Dream Song

by Linda Ladd

  "The moan was good," Luke said with a half smile, "except that I'm the only one who heard it."

  Bethany wanted him to do it again, and was more than a little disappointed when he relaxed back into the chair, though he kept his arm around her. The chairs below them began to empty as Creoles and Americans alike began to make courtesy calls on friends and acquaintances milling about the glittering lobby or in their draped private boxes, more than a few gradually making their way toward the infamous le sauvage in this rare public appearance with his young wife.

  Bethany sat quietly, sipping her glass of champagne, which Andrew kept filled to the brim. She smiled politely at each visitor to whom she was introduced, but all the while, she was powerfully affected by Luke's gestures of endearment, by his gentle stroking of her hand and the light kisses he dropped upon her temple. All of which left her in a burning, quivering state of she knew not what and made her feel almost as if Luke truly cared for her. It is only an act, an act, an act, she told herself over and over, but what a spine-rippling performance it was. Never had a man, any man, treated her as if she was actually desirable, as Luke was doing now. She was filled with a light-headed giddiness that made her feel gloriously happy. Or was that just the champagne?

  "Good evening," Andrew was saying to another formally attired young gentleman who had entered their presence. His pale blue eyes went immediately to Bethany's flushed face. "Please allow me to introduce my older brother, Luke Randall," Andrew continued. "And, this is his bride, Bethany. Luke, Beth, this is Monsieur Philippe Benoist."

  Bethany's attention flew to the man. Though Luke knew Michelle was the reason for Bethany's interest, he did not particularly care for the familiar way Philippe Benoist returned her attention, especially when the Creole's gaze rested on her low-cut bodice long enough to be almost insulting. When Benoist shifted his gaze to meet Luke's hard stare, there was no sign of the hesitant, intimidated expression that had appeared in the eyes of so many of the young Creole rakes who had visited the Randall box that evening.

  "My honor, madame, monsieur," Philippe said in perfect English. Bethany wanted very much to mention Michelle to him, but she knew better. The more she learned about New Orleans and the Creole way of life, the more she understood Michelle's reasons for fleeing its strict racial mores. It would be the worst possible affront to Philippe for Bethany to mention the daughter of his father's quadroon mistress.

  "I heard you were to spend the winter in Pensacola, Benoist," Andrew said.

  Philippe's blue gaze moved to him. "I returned only this morning on an important matter."

  "The Métairie Race, perhaps?" Andrew inquired, and even Bethany could hear the subtle taunt underlying the question. She realized at once that there was more between her easygoing brother-in-law and Philippe Benoist than the polite words they were exchanging.

  "Oui. I would not miss the most prestigious of the races."

  "Will you be riding the Arabian then?" Andrew asked.

  Philippe's mouth grew tighter. "If I do, you will no doubt find it a most unhappy day for your wagers, mon ami." He bowed stiffly, inclining his head toward Bethany, and was barely out of sight before Andrew chuckled.

  "Poor Philippe. That mare of his has made him the laughing stock of the city."

  "Oh? In what way?" Luke asked.

  Andrew's smile was devilish. "He sent all the way to Egypt for prime horseflesh and paid a small fortune to boot, then, after constantly boasting he would win every race he entered, he found he couldn't even mount the mare."

  "But, whyever not?" Bethany had to ask, certain they were talking about Osiris. "Surely, he can ride."

  Andrew grinned. "Not without a saddle, he can't. No one can ride that mare, and believe me, Benoist's tried every known jockey within miles. Apparently, the Arabian was never broken to saddle in Egypt, and besides that, I hear the animal is so highly strung that no one has a prayer of ever sitting her. Even his own Creole cronies won't let Philippe forget his folly. I heard he fled for Pensacola just to get away from the ridicule."

  "But, I-" Bethany began, intending to tell Andrew that Philippe must be mistaken since she had ridden the Arabian, but just then the lamps began to dim and the house grew quiet as the opera resumed. A moment later, she saw Philippe Benoist enter a box just across from her. Their eyes met, and he nodded to her. She answered with a slight incline of her head, wondering if he really couldn't mount Osiris. She quickly looked at Luke, though, as his lips brushed the wispy blond curls at her temple.

  "You're not supposed to exchange glances with other men quite so openly, at least not in plain view of your husband. I advise you to save your flirtations until after I have gone."

  Something in his tone arrested Bethany's full attention, and she was careful not to nod to any other man during the duration of the performance.

  The curtain went down to thunderous applause, and Andrew's velvet-voiced beauty bowed and smiled amid dozens of falling flowers. Andrew stood and tossed down his own rather ostentatious floral offering with such accuracy that the beribboned bundle landed directly at the toes of the singer's dainty slippers.

  Bethany watched as Miss Ludlow scooped up the flowers, obviously delighted and looked up to search out their donor. Andrew smiled down at her, bowing deeply from the waist. But, upon recognition of her brother's prosecutor, the soprano's fair face did not reflect nearly so charitable a response.

  Gasping. Bethany watched the woman raise her arm and hurl the roses back up at Andrew with the same accuracy of aim with which he had dropped them to the stage. They hit him squarely in the chest. Luke gave a low laugh as the crowd applauded the singer's righteous indignation. Bethany felt sorry for Andrew until he turned, his imperturbable grin still in place.

  "Didn't I tell you she had spirit?" he said to Luke. "Did you see the fire in those black eyes?"

  "Enough to burn you alive, I'd say," Luke answered, but Andrew's gaze had already returned to the woman who had spurned him.

  "I've always liked a challenge. She'll come around sooner or later, just wait and see."

  Luke shook his head, eager to escort Bethany away from the gathering crowds, so he wouldn't have to participate in the mindless chatter so enjoyed by the Creoles. He ushered her through the jostling crowd, stopping only when he was forced to do so by a friendly acquaintance. Once they were in the coach again, he was able to relax, glad the evening was over-and a success. As Jemsy commenced the drive home to Cantigny, Luke looked across at Bethany.

  "You're very quiet. Did you have a good time?"

  She smiled dreamily, leaning her curly head against the upholstered seat. "I was just wishing it could have lasted longer." The lamp glow made her eyes gleam like diamonds. A curious, vulnerable note crept into her voice. "Do you think I did all right, Luke?"

  She waited, very much wanting him to tell her she had. He smiled, looking so big and handsome as he sat sprawled across from her that she couldn't take her eyes off him.

  "You did very well, but it's only the first of many such evenings we'll have to spend together before you are fully accepted. As a matter of fact, there's a ball being given by Governor Claiborne, and several American soirees, which we'll be attending this week and next."

  There was a brief silence before Luke spoke again. "Do you think you can enjoy your new role as a wife and a mother?"

  "Oh, yes. I was very proud to be with you tonight."

  Her answer was so completely guileless that something moved deep inside Luke's heart, something dangerous that he had fought tooth and nail every day and night since he had rescued Bethany from the calaboose. He found himself wanting to reach out to her, to touch the creamy softness of her face just as she had touched him earlier at the opera house. He wanted to pull her into his arms, and most of all, he wanted to kiss those soft pink lips. She stared at him now, a quizzical expression on her face, and he turned away from her, thinking his own weakness the height of folly.

  He had married Bethany Cole because she didn't l
ike him and didn't make any bones about it, and because she didn't want anything from him. Now, it was he who wanted to throw himself into the velvet trap she personified to any man with red blood in his veins. Even now, his hand trembled to touch her as she stole nervous glances at him.

  "Stop acting afraid of me, dammit," he said, lashing out, angry at himself.

  Bethany went rigid at his unexpected attack. "I'm not afraid of you," she answered just as hotly, sitting forward. "I just don't particularly like the way you-"

  She got no further. Luke grabbed her shoulders and pulled her bodily across the space separating them, onto his lap, all the while waiting for her to fight against his intentions. To his surprise, she did not resist him. Instead, she put her arms around his neck and drew his mouth down to her own.

  Bethany pressed herself eagerly against him, but was in no way prepared for the half-starved manner in which his mouth claimed hers. Demanding, relentless, wonderful, his arms tightened around her with the hard strength she had admired in him so often. It felt so good to be held and kissed, to hear his breath near her ear, as ragged and desperate as her own. Luke was her husband after all, and she was tired of pretending the affection she had come to feel for him was contrived. She did care about him, and it felt right and good to be held in his arms. Maybe they could love each other eventually; maybe they could have a life together, a real life in which Luke wouldn't leave and Peeto would have both a father and a mother.

  Such thoughts assailed her as his lips burned across her cheeks and throat and shoulders, his hands sliding down to unfasten the row of tiny buttons of her bodice. He probed insistently at her mouth until her lips parted, and his tongue plunged to meet her own. Her entire body shuddered and came alive, and Luke forgot all caution, caught in the intoxication of Bethany's willing response, of the sweet fragrance of her silky hair and soft lips, of the satiny texture of the flesh he was finally able to taste and savor at will.

  He pressed her back against the seat, his hands finding entrance beneath the folds of her gown. So, caught up were they in their own passion they only vaguely heard Jemsy's shout of alarm as he tried to slow the carriage. Only when they came to a lurching stop did Luke return to awareness. He lifted his head, still holding Bethany tightly against him.

  "Dey's a girl on de road, marster!" Jemsy cried from his perch outside. "Is done near ran her over in de dark!"

  Luke released Bethany, and swung down from the carriage to help Jemsy lift a small cloaked figure from the side of the road. It wasn't until the glow of the driver's lamp illuminated her face that Luke recognized her.

  "Michelle!" he breathed.

  At the sound of her friend's name, Bethany pulled together her shattered composure and lifted her skirts to scramble down beside Luke.

  "Is it really Michelle?" she cried. "Is she hurt?"

  "Non, please, Bethany," Michelle cried. "I am sorry. I did not mean to cause more trouble, but I did not know where else to go." She began to weep. "I was all alone, and I was so afraid those men would find me again. I was so afraid…"

  "Come, let's get her into the coach," Luke said, quickly assisting the two women inside. As he sat down across from them, Bethany searched Michelle's tearstained face.

  "What has happened, Michelle? Is it your father? Is he ill again?"

  A sob caught in the young woman's throat. "Non, non. It is Philippe. He came today and sent me away. Papa is too weak to protest. He's gotten so very much worse of late. He needs me, but Philippe said I can never see him again!"

  "He can't do that!" Bethany cried angrily. "Luke! He can't do that, can he?"

  "Yes, I'm afraid he can."

  "But, why? Louis Benoist wants Michelle with him! He loves her!"

  "Philippe is the legal heir, and if his father is too sick to run his own affairs, Philippe is in control. There's nothing anyone can do about it."

  At Bethany's distressed look, Luke added, "Michelle is welcome to stay at Cantigny, if you like."

  Bethany was grateful for the offer. When they reached the portico, Luke descended first, then helped both women out, looking down at Bethany, still inwardly appalled at his own loss of control earlier in the carriage. What would have happened if Jemsy had not seen Michelle on the road? And, what would happen if he himself decided to stay at Cantigny as he had originally planned?

  Deciding it dangerous to find out, he said, "I'm returning to town tonight. I'll probably come home some time tomorrow."

  Bethany couldn't hide her look of dismay as he reentered the coach and signaled Jemsy to proceed. She had hoped they could finish what they had started before they had seen Michelle, but already he was gone again and everything was as before.

  "I'm sorry, Bethany. I have caused you trouble," Michelle murmured sadly.

  "No, that's not true. You're my friend, and I want you to stay here. Come, I'll take you up to your bedchamber," Bethany added, shaking off her own disappointment over Luke's decision not to stay the night at Cantigny. "You'll feel better in the morning, just wait and see. We both will."

  Chapter 11

  The ball of the Honorable William C. C. Claiborne, the first American governor of Louisiana, took place in the spacious grandeur of the Theatre d'Orleans. When Bethany entered, her fingers lightly touching Luke's elegant black-clad arm, her whole being thrilled at the magnificence of the scene in front of her. Hundreds of people clustered about the cavernous ballroom in their jewel-bedecked dresses and matching plumes, fans and turbans, diamonds glittering from the creamy skin of many a Creole lady to reflect brilliantly in the gilt mirrors and polished oak floor.

  Never in Bethany's life, not even in the fantastic imaginings of a lonely orphan girl, had she expected to attend an affair of such magnitude. It was a dream, a beautiful, incredible dream, one that Luke had given to her just as he had given her the lovely new gown she now wore, a gown of white crepe edged in silver and the necklace of sparkling diamonds clasped around her neck.

  He had returned to Cantigny the day after the opera, acting as if nothing had happened between them though Bethany had relived his embrace a thousand times or more. She was glad for the social engagements they were obligated to attend, since they gave her an opportunity to be with a husband who almost seemed to avoid her.

  She smiled up at him now with warmth born of a sincere pleasure to be with him, and was thrilled when he smiled back, showing the dimples that she loved.

  "You didn't tell me your bride was such a beauty, my friend," said a masculine voice nearby. "No wonder you've kept her hidden at Cantigny all these weeks."

  Bethany turned to find the governor himself standing there, a pleasant-faced man with regular features and bright eyes with a hint of purpose in them. Luke reached out to shake his hand, and Bethany noted with approval that the governor did not seem adversely affected by Luke's reputation as le sauvage. She had begun to suspect that Luke had no real friends other than his brother, but she hoped that was not the case with William Claiborne.

  "I am hardly hiding her now," Luke was replying, his arm encircling her waist to bring her up against his long, hard side. Though she was sure the affectionate smile he bestowed on her was meant for William Claiborne to see, Bethany's heart melted. Luke's eyes could be so warm at times, and so incredibly green, like emeralds on fire.

  "You're looking at me as if you really care," Luke commented, his tone slightly mocking as the governor moved away to rejoin his young Creole wife.

  "Perhaps, I do," she answered shyly as couples whirled gracefully past where they stood at the edge of the dance floor.

  "Perhaps, you shouldn't."

  Bethany looked away from the cold expression that overtook his tanned face. Her teeth caught at her lower lip, and she wished she hated him the way she had at first. But, she didn't, not anymore. Somehow she had grown to care about him, though she knew that was exactly what he didn't want. He had told her so often enough.

  Hot tears stung her eyes, but she fought her own searing emotions, appalled
at herself. She couldn't cry, not here in front of all the people Luke was trying to convince of their wedded bliss. He would never forgive her. She looked around, letting cleansing anger replace her unhappiness, and saw Philippe Benoist threading his way through the crowd toward her. Their eyes met, and Bethany's gaze cut him like a silver dagger.

  "Bonsoir, Madame Randall, Monsieur. How nice to meet you again," Philippe said, and after what he had done to her friend, Bethany could not affect even a remotely friendly expression, not even for Luke. An angry flush rose in her cheeks as Philippe Benoist stared at her with unabashed admiration.

  "Good evening, Benoist," Luke said. "I understand your father is ailing. I hope he soon improves."

  Bethany waited, knowing Michelle would want to hear everything she could find out about Louis Benoist's condition. Michelle had been mired in the lowest kind of melancholy since she returned to Cantigny, thanks to the detestable man now answering Luke's question.

  "My father is still very weak, but the doctor seems to think he will improve with time," Philippe answered, his pale blue eyes straying again to Bethany. "May I have the honor of dancing with your lovely wife, monsieur?"

  "If you wish," Luke answered politely, and Bethany was immediately vexed because Luke had given her over to him.

  She did not smile as Philippe took her gloved elbow and led her out among the dancers who awaited the first strains from the stringed orchestra set up on a low balcony above the dance floor.

  "You are even more beautiful tonight in white than you were in the blue gown you wore to the opera," Philippe said, smiling with practiced charm.

  Bethany raised cold gray eyes to him. "I must tell you, Monsieur Benoist, that I do not like you, and if my husband had not given you permission to dance with me, I would have taken great pleasure in refusing you."

  She could see that she had shocked him, and she was glad until he laughed down at her, as if delighted by her insult. Bethany decided he was a very strange man.