to think of that business, dwelling instead on the beauty of the evening, the rich bouquet of the excellent burgundy in his glass, and the subtlety of the sauces enhancing the food on his plate. As a result, he was refreshed and relaxed when the bell on his front door peeled and a few minutes later, Nicolas St. Denis was announced.

  “Why, Nicolas, what a pleasant surprise,” Dominic murmured, waving his guest to a chair. “You will join me in a glass of wine?”

  “Thank you.” Nicolas took the offered seat and smiled awkwardly. The older man always made him feel gauche, a bumbling schoolboy who needed to mind his manners. “I hope you will forgive the intrusion, but I thought it might be … uh … be more politic if I were to accompany you to the soirée.” He flushed slightly. One really did not like to imply that one’s guest might not be welcome under one’s family’s roof, however undeniably true it was.

  Dominic smiled, fully conscious of his companion’s confusion. “A good thought, Nicolas,” he reassured. “I am most grateful to you. It would be quite embarrassing to be turned away from the door.” He smiled kindly, but managed nevertheless to convey that it was, of course, quite ridiculous to imagine Dominic Delacroix in such an embarrassing predicament.

  “Mademoiselle Latour is in good health, I trust, and intending to grace the soirée?”

  “Most certainly,” Nicolas assured him. He would have liked to have added that Elise awaited Dominic’s arrival most eagerly, but, somehow, although such a statement would be a mere drop in the ocean of his treachery, he could not forsake the strict rules of his Creole upbringing sufficiently to discuss a lady in that fashion.

  “It was unfortunate about this afternoon,” Dominic continued smoothly, filling his guest’s glass. “It would have been preferable had you contrived to be alone with Mademoiselle Latour when we met.”

  Nicolas squirmed, recognizing the rebuke beneath the gentle tones, the implacable warning lurking behind the smile. “Yes, I must apologize for that, Dominic, but Genevieve is … is …”

  “A tiresome child,” Dominic finished for him, still smiling. “I rather gathered that.” He sipped his wine thoughtfully. “Also somewhat forceful. You seemed to have some difficulty gainsaying her.” The smile was switched off like a doused candle, and Nicolas felt his cheeks warm.

  “I could not have allowed her to return to Royal Street unchaperoned,” he protested.

  “No, of course not,” Dominic concurred easily, “but, was that your only option? Could she not have been obliged to fall in with yours and her sister’s plans?”

  “Genevieve does not, in general, fall in with other people’s plans,” Nicolas said with a sigh. “But you need not fear that she will be in the way tonight.”

  “I am relieved to hear it.” Dominic rose from the table. “I think it is time you presented me to your aunt. I am most anxious to renew my acquaintance with Mademoiselle Latour, also, and to exchange a few words with your uncle. Shall we go?” A fly-away eyebrow lifted, and Nicolas made haste to get to his feet.

  It was but a short distance to the Latour house on Royal Street, and the two men walked through the soft spring evening, both lost in their own thoughts. But while Dominic could guess fairly accurately the tumultuous reflections of his companion, Nicolas could not begin to hazard what thoughts formed behind the smooth brow and untroubled eyes of Monsieur Delacroix.

  As they turned onto Royal Street, it became clear that a party was in progress. Carriages passed along the narrow thoroughfare, turning in through the grilled porte cochere of the large mansion to unload their passengers in the courtyard at the end of the wide-paved driveway. The guests made their way across the lamplit courtyard, beneath the lattices and pergolas hung with fragrant blooms and delicate greenery, to be received by their hostess on the rear gallery.

  The strains of music from French horn, violin, and pianoforte drifted through the gallery’s open doors behind Hélène. The musicians were ensconced at the street end of the long ballroom contrived by throwing open the doors between the salle de compagnie and the dining room, and the young people were dancing there, well away from their gossiping elders gathered on the gallery and at the far end of the room.

  Elise had been released from her receiving duties at her stepmother’s side soon after the arrival of Don Lorenzo Byaz, and was moving across the polished dance floor, partnered by her fiancé, when her cousin and Dominic Delacroix entered the house, like other pedestrians, from the front verandah on Royal Street. Elise saw them over Lorenzo’s shoulder and her eyelashes fluttered. Dominic smiled and one eyebrow lifted infinitesimally. Elise promptly lowered her eyes demurely and Dominic’s smile broadened.

  Elise knew that she outshone every girl in the room with the candle glow catching the russet lights in her hair, piled artlessly in loose curls atop her head, and the richness of her figure in the blue Grecian-style gown that exactly matched her eyes. And Elise knew that there was only one man in the room worthy of her beauty—and that man was not her fiancé. Lorenzo was a magnificent catch, of course; wealthy, aristocratic and, as his wife, she would be mistress of Villafranca, the Byaz plantation outside New Orleans, as well as the magnificent town house that almost rivaled the Latour establishment. Elise wanted all of these things as passionately as Victor Latour wanted the alliance, but she also knew that once Elise Latour became Madame Byaz, she must bid farewell to the possibility of all excitement, to the gentle spice of flirtation, to those moments when the maiden’s heart beat faster as she contemplated a handsome countenance and wondered—just wondered.

  It was not sensible, of course, but Dominic Delacroix had made no secret of how he was drawn to her on the three occasions that they had met, and there was something infinitely exciting about him; the man everyone needed although they hated having to admit to that need. He made no secret of his disdain for his “customers,” or for the rules and regulations of the rigidly correct Creole existence that was as much his background as it was Elise’s. But when he looked at her, Elise saw only admiration. When he spoke to her, she heard only compliments in the soft voice. To her knowledge, he had never singled out another Creole lady for his attentions, although there were those willing to risk a little. Why should she not indulge just a tiny bit in an innocent, harmless flirtation? And besides, it would do Lorenzo no harm to be a little less complacent. His eagerness and praise for her grace and beauty had diminished in extravagance since the betrothal had been formalized and, on occasion, he seemed to behave toward her as if they were already married, as if she were already his possession. No, it would do him no harm to realize that even a man like Dominic Delacroix,
supposedly impervious to female charms, was not immune to Mademoiselle Latour.

  Dominic, Nicolas beside him, made his way through the crowded room toward his hostess. He seemed not to notice the minute lull in the conversations around him, the startled glances, swiftly averted, but Nicolas noticed them and wished as he had so often done in the last weeks, that he had never had dealings with Monsieur Delacroix. He had still not worked out how he was to explain this guest’s inclusion in his aunt’s soirée to Victor Latour, beyond the rather ingenuous excuse that he knew his new friend from one of the salle d’escrime on Exchange Alley, which was, after all, where they had first met. He was a Delacroix, when all was said and done, and if one happened to meet accidentally in the street and was invited to take a glass of wine with him, it would be discourteous, when pleading a prior family engagement, not to invite him to come along. It was very feeble, but would have to do, Nicolas decided disconsolately. Victor thought him an idiot, anyway, so would probably not see anything odd in this further example of stupidity.

  “Hélène,” Nicolas greeted his young aunt with a brilliant smile. “May I introduce a good friend of mine. I happened to meet him in the street as I was on my way, and made sure you would be glad to welcome him.” Laying his hand lightly on Dominic’s velvet arm, he announced, “Dominic Delacroix.”

  Hélène, for all the fragility of her nerves, for all her fear of her husband, had been brought up in the strict school of a Creole lady, and would have cut out her tongue rather than reveal in public an iota of discourteous surprise. With barely a flicker, she welcomed Nicolas’s companion, smiling warmly as she pressed a glass of iced champagne upon him and quietly introduced him to the group beside them. Everyone responded with the same immaculate courtesy, and Dominic was hard pressed to keep a straight face as he imagined the seething speculation, not unmixed with indignation, that would replace the well-bred smiles once he was no longer in the room. However, he bowed, sipped his champagne, chatted amiably until he espied a lady in a purple turban consuming, with a degree of determination, dragées from a chased silver bowl.

  “You will excuse me,” he murmured. “I must pay my respects to my aunt.” This gentle reminder that the privateer was a Delacroix, and as such should be as much accepted in the drawing rooms of society as any other member of his family, did much for Hélène’s peace of mind and, in fact, created a degree of confusion amongst those others who had simply been waiting for his departure to cry their outrage. One could not refuse to know a Delacroix.

  “Tante Louise, how delightful.” Dominic bowed before the elderly dowager.

  “What the devil are you doing here, you rascal?” The dowager, with no need for politeness, raised her lorgnette and examined her nephew closely.

  Dominic’s eyes twinkled as he raised her hand to his lips. “I am acquainted with Nicolas St. Denis, tante. He was kind enough to invite me.”

  “Nonsense!” Louise dismissed the statement with all the contempt it deserved. “What dealings do you have with Latour?”

  “At the moment, none but those I have with most people in this room,” he replied easily.

  “At the moment, eh?” The old lady regarded him shrewdly. “You’ve some mischief in mind for the future, then?”

  “How could you think such a thing?” Dominic chided gently. “I never plan mischief, madame, only necessity.”

  “Ah.” The old lady nodded her head in comprehension. “You need something from Latour, then.” She cackled with laughter. “I wish you luck, nephew. He’s as hard a man as you. You will be well partnered.” She took another dragée from the depleted bowl and waved a hand in dismissal. Dominic accepted his congé with a further bow, and turned his attention back to the room.

  Victor Latour was on the gallery, looking ill at ease as he attempted to make small talk with a group of ladies. The man was not cut out for drawing-room affairs. He was much more at home in the clubs with his cronies, or riding around his vast sugarcane plantation, or managing the affairs of his shipyard on Lake Borgne. He looked more than ordinarily choleric, Dominic thought, examining the bucolic figure dispassionately. Something must have happened to exacerbate that notoriously short fuse. But, of course—the tiresome Mademoiselle Genevieve with her penchant for slave trading. Dominic examined the occupants of the grande salle again. There was no sign of that diminutive figure with the tiger’s eyes, and small though she was, Dominic was convinced her presence could not possibly go unnoticed by anyone who had once met her.

  Mademoiselle Latour, however, was very much in evidence, and much in beauty. Of course, if he could come to an easy understanding with Victor Latour, it would not be necessary to pursue matters with Mademoiselle Elise, but then, the former was highly unlikely, and Dominic believed in hedging his bets. He moved toward the dancers and was gratified to see Elise instantly say something to her partner, something that brought them both out of the dance. Don Lorenzo left her, crossing the hall to the supper room set up in the parlor opposite, and Dominic appeared beside the lady.

  “Good evening, Mademoiselle Latour. This is a delightful party, is it not?”

  “I am so glad you were able to join us, monsieur.” Elise turned the full beam of those magnificent blue eyes upon him.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” he said softly. “But a crowded ballroom leaves much to be desired, I fear, as a setting for a tête-à-tête.”

  Elise’s eyes narrowed as she contemplated her response to this bold invitation. No man she had known hitherto would have dared venture such an outrageous suggestion. Lorenzo, if he heard of it, would probably demand satisfaction with swords in St. Anthony’s Garden. The thought struck her as immensely amusing, but she was obliged to swallow her giggle as Lorenzo himself appeared with the glass of orange-flower water that she had begged him to procure.

  “Thank you, Lorenzo.” Smiling prettily, she took the proffered refreshment. “Are you acquainted with Monsieur Delacroix?”

  “I have not had the pleasure,” her fiancé said in a tone of voice that suggested pleasure was not forthcoming at this moment, either. The aquiline Castilian features were set in severe lines of disapproval.

  Dominic took a pinch of snuff from a gilded onyx box and regarded the young Spaniard, mild amusement in the turquoise eyes. “I have seen you fence, Don Lorenzo, at Arnaud’s. You were a worthy opponent, as I recall, for the maître d’armes. Perhaps we may have a match one day.”

  Why was it that the seemingly polite suggestion carried the indefinable tinge of a challenge? Elise blinked and felt a surge of excitement. Could Monsieur Delacroix possibly be hinting to her that he would match his swordplay with her fiancé for her? It was an outrageous idea, of course, but as she glanced up at him, the corners of that chiseled mouth lifted in a smile that was as conspiratorial as it was full of promise. So overcome was she by this exhilarating reflection that Elise did not notice that the smile was absent from his eyes, which bore a hooded expression almost of boredom.

  Vain little fool, Dominic thought dispassionately—just like all the others of her breed. She was going to make matters very easy for him, and that stiff-necked Castilian was only going to help things along unless he lightened up a little. “Would you permit me to solicit your fiancée for the next dance?” He bowed to Lorenzo who could do nothing but return the bow stiffly as he gave his permission for the dance.

  “I am afraid that your fiancé disapproves of me,” Dominic observed with a little laugh, holding the voluptuous figure lightly yet managing to convey an intimacy that shocked Elise even as it delighted her.

  “Oh, Lorenzo disapproves of anything that he does not understand,” she said airily.

  “And he does not understand me?” The fly-away eyebrows lifted and Elise giggled a little. It was not at all proper to be discussing her fiancé in this manner. “Do you understand me, Mademoiselle Latour?”

  “I am not sufficiently acquainted with you, monsieur,” Elise managed in stifled tones.

  “A situation I hope to
remedy,” Dominic said smoothly, wishing perversely that the girl would make it a little more difficult for him. He had never enjoyed challengeless games.

  “You should not say such things, Monsieur Delacroix,” Elise now reproached him. “I am betrothed.”

  “Yes, so you are,” he agreed. “But that does not mean that we cannot become acquainted, does it?”

  “No … no, I suppose it does not.” Elise felt a wave of heat creeping up her neck. This was the most dreadfully dangerous conversation, yet it was utterly irresistible.

  “Perhaps you would like to take a turn about the garden,” her partner said. “It is a most beautiful evening. We could become acquainted under the moonlight.”

  “I do not think Lorenzo would permit it,” Elise said at last. “Even with a chaperone, it would be considered … well, peculiar.”

  Dominic was silent for a moment, then he said gently, “I had not thought to seek Don Lorenzo’s permission, and I am not, myself, accustomed to chaperones.”

  “I think perhaps we should talk of something else,” Elise murmured.

  “Of course,” he agreed, and began to talk of the opera.

  Elise hardly attended to his remarks; her mind was in such a whirl. What possible harm could there be? A little walk, a little conversation about more than these social pleasantries, a kiss—No, not that. Not even Lorenzo had kissed her, except for the most decorous salute on her brow or cheek. Genevieve was always saying that she considered Lorenzo distinctly poor-spirited in this matter, for all that he was only behaving according to strict convention. Genevieve also said that she could not imagine getting married without having experienced some flash of passion. But then, Genevieve was always saying such shocking things, always talking about matters that she was far too young to know anything about. But the idea of her sister having a flirtation with Dominic Delacroix on the eve of her marriage would surely stun even the seemingly unshockable Genevieve. It would give Elise an advantage that she had never before had, a pinnacle from which she could condescend in a most satisfying manner. And no one else need know. Genevieve would never betray her.