by Nan Ryan
“I’ll be anything you want, sweetheart,” he said with a note of sincerity.
“What I want is you out of my sight, Creole. I am going to leave the market. I want you to stay right here, do not follow me. Do not take another step!”
“Sorry, I can’t do that.”
Frustrated, she said, “You can’t…why?”
Armand shrugged. “I promised Montro I’d join him for a café au lait.”
“You saw Montro outside?” she asked. Armand nodded. “He told you I was in the market?” Again Armand nodded. Madeleine’s chin lifted. “I didn’t realize that the two of you knew each other.”
“Well, we do,” was his curt reply.
“Yes, well, I shall reprimand him for telling you that I…”
“Don’t. I wheedled it out of him and no harm’s been done. I haven’t accosted you or frightened you or put your life in danger, have I?”
Grudgingly, she admitted, “No, of course not.”
“Well, there you have it,” he said. “If you ask me…”
“I didn’t ask you. Let me make something clear to you, de Chevalier,” she lectured brittlely. “I do not want to have anything further to do with you. Not now, not ever. Can you understand that? Can you remember?”
His answer was, “Can you forget making love on the ship?”
“What happened between us on that ship was a terrible mistake that was made because…because…I was terrified and under great duress. It was a monumental blunder that I shall regret until my last breath. But I do not intend to pay for it forever. I’ve told you before, I will tell you again, you do not belong in my life. I am engaged to a fine man who loves me and…”
“You love him?” Armand interrupted.
“What?” His question caught her off guard, momentarily flustered her. “Why, yes, yes I’m very much in love with him and I—I—” She stopped speaking, glared at him. “Why are you smiling?”
“Because you are so cute and earnest when you attempt to make an argument.”
“I’m not making an argument, I am stating a fact!”
“Ah, I stand corrected,” he said as he reached up and crooked his little finger through a wayward russet curl at her cheek.
She slapped his hand away and told him, “I will waste no more of my time parrying with fools, Creole!”
With that she whirled about and marched off, her long skirts swishing with her steps. Watching the seductive sway of her hips, Armand smiled with pleasure.
He allowed her to go only a few short feet before he called out to her. “Lady Madeleine!” Madeleine didn’t stop walking, wasn’t about to turn around. Armand quickly glanced about to make sure no one either of them knew was within earshot. Then he said in a clear, baritone voice, “Maddie, do you ever dream of me at night?”
Seventeen
From the outside, the Orleans Ballroom was not impressive. Just an ordinary building whose low, wide façade was totally devoid of any architectural style or grace.
But inside was a different story.
While the ground floor, which had been divided into card rooms and private reception rooms, was nothing special, the second-floor ballroom was spectacular.
The large, long ballroom with its lofty ceiling was elaborately embellished with crystal chandeliers, costly paintings and statuary, and inlays and paneling of fine wood. The dance floor was constructed of three thicknesses of cypress topped by a layer of quarter-sawed oak. It was said to be the finest dance floor in the entire United States.
Balconies overlooked the gardens at the back of the St. Louis Cathedral and at the rear of the beautiful ballroom a wide stairway led down to a courtyard where, on festive occasions when the weather permitted, wines and cordials were served.
On this gray and chilly December Saturday, the elegant Orleans ballroom was brightly decorated for the Yuletide Bazaar. Red and green bunting graced makeshift booths that had been constructed along both sides of the room. Sprigs of mistletoe hung from the crystal chandeliers and wide satin ribbons adorned the marble statuary.
By midafternoon the room was filled and the ladies working in the booths were kept constantly busy selling their wares or daring passersby to try their luck at various games of skill. Manning a booth at the far end of the ballroom, Madeleine had found no time to take a breather since arriving before noon.
The attraction of winning one of the prizes lining the shelves at the back of her booth kept a steady stream of hopefuls pressing up to take a chance. For a mere picayune a player got three chances at striking the bull’s-eye of a corkboard mounted at the booth’s back wall with a well-aimed dart.
It was, of course, a game that almost exclusively attracted males and when she had been assigned to this particular booth, Madeleine had quickly protested, appealing to the bazaar committee to allow her to work in one of the booths selling homemade candies or embroidered linens or whatnots.
Anything but this.
But when the committee had asked why she was so opposed to working the darts booth, she had no feasible answer. She couldn’t very well admit the real reason. She couldn’t tell these genteel ladies that if she worked in a booth that catered to gentleman, Armand de Chevalier would have the perfect excuse to come around and torment her.
All afternoon Madeleine had been nervously scanning the crowd. She had expected at any minute to see the arrogant Armand coming toward her. The prospect ruined any pleasure she might have taken from this social charity function. The Creole had warned her that he would come and she didn’t doubt his word. He would be there if for no other reason than to upset her.
“Good for you,” she said now to a young, gangly boy who had successfully placed his three darts squarely in the corkboard’s bull’s-eye. She extended her hand to the shelves of prizes, “Choose anything you like from one of the lower shelves,” she invited.
“Ah, I—I guess I’ll take that china pitcher there on the second shelf.” He flushed and hastily added, “It’s for my mother.”
Madeleine took down the pitcher, handed it to the boy, congratulated him and told him he was welcome to try again. He grinned and said he might be back later. He and his young friends moved on to other stalls.
Madeleine drew a deep breath. For the first time all afternoon, no one waited in line to throw darts. She was grateful for the opportunity to rest a minute. She glanced across the crowded room to the big-faced clock mounted above a set of doors leading onto the balcony.
She couldn’t believe how fast the afternoon had passed. It was now after six.
Full darkness had fallen an hour ago and Armand hadn’t shown up. Maybe he wasn’t coming. Maybe he’d just told her he would come to aggravate her. Maybe she could relax and enjoy herself like everyone else. Perhaps she and Desmond could…could…
Suddenly it dawned on her. De Chevalier was not the only one missing.
So was Desmond.
The earl had told her he had an important business affair to attend to that afternoon, but promised he would be there no later than five. She looked about, searching, but didn’t see him. Besides, if he had arrived, he would have come directly to her booth. Madeleine frowned slightly. He was more than an hour late. What could possibly be keeping him?
“I’m keeping you here.”
“You can’t. I have to go.”
“No!” An angry Dominique pushed the fully-dressed Desmond down onto his back on her bed and threw herself atop him. “It is early. Stay with me. Love me.”
Desmond sighed. “Behave yourself, love. It’s past six and I promised I’d be there by five.”
Her dark eyes smoldering dangerously, Dominique slowly raised herself to a sitting position astride her prostrate lover, untied the sash of the black silk wrapper she wore, took the robe off and dropped it to the carpeted floor. Naked, she sat there on the fully clothed lord and began the grinding, thrusting movements of her hips. She smiled wickedly down at him. Her long dark hair spilled around her shoulders and her heavy breasts swayed s
eductively as she moved.
“Stay here with me, my lord,” she entreated, leaned down and kissed him. Her mouth moving against his, she whispered, “Show me it’s me you really love.” She licked his lips, bit his chin, rubbed herself against him, determined to arouse him.
“Darling, you know I love only you,” he tried to placate her, tried to lift her off him, but she wouldn’t be deterred.
Desmond knew her all too well. If he didn’t make love to her again, she would never let him leave. She was jealous and possessive and insatiable. They had been in bed all afternoon, but that wasn’t enough for her. She wanted him again and more than that, she wanted to make him late for the bazaar.
Lord Enfield resignedly began unbuttoning his shirt. Dominique, smiling catlike, quickly got up off him and left the bedroom. He rose to his feet and finished undressing. In seconds he was as naked as she. He called out to her. She didn’t come. He walked into the parlor, but no Dominique. He ventured into the dining room, which was lighted only by candles in silver holders placed at each end of the table.
The naked, naughty Dominique was seated atop the gleaming cherrywood table, leaning back on stiffened arms, her parted legs dangling over the table’s edge.
With no buildup or preliminaries, Lord Enfield stepped up between her spread legs and said, “It belongs to you, so if you want it, go ahead and take it.”
With dexterous hands, the beautiful quadroon eagerly guided him into her and the naked pair made earthy love there on the dining table in the mellow candlelight. As her hot, wet flesh closed around him, Dominique looked into his eyes and said, “It does belong to me and you must never put it in her.”
His hands filled with the twin cheeks of her generous bottom, his pelvis thrusting against hers, Lord Chilton said, “Be reasonable, love, she’s to be my wife. I’ll have to put it in her once we’re married.”
With a skill known by very few, save the world’s highest-paid courtesans, the quadroon used her accomplished muscles to rhythmically squeeze and release, squeeze and release, so that Chilton groaned with indescribable pleasure and lost himself in her.
“Don’t marry her,” said the beautiful satin-skinned woman who could turn him to quivering jelly. “I don’t want you marrying her!”
“All right, all right, I won’t,” he rasped, willing to agree to anything as his shattering climax began.
But when it was finished, Lord Enfield reminded the petulant Dominique that they had been over their well-laid plans at least a thousand times and had agreed to go through with them if necessary.
“Darling, say you understand,” he urged, attempting to humor her. “You know I don’t want to marry Lady Madeleine, but I must. As I’ve told you, over a year ago Colfax Sumner drew up a new will leaving everything to Madeleine. That cuts me out. The provisional will, in which I would gain control over his estate, has been superseded by the final will. So I’m left with no choice. I have to marry Madeleine if I’m to get my hands on Sumner’s money.”
Frowning, Dominique whined, “Didn’t you tell me that Sumner never bothered to destroy the provisional will?”
“That’s correct. As far as I know, it’s still in his safe, but it is nothing more than a worthless piece of paper.”
“It wouldn’t be worthless if the final will should disappear, would it?”
“No, but that’s not going happen. Now, please, darling, stop this foolishness and allow me to go to the bazaar.”
Already so late he would have some serious explaining to do, Lord Enfield had time only for a hasty washup. Dominique watched as he soaped his belly and groin. Without benefit of a full, cleansing bath, her scent and the scent of her perfume would surely continue to cling to him.
Let him explain that.
It was nearing seven when Lord Enfield hurried into the Orleans Ballroom. Madeleine saw him anxiously making his way through the crowd. When he reached her booth, he had to wait to speak with her. A quartet of young gentlemen, laughing and scuffling, were loudly bragging to one another about their skill with the darts.
It was at least fifteen minutes before the last of the group had had a go at the game.
Desmond eagerly stepped up to the booth and smiled apologetically at Madeleine. “My dear, I’m so sorry I’m late and…”
“What kept you, Desmond?” She was irritated and wanted him to know it.
He knew it.
He reached for her hand, held it in both of his own. “I tried to get away, honest I did,” he said, and it was true. He had tried to get away from Dominique, but she wouldn’t let him go. “That boring business appointment dragged on and on, but it was a very important meeting, for both of us. For you and me, I mean.” He favored her with a smile and said, “My darling, you must know that everything I do is for you. I have worked extra hard this past year so that when we are married, you’ll want for nothing.”
She nodded, half convinced, half suspicious. She asked, “Who was the long business meeting with, Desmond?”
“A London cotton buyer who quibbles over every last detail of a contract.” He shook his blond head, as if in disgust. “I kept telling him I had a prior engagement and he kept arguing over everything. Finally, I told him I was going and he could take the deal or leave it.”
“Did he take it?”
“He did,” Lord Enfield said, “but he made me earn my money.”
Madeleine finally smiled and sympathized. “You must be exhausted,” she said and squeezed his hand. “They’ve set up a gentlemen’s bar down in the courtyard. Uncle Colfax is out there. If it’s not too chilly, why don’t you go on down, have a drink, relax?”
“What have I done to deserve you?” he asked earnestly, gazing adoringly at her. “My sweet, you have no idea how much I love you.”
Flattered, Madeleine urged, “Go on down and have a drink, dear.” She smiled at him and added, “Be sure to save a dance for me this evening.”
“Every dance,” he said, backing away.
Madeleine sighed. She felt better. Her fiancé was late because he had been conducting important business that would benefit them both. Better yet, the Creole still had not shown up and she was beginning to feel confident that he wouldn’t come.
A group of gentlemen crowded up to the booth to throw the darts. Once they had gone, there was another lull in business, and Madeleine took the opportunity to carefully survey the crowd. She searched for the dark-haired de Chevalier, hoping, praying she wouldn’t find him.
She didn’t.
It was after eight. He wasn’t coming. If he was, he would have arrived by now. And if he had arrived, she would surely have seen him. She released a long sigh of relief. She turned away to rearrange the prizes still resting on the shelves. Only one remained on the very top shelf. A beautiful, expensive, miniature mother-of-pearl music box trimmed in filigreed gold.
To win it, the player had to sink not three, but six darts squarely in the center of the bull’s-eye. Several had tried. All had failed. She doubted that anyone would win the delicate music box, which was a shame because it was a gift any woman would love to get.
“May I give it try?” came a low, drawling voice, and Madeleine whirled about to see de Chevalier standing before her, smiling easily.
She did not smile back at him. She said coolly, “For a picayune, anyone may try.”
He reached into his trouser pockets, searched for a coin. “What would it take to win that little white music box up there on the top shelf?”
“Nothing to it, really,” she said with a derisive smirk. “Just pay two picayunes and then sink six darts into the center of the bull’s-eye.” She crossed her arms over her chest and continued to sneer.
“Is that all?” said Armand as he handed her two picayunes and reached for six feather-tipped darts.
Madeleine quickly moved to safety at the side of the booth, having little confidence in his dart-throwing ability. She watched, irritably, as he leisurely shrugged out of his dark frock coat and carefully draped i
t across the booth’s counter. He then meticulously lined up the six darts, placing them in a neat row on the wooden makeshift counter, fussing with them, annoying her.
“For heaven sake,” she finally snapped, “you’re not allowed to take all day!”
Still Armand did not hurry. He grinned at her, reached up and loosened his silk cravat, then carefully undid the top two buttons of his fine white shirt. She exhaled loudly when he lifted his right wrist and took the gold link from his shirt cuff. He repeated the exercise with his left wrist. He dropped the gold cufflinks down inside his trouser pocket, then made a big show of rolling up his shirtsleeves, making sure the folds were neat and that they matched perfectly on each arm.
Afraid his antics would soon draw a crowd, Madeleine stepped up directly before him and said under her breath, “That’s it, Creole. Throw the darts or move away and give someone else a chance.”
“I’m ready,” he announced, his sleeves tidily rolled up over his tanned forearms, a devilish smile on his handsome face.
Madeleine again retreated to safety. Armand picked up the first dart, closed one eye and threw the dart. Dead center of the bull’s-eye. In quick succession the other five darts followed. Each struck the bull’s-eye to Armand’s delight and Madeleine’s dismay.
“Are you properly impressed?” he teased her.
“Choose a prize.”
He pointed. “That little gold-trimmed mother-of-pearl music box up there on the top shelf.”
She ground her teeth. She didn’t want him to have the beautiful miniature music box. She had hoped it would go to some sentimental gentleman who wanted it for his treasured sweetheart.
Rules were rules. De Chevalier had won it fair and square and she had no choice but to give it to him. She stood on tiptoe and took down the exquisite mother-of-pearl music box, turned and crossed to him. She reluctantly placed the beautiful box on the rough wooden counter.
“There,” she said, “it’s yours.”
She watched, thoroughly miffed, as he reached out and touched the dainty box. His long, lean fingers lightly stroking the smooth surface of the lid, he flipped it open with the tip of his thumb. Music tinkled softly from it. A sweet romantic love song.
