by Danice Allen
“Ah, yes.” There was a pause. “But aren’t they buried in the Protestant section?”
“Yes. But I thought I’d look around a little, you know.”
He stepped closer. Anne could feel his gaze raking her face, and her temperature rose another degree. “Perhaps you overdid it?”
Her eyes flicked to meet his. “Wh—what do you mean?”
He smiled. “You were leaning against the tomb with your eyes closed.” He raised a hand and lightly traced his forefinger along the curve of her cheek. “Your face is flushed, and your beautiful eyes look a little feverish. Though it is November, the autumn here in New Orleans is much different than where you come from, n’est-ce pas? You must be very hot.”
“Yes, I am a little worn down by the heat,” she exclaimed too quickly, happy to be supplied with an explanation for her blushing embarrassment and unusual posture when he found her. Trouble was, as long as he continued to stand so close and to touch her so tenderly, she’d never recover from the “heat.” Why was he being so kind? she wondered. She glanced around again, half-expecting a dozen of his female fans to come out from behind the surrounding tombs.
“You must sit down.” He reached out and caught her elbow. “Come with me.”
Anne’s heart leaped into her throat. “Come with you? Where to?”
He laughed softly, seductively. “Don’t be alarmed, ma petite. Come … just around the corner.” He led her along with a gentle, supportive hand. Anne could hardly reconcile this courteous gentleman with the careless cad from the opera. “My family’s plot is close by, and there’s a bench you can sit on. It’s in the shade where you can cool off.”
“My aunt will miss me.”
“Don’t you mean your unde? It doesn’t strike me that Madame Grimms is much of a worrier, but your uncle is another matter.”
Anne gave a nervous laugh. “Too true. Uncle Reggie does worry about me. All the more reason why I ought to go back.”
“But if you collapsed on the way, I’d never forgive myself. Here. Just sit and rest for a spell. Then I’ll escort you back to the heathen section of the cemetery myself.”
Anne laughed and sat. “You’re very kind.”
He sat down beside her, crossed his legs, and casually draped one arm over his knee. Anne found herself admiring his legs again, and his hands—rings and all. He wore an enormous emerald on his left hand that was probably worth half her dowry.
Desperate for something to talk about, she blurted, “Why aren’t you at Mass?”
He smiled. He had begun to play with his emerald ring, turning it around and around his finger. The movement was oddly arousing. She looked away. “Dear Mademoiselle Weston, can you really picture a rogue like me in church?”
She could picture him there, all right … surrounded by women. She pushed the thought away and said, “You went riding instead?”
“Oui. Do you ride, cher?”
“I did in England, but I haven’t here.”
“Ah, you would love to ride on Bocage. There are acres and acres of lush green fields along the river.”
She nervously smoothed her skirt with a damp palm. He couldn’t actually be inviting her to go riding with him, could he? “I … I’m sadly out of practice, I’m afraid.”
“We have a poky old mare you could ride—”
She laughed. “I’m not that out of practice!”
He joined in her laughter. “I did not think so. And I have just the mount for you. A perfect match. A young filly with a light step and a long blond mane. She is frisky and is always tossing her head.”
Although she was still rather uncomfortably warm, Anne was beginning to enjoy herself. “Are you implying that I am frisky, Mr. Delacroix?”
“Oui.”
“And that I toss my head about like your horse?”
“You lift your small chin in a defiant pose, which is most alluring. Both you and my golden filly are haughty, beautiful creatures.”
Anne shook her head, smiling ruefully. “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.” And I’ll bet they’re just as ridiculously charmed as I am.
Delacroix smiled and shrugged, leaving her to wonder.
“What kind of horse do you ride, Mr. Delacroix?”
“A black steed.”
“To match your eyes?” She blushed, immediately sorry she’d mentioned his eyes. It seemed too intimate a comment.
Those black eyes gleamed with mischief when he answered, “No, to match my wicked soul, cher.”
“I don’t believe you’re as wicked as you pretend.”
His smile faltered for a moment, then returned just as broad. “You think I’m pretending?” he asked her in a low, provocative tone. “Shall I prove it? Shall I show you how wicked I am?”
Up shot her temperature again. She laughed nervously. “You are a scoundrel, Mr. Delacroix, teasing me so! But I must remark on the fact that while you didn’t attend Mass, you are still here at the cemetery on All Saints’ Day. You must feel some reverence for the religious holiday.”
She felt him shift on the bench, his arm grazing her shoulder, his thigh stirring her skirt. His mood shifted, too.
“I’ve five brothers buried here. I’m the oldest child, and, even though it was years ago, I remember each of them as clearly as if we’d just tumbled on the grass together yesterday, playing soldiers.”
Anne’s sympathy was instantly stirred. “I’m sorry, Mr. Delacroix.”
“Merci.”
“Do you mind my asking—no, never mind.”
“It’s all right. It’s natural that you’d be curious. They all died within a week of one another in a yellow fever outbreak. My parents were devastated. I just barely survived.”
“Are you the only child left, then?”
“No, I have five sisters and one brother. They are considerably younger than I am because they were all born after the others died.”
Anne shook her head, hardly capable of imagining the pain everyone involved must have endured, and then the courage it took to start another family. “Your mother must be a strong woman. I don’t know if I could bear losing so many children like that, especially all at once, and then go on and have more.”
“Not all Creoles are as frivolous as I am, you know. With her limited experience, and within her limited sphere of influence, my mother is strong, loyal, and loving.”
Anne felt the heat suffusing her cheeks again. “You are gently chastising me for my mocking comment that night at the opera, my implication that I do not admire Creole women and would never want to emulate them. I was wrong to lump them all together.” Anne smiled sheepishly. “I fancy myself so fair and unprejudiced, then I say something so bigoted.”
“Ah, mademoiselle, we all make mistakes. In our dealings with people, we so often find that there is more than meets the eye.”
It was suddenly overcast again and had started to sprinkle lightly. Anne hardly noticed, because she was staring at Delacroix, dwelling on his last words. At last she said, “I quite agree with you, Mr. Delacroix. For example, you present yourself to the world as a frippery sort of fellow, but there seems to be much more beneath your light facade.”
He laughed harshly. The sound was unexpected, intrusive. He stood up and extended his hand. “Are you rested, mademoiselle?” His arrogant drawl was back in full force. “It begins to rain. Besides, I should not wish for your uncle to think I’d absconded with his niece. I haven’t dueled in a fortnight, and I don’t wish to interrupt such a long stretch of good conduct. I promised my mother, you see.”
“I’m quite rested,” she replied stiffly, offended again. It seemed Dandy Delacroix’s moods were mercurial, and the man’s character too complicated to understand. She took his hand and stood up, but when she tried to pull free, he held fast. Then, with a little tug, he had her next to him, face to face, with only inches between them.
“Wh-what are you doing, Mr. Delacroix?” she mumbled, her gaze resting on the sly slant of his finely molded lips
.
“I’m thinking of proving to you that I am, indeed, quite wicked, mademoiselle. I only promised my mother that I wouldn’t duel. I never said I’d refrain from seducing frisky females in the cemetery.”
Anne felt mesmerized. She watched as he bent his head and his lips drew closer, then curved in a rueful smile.
“It is customary to close one’s eyes when one is about to be kissed,” he whispered.
She closed her eyes. But instead of the warmth of Delacroix’s lips, Anne felt the first cool drops of rain. An instant later it was storming in earnest, large drops of water felling in buckets.
“Lucky girl,” he murmured. “Saved by Providence on All Saints’ Day.” Then he hurried Anne along, back toward the Protestant section of the cemetery and the shelter of her aunt’s closed carriage. Dazed and bemused, Anne moved like someone in a dream. Later, much later, she would try to understand what had happened, and why she’d almost let him kiss her…
Chapter Seven
“In England a woman of quality would never send her niece out on a shopping errand,” grumbled Reggie, trailing Anne closely as she meandered through the stalls of the marketplace with a large basket dangling from her elbow. “That’s what servants are paid for, for heaven’s sake.”
Anne bent to examine a bunch of plump purple grapes. “Everyone comes to the market,” she said, paying for the grapes and placing them in the basket. “That’s probably one reason why I enjoy running these little errands for Aunt Katherine. At the market all races and social classes mix harmoniously.”
“I don’t know how you can describe a place with so much discordant noise as being harmonious,” argued Reggie, waving away a grinning mulatto boy who was hawking brass bracelets he’d cleverly displayed by adorning his own thin arms.
Feeling festive and hoping to improve her uncle’s disgruntled mood, Anne stopped a pretty girl who was selling boutonnières and bought one for Reggie. It was a tiny bouquet of Spanish jasmine, carnations, and violets.
“Here, hold my basket, Uncle.”
“I’m happy to take your basket. I’ve been wanting to carry it for you all afternoon. But you’re as stubborn as your aunt—what’s this? What are you doing, Anne?”
“I’m pinning this boutonnière to your lapel. Perhaps the beauty of it and its sweet smell will lighten your mood!” Having completed her task, she patted her uncle’s arm and smiled up into his face. He was peering skeptically down his nose at the cluster of flowers, but even as Anne watched, his expression softened. He lifted the lapel and inspected the boutonnière closely. “Humph! They are rather lovely, aren’t they?”
“Yes, you gruff old goat. Now smile for me, please.”
Reggie tried hard to be uncooperative, but eventually a smile emerged from beneath his large mustache. He pinched her chin. “You’re a minx, Anne. But if you really want my mood to improve, might I suggest we find a place to sit down? My feet are killing me.”
“There’s a coffee shop just over there,” said Anne, standing on tiptoe and pointing. “Wouldn’t you like a cup of coffee, too, Uncle Reggie?”
Reggie grunted, which Anne took for a yes. She knew he hated to admit that he had come to enjoy coffee almost as much as tea. They wove through the crowd and found an empty table and two chairs, and Reggie ordered for them both. Reggie had barely set down the basket and heaved a weary sigh when Anne saw him wince.
“What is it, Uncle Reggie?”
“Oh, it’s that tiresome swain of yours. You’d think we could pass one day in peace without running into the fellow.”
Anne glanced around the marketplace. “My swain? Who can you mean?” For one ridiculous moment, she thought of Delacroix. The fact that she’d nearly allowed the scoundrel to kiss her must have muddled her brain! She had regretted her weakness a thousand times since that fateful afternoon in the cemetery. Delacroix was not the kind of man on which a sensible woman would risk her heart.
“Don’t look,” whispered Reggie, slumping in his chair. “Maybe he won’t see us—drat! Too late!”
Anne turned in her seat and saw Jeffrey striding toward them, a broad smile on his handsome face. “Why, it’s Jeffrey! Sit up, Uncle Reggie, you look very sulky and rude in that posture.”
Reggie begrudgingly sat up and composed his face into a semblance of politeness.
“Anne! Fancy bumping into you!” Jeffrey tipped his hat to Anne and nodded respectfully to Reggie.
“I don’t suppose you recall last night at dinner when Anne told you we were coming to the market this afternoon?” said Reggie peevishly.
Jeffrey shrugged, looking ingenuous. “Did you, Anne? Well! I’m terribly glad to see you.”
“Yes, it’s been all of eighteen hours since you last saw her,” drawled Reggie.
“Only eighteen hours?” said Jeffrey with feigned shock. “But it feels like a lifetime.”
Anne laughed. “You goose. Sit down and join us for a cup of coffee. And don’t mind Uncle Reggie. He doesn’t like these jaunts to the market. They put him in a bit of a snit.”
Reggie sniffed and said nothing, pretending to watch the people as they passed by. Anne still couldn’t understand why Reggie disliked Jeffrey so much. It was probably because he hadn’t gotten past his original opinion that Jeffrey was too “common” for her. But Reggie ought to know that that sort of attitude only made her all the more determined to be Jeffrey’s friend.
When Jeffrey had pulled a chair over and sat down, he inquired, “Where’s your aunt today?”
“She’s visiting a friend of hers, a Madame Tussad. She goes every Saturday and sends Reggie and me on some errand to get us out of the way,” said Anne. “It’s rather mysterious, actually. She always insists on going alone to see her.”
“She’s probably a vulgar acquaintance she doesn’t dare introduce you to, Anne,” opined Reggie. “Delphina Street isn’t exactly a fashionable address.”
“My guess is she’s an invalid, and Aunt Katherine doesn’t wish to appear as though she’s advertising a charity visit. But whoever she is, she’s awfully important, because Aunt Katherine never misses a visit. She goes every Saturday afternoon like clockwork.”
Jeffrey listened politely, but Anne could tell he was indifferent to such mundane chitchat, so she asked, “What are you doing today? Are you researching new information for another article about Renard?”
Jeffrey smiled ruefully. “I believe I’m growing rather jealous of what used to be my favorite subject to write about.”
Anne raised her brows. “Used to be?”
“Sometimes I think my link to Renard is the only thing you like about me, Anne.”
“Don’t be silly. You and I got on swimmingly right from the start. But if you’d rather not talk about Renard—”
“Well, the thing is, I have discovered something very exciting about the Fox…” Jeffrey’s voice trailed off, and he glanced nervously at Reggie, who pretended not to listen while he continued to watch passersby. Just then their coffee arrived, and while Reggie fished in his pocket for some coins and ordered another coffee, Jeffrey leaned close to Anne and whispered, “I’ll come over tomorrow night and tell you everything. I’m almost certain I know what Renard has planned next. And I mean to be there when it happens.”
After such a disclosure, Anne didn’t know how she was expected to carry on a normal conversation. She was aflame with curiosity. And now it was her turn to be Jealous. Jeffrey was going to be a part of the excitement! He might even see Renard, which was something she’d longed to do for weeks! If she were a man, she could go with Jeffrey on this adventure, no questions asked. It just wasn’t fair! she fumed to herself.
“Have you been to Congo Square yet, Anne?”
“I’m sorry, Jeffrey. What did you say?” She glanced up and saw him looking at her meaningfully. He was trying to convey to her that she was acting oddly and arousing Reggie’s suspicions. She’d been daydreaming, idly stirring her coffee till it was probably tepid. Jeffrey was right; she must
put off thinking of Renard till later.
“I said, have you been to Congo Square?”
She took a swallow of coffee and smiled wistfully. “I’ve heard about it. That’s where the slaves gather on Sundays to dance.” Anne gave Reggie an accusing look, which he pretended to ignore. All this pretending was starting to annoy her. “I’ve longed to see it ever since I got here.” Just as she’d longed to see Renard. She figured her chances of seeing either were pretty dim. She felt her spirits flagging.
“Well, tomorrow’s Sunday…” Jeffrey turned to Reggie. “Why don’t we drive down after lunch tomorrow? All of us, sir. You, me, Anne, and Mrs. Grimms, of course. It’s quite a spectacle.”
Reggie sniffed. “By all accounts I’ve heard, it’s a spectacle not fit for a lady’s eyes.”
“Gentleman and ladies gather to watch, sir,” said Jeffrey. “Mrs. Grimms has gone quite often in the past.”
“Mrs. Grimms is Americanized, I’m afraid. Our notions of what’s proper and fit for a lady’s eyes—particularly as the entertainment falls on a Sunday—are quite different in England, Mr. Wycliff,” said Reggie with a superior mien. “I promised Anne’s parents to look after her as if she were my own daughter. I pride myself on the fact that I’ve succeeded in doing that admirably well. Pagan dancing is not an activity one watches, particularly on the Sabbath.”
“I’ve always rather thought of it as a cultural lesson, sir,” Jeffrey persisted. “The slaves dance their native dances, using tom-toms and handmade stringed instruments that are rather crude, but which keep up the rhythm splendidly. Their dances are all quite authentic. It’s the one opportunity the slaves have to feel really free, I suppose. Feeling as you do about slavery, and as I know Anne feels, I’d think you’d enjoy seeing the black people participate in an activity indigenous to their true origins.”
“Don’t try to shame me into yielding to you, Mr. Wycliff,” said Reggie with a stem look. “One might have an intellectual or a compassionate curiosity about many things—say, Chinese water torture, or childbirth—but that doesn’t mean one should be allowed to witness them firsthand.”
