Reckless Seduction

by Jane Feather

  Elise was sitting with her sister and Hélène on the patio, sipping café au lait and toying with a plate of rice cakes that the butler had just bought during his daily shopping excursion to the market. She looked in eager surprise at the folded paper and the little bouquet of violets, presented to her on a silver tray. “The writing is not Lorenzo’s,” she said, holding the paper up to the light.

  “Open it,” Genevieve demanded with some impatience. “You cannot guess at its author just by peering at it.”

  “But that is part of the fun,” Elise protested. “You are so unromantic, Genevieve. I suppose when you start receiving billets-doux you will criticize the vocabulary and the structure and the handwriting instead of responding to the message.”

  “Certainly, I shall, if the messages are anything like as sloppy as the ones you have received in the past,” her younger sister retorted.

  “I cannot help feeling, Elise, that you should not be receiving billets-doux from anyone but Lorenzo,” Hélène said in her soft voice. It was but a feeble attempt to exercise the authority of the stepmother, and like all such attempts, failed signally. Elise simply patted her hand absently, before turning her attention to the nosegay.

  “Are they not pretty?” She buried her nose in the fragrance, and Genevieve shook her head in exasperation. At this rate, it would be the middle of next week before Elise decided to discover the identity of this admirer. But, at last, the older girl broke the seal and unfolded the sheet of paper, giving a little gasp as she read the bold black signature at the bottom of the equally bold missive.

  “Well, tell us!” Genevieve clapped her hands impatiently.

  Elise went a little pink. Neither sister had referred to the garden meeting last evening, and Elise knew that Genevieve would never bring it up in front of Hélène, or anyone else not in the secret. Nevertheless, it was with a degree of embarrassment that she murmured, “Monsieur Delacroix.”

  Genevieve raised her eyebrows. The gentleman clearly didn’t waste any time in the pursuit of his purpose. Of course, she still didn’t know exactly what that purpose was, Genevieve reminded herself. And she was unlikely to find out by antagonizing Elise.

  “Oh, dear,” Hélène fluttered. “That is most improper, Elise. I do not think you should acknowledge either the note or the nosegay.”

  “No, of course you are right, dear Hélène,” Elise said soothingly. “I shall ignore it. It is most presumptuous of him.” If Hélène was deceived, Genevieve most definitely was not. She could feel the suppressed excitement emanating from her sister, noted the slight tremble of her fingers as she refolded the note and then, instead of discarding it as a presumptuous message from an impertinent gentleman, she thrust it into her workbag on the table.

  Genevieve said nothing, however, but resolved to keep a close watch on her sister, and when Elise came downstairs after their siesta, dressed in an afternoon gown of pale flowing muslin, a chip hat perched saucily on the russet curls, Genevieve appeared from the salle de compagnie.

  “You are going out?” she inquired casually. “It is as hot as Hades.”

  “You are so vulgar,” Elise admonished, drawing on lace-edged mittens. “I am going shopping.”

  “Oh, then I will come with you.” Genevieve moved to the stairs. “I will just fetch my bonnet. It will take but a minute.”

  “You do not care for shopping,” Elise snapped. “And you have just said it is too hot to go out. Why would you want to accompany me?”

  “Oh.” Genevieve contrived to look hurt as she paused, one foot on the bottom step. “You do not wish for my company?”

  Elise offered a placatory smile. “Of course I do, but it is possible that I might …” She hesitated, biting her lip in some confusion. “Well, I know it is not quite proper, but it is possible that I might just happen to meet Lorenzo in the Church of St. Louis, if I should stop in for a few minutes’ quiet devotion.”

  Genevieve clicked her tongue against her teeth in mock reproof. “Shame on you, Elise. You are a sly one. I would never have suspected it.” A lot slyer than she would ever have suspected, Genevieve thought to herself. Elise had always struck her as singularly guileless, but the self-conscious, pleased little giggle that she now gave was quite masterly and would have convinced anyone but Genevieve. “Well, in that case, I would only be de trop and, since I do not wish to spend the afternoon at my prayers in that gloomy mausoleum while you whisper with your betrothed, I will stay here and twiddle my thumbs.” With a cheerful wave, she ran up the stairs, leaving a relieved Elise to slip out of the house accompanied only by Tabitha, who had cared for both sisters since they were babies and would no more think to question their actions than she would to disclose those actions.

  In her chamber, Genevieve found a straw hat with a wide brim and a veil. If she was going to walk the streets unchaperoned, she had best not advertise the fact. It was far too hot for a pelisse, but a silk shawl with a tasseled fringe provided an adequate wrap that disguised her recognizably diminutive figure. She ran lightly down the stairs from the gallery outside her room, crossed the patio and slipped through the side gate into the driveway. The house still slumbered in the afternoon warmth, and the only activity seemed to come from the kitchen where dinner preparations were under way. Even the stables were quiet, Zaccarius snoring in the shade, a straw hat tipped over his eyes. The master was at his office on the levée, Nicolas, too; Hélène was still resting, and the groom was unlikely to have to bestir himself for one of the jeunes filles de la maison.

  Out on the street, Genevieve looked up and down, wondering which direction Elise would have taken. Toward the center of town, surely, rather than down to the market and the levée. Her guess was proved correct when she reached the high walls of the Ursuline convent on the next corner and saw Elise and Tabitha moving down the street of the Ursuline toward Chartres Street. Genevieve followed, keeping within the shadows of the buildings, in the shade beneath the elaborate iron work of the lace balconies. Was Elise going to Maspero’s Exchange again? Monsieur Delacroix clearly spent time there himself, indeed had talked of having an office in the building. But Elise and Tabitha hurried past the Exchange, quiet this afternoon, its street doors closed. Then Elise stopped outside a shop—an innocent looking mercer’s shop.

  Genevieve knew the shop. It was where all the Creole ladies bought the fine materials that made up their wardrobes. It was also well known, but never mentioned, that the shop was supplied by Dominic Delacroix and his privateers. She waited until Elise had disappeared inside, then sauntered toward the shop herself. The door stood open onto the banquette, and when she peered inside, there was no sign of Elise. Tabitha, however, sat on a stool in the corner of the store, with hands folded patiently in her gingham lap.

  Genevieve stepped into the cool dimness. Tabitha seemed the only occupant. The maid looked up, her eyes opening in startlement at the sight of Genevieve. “Where is Elise, Tabitha?” Genevieve spoke softly, wondering why she felt it necessary to do so.

  Tabitha nodded toward a door at the rear of the store. The door was ajar and seemed to lead directly outside to the inevitable courtyard. “Some special bolts of silk out there,” she said with a placid smile. “Miss Elise went to look them over.”

  “Well, I do not think she should keep such good things to herself, do you?” Genevieve said briskly, and walked with determination to the door. Here, she paused, listening in the moment when she was still hidden from any occupants of the courtyard. She heard Elise’s laugh—that light, flirtatious laugh that had made her the belle of the bals de royauté in her last season and had so endeared her to Don Lorenzo Byaz. The laugh was answered by a low voice, with that vibrant warmth that Genevieve remembered hearing last evening when Dominic Delacroix had greeted Elise in the garden.

  Taking a deep breath, she raised her veil and pushed open the courtyard door. “Tabitha says you are having a preview of some special silks, Elise.” She spoke lightly but clearly, smiling as she crossed the courtyard to wh
ere the two stood looking at her, Elise with astonished chagrin, Dominic with suddenly narrowed eyes. “Will you not share the treat? Good afternoon, Monsieur Delacroix. Is this your store, by any chance? You are, in some way, a merchant, are you not?”

  Dominic massaged the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other and regarded her steadily, and in silence. The implication that he was a mere shopkeeper was a minor irritation compared with the much greater one of her presence. Something was going to have to be done about Mademoiselle Genevieve.

  “What are you doing here?” Elise found her voice at last.

  “Well, I decided that perhaps I would join you in church, after all,” she said with a blithe smile. “I have a host of sins for which to do penance.”

  “A meddlesome nature and impertinent tongue being only two of them,” Dominic murmured, pointedly turning back to the long table that was piled with bolts of material of every type and color. “Mademoiselle Latour, may I suggest the cream satin? It will look very well with your hair …”

  “What a consummate courtier you are, monsieur,” Genevieve broke in. “So experienced in the matter of female dress, as experienced as any merchant-tailor, I dare swear.”

  The silence in the courtyard became suddenly menacing; even the birds fell quiet, the breeze stilled. Genevieve felt that prickle of apprehension, a prickle that became the fullblown shudder of panic. She had mentally castigated Elise for not realizing that Dominic Delacroix was a dangerous man, and now she was guilty of the much greater foolishness—that of not heeding her own advice. That provocation had been a piece of pure self-indulgence. She should have stayed still and quiet in a corner of the courtyard, providing Elise with the impeccable chaperonage that was her only purpose. Or had she another purpose? One she had not acknowledged and did not want to admit, even to herself. Had she for some inexplicable reason wanted to draw the privateer’s attention away from Elise and full onto herself? Well, she had certainly succeeded in doing that.

  Dominic stood looking at her, his body as still as it had been in Victor Latour’s office that morning, and Genevieve felt his anger as a palpable force that sent a quiver up her spine and dried her mouth. Somehow, she managed not to drop her eyes under the cold, hard stare, but it took every ounce of willpower. Then he spoke, his voice soft, yet it seemed to shriek in the silence. “Mademoiselle Latour, I will send someone to assist you with the materials. You will do me great honor if you do not stint in your choice, since anything you decide upon this afternoon will be my gift. But if you will excuse me for a moment, I have some merchandise within doors that I would show your sister.” His hand closed over Genevieve’s wrist. She pulled back, casting Elise a glance almost of desperation. But there was no help forthcoming in that quarter. Elise’s white face revealed her own alarm, and the bewilderment of one who did not know why she was alarmed.

  “Come,” he said, drawing Genevieve beside him. “You will be most interested in what I have to show you.” Raising his voice, he called, “Marcus! Will you come and help the lady.” A burly man, a heavy gold ring in his ear, looking as if he had been transplanted from his natural habitat, the deck of a ship, appeared instantly from the house, and Dominic marched toward a building at the rear of the small courtyard. Genevieve lengthened her stride to keep up, for some reason determined that it should not look to anyone that she was being forced to participate in this errand, although the fingers circling her wrist made it clear that she had no option.

  “I do not care for shopping,” she gasped breathlessly, as he pushed open a door into the gloomy interior of a storeroom. “You can have nothing in here that would interest me.” Then, unable to help herself, she declared, “Besides, I do not have the necessary currency, unlike my sister.”

  “And just what is the necessary currency?” he asked, kicking the door shut behind him, closing out the sunshine and the reassuring murmur of voices. “Pray tell me, mademoiselle. I am fascinated. I should also like to know what you think your sister is buying—apart from the mercer’s wares.”

  Thus confronted, Genevieve found herself at a loss. He was standing very close to her in the gloom enlivened only by a mote-encrusted bar of sunshine coming through a window set high in the wall, and his voice was clipped and derisive. She could not be in a worse position than she was now; the privateer could not be any more threatening than he was now. With sudden decision, she metaphorically stripped off the gloves. “Whatever that reason may be, therein lies the currency. My sister is buying an adventure that she thinks is innocent enough and will be of limited duration; and she is buying nourishment for her vanity.” The tawny eyes challenged him to deny it.

  Dominic nodded slowly. “You have some courage, for all that you are a foolhardy, interfering, insolent little madam in need of a strong hand.”

  Genevieve gasped indignantly, and his laugh ridiculed her indignation as if it were of no more account than that of a thwarted child’s.

  “Perhaps you do have the correct currency,” he said suddenly, catching her chin between finger and thumb. “Shall we see whether you do, my dear Genevieve?” She looked up into the bright blue gaze that contained an indefinable something—indefinable, yet it brought her nerve endings throbbing to the surface of her skin. There was no warmth in that gaze, only curiosity and the absolute knowledge of his power. A feeling of dreadful anticipation crept over her scalp as his warm grasp tightened on her chin. Then his other hand banded her waist and she was locked against him, unable to breathe without feeling the press of his chest against her breasts. She fought the urge to struggle, knowing that it would be simply demeaning, would only increase his power. The turquoise eyes mocked, and she felt he could see inside her skull, knew exactly what she was thinking and would bring down her barriers if he chose.

  As if in confirmation, he said, “So you will not fight. I wonder if I can make you do so. I think I would enjoy the pleasure of subduing you, Mademoiselle Genevieve, so much your father’s daughter.” Still holding her gaze, with the most agonizing slowness, he lowered his head to take her mouth with his own. A tremor ran through her body, and she leaped against him as if she had been struck by lightning. The involuntary reaction caused him to increase the pressure of his mouth, brutal almost in its searing thoroughness that forced her lips apart for the deep invasion of his thrusting tongue. Tears filled her eyes as she recognized her helplessness in the face of the invader. There were no doors to bar, no defenses to throw up. He held her and explored her with a devastating intimacy that the sheltered girl, for all her crusading bravado, her defiant refusal to abide by the conventions, could never have imagined.

  Then something else seemed to happen to intrude on her distress. A slow-spreading warmth surprised her, filled her, causing the rigidity to leave her body, her mouth to relax. Her tight-shut eyes flickered open and met the equally sudden surprise in the turquoise ones above. The arm around her waist loosened, ceased to be a bond, became a firm, warm presence. His hand flattened against the curve of her hip, drawing her closer as the fingers left her chin to stroke her eyelids closed again, then traced the delicate lines of her face. The kiss moved to the corner of her mouth, playful and amazingly sweet.

  When Dominic at last raised his head, he continued to hold her for a minute, looking down at her swollen lips, heavy eyes, the flushed vulnerability of her expression. For a moment there was warmth in his gaze, then his eyes became shuttered and he released her. “I seem to have underestimated my powers of persuasion,” he drawled. “Subjugation was hardly necessary, was it? It seems you are well endowed with the correct currency, Mademoiselle Genevieve.”

  Her face paled, the tawny eyes deepened with humiliation as the insulting words embedded the shards of mortification in her soul. With a little choking sound, Genevieve turned away, searching for some words of her own. But the only ones that came were questions. “Why? What do you want with us?”

  “Why should you imagine I want anything of you?” He shrugged carelessly and lit one of his little cig
ars, narrowing his eyes against the smoke as he watched her.

  “It is something to do with my father,” she hazarded, hearing those strange words again: that he would enjoy subduing her, so much her father’s daughter. “You would revenge yourself on my father through his daughter?”

  He just laughed. “You flatter yourself, my dear. Should I wish for revenge against your father, I would use stronger weapons than his daughter’s frailty.”

  In essence, that was the truth, Dominic reflected. He had intended to use Elise’s foolishness, to play on her vanity, in order to achieve Latour’s compliance, and after this morning’s exchange, he would have derived extra pleasure from the other’s capitulation. But he had not intended to harm the girl. It would be quite superfluous to do so. She would have learned a significant lesson, certainly, but he would have returned her, intact, to her father and, if Victor played his cards right, the fiancé would have been none the wiser. But then, the frailty of her maidenhood was a matter of supreme indifference to him. He now preferred his women experienced in the ways of pleasure, knowing and skilled. Initiating the uninitiated seemed a tedious task, and taking by force what was so readily and pleasurably available elsewhere seemed utterly pointless. But his plan had been constructed around the elder Latour girl—a weak vessel to be easily manipulated, just like her cousin, Nicolas. He had not bargained for this particular scion of the Latour family whose predilection for popping up when least wanted had ceased to be merely annoying, and had become a habit that must be quashed. In fact, Dominic decided, it was his civic duty, as well as imperative to his own interests, to break her of it. There had been a moment there when he seemed to have forgotten that, when the body in his hands had softened, become pliant, eager.

  He swung on his heel and flung open the door onto the courtyard. “I have finished with you for the moment, Mademoiselle Genevieve. You may rejoin your sister. If you did not enjoy the last few minutes, I suggest you bear in mind that if you intrude upon my consciousness again, what will follow will make what has just past seem like Mardi Gras.”