Dream Song

by Linda Ladd

  "I see here that you've been seen with another woman," she said quietly, carefully re-folding the newspaper.

  Unperturbed, Luke sipped his coffee, his eyes watching her above the rim of the cup. "That's what I get for teaching you to read."

  Bethany ignored the comment, which she knew was intended to rile her. "How else would I know what my husband has been doing with his time," she answered calmly, "since he doesn't come home anymore?"

  "Everything I do is exaggerated in the newspapers. You know that."

  "You didn't take her to the opera, then?"

  "I didn't say that," he responded, and their gazes held for a moment.

  "It doesn't matter," Bethany said. "It doesn't change the way I feel."

  "No. I don't suspect it does, since we agreed from the beginning to go our separate ways, as long as we were discreet."

  "That's not it at all," she said, smiling sweetly. "I will still love you, even if you are seen with a hundred different women."

  Luke's coffee cup paused halfway to his mouth.

  "Indeed," he murmured at last. "A hundred different women? It seems I have my work cut out for me, doesn't it?"

  Bethany gritted her teeth as he rose and left the room. He was impossible! Impossible to know, to understand, to talk to! Why did she love him so much? Now, he would probably go out and make love to a hundred different women just to spite her! Surprisingly, that idea amused her, and she laughed aloud, then quickly looked around to make sure no one had heard her. He was surely driving her "crezzie" as Tante Chloe would say. Bethany shook her head.

  Later that evening, when Luke appeared again to join Bethany and Michelle for the evening meal, Bethany felt sure she had been right earlier to honestly express her feelings, but the fact that Luke was dressed in formal attire, his ruby cravat pin glittering in the candlelight, did little to reassure her.

  "Are you going into town tonight?" she asked casually as the maids cleared away the dessert dishes.

  "Yes," he answered. "I'll be spending the night at the townhouse, so don't bother to wait up."

  He went so far as to press a kiss on Bethany's flushed cheek before he left. Michelle looked down in embarrassment, as if feeling sorry for her dear friend.

  Bethany was more angry than hurt at the moment, however, and the instant Luke's carriage rattled away from the river portico, she stood, her face set with determination. She'd put up with enough! It was her turn to be less than discreet.

  "Come on, Michelle, we're going into town, too. I will not sit here another night while Luke goes about with a hundred different women!"

  "But, where are we going?" Michelle asked, nonplused by Bethany's remark.

  "To Monsieur Girardeau's costume ball. His man brought the invitation last week, and I feel certain that is exactly where Luke is going. Hurry! We have to change!"

  "But, I will not be admitted," Michelle protested.

  Bethany hardly heard her. "Yes, you will, if you're with me."

  Bethany hurried upstairs without waiting for Michelle's answer, then took special care with her toilette, applying more lip rouge and powder than she normally did. She wanted to look her best so Luke would be sorry he wasn't with her. She chose a royal blue gown that glistened with a band of pearls around the square neckline and hem, because Luke had told her once he thought it particularly becoming with her fair hair. She placed a matching nine-strand choker of pearls around her neck and stared at her reflection. She would not sit home alone any more, nor would she degrade herself by entertaining other men. From now on, wherever Luke went with his paramour, Bethany would be there as well. She would smile and act as if nothing was amiss. Perhaps, she would even join them!

  Her plans went abruptly awry when her carriage drew up in front of the Girardeau house on Rue de Royale and the black-liveried servant at the door looked down his nose at Michelle.

  "Femmes de couleur are not permitted here, madame," he said in his haughtiest voice. "Perhaps, she can find entertainment there, across the way."

  Bethany's teeth clamped hard as she looked down the street to where he had pointed. The brightly lit galleried building was a bustle with activity, and her eyes sharpened as she saw the small black coach of Cantigny parked just across the street from its entrance.

  "That Luke's coach," she cried. "What is that place, Michelle?"

  Michelle lowered her eyes, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

  Bethany frowned. "Tell me, please."

  "It's the quadroon ballroom upstairs, and below there are gambling rooms for the gentlemen."

  "Then, you would be allowed there! Come, we'll go find Luke."

  Bethany took hold of Michelle's arm, but the young woman held back. "I am sorry, but we cannot go there. You will not be allowed inside. No white women are."

  "I don't understand. Why not?"

  "Because it is where the Creoles choose their mistresses," Michelle informed her friend reluctantly. "That is where my father met my mother."

  "No wonder Creole men are always smiling," Bethany muttered grimly, then looked again at Luke's carriage across the way. If Luke had gone to the quadroon ballroom to choose himself a mistress, he would get some help that he wasn't expecting.

  "Come on, Michelle, we're going. I have a mask. No one will know I'm white."

  She ignored Michelle's dismayed protestations, pulling her down the wooden banquette, mingling with the crowd entering the famed quadroon masquerade ball.

  Chapter 16

  Luke leaned against the red velvet cushions of his chair, paying little heed to the other patrons milling around the smoke-filled gambling hall. His cheroot lay smoking on a silver tray in front of him, alongside his substantial pile of winnings. Four other men sat at the green-baize-topped table with him, and four pairs of eyes watched his dark, impassive face for some clue to the cards he was holding in his hand. They saw only the same calm green gaze and the relaxed, self-confident posture Luke had displayed during the many other long evenings of gambling since he decided it wise to distance himself from Bethany. He won more than he lost, much more, but losing never bothered him. Indeed, nothing much seemed to bother him since Bethany had seen fit to ally herself publicly at the Métairie race with a womanizer such as Philippe Benoist.

  A coin clinked against the stack of money in the center of the table, and Luke idly reached out to turn over his winning hand.

  "Merci, messieurs," he murmured, pulling the pot toward him, not bothering to stack it.

  While more cards were being dealt, he listened to the lilting strains of a waltz filtering down from the upstairs ballroom. He briefly considered going up to look over the batch of lovely femmes de couleur being peddled there by their mothers, but he dismissed the idea. He had never particularly cared for that Creole custom, especially once he knew the tragic life Michelle Benoist had suffered as the result of the Creole caste system.

  Thoughts of Michelle brought Bethany's small, exquisite face burning into his brain, and once again her words reverberated in the deepest recesses of his mind. "I will still love you, even if you are seen with a hundred different women." He wondered if that was true, remembering the shuddering sense of betrayal he had felt when he realized she had been secretly consorting with another man behind his back.

  If she really did love him so much, she shouldn't. He didn't want her to love him, just as he didn't want to love her. Already, she had made him feel things no other woman had ever come close to making him feel. Other women no longer appealed to him, especially the silly actress with the red hair and insipid conversation with whom he had spent an interminable time at the opera. He had taken her home at the intermission just to get rid of her.

  But, Bethany was different. It would have been hard to leave her if she had not shown him how easy it would be for her to forget him once he was gone. The Creoles had courted her like a queen ever since she won the Métairie. In a fortnight, he would be gone anyway. He had lingered too long in New Orleans this time, and he hungered to see th
e Rockies again, to breathe the clean, crisp air. Bethany would land on her feet, just as he had told Andrew.

  Luke's frown, though brief, gave encouragement to the young Creole across from him, and Monsieur Betancourt promptly bet a larger amount than he normally would have, especially against one as lucky as le sauvage.

  Betancourt scowled at his own stupidity a moment later, when Luke added yet more coins to his growing stack of wealth. Luke paid no attention to the young man as Andrew entered from the street door, looking worried.

  "I guess that's all for me, messieurs," Luke said, casually gathering together the small fortune lying in front of him. The other players gave a collective sigh of relief as Luke strode off toward his brother to find out what woman was giving Andrew trouble now that Miss Ludlow had left the city. Andrew's first words were hardly what Luke expected.

  "Luke, I think Beth's upstairs with Michelle!"

  "What?"

  For once, Luke was shaken from his self-imposed aloofness, and Andrew let himself be pulled out of the gambling rooms into the cool night air.

  "What makes you think she's up there?" Luke asked grimly as soon as they reached the interior courtyard.

  "Jemsy's outside in the rig, and he said she went in wearing a mask."

  "Good God," Luke said, taking the outside stairs to the ballroom with Andrew at his heels.

  Bethany found the famous quadroon ballroom much smaller than the spacious halls where the whites hosted similar parties. The room was very crowded, and the atmosphere was gay and festive-much more so, in fact, than Governor Claiborne's ball had been. As she searched the throng for her husband, she especially noticed the relaxed mien and air of informality displayed by the wealthy Creole men. Their laughter echoed often as they moved among the lovely, creamy-skinned young quadroons clothed in rich silks and satins who sat demurely along the walls, chaperoned by their turbaned mothers. Most of the mothers were light-complected themselves, though occasionally a darker face could be seen.

  While Michelle took a chair by the door, staring at her lap, Bethany watched an elderly Creole gentleman escort a particularly beautiful young woman, who looked to be about fifteen, back to her velvet chair. He lifted her hand to his lips, and she smiled shyly at him as he gestured her beaming mother to one side. Bethany realized he was probably whispering an offer for her daughter. If it was accepted, the pretty girl would become his mistress.

  What if Luke was even now making such an offer? Bethany thought, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. But, surely he wouldn't do that, not Luke. The practice was so ugly-buying innocent young girls for the amusement of rich men as if they weren't people at all, but some kind of thoroughbred horse!

  The musicians near the balcony doors that overlooked the Rue de Royale began the next waltz, and Bethany continued to hover along the perimeter of the dance floor, searching for Luke and praying she wouldn't find him. During one such sweep of the dancers, her gaze fell again on Michelle.

  Bethany stiffened when she saw Philippe Benoist bending low to speak to his half sister. His eyes came immediately to Bethany's masked face, a horrified expression overcoming his features. He left Michelle, coming straight to Bethany.

  "Are you crazy, chérie?" he demanded softly, his fingers tightening around her arm to draw her outside onto the balcony.

  "Philippe, let go. I can't leave Michelle in there alone!"

  "Mon Dieu, don't you know what would happen if anyone recognized you here?"

  His urgent tone gave Bethany pause. "No one will recognize me with this mask, but even if they did, what could happen?"

  "Mon Dieu, Beth, this is a quadroon ball. Everyone forgave you for riding at Métairie because you won, but a white woman found here would cause a scandal that would never be forgotten! It would ruin your husband's business here, and Andrew's law practice, and the social standing of everyone connected with you!"

  Bethany regarded him in dismay. "Oh, no! I never meant to do anything like that-"

  She got no further. Philippe suddenly took her in his arms, shielding her with his body as someone emerged from the ballroom.

  "Sssh," he warned. "Wait until they go back inside, then, I'll get you out of here."

  "I hate to interrupt your seduction of my wife, Benoist, but it's time for Beth to leave."

  At Luke's voice, both Philippe and Bethany stepped back, horrified to see him.

  "Now, wait a minute, Randall," Philippe began hastily, "It's not what you think."

  "What I think is that you haven't been particularly discreet."

  Luke remained half hidden in the shadows, and his words held no trace of anger.

  "I was only trying to keep anyone from seeing Beth. You know as well as I do that she shouldn't have come here. Nothing inopportune has happened between us, I assure you. The last thing I want is to cause her more trouble after what happened at the race."

  "Perhaps, you should have taken that into consideration before now," Luke said calmly. "But, if you'll excuse us, we really should be going."

  Bethany looked up fearfully at Luke as they moved away, leaving Philippe to stare helplessly after them, but her husband said not a word as he took her arm and led her toward the spiral iron stairway and down into the courtyard.

  "Wait, Luke, Michelle's inside. We can't just leave her!"

  ''Andrew's taking Michelle to the townhouse, but I'm surprised you even care. Didn't it occur to you how degrading it would be for Michelle to come here tonight? She originally left New Orleans to avoid this place."

  Bethany was deeply appalled by his words. She hadn't considered Michelle's feelings when she dragged her into the quadroon ballroom. She had thought only of herself and her need to find Luke. Deep shame filled her as Luke handed her into his carriage, then followed her inside, calling for the driver to proceed to Cantigny.

  Bethany fidgeted with the ribbons of her mask, feeling an awful need to explain everything to him. He didn't appear angry in the least, as if he hardly cared what she had done, and that made her perversely resentful.

  "I only went there to find you," she admitted, wanting him to know the truth. "I know now I shouldn't have gone."

  "It doesn't matter. Just be more discreet next time you meet Benoist," was his offhanded answer, which sent Bethany's ire spiraling out of control.

  "I will, believe me," she retorted. "I'll wait until you leave, and I hope that's soon, then, I'll meet Philippe or whoever else strikes my fancy somewhere nice and private, perhaps at their apartments. Or, maybe Marcus will come back for me like he said he would, and I'll let him make love to me in our bed at Cantigny, after everyone is asleep, if that's discreet enough for you-"

  Luke moved so fast that Bethany gasped as his fingers bit into her arms. "Don't push me, Beth. I'm not in a good mood." He had ground out the words from between clenched teeth, and Bethany realized with some joy that he was angry-very, very angry. Never, ever had she thought she would be so thrilled to be the subject of Luke's formidable rage. She settled back when he let go of her, not ready to push him any farther. She had gotten the response she wanted. He did care about her!

  By the time they reached Cantigny, the household was long asleep. Bethany nearly had to run to keep up with Luke's long steps as he pulled her after him up the staircase and down the hall to his bedchamber. He flung her inside and shut the door behind them, then turned on her, jerking loose his cravat in an angry motion. By now, however, Bethany was calm and more than willing to meet his intentions, especially if they included a night spent in his bed. More than anything, though, she was pleased to see him finally shaken loose from the awful, exasperating armor of indifference he usually kept around him.

  "I think we ought to have a proper good-bye, don't you? Since I'm leaving soon," he said with a half sneer, continuing to undress.

  Meeting his challenge, Bethany tugged off her white lace gloves, for once the unruffled party. "Oh yes, I definitely think we should," she agreed affably, "because I do love you, you know, and I did al
l of this tonight just to make you jealous. It was childish of me, but you're being childish, too, by going around town with that other woman just so you won't have to admit that you love me as much as I love you."

  Her words and the sweet smile that followed were unexpected enough to bring Luke to a standstill, the look of surprise on his handsome face almost comical.

  "I'm going to love you, Luke, no matter what you do," Bethany continued matter-of-factly, slipping her dress off her shoulders and letting it slide down over her slim hips with a faint whisper of silk. "So, you might as well accept that and enjoy the time we have left together."

  Luke was momentarily distracted by the sight of her soft, creamy flesh beneath the black lace chemise she wore, but Bethany pressed on, loosening her hair from the chignon at her nape and shaking her head until the silky blond ringlets fell over her shoulders in glorious splendor.

  "So, do what you will to me, and it won't matter."

  Luke's mouth went dry as she lifted one shapely leg to a stool and slowly unrolled her black silk stocking. He gritted his teeth.

  "I suppose you'd still love me if I decide to keep a mistress. A quadroon, perhaps?" he said.

  Another stocking floated gently to the floor. "Oh, yes, it would make no difference at all."

  "And, if she gave me a child?"

  Bethany smiled, nodding, her fingers tugging loose the ribbons that held her chemise over her breasts.

  "And, if I tell you I'm leaving in a week or so and might never come back?"

  "Yes, yes, yes!" Bethany exploded at him, that pronouncement harder to ignore than the others. She was suddenly tired of his verbal taunts, his attempts to make her hate him. "I'd love you if you were the devil himself!"

  Her words momentarily shocked them both, and Bethany was immediately appalled at having spoken them.

  "Well, maybe I wouldn't if you were really the devil," she amended lamely.