Reckless Seduction

by Jane Feather

  “Mademoiselle Latour? My dance, I think.” A young man, curled and pomaded, immaculate in silken knee britches and striped waistcoat, bowed before her.

  Genevieve looked up at him over her fan. Antoine Dufour was becoming annoyingly persistent, and she did not like that silly little clipped moustache he wore above that overly full mouth. “I do not care to dance, I am afraid, Antoine.”

  The young man’s face fell ludicrously. “But this is my dance,” he said, indicating the dance card dangling from her wrist on a silken ribband.

  “I did not know when I agreed that I would not feel like it.” She rose fluidly, smiled with her lips, and left the ballroom. Her discomfitted suitor bowed to Hélène and went off in search of more willing damsels, and Hélène looked at Nicolas in horror.

  “What are we to do?” she bemoaned. “She cannot behave with such rudeness without being ostracized eventually. I do not understand what she finds so distasteful. Everything is as it has always been, and everyone else is enjoying themselves.”

  “Genevieve is not everyone else,” Nicolas said with absolute truth. “Oh, Dominic, I did not see you standing there. Hélène, you are acquainted with Monsieur Delacroix.”

  The privateer moved out of the shadow of the wall, where he had most conveniently blended against the gray silk hangings, and bowed before Madame Latour, raising her fingers to his lips. “Enchanté, madame.”

  Hélène fluttered a smile. For reasons that she did not fully understand, Monsieur Delacroix had quite suddenly become persona grata in society. It was something to do with the nearness of the British forces and the fighting that was taking place along the Gulf Coast. But Victor had been too impatient to explain the details to her when she had asked, and he did not care to mention the privateer’s name or have it mentioned to him, for all that he was now to be met everywhere, bestowing that cynical, enigmatic little smile on all and sundry.

  “I was hoping to solicit a dance from your cousin, Nicolas,” he now said casually. “But I expect she is already engaged.”

  Nicolas shot him a sharp look. He still did not know what had passed between his cousin and the privateer during that April night, and to his knowledge, there had been no further dealings between them. Indeed, whenever they were in the same room together, Genevieve seemed to go out of her way to avoid Delacroix.

  “No, she is not engaged,” Hélène was saying, plucking nervously at the drawstring of her reticule. “I am certain she will return shortly.”

  Dominic bowed. “Then I shall hope to have the pleasure at a later time. Servant, madame. Nicolas.” A slight inclination of his head and he went off in search of Genevieve. He had overheard the exchange with Antoine Dufour, as well as the conversation between Nicolas and Hélène, and it seemed incumbent upon him to take a hand in the matter before it became quite irreversible. Genevieve had made no secret to him, in the privacy of Rampart Street, of how insupportably irksome she found the life she was expected to lead since their return from freedom and adventure, but tonight was the first time he had seen how her public behavior was affected. And he was in complete agreement with Hélène. Many more displays of such blatant rudeness and Genevieve Latour would find herself a social outcast. If he was in any way responsible for her present disaffection from the life that she must lead, then it was also his responsibility to ensure that she come to terms with it. She would eventually, he was convinced. It was only that the memories of Danseuse were still very fresh, and she was having difficulty adjusting.

  He saw the unmistakable figure in a delicate gown of rose-pink spider gauze over white satin disappearing up the wide circular staircase in the main hall. The retiring rooms were to be found upstairs and he followed her, his step apparently leisurely, except that he reached the head of the stairs only seconds after Genevieve. His lips tightened when he saw that, instead of going into the room set aside for ladies in need of rest and recuperation after the exertions of the dance floor, she made straight for the door to the rear, upstairs gallery.

  “Genevieve!” His voice, though low, was sharp and arrested her just as she was stealthily opening the door. “You cannot leave the ball in this manner.”

  “I cannot bear another minute,” she said in a stifled voice, still holding the door, poised for flight, the way she was holding herself and the delicate, transparent gauze of her gown reminding him of a butterfly settled momentarily on a leaf.

  “You are behaving like a spoiled baby again,” he said severely. “You were abominably rude to young Dufour and have upset your stepmother. It is all very well to storm and rage in private, but it is quite different to behave like that in public.”

  “Why can you be as contemptuous as you please, and I may not?” she demanded in a fierce undertone. “You make no secret of how you despise them all, and of the sort of amusement you derive from this … this circus! Why must I play the hypocrite?”

  “Do not be naive, sprite. You know perfectly well why you must, and why I need not. It may be unjust, but it is the way of the world. Now, come downstairs and dance with me.”

  Slowly, she turned from the door, her gown swirling around her. A slight, rueful smile touched the tiger’s eyes. “I will do so, but only because it will annoy Papa.” That made him laugh, and she said with sudden intensity, “We are so alike, you and I, why can you not understand the way I feel?”

  “I do understand,” he said. “I understand because it is how I would feel myself. But there are realities, Genevieve, that you must accept. And first and foremost of those realities is that you are a woman.”

  “First and last,” she said bitterly. “It says it all, doesn’t it?”

  “I am afraid so,” replied Dominic. “Take that mutinous look off your face, my child, and start acting. We are going to dance and you are going to smile and talk vivaciously, first to me, and then to anyone else who solicits your attention. I do not find spoiled babies in the least appealing, and am certainly not prepared to share my bed with one.”

  “Is that a threat or a bribe?” Genevieve inquired archly, laying her hand on his gray-satin arm.

  “Well, if it is a threat, it is one I sincerely hope not to be obliged to carry out,” he said with a chuckle that was readily answered by her own. “That is much better,” he approved. “Now, keep it up.”

  To Hélène’s relief, Genevieve appeared to have forgotten her fit of the sullens and for the rest of the evening behaved impeccably, although the other woman could not help but feel that the lively, flirtatious belle might at any moment revert to her true colors. Fortunately, no one else seemed aware of the deception, or of the slightly brittle quality to Genevieve’s laugh.

  “Delacroix?”

  Dominic turned from his covert examination of Genevieve to acknowledge the rotund figure of one of New Orleans’s most prominent citizens. “Senor Garcia?”

  “Would you join us in the card room?” the Spaniard said in ponderous accents. “There is a matter of some moment we would like to discuss.” He nodded self-importantly and, taking Dominic’s agreement for granted, waddled off in the direction of the card room. Dominic raised one eyebrow, took a fresh glass of negus from the hovering servant, and followed. Matters of some moment tended to have financial implications.

  The six men gathered in the card room greeted him, if not effusively, at least with more politeness than he was accustomed to receiving from these denizens of Creole society. “How may I serve you, gentlemen?” he inquired, perching on the corner of the table. “I assume there is something I can do for you?” An ironic gleam shimmered in the turquoise eyes. “Monsieur Mayor?”

  The gentleman addressed coughed and looked around the table as if for confirmation of his right to be spokesman. The silence granted it, and he began in solemn and weighty fashion as befitted the serious nature of his subject. Monsieur Delacroix was, of course, aware of the growing threat to the city with the British forces drawing ever closer. After the devastation they had wrought in Washington it was only to be expected
that no quarter would be shown here. And they could not expect to beat off the British as General Strieker had done in Baltimore. The city was inadequately defended, and fifty British ships had been sighted in the Mississippi Delta. General Jackson was intending to intercept them at Baton Rouge, but New Orleans needed a defense of its own. Monsieur Delacroix had a fleet of ships, did he not? And highly trained crews?

  He did, the privateer agreed, concealing his ironic amusement.

  And presumably, the fleet was armed, given the nature of its usual activity.

  It was, agreed the privateer, lighting a cigar and smiling benignly at them through the smoke.

  Would Monsieur Delacroix consider placing his ships, men, and arms at the disposal of the committee for the defense of the city? There, it had been said at last. The mayor sat back with a sigh of relief.

  Monsieur Delacroix seemed to consider the question for an inordinate length of time before he spoke. “I think I must ask for a seat on the committee in such an event,” he said calmly. “You could not expect me to hand over such riches without having some say in their disposition.” He watched their faces with huge enjoyment. Their horror was transparent. A notorious rogue to be granted the ultimate civic honor! Yet his point was absolutely valid, and they knew it. If they wanted what the privateer could offer, then they must accept the privateer.

  “When the devil drives,” Victor Latour stated with unconcealed bitterness into the heavy silence.

  “Quite so, Latour.” Dominic bowed his head at his old enemy and allowed his mind to dwell for one delicious instant on Genevieve. “Needs must,” he agreed gently and stood up. “If that is all, gentlemen, I will bid you good night. You may contact me at Maspero’s. Meanwhile, I will see that all is in order with my end of the bargain.”

  Genevieve saw him leave, recognized the glitter in his eye, expressive of some wicked satisfaction, the set of his shoulders, expressive of determination, the curve of his mouth, expressive of secret delight. And she ached with longing and with envy. She half started toward the door, driven by the desire to discover what had amused and delighted him, what plan he had formed, to laugh with him and plan with him. Then she remembered that she was a woman—condemned to prattle and convention behind the bars of ritual.

  “Well, ma soeur, how does it feel to be Mademoiselle Latour?”

  Genevieve looked up at Elise. There was a slight thickening of her waist beneath the sea-green gown, but her sister’s pregnancy was still far from obvious. “To tell the truth, Elise, it feels no different from being Mademoiselle Genevieve. I am still the same person, after all.”

  “But you are now the daughter of the house,” Elise reminded her, sitting on the little gilt chair and clearly settling down for a cozy chat. “It is amazing how you have blossomed since the summer.”

  Genevieve choked. It was so unfair to be denied the glory of revelation! Elise was so complacent and matronly and even more condescending than ever, now that she had joined the ranks of the initiated and bore the evidence of that initiation. But at least she was careful to moderate her smug pride with Hélène who looked with such sadness at Elise’s inhabited eyes, the translucent skin of pregnancy, the little pats she gave her belly every now and again.

  After Hélène’s third miscarriage three weeks ago, Victor had been told unequivocally that a further pregnancy would probably kill his wife. Hélène had begged him to ignore the advice of the doctor; she was as strong as a horse. Only grant her a few months’ respite, and they would try again. But Victor had looked at the wan, bloodless face, the frail body, and had finally relinquished his last hope for a son. He had lost two wives on the accouchement bed, and the third had only just survived miscarriage. She was twenty years younger than he, and healthy in all other respects, so, barring sudden disease, she would probably outlive him. The revelation had done little for his temper and, for some reason, the prospect of a forthcoming grandchild was not proving helpful.

  “Blossoming seems an infectious condition between sisters, then,” Genevieve said. She knew Elise so well that the right remark came to her lips automatically, and now that they were not living under the same roof, irritation had ceased to set a brake on the complimentary softnesses that greased the wheels of their relationship.

  Elise smiled with placid contentment, accepting the compliment as her due. “Lorenzo, of course, is overjoyed,” she imparted, as if the information were news to Genevieve. “He is hoping that Papa will make some settlement on his grandson, now that … well, you know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” her sister agreed in a dry tone. “But I must congratulate you on your prescience. To have foreknowledge of the sex of one’s unborn child is a gift, indeed.”

  “It will be a son,” Elise said fiercely.

  “I am sure you are right. It is unthinkable to imagine Lorenzo’s fathering anything else,” Genevieve responded tartly. Oh, why did Elise bring out the bitch in her? she thought with genuine regret. It was just that the idea of her sister and the Castilian blithely assuming that they would benefit from Hélène’s ill fortune made her want to spit!

  “Chère, I think perhaps we should make our farewells,” Hélène said gently, appearing out of the blue in her usual soft-footed fashion. “Unless you would prefer to stay a little longer. Nicolas could escort you home.”

  “You are tired,” Genevieve said, rising instantly to her feet. “And I have had more than enough of this dissipation for one evening.” She looked across the ballroom. “Besides, I do not think Nicolas would be at all happy to devote attention to his cousin at this point.” The other two women followed her gaze. Nicolas was dancing with Madeleine Benoit, and it was clear that as far as the two of them were concerned, they were alone on some celestial planet.

  “Do you think Papa will permit the match, Hélène?” Elise asked, forgetting Genevieve’s acerbity in this much more interesting family issue.

  Hélène looked unhappy. “Nicolas asked me to mention it vaguely to him, to see what his reaction might be, you understand, and I did try, but Victor did not seem to hear me. He often doesn’t,” she added with a self-deprecating little smile.

  “No, he hears you,” Genevieve said. “But if he does not wish to respond, he will pretend he did not.”

  They all knew the truth of this observation. “Does Nicolas have nothing of his own?” Elise asked. “I thought his mother left him her estate.”

  “Two thousand piasters,” Genevieve said with authority. “When Nicolas came of age, Papa took him to dinner at his club and handed over his inheritance with great ceremony.” Her lips tightened. “You can imagine it, I am sure. Poor Nicolas had had no idea how much there was, but he had never been led to believe that it would be barely enough to buy a small plot of land.”

  “How do you know?” asked Elise. Genevieve always seemed to know everything that went on.

  She shrugged. “Nicolas told me that evening. He was so mortified by the way Papa had treated him, and I happened to be awake and sitting in the courtyard when he returned … so, he poured it all out.” She shrugged again. “Nicolas is totally dependent on Papa. For as long as he stays in his good graces, he will have the means to live the life of a Creole blood, but let him once overstep the mark …” It was that fear, of course, that had led to Nicolas’s involvement with the privateer, to his willingness to sacrifice Elise. She could blame him, but she could also understand.

  “Madeleine Benoit is hardly a brilliant match.” Elise stated the fact without adornment. They all knew what it meant.

  Unfortunately, they did not quite understand what that would mean, since Victor Latour had decided to draw the threads of his various disappointments together and had concocted a scheme that would solve all problematical issues at one fell swoop.

  Genevieve stretched luxuriously, curling her toes into the mattress, reaching her arms high above her head as the clever hands moved down her back, bringing her spine to life with the firm pressure of his thumbs against the vertebra. She groane
d in delicious delight, the sound muffled by the feather pillow, as flat palms rotated her buttocks and the tips of his fingers pressed into the indentation of her pelvis. How did one learn how to give this pleasure? she thought distractedly. It seemed to require an uncanny knowledge of the pleasure centers of another’s body. “Who is Rosemarie?” Vague memory of a curiosity she had hitherto forgotten to satisfy brought the question drifting between her lips, following the previous thought naturally, innocent of artifice or intent.

  The hands on her back were abruptly stilled, and in the ensuing silence Genevieve realized with a stab of apprehension that it was a question better not to have been asked—a curiosity better left dormant. “Would you repeat that, please?” Dominic said, his voice quite expressionless.

  “It was nothing,” she mumbled into the pillow. “I did not mean anything.”

  His fingertips flicked smartly against her behind and hastily she tried to roll over, but he planted a knee in the small of her back and held her still. “I cannot believe, my dear Genevieve, that your question was meaningless. You are not in the habit of talking nonsense.” His voice was silky smooth, but it rasped on Genevieve’s stretched nerves like teeth on velvet. “Oblige me by repeating your question. I would like to be certain I heard it correctly.”

  Genevieve did not need to see his face to know that the azure gaze was ice tipped, the sculpted lips set in a thin line, and she felt a creeping desperation. Why had she asked? He would consider that she was invading his privacy again, but she had not thought of it like that. Indeed, she had forgotten all about the flowery signature in the book of Latin verse until this moment when it had just popped into her head.