The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  “I’m glad.” Reggie smiled, but Anne could tell it required an effort. Apparently his headache was worse. “But I must confess I asked you over for something more than an ordinary courtesy call. I’m afraid I’ve got a dreadful headache and need to go home. I was wondering if—”

  “Reginald!” expostulated Katherine. “You never said a word!”

  “I didn’t want to ruin your first night out in nearly a fortnight, Katherine, but, indeed, I was beginning to wonder how I was going to manage to sit through the whole performance.”

  A furrow of worry between her brows, Katherine leaned forward, prepared to stand up. “What nonsense!” she scolded. “Of course you don’t have to sit through the performance. Goodness, Reginald, what nincompoopery is this? I wish you’d spoken up. Anne and I are ready to go home immediately.”

  Reggie laid his hand on Katherine’s shoulder, gently compelling her to remain seated. “I wouldn’t dream of dragging you away from such bravura performances. I was wondering what to do when I saw Delacroix across the way and thought perhaps he could—?”

  “How can I be of assistance, monsieur?” Delacroix instantly inquired.

  “You can escort my two charges home at the end of the opera.” He frowned, rubbed his temple. “You did bring your carriage?”

  “I’m delighted to report that I did indeed bring my carriage tonight. But even if I hadn’t, I’d have sent home for it for the privilege of such enchanting company.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me to take Anne and Katherine home, Mr. Weston?” questioned Jeffrey, respectful but peevish. “I know I don’t have a carriage, but I’d have gotten them a cab.”

  “The doorman might have hailed them a cab, Mr. Wycliff,” said Reggie with dampening logic. Jeffrey opened his mouth, but Reggie forestalled him, saying, “Yes, I know, you’d have been happy to escort them, as well. I didn’t want to inconvenience you. Mr. Delacroix has proven very helpful in past, and I trust him implicitly.” When Jeffrey’s face turned bright red at the implication that he wasn’t trustworthy, Reggie realized the faux pas. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wycliff, you mustn’t mind me. I’ve got such a devil of a headache, I’m not saying precisely what I mean. No offense meant.”

  “But, Reginald, I don’t want to stay for the opera,” asserted Katherine, trying to stand up again. “There won’t be anyone to take care of you when you get home.”

  Reggie’s light grip on Katherine’s shoulder increased. While his smile was weak, his resolution was firm. “My devoted manservant, James, would take umbrage at that remark. Truly, Katherine, it would make me wretched to drag you home over a silly little headache. I just need to sleep it off. I’ll be perfectly fine in the morning.”

  “But you’re making me wretched by refusing to allow me to—”

  “Just this once, Katherine, don’t argue with me.”

  The simple, succinct request finally got through to her. Staring with concern into Reggie’s pain-filled eyes, she realized she would only be doing him more harm by continuing to argue. “Very well. But I expect James to appraise me of your condition as soon as we arrive home.”

  Reggie laughed, wincing at the same time. “I will, though I think you’re fussing over nothing. Isn’t that something you’ve always accused me of doing?”

  Katherine sniffed. “Well, go home then,” she said brusquely, probably to cover up her worry. “Don’t tarry while your head’s pounding like a kettledrum. Mr. Delacroix will see us home in splendid form, won’t you, Mr. Delacroix?”

  “Just as I could have done, if I’d been given the chance,” muttered Jeffrey.

  “Rest assured, Mr. Weston,” said Delacroix, “I will take the utmost care of your two charges, as you so quaintly call them.” He slanted a sly look at Anne, a look brief but fraught with meaning. Anne’s pulse quickened.

  “Then I’ll be off,” Reggie announced, relief in his voice. “Without the endless lines of carriages ahead of me, I should get home in no time at all. Good night, Anne.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Good night, Mr. Wycliff.” He gave Jeffrey a brief nod, but for Delacroix he attempted a full-fledged smile. “Much thanks to you, sir, and a good evening.” Lastly he turned to Katherine. It looked as if he wanted to kiss her, too, but he restrained himself. “Good night, Katherine,” he said softly, then he was gone.

  Directly after Reggie left, the lights dimmed and the curtain rose on the second act. Delacroix went back to Bodine’s box, but first assured Anne and Katherine that he would return to collect them after the performance. Visitors to the box had kept Bodine company during Delacroix’s absence, but it would have been rude for him to desert the horrid man for the entire evening, Anne reasoned.

  Now that she knew who Delacroix really was, she understood his supposed friendship with the slimy likes of Bodine. She was sure he used the show of public camaraderie to support the image he’d honed of a decadent slave-owner. He wanted people to think that he and Bodine were two birds of a feather, so to speak.

  Or … he could be setting Bodine up for a big fall.

  That second idea made Anne’s stomach clench with fear. If only a fraction of the rumors she’d heard about Bodine’s atrocious treatment of his slaves were true, it would be Renard’s dearest wish to stop him. It would be a risky business, though. Bodine would be just as ruthless to someone he caught trying to free his slaves as he was to the slaves themselves.

  “What has Delacroix done to earn your uncle’s undying gratitude and complete trust, Anne?”

  Jeffrey’s mouth was quite close to Anne’s ear. His tone was snide, accusing. Her first impulse was to push him away, but she checked the urge with considerable effort and decided to tell him an abbreviated version of the truth. “A couple of weeks ago, I went to Congo Square to watch the dancers.”

  His look was reproachful. “You did? You never told me!”

  “No, I was embarrassed. I ran into problems on the way home and Delacroix rescued me.”

  Now he was incredulous. “From what? What could that dandy possibly rescue you from? A small dog he beat with his cane?”

  Anne kept her gaze fixed on the stage. “No. A rather large man tried to … er … seduce me. Delacroix punched him in the face.”

  There was a pause, then the words burst out. “I don’t believe it! We are talking about the same man, aren’t we? Delacroix?”

  “The very same,” Anne replied, keeping her voice carefully inexpressive. “Now, if you don’t mind, Jeffrey, I’d like to listen to the—”

  “Lord, it sounds as if you’re smitten with the fellow!” Out of the comer of her eye she saw him cross his arms and slump in his seat like an angry child.

  She couldn’t resist baiting him a little. “I do like him.”

  “He’s a slave owner, Anne! A care-for-nobody fribble with as much backbone as a snake.”

  “He’s not so bad after you get to know him. Besides, some snakes look nasty, but are perfectly harmless, while other snakes look harmless, and are actually quite nasty. Appearances can be so deceiving.” She lifted her opera glasses to her face and leaned forward, pretending to pay rapt attention to the performers on stage and effectively conveying her wish to be left alone.

  She felt Jeffrey glaring at her in the semidark. She imagined he was at a loss to know why she was suddenly so unsociable, when before she’d been almost too friendly. He sank into a sulky silence. This suited her exactly. She wanted to think. She was stunned by the revelations of the evening and had had no time to assemble them into some reasonable order. It seemed incredulous, but Delacroix truly was Renard!

  It seemed logical for Renard to have assumed such an extreme opposite persona in public. No one would ever suspect Dandy Delacroix of risking his neck to free a handful of slaves. Anne couldn’t imagine now how she’d overlooked the similarities between the two men for so long. But nothing was as clear as hindsight.

  At the next intermission Jeffrey departed, leaving no question in Anne’s mind that he was angry and jeal
ous. Upstaged by Renard, he’d fabricated an adventure that cast him in the star role of hero. Anne allowed herself a faint smile, imagining how Jeffrey would react if he knew that Renard and Delacroix were the same man.

  Katherine fidgeted and sighed heavily throughout the whole performance, seeing and hearing as little as Anne did. Their enjoyment of the opera was nullified by other considerations. Katherine wanted to get home to Reggie, and Anne looked eagerly forward to—and dreaded—the ride home in the carriage with Delacroix. It would be agony and ecstasy. He’d be so close, yet so out of reach.

  She allowed herself a glance across the room at Bodine’s box, but it was too dark to see Delacroix sitting there. She sighed. She looked forward to the day when she could gaze at him in the light. To make love to him in the light. To open her heart to him and share his deepest thoughts in the light. That day would come, she vowed, if it was the last thing she ever did.

  Lucien knew he had business to attend to with Bodine, but ever since he had returned to his seat, his thoughts were full of Anne, nothing but Anne. He kept remembering the look on her face when she realized he was Renard. There had been shock, certainly, but not the horrified disbelief Lucien had feared. It seemed Anne was bright enough to realize that Dandy Delacroix was also part of the masquerade. She ought to realize, too, though, that she had never really come to know the real man behind both disguises. Lucien ruefully acknowledged that even he didn’t know exactly who that man really was.

  Standing so close to Anne in the box, holding her hand and kissing it, had been torture. He had yearned for her for the past several days, but even his precious and poignant memories of their night together hadn’t prepared him for the reality of actually touching her. He wanted her more than ever.

  He was formulating a plan to get her alone tonight, his mind consumed by thoughts of kissing Anne, holding her, making love to her…

  Lucien sighed, passing a shaky hand over his forehead. That was the problem. Anne was a distraction he couldn’t afford as long as he had business as Renard. But—damn it!—he was in too deep to turn back now. He had to see Anne. He had to be with her.

  He gritted his teeth, promised himself that he would see her later, then determinedly made Renard’s business a priority. With his eyes fixed on the stage, Lucien said, “I have a proposition for you, Bodine.”

  He felt Bodine shift in his chair. He’d been dozing through a particularly exquisite aria. “What kind of proposition?” he inquired in a thick voice. He yawned hugely, not bothering to cover his mouth with his hand. “If it’s got something to do with that money I won from you last night, I’m not taking anything but cold cash.”

  Lucien assumed an offended tone. “You know I’m good for it. In fact, I’ve got it on my person and had planned to hand it over to you directly after the performance.”

  “Then what’s the problem? Why are you offering me some sort of proposition?”

  “We’re friends. I just thought I might make things more interesting for you. I know your tastes. Wouldn’t you prefer a warm body over cold cash?”

  Bodine grunted derisively. “I can get all the warm bodies I want. If not on my estate, there’s Sadie’s brothel.”

  “But you told me yourself, you hate paying for it.”

  “I never do, unless Sadie’s got a virgin. Virgins are worth paying for.”

  “That’s how I thought you’d feel. Just how much is one worth to you, Bodine?” Lucien turned his head. He’d caught Bodine’s attention. The lights from the stage reflected in his bleary eyes—eyes that were suddenly sharp with avarice.

  “Are you suggesting I forfeit what you owe me for a virgin you’ve got tucked away somewhere?”

  “Exactement.”

  Bodine licked his lips. “How do I know she’s worth it? Before I commit myself to this little proposition of yours, you’ll have to show her to me.”

  Lucien laughed. “This is not a contract, Bodine. This is just one night of rutting, n’est-ce pas?”

  “I want my money’s worth. You owe me a lot. Never seen you play so ham-handed before.”

  “You can’t see the girl. She doesn’t arrive on Bocage till tomorrow.”

  “She doesn’t arrive? She’s a new slave, then?”

  “Oui.”

  “How old?”

  “Barely old enough to have her menses. I know you like them young, as well as virginal.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Slim as a reed, but with wonderful breasts. Her skin is a little lighter than creamed coffee. Her face is oval, her nose straight, her lips full and red.” Lucien flicked a speck of lint off his jacket sleeve. “I’m quite sure you’ll like her.”

  Lucien heard Bodine swallow. In a husky voice he said, “If she’s such a prize, why don’t you take her?”

  “I told you before, I have a mistress. Besides, I don’t like children in my bed. However, my sexual tastes are not under discussion at the moment. Yours are. I’m offering you quite a treat, but if you aren’t interested…” He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of dismissal.

  Bodine rose to the bait. “Damn it, Delacroix,” he growled, “You know damned well I’m interested. But she’d better be all you’ve made her out to be, or I’ll want the full amount of the gaming debt, too. Do you understand?”

  “Certainement. I’m not worried. You’ll be satisfied. She’s a jewel.” He turned away, lifting his opera glasses to his face.

  Frustrated by Delacroix’s offhand attitude, Bodine snarled, “When, then? When can I have her?”

  “Tomorrow night, there’s a ball at Rosedown—”

  “So?”

  “Meet me there. As you know, Rosedown is the closest neighboring plantation to Bocage. After late supper is served, I’ll take you to Bocage and direct you to the right cabin. By that time of night, the other slaves will be in their bunks and asleep, for the most part. I’ll isolate the girl, but it’s always best to keep these things as quiet as possible. It peeves the other slaves when young girls are raped.”

  “I don’t like the use of that word.”

  Lucien lowered the glasses and gave Bodine a sweet smile. “I had no notion you were so prim about your vocabulary.”

  “I could care less what your ‘notions’ are, Delacroix. Just don’t disappoint me tomorrow night, or you’ll be everlastingly sorry. Understand?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Applause thundered through the house. The performers were taking their bows, curtain call after curtain call. Bodine left without a word of good-bye. Lucien waited for the lights to come on, then he stood up and brushed off his sleeves with energy, as if ridding himself of the vile contamination of Bodine’s company. He felt filthy. There was a foul burning in his throat. He couldn’t wait to get outside, into the fresh air, into the pure presence of the woman he desired more than anything.

  He smiled at the thought of Anne, his heart thrilling at the prospect of sharing his carriage with her. He’d hoped for a little more time before she figured out who he was, but tonight she’d taken one good look at him and had known.

  So she might as well know all, he decided as he strode down the hall to Katherine’s opera box. And, if Katherine cooperated, he was going to spend a little time alone with Anne. He’d never made love in a carriage, but the idea had considerable potential. He couldn’t help himself—his steps lengthened.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Even though Anne was sure it was as spacious as all other vehicles of the same type, the carriage seemed minuscule. And all its perceived tiny corners were filled with the presence of Delacroix, making his nearness almost unbearable for her. Her full skirts and Katherine’s crowded the space between the seats, forcing him to stretch his legs to the side. There was a lighted lamp inside the carriage, and Anne enjoyed several surreptitious glances at those incredible long legs of his.

  The trip to Prytania Street was slow-going behind dozens of other opera fans, but they would eventually arrive at the Grimms mansion, and Ann
e dreaded the inevitable end to such agonizing bliss.

  There was so much they needed to say to each other, so many questions Anne wanted to ask! But with Katherine in the carriage, it was impossible to speak freely. Most of all, Anne wanted to touch Delacroix. That was the hardest part—not touching him when he was so close.

  And Katherine did not help Anne through the ordeal by keeping up her usual chatter. She was distracted, worried about Reggie. She seemed hardly to notice with whom she shared the carriage, and spent most of the time staring out the window, counting off the landmarks till they got home.

  “Did you like the opera, Mademoiselle Weston?”

  Anne was startled to note that Delacroix had abandoned his usual lazy drawl. The clear, melodic tones thrilled her. He sounded like Renard. Her heart beat faster than ever, the blood surging through her veins. She snatched a glance at Katherine, but her aunt was too preoccupied to notice and comment on the sudden change of rhythm in Delacroix’s voice. Nevertheless, Anne thought he was taking unnecessary risks by not keeping strictly in character. Katherine was no dolt.

  “I always enjoy anything by Rossini.” She paused, toying with a dangerous notion of her own—innuendo. “Tonight was the most exciting performance I’ve ever experienced.”

  One dark brow climbed to a roguish peak. “Indeed? The most exciting … er … performance you’ve ever experienced, mademoiselle?”

  She blushed. She hadn’t meant for him to take the double meaning quite so far. “On the stage, sir,” she answered demurely. His eyes gleamed in the lantern-glow, black and devilish.

  “I hope you won’t think I’m too forward, sir—” she began, breaking the charged silence.

  “You, mademoiselle? Too forward?” He feigned shock.

  She tried to subdue a saucy smile, failing utterly. “I was just wondering if you would mind if I call you by your Christian name.”

  He smiled back at her, slid a glance at the inattentive Katherine, then looked back to Anne. He leaned confidingly close. Anne’s breath caught. He smelled vital, masculine, clean. Like that night in the cabin. Her stomach tightened; her throat went dry. “Do you think it proper to call me by my first name, Mademoiselle Weston? It implies an … intimacy, n’est-ce pas?”