King of the South

by Read, Calia

“Yet you’re the one who sneaked into my room,” I point out.

  Livingston knows I’m right. The laughter stops. “And we shall do what?”

  “I propose we do precisely what we were doin’ five minutes ago before you stopped.” My heart pounds. I can feel Livingston’s eyes on me. I haven’t been this nervous in quite some time and begin to drag my fingers along the collar of his shirt. “Our time in the dark will never be spoken of in daylight.”

  “Of course not,” he murmurs.

  I keep speaking because it’s far easier than thinking of him saying no. “Our time will also be good practice for me and—”

  “Practice?” Livingston sits up, causing my hands to fall away from his shirt.

  I sit beside him. “Yes, practice. For when I’m married. The day we kissed at Belgrave, you were quite confident in your skills to seduce a woman. Surely, you can continue to teach more to me.”

  That’s not entirely true. There’s an imbalance starting to bloom between Livingston and me. I want to learn more. Understand what he likes and doesn’t.

  “When it comes to seduction, I’m more than confident,” he replies, insulted I would question his capabilities. “In fact, I’ve never been more sure of anythin’ in my entire life.”

  “Right,” I continue before shooting him a dubious look. “And tonight seemed … enjoyable for the both of us, so why not continue?”

  Livingston has never been so quiet. Has he gone deaf? Maybe he thinks I’m jesting because he continues to stare at me as though I’ll say, at any moment, “I had you for a moment!”

  “Livingston?” I gently prod.

  Turning away, he shakes his head slowly. “I’m thinkin’, I’m thinkin’. I never expected you to make a proposition such as this.”

  “But now I have.” As the seconds tick by, I feel myself becoming vulnerable. Why did I ask him if we could continue?

  Tucking my hands beneath my thighs, I take a deep breath. “I enjoyed myself, but I made the error of bein’ presumptuous. Perhaps it wasn’t enjoyable for you. If that’s true, we can pretend tonight never happened.”

  His head jerks my way. “It was enjoyable.” His hazel eyes blink but remain steadfast on me. “It was very enjoyable.”

  The gruff tone of his words sends a thrill down my spine. I can only nod and wait for him to give me an answer to my proposition.

  And then, finally, he does. “I’ll agree. Under one stipulation.”

  My eyes narrow. I should’ve known there would be a stipulation. “And that would be?”

  Livingston faces me. “As much as you may want to, you can’t fall in love with me.”

  I can’t help the unladylike snort that slips from my mouth. “There’s no problem of that happenin’.”

  It almost happened once before. I can fight it a second time.

  “You seem confident.”

  “I’ve never been more sure of anythin’ in my entire life,” I reply, using his own words.

  Playfully, Livingston taps me underneath my chin. “You sure ’bout that, darlin’?”

  “Lacroix, you climbed through my window. It seems to me that you’re in danger of fallin’ in love with me.”

  “Yet you want me to keep comin’ back,” he counters.

  “I won’t fall in love with you,” I say, making sure to utter each word slowly.

  There’s no sense in denying the attraction between us, but love? I won’t let it happen. For Livingston, it’s not out the question to expect a woman to fall in love. It happens time and again for him.

  “Shall we shake on it?” I propose.

  The corner of his mouth curves up into a half-smirk. “Shake?” Without another word, he leans in and kisses me soundly. I hum my approval. This is much better than shaking hands. When he pulls away, he brushes his finger against my lower lip. “Can’t go back now, le savauge. You kissed on it.”

  Why does my heart beat a bit faster at those words? Why do I find myself leaning in closer?

  Right then, Livingston looks at my pillows behind us. His body betrays him as he yawns, and his eyes fight to stay open. Sitting up straight, I look at him closely. “Tired?”

  Sighing, he sinks his hands through his hair before they drop heavily between his legs. His head swings in my direction. He gives me an exhausted smile. “I haven’t been sleepin’ properly.”

  “Does properly mean not at all?” I ask with a small smile.

  Livingston chuckles. The sound gives me butterflies. “Yes, it does.”

  Nodding, I look away, carefully choosing my next words. Several times, my mouth opens, then shuts. Words are ready to roll from my tongue, but I stop myself.

  Livingston stares intently at the floor as though the answer to all his problems are between the cracks of the floorboards. I’ve stared at this floor many times myself. The resolution isn’t there.

  “You can tell me what is on your mind.” I pause. “If you desire to do so.”

  For a long time, it’s been apparent something’s wrong with Livingston. Him confessing he doesn’t sleep confirms it. I don’t like to see Livingston hurt or fighting his inner demons because I don’t know how to fix the problem.

  I remember when I received the news that he was left for dead on a sidewalk in Charleston. I thought for a fearful second I was going to lose someone far too important to me.

  “Thank you, Rainey.” He places his hand on my leg and gives my knee a reassuring pat. But then his hand stays put, fingers splayed across my knee. I can feel his palm nearly burning a hole through my nightgown.

  He looks down, staring at his large hand on my thigh. I stare with him. I know too much about him. I know how he earned the scar on the middle fingernail of his right hand. Étienne and Miles accidentally slammed it in a barn door on Belgrave property when they were ten. If you asked Livingston to tell the story, he’d end it by saying he never cried. Étienne and Miles would say differently. When his nail grew back, there was a small depression in the nail bed and a longer scar on the inside of his finger.

  I know too much about him for this to mean nothing. I need to rescind our agreement.

  My lips remained closed. I don’t move. I don’t breathe because I know when I do it’s going to break this moment, and then he will leave, and tonight will be over. I’m not prepared for that yet. Being alone with him, in the dark, is peaceful. How I felt in the ballroom when he kissed me is the emotion that came over me the minute he stepped through my bedroom window.

  There are no bachelors to choose from, no looming debts to pay, and the pain of losing Miles doesn’t feel as sharp. And I think, for Livingston, that whatever haunts him persistently is alleviated. As he sits beside me his hair is in disorder from my hands running through it. Strands fall over across his forehead, but the tension around his brows and around the corners of his eyes aren’t as pronounced. He looks peaceful and collected. Almost boyish. The longer we sit here in silence, my heart breaks.

  Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me how I can help you.

  As though he can sense my thoughts, Livingston pulls his hand away. His eyes are uncharacteristically solemn as he briefly looks at me, almost pleading for me not to say anything, and stands up. “I should be goin’.”

  “Yes, yes,” I rush out and stand after him. “It’s late.”

  With my hands linked behind my back, I walk him to my window as though this sort of thing occurs frequently. Before he opens the window, Livingston turns back to me. The short walk across my room has given him a chance to retreat back into himself.

  “I will see you soon?” he asks.

  The corner of my mouth lifts. “Yes. I hope so.”

  “Good night, le savauge.” I can imagine the impish gleam in his eyes right before he says those words and disappears through the window.

  Smiling, I close the window behind him and walk back to my bed feeling dazed and out of sorts. Sleep is out of the question, but I make myself comfortable and bury myself in my sheets as tonight replays through my head
.

  In every possible way, Livingston and I are a terrible match. I wake up early, and Livingston sleeps the day away. He shirks his duties, while I prefer to be on time to every event. Livingston is Charleston’s number one womanizer. I am Charleston’s untamed debutante.

  For some reason, though, there is an attraction between us. I denied the first kiss and the second.

  God help me for anticipating the third kiss.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Rainey

  The next night, I pace my bedroom floor with my robe billowing behind me.

  Livingston agreed to come, but what if he’s changed his mind?

  There’s a significant chance he’s thought this over and realized what a terrible idea it is. I know I couldn’t stop thinking about last night, but did I have regrets? Did I want to abort tonight? Absolutely not. My heart raced at the very idea of seeing him, and I thought about it all day. Even during my dinner with one of my bachelors, Sean Atwood. He was kind and kept a steady flow of conversation. Slightly pompous but had an amiable sense of humor. I did my best to remain present during dinner, and right when I thought Livingston was off my mind, I would see a man out of the corner of my eye in the restaurant who I swore looked identical to Livingston.

  I was beginning to feel unhinged because even though there’s always been a level of anticipation whenever we sparred with our words, this was different. This was consuming my mind.

  Wordplay was in the heat of the moment everything about tonight felt deliberate. I kept the lamp on because I wanted to see him better, and I wanted him to see me.

  I even took great care to pick out my least modest nightgown and came to the conclusion that I dress like an eighty-year-old spinster, complete with the braid. I had no desire to be one of Livingston’s conquests, but I certainly didn’t want him to see me as an undesirable old maid. Or most importantly, like the young girl he once knew.

  I worked with what I had and chose a sleeveless empire nightgown made of muslin. Hand-embroidered flowers trim the V-neck with pale pink ribbons keeping the sleeves together.

  If I had a bigger bust, it would look a bit more seductive and far less … sweet. I didn’t want sweet. There’s nothing captivating about sweet. I stop in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of my room and give myself a thorough look. I brushed my hair until my hand began to ache. The dark strands flow down my back, with the ends touching my waist. I didn’t braid it like I always do each night and question myself. Should I braid it? No. Leave it as it is. The neckline appears too high and demure. It firmly shelves me next to every childhood friend Nat grew up with.

  Furtively, I look around and undo the first button. Spurred by my bold actions, I pull the plain neckline down. No. Too far. I pull it back up and take a deep breath.

  “Stop it, Rainey,” I mutter to myself.

  One button is as far as I can go.

  For the hundredth time, I glance at my clock. It’s five past twelve. I should go to bed. It’s apparent he’s not going to show up tonight. At least one of us has sense. I give the window one last look and walk toward my bed. When I bend down to turn off my lamp, I hear the tap, tap, tap against the windowpane.

  By the time I turn, Livingston has the window open and is crouching his head down to slip inside.

  My fingers become tightly linked in front of me. The butterflies that have been tightly caged in my stomach break free as I watch him stand to his full height. “Hello.”

  Livingston begins to take a step forward. “Rainey, listen, if you were caught up in the moment last ni—”

  Before he can finish his sentence or wipe the dust off his pants, I lunge myself into his arms and kiss him. If mouths could talk, mine would say, “What took you so long?”

  I momentarily take Livingston off balance, but he rights himself and wraps his arms around me. It feels good to take the lead. But seeing this is our third kiss, I feel confident in what he’s shown me. Now I want to know what else he can teach me.

  We break apart and his half-smirk appears, as does that dimple. “Should I continue with my question?”

  “I don’t believe that’s necessary.”

  Livingston begins to lean in for another kiss but abruptly pulls back and steps away. He doesn’t appear unsettled so why is he holding back?

  “How was your day?” he asks out of nowhere.

  “How was my day?” I repeat.

  Livingston nods as though this is a routine question he asks. Perhaps other friends do, but not us. We’re continuously preparing for what the other will say next.

  For a moment, I’m taken aback. “Today was … dull.”

  “Why’s that, le savauge?”

  A month ago, that blasted nickname would’ve made my blood boil, but now it makes my heart race. This is why you don’t kiss your brother’s best friend. Everything can change in an instant.

  “I-I had a dress fittin’ with Momma,” I say as though it’s my first time forming words. I make sure to keep the part about my date with Sean out of my reply.

  Livingston’s brows lift, and his eyes sweep down my body and back to my face. My arms become covered in goose bumps. It took the seamstress nearly thirty minutes to get all my measurements, yet I’m certain he obtained them with one simple look. “Sounds fascinatin’.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t contain my excitement,” I say with a straight face.

  Livingston smiles.

  “And how was your day?” I ask.

  With his hands behind his back, Livingston takes a stroll around my room, much like he did the night before. I think he’s purposely placing this distance between us, prolonging what he came for and why I’ve been pacing my room for the past hour.

  Livingston can shrug with indifference and proclaim Étienne is the one between the two of them who has an interest in business, but he’s being dishonest. I know Livingston’s smart. His mind was constantly in motion, and he read more books than I did. There’s no one who isn’t inspired. They simply haven’t found what sets their soul on fire.

  “A chess set?”

  Oh, no.

  My heart beats against my chest. After dinner with Sean I passed the time by playing chess. I forgot to put the game away. I watch him carefully as he picks up one of the queens, inspects it, sets it back down and then goes for the king.

  “You want to play a game?”

  “No,” I say a little too forcefully.

  With both brows lifted, he looks at me and slowly lowers the king onto the set. “Do you have a sudden aversion to chess?”

  “No. I normally don’t play at such a late hour.”

  “And I normally don’t climb trees at such a late hour to sneak into rooms.” His mouth quirks. “Do you want me to be rebellious on my own?”

  I’ve played chess since I was a girl. The only worthy adversary I’ve come across has been Livingston. He may appear jovial, but he was as shrewd as his twin. When he played, he played to win. And if he lost, he continued to play until he won.

  After Livingston’s attack, the people closest to him didn’t know how to proceed. He didn’t have his memory and such a crucial part of him was missing. The many pastimes he enjoyed before the attack he no longer partook in, but chess? He couldn’t resist the challenge of chess.

  We played so many games after the attack it started to become a form of recovery. We would play late into the night. When everyone else had retired for the night, we were hunched over the small table brought into the sitting room, all our focus on the chessboard. Sometimes, we didn’t say a word to one another. Other times, I would reminisce about the past, and I was truthful. The opportunity to change history by lying was there, but I spared no detail. I knew I was a menace as a little girl, chasing after him, Étienne, and Miles.

  I knew there were times he was dubious, but I had him lift his pant leg, revealing the scar on his calf. He wasn’t doubtful after that.

  Perhaps it was naïve thinking on my part, but through those conversations and chess gam
es, I thought I saw a glimpse of the real Livingston. For all anyone knows, maybe our private tête-à-tête gradually brought his memory out of hiding.

  That’s not what happened, though.

  What came to pass was hope expanding inside me only to be crushed by false hope.

  “Perhaps another time,” I offer, my voice becoming a tinge bit desperate.

  “Then what should we do?” Livingston asks in a lazy drawl.

  Looking everywhere but at him, I gather the courage to say my words, “Well, last night we agreed you should teach me more about affection. Correct?”

  “Correct. Is it called affection, though?”

  “What would you call it?”

  He moves in, and my heart races. I know this man. He can read a nursery rhyme and make it sound wicked. “From last night, I would describe it as your devotion to me.”

  “Try again.”

  “Rapture?”

  I shudder. “No.”

  “A frenzy for what’s to come.”

  That makes me hesitate.

  “We should continue with that, yes?”

  “But I have one rule.”

  He arches a brow and patiently waits.

  “No words or trite phrases you might say to one of the ladies you’re commonly with.”

  Livingston holds a hand to his chest and appears shocked. That doesn’t stop him from moving closer. “That hurts. You believe I would do such a thing?”

  I blink rapidly at him.

  “I can’t say, ‘I’m poor with words, but rich with affection. Let me show you’?”

  I lift a brow. “Yes, that’s precisely what I was referrin’ to.” Even so, the thought that he would give his attention, even for a second, to another woman fills me with jealousy. I know it’s wasted. This is Livingston I’m considering, but I want everything he says to me to be original.

  “Of course last night I showed you some affection, and I plan to continue...for education purposes,” he quickly amends.

  “Of course,” I agree just as quickly. He’s only two steps away. “Education is important.”

  “I’ve never agreed more with you.”

  It’s hard to say who kisses who or who meets who. His hands become tangled in my hair, and my arms wrap around his neck.