Gallant Match

by Jennifer Blake

  And horses might fly.

  His attention was caught by black streaks sliding over her cheeks, tracking down her face. He blinked and reached to brush at one with his thumb, watched as its darkness pooled against the callused edge. Her skin, ah, her skin was cool and firm yet so soft that his mouth drew with the need to lick it, taste it, brush his eyelids against its fine grain.

  “You’re crying black tears,” he said, an unaccustomed huskiness threading his voice.

  “I’m not crying!”

  She dashed a hand at her face, knocking his hand away and smearing the dark color across her cheekbones. He stared, intrigued, as he realized she used face paint that was melting in the rain. He’d heard French-Creole ladies painted, but only noticed it among the actresses and operatic divas at the theater. She had no need of such tricks that he could see, none at all. The ruin of it was funny yet touching in some peculiar fashion, like a mournful clown.

  “Look, I’m sorry you’re so dead set against being married off,” he told her in his most reasonable tone, “but there’s nothing I can do. I’ve been hired for a job. That’s all there is to it.”

  “You’re sorry,” she repeated, her wet eyes blazing. “I spit on sorrow without heart, sorrow you will not even try to help change!”

  Oh, he’d help her all right. He’d see her to her wedding, and afterward…

  Afterward was nothing he could promise, not with any certainty.

  “You do what you must, Mademoiselle Bonneval, but I’ll let your father be the one to dismiss me.” He replaced his hat, giving it a firm tug before making her a truncated bow. “Until then, I’ll look forward to our journey.”

  He turned on his booted heel and walked away, leaving her standing there in the rain. The temptation to look back was like a rope halter tied to his head, drawing tighter, pulling at his stiff neck with every step he made.

  He didn’t do it.

  He kept walking, and every stride he took added to his determination. He would see the lady to Mexico and into the arms of Jean Pierre Rouillard if it was the last thing he did.

  When that was done…

  Well, when that was done, he would finally be his own man. Matters would be different. The lady might well be glad of the aid of an ignorant Kentuckian with an atrocious accent.

  Three

  Sonia passed through the columned entrance of the Hotel Saint Louis and paused beneath the soaring, stained-glass dome of its famed rotunda. Moonlight, shining down from the massive skylight more than sixty feet above, dappled the marble floor in dazzling patterns in spite of the gas lighting. Dozens of people milled about. The majority were men, though some few were accompanied by ladies gowned for the evening. Their voices echoed against the marble-covered walls of the vaulted space, mingling with the strains of music heard from a string quartet in the second-floor ballroom to create such a din it was almost impossible to be heard. Sonia’s Tante Lily whispered while clutching her arm, but though her breath tickled Sonia’s earlobe, she could not tell what she was saying.

  Ahead of them lay the broad, circular staircase that led to the ballroom, one of the most beautiful in the city. They moved toward it, being mindful of their crinoline-supported skirts that required a wide avenue of progress. The lingering smells of cigar smoke and perspiration were a reminder that the spacious lobby area was usually the domain of business concerns, the so-called exchange area where auctions were held on alternate Saturdays for everything from stocks and bonds, land and property, to ships’ cargoes and slaves. Sonia wrinkled her nose a little as she lifted her skirt to put her foot in its silk slipper on the first stair tread.

  “There, you see?” Tante Lily gave her arm a sharp tug as she spoke in more urgent tones. “Don’t look now, but I’m sure it’s your Kaintuck.”

  The urge to glance around was almost overpowering. Sonia continued up the stairs in stringent resolve, however, waiting until its graceful sweep allowed her to look out over the open lobby in the direction her aunt indicated.

  Monsieur Kerr Wallace was not difficult to locate. He stood head and shoulders above most of those around him, a mountain of a man not unlike those that must be his home. His evening dress was adequate; his hair had the gleam of polished leather in the gaslight. And his eyes, as he followed her progress, were like rain-wet slate, dark as the night outside.

  Sonia’s heart stuttered in her chest. The heat rising into the rotunda was suddenly suffocating, leaving her breathless. A confusion of anger, despair and fascination boiled up from somewhere inside her.

  She had not realized she had halted until her aunt stumbled against her. It was a good thing her hand was clamped on the railing or they might both have fallen. That would have been embarrassing beyond anything.

  “Take care, ma petite,” her aunt exclaimed as she steadied herself. “But I have it right, yes? It is he? I wonder what he does here.”

  “It’s a public hotel. I suppose he may visit whomever he pleases.”

  “It occurs to me the street of the sword masters is mere steps away. No doubt they make good use of the hotel dining room.” Her aunt leaned closer. “It’s a marvelous figure of a man, I must say. Yes, and regard the gentleman at his side. Magnifique, in a savage fashion.”

  Her aunt was inclined to think most men magnificent in one way or another, but the gentleman speaking to Monsieur Wallace was certainly unusual. His skin had copper shadings quite unlike the olive tones of the gentlemen of Sonia’s acquaintance, certainly unlike the outdoor bronze of the Kentuckian’s features that could be likened to parquet flooring. This man’s brows were thick and expressive, his nose like a blade, his chin un-compromisingly square, and his hair so black it had a bluish sheen. Of a size with Wallace, the two of them stood out in the milling crowd like two stalwart oaks caught in a flood.

  Frowning a little, Sonia said, “He appears to be…”

  “But, yes. They say the blood of the Great Suns, once rulers of the Natchez tribe, runs in his veins though he was baptized by the priests as a child. Christien Lenoir, they christened him. He is called Faucon Nuit, Nighthawk, at times, as that was the meaning of his name in his own language.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about him.”

  Her aunt’s smile was a shade conscious. “I made inquiries yesterday morning, having a sudden interest in anything and anyone connected with Monsieur Wallace. Fonts of information, the ladies of my embroidery group.”

  “I’m sure.” Sonia would have liked to ask precisely what had been said of Monsieur Wallace, but that could wait. For now, she refused to stand gawking and whispering like some country mademoiselle. Nor would she allow the Kentucky gentleman the satisfaction of thinking his presence mattered to her. Collecting the ends of her shawl and her fan in one hand, lifting her skirts of pale aqua silk with the other, she turned her back on him.

  The movements of Monsieur Wallace made no difference to her in all truth, she thought as she continued up the stairs. She had no intention of being escorted anywhere by the man. She had made her plans, and nothing would stand in her way, particularly not a lout of an American, be he ever so daunting.

  The hard planes of his face as he watched her had revealed what could almost be termed a proprietary expression. It was most annoying. Where she went and what she did was none of his concern. Her father might have given her welfare into his keeping, but she had not accepted his guardianship.

  Brave thoughts, yet her nerves felt unstrung and a hollow dread lingered under her breastbone, as if she stood on the edge of a precipice. She could not recall when she had ever been so unsettled.

  The ball this evening seemed much like any other, with the string quartet playing on a dais, the perfume of roses scenting the air from their pedestal vases, gentlemen in somber evening garb and ladies in a pastel kaleidoscope of silk gowns. Dozens of such entertainments had been held during the saison des visites that was now winding down, some here, some at other hotel ballrooms here in the Vieux Carré and the American area upt
own becoming known as the Garden District. A group of gentlemen each subscribed a set amount to hire the ballroom, have it decorated, provide refreshments and engage attendants to manage the carriage traffic and see to the comfort and security of attendees. The guests were chosen at their discretion, with close family members first on the list, followed by friends and their ladies then other members of their particular set. Such an invitation was seldom declined as all of New Orleans was mad for dancing, particularly the dizzying whirl of waltzes arriving weekly from the ballrooms of Paris and Vienna.

  One met, in the main, the same people at every ball, those who belonged to the haut ton. Sonia, glancing around, saw hardly anyone of close acquaintance. It was curious, but perhaps understandable. Mardi Gras and Lent had come and gone, and the palm fronds of Easter, blessed by the priest and tucked carefully behind mirrors and picture frames, had begun to shatter to the floor. A few cases of fever had been reported as the days grew warmer. Many had begun to pack for the return to country plantations, or else for travel to watering places such as Saratoga and White Sulphur Springs or the pleasures of Paris, Rome or Wiesbaden. Even her father was planning a business journey to Memphis.

  Yet no one came forward to greet Sonia and her aunt, no familiar faces appeared in the crowd. Most of the guests in her range of vision belonged to the far fringes of the French-Creole society. She recognized a noted divorcée seldom received in respectable households, a planter who had spent much of his youth in exile in Havana due to a taste for purple silk shirts and handsome young boys, and a dowager rumored to have buried her second husband an embarrassingly short time after the nuptials. Present, too, was the famous sword master and duelist Pépé Llulla, Spanish-dark, debonair and deadly, and his Italian counterpart, Gilbert Rosière. Wherever the pair walked, a clear lane appeared miraculously before them, closing behind them when they were well past.

  Hardly had the true situation begun to make itself known to her when Monsieur Wallace and his copper-skinned friend appeared in the ballroom entrance. They presented invitations, were relieved of their hats and sword canes and ambled forward as if they belonged.

  “Tante Lily,” Sonia began, “I do believe…”

  “I know, chère. Not our usual circle at all. Exciting, is it not?” Her aunt’s eyes sparkled as she swept a fan of black lace back and forth with languid waves.

  “Papa will be livid.”

  “Now how can that be? You have your protector in attendance. If your papa will hire such a one for your wedding voyage, he can hardly object to you being in his company this evening.”

  “I doubt he will be so reasonable. But you don’t seem surprised.”

  “Let us say I guessed how the affair would turn out,” her aunt agreed in roguish tones. “The sponsors are four former sword masters of note, after all, the Condé de Lérida and Messieurs Pasquale, O’Neill and Blackford. These gentlemen have all become respectable in the past few years through marriages to French-Creole ladies. That’s ever been the way of it, you comprehend. Even the Spaniards who came to conquer decades ago were accepted only after they married among us.”

  “I didn’t realize…I mean, who reads the list of sponsors?” She recognized those mentioned, now that they had been brought to her attention, striking men who stood with their ladies in an informal receiving line near the fireplace that formed a focal point for the ballroom. The group laughed and talked among themselves with great camaraderie, one source of amusement being, so it appeared, the cunningly fashioned gowns of at least two of the ladies who were obviously enceinte.

  Some would say they should have remained at home in such a condition. It appeared they flouted opinion in this as well as in their choice of husbands and guests.

  Her aunt lifted a brow as she surveyed Sonia’s set features. “You have been complaining this entire season about how bored you are with the usual balls and other entertainments. I thought this one might pique your interest. Besides, you will soon be married so must broaden your horizons, chère. I very much doubt Jean Pierre will be as nice in his associations as your papa.”

  Sonia was forced to admit the point. Not that her betrothed’s choice of acquaintances was a concern, since she would not be at his side to receive them.

  “How did we come to receive an invitation, do you suppose?”

  “I have no idea.” Her aunt lifted a well-rounded shoulder. “Perhaps one of the hosts is aware of your connection to Monsieur Wallace.”

  “You don’t think we should leave?”

  “No, no. The evening promises to be something out of the ordinary. I would not miss it for worlds. As for propriety, I am here at your side, am I not? And you will not desert me.”

  “Naturally not,” Sonia said in staunch acquiescence. In truth, it was rather exciting to be among this more dashing set; she had often wondered at the difference between it and the more staid circle she frequented. Her concern was primarily for her father’s disapproval, which might cause curtailment of the little freedom she was allowed. That would not be at all convenient just now.

  As for the man from Kentucky, she would pretend he did not exist. That should be no great effort.

  It was more difficult than she imagined. He seemed to hover on the edge of her vision no matter where she looked. The rumble of his voice drifted over the crowd. It was maddening.

  Still, the evening promised little variation from the dozens of others she had attended that winter. The music was just as sprightly, the decorations as lavish and the food and drink as bountiful. She was not left to sit and make tapestry, as the saying went, in spite of the strange company. Hardly had she disposed herself on a chair with her skirts spread around her before she was besieged by a number of gentlemen. Denys Vallier, brother-in-law to the Condé de Lérida and a gentleman most comme il faut, was in their forefront. With him were his particular friends, Albert Lollain and Hippolyte Ducolet. The two dances they each begged made a fine showing on the dance card she had been handed at the door, though she became more selective after they were recorded. The filling of such a card required great care. A lady needed to avoid blank spaces but might wish to leave a dance or two free in case some particularly agreeable gentleman should be tardy in approaching her.

  Monsieur Wallace took the floor once or twice, so she noticed, waltzing with the wives of friends. He was not as clumsy as she expected. More, he seemed to enjoy the exercise, particularly making the skirts of his partners fly in the turns, though his great strength prevented them from losing their feet. Sonia almost wished that he would petition her for a dance, but naturally only for the pleasure of refusing him.

  It was while she was dancing for the second time with Hippolyte, a sportsman, noted wag and bon vivant only an inch or two taller than she and already taking on the rounded contours of his esteemed father, that she noted a gentleman approaching Monsieur Wallace. She would have paid no attention except that elderly roué with sparse locks but sparkling charm had been chatting with her aunt just moments before. It appeared now that Tante Lily might have sent the gentleman on a mission. He gestured toward where that lady stood in an alcove, an expression on her features that could only be called imploring.

  The exclamation Sonia made under her breath was so sharp that her partner pulled back a little to gaze into her face. “A thousand apologies if I stepped on your toes.”

  “No, no, I only—That is, I saw something that surprised me.”

  “I’m relieved. A clumsy oaf I may be, but I usually notice when I crush a lady’s slippers.” He turned in the waltz to follow her line of sight, watching as the sword master began to stroll beside the envoy, heading toward Tante Lily. “Sacre, but your aunt is setting up a flirtation with Wallace. She knows who he is?”

  “You may be sure of it, at least by reputation.”

  “She enjoys new people, your tante Lily,” her partner said gallantly.

  It was true enough, particularly when they were male. “She also likes tweaking my father’s nose.”


  “Your mother’s sister, I believe.”

  “As you say.” Sonia’s smile had a wry curl to it.

  There had been a time when she had thought her father and Tante Lily might marry. It was not uncommon when a deceased wife’s sister joined a household to care for children left without a mother. Not only did it satisfy the conventions that frowned upon an unrelated female living under the same roof as the widower, but it was assumed she would have natural affection for her charges. It hadn’t happened. Tante Lily considered her brother-in-law remote and undemonstrative, which was to say he was not attracted to her. Her father, for his part, thought her aunt lamentably outré in her ideas about child rearing and the place of women in the world, but tolerated her for Sonia’s sake. Both disregarded the impropriety of the arrangement from a stubborn refusal to be bound by such nonsense.

  Hippolyte sent another quick look toward the alcove. “If annoying your papa is what she’s after, making Wallace free of his town house should do it.”

  “I doubt she will go that far,” Sonia answered. “Most likely, she’s curious. But you know the gentleman?” It didn’t seem necessary to say immediately that she had already made the acquaintance of Monsieur Wallace.

  “I’ve marched with him in the Louisiana Legion, even faced him on the fencing strip at his salon once or twice.”

  The last was telling information since only the most promising swordsmen dared face a maître d’armes, or were allowed the privilege, for that matter. Hippolyte must be an accomplished fencer himself. “Your impression was favorable?”

  “Oh, assuredly. He has the strength of a bear, the cunning of a wolf, and his great height makes his reach with blade in hand the very essence of terror.”