by Nan Ryan
Both were staring at the music box. Both glanced up at the same time. Their eyes met and held.
“I want you to have the music box,” he said.
“I don’t want it,” she replied.
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Take it home with you, Maddie,” he said with that male cockiness she despised. He gently pushed it toward her. “Tonight when you get into bed, open the box, listen to the music—” he paused, leaned a trifle closer, and predicted “—and dream of me, chérie.”
Eighteen
Downstairs, in one of the private reception halls, a long buffet table laden with hot and cold edibles graced one end of the room. White-jacketed waiters stood behind the table, serving up broiled pompano, steaming crawfish, baked ham and roast of beef to hungry revelers attending the holiday bazaar. A myriad of vegetables, salads and desserts complimented the entrees. And at the very center of the long, white-clothed table stood a huge crystal bowl filled with thick, rich eggnog liberally laced with Jamaican rum and heavily garnished with cinnamon.
Madeleine, having finally been relieved of her post, joined her Uncle Colfax and Desmond at the buffet table. They moved along, hurrying to fill their plates to enjoy the meal before the dancing began upstairs at nine.
Most of the crowd had already dined, so the three of them sat at a table by a window in the almost deserted room and sampled the many tempting foods, commenting on how delicious everything was.
When Madeleine took the last bite of a cala, she rolled her eyes with pleasure. She had come to like the rich rice cakes so favored by the Orleanians.
“Aren’t you having dessert, Madeleine?” asked her Uncle Colfax.
She smiled and patted the tight midriff of her wine velvet dress. “No room.”
“Well, you don’t know what you’re missing,” he said. “This peach melba is absolutely superb.”
She laughed and said, “If I take one more bite, I won’t be able to dance.” She glanced at Lord Enfield. “Feel like dancing, Desmond?”
The lord nodded, set his coffee cup in the china saucer, and said, “If we’re to dance the first dance, we’d better go. I hear the orchestra tuning up.”
“You two run on along,” said Colfax Sumner, indicating his half-full dish of peach melba. “When you reach my age, good food interests you a great deal more than dancing.”
Madeleine and Desmond laughed, then rose to their feet. Madeleine leaned down and kissed her uncle’s cheek. “See you upstairs in a few minutes.”
Hand in hand the couple rushed up the stairs and entered the ballroom just as the orchestra began to play. Within seconds the floor was crowded with dancers.
Madeleine looked up at her fiancé and said, “Well? Shall we dance the first dance?”
“The first and the last,” he said, agreeable, and led her onto the floor.
As they spun about the polished floor, Madeleine, recalling what the ladies of the bazaar committee had told her about the beautiful ballroom, looked up at Lord Enfield and said, “Darling, did you know that quadroon balls are regularly held in this very room?” She was looking directly at him and it seemed to her that he suddenly grew pale. He blinked nervously. Puzzled, she cocked her head to one side, and accused, “Then you did know.”
“For God’s sake, Madeleine, everyone in New Orleans knows about the quadroon balls.”
“Oh, I see.” She stared at him, wondering why merely mentioning the balls seemed to aggravate him. She took a deep breath, and asked, “Have you ever…?”
“Certainly not!” he said sharply, obviously offended. “And I don’t think a lady of your station should be gossiping about such things.”
“Oh, come now, Desmond,” she said, “don’t you think you’re being a bit stuffy?” He did not reply. Madeleine pressed on. “Melissa Ann Ledette swears that some of the city’s most respected and aristocratic gentleman—both single and married—attend the quadroon balls.”
“That could be, I wouldn’t know.”
“They go to the balls to choose a lovely quadroon mistress and then they keep the women in neat little white houses up on…”
“Madeleine,” he interrupted, “could we please listen to the music and enjoy the dance?”
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
The lord held his lady at arm’s length as they danced, gently swaying to the music, not talking. Halfway through the number, he turned her about and Madeleine caught sight of Armand de Chevalier, his raven hair gleaming in the light of a chandelier.
In his arms was a glowing Melissa Ann Ledette. Melissa was gazing up at Armand as if he were a god. Her slender arms were wrapped around Armand’s neck and she was apparently attempting to draw him nearer, to close the space between them. Shameless little fool.
Watching the pair, Madeleine felt a jolt of jealousy slam through her. She remembered all too well what it was like to dance with the handsome Creole. She wondered if, when she and Armand had danced on the ship, she had worn the same idiotic, worshipful expression that was on Melissa’s pretty face now.
Armand turned his head and caught Madeleine looking at him. He impudently winked at her. She was appalled. Here he was, openly flirting with her right under her fiancé’s nose. She glared at him, tightened her arm around Desmond’s neck, and moved more fully into his embrace.
She closed her eyes and tried to recapture the dreamy delight she had found in de Chevalier’s arms when they’d danced that evening on board. She sighed and snuggled close and attempted to lose herself in the dance with her handsome, blond earl.
It didn’t work.
While Lord Enfield was an accomplished dancer and she had no trouble following his lead, the magic was missing. She didn’t experience that forbidden thrill, didn’t feel as if she were dying to get closer to him. Her heart did not pound. Her breath was not short. Her limbs didn’t tingle and her stomach didn’t do flip-flops.
She was comfortable in the lord’s arms, that was all. Her eyes still closed, Madeleine gritted her even white teeth and reprimanded herself strongly. She was being even sillier than Melissa Ann Ledette and she was past the age for foolishness.
She reminded herself of the misery she had suffered at the hands of the good-looking scoundrel to whom she was married for three horrible years. Men like Armand de Chevalier were reckless heartbreakers. Perhaps that’s what made them so exciting. But she had no intention of letting any man break her heart, no matter how charming or exciting.
She was, she knew, in the arms of the man who was right for her. The upstanding, trustworthy man with whom her wise uncle had trusted her large inheritance. The man who would make a faithful and loving husband. They belonged together, she and Desmond. They came from similar backgrounds. They were both titled Britishers. They enjoyed the same pleasures and pastimes. They liked the same books, the same art, the same operas. They agreed on what was important in life. And it wasn’t storybook romance that everyone knew faded too quickly. It was mutual respect and fondness and the desire to build a strong, sold future together.
Let others court danger.
She wanted safety and security.
Madeleine opened her eyes and looked up at Lord Enfield. He smiled at her. She returned his smile, then pressed her face against his throat and again closed her eyes. She inhaled deeply and was assailed by a foreign scent. She opened her eyes and quietly sniffed at his collar, the side of his neck, his jaw.
She smelled…she smelled…perfume? The scent of perfume. Subtle, but unmistakable. She sniffed again. A sickly sweet aroma. She raised her head, looked up at him. She was frowning.
“What? What is it?” Desmond asked.
“Desmond, are you…are you wearing some kind of strong cologne?”
For the second time that evening he paled. But he quickly regained control and said, “I was at the barbershop for a quick hair clipping this morning.” He laughed then, shook his head, and said, “Before I could stop him, Barber William drenched me in so
me awful-smelling concoction. Dreadful, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said, “dreadful.”
“Sorry, darling,” he said.
Anxiously he pressed his cheek to hers so he wouldn’t have to look her in the eye. His heart was hammering in his chest and a vein throbbed on his forehead. A close call. He should have known better than to carelessly come here smelling of Dominique. He was a fool to endanger his relationship with Madeleine. If she should ever so much as suspect anything…He shuddered at the thought and drew her closer.
Madeleine quietly made it a point to closely examine his neatly brushed blond hair.
It looked to be the same length it had been yesterday.
The celebration continued.
The children who had been there throughout the afternoon had now been taken home to bed. Only the adults remained.
The freshly replenished bowl of eggnog was brought upstairs and a bar was set up at one end of the ballroom. Jeraboams of champagne, chilling down in the icy depths of huge silver buckets, filled glass after glass of thirsty dancers. There was also plenty of wine and sangaree and absinthe and tafia and bourbon and brandy.
The gentlemen were not the only ones who imbibed. The ladies, too, drank of the heavily spiked eggnog and sipped chilled champagne from stemmed glasses.
Conversations became louder. Laughter more frequent. The music more spirited. Everyone was having a grand time.
Determined that she, too, would enjoy herself, Madeleine reached out and took another glass of champagne from the silver tray of a passing waiter.
“My dear,” cautioned Lord Enfield, “I do believe that’s your third glass of bubbly. Do you think it wise to continue drinking?”
Already feeling the effects of the smooth wine, Madeleine took a drink from the glass, licked her lips, and said with a coquettish smile, “Don’t you ever tire of being wise, Desmond?”
“Well, no, I…”
“Madeleine, excuse me,” Melissa Ann Ledette stepped up and interrupted them, “Will you do me a big, big favor?”
“I’ll try.”
“Oh, good,” Melissa said, and touched Madeleine’s arm. “We need someone to fill in down at booth number eleven.” She pointed across the room. “Just for a half hour or so. Are you up to it?”
“Of course.” Madeleine was gracious. She turned to Lord Enfield and raised her glass in salute. “You’ll wait for me?”
“I shall count the minutes until you return,” he said and affectionately touched her cheek.
He stood and watched her walk away, wondering what would happen if she ever found out about Dominique. Would she accept it as the way of life here and allow him to keep his treasured quadroon? No. She certainly would not. She would call off the wedding and then everything he had worked so hard for all these years would be forever lost.
He could not let that happen. He wouldn’t let it happen. He had, up until this evening, been very careful not to arouse anyone’s suspicions. He hadn’t, like some of New Orleans’ bolder gentlemen, come here to this notorious ballroom to pick a beautiful quadroon mistress.
He wasn’t that foolish. He had happened to spot the youthful Dominique outside a milliner’s shop one morning and had immediately sent an aid to fetch her.
She had been brought directly to his carriage, which was prudently parked in an alley two blocks away. Dominique had eagerly gotten into the carriage, smiled seductively at him, and climbed onto his lap. Within minutes she’d had his cock hard and his head spinning and he had promised her that if she told no one about him, he would install her in a nice little house on the Ramparts and bring her presents and fine clothes and spend his every free moment with her.
That had been two and a half years ago.
So far as he knew, there had never been a whisper of scandal about the two of them. He had purposely kept Dominique half afraid of him, had warned of what he would do to her if she ever exposed him. And he had always taken the proper precautions. He never traveled the same route to her house and he never alighted from the carriage if anyone was on the street.
No, no one knew.
And this was the perfect arrangement. Dominique more than satisfied his raging sexual hunger, and that kept him from misbehaving with the prim Lady Madeleine and frightening her half to death. Actually, Madeleine should be grateful to Dominique for satisfying his sexual hunger and catering to his baser needs. He couldn’t imagine the patrician Lady Madeleine engaging in the forbidden acts of lust which he and Dominique so enjoyed. Madeleine would be shocked and horrified if she knew the truth about him. She would break their engagement. Refuse to marry him. The prospect terrified him. He had to have her fortune.
He trembled inwardly as the grim face and grimmer words of Burton Abbot, his broker, came back to him. The long cash position he had taken in sugar futures had been completely wiped out. Bumper crops in Jamaica and Cuba had flooded the market. Desmond knew he was perilously close to ruin. His need for cash was acute. He only hoped he could hold out until the April wedding.
No, Madeleine never would know. She would never know about Dominique and she would never know his real reason for proposing marriage. He would continue to be the caring consort to her until they were safely married and he was in firm and total control of her vast estate. He would marry Lady Madeleine no matter how loudly Dominique protested.
And how bad could that be, he asked himself as he watched the skirts of Madeleine’s wine velvet dress sway seductively as she walked away.
Not bad at all.
Madeleine took another drink of champagne as she cut through the dancers on the floor and headed for the other side of the ballroom. When she approached the booths lining the far wall, she glanced up to check the numbers. Each had a number and the number was painted on decorative bunting that was wrapped around the top of the booth.
“Number six,” she said aloud and moved on down the row, dodging dancers and drinkers. Soon she stood before number eleven.
“Oh, thank you for coming to my rescue,” said Betsy Barringer, the young pretty wife of a prominent New Orleans banker, as she eagerly ducked out from beneath the counter. “My feet are killing me and I just have to sit down for a while.”
Madeleine glanced at the empty booth, then gave Betsy a puzzled look. “Where is your merchandise? I don’t see…”
“You’re the merchandise, Lady Madeleine,” Betsy said with a chuckle.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Melissa didn’t tell you? She should have. We’re selling dances here.” Betsy pointed to a small, hand-painted sign at the back of the booth which said A Dollar a Dance.
“Selling dances?”
“Yes. For a silver dollar, a gentleman gets one dance with you.” Betsy laughed again, and added, “For a five-dollar gold piece, he gets five.”
“But I…”
“See you in a while. Thanks for being a good sport.”
“No, wait, please…”
Lady Madeleine sighed, set her champagne glass on the wooden counter and ducked under. The prospect of dancing with a bunch of drunken, awkward old gentlemen was less than pleasing. Maybe she would be lucky. Maybe everyone was already dancing with the partner of his choice and for free. Maybe if she halfway hid, everyone would think the booth was deserted.
She grabbed up her glass of champagne and retreated to the back of the booth. She moved the booth’s folding chair until it was directly in front of the sign that said A Dollar a Dance. She quickly sat down and smoothed her long velvet skirts around her. No one could see her without really taking the trouble to search. She would just sit and relax and drink her champagne in peace.
She exhaled, set her champagne glass aside, slipped the drawstrings of her velvet reticule off her wrist and set the reticule on her lap. Taking one cautious look around, seeing no one coming toward her, she carefully pulled the reticule’s drawstrings until the velvet bag was open.
Inside was the miniature mother-of-pearl music box. She had
told herself not to take it, to leave it on the shelf at the dart booth and let someone else win it.
But she hadn’t done it. She had wanted the beautiful music box like a child might want a special trinket. Armand de Chevalier had won it and he had insisted that she take it. She had quickly told him she didn’t want it, wasn’t about to take it.
“You will take it,” he had arrogantly predicted.
And when he had walked away and she was left alone in the booth, she had battled with herself, only to end up slipping the tiny music box into her reticule. She smiled now as she covertly examined the exquisite little box. She ran her thumb over its smooth lid and was tempted to flip it open to let the music play, but knew better than to do such a foolish thing.
Finally she sighed, drew the reticule’s strings tight again, and placed the velvet reticule on the floor beside her chair.
She picked up her glass of champagne, took a refreshing drink, and savored this moment of peace.
In a heartbeat, her peace was shattered.
A tall, imposing man stepped up to the booth. His perfectly tailored frock coat was as black as the darkest midnight and his shirt was as white as an angel’s wings. He was handsome in such a born-to-break-hearts way that Madeleine couldn’t take her eyes off him.
He was smiling.
And there was something about that smile—the exotic way his lips curled in sensual triumph—and something about the way his eyes conveyed both mischief and danger at the same time.
Madeleine felt a great rush of heat engulf her, yet she was icy cold.
He placed a shiny twenty-dollar gold piece on the wooden counter.
“The way I figure it,” said Armand de Chevalier, “this coin buys me twenty dances with you, Countess.”
Nineteen
Madeleine remained seated long enough to fully compose herself, fighting the uneasy feelings this man so effortlessly aroused in her. She hated him for being able to do this to her, hated him more because she was never able to unnerve him.
