Reckless Seduction

by Jane Feather

  “Such a stubborn sprite! But I shall prove my point, never fear.” His lips took hers, and she tasted salt and wine and sun as his mouth, firm and warm, pressed against her own with an unexpected tenderness, becoming a gentle invasion that brought her defenses crashing down. Her head lay still on the pillow, and she forgot to resist. His hand, warm on her abdomen, stroked, a finger playing in her navel as the kiss deepened and the invasion became infused with determination. As Genevieve felt that purpose, could almost taste it, was inhaling it with every breath, she marshaled her defenses again, contracting the muscles in her belly, pressing her thighs tightly together, setting her lips.

  Dominic laughed softly against her mouth, and his fingers moved to unbutton the shirt. Genevieve curled her legs and pushed against him with her knees. “I do not want this,” she gasped, twisting onto her side with her knees drawn up, wishing she could bring her captive arms around to hold herself fast against the invader. Yet, in the deepest recesses of her soul, she knew that she did want this, that her protests were purely form, were the last-ditch attempt to deny her knowledge of the chains he had described—a knowledge that Dominic had given her and so knew that she possessed.

  Her wrists were released, and the bed frame shifted as he removed his knee and stood up. “In these matters, nothing will happen that you do not wish,” he said evenly. “I have no need to take what is not freely given, and the pretense is not a game that amuses me.”

  Genevieve swallowed in disbelief at this abrupt volte-face. One minute, he had been laughing and tender, the next, fervent in a demand for a response that matched his own, and then, this—dismissive, cool, putting the pupil in her place as if she had not construed her Latin verse correctly. Tears of mortification pricked behind her eyes, and she shivered, devastatingly conscious of her half-naked body and the sense that she was quite alone, alone with a harsh and unpredictable stranger and no familiar supports. Without a word, she did the only thing that came to mind, pulling back the coverlet on the bed and crawling beneath its warm concealment.

  Dominic drank deeply of his wine, allowing his regret for that unthinkingly sharp speech to rise unhindered by excuse. Genevieve was not Angelique. She was quite unlike any of the women, except one, who had hitherto graced his bed, and he had neither the right nor the justification to forget that. He bore considerable responsibility for her, something he had always avoided in the past—since Rosemarie, at least, he amended, accepting the familiar pang that accompanied the thought. But by yielding to the whim—no, to the most powerful desire—to teach this indomitable, reckless, ingenuous sprite what there was to learn about the glories of loving, he had implicitly shouldered the responsibility that she should not suffer from it. She had not knowingly been playing some game of the teasing coquette, and now he could feel the bewildered hurt radiating from the curled and completely silent mound beneath the cover. He had also intended to do something about her scraped hands, Dominic remembered with another stab of guilt. But that would have to wait until he had healed the greater wound. Stripping off his clothes, he pulled aside the cover and slipped in beside her, drawing her body against him as his lips nuzzled her neck, and he whispered gentle reassurance until the tightly coiled frame relaxed, and she rolled onto her back, the tawny eyes, candid in their puzzled desire, gazing into his.

  “Mea culpa, sweet sprite,” he whispered, kissing the tip of her nose. “I was expecting you to run before you can walk. I will try not to do it again.”

  Genevieve was not sure she quite understood what he meant, but she could not fail to understand what his body was telling her. The adventure was going to be salvaged and, at some point, when she could sit quiet and ponder, she would try to understand what had happened and ensure that it did not happen again.

  Chapter Ten

  Angelique was in despair. Dominic was leaving her again without having availed himself of what she knew so well how to offer, of what, until the last few weeks, had never before been rejected. As always, he had drained to the last drop, the thick, strong, sweet coffee that she knew he liked, and the dose of the love philter with it, but his farewell kiss was perfunctory, the turquoise eyes bland. He seemed not to notice her perfume, the care she had taken with rouge and powder, the gauzy wrapper that barely concealed the naked, oiled and powdered body beneath. All the arts and wiles she had learned seemed powerless to break through her protector’s polite indifference, and if he was now indifferent to her, how long would it be before their arrangement would be terminated? A man did not keep a mistress who had ceased to please him.

  Her eyes swam with tears and she put her arms around his neck, pressing herself to him. If he would just put his hands on her, feel the soft, warm curves beneath her robe, then surely he would not be able to resist, and they would go upstairs to that bedchamber that he only entered these days when that scrawny, scruffy little slut in her calico gown and turban came to the house.

  But he simply laid his hands on her shoulders and put her from him. “Not now, Angel. I am in a hurry.”

  “You are always in a hurry,” she whispered plaintively. “I do not know why you come here to see me if you do not have time for—”

  “I do come, do I not?” he interrupted, that dreaded note of impatience in his voice. “You may start to worry when I do not.”

  Angelique trembled and stepped back, not daring to say another word in case she heard in return the final words of rejection. So long as he did not say them, so long as he continued to come here for whatever reason, she was safe and could keep trying to rekindle his interest. If the mambo’s philter had not worked, then she would try the bocor. Maybe the good magic of the priestess was less effective than the bad magic of the sorceror. Maybe she should transfer her attentions to the cause of Dominic’s waning interest. If she could disable the creature in some way, then surely he would come back to her.

  Dominic stepped through the front door she held for him, then paused, turning back to her. “Angel, I will not object if you choose to … to expand your business a little. I would not impose complete abstinence on you. It would hardly be just.” Without waiting to see the effect of these kindly words, he stepped onto the banquette.

  Angelique gasped, pressing the back of her hand to her lips. She would have rather he had abused her, imprisoned her, insisted that she keep herself chaste for him whether he wanted her or not, anything but tell her that he was no longer interested in her exclusive attentions. The next step was inevitable and would not be long delayed.

  Dominic strode off down the street, completely oblivious of the terror his words had caused, or of the vicious flames of loathing they had fanned. As far as he was concerned, he treated Angelique with scrupulous fairness and consideration. It did not occur to him that she might object to anything he did or said while he continued to honor his side of the bargain, maintaining her in the standard to which she had become accustomed. He was quite happy to continue doing that for the time being, or until Angelique found herself another protector, which she would do soon enough, as young and lovely as she was. He stepped around a group of children dancing on the banquette and went into the cool dimness of a wine shop. The proprietor nodded and placed, without comment, an absinthe on the marble-topped counter. Dominic tossed the fiery spirit down his throat in one neat movement, then made his way into a back room where three men sat around a table waiting for him. They rose instantly as he came in.

  “Gentlemen.” Dominic greeted them with a brief inclination of his head and sat down, gesturing to them to follow suit. “You will take the fleet to the new anchorage on tomorrow’s tide. You will have your crews sober and in good order by then.” It was statement not question and received with grunts of assent. “Have the ships hauled up, cleaned, the repairs made, canvas and shrouds ready for sea within the month.”

  “Where do we go, then, monsieur?” a gray-bearded, grizzle-haired captain ventured, filling a shot glass with absinthe.

  Dominic smiled and lit a cigar, keeping his audien
ce in suspense for the time it took. “It seems that some people need our assistance,” he said carefully. “And you all know how anxious we are to be of service.” A rumble of laughter went around the table. “Apparently, these people are not happy being subservient to the Spanish. There are those in New Orleans who would help them gain independence, but someone must take the guns and powder.” His smile broadened. “I have been requested to place my fleet at the disposal of these … uh … liberators. In exchange for a substantial consideration, of course.”

  “Honduras?” The sharp question came from a swarthy man, his right cheek grotesquely puckered with scar tissue.

  Thick blue smoke curled from the pipe he cradled in the palm of a gnarled hand.

  “Shrewd guess, Jake,” Dominic said. “After we have made our delivery, we shall see what spoils of war are sailing the seas. We can’t come back empty-handed, now, can we? I’d hate to disappoint all our customers.”

  Someone chuckled. “An Indiaman? We’ll be running the British blockade both ways, then.”

  “Indeed, we will,” Dominic agreed in accents of considerable satisfaction, and the turquoise eyes glinted. “Adds a little spice to the venture, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Your suitor is become a trifle impatient, Mademoiselle Latour,” Victor announced with an attempt at joviality, marching onto the rear gallery where his wife and daughters were sitting, as motionless as possible, gasping in the abnormally fierce heat of this first week in May.

  “I do not understand, Papa.” Elise dabbed at her upper lip with a lace handkerchief and looked a little fearfully at her father who was so clearly trying to give the impression of bonhomie.

  He shook a finger at her. “Do not play the little innocent with me, mademoiselle. It seems you have been tormenting him quite shamelessly, and nothing will serve to satisfy him but an early date for the wedding. We have decided upon four weeks today. You will be married from Trianon and spend your honeymoon there. Your stepmother will arrange the nuptial suite.”

  “But the lit à ciel, Victor,” Hélène murmured faintly. “How shall we have the canopy completed in four weeks?” The sunburst of azure satin which lined the canopy and gave the bed its name was barely begun, and Elise could not be put to bed to await her husband on the wedding night unless it was in place.

  Victor frowned. “Those details are hardly my province, madame. You have had ample time since the betrothal. Next, you’ll be asking me about initialing and embroidering the girl’s linen, or her wedding dress or robes d’interieur!”

  “Oh, no, Victor, of course I would not,” denied poor Hélène.

  Genevieve choked on an inconvenient giggle at the absurd thought of her father’s involving himself in such matters. It was amusing enough simply to hear the words on his lips. She turned the giggle into a violent coughing spasm, but her father’s next words killed all desire to laugh.

  “We will remove to Trianon at the end of the week.”

  That was in three days’ time. She could not leave New Orleans so abruptly, without the chance to make plans with Dominic for the summer. She did not even know if she would see him before then. Since their return from Lake Borgne, he would send her a brief message, always given to the discreet Amelie, saying when he would be at the Rampart Street house. It was up to Genevieve whether she made the assignation or not. On the occasions when she could not, nothing was ever said, no questions ever asked. He had told her that she could send him a message to Maspero’s if ever she was in dire need. But the implication was clear—that approach was to be used only in an emergency.

  Genevieve knew that this secrecy was to protect her. The privateer was not concerned about covering his own tracks, but he was most insistent on Genevieve’s using the utmost caution. She was both touched and amused by it. Such scruples seemed rather out of character for the devil-may-care Dominic that she knew, one who found society’s conventions and prohibitions contemptible and made no secret of it. There were many times when she was prepared to throw caution to the winds herself, when the stuffy rituals of the house on Royal Street, when the role of jeune fille bien élevée, being prepared for the altar, stifled her to the point where she felt almost physically breathless, and she wanted to scream from the rooftops that she was not what she seemed. She was the wanton mistress of the most notorious privateer in New Orleans and loved every minute of it. But on the one occasion when she had been unwise enough to express this frustration to Dominic, he had scolded her as if she were a self-willed, naive five-year-old and sent her home, unloved and unfulfilled.

  Now, she spoke rapidly. “Papa, would it not be best if we were to postpone our departure until the end of next week? Three days will not be sufficient time for Hélène to see to those wedding preparations, which can only be managed in the city. There will still be three weeks to arrange the reception at the plantation.”

  “It would be easier, Victor,” Hélène said tentatively. “We must see the dressmaker and the—”

  “Oh, very well,” he interrupted brusquely. “The end of next week, then. What’s the matter with you, mademoiselle? Cat got your tongue?” he demanded suddenly of Elise who had not said a word.

  She was very pale, twisting her handkerchief in her lap. “I am just a little surprised,” she said in a low voice. “Lorenzo did not say anything to me about wishing to hurry the date. I had thought it was to be a Christmas wedding.”

  Victor regarded her with a degree of exasperation. Women were all the same. Marriage and child-rearing was their destiny. They were bred to it from the cradle; they talked of nothing else. Yet when the time came, they behaved as if they were about to be sacrificed at some devil’s altar. This match he had arranged for his elder daughter was one anyone would be proud of, and she had never shown any reluctance before. Now, she was looking as if it was the last thing she wanted. Shaking his head in complete incomprehension, he stomped off the gallery and went back to his office.

  As soon as he had gone, Elise began to weep. Hélène rushed to comfort her, and Genevieve sat and thought. She knew what was petrifying Elise. It was the thought of those two weeks locked up with her new husband, seeing no one except the maid, who would bring their food and water for washing and deal with the various receptacles they would inevitably need; being subjected to whatever it was that husbands subjected their wives to, which eventually led to the horrors of the accouchement bed. Hélène had hinted enough after her own honeymoon, although she had never been absolutely explicit about all the details, since such knowledge must only be garnered by the bride on her wedding night.

  Genevieve wondered if she dared help Elise with a little preparation. But how could she do that without revealing her secret? And she could never allow Elise to know that secret. Her sister would not believe it, anyway. She would be unable to believe such a shocking story of anyone she knew, let alone her stepsister. It would probably send her into convulsions! And, more than anything, she would be decimated by the idea that it was Dominic Delacroix who had initiated Genevieve. The abrupt withdrawal of his attentions had sent the beauty into a chagrined sulk that had lasted for weeks.

  That thought brought her full circle. She had managed to win a week’s reprieve, but how could she be sure of seeing Dominic in that week? He rarely, if ever, communicated his plans, although she knew that he was making preparations for the removal of the fleet to Lake Borgne. The anchorage had entirely met with his approval and, after that first disastrous afternoon, the expedition had been pure joy for Genevieve. He had taken her fishing in a little boat, and they had lit a fire on the banks of the bayou and cooked the catfish, eating it with their fingers. The arrogant, dangerous, elegant, powerful Dominic Delacroix had disappeared, replaced by a laughing, carefree, disheveled pirate who knew how to fish and cook under the stars, who licked greasy fingers, his and hers, and made love on a blanket in the silver wash of the moon.

  “Why are you smiling?” Elise demanded with sudden petulance, sniffling pathetically. “You look like a ca
t that has just had the cream. I suppose it’s the thought that you’ll be rid of me in four weeks.”

  “Oh, don’t be absurd.” Somehow, Elise always managed to destroy Genevieve’s finer feelings. “If I’m at all pleased at the thought of your marriage, it is for you. Do not pretend that you will not enjoy the consequence of being Madame Byaz, mistress of Villafranca. Once the honeymoon is over, and you go to your own house, you will have all your visits of congratulation, and you will receive on Thursdays and give a grand soirée. You will love it, Elise.”

  Elise did begin to look a little more cheerful, and Hélène, taking her cue from Genevieve, began to expatiate on the joys of being one’s own mistress, on how wonderful it was when one was not simply a daughter but was invested with the importance and independence of wifehood.

  “And Lorenzo is not exactly repulsive,” Genevieve put in practically. “In fact, you always said you liked him better than any of your other courtiers.”

  “Oh, you are such a baby!” Elise said. “That is not the point, but you do not understand such things yet, does she, Hélène?”

  Hélène looked a little uncertain. She was never entirely sure how much her younger stepdaughter did understand about the workings of the world. But she suspected it was rather more than anyone, and Elise in particular, thought.

  Genevieve laughed. “You do not need to answer that, chère Hélène. I am going upstairs. It is too hot to sit outside.”

  Once in her own chamber, she paced restlessly, chewing her lip. She would have to leave Dominic a message at Maspero’s, but to do that, she must creep out of the house unseen, in her quadroon’s disguise—this afternoon, during the siesta that, in this heat, the entire household would take. Even Victor and Nicolas would retreat to their chambers after lunch before going back to the office on the levée in the cooler late afternoon.