Even now he could not forget her. How he longed to find her. In time she would accept, even welcome, his attentions. Despite his disfigurement, women still found him attractive.
But they were deceptive bitches, Marcel knew. The truth always came out. Even when he hired them and paid them well, they were afraid of him. Probably they thought him too ugly to love.
Simone had done this to him, he thought, fingering his scar. Things would change when he found her. He would make her love him, or he would have his revenge.
The sun was low, the afternoon sky a dazzling melange of azure and scarlet, when Alain turned his carriage toward town. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of autumn. In the distance, a fleet-footed swamp deer, no larger than a dog, scurried into the undergrowth. But, absorbed in his thoughts, Alain scarcely noticed the splendor around him.
He had driven to Lake Pontchartrain to escape the Sunday bustle of the Vieux Carré and the problem that plagued him. But he had not been successful. His mind dwelt on Lisette’s words. Even after days they rankled, but doubtless she was right. He probably should forget the girl. She was young, not for an experienced man. Still, recollections of the sight and the scent of the black-haired beauty, fresh from her bath, and of her untutored response to his caresses, kept returning. And the memories never failed to bring a stirring to his loins.
As he approached the outskirts of town, Alain remembered a lovely octoroon he had met at a recent Quadroon Ball. She lived with her mother near the cemetery at the edge of town, not far out of his way. It would not hurt to stop at the cottage and inquire as to the mother’s terms for her daughter. Many Creole gentlemen kept placées, quadroon mistresses, in small houses along Rampart Street. Why should he be the exception? Alain brooded. He suddenly longed for something more than a different woman every night. Perhaps a placée was what he needed to purge his mind of the green-eyed girl.
As he drove along, looking for the placée cottage, he did not notice a black-clad figure sitting beside a whitewashed tomb in the cemetery.
Simone paid scant attention to the passing carriage. She sat on a bench in the waning sunlight, savoring her relative freedom. Marcel had left town today. Dressed as Jean-Paul, she had gone to the wharf to watch him board the steamboat that would carry him upriver for a week or more. Then, stealing into Lisette’s apartment, she had changed into her mourning costume.
She had not been out in a woman’s clothes since she had run into Alain. But there was little danger of meeting him at the cemetery. Simone had not dared to come to her parents’ tomb last week on All Saints Day, when Creoles cared for the graves of their dead. Today she would tend it, a duty she preferred to perform in solitude.
Among the newly decorated graves, she wiped the brass nameplates on the Devereaux tomb with her handkerchief and placed fresh flowers in a vase at its door. Then she sat back, relishing the sun’s warmth on her shoulders. Feeling a tickle on her hand, she looked down and smiled as she recalled the old saying, “If a lizard runs over your hand in graveyard, you will have good luck.”
The best luck to come her way recently was Serge’s willingness to teach his assistant to fence. She had decided, as she improved, that if she could not free herself of Marcel’s menace, she would prepare to challenge him to a duel. She had learned a great deal so far, but she still had much to learn. Fabrice would be furious, but she didn’t care; she wanted the skills Serge was teaching her.
She sighed, for her boyish masquerade, her continual vigilance, was wearing on her. Though being a male carried undeniable freedom, at times she felt trapped, confined to the salle, imprisoned in her disguise. Under Jean-Paul’s baggy clothes, she was changing from a girl to a woman, but no one knew. She had hardly realized it herself until Alain had stared at her with such passion in his dark eyes.
Still, it was not Simone he had desired, she reminded herself quickly, but a stranger. Longing to be herself again, she wished suddenly he would look at her the way he had looked at the black-haired girl.
She stiffened abruptly, disturbed by her reverie. What was she thinking? Why should she care how Alain looked at her? Or even if he looked at her at all? It was too much to hope that she would never have to see him again, but she refused to fall prey to his questionable charms, she thought irritably, shoving away memories of full, sensuous lips and strong, tapering fingers.
All at once Simone realized the hour was late, and she had no wish to be out unaccompanied after dark. A woman alone was apt to attract both attention and trouble. All Fabrice’s dire warnings flooded back to her as she hurried toward the iron gate of the cemetery, her heels clacking along the walkway between the tombs and echoing eerily from the whitewashed walls. Letting herself out, she hastened toward the Vieux Carré through deepening shadows.
Swinging around a corner, she ran headlong into a solid mass, knocking the air out of her and nearly dislocating her hat. A man’s arms enfolded her, holding her against a broad chest.
Only moments before, Alain had been irritated to discover that the octoroon’s cottage was down an alley, too narrow for his carriage, but now he was glad to be on foot. His arms were full of the girl for whom he had searched so long, and she fit his embrace well. “What do you know?” he breathed. “This is my lucky day.”
Righting her bonnet with the one hand free of the man’s embrace, Simone tilted her gaze from the snowy expanse of his shirt past his impeccably tied cravat to a chiseled chin, curved lips, and finally to dark eyes crinkled with amusement.
Uncomfortably aware that her breasts were thrust against him as she strained to see his face, she stared with dread through her veil at none other than Alain de Vallière. Quickly she ducked her head and murmured, “Pardon, monsieur.” She tried to withdraw from his embrace, but he would not permit it.
“No, no, I beg you to accept my apologies, mademoiselle. Are you all right?” he asked, almost tenderly.
“I’m fine, merci.” Simone’s breathing was labored, and, to her vexation, she knew it had little to do with their collision. Determined Alain would not know the effect he had on her, she set her bonnet securely on her head and tried again to step away.
He would not relinquish his hold. “I might have hurt you,” he murmured.
She felt his warm breath on her cheek even through her veil, and it sent a wave of unwanted longing through her.
“You didn’t hurt me.” She twisted her shoulders slightly, trying to free her arm, but succeeded only in pressing one breast more firmly against his starched shirt front. Closing her eyes, she drew a steadying breath, missing the flicker of pleasure her action brought him. Placing her free hand against his chest, she pushed and said firmly, “Thank you for your concern, m’sieur, but I insist you release me.”
The cad stood as unmoving as a boulder and announced, “Not unless you promise not to run away again.”
“Please, you must let me go,” she said desperately. “It is late, and I have to get back to town.”
“Promise you won’t run away,” he pressed.
She glared up at him and saw that he would stand firm. “I promise,” she agreed sullenly.
He released her, but one hand held her elbow as he guided her toward his carriage. “I will take you home.”
“You may take me to Mademoiselle Dupré’s,” she said coldly.
“As you wish.” As he lifted her into the carriage, he held her for a moment so his face was close to hers, his eyes seeking hers through the veil. “Do you always wear a veil?” he asked softly, placing her on the seat.
“Do you always make it a practice to waylay women on the road?”
“Only the ones I want to meet.”
“We have met, M’sieur de Vallière.”
“Ah, you know my name.” He seemed pleased as he climbed into the carriage. “But I still do not know yours.”
When she didn’t answer, he asked lightly, “What am I to call you, ma petite? Coco Robichaux?” he teased, referring to the imaginary girl Creole children blamed
for all manner of mischief.
“You would blame your misdeeds on Coco Robichaux?”
“You mean what happened at Lisette’s that night?” he asked.
Her face burned at the memory, and it suddenly seemed she could feel the length of his leg burning through her voluminous skirt.
“What happened between us was not wrong, chère,” he said kindly. “It was part of what happens when a man and a woman are attracted to each other. What was wrong was how it happened and when. And for that, I’m truly sorry.” He laid a big hand over the ones she had clasped tightly in her lap.
For a moment, Simone thought she would cry. He sounded so like the Alain she remembered. “You couldn’t know,” she whispered in mortification. “You must have thought--”
“That you looked enticing as you stepped from your bath,” he interrupted gently. Then he picked up the reins and turned the rig toward the Vieux Carré.
Uncertain how to respond, she stared down at her hands, wondering that she could not see the mark of his touch.
“What were you doing alone and so far from town?” he asked.
“Visiting the cemetery,” she replied guardedly.
“Ah. Lisette told me you are an orphan.”
“She did?”
“I was sorry to hear of your losses.”
“Merci,” she muttered uncomfortably. She was silent for a moment, but she had to ask. “What else did Lisette tell you?”
“Very little. She told me she gave her word not to. She said only that you come from a good family and you’re alone in the world.”
Suddenly even that small amount of information seemed too much and Simone was afraid Alain would recognize her. After the tenderness he had just shown her, she did not think she could bear if he knew she was the obligation he chafed under. Huddled on the seat beside him, one eye on his craggy profile, she yearned for escape and refused to be drawn into conversation. At last he gave up, but his gaze shifted toward her frequently. She kept her face carefully averted.
When they stopped in front of the house on rue Dauphine, Simone collected herself rapidly. “Thank you for the ride,” she said, ready to bolt. “You don’t need to see me to the door.”
Alain laid a hand on her arm. “Let me help you.”
“Non, merci.” She jerked away as if burned and stepped down from the carriage.
“Wait.” He slid down from the seat and was beside her in an instant. “When can I see you again?”
“I do not think it would be a good idea for us to see each other again.”
“Listen to me,” he demanded, catching her arms in his big hands. “Since the first time I saw you, I have not been able to get you out of my mind. I’ve stopped women on the street because I thought they were you, but when they turned, they didn’t have the green eyes that haunt me. You can’t run away again. I must see you.”
Simone almost did not hear him for the words echoing in her head, words he had said to Serge. “The sooner I find my little spitfire, the sooner I can find a husband for her.” He might be drawn to the woman of his imaginings, but Simone Devereaux was an obligation to him, nothing more.
“I cannot see you again,” she answered, near tears. Wrenching herself free, she ran inside before he saw her cry.
Alain lingered on the banquette, his pride smarting at having been so flatly dismissed. Slowly he climbed up onto the carriage seat and took the reins in hand, trying to decide whether to drive away and forget he had ever laid eyes on her or to march inside and demand to speak to her.
He was still there, staring unseeingly down the dusky street, when Simone dressed as Jean-Paul, rounded the corner from Lisette’s garden gate.
A shapely mulatto girl approached, gracefully, bearing a basket on her head, and it seemed to Simone as she watched that Alain’s eyes followed the pretty Negress as she disappeared into an alleyway with a smile and a flirtatious flip of her skirt.
The roué! she fumed. He had pretty words for her and eyes for the first female who crossed his path. With a determined set to her jaw, she swaggered toward the man’s carriage.
“Well, well, look who’s loitering in front of the whorehouse,” Jean-Paul crowed, his boyish voice cutting annoyingly through Alain’s musings. “You going in or waiting to see if they’ll come out to you? I always heard you were a ladies’ man, but--”
“You heard right,” Alain growled, urging his horses forward. As he drove away, leaving the boy to gape after him, he felt a twinge of guilt at having taken out his frustration on the lad.
CHAPTER SIX
Simone pulled her cap over her ears and hunched deeper into her coat, trying to ignore the raw wind from the river. Through the fogged windows of Hewlett’s Exchange she could see Obadiah, smiling broadly as he gathered his cards and passed his hat.
Soon he joined her on the banquette. “Afternoon, Jean-Paul. Good crowd today.”
“If I had known you’d take to a life of gambling, I never would have taught you those card tricks,” Simone greeted him sourly, swinging around to head toward the market.
“I wasn’t gamblin’. I was entertainin’,” the Negro boy said, defending himself, as he fell into step beside her.
The pair cut across the Place d’Armes toward the bustling open market, above which towered the masts of the great sailing ships. On busy Levee Street, they dodged the heavy traffic and received a friendly nod from the gaufre man, the seller of fine thin cookies.
As they passed, a noisy dispute poured from a produce booth where a Slavonian vendor argued with a Creole housewife. A few feet away, an egg-seller hawked his wares, occasionally tossing an egg on the ground to prove its freshness. Stepping over the oozy mess, Simone was glad it was February, not July.
When she became aware of a party of Creole girls approaching, dressed in satins and velvets, accompanied by their maids and several young gallants, Simone turned. “Let’s get out of here,” she muttered.
“Guess you don’t like gals yet, eh, Jean-Paul?” Obadiah grinned as they retraced their steps.
“Not much,” was the curt reply.
“Someday you will,” the other boy predicted.
“Don’t count on it.”
As they neared the square, Obadiah caught sight of a man nailing a sign to a post. “Come on,” he urged, grabbing his friend by the arm and racing across the street, narrowly missing being run down by a clattering dray.
“What’s so important that you’d nearly get me killed, Obie?” Simone demanded, yanking free when they stopped before the poster.
“Since you been teachin’ me to read, I gotta see what’s on every sign.” After studying it a moment, he requested, “Read it to me, will ya? I ain’t good enough yet.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with us,” she answered crossly. “It’s about a masked ball to be held at the Orleans Ballroom next week.”
“Aw,” Obadiah sighed in disappointment. “I was hopin’ the circus was comin’ back to Congo Square. I sure liked the last one.”
“Better than they liked you after you outfoxed the three-card monte dealer,” Simone snorted.
“Learned from the best.” He grinned and asked for the hundredth time, “Where’d you learn about cards, Jean-Paul?”
“Here and there,” she answered as she always did.
“I can’t understand it. How come you don’t never talk about yourself? Alls I know is you come to New Orleans from Bayou Teche, you can read and write, and,” he added, “you play a mean game of poker. You’re always beatin’ Claude and them fellers, but I ain’t figgered where the money goes, ‘cause you’re still wearin’ them same baggy pants you was wearin’ when you come.”
“Sounds like you know a lot to me,” Jean-Paul countered, then changed the subject. “Mam’selle Lisette’s cook invited me to stop by this afternoon for hot gingerbread. You want to go?”
“What’re we waitin’ for?” the other boy asked, diverted by the promise of food.
As they walked to rue Da
uphine, Simone’s thoughts turned to the ball. She was right when she told Obadiah that it had nothing to do with them. But she allowed herself a brief flight of fancy, imagining herself in a white gown, with beaux lined up to dance with her. She had never had a season, never owned a ball gown or even a dress as nice as the ones worn today by the girls at the market. For an instant she felt a flash of jealousy, but she put it behind her when she and Obadiah presented themselves at Lisette’s kitchen door for the promised treat.
“Bonjour, Jean-Paul,” the filles de joie greeted the boy as he sauntered toward the madam’s apartment, having left Obie to his fill of gingerbread. “How are you, mon petit?” The women enjoyed the lad’s visits to the house on rue Dauphine. Though he was shy, Jean-Paul was polite, and they adored him for it.
“There you are, chère.” Lisette looked up from her knitting and smiled when Simone entered. “I was hoping you would stop by. You’ve heard about the masque next week?”
Slumping in the chair across from her, Simone replied around her gingerbread, “I saw the sign this morning.”
Lisette’s needles stopped their movement as she frowned reprovingly at her young friend. “Just because you masquerade as a boy does not mean you should act like one here, Simone.”
“You’re right.” The girl sighed and sat up. “Every day, it seems harder to slip back and forth between Jean-Paul and me.”
“I know,” Lisette sympathized. “But I want you to practice being a young lady while you are here today because--” Putting her knitting aside, she rose and held out her hand. “Come with me.”
She led Simone into the bedroom, where an exquisite white ball gown was spread on the bed. Trimmed with white lace and rose-colored ribbon, it was a frothy, feminine confection.
“What is this?” the girl asked in puzzlement.
“Your dress for the ball,” Lisette answered eagerly. She opened the chiffonier and pulled out a pale pink petticoat. “And your petticoat and slippers,” she said, holding out a pair of peau de soie shoes dyed to match the ribbons on the gown.
The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance) Page 9
