by Linda Ladd
The music began, and she allowed him to put his hand on her waist, hoping she would remember how to waltz. Michelle had been working with her on the steps, but she had had very little practice in the arms of a man. She certainly didn't want to make a fool of herself in front of Philippe Benoist.
"I suppose this dislike you display toward me is a result of your friendship with my father's"-he hesitated, then finished distastefully-"indiscretion."
"Michelle is not an indiscretion! She is your half sister and my best friend, and she has suffered enough without you being cruel to her, too."
Bethany was getting angrier by the minute, and in her agitated state, she managed to tromp clumsily on Philippe's toe and was glad she had!
Philippe only grinned. "You don't dance nearly as well as my groom tells me you can ride Osiris."
Bethany gritted her teeth. "Thank you very much. From what I hear, you don't ride Osiris nearly as well as you dance," she replied, then gave him a brilliant smile in case Luke was watching them.
Philippe laughed again. "I must say I find it hard to believe you can ride Osiris when no one else can. You must come visit us again and let me see it with my own eyes."
Bethany's gaze was icy. "Perhaps, if I can bring Michelle with me."
"I fear that is impossible. Then, I suppose we will have to be satisfied with seeing each other at these social affairs."
"I intend to make every effort not to see you here or anywhere else," she answered furiously.
"I daresay your husband will be glad enough of that, but who could blame him for his jealousy?"
His compliment meant nothing to Bethany, unlike his remark about Luke. She looked over at her husband and found him, indeed, watching them. Could he really be jealous? she wondered, her hope rising. Did it bother him to see her dancing with another man? Perhaps, that was the way to make him want her, to let him see that other men desired her. She knew so little about men and their ways. Luke wasn't like other men anyway.
"Do you really think he's jealous?" she asked Philippe, shedding her coldness long enough to look up into his face.
"I would be, if you were mine," he whispered intimately.
Despite Bethany's dislike for the man, she felt a secret thrill at the thought that a tall, handsome Creole gentleman such as Philippe Benoist actually found her attractive enough to whisper such things in her ear. If he found her desirable, perhaps in time, Luke would, too.
Such were Bethany's thoughts as the waltz came to an end. By the time Philippe had escorted her back to her husband's side, she had decided to see if Luke did care enough to be jealous. She smiled up at Philippe with all the warmth she could muster for such a disgusting excuse of a man. To her disappointment, though Luke's smile seemed rather stiff, he showed no sign of caring how she had acted with Philippe.
As the evening progressed and other gentlemen began to gather around Bethany, she began to gain more confidence. After all, they always did all the talking, usually a lot of compliments and such. All she had to do was smile and listen. She eagerly accepted one invitation to dance after another, while Luke stood back, speaking to the governor or to Andrew, who was still pursuing the elusive Miss Ludlow. The lady was still spurning him without mercy. Even now, the black-haired singer swept by the hapless Andrew on the arm of an American military officer.
As Bethany whirled around the floor for what seemed like the hundredth time, her partner a slender young Creole who barely spoke a word of English, she turned a surreptitious eye toward where Luke had been leaning against a pillar only moments ago. Now, he was gone. Her first thought was that he might have left the ballroom, and she quickly scanned the spectators.
He stood nearly a head taller than most of the men in attendance, making it easy to spot him, and when she did, her heart beat frantically. He was dancing with a beautiful lady in a daringly low-cut golden gown, her flowing copper hair glinting in the candlelight as he whirled her around with all the elegant grace with which he did everything. She hadn't even known he could dance.
Bethany swallowed hard, missing a step and nearly stumbling, all the while fighting her overwhelming distress. She had never seen Luke with another woman. Her eyes sought him again just as he smiled down at his attentive partner. Bethany felt sick inside. She hadn't ever been jealous before, and if that's what she was feeling now, she hated it. Luke was certainly not the one with the heavy, suffocating pain in his heart that she had wanted him to feel. She was!
She danced with Andrew next, then with the governor himself, followed by three young Creoles, each of whom knew even less English than the one before. Luke didn't dance as often as she did, but when he did dance, it was always with the beautiful redhead. Bethany's high spirits were slowly sucked into the deepest morass of self-pity. She was so demoralized, she even agreed to dance with Philippe Benoist again. It wasn't until the strains of that waltz faded away that Luke approached her.
"I believe the next dance is mine," he said politely to Philippe, and Bethany was so relieved to have him back again that she didn't notice the look of dislike that passed between the two men.
"You have certainly become popular in a short time," Luke said conversationally as they circled the floor.
"I'm having a wonderful time," she said, lying with a forced smile that she was finding increasingly hard to sustain.
"And making a mockery of our so-called happy marriage. If you continue to flaunt yourself at every man in this room, everything Andrew and I have done to get you accepted in the Vieux Carré will go up in smoke."
As on edge as Bethany had become, his biting rebuke, uttered with another aloof smile, cut her deeper than she could bear.
"Perhaps, our marriage was all a mistake then. Perhaps, you should forget it and give me an annulment, so that I can have a real relationship with a man I care about and who cares about me," she said, wanting him to experience the same awful jealousy that wound in tight knots around her heart. "Jacques perhaps, or Antoine, or Jean-Paul-they were very nice to me."
His eyes lowered slowly to her face, and Bethany knew at once that she had gone too far. The music faded, and Luke gave a slight bow and escorted her back to a group of her admirers. He strode away without a word, and didn't return until the end of the last quadrille, and then only to escort her back to their carriage.
The ride home passed in a heavy, strained silence that Bethany dared not break. Once at Cantigny, she was subdued as she trailed Luke into the foyer, then lifted her skirts to follow him up the steps, by now very sorry for her behavior. To her surprise, he did not turn down the hall toward his own room as she had expected, but strode down the other wing toward Bethany's bedchamber.
Suddenly wary, she followed him, halting on the threshold as he crossed the room in long, unhurried strides. He opened the big rosewood armoire with the curved top, lifting out an entire armload of her new gowns. He draped them across the bed carefully, so as not to wrinkle them, then lifted the lid of the enameled trunk in which her wardrobe had arrived from the dressmaker.
"What are you doing?" she asked in a small, fearful voice as he placed one of the dresses inside the trunk.
"Packing your things."
Realization dawned, with heart numbing dismay close on its heels. Her hand went to her mouth. "You're sending me away."
"That's right."
"But, where?"
Luke straightened, giving her a look that made gooseflesh ripple down her spine.
"I don't really care where you go. I don't like threats. You suggested we get an annulment and that's exactly what I'm going to do just as soon as I can arrange it. The idea of marrying you was a stupid mistake. Andrew said so from the beginning, and he was right."
Bethany stared at him, feeling as if her whole world was slowly sliding into a pit of quicksand. She put her hand on the wall for support.
"But, what about Petie, Luke? I can't just leave him, you know I can't. He wouldn't understand."
"He's got Raffy and Tante Chloe and An
dy now. He'll survive well enough, and so will you. It shouldn't take you long to latch on to a man. Most of your partners tonight would jump at the chance to keep you."
Luke didn't look at Bethany again as he stalked past her and down the long, carpeted corridor to his own bedchamber. He slammed the door, then leaned against it, shutting tired eyes. He was almost relieved that it was over. Bethany hadn't been able to go through with it. She had been the one who wanted out, and it was better that way for both of them. He remembered the way she had smiled up at Philippe Benoist and her other Creole partners, remembered how he had felt inside.
A muscle moved in his cheek, flexing hard for an instant. Damn her! Damn her for worming her way into his life. He hadn't let women get to him, only Snow Blossom, and Camille for a few weeks. But, Bethany was so good at making him want her, with her soft innocent mouth and wide silver eyes. He wanted her away from him once and for all; he wanted her out of his life forever.
Deep inside, behind the bolted doors in his heart, a conflicting need rose, pushing hard to be free. Muttering a curse, he crossed the room and opened the French doors to the gallery. He stared into the night, still agitated with the feelings Bethany had dredged up inside him by taunting him with her masculine admirers. She had done it on purpose, perhaps looking for the very reaction she had forced out of him. But, it was over now. He didn't have to think about it anymore; he didn't have to think about her anymore.
He turned as the door opened and closed. Bethany stood in front of him, looking like a small, beautiful, penitent angel in her flowing white-and-silver gown. Her eyes glittered with tears, one falling even as he watched and rolling down her cheek, wetting her lips.
"Please, Luke, please don't send me away. I don't want to go."
He couldn't find any words, so affected was he by her softly uttered plea and the sorrow on her face as she willingly humbled herself before him.
"I didn't mean it, I swear," she went on softly. "I don't want an annulment. I only want to be with you and Petie."
She came closer, stopping right in front of him, then rose on the tips of her toes and brushed her lips against his clean-shaven cheek.
"Please, Luke, let me be your wife. I won't do anything else to displease you, I promise."
At her softly beseeching words, her eyes filled with hurt and fear and perhaps even love, something brittle snapped inside Luke, some ancient shield he had erected long ago. Feelings he'd suppressed since a childhood of horror and pain flooded free to engulf him, numbing his mind, drowning his self-control. All he wanted was Beth in his arms.
He pulled her to him, buried his face in the softness of her sweet-smelling curls, his heart hammering out of control. He marveled at her willing surrender, at her weak sobs as his hands moved down her back, drawing her slender hips against his loins. He did want her, he did!
"Beth," came his husky whisper as he lifted her off her feet, turning with her held tightly against him. He lowered her to the bed, half laying on top of her as he cradled her face in his palms, kissing her with deep, relentless, hungry, demanding need.
All reason floated from Bethany's grasp, submerging her in an uncharted sea of pure bliss and unknown yearning as his fingers fumbled with her gown until her breasts swelled free for his pleasure. He swept away the remainder of her gown with a sharp rending of silk crepe, and for the first time since Luke had touched her, she felt her muscles begin to tense. The ripping of her dress brought back memories of a different night, the night she had been brutally mauled by a man. Terror began its slow rise inside her, fighting for release like a stifled scream.
Luke gripped her tightly, painfully, in his passion. As he jerked off his own clothes, eager to feel her silken body beneath his bare chest, Bethany was lost in a nightmare from her past.
"Please don't hurt me! Please, please!"
Her desperate cries brought Luke up short, shattering the enormous desire she had aroused in him. He stared down at her, reading the stark fear mirrored in her wide gray eyes. He gentled his hold, pulling her tenderly against him.
"It's all right, Beth," he whispered. "I won't hurt you."
Bethany wept against his chest as he stroked her back and hair, whispering soothing words.
"Tell me, what's wrong? Did I hurt you just now?"
"No," she muttered brokenly. "It…"
She couldn't say it, couldn't bring herself to talk about it.
"Sssh, now, it's all right," Luke murmured. "Forgive me. I shouldn't have been so rough with you this first time. I wasn't thinking."
Bethany clutched him tighter, her voice low and tortured. "But, it doesn't have anything to do with you! I want to be here with you, but when you tore my dress, it made me remember something, another time when someone held me down and tore my shirt. I was so scared then, because I thought I couldn't get away from him. Someone came and helped me, but he hurt me, he hurt me."
"Who?" Luke asked in a terrible, unnatural voice, his fingers flexing in her hair. "Who did that to you?"
Bethany was quiet then, realizing she could not tell him, could never tell him. "Please, I beg you, don't make me talk about it anymore! I can't bear it!"
Luke shut his eyes, sick to the depths of his soul. "Did he rape you, Beth?" he whispered hoarsely, needing to know for sure, his guts twisting with the desire to kill the man who had brutalized her.
Bethany shook her head where it lay against his chest, and Luke stroked her hair. "Thank God," he muttered gruffly. He kissed her temple, raising her chin until he could look into her eyes.
"I don't want to hurt you, Beth. I won't ever touch you if you don't want me to. I only want to kiss you and hold you, but only when you're ready."
Bethany closed her eyes as his lips settled against her forehead, his fingers wiping the wetness from her cheeks. He feathered slow kisses on her eyelids, and she felt new shivers racing over her flesh as his mouth pressed warm kisses on the tremulous pulse throbbing in her throat.
He no longer held her tightly, but tenderly, his touch so gentle it seemed impossible when she remembered how strong he was. Gradually, she no longer thought of that other time, knew only the heat of Luke's mouth, burning, heating her naked flesh until she melted against his hard brown body pressing her down into the pillows.
She held him to her, awed by the feel of him, the smooth texture of his back as his bronzed muscles moved beneath her palms. She wanted to touch him as he was touching her, to explore the sinewy strength of his hard, masculine body.
"I love you, Luke, I love you," she whispered without knowing she had spoken. His lips stole her words away as his hands slid over her shoulders and cupped the softness of her breasts. His mouth followed, leaving a hot trail along her trembling flesh until she could only close her eyes and let herself experience the slowly awakening pleasures of being stroked and caressed and cherished by the man she loved. Slowly, lingeringly, expertly, Luke brought her to the brink of ecstasy, until she writhed for some unknown release her quivering body craved.
She moaned as his hips moved down to claim her as his wife and lover. She cried out at the sudden stab of pain, but his arms tightened reassuringly, his deep kisses distracting her until a warm, wonderful, velvet feeling spread through her aching loins, rendering her weak and pliant and dreamy as his mouth continued to taste and worship her, to erase the memories of the only other time a man had touched her.
Her last thought was that she loved Luke, loved him deeply. Then, she was no longer capable of thought, or fear. She could only feel him moving on her, making them one as he held her close, whispering tender words as if he really loved her. She held him tighter as the exquisite sensations built until she felt she could not bear more of the shivering, shuddering spiral of pleasure. As she reached the heavens, she cried out, and felt the ultimate fulfillment, her fingers clenched tightly in Luke's thick black hair. He stiffened over her, his own groan of pleasure adding to her satisfaction.
Afterward, they lay unmoving together, Bethany still caug
ht in breathless wonder as Luke held her tightly and tenderly, realizing how very different it had been with her. After a few moments, he turned onto his back, pulling her close. Bethany roused from the lovely lethargy that weighted her limbs long enough to speak.
"Do you love me, Luke, just a little?" she whispered against his strong neck.
He turned slightly, so that he could smile down into her eyes. "You are my wife, sweet. You are here in my bed, in my arms, and you please me more than any woman I have ever know. Isn't that enough for you?"
Bethany gazed up into the rugged, beloved planes of his face and felt the gentleness of his fingers as he brushed a soft blond ringlet from her cheek.
"Yes," she murmured. "That's more than enough for me."
Luke smiled, and the tender kiss they shared soon flamed into much more.
Chapter 12
Bethany opened her eyes, sleepily watching the gauzy mosquito baire hanging from Luke's carved bed stir in the morning breeze. She let her long lashes drift together, vaguely hearing the faint chirping of a bluebird on the gallery. She drowsed contentedly for a moment longer, comfortable and warm, until a pair of burning lips touched her bare shoulder.
As Luke pulled her to face him, everything came spiraling back to her. Her heart thumped with an excruciating awareness of her own nakedness, but she was even more conscious of the big, hard muscles of her husband, who lay so close against her.
"Good morning," he said, nuzzling her cheek, the black stubble of his beard scraping her delicate skin.
"G-good morning," she replied stiffly, embarrassed by the nervous way she had stuttered.
Luke laughed softly, knowingly, drawing her body fully against his. "I like waking up with you in my bed," he whispered.
Bethany swallowed convulsively, not sure if she did or not. It was daylight outside, and the whole household would be astir soon. When he smiled again, his eyes warmer than the sun as he took her lips in a gentle kiss, she decided she liked waking up in his bed, after all.
