by Nan Ryan
The big man beamed. “Always a pleasure, my lady.”
Madeleine closed and locked the door, glanced down the wide center hall and saw that no lights were visible under her uncle’s closed door. She climbed the stairs to her room and found the ever efficient Avalina awake and waiting for her.
“Oh, Avalina,” Madeleine said, “you didn’t need to wait up for me. Bless your heart, I know you must be sleepy.”
Avalina shook her head, setting the points of her ever present white tignon to trembling. “A little, but I knew you’d be very tired when you got in and might need my help.”
Madeleine nodded, shrugged out of her long, ermine-lined cape and asked, “Did you see Uncle Colfax when he came in?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Was he all right? He left the dance early and…”
“He’s fine. Or at least he told me he was,” Avalina stated. She tilted her head to one side thoughtfully and added, “I’m afraid the master’s age is beginning to catch up with him. Seems to me these past few months he’s often tired.”
Madeleine offered, “Well, he was at the bazaar all afternoon. I’m not old and I’m tired to the bone.”
“I’m sure you are,” said Avalina. “Here, let me help you with that dress.”
Madeleine nodded, sighed. “What would we do without you and Big Montro?”
“You’ll never have to find out,” said the indomitable black woman who took great pride in tending them all.
Madeleine was delighted to find that the thoughtful Avalina had readied a hot tub for her. Within minutes she was sinking down into its sudsy depths and telling Avalina about the bazaar. Who was there. Who danced with whom. Who drank too much. Whose gown was the loveliest, whose the tackiest. The two women gossiped and giggled like young schoolgirls.
But Madeleine’s laughter died when, out of the blue, Avalina asked, “Was that handsome-as-sin Armand de Chevalier there?”
Once Avalina had gone and the yawning, peignoir-clad Madeleine was finally in bed, she lay on her side in the pale winter moonlight. On the mattress before her rested the miniature music box. She toyed with the lid, but did not open it.
As she gazed at her gift Madeleine bit her bottom lip. The last glimpse she’d had of Armand, he was dancing with Raphelle Delion. The wealthy widow whom everyone said was openly after him.
Madeleine knew she shouldn’t care one way or the other, but she couldn’t help but wonder. Was Raphelle still in Armand’s arms?
In his bed?
Sudden, unreasonable fury flooded through her and, like an angry child, she impulsively swept the music box off the bed. It bounced on the deep carpet. The lid fell open. Sweet music tinkled forth.
“Damn you, Creole!” Madeleine swore, as tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. “I don’t want the silly music box and I don’t want you!”
Armand, in a dark caped cloak and soft kid gloves, hurriedly exited the Orleans Ballroom. His carriage and driver were waiting.
“Home, sir?” the driver asked, as he opened the carriage door for Armand.
“Yes, Philip, home.” Armand said, as he started to climb up into the carriage. He stopped, turned and said, “I’ve changed my mind. Drive me up to Lulu St. Clair’s.”
“Yes, sir,” Philip said, his expression unchanged.
Armand sat in the back of the shadowy carriage with his arms crossed over his chest and his hooded eyes narrowed. He was nervous, edgy, frustrated. And it was his own fault. Nobody else’s. So he was disgusted with himself. He had allowed a beautiful russet-haired noblewoman—who belonged to another man—to get under his skin and into his blood. All because on a stormy summer afternoon she’d lain naked in arms and loved him in a sweet, fiery way he couldn’t seem to forget.
A muscle spasmed in Armand’s dark jaw. He gritted his teeth and his black eyes flashed with resolution. He would forget. He was going to forget. And he knew how to do it. What he needed on this cold December night was a few hours in the warm arms of one of Madame Lulu’s exotic girls.
He had been told by a discerning gentleman who frequented Lulu’s, that she employed the most beautiful, and therefore expensive, women in the entire South. The girls, it was said, were incredibly lovely, highly cultured, boldly adventuresome and eternally discreet. Elegance and excessive formality were said to be the keynote of the swanky establishment and only high-class trade was welcome there.
The carriage rolled to a stop before the imposing three-story mansion on Bourbon Street. Armand’s driver jumped down off the box and hurried to assist his master. When Armand stepped out into the cold, he said, “Philip, I plan on staying all night, so you may go.”
“Yes, sir. Whatever you say,” Philip replied. “Shall I come for you tomorrow morning?”
“No earlier than noon,” Armand instructed, planning a long night of lovemaking and a longer sleep afterward.
Twenty-One
Armand hurried up the front walk, climbed the steps to the gallery and lifted the heavy door knocker. A liveried butler opened the door, smiled politely and invited Armand inside.
Armand was shedding his gloves and cloak and handing them to the butler when the handsomely gowned Lulu St. Clair swept regally into the foyer and greeted him warmly.
“Ah, Mr. de Chevalier,” she said, beaming. “Welcome, welcome. We were beginning to wonder if you’d ever find your way to our modest abode.”
“Here I am,” he replied with a grin.
She laughed and tapped him on the chest with her collapsible fan. “So you are. We’ll see to it that you have such an enjoyable visit you’ll want to return again and again.” She wrapped a plump, bejeweled hand around his arm and led him into a spacious, elegantly appointed parlor. Fireplaces and mantels were of gleaming white marble and the furniture, upholstered in fine burgundy damask, was of highly polished mahogany. The mahogany floors were covered by plush velvet carpets.
The large, candlelit room was almost deserted. A well-dressed couple sat on a damask sofa, sipping champagne and whispering. And in the corner a man in evening clothes played a square, heavily carved pianoforte.
Madame Lulu was quick to explain, “It is quite late.”
“If it’s too late, I’ll…”
“No, no, Mr. de Chevalier. Never too late and I’ve got just the right girl for you.” She beamed as if she knew a delicious secret. She yanked on a nearby bell cord and within seconds a strikingly pretty young woman entered the parlor. As the tall, gorgeously gowned, red-haired beauty slowly approached, Madam Lulu told Armand about her. “Her name is Gytha. That’s old English. It means ‘a gift.’ She’ll be your gift, if you like.”
“No!” Armand said with such firmness, Madam Lulu was taken aback.
“You do not find Gytha to your liking?” Lulu raised her plump hand, motioned the red-haired woman to stay where she was. “Is she not beautiful?”
“She’s exquisite,” Armand agreed, “but I want a brunette. Or a blonde. Or a…”
“Ah, I see, I see. You do not like the red hair, Mr. de Chevalier?”
“No, no I don’t.”
Madame Lulu was smiling again as she snapped her fingers and sent Gytha away. Seconds later another beautiful woman descended the wide staircase and came into the parlor. She was also tall and quite voluptuous. Her hair was as black as Armand’s and her skin held the hint of an olive hue, though lighter than his own. She wore a becoming evening gown of black velvet that was cut so daringly low he expected to see the flash of a nipple any minute. Her hips were concealed by the hooped bell of her full skirts, but he would bet good money that they were generously rounded. Her full-lipped mouth was turned up into a seductive smile and in her dark, flashing eyes was the promise of prolonged pleasure.
“You like, monsieur?” asked Madame Lulu.
“Very much,” said Armand.
“Ah, bon, bon,” gushed the madam. “Her name is Jade. She’s of Spanish descent and she knows how to please the most discriminate of lovers.”
&n
bsp; “I’m sure she does,” said Armand. “I’ll want her for the entire night.”
“A wise decision,” said Madame Lulu as Armand moved toward the dark-haired beauty.
He reached her, smiled, and said, “Jade, I’m Armand de Chevalier. You’re stunningly beautiful and I want to spend the night with you.”
She flashed him a dazzling smile and said, “I’ll make it a night you will never forget, Armand.”
She took his hand and led him up the wide, carpeted stairway. At the top of the stairs, Jade guided Armand to the third door down, and into her private quarters. Once they were inside, she locked the door, turned, leaned back against it and gazed at the man who was to spend the night in her bed. Jade couldn’t believe her good fortune. For the first time in her professional life she looked forward to her work. The majority of the gentlemen who visited Lulu’s were well into their fifties, some sixty, some even seventy and beyond. All were wealthy and cultured and often she thoroughly enjoyed talking with them. But it was always a dreaded chore to climb into bed with a pasty, droopy-skinned man with skinny arms and legs who had to be painstakingly stimulated—sometimes for hours—before he was able to perform.
One look at this tall, young, virile Creole and Jade knew it was going to be a highly enjoyable experience. She was glad he was spending the entire night. While she spent her life servicing gentlemen, she seldom achieved any satisfaction. She was only human. She needed a good strong dose of abandoned lovemaking with a skilled partner that would leave her limp and satiated.
This sinfully handsome Creole could easily give that to her.
While Jade looked only at him, Armand casually glanced around her luxurious lair. Priceless statuettes, the work of renowned artists, were displayed on floor-to-ceiling shelves. Nearby stood a tall, glass-doored armoire filled with fancy linen-wear and bedsheets.
Over the mantel of the fireplace was a costly French mirror in a gilt frame. A pair of armchairs and a sofa, all of which were covered with damask, were arranged before the fire.
Directly across from the fireplace and visible in the huge mirror, was the bed. Specially built to accommodate the tallest of men, the bed had hangings of fine lace, sheets of clean snowy white, and a fragrant basket of fresh-cut flowers hung suspended from the bed’s tester.
The richly appointed room and its incredible occupant were conducive to the pursuit of sexual pleasure. And Armand was ready to pursue plenty of sexual pleasure.
Excited by the prospect of being in this man’s arms, Jade crossed to Armand, laid her soft hands on his chest and said, “I want to please you. Anything you want, you may have.”
“A nice, hot bath for starters,” he said, shrugging out of his dark evening jacket.
“You shall have it,” she said, crossing to the bed and pulling the bell cord.
Moments later Armand was seated in a claw-footed tub filled with thick suds and steaming hot water. And the beautiful Jade—now wearing only a skimpy black lace chemise and silk stockings—was scrubbing his back with a long-handled brush.
When he was clean and glistening, Armand rose and allowed Jade to towel his body dry. She made a sensuous exercise of it, teasing him with the towel, rubbing it lightly over his skin and sinking to her knees to blot the water from his long muscular legs.
Finally she dropped the towel, rose to her feet, smiled at Armand and said, “I will be waiting for you.”
She turned and left the bath dressing room. Armand stayed. He lifted a dainty, feminine-looking hairbrush from the vanity and brushed his damp hair back. He dropped the brush and ran both hands through the thick hair at his temples. He took another fresh towel from the shelf, finished drying the spots Jade had missed, then swirled the towel around his body and knotted it atop his right hip.
He went back into the bedroom.
Jade’s black lace chemise and silk stockings had been discarded carelessly to the carpet. Totally naked, she lay stretched out in the bed, her voluptuous body covered with the soft white bedsheet. Her dark hair was swirled seductively on the lace-trimmed pillow. Her bare shoulders and the tops of her full breasts were visible above the sheet’s top edge.
Her dark eyes blazed with hunger and fire.
His gaze holding hers, Armand dropped his covering towel and went naked to the bed. He bent and slowly peeled the sheet away from her body. Then he gave the sheet a quick, firm jerk, completely pulling it free of the bed. He dropped it to the carpet and got into bed with Jade.
He ran a caressing hand down her beautiful body and, his fingers caressing her thigh, said, “You’ll make love to me all through the night and into the morning?”
“Yes, oh yes,” she said, her tingling body responding to his touch.
“All night long,” he repeated and pulled her into his arms.
But not a half hour later, Armand was drawing on his dark trousers while Jade sat cross-legged in the middle of the rumpled bed, pouting.
“You paid for the entire night,” she reminded him.
“I know,” he said, stuffing his shirttails down into his trousers. Trying to spare her feelings, he said, “And it was worth it, Jade. Really it was.”
“Then why are you leaving?” she asked. “I will give you incredible pleasure if only you’ll stay.”
“You already have,” he told her, but she was not placated.
“What’s wrong with you?” she demanded, insulted and miffed. “You can’t get it up but once a night? Is that it?”
“That’s it,” Armand said with a self-deprecating smile. “Guess I’m not much of a man.”
“No, you’re not!” she said and angrily sailed a pillow at him as he exited the room.
Downstairs Armand hurriedly collected his cloak and gloves and stepped out into the darkness. He glanced up and down the silent street. Then he remembered. He had told Philip he would be staying at Lulu’s until noon tomorrow.
No matter. A moonlight walk in the cold night air might do him some good. Something had to do him some good. There had to be balm for this misery.
He had assumed that a night with a beautiful woman would do the trick. And when he had taken the voluptuous Jade in his arms he’d had no trouble performing sexually. He had been hot and so had she, and together they had attained a shuddering climax.
It had been a draining release, so why did he still feel so edgy, so restless, so unfulfilled?
Armand didn’t actually plan it, but he found himself taking the long way home. He could have walked straight down St. Peter to his Pontalba apartment. But he hadn’t. He headed west on Bourbon. When he reached Conti, he turned south and walked the block to Royal.
Soon he was pausing before the town house of Colfax Sumner and gazing wistfully up at the second-floor windows. He shivered in the cold, thrust his hands deep down into his cloak’s pockets, and stood on the banquette picturing the lovely redhaired Madeleine in her soft, warm bed.
“Everything all right, Mr. de Chevalier?” a low, deep voice startled him and Armand looked up to find the giant, Montro, approaching.
“I—I’m fine,” Armand stammered. “I was just…I…I…was walking home and I…”
“From your club?”
“Yes, from the Beaufort.”
Montro smiled knowingly. “A little out of the way, isn’t it?”
“You’ve got me cold,” Armand said and he, too, smiled. “Jesus, don’t tell anyone. Especially not her.”
“Never,” promised Montro, knowing that Armand was referring to Madeleine. Armand sighed wearily. “I mean her no harm, it’s just…”
“I know you don’t,” said the wise giant. “You worry about her, as I do.”
Armand’s dark brows knitted. “You worry about her, too?”
Big Montro nodded. “There’s something about Lord Enfield,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I can’t put my finger on it, but…”
Armand simply said, “Yes. I know what you mean.” He turned up the collar of his cloak, and added, “Guess I best be on my way an
d let you get in out of the cold. Good night, Montro.”
“Good night, sir.”
His wide shoulders hunched, Armand walked away. In minutes he was home and inside the warmth of his apartment. He tossed his cloak over the back of a chair and headed for the bedroom. Yawning, he stripped to the skin, letting his clothes lie where they fell.
But before he got into bed, he picked up his discarded trousers, reached inside a pocket, and carefully withdrew the faded, slightly tattered blue garter. His good-luck charm. Madeleine’s garter. All he had of her. All he would ever have?
Armand blew out the lamp, got into bed, turned onto his side and placed the garter on the mattress before him.
As he stared at it he saw again the beautiful Madeleine asleep in her bed, her pale body warm with sleep beneath the covers. He quickly imagined himself in that warm bed with her. The vision was so real, so stirring he found himself aching to hold her in his arms. He longed to kiss her and make sweet love to her.
Armand’s belly tightened and he bit the inside of his jaw as rash desire seized him. He cursed the throbbing, jerking erection that pressed against his belly, mocking him, ridiculing him. Angered by his weakness, light-headed from his need, he impulsively swept the garter off the bed and turned onto his back.
He forced himself to picture the russet-haired witch responsible for this agony in the arms of her fiancé.
Gritting his teeth so viciously his jaws ached, he envisioned an eager Madeleine writhing naked beneath the blond nobleman. Sickened by the vivid vision, Armand’s blood soon began to cool, his pulsing erection to deflate.
Burning desire fled.
The terrible yearning did not.
Twenty-Two
’Twas the season to be jolly.
But the Countess wasn’t.
Because of the Creole.
Madeleine couldn’t enjoy the continuous round of Christmas luncheons, receptions and soirees for fear of finding Armand de Chevalier at every gala gathering.
That fear was well-founded. The fact that his reputation was less than sterling apparently had little or no negative effect on the number of invitations he received. The celebrated hostesses of New Orleans unfailingly put Armand de Chevalier’s name at the top of their guest lists.
