Only a moment before, Carol had been lying in Frank’s arms, her eyes closed, her senses tingling. She’d been more than half-asleep. When she opened her eyes, she found a totally different scene. In that split second, everything had changed. Her own identity had vanished. She felt strange, drugged, not sure where she was.
Then, in a flash, she knew—The Orleans Ballroom!
She glanced about. A dozen or so young women—all lovely, all gowned in virginal white—sat about the room on dainty gilt chairs. Beside each of the debutantes hovered an older woman, all darting eagle-eyes assessing the possibilities and the competition. These mature ladies seemed to fade into the wallpaper, however, as Cami concentrated on the graceful, snowy-gowned beauties—her rivals.
A more winsome gathering she had never encountered. They put the Louisiana planters’ daughters to shame. But then, she mused, most of these young ladies had been fathered by those very Creole gentlemen. The taint of their mothers’ blood, however, added a touch of the exotic that was lacking in the blue-blooded belles she knew.
Cami wasn’t sure what she had expected of these free women of color, but to the last one they were beauties, their flawless complexions ranging from pale ivory to golden-cream. Some flashed dark glances, but others had eyes as blue as her own or the subtle amber shade of Fiona’s. Some had hair as dark as hers; others were redheads or even blondes. They held themselves like queens, and wore their silks, satins, plumes, and jewels as if they had been born to European royalty.
The ballroom provided a perfect setting for these exquisite young women. The long, lofty-ceilinged chamber was a wonder with its fantastical murals, crystal chadeliers, costly paintings, and polished dance floor of oak over three thicknesses of cypress. The prospective placées, Cami mused, looked like an expensive collection of china dolls arranged perfectly in a lavishly ornate display case.
Even as Cami gazed about her, awestruck, the first group of men arrived from the card rooms below. Her pleasant thoughts turned to sudden anxiety as she felt the men’s eyes playing over her.
“Smile, ma chère,” Cami heard Fiona command under her breath. “One of the gentlemen will come this way any moment. He will no doubt ask my permission to dance with you. Remember, though, you are to pretend you hear nothing that he says. You must appear to see right through him. Should you look at him directly, such forwardness could be construed as flirting. An unpardonable sin!”
Flirting was the last thing on Cami’s mind. She only prayed she didn’t look as awkward and uncomfortable as she felt. She had so looked forward to this evening. Now suddenly it took on the aspect of the purest form of torture. The full weight of her actions had finally sunk in. By merely being in this place, at this ball, she was announcing to one and all that she was fully willing and capable of handling men and sex and any situation that might arise accordingly—be it marriage or, more likely, an unsanctioned liaison. She had also—simply by coming here—ruined any chance of entering into a more orthodox relationship.
Fiona noted Cami’s sudden attack of nerves. She thought this a good sign. After all, a young woman should never be too sure of her charms. The very fact that Camille was having second thoughts meant that she would behave in a properly cautious manner.
She eyed her lovely young charge, who was gowned in a gorgeous confection of silver and white tissue silk with a beau-catcher of fragrant, waxy lime blossoms nestled at her bosom and gardenias in her sweeping cascade of night-black hair. Camille looked like a fairy princess, and, suddenly, Fiona felt like a wicked witch for bringing her lover’s innocent daughter into this sordid world of the Orleans Ballroom. Edouard would never have approved.
Fiona sighed, but said nothing. It was too late now.
A tall figure started toward them. “Put on your prettiest face, Camille,” Fiona whispered.
Cami’s pretty face ached from smiling when she felt more like sobbing. Inside, her heart fluttered like a frightened dove, but she did her best to follow Fiona’s instructions.
“Good, Cami, good!” Fiona murmured. “You look properly demure.”
Her eyes cast down, Cami glanced up through her lashes to steal a peek at the imposing stranger coming toward them. Her breath caught. Her heart picked up speed. He was tall and bold, dressed all in black except for his ruffled white shirt and the gold embroidery gleaming on his vest. Most of all, however, she was struck by the dark gleam of his eyes and the livid scar across his right cheek.
Victoine Navar! Cami thanked her stars that she was expected to remain silent. She could not have found her voice with Black Vic so close at last.
“M’sieur Navar, this is an unexpected pleasure.” Fiona’s cool tone belied her words. Cami felt the woman stiffen.
He swept a low bow, his gaze remaining on Cami although he spoke directly to Fiona. “Madame, the pleasure is mine entirely. Might I beg an introduction to this lovely young lady?”
Fiona turned to stare at Cami, as if trying to make up her mind what she should do. To give herself more time, Fiona fluttered her fan and her eyelashes in unison while she glanced wildly about the room.
“I suppose a simple introduction will do no harm,” she said at length.
Cami mumbled her way through the formalities with Victoine Navar. All through their small talk, she could feel Black Vic’s smoldering eyes on her—eying her charms, scheming, planning her seduction, she surmised. The thoughts brought a hot flush to her face and shoulders and even more heat beneath her shimmering gown.
“Might I be permitted a dance with Mademoiselle Cami?” Vic asked at length.
Fiona gave him no answer. Instead, she beckoned Vic to accompany her to the balcony for a breath of fresh air. He followed, as silent as she.
Frank smelled the hot, humid air before he felt it. He opened his eyes, fully expecting what he found—Carol gone, himself in another time and place. His last conscious thought as Frank Longpre was: Where the hell has Carol gone now?
Vic stood on the tiny balcony staring down at Fiona. Her smile had vanished. He guessed what she had on her mind and he was absolutely correct.
“It is most kind of you to ask Cami to dance, but you are a married man as I recall. My niece is here to secure a protector. She is little more than a frightened child and I could see that the very sight of you terrified her, as well it should. Why not leave the poor girl in peace, Victoine? There are many other beautiful women here tonight.”
“I wish to dance with Cami, Fiona. You know I’ll treat her gently.” He smiled down at the lovely woman in her bright silks and red tignon. “She seems as sweet as she is beautiful.”
“Beauty is as beauty does,” Fiona snapped, changing her tactics, frantic now to protect Camille. “You’ll find her quite awkward, I fear. She may look the part of a woman, but she’s extremely immature for her age.”
“All the better for molding into a proper lady,” Vic said with a stubborn smile.
Fiona hesitated. “I shouldn’t allow this.”
“One dance is all I ask.” He waited, but received no answer. “Please, Fiona, for the sake of our friendship. I’d never harm the girl.”
“Oh, very well,” Fiona conceded. “Dance with her, and do be kind even if she bores you.”
Black Vic had no fear of being bored. Impatient to claim his charming partner, he bolted through the door, back into the ballroom. He was thunderstruck by the girl, but dared not let Fiona know that.
“Mademoiselle, your aunt has given her permission.” Vic offered Cami a low bow, then a winning smile. “May I have this dance?”
Panic-stricken when faced with this man she had admired for so long, Cami could find no words as her heart raced in her breast. She glanced toward the door. Fiona entered, unsmiling, but nodded her approval.
“Oui, m’sieur,” Cami murmured, trembling inside with a mixture of terror and excitement.
She all but swooned when Black Vic took her hand. At close range, he was even more handsome, so manly. Just looking at him made her wa
nt to turn and flee for fear of what she might say or do. His slightest touch electrified her. His low, husky voice caressed her. His power and grace as he led her confidently through each step of the dance made her feel totally dependent, a virtual captive of his masculine spell. But the more entranced she became, the harder she fought the attraction. She was determined not to let Vic know how he had mesmerized her. No man should be allowed to do this to her!
Although permission for one dance was all that Fiona had given, Vic refused to give up his claim on Cami, monopolizing her for the entire evening. More than simply a beautiful young woman, she became his ultimate challenge. He could feel her holding herself aloof. She seemed all ice, yet the cooler her attitude, the more fascinated Vic became.
Cami, meanwhile, found it more difficult by the minute to keep her icy distance. Black Vic, no matter what her Cousin Morris had said, was a true gentleman—polite, charismatic, even gentle. And there was no doubting his maleness, through and through. The harder he tried to make her relax and enjoy his company, the more she worried over all the things he was making her feel, all the things he was making her long for. Fiona had told her of men and love and the shocking things that went on behind closed bedroom doors. And when she thought of Black Vic doing those very things to her, she shuddered inside with horror, but with a delicious sense of anticipation, too.
As the evening wore on, Cami became increasingly aware of Black Vic’s amorous intentions. His loving attack began slowly, slyly. A bit more pressure on her gloved fingers, a casual touch to her cheek, a whispered endearment now and again. Then, during one intermission, he launched a direct assault. He enticed her out onto the balcony with a promise of a cool breeze off the river. It was there, on the second story balcony overhanging Orleans Street, that Victoine Navar made his bold move.
At first, Cami had no idea what he meant to do. He sidled closer—so close she could feel his warm breath on her face. When his hand slipped around her waist, she caught her breath, frozen with fearful uncertainty. Granted, they had touched while they danced, but this was far different. This time they were alone and there was no music to use as an excuse for his casual intimacy. She held rigidly still as she felt his arm surround her. Very gently, he forced her to turn toward him. He said nothing. He only stared down at her—his face solemn, almost tense, and his dark eyes gleaming with an unsettling emotion.
Cami moved hesitantly. What did he expect of her? Fiona had given her no warning that this might happen. When he brought her closer still, his hot breath kissed her cheek. She felt quite weak. For a moment his nearness made her joyously dizzy.
And then it happened! Afterward, Cami told herself that she could have stopped him, but deep down she knew that was not true. She had no warning, no inkling whatsoever of his intentions until it was too late. One minute she was standing before him and the next his lips were on hers. The kiss lasted only a moment, but it left its imprint scorched into Cami’s soul.
“You needn’t be shy with me,” he whispered. “I will take good care of you, ma chère.” His words were solemn—a heartfelt promise. “You will be loved—no, adored.”
The true meaning of his words struck Cami with a staggering impact. This was it—the moment she had planned and schemed for. If she could love any man, that man was Black Vic. She wanted to tell him so many things—how he made her feel, the thoughts that his nearness put into her head and her heart. But the words simply refused to come. And what did it matter? As much as she wanted this, she knew that Fiona would never allow it. Hadn’t she ranted and raved each time Cami dared mention the name Victoine Navar?
“Is something wrong, Cami?” His voice was low and caressing.
“Fiona.” Cami’s voice quivered as she said the name. “She’ll never grant permission.”
“Do you need her permission to take a lover? Someone who will take care of you and adore you from this night forward?”
Cami caught her breath. Never had she expected him to state his case so directly.
Before she could answer, he added, “Tell me what you want, Cami.”
“You must speak with my aunt.”
He smiled down at her, taking her words as assent. The light in his dark eyes fairly danced. “Certainly. She and I shall settle all the arrangements, if it is your wish.”
She wanted to cry for joy and throw her arms around him. Instead, she kept a level head and an even tone. “What of your wishes, m’sieur?”
In answer, Black Vic swept Cami into his strong arms. She could feel his heart pounding against her quivering breasts. She could also feel enough of the rest of his body to know, from the things Fiona had explained to her, that he was dangerously aroused. When he kissed her again, she knew she should struggle against him, but instead she gave in to her own desires.
Another kiss, and then another. He held her tightly, teasing her lips before slipping his tongue into her mouth. The shock was too great for Cami to fight him. She should have guessed. She should have been on guard all the while against this. Fiona had told her about this tongue-kissing that Frenchmen liked so well. Cami had been horrified at the time, thinking it must be a disgusting practice. But it wasn’t so bad, she found, stroking tentatively at his tongue with her own. The gentle, moist contact sent a hot shiver through her body.
Feeling her tremble in his arms, Vic broke away. She barely had time to experience a fleeting sense of disappointment before his lips touched her bare shoulder. She tensed, hardly daring to breathe as she felt his tongue draw small, damp circles on her burning flesh.
At last Vic drew away, leaving Cami weak and totally breathless. For what seemed like an eternity, he simply stared silently into her eyes. When he spoke at last, his voice was deep and hot and rough. “This very night, my little love, you will be mine, if I have my way.”
The words sent a tremor straight through Cami’s body to her heart. Even though she feared the things Vic might do to her, a part of her burned with a passionate fury to be his.
As if reading her confusion, he said gently, “You needn’t worry, ma chère. I could never demand that you come to me before you are ready. I promise to be patient with you.” As a whispered aside, he added, “At least, I will try.”
She wanted to tell him that no man would ever force her… that only love could make her give herself, and that she felt that love for him and would come willingly. But she was far too shy to admit her thoughts. She could only stare at him, while fear and desire fought within her.
“Come, we must speak with Fiona at once,” Vic said.
The moment they returned to the ballroom, a slightly drunken young man approached them. He stared hungrily at Cami with glassy green eyes, then reached out to take her hand. “Madame Le Moyne gave her permission for me to dance with her niece,” the tipsy fellow announced.
His face stormy, Vic drew Cami away from the man and put himself between them. “I think not, sir!”
“Damn you, Navar!” the tall, wiry man bellowed. “It’s not your place to say. This is my dance!”
“Mademoiselle Cami’s dance card is filled,” Black Vic insisted, his deadly tone warning the other man as clearly as his words. But the fellow refused to be put off.
“Why don’t you come with me to St. Anthony’s Square behind the cathedral, Navar? Bring along your second. After we’ve finished our business, then I’ll have my dance with mademoiselle.”
Hearing a duel in the making, Fiona quickly intervened. “M’sieur Navar, I must take my niece home now. Will you see us downstairs to our carriage?”
Cami’s would-be suitor stared hard at Fiona. “Madame, you are interrupting. Navar and I have our own business to tend to. It is time Black Vic made arrangements for his funeral.”
Cami felt fear race through her veins like fire. Surely she had not found the man she wanted only to lose him before they ever had a chance to be together. But Fiona leapt to the rescue.
“M’sieur Labot,” she said in a shocked tone, “you can’t mean that you w
ould desert this lovely ball, all these beautiful young ladies, simply to have M’sieur Navar pierce you through with his colchemarde?” She pulled a sad face. “What a waste that would be! You are such a fine young fellow. Why, any lady here would love to dance with you.”
“I mean to dance with Mademoiselle Cami!”
“Perhaps some other time,” Fiona replied archly. “You see, we were just leaving. Now, you had better be on your way while you still have a chance. M’sieur Navar, as everyone knows, is the finest swordsman in New Orleans, but his temper leaves something to be desired.”
Young M’sieur Labot opted for discretion rather than valor. He moved off quickly, leaving Fiona, Vic, and Cami staring after him.
“That was close,” Vic said. “Why are these young fools so eager to die?”
Cami stared up at Black Vic, a new kind of horror rising in her. “You actually would have killed him rather than allow him to dance with me?”
“I would have had little choice if he forced the issue,” Vic answered. “A duel at St. Anthony’s seldom leaves both participants in good health. In other words, it would have been him or me. As for me, I have some rather urgent plans this evening.”
“I would have danced with him,” Cami insisted.
Vic’s eyes flared with anger. “You would not have because I would not have permitted it, Cami.”
“What are you saying, Victoine?” Fiona gasped.
“That you and I, Fiona, have important arrangements to discuss.”
“Mon Dieu!” Fiona’s words were only a faint whisper.
“I want Cami for my placée. She has agreed to my proposal.”
Fiona said nothing. She still felt that Cami would back out at the last moment. Saying she wanted this and actually committing to it were two entirely different things. She guessed that any moment now, Cami would lose her last shred of courage, beg Fiona to take her home, then never speak of Victoine Navar or the Quadroon Ball again. If Fiona’s calculations were correct, Camille would soon be back at Mulgrove where she belonged.
Whispers in Time Page 24