Gabrielle

by Theresa Conway

  “Miss de Beauvoir is a most charming companion, Bernard. I wonder how you could have left her within my reach?”

  Bernard smiled. “Rafe, had I known you would be trying your devious wiles on her, I would have dragged her over to sit through Madame Bringier’s boring conversation. As it is, I was just about to take Gabrielle to the tables once again. Would you care to join us?”

  Gabrielle looked up at Bernard with hopeless eyes, but she already felt St. Claire’s hand at her elbow propelling her through the room to the gaming tables. He seated her at one of the tables, leaning over as though to whisper advice but taking the opportunity to place a kiss in her hair.

  “Very sweet,” he murmured in her ear, causing a shiver to run down her spine.

  He seated himself across from her.

  “You are going to have to play against Mr. St. Claire, my dear. See, he has placed himself opposite you,” Bernard murmured.

  “Oh, but Bernard, I don’t think—”

  “Hush, the dealer is giving instructions.”

  Gabrielle sat there, miserable, not daring to look at her adversary. When the dealer had finished speaking, he opened the packs of cards, shuffled them, and gave a pack to each couple at his table. There were three couples, and the woman to Gabrielle’s left leaned towards her.

  “My dear, you are so lucky to be playing against that devil. Just watch so that he doesn’t win your petticoat!” She laughed raucously.

  Gabrielle flushed and kept her eyes on the cards that were being dealt rapidly. She lost the first two hands decisively.

  “Dearest, your mind is not on the game. Come now, I want you to enjoy yourself.”

  “Bernard, perhaps you should take my place—I don’t think I’m doing justice to Mr. St. Claire.”

  Bernard patted her shoulder. “Nonsense, just remember what you learned before. You could bankrupt him. Besides, I cannot change with you until the dealer calls time.”

  “You could bankrupt him”—the words echoed in Gabrielle’s mind, and a small smile shaped her mouth. How delightful, she thought, and began to pay more attention to the cards. She won the next three hands. Boldly, she reached into her purse for the hundred dollars Renée had lent her.

  “What are you doing?” Bernard protested, but Gabrielle waved aside his words.

  “Renée insisted I take it,” she assured him.

  She saw the inscrutable smile on her opponent’s face as she placed a healthy sum on the table. She dealt the cards deliberately. They smiled on her and she won again. Fifteen minutes later it was time for those who wished to do so to change partners. But Gabrielle no longer had any intention of leaving the table. She had won almost five hundred dollars. If she could double that amount, she could be her own woman and pay Bernard back the money he had given Renée in her behalf.

  A curious crowd of onlookers had gathered around the table where Gabrielle and St. Claire were now the only players.

  “Bernard, I’m afraid I'm bound to take your mistress away from you,” St. Claire murmured, his voice holding a teasing note. But the green eyes were hard, purposeful with a determination that frightened Gabrielle, and she hesitated on the next hand.

  “Afraid, ma’m’selle?” he asked sarcastically.

  Stung, Gabrielle fell into his trap and gambled the whole of her winnings. The crowd watched with excitement and a sharp cry filtered through the room at the outcome of the deal. Amazed, Gabrielle could not believe that at one turn of the card he had taken her whole stake.

  Beside her, Bernard was pulling gently on her arm. “Enough for tonight, Gabrielle. You’re angry now, but I should have warned you. St. Claire is a devastating opponent.”

  “Oh, Bernard, you must give me a little more money!

  I’ve got to win back—at least the hundred dollars that belongs to Renée!” She could picture the horror on Renee’s face at the news that Gabrielle had lost that much money.

  Bernard shook his head. “No, my love. I’ll not have you make yourself even more furious. You’ll not be in any mood to think about—my declaration tonight.”

  “Bernard! Please!” she cried, pulling her arm away from him.

  He stopped and stared at her. “Gabrielle, what has got into you?” he wondered, his brow furrowed. “I said I am taking you home—and that is that!”

  “No!” she shouted, stamping her foot on the floor. Several heads turned towards them, and voices whispered behind fans—a lovers’ quarrel, how delicious!

  Bernard’s blue eyes flickered about the group. He shrugged. “All right then, I will leave you to his tender mercies.” He placed fifty dollars in her hand. “But you shall find your own way home,” he said beneath his breath, and with an angry expression on his face he walked hurriedly from the room.

  Left standing in the middle of the floor, Gabrielle stared bewildered at the money in her fist. She knew that she should run after him, tell him she was sorry, make him forgive her. But her pride was involved—she simply could not let St. Claire have the last laugh.

  Stubbornly, she stalked back to where he was standing at the table, scooping up his winnings.

  “Mr. St. Claire, another round, if you please,” Gabrielle said, her voice clear in the room.

  He smiled arrogantly. “I am at your service, Miss de Beauvoir,” he answered, seating himself and gesturing to the dealer for another pack of cards.

  Gabrielle shuffled them herself and dealt. She smiled as she looked at her cards. Over their edges, she could see the lazy stare he was giving her. She dealt him another card—a queen.

  He showed his hand.

  Three queens—and she with only a pair of kings! She blanched, and a sigh like the rustling of leaves swept through the crowd as St. Claire raked in her fifty dollars.

  Furious at the calm insolence on his face, she wanted to pound the table or scream at him to vent her frustration. “Mr. St. Claire, I should hope that you are a gentleman,” she began, immediately putting him on his guard as he was preparing once more to leave the table.

  “I should hope so, Miss de Beauvoir,” he rejoined, causing a ripple of sly laughter among the ladies present.

  “As a gentleman, then, would you be prepared to lend me a small sum of, perhaps, one hundred dollars? I feel that my luck has to change, don’t you agree?”

  He smiled sardonically. “Not necessarily, ma’m’selle. But, as a gentleman, I will lend you the hundred dollars for one more round,” he began, and she smiled with as much grace as she could muster. “But,” he added, and her smile slowly disappeared, “in return, beautiful lady, you will become my mistress, should you lose.”

  The crowd’s indrawn breath sounded like a huge rush of wind in her ears, and for a moment she could not believe she had heard him correctly. But then she knew she had. Why, the conceit of the man! To think that she would agree to such an impossible demand! She let her eyes roam the faces pressed in on her and realized they were all watching her with bated breath.

  She heard him laugh confidently, a slow, haughty laughter that grated on her already taut nerves. She held her head up proudly.

  “Agreed,” she said, and her smile was dazzling.

  Immediately, a babble of voices buzzed in her ears. She could feel the men’s eyes caressing her, the women’s burning holes of jealousy through her.

  “Would you like for the dealer to deal the hand?” he asked solicitously.

  She nodded. “I—believe that would be the fairest thing to do.”

  The dealer, sweat standing out prominently on his brow, shuffled the cards and dealt them nervously. Gabrielle picked up her hand—two pairs, both low. She gambled and threw away the lowest pair and another card. Across from her, she watched with maddened anxiety as St. Claire studied his cards. He shook his head—no new cards.

  She breathed an inward sigh of relief. Perhaps—perhaps, after all, he was going to let her win. She picked up the new cards, and a wave of disgust rolled over her. Nothing! Well, she would have to go with the pair of nines
and pray that she could bluff him.

  She saw him place one hundred dollars on the table for her, along with his own ante. She stared for a long moment at the money and felt the gentle veil of perspiration on her upper lip. Absently, she ran her tongue over her lower lip, and her eyes met his for a charged moment, violet challenging green.

  “Your cards, please,” the dealer said, his voice breaking with tension.

  Gabrielle threw her pair of nines on the pile of money and looked up at him again.

  Slowly, deliberately, he placed his cards on top of hers.

  She stared, wide-eyed, dismay on her face, for there were two jacks in his hand. Her eyes flew up like startled birds, the noise from the crowd deafening her. He was smiling enigmatically now, then his hand was reaching across the table to touch her limp one—possessively.

  “Shall we go now, kitten?” he asked coolly.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Of course it had been her own fault—that much was quite obvious, Gabrielle thought mournfully to herself as the carriage made its leisurely way through the streets of New Orleans. Beside her, sitting far too close for her own composure, Rafe St. Claire was silent, seemingly asleep as he let his chin rest against his chest.

  She risked a casual glance at him through lowered lashes, telling herself over and over what a fool she had been. What was that saying about pride that she had heard somewhere?—it seemed years ago. She remembered Pierre Lafitte telling her that pride, of all human emotions, was most likely to precede a man’s downfall. How true those words were, she thought now, realizing that all of this had happened simply because she had been too proud to have Bernard pay for her keep at Madame Renée’s—and then had compounded the sin by standing up to this blackguard when she knew—she knew. . ..

  In disgust, she started to get up from her seat in order to move opposite him, but his hand suddenly shot out and gripped her wrist with such steely strength that she let out a cry of surprise. Her eyes flew to meet his, and she realized that he had not been sleeping at all. The moonlight shone bright on his dark hair but threw the lower half of his face into shadow so that she could not perceive the expression of his mouth.

  “Sit down, kitten,” he said softly, almost coaxingly.

  She had little choice, and she seated herself next to him again, careful to avoid contact with any part of him. But he kept his hand on her wrist, so that she turned to him hotly.

  “If you please, let go of my wrist—unless you wish to break it!”

  He said nothing but loosened his hold a little so that his fingers did not probe so into her flesh.

  Disgruntled, she tried to snatch her arm away from him.

  “Don’t be tiresome, Gabrielle,” he spoke again. “Why do you insist on fighting me? I assure you that things would be a hell of a lot pleasanter for both of us if you would just decide to cooperate a little.”

  “You can be sure, Mr. St. Claire, that I would have no wish to make anything pleasanter for you,” Gabrielle returned crisply. “As for cooperation, I’m afraid you will find yourself very disappointed in that respect, for I haven’t the least intention of—of submitting to—whatever your requirements might be.”

  He laughed briefly, and his hand slipped up her arm beneath the cloak so that she could feel it, warm and pulsing with life, against her bare skin. She experienced a soft glow where his fingers caressed her, and she straightened up as though to ward off any weakening in her guard.

  “I do hope you wouldn’t consider—taking any—liberties—” she began stiffly, nodding to the impassive back of the driver.

  “What’s the matter with you, kitten?” he said silkily, again leaning a little toward her. “Why so stiff and straight-laced suddenly, as though we were strangers who had never met before? I’ve made love to you before—and I have every intention of doing so again.”

  “Be quiet!” she hissed, turning her head away. “Must you be so callous?”

  He moved back to his original position and released her arm. “For Christ’s sake, Gabrielle, you’re not some wide-eyed virgin any longer. You’ve known men—Lafitte, Bernard, countless others, I suppose.”

  She faced him angrily, her voice filled with hatred. “No, I’m not a virgin any more—thanks to your initiation! You took me once and then left me without a care or a thought about my feelings! I was arrested, faced the prospect of never finding out the reason, was humiliated by men, and then witnessed the mass carnage and bloodletting when Lafitte attacked the ship I was on. He was ‘kind’ enough to rescue me from the wreck and promptly introduced me to the further delights of knowing a man. As for whatever ‘countless others’ your vile mind might dream up, I can assure you, there have been no others. Bernard—was kind enough not to press me. He—he was a gentleman!”

  “A gentleman—I have an idea he was probably fattening you up for the kill,” he returned sarcastically. “Your naïveté is scandalous, kitten.” He seemed to study her in the moonlight for a time. “You’ve grown more slender than I recall since we last met,” he finally said as though to himself, “and your hair looks a shade or two lighter. I suppose that’s from the sun with which we are constantly blessed. Otherwise, very little about you has changed. I wonder. . . .”

  “You wonder?” she repeated contemptuously. “Well, please don’t bother. I daresay you didn’t wonder about me even once before seeing me again tonight!”

  He smiled, or she thought he did, but she wasn’t quite sure.

  By now the carriage had pulled up the gravel drive leading to St. Claire’s house and was rounding the circle in order to set them down in front of the building.

  “Welcome to Fairview, kitten,” he said softly as he stepped out of the carriage and held his hand out to her.

  Gabrielle tried to quiet the sudden pounding of her heart, tried to pull herself together, as she laid her hand in his and hesitated a moment, gazing blindly at the dimly lit windows of the tall white house she had admired not so many days before.

  Impatient at her hesitation, St. Claire placed his hands around her waist and swung her down easily, laughing at the flash in her eyes that signalled her displeasure at his impunity.

  “Under the circumstances, kitten,” he said wickedly, “I think it would prove to be to your benefit if you would behave yourself.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means, simply, that you’d best calm that temper of yours before you force me to lose mine,” he returned, taking her arm and walking beside her up the steps that lead to the main door.

  At his knock, a very dignified black servant opened the door, bowing solemnly, as though it was not at all unreasonably late to expect him to be at his post. His eyes did not presume even to touch the woman beside his master.

  “Good evening, Mr. St. Claire.”

  “Good evening, Solomon,” St. Claire said pleasantly, drawing Gabrielle into the magnificent hallway. The majordomo closed the doors, bowed again, and disappeared down the hall, whence came very soon an immaculately dressed serving girl, hardly older than Gabrielle, who curtseyed briefly.

  “Milly, please take Miss de Beauvoir’s cloak.” He turned politely to Gabrielle, who was finding it increasingly difficult to remain silently composed. “Will you need anything else tonight, kitten?”

  She shook her head fiercely.

  “Then I suggest we retire to our rooms. Milly, you will see to it that our guest has hot tea in the morning?” The girl nodded and withdrew as silent and efficient as the butler.

  “Your servants seem to work like well-oiled machines,” Gabrielle put in waspishly as St. Claire guided her up the gracefully curving staircase.

  They reached the second floor landing, and Gabrielle felt the first real stab of fear. He led her confidently to double doors that opened into what was obviously a man’s room, and she heard the click of the lock as he closed them firmly behind her. She turned to him uncertainly, feeling horribly awkward and striving to conquer her unease. Her eyes were huge violet p
ools that watched him nervously.

  He strode towards her. “You’re shivering, kitten. You’re not frightened of me, are you?”

  She backed up a little. “Of course I’m not afraid of you. It’s just that I’m—I’m not used to this—sort—of—thing,” she added lamely, realizing how trite the words sounded even to her own ears.

  “Would you like some wine—a drink?” he offered, not without a hint of irony.

  She hesitated, then nodded quickly. “Yes, yes, some wine, please.”

  He bowed briefly to her, then turned and opened the doors, presumably to return downstairs for the claret bottle. “A moment only,” he laughed softly, closing the door.

  She heard his booted footsteps recede down the hall, then, without a second thought, she ran to the doors and clicked the lock to and then turned to lean against the portals, her breath coming swiftly. She could not go through with it—she just couldn’t!

  She let her eyes roam around the room, absently noticing articles of furniture and the tasteful appointments of the room. She moved to a low table and, because her head seemed to be ready to split in two, she began to tear at the pins that held up the heavy mass of hair, hoping that would help to alleviate the headache. She ran her fingers through the thick tresses, refusing to use the tortoiseshell comb that lay so invitingly on the polished surface of the table.

  With her hair spread about her shoulders like a comforting shawl, she looked longingly at the wide bed, wishing that she could just lie down and go to sleep and dream away this terrible night. But, despite herself, she couldn’t help thinking of all the other women’s bodies that might have waited so expectantly beneath those same sheets—waiting for him. No! She would curl up as best she could in the chair, and in fact, she had just got herself comfortably situated when her ears picked up the noise of his boots in the hall once again.

  They sauntered with palpable arrogance to the door, and she tensed as the knob turned. A soft laugh nearly unnerved her so that she would have sprung from the chair if she weren’t sure that the door was effectively locked against her would-be suitor. She expected him to knock or call out, but only silence greeted her, and in another moment she heard his footsteps again retreating halfway down the hall. A door slammed.